Chuggers

Have I mentioned before just how much I loathe chuggers - you know the "charity muggers" who accost you in the street demanding a direct debit mandate with menaces?

By Fafnir's tail I hate these people so very, very much, almost as much as politicians, the McCanns and the Jehovas Witnesses who knocked on the door last sunday morning when me and Mrs Dracunculus were mid-shag. I used to contribute to Amnesty International until I got accosted by one of their chuggers and realised just how much of my cash was not going to get some poor bastard who had said "Hey, this government sucks" out of jail but to some cunt with a clipboard and a mound of direct debit forms so they could pay for their fucking beer whilst taking a year out.

Now normally I can plan my route from office to station avoiding the obstacle course of earnest clipboard wielding kiwis and aussies trying to pry a few baubles from the horde. However for various reasons today I had to leave work early and take a trip down Chugger Alley.

The charity de-jour was the NCH. Now I don't much like charities at the best of times but I have a particular black spot in my heart for childrens charities ever since the NSPCC started running those glycerin-in-they-eyes-so-it-makes-the-sprog-look-like-he's-crying ads on every channel one Christmas Day and now every time one of their number gets up and starts to spout on about censoring the interweb I have to go and immolate one of next door's brood.

I also have a cold.

Rhinovirus + Childrens Charity + Chugger = One Very Grumpy Dragon.

I don't suppose having Rammstein on at full volume on the ipod-u-like was helping me into a warm and cuddly frame of mind eithier.

So when permatanned aussie neighbours extra Nolene stood right in my path, spread her arms wide into the Jesus-being-nailed-to-a-plank pose and intoned "I'm an obstacle" she got both nostrils set to "crispy"

"I'm sorry. You have obviously mistaken me for someone who gives a fuck. Now get out of my fucking way."

The look on her pathetic little stunned face made my week.

I was so happy that Chuggers 2 and 3 merely escaped with a cheery "Go fuck a goat will you" and "Piss off" respectively.

Not the best time to pick a fight with a dragon

Now you probably would not realise it from this blog but normally in public I'm actually quite a sweet-natured dragon and hardly ever set fire to anyone or anything.

Unfortunately today I was decidedly not feeling all cuddly. I've got a chest infection of some sort and that's set off my asthma (I'm sure the National Asthma Campaign based Desmond the Dragon on me) but needing to earn a living I bravely stumbled into work as soon as I had the breathing more or less under control. Bad move, by lunchtime everyone is looking askance as I cough, splutter and accidentally keep setting fire to the furniture and my boss says that I really should go home. Grumpily I agree although it means not earning any money for the afternoon, so that makes me really grumpy.

Anyway I bimble off through the tunnels of London and pop out in good time for the train northwards so I grab an overpriced coffee and nip into the newsagents to buy a copy of Dragon Monthly (in this issue... 101 uses for a dead knight... Get that dream princess into your bed... some interview or other with Jade Fucking Goody's mum "Pikey" or something). Now in my human guise I'm carrying around my rather natty Targus backpack with the essentials of doing my job in them - lappy, mp3 player, huge computer tome, Ingrams MAC10, that sort of thing so it is a bit bulky. Anyway after I'm done paying for my magazine I take a step back to negotiate my way outside past the stupid queueing barrier system they have at WH Smiths and my bag accidentally brushes against some old dear. Naturally I turn and apologise, smiles are exchanged and I think that's the end of the matter.

Oh no... not for this crabby cow and her copy of the mail. As I exit I hear "Young man" (well that's a nice start anyway), "do you know rucksacks like yours take up as much space as another person, you might want to take it off when you get on a tube train".

I turn and smile, now do I say something nice like "Of course I shall, should I get on the tube.", apologise again or...

Like I said, not a good day to be goading the dragon.

"My dear, firstly we are not on a tube train but the concourse of a large metropolitan railway station. Secondly this 'rucksack' as you quaintly call it contains several hundred pounds worth of computer equipment I wish to protect and the bag itself is toughened, padded, made of military-grade kevlar and probably costs more than you get in pension from my taxes in a year. Finally if I wanted to trundle about with a fucking baby grand piano on my back then I bloody well would so I'd thank you to fuck off and die you meddlesome old ratbag."

Meddle not in the affairs of dragons with chest infections for they are about as subtle as brick and quick to anger.