Dear Jordan (sorry - 'Katie')

I was deeply saddened to hear about your enforced exclusion from a prestigious polo event. I imagine it must have been an absolutely shattering blow, a bit like finding out you've lost a loved one in combat or looking into the toilet bowl to find you're pissing blood.

However, I have to make one slight correction to your heartfelt plea for social equality. When you say that "It's pure snobbery. However good a horsewoman I am, I'm also a glamour model. That embarrassed them", I beg to differ. It's because you're an absolute fucking twat, mate.

Heartfelt regards,
Davis.

Dear Noah and the Whale

Congratulations, cunts, on having birthed the most excruciating irritant since SARS.


Next time the people cry out for a Chris Difford cover of the Teletubbies theme, gizza quick bell, can you? That way I can plug my ears with tar to prevent me ever having to stomach the bastard.

Regards,
Davis.

PS - The Squid and the Whale was crap.

PPS - So's Noah Baumbach.

PPPS - So are you.

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:

PUT – A FUCKING – REAL - LIVE - PERSON – ON A TILL.

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.

Regards,
Davis.

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

Dear Federation Against Copyright Theft

I wouldn't steal a car. I wouldn't steal a CD.

I did, however, just shell out five pounds of my hard-earned money for this DVD from a legitimate retailer, so would appreciate it if you could knock it the fuck off already.

Kindest regards,
Davis.

Dear Boris Johnson

Might I be so bold to suggest that your quest to end the knife-crime "epidemic" in our beloved capital is unlikely to be helped in any way by getting together with Lily Allen for a chinwag?

That said, I have been quite enjoying seeing the citizens of London get picked off one at a time, so feel free to carry on as planned. Next time you find yourself with a pressing and complex social issue on your hands, be sure to give T4 a call - I hear Alexa Chung’s quite keen to pitch in a few thoughts.

Heartfelt regards,
Davis.

Dear UK Radio Programmers

Just seen a poll which revealed that the most-played song of the last five years is Daniel Powter’s Bad Day.

Given that no-one actually likes the song and has only learned to live with it through years of repeated bludgeoning between commercials for used cars and Coldseal windows, do you think you could give it a fucking rest for a while?

Thanks.

Regards,
Davis.

Dear Man in Local Shopping Centre

Saw you wearing that Celine Dion T-shirt of yours today. Yep, that’s right, a Celine Dion T-shirt. A T-shirt with a picture Celine Dion on the front, and the words “Celine Dion” plastered next to it.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but generally one wears a T-shirt to give other people an idea of the kind of person you are - what makes you tick, the inner workings of your personality, or to share hilarious pieces of wisdom like how great beer is or that fact that "it won’t suck itself". It was at this peculiar juncture that I found myself pondering precisely what sort of a person would feel the urge to share the fact that they’re a Celine Dion fan with anyone besides their own sweaty palm in the privacy of a darkened room.

I thought for a moment you were joking, perhaps concocting some kind of supreme irony beyond the comprehension of conventional humourists. Then I took a glance at your hapless little face and realised that there was no such frippery at play. You genuinely were a true-as-day, real-life Celine Dion fan.

What a massive cunt you are, sir.

Regards,
Davis.