This week's worst kickstarter video: The ergonomic ice cream scoop

Rooting through dragon's bin.

Last week, we saw how charisma (and Mongolian-themed bellowing) can cajole strangers into giving you money for old rope on Kickstarter.

This time, we take away the charisma, keep the old rope and add an infomercial that’s harder to watch than a man chewing off his own legs.   

The brief: £20,000 needed to make an ice cream scoop that protects the wrist from the strain of scooping hard ice cream using an uncomfortable-looking bit of metal.

The need for the ErgoScoop, we are informed by an election-season-smear-ad-style voiceover, is that "carpal tunnel syndrome is the major cause of injuries, time off and worker’s compensation claims in the ice cream dispensing business today".

To hammer home this crisis, we are treated to a heart-stretchingly slow sequence where a scooper reaches repeatedly into an ice cream cabinet like a drugged bear rummaging through a fire, before unleashing a collection of bizarrely ethnic yelps of agony upon contact (“Oi vey!”, “Mama Mia!”). It’s all a bit Alan Partridge:

The saddest bit is the sense that the inventor feels he has solved one of the world’s great problems. He thinks he’s invented the next wind-up radio, when in fact he’s just made a thing that makes the user look like some kind of scoop-fisted pound shop Wolverine.

He talks about "hundreds of thousands" of dessert servers toiling with mangled wrists, and offers $500 donators the chance to be distributors, further growing the ErgoScoop empire.

This kickstarter, like so many, falls down on its investment rewards: if I pay this guy enough to make his thing, he'll let me sell it for him. Where do I sign up?

At least the Khans had fun in offering me next to nothing. The best I can get here is ice cream scoops at $25 a pop.

Think I'll just get one for £5, and wave goodbye to my wrists.

Fred Crawley is group editor for asset finance & accounting at VRL Financial News.

Look how ergonomic this scoop is. Photograph: kickstarter.com

By day, Fred Crawley is editor of Credit Today and Insolvency Today. By night, he reviews graphic novels for the New Statesman.

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Let's face it: supporting Spurs is basically a form of charity

Now, for my biggest donation yet . . .

I gazed in awe at the new stadium, the future home of Spurs, wondering where my treasures will go. It is going to be one of the architectural wonders of the modern world (football stadia division), yet at the same time it seems ancient, archaic, a Roman ruin, very much like an amphitheatre I once saw in Croatia. It’s at the stage in a new construction when you can see all the bones and none of the flesh, with huge tiers soaring up into the sky. You can’t tell if it’s going or coming, a past perfect ruin or a perfect future model.

It has been so annoying at White Hart Lane this past year or so, having to walk round walkways and under awnings and dodge fences and hoardings, losing all sense of direction. Millions of pounds were being poured into what appeared to be a hole in the ground. The new stadium will replace part of one end of the present one, which was built in 1898. It has been hard not to be unaware of what’s going on, continually asking ourselves, as we take our seats: did the earth move for you?

Now, at long last, you can see what will be there, when it emerges from the scaffolding in another year. Awesome, of course. And, har, har, it will hold more people than Arsenal’s new home by 1,000 (61,000, as opposed to the puny Emirates, with only 60,000). At each home game, I am thinking about the future, wondering how my treasures will fare: will they be happy there?

No, I don’t mean Harry Kane, Danny Rose and Kyle Walker – local as well as national treasures. Not many Prem teams these days can boast quite as many English persons in their ranks. I mean my treasures, stuff wot I have been collecting these past 50 years.

About ten years ago, I went to a shareholders’ meeting at White Hart Lane when the embryonic plans for the new stadium were being announced. I stood up when questions were called for and asked the chairman, Daniel Levy, about having a museum in the new stadium. I told him that Man United had made £1m the previous year from their museum. Surely Spurs should make room for one in the brave new mega-stadium – to show off our long and proud history, delight the fans and all those interested in football history and make a few bob.

He mumbled something – fluent enough, as he did go to Cambridge – but gave nothing away, like the PM caught at Prime Minister’s Questions with an unexpected question.

But now it is going to happen. The people who are designing the museum are coming from Manchester to look at my treasures. They asked for a list but I said, “No chance.” I must have 2,000 items of Spurs memorabilia. I could be dead by the time I finish listing them. They’ll have to see them, in the flesh, and then they’ll be free to take away whatever they might consider worth having in the new museum.

I’m awfully kind that way, partly because I have always looked on supporting Spurs as a form of charity. You don’t expect any reward. Nor could you expect a great deal of pleasure, these past few decades, and certainly not the other day at Liverpool when they were shite. But you do want to help them, poor things.

I have been downsizing since my wife died, and since we sold our Loweswater house, and I’m now clearing out some of my treasures. I’ve donated a very rare Wordsworth book to Dove Cottage, five letters from Beatrix Potter to the Armitt Library in Ambleside, and handwritten Beatles lyrics to the British Library. If Beckham and I don’t get a knighthood in the next honours list, I will be spitting.

My Spurs stuff includes programmes going back to 1910, plus recent stuff like the Opus book, that monster publication, about the size of a black cab. Limited editions cost £8,000 a copy in 2007. I got mine free, as I did the introduction and loaned them photographs. I will be glad to get rid of it. It’s blocking the light in my room.

Perhaps, depending on what they want, and they might take nothing, I will ask for a small pourboire in return. Two free tickets in the new stadium. For life. Or longer . . . 

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 16 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times