Capital Letters

Dear Santa 

I hope this letter finds you well. I thought you might appreciate some correspondence at this time.

In the run-up to December, your mailbag must be quite the sight! In your busy period, you hear from children from all over the world. I'm sure it is both heartening and overwhelming!

It is now mid-January. Christmas is over. You have done your duty. Millions of children are enjoying their presents. And it is your time to relax.

But I wonder if you might get a little lonely. After all, the pressure and the activity are now over. In my experience, there can be a period of low mood after a significant event. There's so much build-up that the aftermath can be a desolate time.

That's why I'm writing. In January, the letters suddenly stop. Even the most premature of Christmas letters will surely not arrive for a few months. It must just be bills and junk mail.

So I write this to provide some human contact in what may be a lonely time. Are your elves on holiday? I imagine they are.

Don't worry: I'm not asking for anything! That must be a rarity in one of your letters!

I just want you to know that you are appreciated all year round. 

Enjoy your time off. Relax. You deserve it.

Yours
Philip Anderson

***

What do you think?

Philip Anderson is my new character.

According to Wikipedia, there's a cyclist, an editor and a Nobel laureate with the same name. But I still think it's usable.

Philip Anderson is his own man.

His main characteristics seem to be that he writes thoughtful letters to fictional beings.

I might write a film about him.

***

Dear Zorro

I hope this letter finds you well. I thought you might appreciate some correspondence at this time.

I just wanted to thank you for all of your good work. Though official channels of justice (the police, the courts, etc) are important elements in a civilised society, sometimes we need an agent of good who operates outside of traditional institutions.

Being an outlaw must be a stressful (though highly enjoyable!) occupation, and I thought you might appreciate a note of appreciation from the people you serve.

Keep up the good work!

Yours
Philip Anderson

***

The film would be a heart-warming Gump-esque tale about a naive, good-hearted outsider, whose eccentric behaviour overcomes cynicism, making the world a better place.

He writes these letters all the time. They're seen, read and mocked by post office staff. But a woman who works there (our female lead) appreciates the sentiment of Philip Anderson's writing, and falls in love with him.

She agrees to help him get his letters to the desired recipients. I haven't worked out the whole plot, but I think Anderson will get to meet the President.

***

Dear Pinhead (from out of Hellraiser)

I hope this letter finds you well. I thought you might appreciate some correspondence at this time.

I would hate to be presumptuous (and please forgive me if I seem patronising), but you seem like someone who might enjoy a bit of human contact.

Harvesting souls must be exhausting! I don't even harvest wheat (a human crop), so can't imagine what your workload must be like. Admittedly, I don't know too much about you, having merely skimmed your Wikipedia page, but I would like to offer my moral support in all your endeavours.

I too was something of an outsider growing up, and can appreciate how difficult it is when your looks and interests are perceived as "abnormal" by the majority. I just want you to know that it's OK to be yourself. You shouldn't feel any pressure to conform, or to not have pins in your head, just because other people think that's the right way to be.

We are all individual, and we all decide how we should live.

Again, I don't mean to infer some inner struggle where there isn't one. I'm probably just projecting, because I remember my own mindset when I bought my leather jacket!

I've probably rambled too much! I'll just sign off by saying that you are an important part of the universe, and you are loved more deeply than you'll ever know.

Yours
Philip Anderson

 
***

The examples I've included here (Santa, Zorro, Pinhead) aren't necessarily those that I'll include in the final script. There are probably copyright issues with some, if not all, of these. But you get the idea.

As far as casting goes, I feel that we need a strong leading man. Hanks is perhaps too obvious a choice. And I'm showing my age when I suggest Meg Ryan for the postal worker!

Perhaps something along these lines:

Philip Anderson: Adrien Brody
Post Office Woman Love Interest (possibly called Jane or Hannah): Reese Witherspoon
The President: Method Man

And there will be a whole range of interesting supporting players that they'll meet along the way. Daniel Radcliffe would look good as a train driver, I think.

***

Dear Philip Anderson

I hope this letter finds you well. I thought you might appreciate some correspondence at this time.

If you're who I think you are, you'll be freaking out right now.

I am you. And I really need some help.

Am I real?

Please respond.

Yours
Philip Anderson

***

Charlie Kaufman usually writes his own stuff, but I would think he'd be willing to collaborate.

If any producers are interested in... optioning(?) this, please call my agent.

If any agents are interested in representing me, please drop me an email.

