I get a lot of spam mail.
Sometimes my spam mail and my real mail get mixed up by the vagaries of the software that decides what is what, so I always scan across the titles of mails before I delete them from my spam filter.
Sometimes, even though I know something is spam I have a quick read of the main body of text just to see what absurdities people are trying on in the name of conning me out of whatever detail it is that they want from me. I particularly like ones that start ‘Dear Friend in Christ’, and which inevitably promise that because I am the best random stranger they have not met today, I am assured a share of ten million pounds and a free ride on a unicorn as long as I send my bank details now.
I frequently wonder if anyone ever falls for this?
If they do, I am sorry, but I think they deserve to have all their money stolen and possibly be publicly ridiculed for eternity.
I know this is not kind of me. Be assured that when I am senile and sporting a huge, zapata moustache I will inevitably give all the money under my mattress to a man in greasy overalls who swears blind he can fix the boiler I don’t have.
It’s called karma.
Spam generally falls into three categories for me:
Firstly I am offered a great deal of cut price medicine I don’t want and have never heard of, usually from somewhere in Canada. I sometimes imagine the vast, trackless wastes of the Canadian heartland inhabited only by moose and men in lab coats packing boxes and boxes of Seroxat into jiffy bags.
Secondly I am offered the chance to enhance either my boobs, or my penis. It is usually, and quite troublingly, my penis. I am not sure which of the internet sites I visit most (BBC News, Amazon, Facebook or WordPress), pushes me more towards the ‘likely to go for penis enhancement’ area of the demographic, but I’d be quite interested to find out.
Thirdly, I am invited to look at pornography. Most recently the trend seems to be to offer me the chance to have a virtual affair by hooking up with various ‘sassy’ women via a pornographic clone of Facebook.
I cannot have an affair, virtual or otherwise. Firstly because I don’t want to but also for the following reasons:
I fecking hate the word ‘sassy’. I would never share bodily fluids with someone who describes themselves as sassy. Ditto ‘peppy’ or even ‘sultry’.
I am terrible with names. I frequently call Jason, Derek. How will I cope with someone else to remember? Unless I have an affair with someone who already bears the name of one of the existing members of my family. Which would be weird and icky. Anyway, because, in the land of Spam, I am a man, I am always being offered affairs with women. I don’t have anything against women being with women, but my previous dating history strongly suggests that up to now I have only gone for the male end of the spectrum in terms of lurve. Having said that, Andrea and I are marrying if things with Jason don’t work out. Maybe in the parallel universe that is Spam Land I am already married to Andrea, and would rush headlong into having an affair with Sassy Stephanie. Goodness. Now, there’s a thought.
I haven’t got time to have an affair, unless I can fit it into the fifteen minute slot between First Holy Communion lessons and swimming, and they don’t mind meeting me in my mother’s porch, which is where I seem to spend a lot of my free time, coming and going like the tide. You think there would be more opportunity now that my husband has shunted off to the Motherland. It seems not, however. Maybe I should send Sassy Stephanie an e-mail. ‘Certainly I will consider having an affair with you, if you consider taking some pesky domestic chores off of my hands. How’s your ironing skills?’
Mainly, I cannot have an affair because despite my devil may care attitude and the fact that I have recently taken to wearing scarves in a slightly bohemian manner, I am a repressed Englishwoman of a certain age. I get sweaty palms at the mere thought of shaking hands with someone. Were I required to shake anything else I would probably melt into the nearest grating.
I’d rather have a cup of tea and a bun.
So that’s that.
Last week I got an email asking me if I would like to visit a porn site which features ‘clumsy she males’.
I have been mulling this over ever since.
I have discussed this on Twitter. We are agreed on two key things here; firstly that it is a very niche market, and secondly that probably all she males are clumsy until they have mastered heels.
I sort of want to follow the link on this mail even though:
It will melt my computer to buggery.
It will probably melt my eyeballs to buggery.
My children are bound to enter the room at entirely the wrong moment.
I will have to disinfect my mind.
I am allowing myself to be entertained by images of basically Freddie Mercury in ‘I Want to Break Free’ tripping over the hoover cord, or falling suggestively on the shag pile. Saying, in a Vic Reeves voice: ‘I’ve fallen…Ooohh’.
I am wondering what other niche markets there are out there that will cater to people’s whims and desires, and whether, now that more and more things that were once taboo are becoming acceptable, these fetishes will get more and more bizarre and specific:
Men who dress as kittens and climb into oversize brandy glasses whilst singing in Dutch.
People who like to pleasure themselves with obscurely named pieces of Ikea furniture.
Ladies who like to achieve the pinnacle of orgasmic bliss by administering it to themselves atop an ironing board as it skims down a mountain to the tune of Ski Sunday.
or even agile she males.