Dear Mr Kershaw, page 19
I write as a matter of extreme urgency, plasma rugs, and must insist that you fight any irresistible force and abort your foolhardy and no doubt highly expensive mission, which, contrary to your claim, I am capable of envisaging, forthwith.
I am not sure ‘How It Should Be’ that you have secured funding for this proposed expedition to me, celestial mattings, which sounds both extremely costly and convoluted, but can assure you that a lot of money can be saved in circumnavigating the earth in your me quest by my disclosure to you that I reside in Bournemouth.
This revelation, stellar druggets, should hopefully alleviate the necessity to deploy expensive spaceships, naval war vessels and wireless transmissions to establish my position. Indeed, celestial textile coverings, irrespective of my current whereabouts, I hope you will forgive my observing that your mode of exploratory transport is probably not the most expedient given that rockets are best renowned for travelling in an upward trajectory vertically through and not horizontally or diagonally across the sky. As you are no doubt aware, galactic runners, Dorset is not located in the upper atmosphere, and, given that the distance between Oldham and my home is 260 miles in a north to south linear direction, I think you would be better off getting a coach. Arguably, astronomical loop piles, it is technically feasible that your projectile could remain in stationary orbit above the planet and wait for it to rotate several degrees before re-entry and descent, preferably close to the pier; however, were you to miscalculate the plummet even fractionally, your intended splashdown could conceivably occur on dry land, perhaps on The Pavilion or Harry Ramsden’s, whereby your gratuitous desires to break every bone of everybody in sight may well be granted.
I will have no part in this, star surfacings, and to this end have just conducted some investigations on your behalf and have established that Megabus are today quoting the very reasonable fare from Shudehill Interchange to Bournemouth Train Station of £155.00 for five passengers. Upon your arrival, I suggest a light lunch at The Moon In The Square on Exeter Road, so that I may ‘Find Out Why’ you are pursuing me.
I am afraid, however, that I must decline your offer of an excursion to the Orient, and intense clinching amongst other unwarranted intimacies in Italy’s state capital, on the basis that I am very happily married and cannot recall where I last had my passport.
Finally, as regards your preposterous allegation that I am dragging you down, binary tufted weaves, I can most confidently assure you that at no time have I ever attempted to wrestle you to the floor, as evidenced not only by the fact that we have, to the best of my knowledge, never met, but also on account of my ongoing sciatica which would render any ground level grappling endeavours extremely inadvisable (and, for that matter, possibly futile, given your Farfisa organ player’s solo assertion that ‘you can’t keep a good man down’).
If you are agreeable to this compromise, I would be pleased to make the necessary arrangements in order that your loneliness may be curtailed.
Yours,
Derek Philpott
PS My wife Jean has just remarked from the kitchen (where she is making rock cakes) that our recent prize of a Dirty Harry box set at The Pokesdown & Southbourne Ex-Servicemen’s Club raffle really was a ‘Clint Boon’!
Dear Derek,
I feel drawn to reply to your missive. Although I am no longer with the fore said Inspiral Carpets, I did write the words to which you are reacting and can inform you that:
a)
I am currently on the docks in Portsmouth awaiting a carriage to the IOW, so the stellar distances to which you are referring are not necessary at present, and
b)
to inform you that the words were inspired by the idea of the United States’ love of Saddam Hussein during the first Gulf War and weren’t directly routed to you, although I thoroughly enjoyed the reading.
www.tomhingley.co.uk
Dear Derek,
Many thanks for your recent letter of concern. We hope this reply finds you well and also goes some way to putting you and your wife’s minds at ease. We feel there has been a grave misunderstanding here and one, no matter how sensitive to some the subject matter may be, we will clarify shortly.
As you already know, we are now 5 hardy blokes from the North of England and are used to undertaking similar missions of ‘derring do’ despite the costs to us financially and physically.
We have already entered into the realms of space on that well known ship Saturn 5 and are currently undertaking a mission in that most iconic of WW2 fighter planes, the Spitfire. So, no matter how perilous and foolhardy these missions may seem, fear not. We will go to any lengths to please and excite our most loyal audience.