If any (free) email providers are interested in offering me their services, I'd really like to reserve philip.anderson@[yourdomain].com

I look forward to hearing from you all, in reverse order.

From The Waste Down

Dear Universe

What's the deal?

Love
Steve

***

Dear Steve

Thank you for your letter. May I ask from where or from whom you acquired my address? I try to keep my everywhereabouts under wraps.

I'm afraid I don't understand your question. Human slang can be perplexing. In the time it has taken me to consider your query, a thousand galaxies have been extinguished. This is negligible.

I enclose a signed photo, which will change your planet forever.

All the best,

Universe Nixon

***

I'm experimenting with new intro techniques. There isn't a person alive who would deny my success.

I've been tired this week. I'm always tired, but this week has shown a noticeable decrease in my energy levels. The standard levels are so low, that a noticeable decrease is quite significant indeed.

Yesterday in particular was difficult. I spent the afternoon at work listening to soothing and depressing music, trying to strategically open my eyes so as to convince my colleagues of my sanity.

Maybe I'm ill.

I don't have any other symptoms, but I might be ill. That would be much better. I don't want to be ill, but at least it would provide some explanation for my inadequacies.

It's funny that illness is understandable and a valid excuse for pathetic behaviour, whereas simple laziness or sleepiness is pathetic in itself. A doctor's note means your body is to blame, no doctor's note means you are to blame.

But it's the same body. We've convinced ourselves that our bodies and ourselves are different things.

Sometimes our body will let us down. That's the bodies fault. It's not pulling its own weight.

Sometimes we let ourselves down. That's our fault. Our bodies are blameless. We have no-one to blame but ourselves.

I suppose the difference is consciousness. If we've made conscious decisions that have led to our tiredness, it's possible to recognise a failing in your self.

If it's illness, there's no decision-making process at which to point your finger (unless you decide to point your finger into an infected wound).

I don't think I've been doing anything different this week, as far as consciousness is concerned. I'm pretty sure I've made the same bad decisions as I usually do.

So I'm going to blame my body. My stupid body. Or germs or something.

It's not my fault. It's his.

If I don't feel better next week I'll have to take the drastic action of writing another blog post about it.

***

Film review time!

I've seen quite a few films recently, so I'll offer some pithy analysis. Everyone loves pithy analysis.

My psychiatrist is a satsuma.

...

I tried to do some serious reviews, but found myself dull and lacking in credibility. So let's do this quickly.

---

Attack The Block

Very good.

Submarine

Quite good

Fantastic Mr Fox

Quite good.

The Happening

Baffling.

Inglourious Basterds

Not that good, but not that bad.

---

There we go. That was worthwhile for everyone.

I've recently joined a site called This Is My Jam. It's a social networky type thing where you post the song you're currently digging. You can follow other people and listen to their jams too. (I'm on there as diamondbadger)

Aside from the terminology (for me "jam" will always be an abbreviation for James), it's lots of fun, and I've listened to some interesting things. This was posted by someone and I've become moderately obsessed by it. I've played it a few times. That probably isn't obsession, but I like to lay claim to some of the more glamorous mental disorders.

***

I'm wearing a white shirt. It makes me feel like I'm grown-up and professional. I can be as lazy and disgusting as I like - the shirt provides me with credibility (though obviously not enough to review films).

Only organised people wear white shirts. White-collar workers are the best workers. They're dull and soulless and live a life of tedium and regret, they destroy passion and economies, they are cold to their children and spouses, but at least they don't sleep-in until noon.

I did sleep-in until noon. But this shirt acts as slobs' camouflage.

I can eat a pie full of cigarettes out of a belching wrestler's gun, and it doesn't matter because of the shirt. I'll still be respected because of the shirt. Even if I'm nude from the waist down. (The "if" in that last sentence was unnecessary)

The only risk in the white shirt technique is the stain. If you spill a stain on a white shirt, you've committed a cardinal sin. Do not eat anything tomatoey. A spaghetti bolognese and a white shirt go together like oil and water and a white shirt.

If you wear a stained white shirt, it's worse than wearing no shirt at all. You lose your credibility IMMEDIATELY.

The people who used to respect you now see you as a charlatan, and seek to have you removed from the neighbourhood. Your parents will stop mentioning your name in their newsletters. Your pets will shun you with snobbish resolve. You'll have to put on trousers again, just to swing the approbation pendulum a fraction in the right direction.

But I'm going to take that risk. The respect earned by the white shirt is worth it. I'll just have to make sure I don't eat or drink anything red. Except for blood, which (when combined with the shirt) adds to a classy vampire aesthetic that was very fashionable as recently as 2009.

