The Black Death, rats, dead orphans, sewage, the Luftwaffe; all have, at some point, swamped the streets of London with the fetid aroma of death. All, however, have also been vanquished by the plucky little survivors of London Town thanks to innovations in medical science, the fire-starter of Pudding Lane, Great Ormond Street Hospital, Joseph Bazalgette and the Spitfire. Frankly, the place is indestructible. Even London's most recent plague has gone unceremoniously missing thanks to the hardiness of the average Londoner.
The charity mugger (or chugger) was a highly prevalent creature that prowled the streets of London at the beginning of the twenty-first century. Their odious crime? Bringing cold calling to the streets of London. Using underhand tactics such as fit young ladies actually bounding up to speak to you in the middle of the street, the gullible and the foolish were swiftly fleeced of their Big Issue money as they felt compelled to give to a charity they didn't much care about anyway, simply for being made to feel special. Enjoying nothing more than jumping out unexpectedly on weary city types at lunch-time and bemused tourists looking for Trafalgar Square, these brazen harlots fleeced the guilt-ridden masses, via character assassination, into contributing to the charity they happened to represent. It didn't matter if you already sponsored one or more other charities; their beady (yet beautiful) little eyes judged you as toilet scum if their charity wasn't included on your already burgeoning list of direct debits.
Luckily, Londoner's are generally built with a guilt free chip and the more their pleasant lunchtime stroll through the smog-filled wilderness was ruined by jobless, inconsiderate graduates doing a bit of volunteering and pushing for the hard-sell, the more abject apathy set in. People don't want to be pressured into giving to charity, as it's the antithesis of what giving to charity is all about - giving voluntarily! As Londoners caught on to the charities' little 'game', the highly annoying chugger that blocked ones path to Charing Cross Station of an evening became the lesser spotted chugger, until one day it was simply no more. London, victorious yet again!
But as one evil passes, London Town is already battening down the hatches and bracing itself as another has already claimed the berth vacated by chuggers, with the potential to be even more bloody annoying. There seem to be more of them, on nearly every street corner in central London, and they seem riddled with stupidity. That's right, just the thing needed to wind up the average Londoner battling their way through the public transport system on the way home of a Tuesday evening; some numpty offering them a free newspaper...
It's difficult to comprehend that some chunder-muppet thought this would be a good idea. For years, the practice of a free newspaper had worked on the morning commute simply because the individual was provided with a choice. The Metro wasn't fired at your being like a dagger spearing for your heart; it just sat there, happy and unconcerned, waiting to be plucked from its comfy threshold by someone who fancied a quick glance at the morning news. If one didn't fancy a read, despite it not hitting your pocket or the fact the ink doesn't rub off on your hands, well, you were entitled to ignore it, no questions asked.
This benefit has all but been removed on the evening commute back home. Now you have no choice. Instead of leaving the free evening newspaper (the London Paper or the London Lite - both equally rubbish) stacked in a pile at the station, for one to pursue if they so wish, it is now thrust in an individuals direction by some jobsworth who's main role in life is to interfere with other peoples personal little bubbles. Displaying a form of twitchy physical tourettes, which sees the deliverer's arm spring into immediate and constant action whenever pedestrians pass by, there is no escape as the paper is impaled in your chest, killing the remainder of what's left of your soul! You can have your hands in your pockets or put on a death stare that can only mean you wish to slay the London Lite wielder with mind bullets; in fact you can do anything to show your complete disinterest in accepting what's on offer, yet that sodding arm will always reach out, imposing it's will where it's not bloody wanted. Sure, some may only see this is as a slight nuisance, but when there's a complete disregard for personal choice and one is still attacked after doing everything they possibly can to avoid contact with such dead-eyed vultures, well, it's a bit much.
But, it gets worse. Ignore taking the paper forced into your hand and the merchants mate is only 100 yards down the road to rectify the mistake, starting the whole charade again. Nnnnnnnaaaarrrgggghhhh! And if you're really unfortunate, you can become an unknowing participant in the free paper war that has sprung up on the darkened corners of the city, as two rival dickheads drooling at the mouth repeating 'London Lite' or 'London Paper' vie for your attention, prodding and poking with their uninteresting wears. It makes you want to scream "I don't care what celebrity has been snapped falling out of a lucrative club without there knickers on today, or ever... now f*** off!" And worse of all, unlike chuggers, I haven't seen a fit young beauty amongst them yet!
Big Issue sellers have never been so forceful. Indeed, the bloke at Embankment station who recites with great sardonic verve "Big Issue - wonderful magazine" should by all rights be given a medal for his services to putting a smile on the face of commuters. Likewise, you don't see Evening Standard enforcers chasing one and all down the Strand swinging the Standard at any appendage that happens to be within reach - there's just the incomprehensible warble of 'final'. So, why do those handing out London's most rubbish paper(s) feel the need to launch in to such a desperate act of handing them out? Has 'no' come to mean 'yes' in the customer service guidance for these paper merchants, as they look to meet unforgiving targets from their harsh taskmasters? Or is it part of the governments scheme to reduce the overall employment figure by giving people pointless jobs, where people aren't actually necessary? And seeing as it's quite a wretched job, why aren't these people looking to be employed as a sandwich artist (oh, how I loathe thee foul words) at the Subway around the corner, instead of being part of an unfulfilling role that simply annoys the hell out of everyone? Unless these are the type of people that just like to annoy people for chuckles.
If it's the latter, then these free paper numpties are going to be a more difficult blight to remove from our fair capital than the average chugger! We're going to need more than mere apathy to get us out of this one. So, put your hands in your pockets, fire mind bullets at these villains, take an alternative route to the tube to avoid going near such dangers, or shoulder barge the swines out of the way if two of them are fighting over your soul - but what ever you do don't take their sodding papers. Make a point of walking over to the stack they have hidden round the corner, pick one up from there (if you really must) and then laugh heartily in the face of the enemy at your victory. If we all do this, then gradually the companies that spawn these papers will see the error of their employment ways, the status quo will be returned, choice will rear its head again (like the Metro in the morning) and a rainbow will reflect beautifully in the crystal clear waters of the Thames. Bliss!
And for you muppets out there, please take the following into consideration - if I'm out for a run, dressed up in my running kit, wearing my running shoes, sweating because it looks like I'm running, and going at more than walking speed because, guess what, I am running, do I really need you to thrust a paper in my direction? Does it look like I'm remotely interested in reading it whilst I am running? The next one of you clueless goofs that does that is going to get punched in the face...
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