Wednesday 13 April 2011

Quentin Tarantino Directs Humphrey Bogart In Sauce Commercial

Hollywood rolled back the years today as the great Humphrey Bogart kicked the lid off his coffin, lit a cigarette and strolled along to Lot 1 in the MGM Studios to begin work. 

Quentin Tarantino was already slumped in his Director's Chair screaming at a terrified young actor.  
"This is a fucking sauce commercial you dick brained twerp of a one-legged halfwit moose", he screamed encouragingly.

"All you gotta do is look at the girl as if you're gonna fill her with sperm.  Put our client's food in yer useless mouth.  Bite on it .. let the juice run out .. and then whisper the line with  every ounce of meaningful passion you've got in you..

"Say Sister The Sauce On This Sausage Sandwich Is Simply Sensational"

"It's that FUCKING easy", he screeched.

Bogie leaned against the doorway, stifled a grin, lit another cigarette and watched.

"Rollin", called out the film cameraman.

"OK.  Action", shouted Tarantino.

Actor looks at girl with best meaningful look.  Then bites sandwich.
"Say Sister The Sauce On This Sausage Sandwich Is Simply Sensational"

Tarantino:  Cut.

Actor:  Was that better boss?

Tarantino:  Out you fuckwit!  Get out of my fuckin studio before I fuckin get a loaded pistol and blow the fuckin air out yer fuckin empty brain and up through yer fuckin arsehole.

The actor leaves in tears.  Never to work again.

After a pause, a vaguely familiar voice from the doorway

Bogart:   Mind if I have a go?

Tarantino:  Who the fuck d'yer think you are?  Humphrey fuckin Bogart?

Bogart:  Maybe.

Tarantino:  Bright guy eh?    Done any acting?

Bogart:   Bit.  Not a lot.  Few movies.

Tarantino:  Such as?

Bogart:  I don't know.  African Queen.

Tarantino:  What's that?  Gay porn with black dick movie?

Bogart:  Maltese Falcon.

Tarantino:  Natural history crap don't count.

Bogart:  The Big Sleep.

Tarantino:  Yeah dickhead.  That's what yer doin to me.  Makin my eyes feel heavy.

Bogart:  OK!   How about Casablanca?

Tarantino:  Of all the fuckin' gin joints in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine.

Bogart:  What?

Tarantino:  Don't come the crap with me dickhead!  Next thing you'll be askin' me to play it again.

Bogart:  Why not?

Tarantino:  I'll tell yer why not.  Cos I don't remember the lines.  That's why not!

Bogart:  You did it fer her you can do it fer me!

Tarantino:  OK Wise guy!   Get yer arse down here and read the commercial.

Bogie strolls down onto the set.  Lights a cigarette.  Looks hard into the girls eyes.  Her lips begin to part.  Tiny beads of sensuous moisture appear as she slowly licks her bottom lip.  
She smiles tantalisingly back at the great star standing before her.  Already they could be in bed and she could be sucking something else.  
He smiles back.  Grinds out the cigarette on the floor.  Then takes a bite of the sandwich.  The scene is rich with levels of sexual tension not seen on screen since 1941. 
Brown juice trickles out of Bogie's mouth and down onto his chin.

Bogart:   Shay Shishter The Shaush On Thish Shaushage Shandwich Ish Shimply Shenshashional.

SILENCE

CUT

Tuesday 12 April 2011

Dorking Post Modern Triangulists Gather At Felcher's Bottom

Followers of Dorking's thriving Post-Modernist Art Society travelled to the Isle of Wight yesterday for their annual weekend get-together, writes JPR Laidlaw, Dorking Review's Deputy Chief Rugby Football Correspondent.

"Here we are once again on the dunes at Felchers Bottom", announced  limestone sculptor and legendary Surrey Triangulist,  Professor Roderick Chump-Parsnip, standing outside his own private tent.

"Greetings to all Dorking-based lovers of fine art, as we gather again to celebrate a weekend of the most innovative talent to be found anywhere throughout the Home Counties", he declared.

