Dear Mr Kershaw, page 11
On an unrelated matter, with regard to your healthy food dislodging tip, I fear that you may be misleading your ‘sophisti-pop following’ somewhat. At our old house we were lucky enough to have a very sturdy tree in the back garden that blessed us with many a strudel. In my experience ‘if you want the fruit to fall’ you do not ‘have to give the tree a shake’. Any attempt to vigorously jiggle a steadfast and mature trunk will only result in a resolutely static stem and a possible hernia in the case of the hapless bole shudderer. ‘The bough is going to break’, Daniel, under no circumstance consequential to an ineffectual disturbance to a stalk of some girth way beneath the targeted limb. As for your assertion that Mary can blow you up there if you cannot reach the top of the tree, Jean sometimes has a dizzy spell just from trying to cool her soup down, hence I fail to fathom how any lady of like stature can summon sufficient breath to hoist a full grown man to an utmost vertical foliage point of up to 12 metres.
In conclusion, therefore, if you are ever afforded the opportunity to re-inform your listeners of the least hazardous method of picking apples, pears, or cherries, it should be to pluck them off from a step ladder securely held by a third party.
I trust that the above observations have been informative and look forward to any further deity-petitioning balladry being of an accurately ‘green’ nature overall.
Yours,
Derek Philpott
Dear Mr Philpott,
Thank you for your concerned epistle. I’ll try to address your points thoroughly as they are all worthy of examination and, I hope, some explanation.
To address your first issue, it would appear that you have misheard or misinterpreted the final line of the chorus as ‘leave a light on in heaven’. This is quite understandable as you were listening on a (perhaps not perfectly tuned) radio in a noisy motor vehicle. However, the line is actually referring to the fabulous and, I’m sure you and Mrs Philpott will agree, sensuous saxophone of the musical artist Le Valedon who quite literally transports me to heaven with the tender toot of his horn. Unfortunately in the recorded version of the song, I mistakenly pronounced his name ‘Lee Valeidon’ as the typeface on the album sleeve for his lovely ‘Sensuous Sax: The Night’ is unfathomably small and my eye-glasses were in at Gregory Pecks the Opticians being repaired after I had damaged them during a game of Scrabble (don’t ask!). I do apologise for any confusion caused by my amaurotic mispronunciation.
On your second point: This line of lyric has actually been a point of great consternation to me ever since that harrowing mixing session back in the late summer of ‘86 when our wily record producer David Bascombe made the discovery that for every second he cut from a song his mixing time was reduced by around twenty minutes. By reducing the length of the song by four seconds that day, he was able to get home for dinner a full hour earlier than planned, and believe me, Dave enjoys his dinner. Unfortunately while he was callously slashing out four seconds of musical magnetic tape with his omnipresent editing razor he also removed a number of vital words from the lyric. I’m sure you’ll agree that my original line ‘If you want the fruit to fall into your wicker basket before winter takes hold you have to give the tree a shake using the correct gardening tools and wearing the proper protective clothing’ was far superior in every way. Of course none of this was of any concern to Mr Bascombe, who went on to great success producing Tears for Fears’ seminal Sowing The Seeds of Love (which in its original demo version was four weeks long).
If I may refer you at this point to Alphonse Du Breuil’s The Science and Practice of Grafting, Pruning and Training Fruit Trees: Primary Source Edition, you will see that without human intervention, come winter most fruit trees will shed their fruit involuntarily and that man has over the centuries devised countless ingenious ways to beat Mother Nature to the harvest, as it were. Although Monseiur Du Breuil is keen to point out that it’s not the most ideal of techniques, on pages 2135–2139, he goes in some detail into the various methods of ‘shaking’, ‘worrying’ or ‘harrowing’ the fruit from the trees. A small aside, but one worth making, I believe.
Finally, I think issues three and four can be addressed together. You see, at this bridge point in the lyric I am actually referring to Hurricane Mary and not the same Mary whose departure I lament in the body of the song. Hurricane Mary hit the coast of Florida in August of 1965 unleashing untold damage on persons and property and causing many a bough to break and no doubt much shaking of trees and harrowing of fruit, but thankfully, no deaths.
