Dear World (IV)

What's wrong with this picture?

Go on, take your time and have a bit of a think about it. And while you do that, I'll be over here in the corner suggesting the following. How gratifying it is to know just how far we've come as a civilisation in the last 93 years. What a comfort it must be to the families of the fallen to know that their sacrifice wasn't in vain, and that their memory lives on in the bedrooms of spoiled, pampered teenagers the world over on this most melancholy of days. What comfort. What a relief. What an absolute, 24-carat, solid gold effing disgrace.

We will remember them... by recreating their acts of heroism for entertainment purposes between mouthfuls of pizza and the next thrilling instalment of The X-Factor.

As for you, Telegraph sub-editors - great job. Great job.

Despairing regards,
Davis.

PS - Nice try, love:

Dear Metro

I know that by now we humble commuters shouldn't have come to expect anything vaguely approaching 'news' from your reactionary, gossip-fuelled joke of a paper, but this is just getting ridiculous. I suppose in a way though that it's comforting to know that while the world keeps turning, one daily rag can always be relied upon to lead the way in alarmist food-based headlines. To wit:

And:


And:

And, of course, the immortal:


(It's heartening to hear from the above-ringed passge though that you still have a ready bank of 'experts' on-hand to dish out sage wisdom to us mere mortals).

Regards,
Davis.

Dear Gods of the Comedy World

I'll be honest, this is probably the funniest thing I've ever done or will ever do, and I'm not entirely sure how I'm ever going to top it.


With apologies to Timothy Evans, his lovely wife Beryl and the other birds who had to cark it in order for this frankly sublime moment of comic genius to be brought into the world. It's all downhill from here.

Regards,
Davis.

Dear Apple

Time for some fresh ideas. I've designed a new advertising strategy, which runs as follows:


Can I have a job that pays millions?

Awaiting your call,
Davis.

Dear World (III)

WHAT THE FUCK WILL WE DO WITHOUT STEVE JOBS OH SHIT IT'S ALL OVER MASS SUICIDE THIS IS ARMAGEDDON


Just so we're clear, I feel compelled to add (for the sake of sanity if nothing else), that the fetishisation and worship of technology - primarily for purely materialistic purposes - will be the true downfall of our 'civilisation'. The deifying of corporate CEOs runs it a close second.

In response to the mass-buying of Apple products in tribute to the late Executive, a spokesperson for the company just issued the following statement: "Thanks for your money at this difficult time. It's what Steve would've wanted."


Also in the news today: BBC announces that 2000 jobs will be cut over the next 6 years; a stranded ship begins leaking oil off the coast of New Zealand; and the number of deaths in Syria incurred in recent pro-democracy protests rises to 2900. PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, everyone GET SOME FUCKING PERSPECTIVE before it's too late. PLEASE.

Sorry, Steve - cancer's a bitch and all, but your future dream is a shopping scheme. We owe you nothing. You are not what you own.

iTrulycouldn'tgiveafuck,
Davis.

PS - To you, dearest Facebook and Twitter users: I will personally chin the next one of you who posts an 'inspirational' platitude from any corporate CEO, particularly one such as, say, dead, rich cunt #stevejobs.

Dear R.E.M.

So, that's it, then; the end o' an era. No longer shall we endure the teetering, furtive worry of 'How Will This One Pan Out...?' with each new record, nor the shrieking clamour of flippant, clueless judgement from people who don't know the first fucking thing about the band upon their every release. (Alright, there was a handful of absolute duffers on each of those last three, but let's face it, most musicians would still give their arpeggiating right-hand for songs as well-written as High Speed Train, The Outsiders, Accelerate and Sing For the Submarine).


This could be the saddest dusk I've ever seen, but the time is right, sirs; you leave with your dignity intact, your permed/shaggy/slap heads held high and a solid last album in the bag which neatly summarised the best parts of the last 30 years. Mercifully shorn of ill-informed 'User Comments' bleating on about how you "got rubbish" after New Adventures in Hi-Fi (WRONG), ceased to be relevant after Bill Berry's departure (WRONG) and have simply put out a series of "crap albums" ever since (WRONG), here now is my requiem. You were the only band who I genuinely once sabotaged a legitimate chance at sex for by suggesting that the lady in question and I instead watch the video for Drive (I still maintain that I made the right choice, for both her and myself). You were the only band to make me spontaneously burst into tears at a live gig - not once, but twice. You were, for years, the only band.

You were the final thing earthly thing Kurt Cobain wanted to hear before leaving this world - and wrote Losing My Religion, for fuck's sake. For these two facts alone, immortality should be not just assured, but divinely ordained. I'll skip the part about love; it seems so shallow.

Chronic town, poster torn, reaping wheel; boxcars are pulling out of town. So, farewell then, boys: it's been unforgettable, unbeatable and - above all - indelibly emotional. My hands, tired, my heart aches; I'm half a world away.

Mournful but eternally grateful regards,
Davis.

Dear Justin Bieber

I just wanted to congratulate you on your truly inspired performance in your debut film, Never Say Never. The film was a comedic triumph, a raucous satire in the vein of Bob Roberts and This is Spinal Tap about an undeniably talented but hilariously misguided ego monster-in-waiting's bid to "live his dreams", complete with a supporting cast of sycophants, faintly sinister 'big bro' Svengalis, hand-rubbing moneymen, screaming idiot fans, grown adults who are old enough to know better (outstanding work getting Usher and Ludacris onboard) and fall-down-laughing moments of spontaneous "prayer".

Personally, I can't wait for the sequel, when our eponymous hero's bollocks drop, he takes to masturbating 15-20 times a day in a bid to relieve the frustration of his hermetically-sealed existence, then becomes embroiled in a downward spiral of drugs and alcohol when he realises that the industry is a gigantic sham predicated upon expedient manipulation tactics, ultimately concluding that songs like Baby are nothing less than an embarrassment for someone over the age of 16 to be singing.

- Sorry, what? It's a documentary...?

... Fuck me. (*)

Regards,
Davis.

(*) n.b. Don't actually fuck me.