Recently, I was approached to ‘Sponsor a Donkey’.

Thrown by this request, I enquired what the donkey had planned? Was it going to swim the Channel? Run a half marathon or not shave for a month? The answer was nay for all of the above.

Seriously though, the constant tapping up of people has got to stop. I find I do not know where they are coming from next.

In the office, in supermarkets, on streets and the train, there is no shortage of amateur fund-raisers or charity muggers (chuggers), those bright eyed, pony tailed, commission based revolutionaries whose sole purpose seems to be to get you to set up regular stipends for large charities who pay their CEO’s obscene salaries.

Don’t get me wrong. I am all for charity fundraising, but there have to be rules. Run a fete stall or drop a mailshot through my door, that’s fine.

Both options give me the choice. I can stump up if I feel like it, but most importantly, I will not be embarrassed into feeling like I should give.

On the street when approached, I generally refuse to engage in conversation with those wearing bright red T-shirts and carrying a clipboard who always start with cheery sales patter such as ‘Are you having a good day today sir’?

I once responded ‘Yes’ in my chugging naivety. His reply: ‘Better than the UK’s abused cats then?’

Comments like that leave you with nowhere to go. Walk off and you are an unfeeling cat abuse denier commencing on the walk of shame up the high street, engage in conversation and it is going to cost. Not once, but by a monthly direct debit with little chance in hell of comprehending the small print prior to giving up in your quest to cancel.

Sponsored events used to be impressive.

As a child I was a poor swimmer who never swam more than two lengths. I entered a sponsored swim and had friends, family and neighbours sponsor me.

Somehow, I smashed my PB, all for charidee, and managed to swim 48 lengths prior to being dragged from the water after I swam into the side and was deemed to be on the verge of losing consciousness.

Proud of myself, I went to collect my monies. The venom aimed toward me as a 10-year-old boy-fish was stinging as most had sponsored me ‘per length’.

Still, despite losing numerous valued relationships due to my perceived deceit, I raised enough to buy the school a new bench, which got graffitied and trashed within a week. Still, you live and learn.

At work, I am often met by grinning colleagues, without warning, standing at my door with a large ‘hold me to ransom’ envelopes and dog eared sponsorship forms as they are planning to ‘walk 10 kilometres’, ‘cycle to the local shops’ or ‘not shave their legs in September'. Refusal often offends and leads to elongated silent stand offs.

As a non-giver you are deemed to be a hater of the cause, which is not true, I just want to be left alone to choose who and when I give to, without the added human element of some lame activity bolt-on that I am meant to in awe of.

In days of yore, events truly impressed. Run 10 marathons in as many days, hop from Lands’ End to John O Groats or get sponsored to make a citizen’s arrest on the Bieber for crimes against popular culture and I’m there with a ‘0’ on the end. Give me the "Wow!" factor, that’s all I ask.

With charity, you have to give the option and release the pressure, so here’s the nub: I will write a column on a topic of your choice in return for a £100 donation to Noah’s Ark Children’s Hospice.

Send the topic and payment to the editor and I will get on it.

No T-shirts, no Direct debits and only one rule: ‘Donkeys’ are out.

- Brett Ellis is a teacher who lives in London Colney