"Since my discovery of Dorking Triangulism in the 1970's,  our Society continues to stand alone  against the tidal wave of post-war neo-romanticism", he explained.   

"Resisting those same forces of philistine artistic globalisation that have destroyed the soul of every British artist from William Hogarth to Damien Hurst".  

"All art beyond Dorking is moribund.  From Paris to Barcelona - from New York to Florence and from Shrewsbury to Leamington Spa", he declared.

"Remember that and you won't go far wrong".

"Children of Dorking.   Immerse your brushes in the flow of divine inspiration.  I hereby declare  our 36th Annual Festival officially open!"

Several hours later, as the glorious sun began to dip below the horizon, I met up with Professor Chump-Parsnip for a gentle pre dinner wander amongst the artists, clustered in small groups around the surrounding dunes.

"Felchers Bottom is where it's at",  he whispered as we began our stroll.

"Look about, if you wish to savour the intoxicating aroma of the English Channel.  Blending with the rapier-like thrust of Dorking paint brushes wielded by the children of Apollo."

"Have you seen Vernon Harding's "Virgin & Child Of Godalming", he asked.

"Which one is Vernon Harding", I enquired.

"Surely you've heard of Vernon Harding", he replied sharply. "Runs the Kismet Oriental Grill in Mickleham.  Couple of miles due north of Dorking town centre".

When I admitted I hadn't, the Professor launched into an interesting account that compared Pablo Picasso unfavourably to Harding.

"Harding's work is everything that Pablo's isn't", he revealed. 
For one thing, Harding never uses blue". 

"For another, Harding depicts the female breast, not as a geometric symbol but as a sacred farmyard animal.  A fundamental breakthrough that would never have occurred to Picasso, a mere peasant from Malaga".

I then asked the Professor to explain the artistic significance behind his own decision to sculpture rock only whilst completely naked.

"What is naked", he replied.  "What is the human form?  Other than a stroke of the brush.  Or the strike of a sharp chisel."

Lady Catherine Versey-Palmiston then approached, clutching a newly completed canvas.

"What do you think Professor"?

"Ah!   Nude Nymph With Dragon & Child", he replied.  "It has form.  Yes.  And it has shape.  Depicting the triumphant beast at rest over the fecund damsel.  With the child, a subtle symbol of lost virginity.  I particularly like your Dadaist montage of Dorking town square in the background.   And your sensuous portrayal of a roaring River Mole in full flood, harking back to the Industrial Revolution".

"It is a triumph", he declared. 

"Thanks only to you", quivered Lady Catherine.  Who seemed not the least aware that she too was stark naked.

Later we walked across the dunes to pay courtesy visits on other leading artists.

Gabriella Fonsdyke and Brigitta Knatchbull from Brocketts Farm on the A246 near Polesden Lacey were roasting a brace of mallard by moonlight.    Simultaneously, they were dropping ripe apples onto a pool of brilliant white emulsion.

"We are the niece of Henri Matisse", they chanted in unison.

"An erotic masterpiece on a theme of Sapphic resurrection", whispered Professor Chump-Parsnip as the two ladies continued their work.  Oblivious to the gold oil paint smeared across their naked breasts.

"It's going to be "Venus & Diana In Paradise Beside Camilla's Organic Grocery shop in Leatherhead", he revealed as we crept away.

Tarquin Bickersdyke from Cathcart Road, West Horsley in Surrey is a distant cousin of Paul Gauguin. 

"I've been following the Dorking School since I fell out with the Pre-Modiglianis", he said as he mixed us a Pimms. 

"You won't find another Movement like this anywhere".

 "It's as if Leonardo da Vinci had met Banksy in Epsom and they'd moved into a Guildford squat with Velazquez and Tracey Emin".

"Right now, Dorking is the epicentre of World Art", he declared.

And on that bombshell I left for a quiet pint at the Mason's Arms.
 

Hip-Hop Glitterati Explore 'Valley Rap' In Rhondda

The sun had gone down over the Rhondda Valley.  It was Sunday evening and the world of Hip-Hop was gathered in the lounge bar of the Miner's Arms in Ebbw Vale, South Wales. 

