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Thursday, 22 September 2011

image for Letters To The Editor - Nostalgia And Bygone Days - Warning : Contains Torrents Of Foul And Abusive Language. Ha! Gertcha! Rabbit Rabbit!

Dear Editor,

As a child I always dreamt of being the proud owner of a Johnny Seven One Man Army gun. This was the clever, 'Transformers' type toy gun advertised on the television, which could be fully or partially dismantled to make seven different weapons in one, ranging in scale from a pistol to a rocket launcher. However, being miserable bastards, my parents flatly refused to buy me one, even on birthdays and Christmas. None of my friends had one either, so I never even got the chance to try one out. The disappointment has haunted me all my life. You can imagine how I felt when during a conversation with a stranger in my local pub, I discovered that the Johnny Seven One Man Army gun was not a real firearm/rocket launcher/sniper rifle, but was merely made of plastic. What a fucking swizz. Pined over that for decades, I did.

Richard Blackmore

Blackburn

*****

Dear Sir/Madam

As a child, Harry Worth was my favourite TV sitcom comedian. I recall roaring with laughter at the opening sequence when he stood by a reflecting store window and raised one arm and one leg in the air, which, with the reflection made it appear that he was floating in the air like a star. I almost choked on my bread and dripping of an evening laughing my young head off as Harry spread confusion and chaos all around. But these days I feel sadly let down by Harry Worth. I haven't seen him on the telly in years, not even on The Alan Titchmarsh Show. Somebody ought to drag the lazy bastard back to work, so I can have a good old belly laugh. Or is he so rich that he just can't be arsed with his adoring fans any longer? The lazy, idle, git!

Pete Frampton

Brampton.

*****

Dear Sir,

All this talk of yesteryear has caused me to lament the virtual disappearance of the old Bubble Car - they were great! I used to feel like the King Of The Road when I steered my three wheeled behemoth around the streets of my home town at speeds of up to sixteen miles per hour, it's sewing machine engine coughing and farting like a forty a day vegan. And I just loved how the door was in the front! They don't make 'em like that these days. Sadly, mine blew up in a town centre car park in 1968, but I don't half miss them.

Ian Hunter,

Dorking.

*****

Dear Ed,

In reply to Pete Frampton of Brampton, the reason Harry Worth hasn't been making many television appearances lately may have something to do with the fact that he died in 1989. Not that Mr Frampton would know that. Has he never heard of Google? What a twat!

Anthony Troll

Newport.

*****

Dear Sir,

I'm often accused of living in the past, but I make no excuses for that, being firmly of the belief that a dose of the good old days would do no end of good for modern kids. They don't know they're born these days. When I was a nipper we had stuff like saturday morning pictures, rickets, ringworm, scabies, scurvy, whooping cough, a clip round the ear from the local bobby, headlice, diptheria, sherbert dips, yellow jaundice, smallpox, typhoid, and bottles of Corona pop. And you could buy five fags for a shilling.

Oswald Osbourne

Leek.

*****

Dear Sir,

In reply to Richard Blackmore, of Brampton, and his diisappointment at never owning a Johnny Seven One Man Army gun; did he expect them to be fully functional firearms or what? It's perhaps just as well they weren't the real deal, because I don't think it would be stretching the imagination too far to imagine the Blackmore dickhead embarking on a gun rampage. The man sounds like a right fucking numpty.

Anthony Troll,

Newport.

*****

Dear Sir,

Just who the fuck does this Anthony Troll think he is? A proper troll? He's got no right making derogatory and personally insulting comments on my letter. I never asked for his opinion, and frankly I don't want it. What fucking business is it of his if I wanted a Johnny Seven One man Army gun as a kid? He wants to keep his fucking nose out of my businesss. I bet he's only got a tiny dick anyway. Twat.

Richard Blackmore,

Brampton.

*****

Dear Sir,

This may sound a bit odd, but as a professional, Michelin starred chef, I sometimes find myself yearning for the tastes I experienced in childhood. I really miss Toast Toppers, (Especially the ham, cheese and mushroom variety) those little pots of beef and salmon paste, lemon curd, Pan-Yan pickle, tinned beefburgers, chip shop curry sauce, oven chips, Cadbury's Smash (Instant mashed potato) meatballs in onion gravy, tinned pilchards, powdered eggs, Camp coffee, Rington's tea, Davenport's beer at home, and Hargreaves's pies, with gravy poured into a hole in the top out of a manky old teapot. My snobby foodie friends are concerned for my mental well being. But is it so wrong to yearn for the tastes of bygone days?

Hazel O'Connor,

Droitwich.

