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Today's letters: 03 July
Facing violence
In response to Boris Johnson’s call for people not to intervene in fights in case they get stabbed (“Third stab death in three days”, yesterday): I, for one, could not stand by and watch someone being attacked. A couple of months ago a young guy was beating up his girlfriend near my local train station. About 30 people stood by, including the train security guards, and did nothing. I was the only one who stepped in to try and break up the fight – me, a 27-year-old gal in a suit, with high heels and a handbag, getting off the train from a day of work in the city.
Christina Pine
Stand together
I am just writing in response to the frankly shameful words of Mayor Boris (“Third stab death in three days”, yesterday). He urges people not to intervene in fights in case one of the attackers has a knife. I think it is absolutely unacceptable that someone in the public eye should recommend that people just stand by while their friend is violently assaulted. What kind of society will this become if we’re all only looking out for number one? We need to stand up to crime. Instead of becoming fragmented, heartless individuals, why don’t we stand together and beat these yobs?
James
Duty to defend
In reply to Boris Johnson’s warning not to intervene in fights (“Third stab death in three days”, yesterday): I would rather die trying to preserve a life than live the rest of mine knowing I had not intervened – not for merit nor trophy but as a duty to a fellow person. I would also like to think that if a friend or a member of my family was being violently attacked, witnesses would try to help and not merely be bystanders, as the Mayor suggests.
Linton Sutherland
Pram hatred
Your columnist Angus (“Move your butt before I kick it...”, yesterday) said that people in the city don’t give up their seats for pregnant women: it doesn’t end there. Once you have your baby, they become city pram-haters. I have lived in the city all my life and work in the city. No one ever got up for me and now people tut when I try to walk along the street with my pram.
Toni hutton
Ask for a seat
To your columnist Angus (“Move your butt before I kick it...”, yesterday): why do pregnant women wait to be offered a seat? Why don’t they ask? I’m seven months pregnant. If I’m tired or uncomfortable, I ask out loud. I’ve never had a problem.
Cindy
Women guilty too
I just have to say that Angus Morrison’s column (“Move your butt before I kick it...”, yesterday) was brilliant. It’s so true: women don’t get up for pregnant ladies either (apart from me!).
Manisa Kuinkel, Harrow
Prince fights drugs
On your story about the Navy warship, with Prince William on board, seizing cocaine near Barbados (“Wills helps seize cocaine”, yesterday): the capture of £40m worth of drugs will only increase the price of cocaine on London’s streets, leading to more crime: this is the law of supply and demand. A far better solution would be for the Government to establish a commission to conduct a thorough review of the use of drugs in the UK.
Andrew Edwards, E8
Give us more animals
I’m a big fan of your Pet of the Day, and am a bit concerned about the ratio of felines to other animals since Go-Cat became sponsor. If Noah had acted in this way the animal kingdom would be in moggy-dominated chaos. Sort it out!
Maynard
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Halting the violence is top priority
Friday, 04 July 2008
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This week there have been five fatal stabbings in London – two of them in my suburb, Peckham. There was also a non-fatal stabbing in Brixton, not far from here. One of the victims, Dee Willis, was stabbed at 11pm on Tuesday and died at midnight. My heart goes out to her family at another senseless and needless murder. She was stabbed at the end of my street.
Do I feel safe in Peckham after dark? Do you or your friends and family feel safe in your suburb? The current level of violence is totally unacceptable and we need much stronger action – now! Halting knife and gun crime must become the highest priority of central and local government, the police and justice system, and London society. We need our best minds to find solutions: a fresh vision, with stronger laws and punishments, effective offender reform, and committed government and policing, with backing from business and citizens.
Let’s engage youth and at-risk groups as an integral part of the solution. We need stronger punishment and properly funded reform for offenders; whatever it takes to change behaviour.
Some suggestions: ban sales of offensive knives and replica guns, and do it in the next three months. Why wait? How about a real deterrent for anyone who is caught with an offensive weapon? Perhaps a £3,000 fine (which will be paid, however long it takes) and spending every weekend in a punishment and reform programme for 12 months.
thelondonpaper reported that 27,000 people had been searched in the past six weeks, with 1,000 arrests for carrying weapons. These are staggering figures; well done to the police. Let’s make it 50,000 searches every six weeks for the next year. If we can spend £9.3bn on the Olympics in 2012, can we divert £100m for extra policing over the next 12 months? More police stop-and-searches are needed, with less paperwork and target-chasing.
