Dear Mr Kershaw, page 3
Prior to confirmation, the Pokesdown & Southbourne Ex-Servicemen’s Club committee are insisting on inspection of PAT Testing certificates and public liability documentation, and I regret to inform you that if ‘something ain’t right’ I will reluctantly have to book the busy-handed competitor in your stead. Written confirmation from your good selves to the effect that all extension leads and speaker cables will be secured to the floor by gaffer tape or other effective battening must also be forthcoming; the Entertainment Secretary has made it abundantly clear that the venue will accept no responsibility for any resultant injury claims submitted by peripheral staff or guests should, to quote directly from your ‘chilled rave tune’, after a ‘stumble you might fall’ if said trusses are flubbed.
You will hopefully be pleased to learn that there will be no need to ‘reach up to the top’ when unloading, on the basis that the function will be at ‘Ground Level’ and there are no stairs involved.
I am also trying to contact Mr Beck as I understand that he has ‘two turntables and a microphone’, and sounds ideal as a back-up if your equipment for any reason malfunctions.
Subject to your rates being reasonable Wilf and I would be more than willing to send you a non-refundable deposit once reassured that you are completely au fait with the mechanics of the UK postal system. Our wariness stems from your declaration that ‘you can’t send a forget-me-not’, markedly contrasting with the Royal Mail’s terms and conditions, which clearly state that perishable items including flowers are suitable for despatch if suitably sealed to prevent leakage, and able to withstand a journey of up to 48 hours.
We look forward to hearing from you subject to the above criteria being to your satisfaction.
Yours,
Derek Philpott
Hey Mr Philpott,
Thanks for your letter and request for our DJ spot.
Your extensive queries and demands left us kinda lost for words rather than ‘lost in music’, but after reflection we figured you’re trying to strike a hard bargain so ‘I see through you’, man.
I’m definite we can satisfy all of your misgivings, even if they are a bit deep down and dirty – we have the capacity to ‘move it’ when you’re concerning yourself with a nice-up dance, but please, no vol-au-vents.
If it is club policy to separate DJs to the left and right, then you’ll have to check health and safety about me frisbeeing records across to my partner, Nick, when he requests them, and keep well out of harm’s way or you could be ‘Playing With Fire’, and we don’t want no trouble in said disco.
MC Five Alive will deal with the party moves, but I can’t vouch for their decency (though he’s a regular up in Cambridge’s Warning D’n’B nights, so he can’t be that offensive). Just put us up in a nice B&B and put a bottle of Jagermeister on the rider and we’ll all be happy in ‘The End’.
We’re fine with the line dancing and the country and western, providing you provide a mosh pit, as the combination of that and techno is bound to send us jumping off high places and no doubt wanting to ‘do it again’.
As for the gaffing down of cables – no prob – and we usually travel with two security to ‘keep up the pressure’ to whom we have speaker cabinets velcroed to their chests – safe as houses – and troublemakers get a good shake up when approached. To put it short, we guarantee our gear will stay put but I can’t take liability for your building, as this heady cocktail of music might play havoc with your foundations after we’ve been at it ‘All Night Long’.
If you really feel the need to take desperate measures in the event of some mash up, I can always do a spot of juggling and Nick knows some Tommy Cooper jokes that I got off the internet, but if you get Mr Beck as back-up, although he’s a quality act, he might cost a few bob and does he know any jokes about your mother-in-law? I reckon you’ll end up the ‘Loser’.
Having heard that your nights are fairly prestigious, boasting a substantial hall of fame on its books, payment should take the form of a second-hand Ford Escort left round the back to avoid any unnecessary paperwork, so I can ‘check the new ride out’ at the end of what will be a total stimulation of pure ‘Creation’ of a night.
Can we pencil this one in, Derek?
Best,
Rob
Dear Mr. Kershaw,
‘Wouldn’t it be good to be in your shoes’, you suggest in your catchy offering.
However, I suspect that such a ‘footwear exchange’ would be less than successful, in that we probably take different sizes. I fear that my size 8 (European size 42) Hush Puppies may chafe your feet after a short while on stage or at home, causing discomfort and blisters. Therefore, I feel that we should both remain in our own choice of footwear for the foreseeable future.
