Dear Mr Kershaw, page 9
I need not add that should these requirements not be adhered to on the evening of the engagement in question, there will be no opportunity for you to ‘take the money and run’, as payment would be in the form of a stoppable cheque.
I sincerely hope that this letter reaches you right there, right there, right there, right there at home as soon as possible, in order that we may address these points and hopefully ensure that young Ellen’s big day will indeed be ‘Something Special’.
Yours,
Derek Philpott
Dear Derek,
I am not Steve Miller. Let us get that much clear immediately. I am much poorer, have far less talent, and am immensely better looking than the mysterious Mr Miller. I did, however, work with Steve as a part of his band for several years, having co-written and played guitar on his hit ‘Jungle Love’, the song that answers the burning question, ‘What would happen if Dr. Seuss took an enormous dose of LSD?’ The fact that I see Steve once a year gives me, to my sociopathic manner of thinking, complete permission to handle all his musical and personal affairs.
Mr Philpott, it is time for the Hamster of Love to re-invent himself. We accept the magic gig. ‘We’. Both of us. Think of me not as a pathetic hanger-on trying desperately to curry favor with the guy who writes me enormous checks every three months but as… The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. (By the way, with a name like ‘FILL-pot’, you didn’t have a chance, did you? You HAD to be funny. It’s kind of the whole Boy-Named-Sue thing…)
Now, let’s address some of your concerns. ‘Every time I call your name you heat up like a burning flame’. A valid concern, since Steve is a veritable tsunami of pseudonyms. Maurice? The Gangster? Utter the wrong name and poof!, spontaneous combustion. As we all know, the sudden cremation of even a couple of guests at a party can really put a damper on things, as evidenced recently when the cousin of Steve’s road manager called Steve ‘Mr Space Cowboy’ backstage. Flame on! Between the high-pitched screams and the awful stench, one would have thought that Journey had taken the stage.
May I suggest that everyone address Steve with the appellation ‘Ed’? It’s short, it’s generic, and it’s fireproof. Consequently, you may refer to me as ‘Ed’s Bitch’. No one will be burned alive, but they might receive an open-handed slap across the face.
Now… the whole black panties with an angel’s face thing… actually, it should be an Angel’s face capitalized, as in Hell’s Angel. The Angel in question is a Russian fellow named Rip Yercockoff. He’s in charge of our security and yes, he wears black panties and a leather jacket with motorcycle boots. YOU tell him he looks like Ernest Borgnine in drag. Go ahead, Derek. Once Mr Yercockoff starts in on you, you’ll be screaming ‘SPACE COWBOY!!!!’ at Steve and praying for the sweet embrace of a quick cremation.
Finally… and I know you’ve thought about this many times… what IS the ‘Pompitous of Love’? OK here it is, straight from the source: the Pompitous of Love is the pet name for a small, oozing sore on Mr Miller’s meat thermometer that appeared shortly after he had a carnal cuddle with a woman named Penelope Pompy back in 1972. Thus, anything grotesque and sickening is said to be possessed of POMPY-tous properties.
Do not speak of the Pompitous of Love in front of security chief Yercockoff.
Please send a contract to my attention as soon as possible with dates, times, and the amount and method of payment. I’ll be honest: I’ve been working real hard and I’m trying to find a job but it just keeps getting tougher every day. However, I know in my heart that if I do my part, the economy still blows and we will all die alone.
It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.
Yours truly,
Greg Douglass
Dear Heaven 17,
Thank you for your invitation to ‘Come Live With Me’. Unfortunately, Olive and I are unable to accept, as we feel that you may not have considered the full implications of such an arrangement. We both enjoy peace and quiet now and again at our age, and while we are very fond of your tuneful offerings, I fear that the constant accompaniment of ‘New Wave Synth-Pop’ may eventually lead to domestic discord. In addition, we already have a nice house, and have got rather used to using the bathroom and other facilities at our own pace. We would love to visit you one day, and of course you would be most welcome to pop in at Turnbull Towers. If you are looking for more permanent ‘housemates’, may I suggest you approach Living In A Box, who I believe are in less than satisfactory accommodation at present.