I hope that this has cleared up at least some of your concerns and that you and Mrs Philpott will in future be able to enjoy the song when it comes on the radio comforted by your deeper understanding and hopefully appreciation of the lyric.
Warm Regards
Daniel GC Wilson
Hi Derek,
Thanks for the huge laughs, absolutely wonderful letters! Though you might be interested in my reply to Gary…
Somewhat entertaining; however, I should like to point out that, using your arithmetic, by the judicious cutting of 4 seconds of music, I would have been able to get home for my dinner one hour and twenty minutes earlier, not just the one hour you state.
However, apart from this slight discrepancy, I lolled.
Yours,
Mr Bascombe (producer)
Dear China Crisis,
Jean had friends over for a cream tea last week and, as is traditional on such occasions, was insistent upon me fetching out her prized fifteen piece fine bone paragon ''Tree of Kashmir'' crockery set from out of the larder in order that she may be the poshest hostess possible. After they were all seated in the lounge however we found to our utter dismay that the insides of all the cups were stained with unsightly Oolong ''tide marks''.
We could only conclude that we must have taken them out of the dishwisher before we’d switched it on after her last party.
To make matters worse, the fuse then went on the kettle and we were forced to boil the water manually on the hob and make do with the enamel mugs normally reserved for picnics.We found it very poignant therefore that you should come on the radio at the very moment that we were frantically attempting to make the gathering ''Good Again'', to further emphasize that my wife and I we were now quite literally ''Working with Fire and Steel'' in recompense for our very own china crisis. So profoundly did the synchronism affect us that we vowed to ''check'' your ''back catalogue'' as soon as Jean’s guests finally departed, thus bestowing upon us ''The Gift of Freedom''. Sadly however, when we did, and despite our combined ''Strength Of Character'', our desire to be entertained devoid of a "Feel To Be Driven Away" unfortunately transpired to be "One Wish Too Many".
I am not sure, my perilous East Asian instability homaging friends, if you remember the man that scaled Buckingham Palace’s perimeter wall and ''on the up and up'' got into the highness of the Queen’s bedroom in the 1980s, whereby he deprived Her Majesty of dropping off properly into a full night’s sleep. Despite its not displeasing melody and especially the pan pipes at the beginning, Jean and I were horrified to learn from Spotify that you had mimicked this very trespass by also presumably intruding into a Royal bedchamber and rousing a snoozing Soverign. Irrespective of the monarch’s prevailing religious or cosmopolitan fashionings, it can only be concluded that to stir the drowsing Head of State at such close quarters must have involved a breach of security.
Jean did postulate that the exhortation ''Wake up, wake up, King in a catholic style'' was perhaps directed towards Mr. Mark King from the splendid Level 42, however I was able to verify from his charming wife Ria just now, with whom I am on ''tweeting terms'', that the esteemed gentleman is an atheist immune to the latest eclectic trends. My son David, who is well versed in Heavy Metal matters, has also risen to your defence, contending that you may be referring to King Diamond from Merciful Fete, and cites your reference to his ''Man Make-Up'' as unassailable substantiation. Although his hypothesis is undeniably compelling, it must be borne in mind that until his early twenties he was resolute in his belief, instilled in him by somebody at school, that Kendo Nagasaki was Bruce Lee underneath, who had faked his own death and subsequently let himself go.
In conclusion therefore, and considering that publicising your exalted personage abode encroachment through the pop charts has hardly protected it as the ''Best Kept Secret'', I urge you, in order to be "Safe as Houses" in the long run, to surrender yourselves to the authorities immediately. With luck, sufficient time has passed since the obtrusive ruler slumber disturbance, for the law to be lenient and spare you the experience of "Everyday the Same" in a custodial environment.
I wish you luck and remain,
Yours
Derek Philpott
Dear Derek
Thank you for your letter and concern over the plight of China Crisis, and please let me attempt to put some of your "Ghosts" to rest.
Hold on was that Japan China Crisis? Oops, mustn't stray, let's get "right down the tracks" here.