Jacqui Smith, the Home Secretary, said that violent crime is not more serious than previously. Yet 2007 figures showed that the number of school children treated for stab wounds has doubled in five years. We need total commitment and real leadership to fight crime. Smith, you and Labour have failed us. Take responsibility, resign your post and make way for someone with the stomach for this fight, a fight we can win.
Tim, 39, lives in Peckham
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This week there have been five fatal stabbings in London – two of them in my suburb, Peckham. There was also a non-fatal stabbing in Brixton, not far from here. One of the victims, Dee Willis, was stabbed at 11pm on Tuesday and died at midnight. My heart goes out to her family at another senseless and needless murder. She was stabbed at the end of my street.
Do I feel safe in Peckham after dark? Do you or your friends and family feel safe in your suburb? The current level of violence is totally unacceptable and we need much stronger action – now! Halting knife and gun crime must become the highest priority of central and local government, the police and justice system, and London society. We need our best minds to find solutions: a fresh vision, with stronger laws and punishments, effective offender reform, and committed government and policing, with backing from business and citizens.
Some suggestions: ban sales of offensive knives and replica guns, and do it in the next three months. Why wait? How about a real deterrent for anyone who is caught with an offensive weapon? Perhaps a £3,000 fine (which will be paid, however long it takes) and spending every weekend in a punishment and reform programme for 12 months.
thelondonpaper reported that 27,000 people had been searched in the past six weeks, with 1,000 arrests for carrying weapons. These are staggering figures; well done to the police. Let’s make it 50,000 searches every six weeks for the next year. If we can spend £9.3bn on the Olympics in 2012, can we divert £100m for extra policing over the next 12 months? More police stop-and-searches are needed, with less paperwork and target-chasing.
Jacqui Smith, the Home Secretary, said that violent crime is not more serious than previously. Yet 2007 figures showed that the number of school children treated for stab wounds has doubled in five years. We need total commitment and real leadership to fight crime. Smith, you and Labour have failed us. Take responsibility, resign your post and make way for someone with the stomach for this fight, a fight we can win.
Tim, 39, lives in Peckham
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Painful to watch Amy in freefall
by Laura Willows.
Thursday, 03 July 2008
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I know I probably sound like an out-of-touch 80-year-old, but don’t you think it’s time people stopped booking Amy Winehouse for gigs and festivals? Yes, she clearly has talent, but at the moment what should be more important is the glaringly obvious fact that her well-publicised issues are slowly destroying her.
Hands up, I have to admit that I’m guilty of watching her car-crash performance at Glastonbury, solely because I wanted to see just how off her face she actually was. And the answer, I discovered, was alarmingly so.
At first, I found her amusing, in the way you’d find a drunk friend amusing; you cringe when they spill their drink and can’t walk in a straight line, and you laugh at them when they start singing and drunkenly tell you that they “really, really love you”. But when it goes too far and they start feeling ill, then it’s not so funny anymore. You don’t applaud them and buy them more alcohol, you get them water, you let them sleep in your spare room, you hold their hair back while they’re puking into your toilet.
At the end of her performance, as Amy was launching her skinny frame off the stage and teetering towards the crowd in her Louboutins, I was well and truly guilt-ridden. I felt like the person who buys their friend that last glass of wine which will definitely push them over the edge, and then laughs as they turn into an embarrassing drunken mess.
I know that Amy has to want to help herself, and that it is vital that she is surrounded by people who love her and have her best interests at heart, but don’t you think that responsibility is extended to us, too?
Don’t you think that asking her to sing for Nelson Mandela, booking her for Glastonbury and continually thrusting her into the limelight gives her the wrong message? That it gives everyone the wrong message?
I wonder: if her hubby Blake wasn’t in the slammer, if she hadn’t just been diagnosed with emphysema, if she hadn’t had such a well-documented battle with heroin, if she wasn’t clearly falling apart at the seams, would she be in the papers every day? Would she be quite such hot news if she was a glowing picture of health and happiness?
