Of all the virtues, surely charity is the most annoying. Prudence? Easily ignored, what with all the practise I've had over the last 34 years. Justice? I can happily leave that shit to fake karma. Temperance? Hahahahaha! I'm fucking Irish, for Christ's sake. Courage? Easy to fake. Faith? Well, I guess it would be nice to touch your body. Hope? That I can do. All I have to do is sit here, hoping. But charity? Ugh, what a pain in the tits.
But three examples off the top of the Gimme head: Junk mail, chuggers, shops that for quite some time I was convinced sold only paisley-patterned clothes and homeware. And then there's the way I hate giving people stuff. That just makes it stuff that I don't have any more. Nothing fucks stuff up like it not being mine.
And yet I find myself in a charitable book. I didn't actually have to do much, which was sweet, but there I am nonetheless, being accidentally charitable. Should you buy this book? Yes, you should. Why? Oh, I don't fucking know. Because it's for charity, I suppose. And a quick glance down the list of contributors reveals one or two names who have been known to string a moderately successful sentence together. And reading a book on Christmas Day will appear less offensive to the gathered hordes than sitting in front of the laptop re-reading Twenty Major posts of Christmas past. Yeah, he's in there. And they put me right after him, the fuckers. Might as well have Bill Hicks opening for Harry Hill. Thanks for that.
Here's where you buy it. You should go and do that now.