They were waiting for Kanye West to come and explain the origins for his new creation 'Valley Rap' which has taken the charts by storm. 

Rap can be many things.  It can come from many places.  Particularly the cold pavements of New York and South London.

So what was it doing here in South Wales?   Amongst these pretty cottages and their front gardens and the green hills that rise yonder to the north looking up towards Snowdonia? 

With Jay-Z, Eminem, Common, Dizzee Rascal, Dr Dre, Nas, Snoop, Lil Wayne and a room of other top artists, all seeking an answer, The Miner's Arms was the place to be as the beer began to flow and the spirits of Welsh forefathers began to gather round to listen.

Then the room went dark. 

A giant screen was lowered from the ceiling.  A projector flickered into life.  This had to be South Wales.  People were smoking everywhere.  Clouds of cigarette tobacco mixed with ganja and marijuana danced in front of the screen.

We were looking at a coal mine.  A giant wheel on the surface.  Everywhere black steel ropes,  darkness and misery.  Shots of men with black faces.  Sweat.  Tin boxes.  Lamps.  Those who did things.  Men who worked. 

We thought for a moment.  How could they ever have sung so beautifully.

Then Kanye West came to the microphone.  

And the music began.

"You come here today and  you pay and I say
where that road took me next from satanical mills
where they don't write no text for these valleys and hills
You say
Cos you know to connect to the bad how I feels
Is to stay in the street where the beat is suspect
And the man with the drugs has his own dialect
for his plight
Right here in the fields in a land with no shields
And the stink of the coal from the man in a hole
Is all gone for good like I told you it would
Like today
On the hill with the school and the black daffodil
and the scream in the wind calling Aberfan ow
as the sill hears the drill and the will dies
Until
It's so still and the gold turning black as the cold
and the wail in the dale turns the wheel I am told
as a lung like a dirge is spoke never sung
Before
Grime has its time like quicklime sometime
diggin' deep in the soul like a mole in the soil
when the coil of the wire takes him higher and higher
Never out
of the pit and the shit and the clay with his shout
not a doubt every sum comes to nowt
at the end of the day with his take home pay
is still far away
Turns his face to the wheel and the feel of the dust
in the eye and the sigh as he sinks down to die
and they cry to the sky as the man whispers why
is it me
Can't you see perfectly that's a lung full of soot
that you put out the fire of men in the choir
that sang in the hills in the land of their fathers
As others
have done when the sun does no favours to bathers
on sands groaning shift as I budge to the trudge of the miners
who crawl through the sludge to the lift that has come
to take him
away from this hell and the burn and the smell as you turn
for the sanctity of a moment's alacrity from deep in the stern
to the front of the queue and a view for the few of the city
in London
That's far from the station a distant relation who's making the money
this nation's ovation our town hall's creation this really ain't funny
when deaf are half blind Lord Nelson's not kind and neither has time
for our pity
full words as the wind blows again and again and again as it washes
the stain in buckets of rain and again with the pain of the past
that can't never last in our brain to explain when he came at the last
To die"

Sunday 3 April 2011

Dorking Review Meets Sir Brent Burton-Trench On His 100th Birthday

Today we are honoured to be granted an interview with Dorking's foremost celebrity.

Born up the road in Leatherhead (within the Borough of Dorking) Sir Brent Burton-Trench remained until, aged eleven, he was sent away to boarding school. Alas he was never to return.

Now living on the Isle of Wight - actor, matinee idol, diarist, raconteur - Sir Brent invites Dorking's own Trainee Gossip Correspondent, Timothy Langton, to chat about his famous home and his celebrated life in the arts:-

 
TIM: Sir Brent. May I start by wishing you a happy birthday. And thanking you on behalf of Dorking for inviting me into your beautiful home.

 
SIR BRENT: Dear boy! The pleasure is mine.

TIM: You've heard from the Queen?

 
SIR BRENT: Ha! Yes! Very witty. Dear child.

