The shops are full of rubbish and anyway you already own everything, so nobody knows what to buy you for Christmas. Here’s the solution. Get them to buy you a subscription to the League of Dabblers. It’s a mere £30, but the rewards are priceless and infinite…
For the trifling sum of £30 per annum, you will be entitled to join the LEAGUE OF DABBLERS and will receive:
- A splendid, signed certificate – officially decreeing that you are a Dabbler, and therefore entitled to win all arguments whether Political, Philosophical or Domestic in nature.
- A limited edition Dabbler-branded Glencairn whisky glass – available exclusively for League of Dabbler members, not available anywhere else, and posted to your door (see below)
- A free PDF version of Noseybonk’s Guide to Blogmanship(if you’ve already bought a PDF we’ll happily refund your £2 on request. Amazon eBooks cannot be refunded)
- Free books – we will set aside some review copies of Dabbler Book Club monthly books for League members, hugely increasing your chance of winning a copy
- Invitations to Dabbler events, where you’ll get the chance to consume free booze and food, and meet fellow Dabblers
- Priority in special competitions, giveaways, discounts and anything else we think of
- The knowledge that you will be supporting the finest site on the web, and the good wishes of the Dabblers
I signed up and it was only a matter of days before I opened my front door to find that The Dabbler had sent me Megan Fox wearing nothing but some marigolds. She then proceeded to do all my washing up for me before ironing my shirts. Best money I’ve ever spent.
That was rotten luck, Worm. We had Scarlett Johannson the week before, and George Clooney with a Dyson for the ladies.
(Terms and conditions apply. Offer may not include attractive film star with household cleaning appliances.)
Twelve months ago I met the Dabblers. Since then I’ve written 50,000 words for them. And they haven’t ask me to pay them once. Join up now. What’s not to love?
Lucky you, Worm. When I opened the door an unshaven, saliva spraying geezer, with more nose-hair than Irina, a 1970s Russian hammer thrower, thrust a bunch of marigolds at me and said: “From the Dabbler, mate, an’ it looks to me as though they were knicked out of a park – about three months ago………….heh? Sign ‘ere.” I assured him The Dabbler was a fine organisation, strapped for cash, maybe, but run by people of rich talents and impeccable tastes and, anyway, the limp, formerly golden and vibrant, now brown and crinkly, handful I was able, at that moment, to wave cheerily at a passing neighbour beat, hands down, the signed photo of Rupert Murdoch received from Times Online.
another time I came home to find that The Dabbler had arranged for the northern lights to appear above my back garden
Hah. If you live in the States, you have to get yourself to England in order to collect your damn marigolds.