Dear Mr Kershaw, page 17
Until such time, we are equally confident that we won’t ever get you down and congratulate you upon your continued and perpetual buoyancy.
Kind Regards
Yours,
Derek Philpott
Dear Derek (and Wilf),
It appears that you distinguished and learned gentlemen have, like myself, a proclivity for calling a spade an ‘earth-inverting horticultural implement’, and why not? For language is the shed of tools in the garden of life itself and we are in the full harvest reaping pure gold. I am glad my little horticultural ditty gave you the inspiration needed in the battle of the bramble and should the need arise whereby a gardening problem occurs requiring musical intervention, please feel free to call on me for a bespoke melodious solution.
I doff my cap to you both in admiration.
Yours,
Martin from The Mock Turtles
Dear Mr. Ant. Yes, I have recently experienced trouble with my automobile. My off-side headlight bulb was defective, causing limited visibility after dusk. Thankfully, especially considering my replacement hip, I was spared the discomfort of having to push push push push given that not all vehicular functions result in a stationary disposition.
Dear Ms. Warwick Re: Do You Know The Way To San Jose. I regret not being able to help you with your enquiry, especially given that you make no reference to your current whereabouts. I recently received a similar request from Tony Christie and recommended that he consult ‘Bling Maps’ or invested in a ‘Tom Tom’.
Dear It’s Immaterial,
Re: Driving Away From Home
My wife Jean and I are most intrigued by your ‘Sprechgesang smash’, and feel there to be some ‘mileage’ in attempting to elicit some ‘Kind Words’ from you in response to several queries that I have compiled. ‘Is That Alright?’
Assuming so, I am somewhat aghast that you should instruct your designated driver to just get in, close the door and put their foot down, which is to be assumed to refer to initiating instantaneous acceleration. Forgive my suggesting, my unpertinent correspondees, that ‘The Better Idea’ may have been to ensure that both the unnamed motorist and all passengers – especially children and infants, if applicable – were ensured to have had all of their seat belts securely fastened, and that Section 2, paragraph 163 of The Highway Code (more colloquially recognised as ‘Mirrors, Signal, Manoeuvre’) was observed prior to setting off, at speed, from a kerb ‘In The Neighbourhood’.
It should also be considered that, not unlike your ‘band name’, the appendation of ‘or more’ to a thirty mile boundary reference, thus disestablishing an apical parameter to it, renders said quoted distance extraneous. Put simply, the voiding of an upper ambit limit does somewhat despecify and therefore invalidate the detailing of any range whatsoever.
Moreover, ‘Heaven Knows’ how many times I have been late for an engagement on account of relying on the estimated arrival time displayed by my ‘sat nav’, which has rather optimistically surmised that there would be no roadworks, low bridge to high juggernaut impediments, ‘school runs’ or floodings at any point of my journey. Therefore, unless of course one’s device is able to connect to the internet and draw on live traffic data, to state in the public forum of the pop charts that it is only thirty nine miles and forty five minutes to Manchester, especially when ignorant of the audience’s current location at the time of listening to ‘Your Voice’, could be construed as both presumptuous and misleading.
Finally, It’s Immaterial, although many of us with ‘An Ordinary Life’ only own one property, there are others (including, until recently, MPs, for whom the second home allowance was scrapped in 2011, resulting no doubt in numerous ‘House For Sale’ signs) who have more. For this particular section of society, ‘Driving Away From One Home But Towards Another’ would surely be a more accurate, if admittedly less hummable ‘offering’.
On a lighter note, my wife Jean is very keen to learn more about the shop that you like where you can get anything. Even her favourite retailer, Beales on Old Christchurch Road, as varied and all-encompassing as it is, still lacks next week’s Lotto Rollover numbers, twenty years off her age, and world peace.
I remain yours sincerely,
Derek Philpott
Dear Mr P and Jean,
Thank you for your correspondence which I received the other day and have since been ruminating over. Your deep slice research into my back catalogue seems to have thrown up a number of counts on which you hold issues, particularly pertaining to the title Driving Away From Home. Allow me to attempt clarification.