***

Dear Universe

I'm afraid your photo never arrived. It was held by British customs because of a supposed "violation of physical laws". Would it be possible to remove the concept of "customs" from yourself?

I've enclosed a signed picture of myself, which you may want to show off to your cosmic chums, such as Eternity and Imagination.

Keep up the good work.

Love 
Steve

P.S. I found out what the deal was by reading an inflammatory pamphlet.

Twice Shy

I'm shy.

I've been shy for as long as I can remember. It's possible that I wasn't shy as a young child. Most babies aren't shy. They cry. They crave attention. They're pompous and needy. So I was probably like that.

But I got shy. I stayed shy.

I don't know why.

My parents aren't particularly shy. I used to think that was because they were adults, and that no adults were shy. But I am now an adult. There's no getting around it. And I'm shy.

My shyness waxes and wanes, I think. You can condition yourself to be less shy by spending more time with people. But the underlying shyness remains. I'm terrible at meeting new people. I give off an awkward energy that makes everyone else uncomfortable.

Unless I'm drunk. Alcohol dampens my shyness. Unless I'm just too drunk to notice it.

That's probably why I don't drink. I need my shyness. It's like a comfort blanket. In an uncertain world, it's good to hold onto something concrete, even if the concrete thing is a statue of me not knowing whether or not to hug a friend.

I think shyness is a genuine psychological condition. But I'm not sure, because I've never had the guts to turn up to any shy support group meetings. It would be awkward. We'd all just sit there for fifty minutes, wondering if we should introduce ourselves, then go home.

Mood

Shy. One of the lesser-recognised no-vowel words. The 'y' is the supply teacher of vowels - stepping in to take over when one of the main vowels is busy.

The 'y' wasn't formally trained in vowelling - but when push comes to shove, and the 'u' is in 'push', and the 'o' and the 'e' are in 'shove' and the 'a' is in 'and', and the 'i' is too egocentric to turn up, you have to call on the 'y'.

The 'y' is a utility player. The Phil Neville of letters.

Sometimes, I'm sure the 'y' questions itself. "Why?", it might ask. "Why not?", it may answer, with a reluctant 'o'.

Listening to

Quite often, I listen to a Frank Black song and wonder why he's not more popular. I think he's probably too prolific. A constant stream of genius is difficult to take on board. The spectacular becomes mundane. He releases albums all the time - always of a high standard.

What's that?

There's an analogy to be made between his output and this blog?

We are both so prolific - him with his albums, me with my hundreds of blog posts - that it's like drowning our audience in treacle and beauty and money?

We should both be much more famous, laden with awards, and respected by the entire planet?

I don't know if I agree with that.

I don't know. I can sort-of see what you're getting at. It does make sense. It...

Yes.

I agree.

We are both geniuses.

And yes, I am even geniuser than him.

...

I'm shy, by the way. I don't know if I mentioned that.


Reading

More Pinker.

People under state control are less likely to die than hunter/gatherers. I think it's because that term is cumbersome. Hunter/gatherers. You don't want a slash in your occupation (unless you're a large-hatted guitarist).

They should combine the terms. Huntatherers. That's much better.

The olden days people would have been less likely to bludgeon their fellow man if they were all huntatherers.

Though perhaps warfare would emerge between the huntatherers and the gunters.

I hate the gunters.

Watching

We watched The Dark Knight again yesterday, this time on Blu-ray. It looked great. I'm still not 100% sold on it, but am probably 96% sold, which is pretty good.

Also, I watched Blackburn vs Bolton. I have nothing interesting to say about that. I wasn't even going to bring it up, but I thought it might be fun as a challenge.

Can I say something interesting about a football match, when a large proportion of my readership don't care about football, and I have no particular interest in either team?

Can I?

No. Not today. But the abbreviated team names did make me think of the Marvel character Black Bolt.

Black Bolt can't speak, because his voice is powerful enough to destroy mountains. Which is cool.

'Black Bolt' is short for 'Blackagar Boltagon'. Which is not.

I might call my son Blackagar.

Blackagar Fung.

They can call him Black Fu for short, though he'll have to learn a racist martial art.

Playing

The Highlander in a confusing nativity play.

Eating

Tenderstem broccoli dipped in Moroccan-topped houmous. Because I worry that I'm not middle class enough.

And some supermarket pepperoni pizza. Because I don't worry that.

Drinking

Jasmine tea.