Would I have watched her Glastonbury performance with such interest then? Would you?
Laura, 30, lives in Clapham
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I know I probably sound like an out-of-touch 80-year-old, but don’t you think it’s time people stopped booking Amy Winehouse for gigs and festivals? Yes, she clearly has talent, but at the moment what should be more important is the glaringly obvious fact that her well-publicised issues are slowly destroying her.
Hands up, I have to admit that I’m guilty of watching her car-crash performance at Glastonbury, solely because I wanted to see just how off her face she actually was. And the answer, I discovered, was alarmingly so.
At first, I found her amusing, in the way you’d find a drunk friend amusing; you cringe when they spill their drink and can’t walk in a straight line, and you laugh at them when they start singing and drunkenly tell you that they “really, really love you”. But when it goes too far and they start feeling ill, then it’s not so funny anymore. You don’t applaud them and buy them more alcohol, you get them water, you let them sleep in your spare room, you hold their hair back while they’re puking into your toilet.
At the end of her performance, as Amy was launching her skinny frame off the stage and teetering towards the crowd in her Louboutins, I was well and truly guilt-ridden. I felt like the person who buys their friend that last glass of wine which will definitely push them over the edge, and then laughs as they turn into an embarrassing drunken mess.
I know that Amy has to want to help herself, and that it is vital that she is surrounded by people who love her and have her best interests at heart, but don’t you think that responsibility is extended to us, too?
Don’t you think that asking her to sing for Nelson Mandela, booking her for Glastonbury and continually thrusting her into the limelight gives her the wrong message? That it gives everyone the wrong message?
I wonder: if her hubby Blake wasn’t in the slammer, if she hadn’t just been diagnosed with emphysema, if she hadn’t had such a well-documented battle with heroin, if she wasn’t clearly falling apart at the seams, would she be in the papers every day? Would she be quite such hot news if she was a glowing picture of health and happiness?
Would I have watched her Glastonbury performance with such interest then? Would you?
Laura, 30, lives in Clapham
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Move your butt before I kick it!
by Angus Morrison.
Wednesday, 02 July 2008
It’s a question that shouldn’t be asked in a country that prides itself on politeness and correctness – well, used to, at least – but I’ll ask it anyway. Why are pregnant women left to stand on the Tube?
Last week, someone called James wrote to this paper with his views. They were so backward and so Neanderthal in their construction, we should probably repeat them here just to make him squirm:
“Your wife is not disabled. She is not suffering from a rare or unusual condition. She is pregnant. By choice. She is perfectly capable of standing and should embrace the discomfort.”
Two questions: first, what do his mother, sisters and pretend girlfriend think of his attitude? Second, why am I so keen to show James the true meaning of “discomfort”?
Ever wondered what happens to the excess skin after a circumcision? Meet James.
I have to confess to a vested interest in this argument. My wife is nearly seven months pregnant. Every day that she arrives home and says “no-one offered me a seat” is one day closer to me being described by neighbours as “he was so nice – I have no idea why he shot everyone on the train, and then jumped up and down on their bullet-ridden corpses”.
The irony is what really kills me. My wife is beautiful – I’m not being biased here, she is stunning. Before she was pregnant, every man within 60ft of her train carriage leapt to their feet the moment they realised she was standing. Even the driver.
These days, the moment she steps on to the train, it’s heads down and complete ignorance. It’s like being in a Steve McClaren coaching session.
And let’s not be sexist here – I’m not just having a go at the sad excuses for men. For all their “we want to be treated as equals; I’ve just spent two hours at Pilates – you can bounce coins off my left tit”, none of the women even considers standing for an obviously pregnant passenger who would (almost literally) give her first-born for the chance to sit down for 20 minutes.
C’mon, everyone. How hard is it to stand for a while and give a pregnant woman your seat? Think about it – how hard is it to just stand up and say: “Here, love, take the weight off.” It feels good typing that, so trust me – it feels even better saying it.