On a different note, I must congratulate you on highlighting the dangers of being ‘Crushed by the Wheels of Industry’. Our neighbour Gordon Gillard has recently acquired a mobility scooter, and has been driving it in a frankly reckless manner. Olive had a narrow escape on Thursday afternoon when he almost ran over her foot on the corner of Herberton Road. I appreciate that after years of shuffling with a walking stick, the ‘Temptation’ of the accelerator pedal is irresistible, but he is an absolute menace to pedestrians in the Southbourne area, particularly when travelling downhill. In the interests of road safety, perhaps you could write a characteristically catchy song advising Gordon to slow down, as he does not appear to listen to me.
Best regards
Wilf Turnbull
Dear Wilf,
Thank you very much for your letter. I must admit, I was at first disappointed at your turning down of my offer to ‘Come Live With Me’ but on reflection I can see that it was perhaps a little forward and to be honest, I think a rather impractical proposal. There would of course have been ‘space’ issues; indeed we only have the one bathroom and I could see, even if we did have a very well worked out rota system there would still be times when needs were great and a single bathroom would not suffice. I also understand that you and Olive are happy where you are and I have no wish to put such a loving relationship under any outside pressure. (It’s a well-known fact that moving house is one of the most stressful things that one can do.) I would, however, like to clear one thing up. There would not be a ‘constant accompaniment’ of ‘New Wave Synth-Pop Music’ around the house. Since building a studio at the bottom of my garden approximately 11 years ago now, all synthesizers and electronic keyboards have been stored and played within its soundproof environs, leaving the house and indeed garden a ‘Synth-Pop’ free zone. With regards to Living In A Box, I must admit I do feel for their situation. Homelessness is an enormous problem both here in the inner city and in rural areas but I believe in their case it is a somewhat self-inflicted dilemma and do not at this moment feel an offer to take them in would help them in the long run (I hope this doesn’t seem too harsh).
Now regarding your problem with Mr Gordon Gillard. You’re right to point out the dangers of these ‘death machines’. The rise in use of mobility scooters is rather alarming and is exactly the kind of thing we were indeed warning against in our public information song, Crushed By The Wheels of Industry. The frankly callous and careless way some people behave once they get behind the wheel of one of these speed machines is nothing less than a national disgrace. You’re right to suggest the penning of a special song highlighting the dangers of Mobility Scooter Madness. I think the title ‘Slow Down Gordon’ is a wonderful starting point for a new song and I can already hear in my mind’s eye (can one hear in the mind’s eye?) how the song should progress. Thank you, Wilf, for this new musical inspiration.
Well I had better go now but it would be nice to see you and Olive soon, even if it was just for a long weekend or perhaps over a bank holiday period.
All the best,
Glenn Gregory
Heaven 17
Dear Messrs. Sputnik,
Re: Love Missile F1-11
I am afraid, gentlemen, that you have placed me in quite a precarious position. At a family event last week attended by members that I had never met before, I was introduced for the first time to my second cousin’s husband’s niece, whom I established over a suspected Iceland-heavy buffet to be friendly with the former personal assistant to a retired NATO envoy. Obviously, I felt compelled to air my concerns relating to the lethal new weapon publicised by yourselves last week, which I chanced upon when logging into the Spotify jukebox and searching for the Formula One theme tune. As a keen humanitarian who prides herself on still keeping tabs on potential peace-keeping
initiative jeopardising military developments, Ms Siddiqi was quick to express her surprise at never having heard of the concupiscent warhead to which you had referred, and commented that she found this especially confusing given that the juxtaposition of such a harmonious word with one synonymous with mass devastation presented a jarring paradox which she felt sure that she would have remembered at a Christening. She then appeared to be somewhat preoccupied during the font group photographs before leaving the place of worship at great haste, claiming an upset stomach which at the time I attributed to an only partially defrosted Chicken Zinger Slider.
