Taking pecuniary advantage

I seem to be making a habit of posing as someone that I am not in order to gain pecuniary advantage, specifically I have woven a masterful web of deceit in order to attend rugby matches at Headingley rugby ground, heaven forbid that they ever read this and foil my next attempt.

Last month I attended a Leeds Carnegie game in the guise of my brothers wife as the club had a Valentines offer of “Bring the missus”, an invitation for rugby-attendees (who were all assumed to be male) to bring their female spouse to the game for free and be offered a free pre-match pedicure, massage and a bag of make-up goodies in the corporate entertainment suites – I didn’t bother with the womanly freebies but I did avail myself of the free “bring the missus” ticket that our Ned had been offered.

Last Sunday I attended the game with the season ticket of my 8 year old nephew, I’ll say this about automated smart card turnstiles, they don’t have a busy-body old man sat behind them to stop adults from using Junior tickets.

But the classic scam entry to the ground was carried out by myself a couple of seasons ago when someone had promised me a ticket for a Grand Final event, when we collected said ticket it turned out to be for a pensioner, an old person, of which I am clearly not one, shut up, I am not a pensioner, not officially for another 11 years yet anyway and even then in theses straightened times I will not have the wherewithal to retire to my dotage, I am destined to be come one of the first new wave of pension-age pensioners who does not draw his pension but keeps working until he drops conveniently into his own grave which he has just completed digging himself in a Big Society initiative to save the cost of grave diggers on the public purse.

So I’m stood outside the ground with a pensioners concession ticket thinking “No way will I ever pass for 65 years of age” and on this occasion all of the turnstiles were manned ones, no way would I ever gain entry with a pensioners ticket, never in a million years.

The dozy twat on the turnstile let me in.

I was outraged, I wanted to complain but the person who had supplied the ticket to me pointed out that I’d just scammed the club and that maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea to complain. not unless I wanted to find myself back outside on the pavement within seconds, so I let it lie, but I moaned about it all the way through the match, just like a bloody old pensioner.

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