Chuggers

One morning, the charities of the land woke up and realised that the way to get money from the public was not through the gentle rattle of a collection box but by employing Australian backpackers to harass people. The "charity mugger" was born. They are now most commonly known as chuggers. Or sometimes by a word that sort of rhymes with it, writes Shane Hegarty

Every time you step out of the office to grab a cup of coffee, it means having to sprint through a sniper alley of chuggers, all of whom could make even Bob Geldof feel guilty with their opening greeting alone. "Hi there, can I talk to you for a minute for blind children?" They station themselves within walking distance of cash machines and seem to descend in packs, covering the exits and entrances, bouncing about the street in a way that feigns youthful bonhomie but is calculated to block your escape route. When they target you, it is as close as you'll ever get to knowing how it feels to be an ailing wildebeest that has wandered into a pride of lions. Lions with clipboards.

They build to a critical mass at Christmas, when at any particular time half of Grafton Street is attempting to dodge and weave past them while the other half is keeping the head down and hoping to make it to Next, where they can take a breather before making a dash for the Luas. But chuggers are a year-round fixture, and an encounter always triggers a predictable ritual.

You know you're about to be chugged because the hairs begin to prick up on the back of your wallet. They spot you from 100 metres away, and you hope vainly that they will be diverted by the chap walking in front of you. They are not, so you are forced to do one of two things. You can put your head down and pretend to be in very serious thought about something to do with the pavement. Or you can suddenly speed up your stride and belt past them while giving the impression that you are on your way to somewhere very important, even if you instead look as if your pants are on fire and you have just spotted a barrel of water up the street. Passing, you open your mouth to say something along the lines of, "Sorry, I can't stop today," or, "It's a shame, but I can't give to everyone," or, "I'm signed up already, I'm afraid." But it comes out as a babbling mixture of all three, so all they hear as you leg it past is, "Stop, I feel ashamed and afraid!"

Which, as it turns out, is closer to the truth than anything you could have come up with consciously.