However, now to clarify the obvious misunderstanding expressed within your letter and put your mind at ease that you are safe and sound in Bournemouth. You may have heard that certain folk ‘int’ North share a bestial pastime and a love for a certain wool-encased animal. Therefore, when we state ‘I will search this world for ewe, even though you can’t imagine’, we refer to both the love of this pastime, as well as the horror it causes outside of our boundaries.
Can you now see where the confusion lies and also why we have, until now, refrained from discussing this issue?
So, sleep safe and sound in your bed at night, Derek, with Jean, in the knowledge that we are not hunting you down. However, if you hear the fizz of a rocket or plane overhead and then the plaintive cry of a sheep nearby, don’t look!
Yours,
The Inspiral Carpets
Dear Flowered Up,
Re: ‘Take it from me, I see what you don’t see, I don’t come down.’
I fully understand your impartation, my flora-raising chums, and have no reason to question your sincerity. It should be plainly apparent to anyone with even the remotest grasp of scale, altitude and perspective that the panorama to be enjoyed by one situated at a site of elevation is highly likely to be more extensive than that viewed at a lower vantage point. It remains unclear at the time of writing, however, just what you want me to relieve you of, or ‘take from you’, and how this may be achieved when allowing for gravitational aspects and vertical distance between us.
‘It’s On’ a purely personal note that I must also express concern at your staunch refusal to descend, even for a ‘comfort break’ or a snack, and my wife Jean was wondering if there was any way that you could be presented with one of her homemade brownies and a bucket by the Fire Brigade, or possibly Bono, whom we understand to have climbed the highest mountain and therefore must be up to the errand on humanitarian grounds.
As regards your assertion that we will all be singing your tune, the less said the better, Flowered Up; you obviously have never heard me on the karaoke, which is enough to give anyone ‘Philpott Phobia’!
Yours,
Derek Philpott
Dear Derek,
As one of the surviving ex-members of the beat combo known as Flowered Up, I feel it falls to me to reply to your correspondence as the perpetrator of the aforementioned lyric is no longer of this shire or, for that matter, this planet.
It’s not strange you should note these particular lines from this song, as the verses were all written by a certain Joe Strummer and were purloined from the moving picture Rude Boy, and certainly carry more weight and sense than the chorus you refer to.
I regret to inform you I have no idea what Liam wished taken from him, perhaps a pair of X-ray glasses from the classified section of Viz he mistakenly believed gave him the power to visually undress women that failed to deliver on their promise; though this would explain the ‘I see what you don’t see’ reference.
As for the refusal to come down, I believe this to be a blatant reference to the use of mildly psychedelic drugs that at some time in his past had permanently altered the chemical balance within his brain. He did eventually return to earth, but was ultimately disappointed.
As for the most gracious offer of some of Jean’s famous brownies, we’d gladly be tempted by the unctuous delights anytime, preferably not delivered by Mr Bonio as he is obviously too busy avoiding tax and saving the planet. We would hate to distract him from these tasks. As for your karaoke rendition of Phobia, I shall reserve judgement until we are all ensconced in the snug of the Wasp and Griffin public house.
I bid you good day, sir.
I hope this clears up any misunderstanding and remain
Your servant,
Tim Dorney
Dear The Korgis,
We are just settling into a new home, my near-preferred monarchical domestic pet-monickered friends, and ‘It Won’t Be The Same Old Place’ until ‘The Way I Feel’ is a lot warmer.
There were several ‘Burning Questions’ raised on our Homebuyer’s Report, The Korgis, mainly concentrating on the inadequacy of the central heating system. However, together with my wife Jean, yours truly was so determined that ‘I’ll Be Here’ by Easter that we foolhardily disregarded our solicitor’s advice over a ‘Cold Tea’ to demand a reduction in the purchase price to reflect said neglected aquastat, substandard ventilation and sticky switch.