 
TIM: You came to the Isle of Wight in the 1940s?

 
SIR BRENT: That's right. It was 1948. During the run of Coward's Private Lives at the Vaudeville. I remember us catching the late train to Portsmouth. After the Saturday night show. Then popping on the ferry straight after Sunday morning kippers and brown toast. It was love at first sight.

 
TIM: You imply "we".

 
SIR BRENT: Oh. Yes. My Assistant. Anthony.

 
TIM: Ah. Did you know Coward?

>
SIR BRENT: Know him! We were like brothers. I did all his plays you know. Blithe Spirit. Hay Fever. The Complete Works. Charming man Noel. Supported the Arsenal. I remember him taking me to the 1950 Cup Final. The Gunners. I'm sure that's what he called them. They won 2-0. Do you know what we did to celebrate?

>
TIM: No.

>
SIR BRENT: Went backstage to the team bathroom. Then Noel sang to the boys for a complete half an hour. Whilst they splashed about washing the mud off! All his famous songs. Entirely for free. They all loved him. Even footballers. He was like that Noel. Generous to a fault. Beautiful man. Yes.

>
TIM: Did Mr Coward ever come to the Isle of Wight.

>
SIR BRENT: Actually no. At least not to stay at Pitchers Bottom. But there's a reason for that. Coward hated the water you know.

>
TIM: Really?

>
SIR BRENT: Oh yes. Scared stiff of the sea. Sailed to America in '21 and was sick as a dog. Hated boats. Once the war ended, flew everywhere did Noel. Like a bird.

>
PAUSE

>
We had Novello to stay.

>
TIM: Ivor Novello?

>
SIR BRENT: Yes. Cole Porter, Lorenz Hart. They've all been in this room. At that same grand piano.

>
TIM: Didn't Ivor Novello write "We'll Gather Lilacs"?

>
SIR BRENT: Well yes. I believe he did.

>
TIM: My favourite song. "We'll walk together down an English Lane - Until our hearts have learned to sing again - When you come home once more".
Are you alright sir?

>
SIR BRENT: Fine! Don't mind me.

>
TIM: Have I said anything to upset you?

>
SIR BRENT: No dear boy. No. Sorry.

>
TIM: What was he like?

>
SIR BRENT: Who?

>
TIM: Ivor Novello?

>
SIR BRENT: Oh. Him.

>
TIM: Great song writer. Genius. Didn't he also write "Keep The Home Fires Burning"?

>
SIR BRENT: Yes, I believe he did.

>
Look..

>
If you must know, Novello was a bastard.

>
TIM: I have upset you haven't I?

>
SIR BRENT: No.

>
TIM: It was you who brought him up.

>
SIR BRENT: Quite. I really am most terribly sorry.
The song. We'll gather lilacs.
That English Lane. It's right there.
Outside the back door. Takes you down to Swanley's Folly. Pretty little lane. We'll gather lilacs.
Yes.
That was the last I saw of Anthony.

>
TIM: Sorry?

>
SIR BRENT: Novello. Stole my Assistant. Just like that. Left high and dry. After thirteen bloody years. Had to start signing my own photographs. Darn my own socks. Make the bed.

>
TIM: You never married?

>
SIR BRENT: Yes. What? Marriage? No. Thought about it of course. One always thinks about these things. Never seemed to come across the right girl. Never at the right moment. Ships passing in the night I suppose.

>
TIM: So you moved to the Isle of Wight.

>
SIR BRENT: Yes. Summer of 49. Seven thousand pounds this house cost me. Do you know what it's worth now?

>
TIM: Gosh I don't know. A fortune.

>
SIR BRENT: Go on. Take a guess.

>
TIM: A million pounds.

>
SIR BRENT. Treble it.

>
TIM: Three million.

>
SIR BRENT: And the rest.

>
TIM: Wow. Must be the finest house on the Island.

>
SIR BRENT: We did things to it naturally. Bathrooms. The pool. That rose garden. Yes.
Novello died suddenly you know. '51 that would have been. Bastard. Coronary thrombosis.