There's nothing funny about that, but I always tell the truth.

***

What have we learned today?

Firstly, that I'm shy.

Secondly, that I'm arrogant.

Thirdly, that Boltagon is a common surname.

Fourthly, that I always tell the truth.

Fifthly, that I don't always tell the truth.

Remember: believe in yourself. You definitely exist. I've checked.

Post

It's been a while, so let's dip into the Headscissors mailbag!

 

Talkin' Scissors

Hey P-Dawg

I've never written to a blog before, but after reading your latest post ("The End", dated 5 March 2010), I felt compelled to put pen to paper and let you know how ambivalent I felt about it.

I didn't hate it, but I can't really understand why you bothered writing it. The whole "twins" beginning didn't really make sense, though I suppose there was the germ of something interesting there.

The rest of it wasn't very well explored. It really was exceptionally average.

Keep up the work.

Nico Fronz

Portland, ME 

Hey Nico! Thanks for your letter! I can totally understand your feelings about that entry. It certainly did seem like filler. Maybe I'll follow up on the "twins" idea some other time. Hopefully the average entries are counterbalanced by the excellent and terrible entries!

Dear Paul

Long time reader, first time writer. Seriously. This is the first thing I've ever written. I'm only three.

Just wanted to drop you a line to say how much I'm enjoying 'Headscissors'. I've read several blogs, but this one doesn't make me want to kill myself. I was wondering if you could answer a few questions.

1) In Post #502 ("Willpower"), you claim that watching Alan Shearer on television made you ill. Given that germs cannot be transmitted via television, how do you explain your accusation?

2) You've often spoken out in praise of The Armando Iannucci Shows. Does it ever bother you that the vowel-consonant pattern of his surname goes vvccvccv?

3) What's your favourite bread magazine?

4) Do you accept unsolicited blog articles? I have an idea for a short dialogue between two unlikely objects that I think is tailor made for 'Headscissors'.

PS. It's my tiny uncle's birthday next Wednesday.

Lerter Kilvers

Stockholm, Sweden

Such kind words! And so well written for a three-year-old! Thanks Lerter! I'll do my best to answer your questions.

1) I am aware that such a contagion is impossible, I suggested Shearer was to blame as a form of surreal humour. I respect him as a man and am sure he would never knowingly infect a MOTD viewer.

2) It does now!

3) I like The Daily Seeded Batch, but do most of my bread reading online nowadays.

4) I'm afraid I cannot accept unsolicited writing. This is due to the fact that I'm lazy, and other people make me all sad down my trousers.

Oh, and Happy Birthday to your minute uncle!

Dear Headscissors Head Office

This is the third time I have written to you with no response. PLEASE DO NOT IGNORE THIS LETTER. I have been trapped in your disabled toilet for three months. No, I'm not disabled. Yes, I know I shouldn't be using it. I'm sorry. I feel terrible about it. But the handle broke off he door and fell into the sink, which in turn was accidentally flushed down the toilet whilst I WASN'T masturbating.

I've tried phoning for an ambulance, but they're not interested.

PLEASE LET ME OUT. I'VE HAD TO EAT URINAL CAKES. AND THERE ISN'T EVEN A URINAL IN HERE.

Karla Judd

Headscissors Office Disabled Toilet,

Waxahachie, TX

Thanks for your letter, Karla! Unfortunately, by the time we got around to opening your letter, you were already dead. Apologies.

Dear Headscissors
My friends have been telling me about your blog for years. "It's great," they said. I disagreed. But due to their persistence, I've begun to... well, not LIKE your blog exactly, but respect it somewhat. Not many people would start a blog post with no ideas, but you seem to do it constantly.
One suggestion: I was wondering if you had a fax number to send these messages to. Or even an electronic-mail address. Writing this letter has cost me my job as the manager of a quill factory.
Yours
Sean Penn
Hollywood, CA

Thanks Sean! We've always been willing to experiment with new technologies. It is possible to leave electronic comments (or "electro-thoughts") at the bottom of each blog post. Writing here will reduce the delay in publishing your feedback. We are still wading through letters that were sent before this blog even began. One is from a triceratops (judging by the handwriting).

That's all for this time, folks! Remember: without you, this blog would be marginally more pathetic.

Send your letters to:

Talkin' Scissors

8212 Scrupulous Drive

Waxahachie, TX

Remember, if you want your letter to be published, mark "OK TO PRINT" on your correspondence. TIP: Letters written in the bath may become unreadable.