‘That Was My Big Mistake’, my misspelt, stumpy-legged, canine-
homaging pals, for immediately upon moving in, the boiler conked out completely. To make matters worse, and spurred on by your advice on Magic FM at the time, I decided to try and save on mounting moving costs (having been brought up on rationing, ‘I Just Can’t Help It’) and install a new one myself, rather than engage the services of a qualified CORGI (as in officially industry recognised as opposed to Royal dog overseen) engineer.
Needless to say, The Korgis, and with no such expert professional to ‘Work Together’ with and ‘Show Me’ where my stopcock was after my ‘Third Time Around’ the exterior of the property, and finding there was ‘Nowhere To Run’ the flue through without the appropriate heavy duty tools, I was forced to resort to a reputable local contractor to undertake the work properly.
It was only whilst watching Danny ‘The Pipes, The Pipes Are Cooling’ Boyle’s dexterity in the near ‘Silent Running’ of his copper tube fitting and unit mounting today that I realised the glib perfunctoriness of your tenet ‘Everybody’s Got To Learn Sometime’. It was patently obvious from the intricacy and deftness of his work that young Daniel’s skills were beyond those of a mere layperson and could not be mastered periodically at an indeterminate point. Indeed, it could even be argued that the craftsman might have been latently or genetically predisposed to his vocation and descended from a long line of plumbing specialists.
Ergo, to employ a similar principle, one finds it extremely doubtful that Mr Boyle would be so adept at performing successful cardiac transplants or, for that matter, whether pioneering surgeon Dr Christiaan Barnard would be so competent at installing a Worcester Greenstar 241 Compact Combi in our airing cupboard.
It is for this reason, The Korgis, and coming as I do from a printing background, that I must decline your credo to study so as to change my heart, whether it be via an adjustment to my existing one or a full replacement. I can further assure you that even were I to attempt such an operation (and its success, I agree would ‘astound me’), I would most certainly not ‘look around me’ but instead be concentrating all efforts towards my thoracic cavity.
I further regret to inform you that your need for ‘my loving’ akin to solar radiance must remain unrequited for I have been happily married to my wife Jean for many years. That said, I am quite confident that your somewhat more restrained enquiry ‘Can’t We Be Friends Now?’ could possibly be responded to in the affirmative, commencing perhaps with a small snack at an ‘Intimate’ eaterie equidistant to the both of us. I would ask that you are not tardy once a time has been agreed upon as there is little I abhor more than being kept in silent abeyance. No one likes to be one of the ‘Dumb Waiters’!
I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours in anticipation,
Derek Philpott
Dear Sir,
We (The Korgis) would like to thank you for your letter. We are sorry to hear of your plumbing problems and do hope that they were resolved with the help of Mr Boyle. Frankly we are surprised that he is still plying his trade, what with the success of his mother Susan as a ‘singing sensation’. Perhaps he has not experienced ‘trickle down economics’.
As no doubt you are aware, we (that is James Warren and Andrew Cresswell Davis aka The Korgis) have been very busy over the last 45 years with our ‘other band’ – Stackridge. With that in mind we should point out that contrary to your assumption that we needed your loving, all we asked for was your ‘Friendliness’. Indeed, we suggest that it would be a ‘Victory For Common Sense’ if you were to avoid any kind of ‘Extravaganza’ at a suitable hostelry, possibly choosing an establishment where the proprietor was ‘The Man In The Bowler Hat’. As long as ‘Dangerous Bacon’ was not on the menu, we are confident that meeting with you for a small snack as you suggest would be most enjoyable. We leave it up to you to decide where, although ‘32 West Mall’ might be a good choice as they do have a chap playing a ‘Grande Piano’. As to when… how about ‘Teatime’?
We (that is James Warren and Andrew Cresswell Davis aka The Korgis aka Stackridge) remain
‘Fundamentally Yours’
Dear Black Grape,
Re: Kelly’s Heroes
I was recently dragged along (almost literally, I have ongoing sciatica) by some younger friends to the Queen’s Park Hotel on Holdenhurst Road for the ‘karaoke night’ and was subjected to, amongst many other renditions, a particularly excruciating ‘version’ of one of my favourite Billy Joel songs by a burly man in tracksuit bottoms and a Prodigy T-shirt.