Last week, someone called James wrote to this paper with his views. They were so backward and so Neanderthal in their construction, we should probably repeat them here just to make him squirm:
“Your wife is not disabled. She is not suffering from a rare or unusual condition. She is pregnant. By choice. She is perfectly capable of standing and should embrace the discomfort.”
Two questions: first, what do his mother, sisters and pretend girlfriend think of his attitude? Second, why am I so keen to show James the true meaning of “discomfort”?
Ever wondered what happens to the excess skin after a circumcision? Meet James.
I have to confess to a vested interest in this argument. My wife is nearly seven months pregnant. Every day that she arrives home and says “no-one offered me a seat” is one day closer to me being described by neighbours as “he was so nice – I have no idea why he shot everyone on the train, and then jumped up and down on their bullet-ridden corpses”.
The irony is what really kills me. My wife is beautiful – I’m not being biased here, she is stunning. Before she was pregnant, every man within 60ft of her train carriage leapt to their feet the moment they realised she was standing. Even the driver.
These days, the moment she steps on to the train, it’s heads down and complete ignorance. It’s like being in a Steve McClaren coaching session.
And let’s not be sexist here – I’m not just having a go at the sad excuses for men. For all their “we want to be treated as equals; I’ve just spent two hours at Pilates – you can bounce coins off my left tit”, none of the women even considers standing for an obviously pregnant passenger who would (almost literally) give her first-born for the chance to sit down for 20 minutes.
C’mon, everyone. How hard is it to stand for a while and give a pregnant woman your seat? Think about it – how hard is it to just stand up and say: “Here, love, take the weight off.” It feels good typing that, so trust me – it feels even better saying it.
Your comments
Guest_Leekim says:
It seriously offends me when I see pregnant women on the train, bus, tube - whatever and noone has the decency to give up their seat.
To the selfish people, Have you ever stopped to think what would happen one day if the train/bus were to come to an abupt halt, causing a pregant woman to fall heavily on her belly and miscarry as a result? Would you still share those selfish attitudes that you have?
I can't believe the words "self-inflicted" came into it. Then I guess a poor diet of crap food, lack of exercise and an unhappy life, I guess your heart attack was "self-inflicted" too.
Angus you rock.
Thursday 03 July 2008 17:58
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The hotties are out for the summer
by Charlotte Sabel.
Tuesday, 01 July 2008
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The summer has deigned to arrive. Everyone is thinking of ingenious ways to bunk off work and soak up the rays, or to find some suitable clothes in shops which are already stocking autumn wear. But what never fails to surprise me about the summer in London is where all the beautiful people suddenly appear from. In particular, why certain pockets of town seem to be home to more gorgeous creatures than others.
Standing at a bus stop in Mayfair last week, I could not help but ogle all the impossibly dashing men passing by, some on mopeds (very Euro-chic) . Certainly the number of smart financial companies situated in that area attracts a multitude of handsome Jose Mourinho lookalikes in crisp blue shirts and bespoke navy suits, but I do not remember seeing quite so many during the rest of the year.
The King’s Road, a street synonymous with fashion, is awash with stunning women who look so effortlessly hip but as on-trend as though they were professionally styled. The men in this area of Chelsea, however, cannot be so praised: the summer seems to bring forth an even larger number of hooray henrys than normal, all sporting the sloaney Boris Johnson love-child look of floppy hair and pink polo shirts. Sweet but not sexy. Richmond, I feel, has a better class of hooray, if that is your preference!
You must have seen the lovelies, floating down Kensington High Street, wandering the City or mooching around our parks. They are the men in chinos with perfect shirts, or the gorgeous leggy girls in summer dresses. They just seem to appear, to make you look like the kind of fool who doesn’t check the weather forecast before leaving the house. Maybe they are all on their way to model castings? Many tourists descend on London at this time of year, so this could account for all the extra beauties, bringing their European sartorial know-how.
Of course, the winter weather keeps people indoors. But I feel sure the beautiful boys and girls must hibernate at this time. They only wake up around high summer to make the rest of us gawp at their gorgeousness and wallow in our own woeful inadequacies. But could there be a better place to be than London, come summer? Sightseeing takes on a whole other meaning.
