Spam, spamity spam

Yes, my darlings, it has finally happened. Teasmade Revenge is finally so incredibly, mind-bogglingly popular that it has received its first bit of spam, hot off the press. Or straight off the grill. Whatever.

Anyway, in tribute to BrittneySexx and his gang of HottTeans, I have traveled into, through and indeed round icy tundras, frozen wastegrounds, arctic valleys and… um… yes, I went deep into Brixton to attend the post-Annual General Meeting cigar-smoking gathering of the High Commission of Internet Spammers, London Division. Please note that this story is not imaginary, but real.

——————–

Jeremy Brittney-Sexx leaned back in the club’s worn but highly comfortable leather armchair and gazed into the fire. Sucking on a cigar and with a glass of rather fine brandy in one hand, he reflected on the events of the evening with grim satisfaction. Yes, the figures said it all; business was booming. There was no suggestion at all that it might not last – gullibility, the soundest of all investments, was never in short supply.

Brittney-Sexx turned in his chair, as he heard HottTeans approaching. A lot to learn, HottTeans, but a good lad nonetheless. He heard a second chair being drawn up to the fire, and sighed with the worldweariness of one of the internet’s first dashing Spamsters.

“Well, HottTeans?”
HottTeans shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and adjusted his cravat.
“I was wondering, Mr. Brittney-Sexx, if I could have a word. Me and some of the other new recruits – you know, Cialis and Bigtodger – well, we couldn’t really follow the whole thread of…”
Brittney-Sexx interrupted. “Don’t know what’s what, eh, boy?”
“Um, no, Sir, nor quite. For a start, wouldn’t we convince more people to send us money if we ran a spell-check over our emails first?”
Brittney-Sexx snorted with laughter. “Diplomats’ widows can’t spell, m’boy! Everyone knows that. They’re in distress. That’s why they want you want you to take a cut of the cash. Everyone knows the accepted way is to make the punters blind and greedy, let them think they’ve taken advantage of a poor little old lady, then make off with their credit card details. It’s always worked that way.”
“But, well, Sir, isn’t it a bit dishonest?”

Brittney-Sexx’s eyes rolled back in his head. “Dear boy, we’re doing society a favour. You can’t just have morons like that running around with lots of money, can you? Messes with the Economy. They start buying fishknives and four-wheel-drives and calling their children Simonilla and Iodine and things. They might as well just be forceably required to give to African charities. Vis a vis you and me. Was that it?”

HottTeans shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Not entirely, Sir. I wanted to ask about Phishing.”
Brittney-Sexx nodded. He’d expected this. “Go on.”
“Well, Sir, it just seems a bit silly. We spend all that time setting up fake websites, only to get the name of the bank wrong, or send out emails that just get hit by the spam filters.”
“Ah, but look at the figures, HottTeans. Worth every one of those thirty-seven minutes.”
“I suppose so, Sir.”
“Anyway, HottTeans, you can’t have been paying attention. We’ve been approached by a big corporation. A real bank, wanting to turn tail and do the dirty on their customers!”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes indeed. All we need to do is send this Mr. Ombologonasi of Nigeria £2,019, and the full wealth of Barrcleys TSB plc is ours!”
“Are you sure he spelt the name quite right, Sir?”
“Of course not, everyone knows investment bankers can’t spell.”