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Tuesday, 21 December 2010

image for Readers Problems Answered Capable Of Unleashing Tom Tom Tom Tom TomTom Tom Trauma Upon Littlehampton: A Cat Yesterday

DON'T SUFFER IN SILENCE!
DON'T BOTTLE IT UP!
LET IT ALL OUT!

"Readers Problems Answered" Is Here To Help

With This Week's Guest Editor:

Radical Poetic Innovator and Author of The Waste Land
T S ELIOT

T S Eliot didn't bottle it all up! He let it all out! Had he been a bottler-up, the world might never have seen The Dry Salvages or Ash Wednesday or Sweeney Agonistes (There's a lot to be said for bottling things up then isn't there? - Ed.)


Drumming Up Support For A Purr-fect Cat-Astrophe!

Dear Mr Eliot,
Your musical Cats what you wrote with that clever Mr Lloyd Webber is one of my Wife and I's favourites. Lettice, my Wife, and I have seen Cats many times. We just love it. To cut a long story short, my Wife has a recently-acquired morbid fear of cats in the real world (what we term the "Non-Cats The Musical" world). This is ever since she was surprised last Tuesday but one gone by next door's tortoiseshell tom "Tom Tom" while she was practising her Native American signalling drums and I was fitting the new satnav to our 1955 Morris shooting-brake. The irony was, my name is Tom! It was a Tom Tom Tom Tom TomTom Tom trauma!

We are sure that your own love of the feline species rings large through and among your works, like a flint telephone seam running through a chalk cliff. Are you able to regale Lettice (my Wife, who has the morbid fear and had the trauma) on any cures you know?

yours faithfully,

Tom,
Littlehampton

TS Eliot writes: Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.


Love-Letter Advice For The Illiterate Love-Lorn!

Deyar Tess Alytoit,
ahaii ham notte mich if a une for pomes, thowe I do liikh uh goud limarik, limmeric, limrurck limmrick. Fore and twenteigh vurgins cem doun form Ienwerness ect. Aneways, i nede te bea moure populare,it is the seisone of festivles,festvitiiles i wishe. ter bea poppulear is mai wishes and happi chsritmess. Chsritmesses cum. I nede tou mite moure wimmen,winmen,winninmens.

ai hade a pinpal,pennpale, pinmpul, shea wase an wonmin, forme Shepittun Malitt,we wude wraight letres,litres,letrs. i wud, she didunt replie.

how tou finde er u, on wimmuine,yore a litrtreteur jeuniers,guienus whou is gud wythe wurdzs,howe do ayie get replied forem a wumnimin, a bigge une laikhe Chrlesey Dinmuck buncey bawnssy!!

yorss scisinsrlyie,
Alian Tshitwhittmarchssh,
Grindeners Whruirled

TS Eliot writes: The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.


A Country Vicar's Dilemma!

Dear Mr T S Eliot,

I have long regarded your works, since I was forced to learn them by rote at school. Now, I may not be able to so much as replace a tap washer or wire a plug up, but I can recite your poems with alacrity, as well as compose many an instructive sermon. Indeed, it is the portentous rhythms of your work that underpin many of my declamations in the pulpit of St Alabaster's, Blather-with-Brimming. Some might comment that the modernistic emptiness of your writing finds its way into many of my sermons, but that is not for me to say.

I have a dilemma. One of my parishoners, a young girl of 23 summers, and very pretty, with a lovely, innocent and kind nature, has been coming to the vicarage for private Bible study for a year now. This is all very much above board. Indeed, my wife was the one who encouraged her to come. My dilemma is that I have become attracted to this girl, and I find myself constantly thinking about her. It may be the folly of a man on the threshold of early middle age whose marriage is devoid of what he might term, in a work of a reckless moment, physical intimacies, given his wife's aversion to what she has called the grosser physical practices so dear to a red-blooded male of his ilk or kidney, but I do wonder about the way this young lady looks at me, and there are occasional brushing against. I have even begun to dream of this girl, and to contemplate whether I might reveal my feelings unbeknown to my spouse. Can you help me, for I am very troubled at heart?

Yours,
Rev Ninian Dwindle,
Vicar of Blather-with-Brimming

TS Eliot writes: I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

Next Week's Guest Editor Is:

Author of The Communist Manifesto KARL MARX
(Please note that Karl cannot send personal replies to all your letters. He is very busy working on his economic and political theories.)

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

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