I don’t care if those little black kids are blind, or uneducated, or are allegedly exhausted from walking miles to get water. It is their Governments’ responsibility to teach, clothe, or cure them, all of them. I don’t want to know if the backward clowns in Bangladesh are starving, or the sons and daughters of the religious fanatics in Pakistan have been washed out of their mud huts by the floods; I really get fed up by the constant calls for £3.00 a month here, or £13.00 monthly (by direct debit, of course) there, or ‘make a covenant in your will for ‘Charity X or ‘DoGooders Anonymous’; or any of the hundreds of so-called charities who leach off the goodwill of the British people.
Does the condition of donkeys in some cess-pit of a country really need a charity based in England to get cash to do, what exactly? Lighten their load? If you believe that; you’ll believe anything! Ever wondered about the cost of half- or full-page adverts in daily newspapers? It is truly expensive. Has the cost of advertising on t.v. or the radio ever crossed your mind? If you have ever given to charity, for whatever reason or cause, the advertising industry rakes it in, and you are paying the bill. You are also paying the wages bill for outfits like the RSPCA, whose chief executive, whose salary ‘is within the parameters of the going rate for major UK charities’, and is set at £160.000.00. Thats more than the bloody Prime Minister gets, and he is supposed to be running the country.
Charity? The whole industry should be renamed as the ‘Cheaters Charter’; or ‘Simpletons; sign here.’ I wouldn’t give them the sweat from my socks; bunch of thieving shysters, just about the whole bunch. A very, very few should survive, but the ones who feed off of taxpayers cash via Government ‘donations’: I’d close ‘em all down, send the entire teams of high-paid ‘executives’ off for an all-expenses-paid holiday on Gruinard Island: that should sort them out!
I write a small eulogy for a true British lady, not that she was treated as such in the final years and months of this doughty lady’s life. Olive Cooke was 92 when she fell, or more likely jumped to her death in the Avon Gorge, near Bristol; where she had lived. She collected every year for the Royal British Legion selling poppies, in memory of her sailor husband, who died in action in 1943. She, unfortunately, also gave from what she had to every sob-story under the sun, every fake charity, every bunch of legal thieves operating under the shelter of the Charities Commission. She gave and she gave, until she decided to give no more, and closed down the direct debits; and then the cabal of bloodsuckers commenced their campaigns of phone calls and begging letters to get ever more cash out of the bank accounts of this weak, elderly lady who had given so much already. She closed the accounts down because she was recovering from cancer, and worried she would be unable to go to her bank to replenish the accounts; and finally, she felt she could take no more, and ‘went forwards toward the wind’.
Farewell Olive, you can rest easy, you have done your best, the ‘charities’ will just have to find another ‘sucker’ to bleed dry, as there was, literally, nothing left at the end for this small, seemingly-indomitable lady.