Yours sincerely,
Wilf Turnbull
Dear Mr Turnbull,
Thank you for your letter of the 3rd of October.
Whilst I am grateful for your concern regarding my podiatric well-being, I feel it necessary to avail you of the following fact:
It may interest you to learn that I take a size 7 (European size 40) shoe and, therefore, chafing would not be an issue.
Indeed, during the winter months, I find the space available in my shoes insufficient whilst wearing both woollen tights and a thick sock. On these occasions, I respectfully suggest, it would be good to be in your shoes (even if it was for just one day).
Yours,
Nik Kershaw
Dear All About Eve,
Re: Martha’s Harbour
I recently ‘picked up’ your ‘eponymous long player’ quite by mistake at a car boot sale, thinking, quite understandably seeing that I had come out with the wrong spectacles, that it was the much sought after replacement disc that I had been searching for since our ‘The Marilyn Collection’ box set was inexcusably returned to us incomplete by some now former Gala Bingo partners, Alicia and Nigel Saxtonhouse. On the plus side, however, my wife Jean and I were delighted to find a job lot of ‘nearly new’ curtain fabric in the back of a Peugeot Partner which will be perfect for our conservatory. In addition, we are both now pleasantly surprised to be very fond of your maudlin ode to a biblical figure referencing boat storage cove, and its ‘stripped back arrangement’, although unfortunately after several exposures I now feel compelled to write to you outlining my concerns pertaining to its ‘lyrical content’.
Thanks to a particularly fallacious dithyramb as vocalised by your ‘lead singer’, I have had to spend some considerable time this morning (which was scheduled to be enjoyed relaxing with two soft-boiled eggs, a slice of Kingsmill and a repeat of Booze Patrol Australia on Watch TV) reassuring Jean that my occasional golfing weekends with my next door but one neighbour Gordon Gillard are just that. It is, thank heavens, patently clear to her on the other hand that I am anything but an organic coalescence contoured by the manifest abrasion of mistrals across an expanse of saline fluid comprising a vast majority of our planet’s hydrosphere. Sadly, it took until the Antipodean random breath test programme’s end credits before my wife could be convinced that in addition to not being an ocean wave (I am, in actual fact, a retired printer) I was, in addition, not your love.
It is also worthy of note that the enforcement of unpaid labour on sea vessels, much favoured by King Louis XIV as a means of expanding his fleet, was last documented as being practised by the Barbary corsairs in the late 19th century, therefore in order for you to be a galley slave, as you attest, I am estimating that you would have had to have attained, at the very youngest, an age of 89 years at the time of your initially static appearance on television in 1988. If this is the case, then the BBC make up department are to be commended for the achievement of such a youthful presentation, and your inability to hear the music owing to your advancement in years is entirely understandable.
With regard to the last observation, you may be interested to learn that we recently invited our friends Wilf and Olive Turnbull to Philpott Place for a ‘Top Of The Pops Evening’, in which we re-enacted many memorable moments from the show’s history.
These included Wilf writing the words to Shaddap Your Face in marker pen onto the reverse side of some old wallpaper blu-tacked to his new Toshiba 46 inch TV screen and encouraging us to sing along while he pointed to them with an extended steel tape measure, and the four of us tearing up pre-printed A4 photocopies of John Travolta before launching into Rat Trap, replete with Olive blowing into a slightly opened folding brolly to compensate for our failure to procure a candelabra saxophone. We then went out to the back garden for three minutes to replicate the refusal of The Clash to take part, but by far the most authentic homage of the evening was to your good selves, whereby Jean and I sat on the high breakfast bar stools in our kitchen, draped in the material we purchased at the same time as your CD, looking at each other quizzically for a full 86 seconds after Wilf had put it on in the front room.
Notwithstanding this awkward broadcast, which we all concede to be no fault of your own, Jean, Wilf, Olive and I wish you all the best in your future endeavours but would recommend that all upcoming concerts be of a pre-recorded nature!