*****

Dear Editor,

I loved the past. At least I did when I was living in it. But nowadays, the prospect of waking up in a house with ice on the insides of the windows, which never properly got warmed up until you crawled back under approximately a ton and a half of bedding, consisting of old overcoats, manky jumpers, eiderdowns, scarves, old newspapers, and hessian sacking off the coal merchant, fills me with horror. It's traumatic enough waking up next to the wife under a nice warm duvet, so God knows how I coped as a child, swimming in the piss of the five brothers who shared the bed with me. The old days? Stick 'em up your arse mate!

Regards

Brian May,

Nelson.

*****

Dear Editor,

My favourite childhood memories started at the age of nine, when I got my first paper round. I'd be up with the larks every day in all weathers, frequently malnourished and shivering me bollocks off, take meself off down the newsagents, pick up me papers and then do me round. I had so many papers in me bag, that they stuck out about a yard from me scrawny chest, and the strap damned near cut me head off, it was so heavy. I'd stagger off like a drunk, under me heavy load and deliver me papers. Usually took about two and a half hours. How I laughed at the cunts who ordered two copies of the FT and a Guardian, especially when they had letterboxes the approximate size of a mouse's fanny. It was such a struggle, but they were happy days. It was my first experience of responsibility and financial independence. I did my paper round religiously until I was sixteen years of age. Then I thought, 'Fuck this!' and signed on. Never done a day's work since. And fucking proud of it!

Ricky Astley,

Wythenshawe.

*****

Dear Sir,

Who the fuck does this Richard Blackmore prick from Brampton think he is? What a cock-end! If he doesn't want people commenting on what he writes, then why send it to the paper? There is really no need to descend to personal insults. And anyway, just for Blackmore's information, I have a substantially larger cock than average, and as a kid, I had TWO Johnny Seven One Man Army guns! They were shit anyway. I seem to recall smashing them both up with a claw hammer in the back garden, rather than give them away to a loser of that bitter Blackmore's ilk. Fuck him! Loser!

Anthony Troll,

Newport.

*****

Dear Sir,

Regarding Ian Hunter of Dorking's affectionate reminiscences about Bubble Cars - they were fucking crap. The bloke's obviously fucking deluded. They were so shit that they made Reliant Robins look like Lamborghinis by comparison. Remaining on topic; is everybody who writes to this rag, a fucking loser? Apart from me?

Anthony Troll,

Newport.

*****

Dear Editor,

As far as Anthony Troll's latest communication is concerned, this is just to inform you, that we, your loyal readers know full well that 'Anthony Troll' is actually you. You can't pull the potatoes over our eyes. We know what you're up to. You're taking the piss! Ha! Rumbled! Bastard!

Alice Crooper,

Fairyland.

*****

Dear Me...erm...oops! Ed,

This is in reply to Hazel O'Connor of Droitwich's letter about the tastes of yesteryear. What a load of old shite! She calls herself a chef, yet she misses this shit? What next? Missing fucking tripe? This silly cow needs taking away in a van. By mysterious men in white coats. She's obviously fucking puddled. If this shit was any good, they'd still be making it! Jesus wept...

Anthony Troll,

Newport.

*****

Dear Me,

For what it's worth, you can tell Brian May, of Nelson, and Ricky Astley of Wythenshawe that I personally think they're a right couple of cunts as well. I've never read such a load of old bollocks in me life. That's about an hour of somebody else's life they'll never get back. And who can blame me? Fucking Johnny Seven One Man Army gun....what a load of old shit!

Anthony Troll,

Newport.

*****

Dear Editor,

I have to say that I agree with Anthony Troll of Newport on the Johnny Seven One Man Army gun. It was a right load of old crap. When the Elm Street mob came round our way in 1964 to nick our bonfire wood, the rest of the lads put me in the front line in the ensuing gang fight, because I had a Johnny Seven. Anyway, to cut a long story short - the bullets bounced off, the missiles fell short, and the detachable pistol had no effect whatsoever upon the enemy. They kicked the shit out of me. In a fit of temper, I too smashed my Johnny Seven up with a claw hammer in an outburst of temper. Cunts. Johnny Seven - I've fucking shit it!

Rollant Thonyt,

Port New.

*****

Editor's note:- Please don't send any more letters on this subject. They're dull, and they're crap. This topic has now been closed with me bicycle lock. Coz it's shite.

Tony Throllant (Editor)

Trewpon.

*****

If you want to talk about something that nobody else on the planet is remotely interested in, send your shit to the usual address, along with a fifty pound note. We'll keep the money, invest it in Stella, and bin the rest. Mugs.

*****

PS - That Oswald Osbourne of Leek? He sounds like another fucking loser. As does that Alice Crooper bitch from Fairyland. Fucking tee-total, God bothering paedophiles probably.

Anthony Troll,

Newport....

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

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