Give Us Yer F**king Money

I've had my fair share of aggressive cold-callers in my time (including one numpty from Virgin Credit Cards who somehow thought he'd managed to ascertain my complete credit-worthiness via a thirty-second chat then liberally chastised me for when I expressed my desire to decline to take out payment insurance for my credit-card balance) but yesterday's really nicked the garibaldi.

He'd almost had me hypnotised with his speel. True, alarms bells were warming up as he went on and on, speaking in a unique form of English that contains no spaces or pauses between individual word, and off these alarm bells sounded once the word 'andnowsirifyou'djusttellmeyoursortcodeandbankaccountnumber' spilled down the phone at me.

And the strange thing was, he rang - or at least he claimed to ring - from Cancer Research UK. Naturally, when a charity cold calls you it'd be slightly rude to ignore them, so I listened to what he had to say. He'd gotten my details via a sponsored walk I'd done with Lukas some years ago now (at least three), and went on to talk about the marvelous advances that had been made in cancer research in recent months. He had me interested and enthralled, a little.

Then he moved on to asking me whether I'd be willing to set up a regular payment from my bank account of £10 to the cause. Even though this tickled my suspicious, I said I would. He went a little overboard in his thanks and then made that pertinent request: For my precious account number and sort code.

So I said I would be unwilling to do that, but I would instead go to the Cancer Research UK web-site and set up my regular donation via that method. I would have thought - having gained my support - it would have been enough for him. But this wasn't the case; he started blurting on about administration costs (whilst ignoring the obvious plot-hole about the administration costs of cold-calling people) and tax implications and the government taking some of my dosh.

After a few further moments of chest-beating my suspiciousometer reached max and I put the phone down on him, convinced now I was being played as a potential sucker.

I immediately phoned Cancer Research UK via a number on their web-site and informed an interested lady that I had suspicions that someone was perhaps using their goodwill and data and attempting to dubiously get funds off potential supporters. This lady immediately adopted a slightly weary tome and explained that the person calling me was very probably genuine as that was something Cancer Research UK have recently taken to doing public donations have been dropping rapidly sue to the current financial woes of the capitalist world. I said that I didn't think this too good an idea. The lady said she could place a mark on their database indicating I didn't wish to be called in this manner. I said I'd like that to happen and the call ended.

This mark obviously didn't occur with immediate effect as Mr Aggressive called me back, apologising for being cut off earlier. I stopped him dead in his tracks, reiterating that I was going to set up my payment via the web-site, that I did not wished to be harrassed in this way, and that I thought this an irresponsible and slightly dubious tactic. He began to bark at me so I just shouted over him that I was not going to argue with him and put the phone down.

He didn't ring back.

I am right, aren't I? That this is irresponsible? I can imagine someone less suspicious than me handing over their details to the charity and then when everything goes through hunky-dory-like, the next time they get a request for their account details (possibly for some Nigerian businessman to launder a couple of billion pounds into the UK for the estate of some recently-deceased distant relative) they may be that little bit more willing to be a little bit more naive?

Whatever - it's just my opinion. I didn't set up the direct debit but I will. Probably.

The brewing Colin v Bryn verbal boxing match is still yet to explode. I know this is pushing aside something that is inevitable but I'm not in the mood just yet. Today is a good day (Gabe's 14th) so I've no desire to allow dampeners to be placed upon it. I've already had a fruitless day of meetings. One guy in my last meeting called the queries I've placed over his specifications as 'you being pedantic' - unexpectedly Peter Handyman jumped in before I became enraged and smacked this upstart down. He said: I am sure Bryn has far more pertinent reasons why he has raised these queries against your designs other than being pedantic and you will take notice of them and you will re-submit your specifications and Bryn will review them again, Understand?

Wow.

And so today marks the fourteenth anniversary of my second little screaming bundle of joy adding one to the world's population. And we didn't give him the best of starts in bequeathing him the instant weight around his shoulders of being called 'Gabriel', but I can blame Poppy for that, and thank her family friend or aunt (I cannot remember which) 'Gabrielle'.

Hardly noble I know but I'd asked Gabe several times what he would like as a present but had grown tired of his usual answer of dunno, just give us the money. So I got him a card, stuck twenty quid in it and left it on his bed this morning just before I left for work (as middle-son was in the shower at the time).

I may see him tonight, and I may not. Probably may not. Thankfully I'm perfectly at ease at no longer being the most important person in his life. I cannot compete with someone who has breasts. Okay, so I have breasts, but I'm not suppose to have!