Yours sincerely,
Derek Philpott
From the desk of:
Ms Julianne Regan,
Narnia,
Behind-The-Wardrobe.
Wednesday, 25 September 2013
Dear Mr Philpott,
Namaste!
You cannot imagine the delight and relief I felt at receiving your missive. Do bear with me while I contextualise this for you!
Less than one month ago, my country seat was burgled. I was up in London on important business, id est, discussing the possibility of an appearance on the once popular television show, Never Mind The Buzzcocks. As tempting as the offer was of an overnight stay at the Hammersmith Novotel on the date of recording and as many salted snacks as I could consume and as much Prosecco as I could imbibe in the ‘green room’, pre and post show, I turned down the mooted public ridicule. As you will know from the Top of the Pops incident you mention in your letter, or Marthagate, as I am wont to call it, I am no stranger to public humiliation. However, I feel a line should be drawn between being victim to an innocent audio mishap (for which some hapless sound technician was probably fired) and willingly placing myself under the scrutiny of a ‘panel’ of C-list celebrities who frankly would not know a song if it subjected them to an enthusiastic frottage on the Bakerloo Line, in tourist season! (Had the marvellously witty Simon Amstell still been hosting the show, I may have been cajoled.)
I digress. On returning home I found the lower ground sash window had been forced and had been the point of entry for the thieves. My collection of Wade Whimsies were strewn across my novelty Sergeant Pepper rug, and one of my favourites, the ‘land cockerel’, had been stamped upon and lay atop the moustache of George, undoubtedly the most spiritual Beatle, this ‘tableau’ seeming all the more poignant for that.
I shall spare you further detail and cut to the chase. My vinyl record collection had vanished. The thieves had made off with the lot, some items of which I know I shall never be able to replace. Now, some might perceive me as someone who spends much time away with the proverbial fairies, my thoughts all lofty and poetic and not of this earth, yet they’d be wrong, Mr Philpott, very wrong. I am, in modern vernacular, pretty ‘streetwise’ and had daubed SmartWater on the sleeves of all said vinyl records. I’m not sure how this works, I shall ask my insurers, but there will be some way you can detect this on the sleeves. Might I ask if you would do this for me? Naturally I am not accusing you of the theft – perish that thought! But I believe that thieves do use car boot sales as a means of offloading their swag onto unsuspecting and decent people like your good self and dear lady wife. Should the items be traceable back to me, I would happily reimburse you for your troubles and for the cost of postage and packing. If you would be kind enough to at least return my All About Eve albums, my signed copy of Quiet Life by the fragrant and ahead-of-their-time band Japan, and my AC/DC boxed set, the rest, I think, I can replace.
And now to the lyrical content of the song Martha’s Harbour. It is regrettable that your wife, Jean, felt she had cause for suspicion as to your fidelity. It’s not in my nature to pry, but simply out of concern for your future relationship together I feel I should ask if Jean has previously wondered about whether you might ‘dally’? I’m not one of these pierced heavy-booted hardcore feminist types, I assure you (although I am grateful for the vote), but men and women can often seem like they are at opposite ends of an emotional spectrum. On this subject you may wish to visit some of my latter works: a song called Infra Red, which could be seen as male at one end of the electromagnetic spectrum, and Ultraviolet, the album title, being at the other, female. I hope you and Jean can inhabit a mutually happy hypothetical place somewhere in the middle on this spectrum, a place of trust. Failing that, a bouquet of garage flowers and a box of Elizabeth Shaw Mint Crisp will often heal a marital rift.