Charlotte, 27, lives in London
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The summer has deigned to arrive. Everyone is thinking of ingenious ways to bunk off work and soak up the rays, or to find some suitable clothes in shops which are already stocking autumn wear. But what never fails to surprise me about the summer in London is where all the beautiful people suddenly appear from. In particular, why certain pockets of town seem to be home to more gorgeous creatures than others.
Standing at a bus stop in Mayfair last week, I could not help but ogle all the impossibly dashing men passing by, some on mopeds (very Euro-chic) . Certainly the number of smart financial companies situated in that area attracts a multitude of handsome Jose Mourinho lookalikes in crisp blue shirts and bespoke navy suits, but I do not remember seeing quite so many during the rest of the year.
The King’s Road, a street synonymous with fashion, is awash with stunning women who look so effortlessly hip but as on-trend as though they were professionally styled. The men in this area of Chelsea, however, cannot be so praised: the summer seems to bring forth an even larger number of hooray henrys than normal, all sporting the sloaney Boris Johnson love-child look of floppy hair and pink polo shirts. Sweet but not sexy. Richmond, I feel, has a better class of hooray, if that is your preference!
You must have seen the lovelies, floating down Kensington High Street, wandering the City or mooching around our parks. They are the men in chinos with perfect shirts, or the gorgeous leggy girls in summer dresses. They just seem to appear, to make you look like the kind of fool who doesn’t check the weather forecast before leaving the house. Maybe they are all on their way to model castings? Many tourists descend on London at this time of year, so this could account for all the extra beauties, bringing their European sartorial know-how.
Of course, the winter weather keeps people indoors. But I feel sure the beautiful boys and girls must hibernate at this time. They only wake up around high summer to make the rest of us gawp at their gorgeousness and wallow in our own woeful inadequacies. But could there be a better place to be than London, come summer? Sightseeing takes on a whole other meaning.
Charlotte, 27, lives in London
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That tricky drunken 'I love you'
by Emma Harrold.
Monday, 30 June 2008
Do drunken “I love you”s count? Well, this is a tricky one. The way I see it, there are a number of different situations to take into account.
From my own personal experience, I have a tendency to just love everyone when I get drunk and, thanks to the wonderful advances in technology, you always have what I call “The drunken girl’s evil accessory” with you on a night out these days. This allows you to reach out to an ex-boyfriend, current crush or work colleague at a critical point in the evening: you feel very emotional and decide that it would be an excellent idea to share your feelings with someone.
You then wake up in the morning and dread sweeps over you . You gingerly reach for your mobile and go to the “sent items” folder, and then cringe with embarrassment and start the apology texts that go something like this: “I’m so sorry about the text I sent last night. I was out and a bit drunk and I didn’t mean what I said.” Another good one is: “Sorry, I didn’t mean to send that to you last night.”
Now, under those circumstances, the answer is definitely: no, drunken “I love you”s do not count!
However, if you have been in a relationship with someone for a while and the “I love you” words have not yet been spoken, the drunken “I love you”, I would say, is a bit of a grey area.
The girl or boy could actually use the fact that they are drunk as a good excuse to utter those terrifying words for the first time – just to see how their partner reacts. If the reaction is bad, they can blame the outburst of emotion on being drunk.
From my own personal experience, I have a tendency to just love everyone when I get drunk and, thanks to the wonderful advances in technology, you always have what I call “The drunken girl’s evil accessory” with you on a night out these days. This allows you to reach out to an ex-boyfriend, current crush or work colleague at a critical point in the evening: you feel very emotional and decide that it would be an excellent idea to share your feelings with someone.
You then wake up in the morning and dread sweeps over you . You gingerly reach for your mobile and go to the “sent items” folder, and then cringe with embarrassment and start the apology texts that go something like this: “I’m so sorry about the text I sent last night. I was out and a bit drunk and I didn’t mean what I said.” Another good one is: “Sorry, I didn’t mean to send that to you last night.”
Now, under those circumstances, the answer is definitely: no, drunken “I love you”s do not count!
However, if you have been in a relationship with someone for a while and the “I love you” words have not yet been spoken, the drunken “I love you”, I would say, is a bit of a grey area.