Spoons

Dear Reader

I hope this letter finds you well.

I also hope it finds you unable to distinguish between letters and blog posts.

But I do hope it finds you.

Where will you be?

Hiding in a wood, perhaps. Or on a train, on your way to a champagne reception for the launch of an immoral perfume.

Maybe you're trapped in the basement of a neighbouring house, or sliding around a giant satellite dish, enjoying this on your smartphone or "portable computron".

Really, it's not me finding you, but you finding me. Thank you for finding me.

I hope this letter finds me well.

Does it?

Well...

Not well, exactly, but I have a day off tomorrow. Which is why I'm so upbeat.

I hope you all have fascinating children.

Yours letterly


Paul X

PS.

PS.

PS.

PS.

[Sorry, I have one of those automatic air fresheners that makes periodic 'ps' sounds, like a flatulent robot cat]

Can it really be that time again? 00:12?

It can. It is that time once a day (not including leap years).

Let's have another edition of the popular That Was The Tweet That Was.

(These are least bad things I have twittered. You can follow the uncut glory here, including jokes that are even worse than these, and my attempts to goad Stephen Fry into a time machine)

***

I'm starting a magazine about the Sabbath. It's called The Dependent on Sunday.

***

Fools' silence is fool's golden.

***

Q: How many orphans does it take to change a lightbulb? A: Two. One to change the bulb, and one to go and fetch you sandwiches or whatever.

***

What's the difference between a carrier bag and a carrier pigeon? One has a beak, the other might have a beak if you've been beak shopping.

***

Touring #egypt, David Cameron will visit the Bibliotheca Alexandrina and proclaim it the future site of a "fucking spectacular McDonalds".

***

The First Cut is the Firstest.

***

My thighs are so powerful, they've become incredibly corrupt.

***

If I had a pound for every time I fingered a clarinet, I'd have to question the contract negotiation skills of my agent.

***

I've never made a list of my Top 10 Favourite Lakes. Understandable, really. I don't have a particular interest in lakes.

***

Freak out. Freak in. Freak out again. Freak in. Just keep taking deep freks and you'll be right as rain in no time.

***

The World Anti-Blinking Conference: don't blink or you'll miss it.

***

If you're thinking of covering yourself in varnish, ask yourself: "will this make me happy in the long run?"

***

For future reference, the pronouncement "You're a pie!" could be misheard as "You're up high!". It just came up.

***

Sometimes I like to hold a sugar cube, and pretend that I've been shrunken to microscopic size in exact proportion to the sugar cube.

***

In the age of Youtube, we've ALL watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor, BRANDO. Not such a big shot now, are you?

***

JOKE:
"I've just been on holiday with my ivory dealer."
"Tuscany?"
"No, he usually leaves his work in the office".

***

I think I might apply for a job as a litter collector. I don't have much experience, but I pick things up very quickly.

***

I've been ignoring myself all day, but haven't even noticed.

***

I don't like to simplify my language with acronyms and abbreviations, which is probably why I did so well in my jeeseeyessees.

***

The most courageous birds live in a braviary.

***

I remove trapped chunks of falsehood with a truthpick.

***

A watched stopwatch never stops a pot kettle black.

***

For krill, the expression "having a whale of a time" means something much, much worse.

***

Before Twitter, my only means of putting off boring tasks was by scratching myself with staples and claiming I'd been attacked by a bat.

***

Plans to tackle Office Butterfingers Syndrome have been dropped.

***

Holding your breath permanently will eventually stop all hiccups.

***

I'm so hungry I could eat a... well, not a horse exactly, but something the same shape and size. With crumpet hooves and a mane of spaghetti

***

I can go for months at a time without thinking about Cher.

***

Hey! That Iris Pigment Extractor suits you! Really brings out the colour of your eyes.

***

I'm going to do the washing-up. I keep ten tiny lifebelts on the side of the sink in case my fingers start to drown.

***

Beefinders, beekeepers.

***

I think the novelty of the New Forest is fading.

***

I reckon during my lifetime I've spent more on salad cream than I have on trousers.

***

Funny how the simple act of spilling coffee on yourself in Costa quickly turns you from 'hard-working writer' to 'vagrant with pretensions'.

***

9 out of 10 medical professionals recommend shutting up and leaving them alone.

***

Every week, I eat enough thousand island dressing to constitute six million islands.

***

I need a new look. I might start wearing a hairnet. Or, as they're called in Germany, a 'Mr Net'.

***

Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness. Because you're a TERRIBLE conversationalist.

