Some People

Tl;dr: Customer attempts mail fraud shenanigans, unaware we’re not just mushroom spore enthusiasts but part-time detectives. Upgrading to a tracked service, we captured not only the image of his door and the GPS coordinates but, cross-referenced with Google Street View, proved it undeniably his. Yet, when confronted, our customer persisted in calling us ‘Scam Artists’. Oh, the irony!

In the wild world of spore vendor retail, where the species are rare but the scams aren’t, we encountered a customer—let’s call them Tommy (identity protected for comedic relief). Tommy opted for our ‘Budget Shipping: No Tracking or Compensation,’ perhaps hoping to cultivate a scam from our spores. Unbeknownst to Tommy, we fancied giving him an upgrade to ‘Tracked 24’—our treat, no biggie. We’re like that, believers in the magic of unexpected delights, and sometimes, in the magic of unexpected justice.

Royal Mail, our trusty steed in the postal service realm, secretly tracks everything, though they might not always compensate. It’s like playing postal detective without the trench coat. And occasionally, this service snares an unsuspecting scammer (or two).

Fast forward to the 27th of December—Tommy reports a missing order. Caught up in holiday cheer, we initially overlooked his email. His review, however, lacked the spirit of the season:

“Didn’t receive my spores don’t use this site.”

Oh, Tommy, if only you knew we’re not just fungi enthusiasts but also amateur sleuths adept at unraveling postal mysteries.

The Investigation Unfolds:

Cue the investigation montage: tracking info pulled up, dramatic music, and a zoom-in on the evidence—

Exhibit A: a photo of Tommy’s door, courtesy of Royal Mail Tracked 24.


Next, we present Exhibit B: a snapshot from Google Street View, showcasing the unique brickwork and wall markings of Tommy’s residence—matching the courier’s photo to a T. It’s our smoking gun, or in this case, our smoking mushroom spore, proving the delivery was made to the right place.


After our visual journey through the undeniable evidence of Exhibit A and B, we arrive at what I like to call, the “Digital Footprint” – Exhibit C:


In Exhibit D, we find ourselves privy to a feat of accuracy so fine-tuned, it could only be rivalled by a homing pigeon with a PhD in navigation. Royal Mail, in an impressive display of precision, managed to align the delivery GPS coordinates within a mere metre of Tommy’s front door.

Regrettably, we’re unable to showcase this marvel of logistical accuracy due to privacy reasons.

Tommy’s response when confronted with all of this? “Scam artists.”

In the end, despite the undeniable evidence laid out before him, Tommy chose to cling to his narrative with the tenacity of a limpet attached to a rock. It seems that in the face of humour, detective work, and undeniable proof, some mysteries—like Tommy’s unwavering conviction—remain unsolved. Tommy’s skepticism remained unshaken. In his mind, our small but mighty mushroom spore shop had somehow morphed into the ringleader of an elaborate postal conspiracy, with Royal Mail as our trusty sidekick in distribution. One could almost picture him, eyes wide with revelation, whispering to himself about the ‘Mycelium Mafia’ controlling not just the spore trade but the very fabric of the delivery world.

To Tommy, every postie might as well be a secret agent, every parcel a trojan horse from our fungal empire. ‘What next?’ he might ponder, casting wary glances at his letterbox. ‘Should I be suspicious of that suspiciously punctual Just Eat delivery?’

While Tommy braces for a world where every knock on the door is a potential Cylocybe collaborator, we carry on with our mission: spreading joy and spores, one delivery at a time. So, let us raise our spore syringes in a toast—to the magic of mushrooms, the hilarity of human nature, and to Tommy. In our world, there’s always room for one more mushroom enthusiast, conspiracy theories or not.