Dear David Willetts, Department of Education

I won't lie, I'm feeling quite smug about having just created this.


- 9 grand tuition fees, my arse...

Regards,
Davis.

Dear Death Cab For Cutie

I'm sorry to place you alongside such disreputable company, but this is a matter of considerable urgency which simply cannot wait. Doors Unlocked and Open is the sound of my beating heart, and I can't even find the words.

Speechless and awe-struck regards,
Davis.

Dear Beyonce (3)

Come on now, we've been over this several times before. However, it seems that while you insist on peddling your dumbed-down brand of boob-flashing regresso-feminism to an all-too eager "sisterhood", I suppose we're going to have to have it out yet again.

"Who run the world?", ponders your latest musical affront, before offering the seemingly-unimpeachable rejoinder: "Girls". It's a noble thought but, for your own reference, I've attached a useful set of pointers which may prove more enlightening should you find yourself in the least bit concerned with furthering the cause of women's lib. To wit:

Who wrote the track? Blokes.
Who retain the bulk of the publishing and royalty rights? Blokes.
Who write the cheque? Blokes.
Who make the video? Blokes.
Who control the means of production, marketing and distribution? Blokes.
Who run the record label? Blokes.
Who run the conglomerate which owns the record company? Blokes.
Who stand to profit most from your endeavours? Blokes.
Who sustain the dominant economic hierarchy? Blokes.
Who strut around in her underwear, jiggling her 'booty'? You.

- So... remind me again who run the world...?

Regards,
Davis.

Dear Fat Fuck Security Guard at my local Tesco

Yes, you, vest-stainer. Mouth-breather. We met earlier today. You might remember me - I was the conscientious citizen who was attempting to do his bit for the environment by recycling a large stack of cardboard boxes in the big skip out back.

It's the funniest thing, you know - during a recent house move, rather than pay a ridiculous premium for a series of brand new boxes, I decided to spare the environment the unnecessary wastage inherent in their manufacture and transport, and simply re-used some redundant boxes from the back of your own store. This posed no problem to anybody - they were due to be carted away shortly anyhow, so I figured they may as well be put to good use. I took them off your hands, really, saving your colleagues and employers the time, cost and expense of having to pack them down again and ship them off to meet their inevitable fate. In a way, given that there were no more boxes coming back in than went out initially, the act of borrow and return itself was of completely neutral status.

The skip in question - estimated height 6ft, width 4ft, depth 4ft, closed off with a top lid - was completely empty, but no, you stopped me mid-deposit all the same, insisting the receptacle was for "store use only" and made it known that they ought to be "taken elsewhere".

Unfortunately I didn't think quickly enough to allow our brief exchange to follow through to what I consider its most appropriate conclusion, which I've outlined for you below. Are the clinically-rounded Nazi glasses perched sufficiently on that heaving red nose of yours for me to continue...?

Twat: "Excuse me, which store are you with?"
Davis: "I'm not with any - I'm just recycling these boxes."
Twat: "You can't do that here. It's for store use only."
Davis: "But the container is empty, and new stock won't arrive til tonight at the earliest."
Twat: "Can't do it, mate."
Davis: "But I'm just trying to do my bit for the environm- "
Twat: "Can't do it, mate."
Davis: "When all things are considered, this act doesn't actually impact upon the rigid, immovable structures of your petty life one jot really, does it, you sweating porcine fuck?"
Twat: "There's no need to be rude, sir."
Davis: "Well, there's also no need to be a moon-faced jobsworth cunt either, so I suppose we're both equally at fault."

Like I say, I'm just in favour of social responsibility. But that's okay. You have your little rule.

- Aaaah! It's been long. The Rage is BACK.

Regards,
Davis.

PS - I snuck back round when you'd wandered on your merry little way and dumped them in there anyway.

Dear 'No to Alternative Vote' pamphleteers

I hope you'll take a moment to click through and appreciate my undeniably hilarious doctoring of your latest referendum propaganda leaflet.

Sadly, it isn't anywhere near as funny as your suggestion that these three nations are in some way inferior to ours, mind. Those crazy Papua New Guineans, eh? Whatever will they think of next?!

Do have the decency to print the cunting thing on blue paper in future, thus at least revealing your true colours.

Regards,
Davis.

PS - I'll be voting 'Yes', you wankers.

Dear BBC Question Time producers

Thanks, Beeb, for allowing fuck-me-eyed, Satan-nosed, lamp-me-faced "Apprentice Star and Businesswoman" Katie Hopkins to make an appearance on last night's Question Time.

I felt her contributions really added vital discourse to the pressing issues facing today's society, as one might expect from someone whose construction of the pecking order of life runs thus:

MARKETPLACE
"BANTER"
GOD
MAN
INSECT
WOMAN

Might I suggest that if you find the panel similarly short-staffed in future, you instead plump for a scrofula-ridden tramp. At least that way we can feel good about our licence fee at least being funneled towards a faintly worthy cause.

Thanks, in summary, for doing your bit to ensure gender relations are set back another half-century.

Regards,
Davis.

PS - Katie: when the English Defence League thinks you're doing something right, it's a fair indication that you have got it very, very wrong.

PPS - You can cut that cunt Will Self off at the bel-end too while you're at it.

Dear Jordan - sorry, 'Katie' (iii)

I’ve been following with interest your disgust and indignation at the exploits of one Frankie Boyle and his recent joke in reference to your disabled son.

When an individual discloses every minute detail of her private life to the tabloid press for slavish consumption, that person cannot then pick and choose which areas of said life are off-limits, exempt from conjecture or immune to criticism.

You’ve shifted the direction of the argument, incidentally – you were very much the target of the gag. Your son, unfortunately for him, is mere collateral damage from the fallout of your tawdry ongoing exploits. Let us, then, not have a debate about what comedy is, isn’t, should or shouldn’t be. Let us not niggle over what people are, or are not, allowed to say on television. Comedy is the world’s one truly, purely, gloriously nihilistic art-form, and thus should be afforded the liberty of answering to no-one.

Let us consider instead the following questions, which perhaps ought to be asked but will no doubt go unvoiced yet again in the renowned hotbed of intellectual discussion that is the Price household. Might this make you stop to consider the circumstances under which this episode occurred? Might you question the appropriateness of whoring every sordid aspect of one’s personal life for exorbitant sums of money? Might this make you reconsider the validity, appropriateness and suitability of your life’s “work”?


If you can’t stand the heat, do not seek the rampant glare of publicity at every turn. I’m just in favour of responsible parenting.

Regards,
Davis.

PS – To the lady who went to see Frankie Boyle in concert and then had the audacity to complain that she found something he said offensive: you are a knucklehead of the most fist-pounding, wail-in-the-night, despair-inducing kind.