>
TIM: So your Assistant came back?

>
SIR BRENT: You mean Anthony? No. Anthony went to America. Drifted around I'm told. Usual stuff.
Started working for Rock Hudson apparently.

>
TIM: You keep in touch.

>
SIR BRENT: Mmm? Oh no. He died. I think. Yes.
That would have been the 80's.
Lots died around that time.
Back in those days.

>
TIM: You played Romeo on seven occasions.

>
SIR BRENT: That's right. The first was 1932. For the opening of the new theatre in Stratford. With Hermione Langrage as Juliet. And dearest Vernon Peacock as my Mercutio.
Yes. The last was at the Theatre Royal Windsor. Shortly after my sixtieth birthday. I remember the Duke of Edinburgh coming back after I'd taken seventeen curtain calls.
With Benjamin Britten as I remember.

>
TIM: You knew Britten.

>
SIR BRENT: But of course. Everyone did. Although it was Peter who was my closest friend.

>
TIM: The tenor Peter Pears.

>
SIR BRENT: Yes. They had the Red House in Aldeburgh and I had the Pink House in Pitchers Bottom. They came to stay for a fortnight every summer. Then I'd go back to theirs. Benjamin used to tease Peter that he and I were two shades of the same colour.

>
TIM: Some critics used to compare you to Sir John Gielgud.

>
SIR BRENT: Gosh, you have been doing your homework. Yes. That's true enough. Johnny and me were always going up for the same things.

>
PAUSE

>
What I mean is, we often went up for the same part. In a play. Or film.

>
TIM: Did you ever share the same stage?

>
SIR BRENT: Oh no. That would have been quite wrong. We both knew. We were far too similar you see. If one was giving his Hamlet the other would do his Henry. Of course we would always meet up afterwards. Lamb chops in the Savoy. Sparkling wine with spotted dick. The whole gang. Swap notes. Sign autographs. That sort of stuff.

>
TIM: Gielgud stayed here didn't he. At the Pink House?

>
SIR BRENT: How do you know that?

>
TIM: It's in Sir John's autobiography. Page 438.

>
SIR BRENT: Ah. You are referring to my Silver Jubilee Weekend Party in 1977. Yes, Johnny came. Along with half of London. As I recall he arrived on the Friday and left before breakfast on the Saturday. Tuppy Brimstone said something about Binkie Beaumont. Can't tell you what. Even now. Anyway, Johnny told Toad to organise an immediate departure. So yes. Johnny did stay. But only for one night.

>
TIM: Do you mind if I ask. Who was Toad? There's no reference to him in the Gielgud book.

>
SIR BRENT: Neither should there be. Toad was Johnny's Personal Assistant. He had nothing whatsoever to do with his public life.
Any gentleman must surely be allowed to draw the line somewhere.
Draw the distinction. Yes?

>
TIM: I see.

>
SIR BRENT: Yes. There's public and there's private. Ne'er the twain should meet.

>
He was a splendid chap Toad. Loyal to a fault. Did everything for Johnny. Right to the end.

>
TIM: Of course.
You love this Island don't you sir.

>
SIR BRENT: The Isle Of Wight. Oh yes. It's been more than a home. Or a haven. I suppose you could say it's been my mother. In a strange sort of way. Maybe my wife even. My sanctuary. It's...
PAUSE
People here are quiet. We keep ourselves to ourselves. The little things are far more important than the so-called big things. The stuff newspapers are interested in. The Tittle-tattle.

>
TIM: So you'll be staying here.

>
SIR BRENT: I shall die here. Hopefully in this chair. Chatting to someone pleasant such as yourself. Drinking a pink gin. If I'm lucky.

>
TIM: There's a reception this evening?

>
SIR BRENT: Yes.

>
TIM: And a dinner.

>
SIR BRENT: I know. The Lord Mayor has been very kind.

>
TIM: You must be excited.

>
SIR BRENT: Excited! Ah yes. I remember.
No dear boy. Excited isn't the word. Content.
You do realise I don't know anybody any more.
They've all gone.

