What a swizz this Formula One motor racing lark is. My mate Jud told me to expect loads of thrills and spills, so you can imagine my disappointment when I tuned in to watch the European Grand Prix from Valencia, and all that happened was that some cars went round a track. Over and over again. I was hoping for some pile ups at the traffic lights - they didn't even have any traffic lights! There weren't even any pedestrians risking their lives dodging in and out of the traffic. To make matters worse, there weren't even any police cars in hot pursuit. To be honest, I've had more fun peeling onions. With a cucumber stuck up my arse.
Having been adopted as a babe in arms, you can probably imagine that I grew up with an immense chip on my shoulder. Cursed with my intolerable burden, I turned to drink and cigarettes at the age of eleven, and from that point forth, I embarked down the road to self destruction with a manic zeal. However, salvation presented itself on my eighteenth birthday, when I learned that I had the right to trace my birth mother. Following some research and intensive counselling sessions, I arranged to meet up with her. What a fucking big mistake that was. She was worse than me! At our first and only meeting, the pair of us got absolutely hammered on vodka and flaming sambucas, before staggering around the streets of Manchester hurling abuse at random passers by. Things came to a head when she tried to push me under a tram outside Victoria station. We parted company, and the last I saw of her, she was wobbling down the road towards Strangeways prison. I won't be fucking meeting that mad bitch again, that's for certain.
Am I alone in thinking that these so called reality TV shows bear no relation whatsoever to reality? At least not my experience of reality, and I'd wager that of many other people. If you take that there Britain's Got Talent thing as an example - whose reality is that then? I mean, when I go up the shops, or into town, or to the library, I don't see dancing dogs, dance troupes, old blokes body-popping, people farting Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, or performing magical illusions. Maybe that sort of thing passes for reality in some of our more decadent big cities, like Derby, but not where I live. The closest I've ever seen to that type of behaviour is a local drunk known as Malky the Alky, who sometimes performs Whistling Jack Smith's Kaiser Bill's Batman on the town hall steps. And they'd never let him on the telly because he's always shitting his pants when he's had one over the eight.
I am writing this letter to complain about blatantly pro-Northern bias on the letters page of your esteemed publication. You hardly ever publish letters from southern readers, just those dreadful oiks from points north of the Watford Gap. Is what they have to say in any way more relevant than the opinions of Southern readers? Or are they just more naturally comical, with their coal mines, flat caps, mufflers and whippets with a bit of string for a leash? There is life south of the Watford Gap you know, and we aren't all gay. True, some of us do tend to walk in a fashion which could possibly be described as 'mincing' but that is just the legacy of a fine naval tradition. Let's have more Southern based letters to even things up a bit.
I'm not usually one to complain, but so seized by rage was I when I read B Manning's letter (printed above in its entirety, just in case you'd lost the plot - Ed) that I felt compelled to put pen to paper. What I want to know, is how come, every time there's a North v South dispute, Watford Gap gets dragged into the argument? What the fuck does it have to do with Watford Gap? I live near Watford Gap services on the M1, so does that make me a Southerner? A Northerner? Or something else? It's all well and good for people who live North or South of the Watford Gap - they know what they are. Me, I haven't got a fucking clue, and it's high time somebody sorted this anomaly out.
I don't often write letters to publications, particularly not crap ones such as yours, but I feel compelled to share a recent experience of mine with your readers, as I feel such a fool, and feel that my story merits a wider audience. (That'll be about an extra 23 readers then - Ed) It's just that recently, I attended my local multiplex cinema complex in order to see what all this fuss about 3D films is all about. I suppose it all got off to a bad start when I found out that they didn't sell Choc-Ices or Orange Maids or boxes of Maltesers at the kiosk. Which I felt was a bit much. Not to mention the £11.50 for a ticket. It was a mere two shillings the last time I went to the cinema. On top of all that, there was only the one film on. What a rip off! Whatever happened to Supporting Features? Then there was the film itself. It was supposed to be a 3D presentation, but to me, it just looked a bit blurred, so I complained vociferously right to the very end. It was only then that a member of staff informed me that I had to wear the special 3D glasses to get the full effect. I felt a right teacake, I can tell you. But I shan't be going again, not at £11.50 for a ticket. Fuck that for a game of soldiers.
I'd like to make a big issue (Not the one sold by tramps outside McDonald's - Ed) about man's inhumanity to man. It's fair enough when you're dishing it out, but let me tell you, it's no fun being on the receiving end. Thanks to a somewhat unusual sexual compulsion I have been ridiculed by staff at the local Accident And Emergency Unit. As a result of being 'outed' I was ostracised by family and friends, had up on criminal charges, and finally locked up in prison. The prison officers even confiscated my wig - the ultimate indignity. Now, thanks to all these cunts, my life is no longer worth living, and in all probability I'd have topped myself by now, were it not for the steady supply of drugs tipped my way by Charlie Wheeler, the Daddy off D-Wing. How I wish that society was more tolerant of people afflicted with a cardboard box fetish. It's no laughing matter, believe me, and paper cuts on your John Thomas are hellishly painful.
HMP Walton (Formerly of Blackpool.)
I am writing this letter (It's an eMail - Ed) to you in my capacity as Public Relations Officer for the Burnley (West) Debating Society in order to inform you that none of our members read your publication, much less your letters pages, because it's shit. It doesn't matter to us how much you try to gloss it over, (So why write to us? - Ed) your periodical is shit.
In fact, if your publication was available in glossy paper format, (It isn't - Ed) we'd only buy it to wipe our arses with (Surely that's hypothetical - Ed) or perhaps we'd use it to get a fire going. (I thought we'd already covered that - Ed) Oh, if you're going to keep interrupting me, I'm off.
I am writing this letter to you in order to clear up a little misunderstanding. I would like to point out that I have only just been made aware of the heinous crimes of which Ian Stead of Blackpool has been accused. A man may be innocent until proven guilty, but not in my book. I was unaware of Ian Stead's devious past, and was labouring under the misapprehension that he was on remand for robbery. I had no idea he was a cardboard box knobber. Bearing this in mind, I have withdrawn his supply of illegal drugs, and made arrangements for him to be on the receiving end of a good kicking on a daily basis in the showers, after slopping out. As far as I'm concerned, if he tops himself, that's just too bad. But I won't have no truck with nonces. I have a reputation to uphold.
HMP Walton (D-Wing)
If you've got something you'd like to get off your chest, or simply share with an audience of about 23 other like minded weirdos, send it to somebody else, because, quite frankly, we can't be arsed.