***

I could be a shef. I've applied for shef jobs often, explicitly stating 'I want to be a shef' but am rejected for some reason

***

I could be a bartender. I don't drink, but I am quite tender. Also, I could kill people called Bart

***

I could be a shepherd. I've no herding experience, but I quite like shep. Especially little baby shep. Also, I have a wide variety of crooks

***

Disappointment is my Superman.

***

I bet psychics are constantly complaining about giving themselves spoilers.

***

That's it. Sorry - it was longer than I expected. I'll have to start doing these more frequently.

Or get less funny.

"But that's impossible!"

Aw, thanks!

"No... it was supposed to be an insult. You're literally as unfunny as it's possible to be."

Oh. Well. Fine.

The trouble with Blogger is the formatting is easily screwed up. In my little Preview box, it looks like all those tweets are bunched together in one big paragraph. Like a shoal of fish hoping to survive through strength of numbers.

But it looks OK from here. So what I'll do is publish the post, see what it looks like, and if it is all screwed up I'll meet you back here for an update.

OK? Great.

Wait, I'd better include a picture of some sort first.

It's a spoon warmer.

UPDATE: I didn't even get to post it. The tweets are now showing in their bunched form.

Annoying.

I'll separate them like squabbling children, then post this, then go and pour myself a big mug of SELF-ESTEEM.

Correspondence

Thursday 9 Noctober

Dear Mrs Fint (a letter might begin)

I am writing to inform you of a terrible miscarriage of justice. If justice is blind, perhaps the miscarriage was a blessing (eugenically speaking). But I'm getting ahead of myself.

(the letter might continue)

On the evening of January the Wth, at approximately sixteen pee emm, a basket containing firewood was deposited at your door. Precisely fourteenish minutes later, you found said basket, took said wood into your house, and would use said wood on your unsaid fire (or so it has been said - by me).

The wood you so selfishly consumed was, in fact, intended for my door. I was hoping to use the firewood to build some kind of gnarled character, who would move jerkily like a puppet, perform basic household tasks, and scare the children of the neighbourhood.

Unfortunately, that is no longer possible, as the wood has been right burned up.

As am I.

I hope you will admit the error on your part (on your porch), and will reimburse me the sum of: SOME FIREWOOD, first class post-haste.

Yours pricklelily

Anton Baker (from next door)

***

Thursday 15 April

Dear Mr Baker

(the reply might begin)

I must say I was surprised to receive you letter dated Noctober 9, as that is not a real month.

Furthermore, I am unaware of the firewood of which you speak. I have no fire, no doorstep, and do not live anywhere near you. In fact, I found the whole thing thoroughly confusing.

(this letter might be spattered with red liquid, but who can say?)

I would consider any attempt to animate a wooden creature, be it goblin or chunky "Wicker Man", an affront to nature. I must warn against playing God. My father once tried to breed horseshoes, and got flattened by a runaway tram.

I consider this matter to be resolved.

Yours tasered

Polystyrene Fint

***

Then Baker would send flowers, and they'd be married.

(The late Mr Fint would approve from Heaven)

***

I ran out of steam there. But you get the picture.

Crumble

I suppose I should talk about the impending disaster of Southampton Football Club. I just can't seem to write about it without seeming annoyingly earnest or filled with impotent rage. I just hope we can somehow stay afloat. I'd rather support a Saints team in League 2 than have no team at all.

I've been thinking about possible financial saviours. I think some of Coldplay are from the area. Maybe they can help? I'll draft a letter.

***

Dear Chris Martin (and the other ones),

I'm writing to ask you to save Saints FC with some of your enormous wealth. Admittedly, I don't care for your music. But why not use some of your ill-gotten gain for good? Like robbing a bank to build an orphanage. Or stealing from a church collection plate to fund church demolition.

Your wife is also rich. She can help. Her English accent is excellent, and she was quite good in The Royal Tenenbaums. Also, I don't think 'Apple' is a stupid name for a child. I like apples. I don't like children. If anything, she'll benefit from the association.

Perhaps you could play a benefit concert. I'll watch it on TV (on mute).

This club needs your help.

Yours in sycophantic desperation,

A Saints Fan


That might work.

I'm not going to send it off. I assume Martin reads this blog anyway. Like all the other big stars.

Which reminds me:


Dear Rory Bremner

Please stop harassing my wife.

Yours angrily,

A Saints Fan

PS. Please give money to save our football club. If you can do an impression of Chris Martin, we might be in business.