>
TIM: You're getting the Freedom Of The Island.
That makes you friends with everyone.

>
SIR BRENT: How terrifying.

>
TIM: Mmmm. You're not afraid of anybody are you?

>
SIR BRENT: No. Not any more.

>
TIM: Did you ever get stage fright?

>
SIR BRENT: Oh yes. Once upon a time.
I was always scared of what people might think.

>
TIM: But now you're not.

>
SIR BRENT: No. There's no point any more.
Time's moved on.
Those days are long gone..

>
BEAT

>
You're coming tonight.

>
TIM: Me? You must be joking.
They always give two tickets to the Press.
One for the Editor and one for his wife.

>
SIR BRENT: I said you are coming.
I want you to come.
I want someone I can talk to.
I want you to be sitting there.
Beside me.

>
TIM: But..

>
SIR BRENT: No buts.
It's been decided.
Now be off with you.
Before I change my mind.

>
PAUSE

>
Can you drive?

>
TIM: Well yes as a matter of fact.

>
SIR BRENT: Good.
We'll take the Roller.
I take it you can drive a Phantom Rolls Royce?
Good.
Come back at seven.

>
TIM: But...

>
SIR BRENT: You've a date with a girl?

>
TIM: Oh no.
I haven't a girlfriend.

>
SIR BRENT: Good.
That's settled then.
Be here for seven.
Bring your toothbruth.

>
END

Friday 1 April 2011

"Needle & Thread" - Letters From The Stoat Marriage



This is the story of a marriage. As revealed through the separate correspondence of a loving husband and wife.

Brenda Stoat has a ten-a-day letter writing habit and can usually be found sitting at her dining room table in 37 Acacia Drive Dorking complaining about something or other.

Meanwhile, upstairs in the back bedroom, her husband Ronald is doing exactly the same on his laptop:-



Sir,

I am moved to complain most seriously about your vile monthly periodical 'The Complete Spanker' delivered to this household in error today via brown envelope. Imagine my shock to discover a private snap of myself, taken 30 years ago, included in the disgusting article you call 'Readers' Wives'. My only consolation is that I no longer resemble that innocent young woman in the bathtub. You should pray my dearest husband never finds out about this outrage.

Yours angrily
Brenda Stoat (Mrs)



Dear Lord Big Balls,

Let me congratulate you on your excellent ancient history feature 'Readers' Wives'. And thank you for including my modest contribution. I am in receipt of your cheque for £50.00 and look forward to next month's powerful modern history feature. I feel the 'Complete Spanker' provides a valuable service to our quiet suburban community.

Sincerely,
Ron Stoat (62)



Dear Mrs Pomfroy

Please find enclosed our cheque for £25 as deposit for a two week stay on your caravan site in the isolated woodlands of Flenwynthllgollen in North Wales. This is the sort of holiday my husband and I look forward to. Total peace and quiet with just ourselves for company. Perfect bliss! We shall arrive on Tuesday fortnight.

Yours gratefully
Mrs Brenda Stoat



Dear Sir,

With reference to your advertisement for striptease artists in 'Totally Thai Tits'. I am a 62 year old retired decorator (references available) and active supporter of local wildlife. That said, I am currently seeking a new challenge and wonder if you have openings for experienced Wardrobe Staff in Bangkok. I am a single gentleman, prepared to relocate immediately.

Sincerely,
Ron Stoat



Dear Sir,

May I draw your attention to the recent epidemic of sex offences in the Dorking area. I believe this has much to do with the so-called clothing commonly worn by young women locally. When will they realise that drawing attention to themselves with items such as lipstick, visible brassiere straps and the occasional showing of flimsy undergarments, merely converts them into targets for inappropriate advances. Despite leading an active life in every respect, I have never been bothered by perverts.

Yours ever
Brenda Stoat (Mrs)


Dear Madam

May I politely ask if there are any vacancies within your underwear department. As you are surely aware, many women select their underwear with a gentleman in mind. So perhaps some customers would welcome the honest opinion of an experienced Lingerie Selection Consultant such as myself.