On your well-made and historically accurate point regarding the cessation of the need for ‘galley slaves’ – I admit that the mention of said slave in the context of the song was not purely placed there as a vehicle to carry a theme of yearning, of servitude, of inconsequentiality against colossal might, but also because ‘slave’ rhymes with ‘wave’. I did not wish to confuse the listener by bringing a ‘Dave’ into the narrative. The imaginary lover in the tale might have been called Dave, but that would serve to personalise the song far too sharply and, if you’ll excuse me for cheapening my art by referencing money, makes the song less coverable. (I still hope for a call from Celine Dion’s ‘people’ on that count.) It also limits the possibility of the song being synchronised for use in TV adverts, perchance for Findus, Birds Eye, DFDS Seaways or P&O Ferries (if they still are in operation?). Other than ‘Dave’, words I considered were brave, cave, crave, flavour, gave, grave etc. and mentally travelled the entire alphabet, right up to the word ‘Zave’, a Zimbabwean town with a population of less than 1000. Zimbabwe being landlocked would have made pursuance of this idea difficult, to say the least. So in my defence, let me say that I didn’t settle on the use of ‘galley slave’ lightly.
I hope this letter goes some way to assure you that I am aware of the shortcomings of the song lyric. How fortuitous it might have been had I known someone like you back in the late 80s, with such sharpness of mind and who might have just placed a friendly hand on my shoulder and quietly said, ‘You know, love, you might want to look that over once more before you commit it to 2 inch master tape.’ We might now be discussing a number one hit rather than a number ten. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.
Yours, humbled,
Julianne
PS I have just learnt from my lovely caseworker at Victim Support that I should consider myself lucky that it was only a crushed Wade cockerel that I found upon George’s moustache, as it seems nervous thieves often defecate at the scene of their crime. To have returned home to a turd atop the ’tache would have been utterly horrendous. I don’t hold out much hope for the perpetrators of the crime to be brought to justice. Victim Support tells me that many ‘youths’ steal in order to raise monies to spend on drugs. Had I known that, I could have just left a note on the telephone table saying: ‘Three months’ supply of antidepressant medication can be found on the top shelf of the cabinet in the bathroom. Enjoy!’ and still be in possession of my vinyl. Hey ho, we live and learn!
Dear Peter Perrett,
Re: Another Girl, Another Planet
I was quite alarmed to hear on Jools Holland today that space travels in your blood, but am pleased to advise you, antithetical to your fallacious despondency, that there is something that you can do about it.
It is clear from my extensive research on your behalf this afternoon into many learned authorities but mainly the NHS Choices website, that the transiting arterial void to which you refer is most likely the interior of an air bubble or embolism, which malady, whose symptoms include acute disorientation and extreme fatigue, may well induce the sensation of being located upon a commensurate orbiting body accompanied by an unfamiliar female, looking ill, and long journeys wearing you out.
Rather than ‘flirt with death’, it is therefore strongly recommended that you call an ambulance immediately, sir, with a view to being taken straight to the nearest hospital. Under no circumstances should an unreliable vehicle be used to speed you to an out of the way infirmary, thereby risking your ‘Breaking Down’, ‘Miles From Nowhere’.
Yours,
Derek Philpott
Dear Mr Philpott,
Having seen your long list of contributors, I am most disappointed (nay, almost insulted) that it has taken you so long to contact me with your serene and much-appreciated advice.
I have vast experience in these matters… I once delivered a dead ‘Richard Lloyd’, at the speed of sound, to Lewisham Hospital. They did a remarkable job in reviving him as, I am told, he is still living an almost-human life to this day.
Thank you for your communication; it has been read and processed.
Love,
Peter Perrett
PS Be Safe
Dear Frank Turner,
Re: The Road
As much as my wife Jean and I admire your ‘troubadour anthem’, Mr Turner, it is with regret that I must inform you that it includes some ‘Tell Tale Signs’ that your expedition could conclude with disastrous results.
Firstly, to reveal that one keeps a small bag full of clothes carefully stored, somewhere secret, somewhere safe, somewhere close to the door, could be interpreted as a catalyst for ‘The Real Damage’ on several levels. Disclosure of the diminutive garment holdall’s very existence to your live ‘following’ and the whole world at large via Eyetunes ‘downloads’, let alone a near thorough revelation of its co-ordinates, now renders the relief of all vestment carrier clandestinity highly probable. Indeed, with the benefit of hindsight it is arguable that any future habiliment haversack or some such declassification could be avoided if you were to ‘Hold Your Tongue’, a laudable characteristic which you ‘Must Try Harder’, Mr. Turner, to acuminate.