I have, however, just this morning received a rather terse email from the newly baptised’s father, who states that the actual motive for the ex-diplomatic delegate secretary acquaintance’s sudden departure was for immediate and pressing investigatory enquiries to commence into the passionate projectile at hand, in order to proactively avert any crisis situation being considered to be instigated by an oppressive regime. Her preliminary report states that no records exist of an F1-11 model (the nearest contender being the non-ardent surface to surface Fateh-110) or, obviously when considering its unmanufactured state, any plans to ‘shoot it up’. As an acerbic rejoinder, she adds that she has located your appearance on Top of the Pops which references US bombs cruising overhead, and correctly posits that said airborne munitions should hardly be a concern given the allegiance that we have to our transatlantic cousins, but that in the event of our territories ever being at variance, sanctuary best be sought in a bunker or Anderson shelter in preference to an exposed Shepherds Bush entertainment complex, and that your ‘look’ of large multi-coloured wigs, pink stiletto heels and distressed Satsuma bag-styled ‘fright masks’ should be dispensed with in favour of more sombre costuming less likely to give away your position to the enemy.
As an aside, and in relation to your insinuation that prevailing styles are accountable for an increase in juvenile misdemeanours, I must myself counter that teenage crime is more likely to be resultant of lax parenting than the arguable assertion that ‘fashion’s dead’.
Thanks to yourselves, Messrs Sputnik, I have now been strictly forbidden from panicking any further distant relatives cordial with previous employees of intergovernmental affiliation collectives at formal gatherings, by way of engaging them in conversational topics in any way connected to affection-generating related torpedoes, and would therefore thank you only to sing about listed armaments of yearning in the future, especially before my son’s 50th.
I bid you good day!
Yours,
Derek Philpott
My Dear Mr Philpott,
I was most intrigued – and might I say mildly amused – by your missive of 22nd December 2013. Unfortunately I have reached the age where urgency is confined to matters of a delicate nature (hrmph) so please forgive the rather extended delay in answering.
I was most interested in the reaction, and subsequent research, of your family member Ms Siddiqi. I’m afraid the calibre of government ‘intelligence’ officers is sorely lacking these days. Even the most cursory glance over armaments on the internet should have flagged the F-111 Bomber as being of almost legendary status in the US Air Force. There is even a Wikipedia page on the subject:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/General_Dynamics_F-111_Aardvark
And here is a picture:
The fact that my former bandmates and I chose to move the hyphen to render our song title Love Missile F1-11 (largely to avoid copyright issues, and to avoid mispronunciation issues) should NOT have put off any amateur sleuth – let alone a ‘pro’.
I can therefore deduce that your cousin, Ms Siddiqi, is NOT who she seems and would urge you, and your good lady wife, to be on your guard! You can’t be too careful these days… Your suspicions should have been aroused by the aforementioned Ms Siddiqi claiming her illness was caused by her Chicken Zinger Slider not being fully defrosted as I’m sure you and your good lady wife would check such matters.
The ‘Love’ part of the song title in question refers, of course, to the exceptional film Dr Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and LOVE the Bomb!
And I realise of course that fashion isn’t dead… It just doesn’t look as if it’s very well judging by the outfits sported by some of the ‘modern’ pop personae. Not enough originality for the 21st century to my mind… It almost looks as if all the pop stars are dressed by the same three stylists… Funny that.
Please don’t be shy about writing again – Unlike Señor Luis Suarez I don’t bite these days!
Kind regards,
Neal Whitmore
Formerly of Sigue Sigue Sputnik – Now fronting The ‘Fabulous’ Montecristos
General Dynamics F-111 Aardvark – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
en.wikipedia.org
Dear Berlin, That is quite an accusation. Are you absolutely sure that you don't just have asthma??