I take on board your reservations with regard to my invitation once in the vehicle for the driver to ‘put your foot down’; in hindsight this might sound more like the instruction of an accomplice to a getaway driver. I believe in this case it must have been the muse that led me to neglect health and safety concerns at the time and if ever I was to make a revision, I would probably open the piece as follows: ‘Just get in and check your mirror, if all’s clear select first gear’.
Now let’s consider, as you put it, the appendation of ‘or more’ to the thirty miles stated. The said thirty miles was merely a suggestion as to the minimum ground you might wish to cover to make the whole journey worth your while cerebrally, otherwise one might as well ‘just as well nip down the shops’. I added the ‘or more’ so as not to cage the driver’s enthusiasm to burn rubber or as I should say (with health and safety now firmly in mind) drive with due care and attention.
As for your suggested alternative title of ‘Driving Away From One Home To Another’, it has merit and to ignore the potentially lucrative market of the second home owner was an oversight at the time and is something I will look into further down the road.
By the way – that shop, it’s on the road to Wigan.
Regards,
Mr It’s Immaterial
Dear Ms. Bush, In these politically correct times it may be considered offensive to refer to 'Them Heavy People'. May I please suggest that the terms 'Them Big Boned Personages', 'Them Hormonally Afflicted Folk', 'Them Horizontally Challenged Individuals ' and/or 'Them Slow Metabolismed Unfortunates' instead be employed immediately to avoid committing a social faux pas.
Dear Mr. McNabb,
Re: Love Is A Wonderful Colour
I regret, sir, that the song that you have ‘penned’ for performance by your functioning sharp-pointed frozen water monickered ‘combo’ requires not inconsiderable critical scrutiny.
Prior to being exposed to your sprightly composition this morning I must admit never to having considered that, to directly quote from the work, ‘love is full of wonderful colours’, and I am admittedly still quite perplexed as to precisely how such feelings of overwhelming fondness are able to be so marvellously and chromatically engorged. As you may or may not be aware, Mr McNabb, ‘colour’ is nothing more than the admittedly quite spectacular result of electromagnetic hue cycle and retinal interaction. It is, by this very definition, a process, and therefore unable to substantially occupy ardour, which is itself devoid of both dimension and structure.
In conclusion then, and pending verifiable evidence to the contrary, I regret to inform you that the central premise of the piece, coupled with the observation that feelings of romantic attachment are also a luminous device specifically designed to draw attention to a perceived point at which the earth and sky converge (i.e. ‘a beacon on the horizon’), is, unfortunately, wholly untenable.
Aside from the above correction, I hope you will forgive me for noticing that you appear to have an aversion against or hostility towards various forms of arboreal matter. This is clear from the inescapable fact that by your own admission, adjacent to some burning wood, you appear to have been engrossed in conversation to the extent that the blazing structural tissue (possibly the result of faulty wiring in an outbuilding or shed) evinces little to no concern. Furthermore, another of your pop songs, Chop The Tree, brazenly encourages the more suggestible listener to fell all manner of large bark-enclosed plants without prior verification of the presence or absence of disease, qualification as an endangered species, jurisdiction or otherwise under the National Trust, and/or permission of the landowner in whose property the condemned topiary stands. I must recommend that your obvious timber-based vendetta ceases forthwith.
I hope that you do not object to the points made within this missive and would like to assure you that my wife Jean and I are keen enthusiasts of your output. I hope that you will not mind but I must now take leave of my computer in order to attend to a puncture and badly worn rear brake pad for my son. With luck, once the repairs have been successfully completed, I will be able to report that the bicycle works!
Please accept my apologies for the pun above.
Yours sincerely,
Derek Philpott
Dear Mr Philpott,
Thank you for your letter. I do have to say though that I have often dreaded the long overdue in-depth analysis of this song, the more famous of my two entries into the UK top forty singles chart (the other being Let The Young Girl Do What She Wants To which I hope you will avoid critiquing due to its relative obscurity), as I myself have been troubled by the lyrics for over thirty years now.
