Can Being Right Ever Be Wrong?

If I offered to pay a young member of your family all their tuition fees, but only if I could drown their cat, would you take it? It’s only a moggie. Got him from a rescue centre didn’t you? He’d have been put down if you hadn’t stepped in. He owes you; time for him to pay back his dues –help little Sarah through her BA at Lancaster. And he’s 4 years old – that’s 193 in cat years. He’s had a good life.

There’s a chance you’d take it. Especially now Universities are allowed to charge what they want for admission. Next open day you attend there’ll be a price list handed out at the start:

1 year before quitting £4,500
2:2 £22,000
2:1 £35,000
First class £1,000,000 or suck off the Dean

It might seem a strange offer, but the world is full of people hiding bad things in good offers. Take Operation Christmas Child. On the surface they look great. They send presents out to poor children. Like modern day Robin Hoods, but the rich are consenting because they feel terribly guilty.

What’s not to love? Well the service is provided by Samaritan’s Purse, an evangelical Christian group, whose leader, Franklin Graham has said that Islam is an evil and wicked religion. They’re also rather homophobic with their ex leader, and current leader’s father Billy Graham saying that all homosexuals should be castrated. Not sure what happens to lesbians. Maybe he doesn’t mind them as long as they film it.

The shoe boxes are targeted at Muslim countries, and are asked to not be sealed as they are checked before sending out. There have been a number of reports of evangelical literature being put in the boxes, and children being made to hold prayer groups before being given their gifts.

The majority of receiving children don’t celebrate Christmas. I wonder if the poverty stricken children of Aboriginal Australians will be receiving toy trucks and a card saying ‘Happy Hanukkah’ any time soon.

Does it even matter? When I was a child if somebody told me I could have a box of toys, but I had to renounce Satan first I’d be up dancing his evil spirit out of my soul. I’d say anything you like.
‘Monkeys and carrots are evil and must be stoned to death with marmite pebbles. Now give me the Xbox.’
Doesn’t mean I’ll be picketing abortion centres any time soon.

I can’t help thinking they’re targeting the wrong audience. Going to the furthest flung parts of the world to tell impoverished children who don’t speak English and don’t celebrate Christmas that homosexuality is a sin seems a lot of effort for little reward. It’s hardly as if they can donate back to Samaritan’s Purse.

People across Europe despise Franklin Graham and reject his views. That’s the target audience. European students. You can convince a student of anything, and they’re suckers for free gifts. Go to a University, start offering free toasters and novelty underpants and within minutes you’ll have an army marching round chanting ISLAM SUCKS, DOWN WITH GAYS.

Now if you'll excuse me. I'm volunteering for a charity that puts hand grenades in Easter Eggs.

If you would like to make a donation to Lewis’ angry students campaign, just leave a comment at the end of your article with your bank details.

Chugg Off

On the occasional sunny days that Oldham offers me I like to wander into town to take my lunch. Despite walking through Oldham, it’s generally a pleasurable experience. I get to poke about in the market stall, ask the people in the pound stores how much everything is and if all that gets too much, I can sit on the one bench not covered in gum and bird shit just outside the court house and watch the comers and goers; this helps me feel smug and self satisfied about my middle class place in the world.

The main reason I cherish these days of splendour so much is that they’re so few and far between, so it was with joy in my heart when I trotted out of the office yesterday to spend 60 minutes of avoiding vomit, drunken maniacs and potty mouthed youths.

I walked up the high street not caring about the man with the lopsided beard asking me if I’d like to see his smelly bishop.

Then it happened. It loomed into view like a teacher coming into the class room as you’re mid white board graffiti. I froze. Mistake. They pounced on my weakness. It was a chugger. A charity mugger. They show no mercy.

For my American readers a chugger is one of those folks with a clip board full of pictures of puppies looking sad or children quietly sobbing. They wear a t-shirt for the charity they work for and generally some kooky accessories that make them look cool and worth talking to. They’re not, so don’t.

