Written by Erskin Quint
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Thursday, 12 December 2013

image for More Pathetic Letters To The Problem Page Jimmy Savile. No, he really was a cunt.

Dear Sir,

I write in the hope that you might sympathise with my plight. For none of mine aquaintance could be expected to proffer aught but brickbats, opprobrium or the cold shoulder.

You see, I have somehow acquired the reputation for being a bringer of ill-fortune.

"Get away!" they cry. "Why haunteth thou me thus?"

If I was a young man, I would have run away to sea long ago.

Yours,

Albert Ross

Dear Sir,

try though I might to cultivate an air of mystery, a certain mystique, or, dare I say, je ne sais quoi, my friends just laugh at me.

"We can see right through you", they mock. Guffawing, they screech: "You're so transparent; why don't you wrap it up!"

Where am I going wrong?

Yours faithfully,

Polly Ethel Leane

Dear Sir,

why is it I wonder (and am asking you in order that you may advise and perhaps even counsel)?

What do I wonder? What indeed?

Ah, yes. Why is it, I wonder, that, far from seeing me as an example of the lightest and most easy-going, most effervescent and stimulating sort of chap, people seem to think that I am such hard work?

Invariably, they find me such an effort to get along with that they give up.

Only the other day, Daphne, a lady of equestrian tendency whose bracing company I have been wont to cultivate for many a week, looked at me and said: "really, you are hard work. I think I shall go and clean out the stables for some light relief."

And with that she was off, leaving me to nurse my wounded pride. Not to mention an unopened tin of mock duck.

I await your instruction with anticipation.

Yours sincerely,

Hercule Ian Labus

Dear Sir,

What can I do? How can I escape? They go on at me so. "Go on, tell us yer real name!" they jibe. "Never mind the noms du plumb, give us the proper one", they shout at me outside the Wallpaper Shops. I can't so much as look at the postman, and he says "cor, Mrs, I see yer usin' yer alias on yer correspondence an' all, eh?"

I've half a mind to stab the ginger-haired bastard to death with the garden shears.

Yours,

Sue Donym

Dear Sir,

I'm fed up with folk asking me where my horses are and if my jodhpurs are in the wash. Only yesterday Mrs Trowte from number 235 said "you lot aren't half clever, I'll never understand how you get them horses to walk backwards like that".

Yours faithfully,

Jim Carner


Dear Sir,

how would you like it if people kept hounding you about living in between the two armies in the First World War then, eh? You wouldn't, would you? No. The next time those Siamese twins who deliver the milk ask me how my trenchfoot is and what was the score in the Christmas Day football match, I'll murder him/them.

yours,

Norman Sland.


The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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