Anyhow, I can only imagine your dear wife Jean was only doing the "Christian" thing in inviting guests to your home for afternoon tea, and who could ever envisage such a "tragedy and mystery" would ensue with your finest china, but at the risk of upsetting you I have to say this is all her own doing - no one should ever put their finest china in a dishwasher, and I can't help but think if you'd only married a lady called "Hanna Hanna" we would not be having this conversation now.
I am also very aware of the incident you allude to in the 80s regarding our Monarch, and can state in all confidence that just being born in Liverpool does not entitle us all to a record deal; even if some of those records may be criminal, to even think the law would be lenient given the passage of time on any given crime is just "Wishful Thinking" on your behalf.
Yours
Eddie Lundon, China Crisis
Dear Tears For Fears,
Re: Sowing The Seeds of Love
Just a couple of things, Tears For Fears, and sorry for the rushed nature of this letter but I’m just in Argos at the minute. Our cat Gladys fetched up her Gourmet Gold Ocean Treat over my recliner earlier and I am waiting for my number to come up for a squeaky clean big chair.
1) Despite your assertion that the Love Train rides from coast to coast, please forgive my countering that The O’Jays’ transportation venture may be doomed to failure. People all over the world joining hands, apart from being a logistical nightmare would, if achievable, which is highly dubious, start a love CHAIN, on the basis that a ring of individuals loosely connected at the wrists could in no way be construed as a Homo sapiens locomotive.
2) I find the concept that the DJ’s the man you love the most to be quite offensive; to hold someone that merely plays records through an amplified system in higher esteem than male blood relatives, most specifically one’s father, who is surely more qualified to such an accolade unless on Jeremy Kyle to undertake an ‘all important DNA test’, is just not on, sirs.
3)
Re ‘Food Goes To Waste’, how this embarrassing topple has come to your attention is open to debate, but I confess that I did slip on a discarded McMuffin in the Botanical Gardens earlier this week which did result in egg on my face and mud on my shoes and I do intend to contact Claims Direct with regard to this matter as soon as I have finished my Christmas shopping.
Right, 603 it is, sorry, hope to hear from you soon.
Bye for now!
Derek
Dear Derek,
Thank you for your letter and your suggested corrections.
Firstly, the Love Train was a real and not a metaphoric train. It used to run non-stop from Los Angeles to New York; going west it was the Amtrack #378 and going east #379. It got its name from the amount of sexual activity that went on during the journey, and the noise amounting from such activity made it very unpopular with railway guards. This led to the great railway guard strike of 1973 (you may well recall that). As for your remarks about the O’Jays, I think you need to direct them to the band itself, though I think you’ve failed to miss the point about hygiene. I believe that in those days, we didn’t have the hand sanitisers so omnipresent in hospitals and offices presently. People all over the world joining hands could lead to a calamitous spread of nail fungal disease. I’ve had it, my wife’s had it, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
As for your point 2. I agree, the DJ cannot be held in higher esteem, unless of course that DJ happens to be Doctor Janov. His work has influenced us greatly. I don’t want to labour the point here but it may come in handy if you read Primal Man (A New Consciousness.) I can send you a copy if you give me your address.
Point 3, I’m very sorry to hear about your mishap and wish you well with Claims Direct. The original line was ‘Food goes in the waste disposal,’ but it just didn’t sound quite right.
Good luck with the Christmas shopping.
Roland Orzabal on behalf of Tears For Fears
Dear Vic Godard,
I am afraid, Vic Godard, that I am rather bemused at the concept of an electrified subterranean track splinter group. One wonders if your ‘backing band’, Subway Sect, are in actuality a radical faction of trainspotters perhaps exaggerating the volume of observed rolling stock ticked off in their notebooks for financial gain in order to use this deceit as a ‘platform’ to fulfill an immoral ‘Ambition’ to ‘Split Up the Money’.
That the rogue locomotive observation data-distorting cult were often to be presented sporting cardigans in your ‘early promo shots’ does little to detract from this hypothesis. Indeed, it could be argued that their brazen public displays of knitted-sweater wearing surely only serves to emphasise that ‘nobody is sorry’, or indeed scared, in relation to any repercussions owing to said below ground chicanery.