The conversation with a chugger usually goes like this.

“Hello Sir. You look like a generous kind of guy. My kind of guy. Your shoes are cooooool. Mind if I stop you for a minute to have a quick chat about my charity that helps middle aged women in Nantwich that have limited access to good Rioja?”
“Yes I do mind. Fuck off!”

Or rather I want to say that, but instead I just crumble like Cheshire cheese into a serving of meekness; ready for them to take advantage of. I mutter something along the lines of ‘no thank you, I don’t have time, please, I want to buy my lunch.’ But then they show me a picture of dying baby seals.

“See what happens when this 50 year old accountant’s assistant doesn’t have a nice glass of Bordeaux to help her through her meaningless existence? SEE WHAT HAPPENS?”
“YES, yes, I see. Please sobbing, please no more, take my money.”

And so I sign up and promptly cancel the direct debit. Promptly in this case meaning 4 months later, just in case they notice and send somebody round to my house with pictures of a shop selling kittens for drowning.

They’re masters at making you feel horribly guilty and that your life won’t be worth living unless you sign up to give £2 a month. Yet that feeling should be the other way round. Chuggers make £7 an hour for their part in this spreading of depression. That means that if you donate for a full year you’ll pay for a chugger to be on the streets for a full 3 ½ hours until a penny of your money goes to the charity.

This scam is just a transfer of money from your account to the account of another so they can stand about persuading people to keep the cycle going.

At this rate more people will be chuggers than aren’t and they’ll start fighting each other for your cash. Chuggers will climb down your chimney, claw at your windows. All the while saying could I just show you this?

So next time a chugger shows you their guilt book tell them you’ll consider their offer, and if, after consideration, you still want to donate, then you’ll access their website and donate there.

With enough of us doing it, maybe they’ll get the picture and chugg off.

Meta blogging

In China 4 in 5 people have written a blog. That’s 7 trillion blogs. Is there really that much to write about? Is life in the People’s Republic so eventful that even when the blog count reached 10 figures a marketing assistant in Xi-an still thought I love Chairman Mao very much, the world must know of this?

As more and more blogs get put out, fewer and fewer people ever actually get read. It’s like trying to tell a great anecdote at a party. The more people turn up, the more people chip in with their own stories, trying to steal the limelight away from you. As you reach the danger point of the story; the part where it’s horribly boring, but essential to the crafting of the tale, people start to lose focus. There are so many other people to listen to. People with short stories; stories told using just 3 words; stories that are just a look. But you can’t do that. You need to take your listeners on a journey of facts, context and characterisation. It all needs to be just right, but nobody listens, so you take a gun and point it at the ceiling.

BANG. I have a story, it’s really funny and you’re all going to listen.

Soon blogs will attack other blogs. You’ll be reading that piece about conceptual art involving cheese and armpit hair, when another blog throws a grenade in and kills it. You’re left with an article from Marc, from Ebbsfleet, telling you how he just like, so doesn’t get why parents drive estate cars. When I’m older I’m going to be a cool dad, drive a 2 seater and strap my kid to the roof. You don’t want to read on, but you know he’s still armed. Who knows what kind of viruses he could send your way. I heard about a computer that can bite your fingers if you type things it doesn’t like.

What’s the solution? How can a good blog find an audience? A friend of mine has experimented with his blogging. He’s blogging about blogging. Now I’ve mentioned him, I’m blogging about somebody blogging about blogging. Technically this blog is about blogging too. Blogging about blogging about blogging about blogging. I’ll have to stop; my computer has started to grow teeth.

Everybody tries to outdo each other with their topics. Blogs about travel, but travel with a fish strapped to their face. Food, but only food that can be snorted. Political inside information written by the Downing Street rat.

Maybe the way forward is boring blogging. Bogging. I have a chair. It’s wooden and made from pine. My USB is blue and I’ve lost the lid. I went to Spain on holiday. It was hot.

Bored? Write about a blog about it. This one is finished; blog done.