Sunday, 27 July 2008

Dear Freya Dawson

After weeks of resistance, I finally caved and had a listen to your demos on Myspace. I have to say, they’re not half-bad, considering that you have the songwriting ability of a tree-stump and what little exposure you’ve had is attributable solely to being shat into existence by two moneyed-up cunts with few discernible parenting skills or a basic sense of shame. Frankly, it never fails to astound me how years of rudimentary science can eventually be disproved by a buck-toothed, big-titted try-hard who looks like a boot-print in a bath-tub. It turns out that with the right amount of daddy’s money and studio trickery, you can polish a turd.

While the British public are essentially idiots, Dane Bowers has a better chance of making a comeback than anyone ever forking over their money to swallow this shit. With God as my witness, you will never have a career in music.


PS – Mark Ronson isn’t any good either. You were well ripped-off there.

PPS – Do us all a favour and die. Cheers.

Dear Anthony Minghella

While it’s never my intention to piss on anyone’s bonfire, personally I always thought your films were fatuous, overblown, needlessly-worthy Oscar-chasing affairs with all the emotional resonance of a Spot the Dog book.

That thing you did about the African bird’s detective agency was fairly insulting to people of both colour and intelligence, and I would appreciate it if the BBC could stop wanking on about what a loss you are. Presumably the next time they need a prestige film to slap on at 9:15pm on Easter Sunday they’ll just have to plump for the latest Keira Knightley vehicle from Miramax instead.

I’m pretty sure that when the history of art is written, your name won’t be anywhere near the shortlist. The Talented Mr Ripley was quite good, mind.

Warmest regards,

Dear Tesco

“Unexpected item – in bagging area”.

Somewhere in Britain, there’s a suited corporate mingefucker who gets paid hundreds upon thousands of pounds to come up with the solution to all our shopping woes. The idea this busybody eventually hit on – and this really is good – was the replacement of half the nation’s supermarket tills with that miracle of modern technology: the talking self-service machine. What an innovation. Why, it’s brilliant! So brilliant, in fact, that ever since they were introduced, the average wait-time to whip through a packet of crisps and some bog-roll appears to have doubled. What a fucking boon!

Now, I have an idea. It’s a wacky one, but hear me out. Here it is:


That’s it. A real person. Preferably one with actual till-training who’s capable of operating the bastard without causing a three-year hold-up. Pay someone £5 an hour to perform this simple task. It’s not that much in the grand scheme of things, especially since you own so much of the nation’s wealth that we might as well all start making voluntary contributions to the company trust-fund out of our monthly pay-cheques as an alternative to National Insurance. The funny thing is though, since you already have two members of staff on-hand to sort out these infernal machines each time they go wrong, you wouldn’t actually have to recruit any extra staff at all.

Why, that’s genius! Can I have my million-pound bonus and stock options now, please?

Self-service machines: a great idea in theory, I’ll give you that much. They just fall flat on two minor counts: one, the fact that most people are incompetent spack-merchants incapable of making the connection between bar-code and scanner, and two, the fact that the wretched things don’t fucking work.

On the plus-side, I did manage to nick a packet of donuts while the attendant was fiddling with the adjacent till this morning, so it’s not all bad news.


PS – Stop asking me for ID whenever I buy alcohol. I’m nearly 30, for god’s sake.

Dear Laura-Mary Carter of Blood Red Shoes

Please sit on my face. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.

Genuine and sincere regards,