If it has annoyed anyone due to its clumsy, nonsensical, random pseudo-psychedelic lyric, may I put forth that, as irritating as it is, you the listener have not had to sing it on stage for the last 30 years. If I had been aware at the time of how long this ditty would endure in the hearts of music enthusiasts the world over, I would have spent a bit more time on it. I do think you got off lightly, however, as the original title for this slab of Phil Spector-inspired pop was ‘My Heart Belongs To A Frozen Lake’, so bear in mind that, however bad things are, they could always be a lot worse.
In the eighties (a time much maligned in memory by the many, but for the few it was a glorious time of hit albums and endless world tours) it was a lot easier to get away with nonsense lyrics, as a perusal through many of my contemporaries’ works will attest. Killing moons and kissing tortoise shells was all the rage at the time. My cruel treatment of wood during this period is a moot point and I hold my hands up to abusing it on a number of occasions, albeit only in verse. Track one on the debut Icicle Works long player has me instructing the listener to ‘Chop The Tree’ and by track two I appear to be talking to a friend as we both presumably sit beside some ‘burning wood’. I have no idea what any of this means and cannot even claim to be influenced by burning other substances in order to arrive at this maniacal wanton abuse of trees, as at the point the songs were conceived I was still a three pints of lager man.
Finally, my abstract metaphor instructing folk that ‘Love Is A Wonderful Colour’ is nothing more than disguised theft of the title ‘Love Is Such A Beautiful Place’ a song by fellow Liverpudlian songsmith Michael Head, then of the band Pale Fountains. Thank you for publicly admonishing my lyrical and green crimes; it has given me cause for thought and I hereby promise to be a little kinder to forests (and myself) in future.
Sincerely,
Ian McNabb
Dear Howard Jones,
Re: Like To Get To Know You Well
I am flattered but surprised, Mr Jones, at your direct and rather forward approach. I have discussed the matter with my wife Olive, and we have decided that you would be a welcome visitor ‘chez Turnbull’, on the following condition:
That you abandon the practice of keeping your body-popping sidekick chained up in a box, only to emerge during your musical offerings, such as the above.
As you may be aware, slavery was abolished in all British territories in 1834, and it is certainly ‘bad form’ for potential acquaintances to indulge in such practice. It is perhaps ironic that you urge your listeners to ‘throw off your mental chains, woo-hoo-hoo’ during the admittedly catchy ‘New Song’, while simultaneously coaxing a servile performance from your gimp-like captive.
However, once you assure us that your cohort is treated as an equal, you will be warmly welcomed.
In answer to your enquiry ‘What is Love?’ I am able to inform you that it can be defined as ‘an intense emotion of affection, warmth, fondness and regard towards a person or thing’. As I appear to have mislaid his address, please could you forward this information to ‘Haddaway’, who I believe has recently formed a duo with Dieter Scheidt, the well-known Austrian DJ.
I hold your musical output in high regard, Mr Jones, and look forward to your response. I would also like to know of any special dietary requirements you have, and request that you provide us with a reasonable period of notice. Please note that Wednesday evenings are inconvenient. In addition, perhaps it would be possible to bring your marvellous ‘electronic keyboard’, and give an informal concert after tea in our living room, although the sideboard will need to be relocated.
Yours sincerely,
Wilf Turnbull
Dear Mr Turnbull,
I am most pleased with your decision to make me welcome at Chez Turnbull and to ‘aimez faire connaissance avec vous bien’. However, the conditions you propose are most unwelcome. We live in an age of freedom of expression and I feel to burden Mr Hoile with the weight of your shallow cultural preferences could prove to be an obstacle beyond my ability to transcend.
Mr Hoile (or Jed, as he is affectionately known) is the willing instrument of analogy and a true champion of the art of Mental Chain unburdening. To cast him as oppressed or even marginally demeaned fills my heart with a nagging ache that I fear will not easily be cured by silver-tongued monologues or indeed efficacious herbs.
