The week that wasn’t.
Well, Saturday was supposed to be the rapture.
That’s were Jesus comes down and scoops up all the good people (not you and me) and drives off into the sunset leaving the rest of behind to ponder our worthless lives and carry on sinning!
But it never happened.
A volcano in Iceland blew up a bit and I got a bit of grit in my eye, but that really doesn’t count.
Anyway, Mrs H won a fiver on a scratch card so everything has balanced out well in the end.
This week I would like to open up my blog (ooh...sounds rude) to you dear readers and ask the following question.
Would you pay to read this blog?
Or any blog?
I know for a fact that you are going to say no. And that is the right answer.
But for some reason Blogger – the gracious hosts who allow me to produce this pile of rubbish I spew out – have added the opportunity to put a tip jar on the page.
That’s right – a tip jar.
Or as I like to call it – BLOGGERS BEGGING BOWL.
I don’t know about you, I read the odd blog here and there and even follow a few that share the same interests and some that I completely disagree with, because what’s the point of reading or listening to something if all you are going to do is sit and nod like a fool?
Education is the key, even if it’s to simply reaffirm that you are normal and other people are bloody weird (you are all welcome by the way!)
A tip jar.
Should I put one up just to see if anyone is daft enough to give me money?
Seems mad to me.
I would never “tip” a blogger other than to grace their comments section with a witty quip and humorous and satirical remark – that should be enough for anyone, surely.
I’m not against anyone making money, but this has really perplexed me.
The whole tipping culture seems alien to me.
Being proudly ENGLISH, I would say British but I just can’t stand the thought of adding the Welsh into the same category as me, and a staunch believer in an honest day’s wage for an honest day work – I find I very rarely need to add extra money to the end of a bill.
Only in the very few circumstances where I have received exceptional service from a big busty barmaid or more likely I’ve eaten the most succulent steak in the world and I would happily have paid more for the privilege – have I ever tipped. And when I did it was with a sizable amount, not a couple of quid but paper money because the people who get the tip deserved it.
In know the Yanks have their own system where the tip is automatically added to the end of your bill but that just seems bloody cheeky to me.
The one time I was lucky enough to venture to New York I sat in a bar one evening and watched the bartender supply everyone with their choice of beverage all evening only asking once what they wanted to drink.
After that he simply remembered what you were on and kept an eye out for your glass being emptied, once it was he popped up out of nowhere and offered to refill it.
Never once did he have to write down what any of us had, or ring it in the till.
It wasn’t until the end of his shift, that he called time on his customers and called in the orders. He got every single one of them wrong... no he didn’t.
He got them all right.
I was amazed. Being a tight git from the north I had kept my own tab on what me and
Mrs H were drinking and this bloke had too, along with the other dozen or so patrons at the bar.
Everyone paid up without a fuss before the new barman took over with a clean slate and I gave him a very healthy tip and told him he was a jolly good egg and we could have done with more of his sort in the Falklands (I was about 4 years old when the Falklands happened and I think there was more that a hint of Argentinean in him which, looking back was probably a mistake but I was on holiday and I was drunk)
Tipping is almost a form of begging in my eye.
And I don’t give to people who beg.
There is a guy who sits on a bridge in the town where I live and plays the penny whistle. He has a beard and a skull cap and a manky dog.
I pass him every week and ignore him.
This is because he isn’t trying.
Similar to tips, I would give if he tried.
There are many opportunities being wasted with him. From holding a sign saying give me a pound or I will kick the dog to simply standing at the end of the bridge screaming “THOU SHALT NOT PASS! UNLESS THINE PALM IS CROSSED WITH SILVER!”
But he doesn't. He just sits there dicking about on his I-phone speaking to his
The last time I did give money to somebody begging was to a Norwegian dwarf who was stood on top of a very steep hill plating “keepy-uppy” with a football and his crutches.
That was a dangerous and skilful act to watch and although everyone there was waiting to see what he would do if he dropped the ball and it ran off down the street, that little chap was working his socks off and deserved the 4 tiny coins I threw at him.
So in conclusion, don’t tip me because I’m just waffling on. But do tip dwarves because they can grant wishes and you never know you’re luck in this game.