The girl or boy could actually use the fact that they are drunk as a good excuse to utter those terrifying words for the first time – just to see how their partner reacts. If the reaction is bad, they can blame the outburst of emotion on being drunk.
But if the feeling is reciprocated then they have crossed that awkward threshold unscathed and can move on!
With regards to the above, I would say that 75 per cent of drunken “I love you”s do count. But, then again, you never really know.
The final situation in which you might utter a drunken “I love you” is this: you are in a relationship and have said “I love you” a million times to each other. You are lying in bed after a drunken night out and you say “Night, I love you!” Then yes, in this circumstance it does count!
Your comments
Guest_JM says:
Where does she ask for a job?!
Wednesday 02 July 2008 18:01
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Profile of a she-trader
Monday, 30 June 2008
Unlike most of the fairer sex, I crave risk. So when I was asked, during my interview to become a trader, “Give me an example of a time you took a gamble”, I mulled over the experiences with which I’d packed my 24 years.
I eventually plumped for the time when, heady with Krug, I decided to get married within a week of meeting my future husband (and before you ask, yes, it did crash and burn).
It obviously did the trick. “When can you start?” my interviewer asked eagerly.
I already had a mental picture of what a “trader-ess” would look like. She would be asexual, unsightly, and a graduate of something like econometrics 301 from somewhere such as the London School of Economics.
So, determined to prove that beauty and brains are not mutually exclusive, I showed up for orientation dressed to kill (4in Louboutins, inappropriately short Prada skirt, the lot) and ready to conquer the markets and this appalling “she-trader” stereotype.
From the very beginning, erotic tension hung thick in the air. My long, flowing hair, size-six figure and Barbie-with-attitude demeanour drew flirtatious looks everywhere from the escalators at Canary Wharf to the office itself. There were even catcalls directed at my desk.
But I resolved that no amount of harassment would stop me from thriving in an environment that was more locker room than banking hall.
Statistically, it didn’t look good. Our mentor, slick and Machiavellian, let us know – as if he were guesting on The Apprentice – that within a year most of us would be axed. It occurred to me that this City move might have been a mistake. However, the prospect of spending my life surrounded by violent toddlers was perversely exciting. It sure beat what most of my friends were doing.
What I learned over the course of the next year would change my life. When it comes to trading, everything you have ever learned about the relationship between work and reward is thrown out the window.
I could work for 30 minutes and make my month, or slave away endlessly and not make a cent.And as for sexual politics, no amount of eyelash-batting at the boss was going to stave off that P45 if you stayed in the red every day for a month.
Most girls would have thrown in the towel after that year. But this was one risky business that I couldn’t imagine dropping. Not yet.
What do you think of our new City Girl?
Email citygirl@thelondonpaper.com with your comments
I eventually plumped for the time when, heady with Krug, I decided to get married within a week of meeting my future husband (and before you ask, yes, it did crash and burn).
It obviously did the trick. “When can you start?” my interviewer asked eagerly.
I already had a mental picture of what a “trader-ess” would look like. She would be asexual, unsightly, and a graduate of something like econometrics 301 from somewhere such as the London School of Economics.
So, determined to prove that beauty and brains are not mutually exclusive, I showed up for orientation dressed to kill (4in Louboutins, inappropriately short Prada skirt, the lot) and ready to conquer the markets and this appalling “she-trader” stereotype.
From the very beginning, erotic tension hung thick in the air. My long, flowing hair, size-six figure and Barbie-with-attitude demeanour drew flirtatious looks everywhere from the escalators at Canary Wharf to the office itself. There were even catcalls directed at my desk.
But I resolved that no amount of harassment would stop me from thriving in an environment that was more locker room than banking hall.
Statistically, it didn’t look good. Our mentor, slick and Machiavellian, let us know – as if he were guesting on The Apprentice – that within a year most of us would be axed. It occurred to me that this City move might have been a mistake. However, the prospect of spending my life surrounded by violent toddlers was perversely exciting. It sure beat what most of my friends were doing.
What I learned over the course of the next year would change my life. When it comes to trading, everything you have ever learned about the relationship between work and reward is thrown out the window.
I could work for 30 minutes and make my month, or slave away endlessly and not make a cent.And as for sexual politics, no amount of eyelash-batting at the boss was going to stave off that P45 if you stayed in the red every day for a month.