As it transpired, young Mike, with whom I enjoyed a medium Merlot afterwards, partly constructed from your band name, worked for the emergency services and was, in his own words, ‘one of Dorset’s premier house extinguishers and kitten/tree problem solvers’, rendering his ‘Firestarter’ torso emblazonment and off-kilter ‘We Didn’t Start The Fire’ rendition paradox to be in actuality most amusing.
I mention this incident, my darkened berry friends, merely because, despite your request that I ‘don’t talk to you about heroes’ I feel that I must, specifically with reference to your implied disdain in suggesting that most of these men sing like serfs.
I am not ashamed to assure you of this, my ebony pre-raisin pals.
Were I to be in a burning building (such as my own) and Mike, or indeed any of his courageous colleagues, were to attend with a view to extracting me from said bungalow blaze, I, for one, would not refuse them a likely axe-wielded entry into my conflagrant premises upon the grounds of their inadequate vocal abilities being reminiscent of a feudal-system-restrained agricultural labourer. Furthermore, Black Grape, I fail to fathom how a perceived class strata may be able to determine one’s ability to be endowed with the gift of competent chantability at the point of birth.
One is confident that this confusion is shared by David Essex, Joe Longthorne, and their dedicated followers.
Also, although both were men of principle who grew up without brothers or sisters, devoid of the physical support of both parents, and became intent on righting wrongs whilst garnering strong support, I was alarmed but then relieved to hear you blaspheme but then almost immediately retract your irreverent impiety that Jesus was Batman.
Finally, my ebony-fruit amigos, and in answer to your rather fervid enquiry as to who has the biggest, the biggest brain, luckily this came up at the Quiz Night at The Commodore on Overcliff Road last week. It is that of the sperm whale, which weighs in at around 8 kilograms, followed by the elephant and then the bottlenose dolphin.
I hope that I have been of assistance.
Yours,
Derek Philpott
PS Although on the whole one agrees that it is great to be straight (‘yeah’) I am not entirely sure that my friend Nigel Saxtonhouse would entirely concur with this philosophy at the moment. He has been very ‘Stupid Stupid Stupid’ and not had his Astra serviced for three years, and the steering column went just as he approached the Boundary Lane roundabout last week…
Dear Mr Philpott,
With regard to your recent enquiry as to the reason we obsidian berried chums hold such disdain for heroes, I refer you back to the original compact disc where we state (quite vigorously, I might add) ‘DON’T TALK TO ME ABOUT HEROES’.
To receive your letter, which totally disregards our wishes, Mr Philpott, sir, having forked out at great cost (I might add) to procure the use of a fully equipped recording suite and a Herculean effort (and yes, the irony of the term Herculean is not lost to us) to attend said studio by myself and Mr Ryder, we vehemently declare at 32 hertz that we DO NOT condone heroics in any way, shape or form.
To read your correspondence, I have to admit, is very upsetting.
Having already received a cease and desist order from the Vatican with regard to our implying that the Papacy had helped members of the Nazi party evade incarceration at the end of the second world war, my esteemed colleague Mr Ryder and I were quite taken aback that you have chosen to zero in on the fact that we have stated that
‘Jesus was a black man—No, Jesus was Batman!’
This will only be seen as a direct goading of the Catholic Church. Mr Ryder and I have neither the stomach nor the funds for another lengthy legal battle as we have considerable monetary obligations (e.g. hookers and drugs).
Mr Philpott, as a fellow human being and lover of cake, it is with a heavy heart that I ask you to please consider all the ramifications of your correspondence.
Yours Kermit Leveridge
Dear The Christians,
Re: Ideal World
Whilst ‘flicking through’ my new Freeview ‘box’ today I happened upon Channel 22 quite by chance and quite obviously felt impelled to write to you.
