Dear Canvasser,

I do not want to talk to you. You are literally the very last person on Earth that I would ever want to talk to. If we were the last two people on Earth, not only would I not birth a new species with you, I would flat out refuse to speak to you.

Let’s explore why I feel this way. Firstly, in this fine country known as Australia, the vast majority of you are backpackers from the United Kingdom (the minority being comprised of backpackers from Europe and out of work Australian actors). When you come to our country and insist upon gallivanting around in your ridiculous orange tans while holding a plethora of mixed drinks shortly before whacking your tits or kit out for all and sundry, you make me loathe you almost perfectly. But when you go out and become a Canvasser in order to fund yourself not dying of starvation, my hatred becomes exquisite.

When I wander through Sydney’s CBD or inner western suburbs and I see a flock of you in the distance, I die a little inside. You travel in packs of three or four, as if en masse you would be less offensive (this is not the case). You dress the same, in an ill-fitting T-shirt with whatever company logo emblazoned upon it, with ankle bracelets glinting around sandals, previously mentioned fanta-tans disappearing under bohemian trousers and hair out, frizzed to ‘perfection’, possibly with a dreadlock or two banging around in there. You have a officious lanyard around your neck and an equally officious clipboard clasped to your baggily T-shirted chest.

As I approach, I see your eyes glint like cartoon villains. You glance at each other and after unspoken discussion, one breaks off to approach.

The game begins. I turn my iPod up as loud as possible, sadly not loud enough to drown out all outside noise. I pull up my hood for added protection and look directly ahead of me, concentrating on not concentrating on you.

You begin to dance. Your arms wave up and down, billowing your hostel B.O. toward me as you do. Your free hand (one is clasping the clipboard) waves out and jazz fingers ensue.

I bring out my Blackberry. I begin scrolling something, anything, just to appear busy. I settle on old messages. It doesn’t matter, just as long as I don’t look up.

Somehow, through the cacophony from my iPod, I can hear your faint, whining non-descript-United-Kingdom-accented voice screaming some banality at me like ‘I like your hoodie! Where did you get it?’ in a desperate grab for my attention. I will not however, be swayed so easily.

I take my final stride past you and look up, feeling the relief start to flow.

Your cronies have closed in on me.

I have only one route, the most direct route through the horror.

One of you is dancing, all have jazz fingered me brutally, all are screaming attempted small talk at me.

‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.’ With Coolio’s words to guide me, I make it through the horror.

But the point of the matter is that I should not have to make it through any horror, especially not Canvasser branded horror! You are an abomination to the streets, to employment and amazingly to the utterly reprehensible sub-culture to which you also belong, the backpacker. That’s correct, even though my opinion of you is abysmally low from the very outset, the fact that you have transformed into a Canvasser somehow both surprises me and lowers my opinion of you. I too, was shocked that there was a base opinion lower than infinitely abysmal, but congratulations, Canvasser, for busting that myth.

I will not give you this gauntlet per se, instead, I will use it to defend myself against your constantly multiplying and encroaching mass.

Adrik