Most girls would have thrown in the towel after that year. But this was one risky business that I couldn’t imagine dropping. Not yet.
What do you think of our new City Girl?
Email citygirl@thelondonpaper.com with your comments
Your comments
Guest_null says:
Something tells me this
Friday 04 July 2008 10:56
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The charity do-gooder gets nasty
Friday, 27 June 2008
Lunchtime on a central London high street. I put on my sunglasses to avoid eye contact and pretend to look busy, rummaging through my bag. I whip out my mobile phone in the hope that it’s just about to ring. Who am I avoiding? The crazy woman screaming about me going to hell? The sleazy man looking me up and down? The girl I always hated in school? No, much worse than that – it’s the charity fundraiser.
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not opposed to giving to charity. In fact, I do it regularly. What I do have a problem with is the way these so-called do-gooders go about it. In this instance, I can tell that I have been spotted a mile off. Damn it, I’ve made eye contact.
The fundraiser walks over. It’s all smiles so far. “Have you got a minute?” I’m asked. Well, considering that I’m trying to fit as much as possible into my lunch hour, a spare minute is exactly what I don’t have. But I’m persuaded to stop by on the promise that it will “only take a minute”.
So I stand and listen to the (four-minute) spiel. It’s still all smiles so far. Now we’ve reached the moment when I’m asked to hand over my bank details for the monthly direct debit. I decide that I’d like a bit longer to think about it, but thank them for their time. This is when their smile fades.
“Why not?” “So you’re saying you can’t give up one hour’s wages?” And my personal favourite: “Oh, so you don’t like helping people then?” These are just a few of the responses that have been shot at me.
I thought pressure-selling was left to the 18-30 reps who make you believe that your holiday is doomed unless you book the booze cruise and the bar crawl every night! Charity is supposed to be a good thing, so why are these people trying to make me feel so bad? Since when was a polite “no thanks” not enough? I walk away thinking more about the bad attitude of the person than the good cause they are trying to promote.
Come on, fundraisers, give us all a break and remember what the idea of charity is – and it’s not your pay packet! I’ve learnt my lesson. Now I know that stopping and listening only makes it worse, I’ll keep my sunglasses on, thanks – even if it is pouring with rain!
Ellie, 22, is an admin assistant from London
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Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not opposed to giving to charity. In fact, I do it regularly. What I do have a problem with is the way these so-called do-gooders go about it. In this instance, I can tell that I have been spotted a mile off. Damn it, I’ve made eye contact.
The fundraiser walks over. It’s all smiles so far. “Have you got a minute?” I’m asked. Well, considering that I’m trying to fit as much as possible into my lunch hour, a spare minute is exactly what I don’t have. But I’m persuaded to stop by on the promise that it will “only take a minute”.
So I stand and listen to the (four-minute) spiel. It’s still all smiles so far. Now we’ve reached the moment when I’m asked to hand over my bank details for the monthly direct debit. I decide that I’d like a bit longer to think about it, but thank them for their time. This is when their smile fades.
“Why not?” “So you’re saying you can’t give up one hour’s wages?” And my personal favourite: “Oh, so you don’t like helping people then?” These are just a few of the responses that have been shot at me.
I thought pressure-selling was left to the 18-30 reps who make you believe that your holiday is doomed unless you book the booze cruise and the bar crawl every night! Charity is supposed to be a good thing, so why are these people trying to make me feel so bad? Since when was a polite “no thanks” not enough? I walk away thinking more about the bad attitude of the person than the good cause they are trying to promote.
Come on, fundraisers, give us all a break and remember what the idea of charity is – and it’s not your pay packet! I’ve learnt my lesson. Now I know that stopping and listening only makes it worse, I’ll keep my sunglasses on, thanks – even if it is pouring with rain!
Ellie, 22, is an admin assistant from London
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Your comments
Guest_Lauren says:
These people get paid to do this job. Why don't they each donate all of their salary so we don't have to? Problem solved.
Saturday 28 June 2008 22:42
Mark as offensive
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Glasto isn’t rock ’n’ roll these days
by Dan Green.