As for the question ancienne, ce qui est l’amour? I can only reveal that a young Master Haddaway was spotted, in disguise of course, at one of my concerts in New York in the mid 80s. I can only speculate on the benign influence that may have occurred, and of course take a tiny modicum of pride in the progeny of that cause.
Casting all aside and looking to the future, I am indeed thrilled to be able to commit to next Saturday afternoon at 3pm. My keyboard Butler will arrive at 1pm to supervise the installation of my ‘Circus Electronique’ and cup cakes decorated with the names of keyboard legends (Tomita, Vangelis, Les Dawson) would suit my dietary obsessions quite nicely.
Regards to Olive,
Howard Jones
Dear Public Image Limited,
Re: This Is Not A Love Song
Although I have never run my own business working all the hours that God sends, Public Image Limited, I have over the years encountered many ceaselessly toiling company directors that have; normally in pubs in the early afternoon leading continuously into the late evening. The most prosperous of these ‘self-made men’ has undoubtedly been Gerald Nagle from The Baker’s Arms in Lychett Minster, who back in 1983 struck upon the novel idea of supplying high quality second-hand yachts, luxury cars and helicopters to the more affluent residents of Sandbanks and the surrounding areas.
Following a visit to the florist’s earlier this week for our wedding anniversary, I decided, upon the consideration that Jean might have wanted chocolates instead, to assuage myself with a half a Tetley’s. It was during this consolatory libation that I played said impresario your ‘post-punk smash’ on the jukebox, ‘PiL’, whilst joking that together with Placebo you would be more grammatically suited to be played on a ‘tablet’.
I hope that you will not mind my relating that after the ‘fade out’ was replaced by Save All Your Kisses For Me, my co-listener merely frowned and stated that were ‘Floaters Rotors & Motors’ to adopt a similar campaign, its success in the commercial zone would likely be severely compromised on the basis that negatory detraction in big business is very unwise. I must admit that his illustratory example of a used E65 7 Series BMW being ambiguously marketed as ‘This Is Not A Mercedes-Benz CLK-class Cabriolet’, thus potentially aggravating the prospective purchaser whilst neglecting to advertise any Unique Selling Points of the vehicle on offer, was most compelling, as was his utter exasperation at the failure of a trader whose brand name literally reflected its recognition of a strong civil profile to be conscious of said faux pas.
Furthermore, the concept of ‘television behind the curtain’ in any feasibility whatsoever was anathema to him, he added. It is crucial for all wares featured on the screen of a plastic and/or ‘metal box’ to be unobscured by shrouding drapery in order that the ‘Album’ of products available may be clearly visible. He is also at a loss as to why one may be asked if one is ‘ready to grab the candle, not television’. Not only is potential wick grippage probably hazardous; to the best of our knowledge there is no facility to display photographs via the medium of an illuminatory wax block.
Please ‘Don’t Ask Me’ to desist from availing you of the above observations, or be ‘Disappointed’ by Gerald’s appraisal, Public Image Limited. Sadly ‘This Is What You Get’ when scrutinised by your enterprising peers. He could be wrong, he could be right. I am sure that you will ‘Rise’ above it and refocus your corporation to a more and non-filthy lucrative income stream in the near future, near future, near future for you.
Yours,
Derek Philpott
Dear Mr Philpott,
Many thanks for your recent communiqué addressed to Public Image Limited regarding their (only) chart topping smash hit This Is Not A Love Song. On behalf of all employees of the corporation, past and present, may I declare the greatest appreciation for your time and utmost dedication in giving the lyrics of the aforementioned song your careful consideration.
I must stress from the outset that I am replying to your letter very much in the capacity of an ex-employee of the corporation having myself resigned in 1983; Lord Johnny Fartpants of Islington is currently unavailable, being as he is rather busy these days, diligently making butter adverts, appearing in second rate reality TV shows or generally buffooning around on daytime television and radio promoting his recent poorly written tome. However, I am sure he, along with other revered ex-employees such as Mr Atkins and my dearest friend Mr Levene, would concur with the sentiments I have expressed in this letter.