Dear Dave Stewart from The Eurythmics,
Re: Who’s That Girl?
Derek: You baffle me, sir. I have just heard your ‘futurist smash’ on Bournemouth’s peerless Wave 105 Live and can most definitely assure you that there is most certainly more than ‘just one thing I want to know’.
Dave Stewart from The Eurythmics: Derek, Annie was referring to the one thing she wanted to know at the time; she was upset and I don’t think she wants to talk about it particularly now 30 years later!
D: My next door but one neighbour Gordon Gillard’s nephew, Nathan, is a renowned polyglot who specialises in teaching foreign exchange students and has asseverated over a cup of organic Tick Tock and a Maryland Gooey cookie this morning that there is no such dialect as the language of love, as referred to in your above-mentioned recording, the closest parlances being Pashtu and Amharic as spoken by the indigenous peoples of Pakistan and Ethiopia respectively, which, he gleefully stated, sound a bit like ‘Passion’ and ‘Amorous’.
DSFTE: This is where you need to educate Nathan and get his nose out of all those different language books and tune in to Oprah or read Dr Gary Chapman’s best-selling book The 5 Love Languages. I’m not sure you should have asked Gordon’s nephew who seems to be a bit of a Sveznalica (Polish for Know-All).
D: It cannot be escaped also that any vernacular, whether real or fictional, is extremely unlikely to slip from a lover’s tongue given that the mastication enabling hydrostat is merely (not to be confused with the metallic wind instrument so dexterously handled by Mr Wonder in another of your hits) a mouth organ, and plays no part in the origin of any diaphragm-generated glossology, to say nothing of the fact that the spoken word is both impalpable and weightless and hence incapable of such a glissade.
DSFTE: Here, Derek, you completely misunderstand; this is the secret way the lovers were communicating, passing poetry on delicately printed transparent film whilst kissing (like those fish that tell your emotions by curling up). Annie caught them red handed and I was there. There is no use using Logic when love is at play, Derek.
D: Furthermore, and dismissing a person’s breath after perhaps eating spicy food or sipping a chilled drink on the basis that said waft is most definitely a side-effect of and not the speech itself, it is not possible for any discourse imbued with temperature to emanate from a person. Even were such a feat to be achievable, I hope you will forgive me for observing that the scope in calefaction between ice cream and the sun offers up sufficient leeway to render the comparison redundant, on the basis that the optimum soft scoop dessert serving gelidity of 10 degrees fahrenheit contrasted against a solar surface torridity of 10 million degrees allows a more than generous ambit of 9,999,992 degrees (factoring in an extra 1 degree either side in deference to your descriptions ‘cooler’ and ‘warmer’).
DSFTE: I do see your point here but the said ice cream was being consumed sitting outside Marine Ices in Camden Town on a warm sunny day but still 92,960,000 miles from the sun so the transparent messages were simply warm on top and cool below.
D: Another moot or, if you will pardon the pun, ‘mute’ point concerns your analogy of dumb hearts being broken just like china cups. Firstly, the cardiac muscle, not being fitted with a larynx, cannot be thus silenced. Were you to be referring to the sound of its beat, this is created by the speedy and powerful closing of valves, the cessation of which would render the organ not aphasiac, but exanimate. Secondly, I am unable to equate a ruptured composite of bodily tissue with dropped porcelain crockery.
Finally, I think you may have me confused with someone else given that on account of my ongoing sciatica I can no longer sustain a pace much brisker than a gentle canter and am hence unable to run around with anyone at all, whether they be male or female.
DSFTE: So sorry to hear that, Derek. Not that you take everything literally but I must point out that leaving the left side of your brain behind occasionally can be liberating, like letting a dog off its lead in the park.
D: I have been told that you are a pop star of impeccable character and am confident, as asked in yet another of your successful singles, that you would not lie to me. Notwithstanding this admirable quality, clarification of the falsehoods as above outlined would be appreciated at your earliest convenience.
