Charitable intentions up to me

Also known as British Bulldogs, the game involves a gang of unruly kids sprinting from one side of the playground to the other with the specific intention of avoiding the two people in the middle.

Anyone tagged by the two would have to sit on the sidelines until the last person to be tagged was crowned the winner.

Memories, eh? Well, now you don't need to rely on dim and distant reminiscences. You can do it for real. As an adult. Just head down to Pride Hill in Shrewsbury and try avoiding the annoying barrage of charity workers ready to bully you into submission.

Last week one jumped in front of me, her smile leaking like a sieve due to the number of piercings in her lips.

"How would you like to give to the biggest children's charity in the world?" she beamed.

"I'm okay thanks," I said politely.

As I sidestepped to the right she pounced again.

"We really need your money," she said a little more forcefully.

I explained that I already had monthly commitments to two charities and would not be extending the hand of generosity from my seriously overdrawn bank account.

"It's actually recommended that you give to three charities," she replied, feeling rather pleased with herself.

"I'm sure it is but I'm sticking with mine, thanks. Two's enough."

"How much do you give each month anyway?" she asked, assuming my suit alluded to untold riches.

I mean, excuse me, but what business is that of anybody else? Being accosted is one thing, but having someone make moral judgements on the amount I give each month is outrageous.

I remember being accosted seven times along Argyll Street in London, the one that leads up from Liberty's past the Palladium. Each 'seller' became increasingly aggressive because they were plainly running out of opportunities to get my cash.

But that is London and this is Shrewsbury. Worryingly, the same tactics are being employed in Telford, Oswestry and Ludlow.

Ultimately it is our local councils who are responsible for the hordes of conscience-prickers charging up and down the road brandishing their clipboards and false grins.

It doesn't cost the charity anything to get the licence and there seems to be no barrier to the number of licences handed out at any one time.

Charities need money. We all know that. And we also know that giving has fallen dramatically since the National Lottery arrived in 1994. Yet this brutal attack on the unsuspecting public does nothing for the image of the charity or the image of our towns.

Give me a street beggar any day. They sit there scruffily in a shop doorway, playing a penny whistle if you're lucky, and care little whether you give them a penny or a pound.

Occasionally you encounter the guy who follows you down the street with one hand out and the other firmly gripping a can of Special Brew, but at least they don't ask you how much you give to other beggars.

Of course I'd rather not have either of them, but I don't want to seem - erm - uncharitable.