Dear Ed Fucking Sheeran

I can't be fucking doing with you, Ed Fucking Sheeran, and I don't even fucking know anything about you apart from the fact that that fucking song you have in the charts is fucking shit, and the rest of your stuff sounds like bad fucking Nizlopi (who were fucking good, and whose memory you've now royally besmirched), or fucking Maroon 5 (who were equally fucking shit).

Facepalm is fucking RIGHT, mate.

Also, I can't be fucking doing with all those fucking clueless fuckers who fucking wank on about you and "real musicians" as if there aren't any out there who aren't ten times fucking better or more deserving than your fucking mediocre output, but evidently aren't fucking palatable enough for the brainless fucking masses to cope with.

What a wonderfully fucking sweary weekend I'm having so far.

Fucking regards,
Davis.

PS - Anyone who writes a song called The A-Team and makes no reference whatsoever to a crack commando unit who were sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn't commit is just fucking asking for it in my book.

PPS - That's MY fucking top you're wearing, give it back.

Dear Facebook

I read with great interest the news item detailing how you'd banned the photo on the cover of Nirvana's Nevermind from the site on the basis that it violated your terms of use.

I note that you've since denied this claim and reinstated the image in question. Which is a shame, as I've just had a crack at redesigning your logo for you - do click through for a better view.


Regards,
Davis.

PS - Actually, thinking about it on a more profound intellectual level, the following variants also work quite well:

- and -

- and -

...Okay, I've run out of ideas now. Oh no, wait! Jig it around a bit and here's two more:

- and -

...Okay, I'm really done now. Can I have a job or summat?

PPS - Oh, alright, one more for the road:

Dear Tabloid Press, Gossip Merchants, Fans At Gigs Who Were Booing Five Minutes Ago, World

Well, you got what you wanted. Happy now?


Couldn't give a shit for Amy 'Wino' Winehouse, her music, mangled vocal phrasing or her private life; never did, never will. But I speak through gritted teeth when I say that the dripping hypocrisy of the simpering eulogies contained in your grubby pages tomorrow will be truly sickening.

27, Amy; just in time to join 'That Stupid Club' and hop on the Canonisation Train, which can now keep on a-rollin' for many a year. Just as well we have the following rhapsodies from Twitter to see us through the coming years of 5CD reissues, unreleased toilet demos and dewy-eyed tributes from Jools Holland:

Myleene Klass: "OMG. Amy Winehouse. Exceptional talent and really nice lady. RIP." ...'OMG RIP'? Really?

Kelly Osbourne: "i cant even breath right now im crying so hard i just lost 1 of my best friends" [sic].

Selena Gomez: "Amy Winehouse died?! I was dancing to Valerie last week, you serious? See how drugs kill people? R.I.P” - Nice one.

BBC News: "Daily Telegraph rock critic Neil McCormick said he was 'utterly shocked' at her death." Thanks for your insight; not really much of a 'rock critic' if you didn't see that one coming.

BBC News: "Doug Charles-Ridler, co-owner of Winehouse's favourite Camden pub The Hawley Arms, called her 'a special person with a good soul', adding, 'this should not have happened'. " Probably kept the pints pouring though, didn't you, buddy? That'll be £4.50 please, love!

Back to black, indeed; truly, a "losing game" all round.

Utterly disgusted regards,
Davis.

Dear Rupert Murdoch

At the risk of sounding like Run DMC "vs." Jason Nevins, it goes a little something like this.

YOU: "Er... sorry about that. Forgive me...?"

WORLD: "No, you sad sociopath on a one-man crusade to buy up and dumb down the world's press due to some perceived slight supposedly perpetrated upon you by mythical 'elites' during the 1960s."

That clear things up at all?


Regards,
Davis.

Dear Charlie Gilmour, The Sun's Headline Writers

- Ooooohhhh, unlucky, son! While I can't help but feel that sixteen months at Her Majesty's pleasure is perhaps a little harsh for the civic disobedience equivalent of whipping your knob out and waving it about a bit, one suspects that it's probably a fairly just reward for the years of aural torture inflicted upon by us by your Dad's tedious band.


And so now then, The Sun - time for your hacks to go to work. We all know that you can always be relied upon for a decent pun or two in a time of crisis, so here are a few suggestions to run alongside the story in tomorrow's issue:

A Momentary Lapse of Reason

Goodbye Blue Sky

Comfortably Dumb

Time

The Wall (Of the Jail Cell That You'll Be Sat Staring At for the Forseeable)

Jog On You Silly Dipstick

The Division Bell-End

And - why not, indeed? -

Dark Side of the Hoon

Bin-throwing regards,
Davis.

PS - Next time, Charlie, you might want to try not offering up a defence as limp as: "Your Honour, with all due respect, I was tripping off my tits".

PPS - RE: that get-up - did you think you were on your way to see the new Harry Potter or something?

Dear Grint

Season's grintings, good sir!


- Yes; yes, it fucking is, but we've already covered that, so let's move on to the matter at hand.

I trust that having now grown up and left your grinty past firmly behind, you'll be looking to venture out into the big, wide world. To get you started, I've come up with a few suggestions for grintworthy business ventures, should you be in need of some grintspiration:

- How the Grint Stole Christmas: a popular children's book about a grinning carrot-top who royally fucks the holidays for everyone.

- After-Dinner Grints: tasty, bite-sized grint-flavoured treats to cleanse the palate at Rowling's next dinner party.

And, my particular favourite...

- 'Grindt' : a fancy Swiss chocolate bar, made from your hair.

Best of luck with all your future grinting.

Grinty regards,
Davis.

PS - Grint.

PPS - Grinty grint grint.

Dear Rail Companies, Minister for Transport

A parable.

"People all over the world", The O'Jays once sang; "Join hands. Start a love train. A love train."


And so it came to pass. Unfortunately, the network's inevitable privatisation ultimately meant that prices ended up being jacked sky-high to accommodate the bosses' exorbitant salaries, all the while forcing a downward knock-on effect on service quality. The love train now runs just one service a day, and is 40 minutes late, if indeed it bothers to turn up at all.

Wistful regards,
Davis.