In the presence of such a malevolent rail clan, and no matter how drowsy, you may be assured that I will from now on do my utmost never to lose consciousness on any buried cosmopolitan network, or indeed, heeding the extremely sensible advice of Petula Clark, sleep in the Subway even at ground level. After a brisk stroll on the front some months ago I repaired to their branch on Commercial Road for a Meatball Marinara foot-long ‘on’ Hearty Italian and dozed off at my table for a few seconds. Imagine my outrage, therefore, to be awoken by a posse of errant schoolchildren blowing Sprite at my spectacles with straws and attempting to insert the tightly screwed-up corners of serviettes into my ears whilst saying ‘Let’s make him Dumbo.’
Whilst writing, I must take considerable issue with your outlandish claim that everyone is a prostitute singing the song in prison. Were the entire population of the world to be custodially serenading ‘ladies and gentlemen of the night’, Vic Godard, the following insurmountable incongruities would apply:
1) the target market of potential clients to solicit to would be non-existent;
2) even were the above point not to apply, the incarceration of said remunerated courtesans (for ‘twenty odd years’ or fewer) would nullify their ability to canvass upon traditional pitches such as but not exclusive to the following:
Street corners
Red light areas (not to be confused with heaters found in the outside smoking areas of pubs and clubs)
Amusement arcades
thus ceasing trade;
3) were both of the above problems to be resolved, the monopoly of contracted concubines flourishing to the extent of excluding all other occupations would naturally ensure that there would be no prison officers, convicting magistrates, people to build said facilities or, for that matter, chefs, plumbers, cleaners or any organised society whatsoever.
Oh, well. Tata for now!
Yours sincerely,
Derek Philpott
PS The wall is not a bad religion, sir. It is a non-denominatory partition between two areas.
Dear Mr Philpott,
Thank you for your letter. I do hope I can dispel at least some of your bemusement.
On the other hand, I may just deepen it.
Firstly I will admit that as a youngster I made regular forays to Kings Cross Station, half-pencil behind ear and Ian Allen in blazer pocket; however, the notion of seeking or expecting to make financial gain from the fruits of any such activities is frankly a harebrained suggestion. Furthermore, our inspirational underground passage is of the pedestrian variety, namely the dank, poorly lit Hammersmith Broadway underpass, and I can only say I am cut to the quick by your mockery of our image crisis.
I am relieved that you won’t be sleeping in any subway entrances anytime soon and strongly advise against further visits to the sandwich establishment you refer to. Should you find yourself peckish and in the Commercial Road vicinity, there are Prêts aplenty where I’m sure you and your spectacles will be treated with the utmost respect.
I admit that my claim that ‘Everyone is a prostitute’ is wholly dependent on how the listener or reader defines the word and therefore I can’t fault the gist of your ensuing arguments. My only defence is that my words were the product of a teenage mind versed in virtual realities and that with experience and age has come the realisation that I should have considered the foundations before I started on the wall.
Yours respectfully,
Vic Godard
Dear Mr. Heaton,
I would like to congratulate you on your uncanny ability to predict certain events through your lyrics. Perhaps I should explain further.
A while ago, Olive’s cousin Sylvia was distraught when her albino rabbit Thor escaped. A search of the garden proved fruitless, and Sylvia’s thoughts were turning ominously towards the dangers of foxes and traffic. However, she then heard Old Red Eyes Is Back on the radio, and almost immediately Thor poked his furry albino head round her shrubs.
A short time later, our friend and neighbour Mike Molloy was encountering difficulties in his search for a practical, safe and reasonably-priced caravan. He then heard your ‘a cappella’ classic Caravan of Love and soon found exactly the right model at a bargain price. Mike is now the proud owner of a second-hand ‘Sprite Finesse’, and says that you would be welcome to join him and his wife Margaret in the New Forest at your convenience (although of course it would be impractical to invite ‘every woman, every man’, as it is only a four-berth).