Thursday, 26 June 2008
Festival season is here again, people! The English are all set for their regular summer servings of rock ’n’ pop, and the grimy granddaddy of ’em all – Glastonbury – takes place this weekend. Unless you accidentally superglued your eyes shut a month ago, there’s no way this could have escaped your notice.
Every newspaper has covered this year’s storm-in-a-Jay-Z-cup “controversy” about the rap artist headlining. They have all featured pages of the essential equipment to take to this most essential supermarket of sound.
Thus your highway to hedonism begins with a trip to the shops to stock up. Don’t forget your Marc Jacobs wellies, your organic Pac-a-Mac, GPS camp seat, glowstick sunhat, oversize sun specs, undersize pants, edible travel towel and hypoallergenic radio. What with spare mobile batteries, tent padlocks and specially marketed survival packs, there’s just so much to remember...
It wasn’t so long ago that going to Glasto automatically got you labelled a “dirty hippy”. But despite getting stick, the groovers who made it back felt they had survived something extraordinary.
Without the terrors of teenage encounters with the trailing hem of society and the anxiety of getting lost in a makeshift metropolis of 250,000 people in a world before mobile phones, today’s festival seems to lack an edge. Now Glastonbury looks, at worst, nothing more than a First World War-themed fun-park for plebs and slebs. It’s ironic that this celebration of music, freedom, rebellion and love takes place behind a double perimeter fence, with watchtowers. Even the mud is clean. There just doesn’t seem to be anything left to “survive”.
You might say I’m a snob and you’re probably right. You see, I’ve never... ever... been to Glastonbury. And I’m jealous. I’ve always hated the family-bucket approach that festival-goers take to music. I’m dubious of crowds. And I think that certain people don’t deserve to hear good music – especially ones who don’t even like it.
But it turns out I was wrong all along and I should have got there before the marketers moved in – before anything as depressing as “Glastonbury fashion” was invented. So take advantage of the relaxed atmosphere and the short arm of the law. Load up on ice, bring your friends, but most of all, have a good time. You gits!
Dan, 33, is a magazine editor living in Brixton
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Email 400 words and a photograph of yourself to talk@thelondonpaper.com
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Every newspaper has covered this year’s storm-in-a-Jay-Z-cup “controversy” about the rap artist headlining. They have all featured pages of the essential equipment to take to this most essential supermarket of sound.
Thus your highway to hedonism begins with a trip to the shops to stock up. Don’t forget your Marc Jacobs wellies, your organic Pac-a-Mac, GPS camp seat, glowstick sunhat, oversize sun specs, undersize pants, edible travel towel and hypoallergenic radio. What with spare mobile batteries, tent padlocks and specially marketed survival packs, there’s just so much to remember...
It wasn’t so long ago that going to Glasto automatically got you labelled a “dirty hippy”. But despite getting stick, the groovers who made it back felt they had survived something extraordinary.
Without the terrors of teenage encounters with the trailing hem of society and the anxiety of getting lost in a makeshift metropolis of 250,000 people in a world before mobile phones, today’s festival seems to lack an edge. Now Glastonbury looks, at worst, nothing more than a First World War-themed fun-park for plebs and slebs. It’s ironic that this celebration of music, freedom, rebellion and love takes place behind a double perimeter fence, with watchtowers. Even the mud is clean. There just doesn’t seem to be anything left to “survive”.
You might say I’m a snob and you’re probably right. You see, I’ve never... ever... been to Glastonbury. And I’m jealous. I’ve always hated the family-bucket approach that festival-goers take to music. I’m dubious of crowds. And I think that certain people don’t deserve to hear good music – especially ones who don’t even like it.
But it turns out I was wrong all along and I should have got there before the marketers moved in – before anything as depressing as “Glastonbury fashion” was invented. So take advantage of the relaxed atmosphere and the short arm of the law. Load up on ice, bring your friends, but most of all, have a good time. You gits!
Dan, 33, is a magazine editor living in Brixton
Want to be a columnist?
Email 400 words and a photograph of yourself to talk@thelondonpaper.com
MORE or BORE?
Should Dan write for us again?
Text More or Bore to 88855.
Texts cost 25p plus standard network rates.