Dear Shiny Happy Person who’d like to become my five-minute friend,
I would love to donate to the cause you’re
hustling collecting for, really, I would. But first, I feel it is my duty to draw your attention to an even worthier cause, one that lies closer to home. When you hear of the plight of this downtrodden underclass, my hope is that you will be moved, as I have, to give your very all. Without the help of you and your clipboard-wielding ilk, my life-saving campaign will never come to fruition. You have the power to stop this thing in its tracks before more lives are needlessly lost. Millions of ordinary Britons are relying on you – you’re our only hope of eradicating this disease once and for all. Please don’t let us down.
You see, it’s like this:
In recent years, the streets of Britain have become insidiously infested with an underclass of lost souls. These undead visitants can be found congregating on street corners and central plazas; they loiter on narrow bottlenecks where they can wreak maximum havoc. The good people of the world, commuting to work and school, walk on with their heads down and their phones pressed to their ears, but to no avail; the unwashed undead, with their radical hair and spray-painted rictuses, lurch into view and extend cordial handshakes that are laced with menace. Eyes that had lain vacant are lit up with dollar signs. They feed on gullibility and civility, begging the time of day before sucking the last vestiges of hope out of the trusting host. When they’ve disemboweled the bank balance of one, they begin eviscerating the goodwill of the next. In less than five years, these blood-sucking, soul-destroying zombies have lain waste to our major cities, turning public areas into no-go zones. This is terror on a municipal scale.
Countless lives have been lost in the zombies’ quest to extract every last drop from every last victim. Pedestrians are crushed as they leap into bus lanes to avoid the advancing clipboards; businessmen are scalded with skinny chai lattes in their haste to perform an abrupt volte face. We try staving the hordes off with wrong phone numbers and promises to Google them later, but it doesn’t work; our politeness only makes them stronger. You give one your bank details, only to bump into another, strategically positioned around the corner and demanding to know your mother’s maiden name. There is no appeasing their fearsome demands – the zombies always get their pound of flesh.
They say that strangers are friends who’ve yet to meet. That being so, I speak on behalf of 60 million of my closest friends-in-waiting when I say it’s time for this to stop. Leave us alone.
I don’t need to ingratiate myself with my fellow citizens or buy them off with ersatz handshakes and Botox smiles when I claim to voice the sentiments of all Britain in uttering these words:
Go. Just go.
Return to the darkest depths of the underworld whence you came, taking your unctuous patter and iniquitous machinations with you. Mobilise your parasitic forces of darkness and retreat to the unholy abomination that spawned you. Be gone, and may God have mercy on your tortured souls.
In the time it takes you to read this manifesto, three innocent commuters will have been spared from the anguish of a forcible clipboard interception. When you’ve finished reading this impassioned plea, pass it on to your alternatively-dressed, badly-dyed, flesh-tearing colleagues. With your assistance, we can wipe out the gravest threat that mankind has faced since The Black Plague.
We have a dream that one day we may all be able to walk the streets unmolested. Help us to help eradicate you.
To find out more about how you can end this zombie apocalypse, why not approach me later when I’m returning this way? I’ll be happy to stop and talk. After all, we’re all friends-in-waiting, right?
EdinburghUncovered, double-tapping charity muggers since 2011.
Download and print your own Anti-Chuggers Manifesto here. The next time you’re accosted by a charity mugger in the street, hand this to them. It might just save your life.