Yours respectably

Ronald P Stoat


Dear Sir

I write to complain about your recent marketing campaign which I deem aggressive beyond belief. What on earth made you imagine my husband Ronald would be in the least interested in sampling three pairs of leather thongs from your new 'Naughty Lucy' range? I return them forthwith at your expense and trust you will learn your lesson.

Yours in exasperation

Brenda Stoat (Mrs)




Dear Sir

I wish to register a complaint about breast feeding facilities in the Dorking branch of your Supermarket chain. Why have you now confined these natural activities to your new Mother & Baby Suite? Frankly I miss the heartening sight of young mothers feeding their babies on the chairs on Aisle 9 (by the checkout tills). There's nothing rude about breast feeding in public.

Yours
Ron Stoat



Sir

I write to complain about your database. Why on earth do you presume to send your filthy periodical 'Totally Thai Tits' to number 37 Acacia Drive under cover of a plain brown envelope? Can't you understand there's nobody living here remotely interested in such vile pornography. Suppose my husband, Ronald, were to come across it! Kindly strike us off your list with immediate effect.

Yours
Brenda Stoat (Mrs)



Dear Sir,

I write to say how informative I found your article about Russian women seeking true love with men from the west. This is the sort of work our Ministry For Overseas Development should be doing. With reference to your list. May I draw your attention to 19 year old Oxana (blonde bombshell on page 96 column 5 second from the left). I believe we are ideally matched and would be obliged if you would forward her my full details, currently held on record.

Yours faithfully
Ron Stoat



Dear Doctor Mould

I write with bad news. Those pills you gave me have had little or no effect. My flushes have failed to subside. Even worse, the snakes I told you about are now appearing whenever I shut my eyes. Furthermore, I am starting to dream of telegraph poles and poplar trees. I can't take much more and am afraid I might eventually submit to the inevitable. Is it possible to increase the dose?

Yours gratefully
Mrs Brenda Stoat



Dear Sir,

What became of the leather thongs I ordered from your 'Naughty Lucy' range? Please forward them without further delay. On a separate issue, I too sympathise with the tribal people of the Andaman Islands. I found your article most informative. Particularly the photographs of naked females cleaning themselves in the river. The way extremely young girls mixed freely with older women was an astonishing revelation. Could we have lots more of this sort of thing.

Yours faithfully
Ron Stoat




Dear Father Brown

I'm sure my husband, Ronald, would be delighted to volunteer for bellringing lessons every Monday night until further notice. He'll be free to start next week.

Yours always
Mrs Brenda Stoat


Dear Mrs Lubbock

Please consider me for the vacant position of Female Shower Attendant at Dorking Swimming Baths. As an elderly married man of limited vision and no interest whatsoever in young ladies, I am an ideal candidate. I believe local girls would soon come to look upon me as a father figure. May I suggest I come for a trial session at 3.00 pm next Wednesday.

Yours sincerely
Ronald P Stoat Esq



Sir

I am not a complaining sort of person. But this time the Postage Department of your Company has gone too far. A junior clerk within your organisation still insists on sending a monthly copy of 'Private Wives' to this address. In spite of my 40 minute telephone conversation of 14-7-2011, when I assured the kind gentleman that my name was not Dora from Devon. Please now strike 37 Acacia Drive Dorking from the computer database of both Private Wives and 'Bosom Buddies'.

Yours
Brenda Stoat (Mrs)


Dear Headmistress

In respect of your advertisement for a Gym Instructor at St Mary's Convent School. I wonder if you would consider an all-rounder. I am an experienced Olympic Games coach who once prepared the Cambodian ladies indoor volleyball team. I also specialise in everything to do with the swimming pool. Particularly the breast stroke, in which my hands-on teaching methods have been recognised around the world. I'm confident your girls would soon appreciate having me around.

Yours faithfully

Ronald P Stoat



Dear Lord Big Balls

Following last month's outrage, why on earth have you sent me yet another edition of your vile periodical 'The Complete Spanker'? It is now on the fire together with your invoice. You are a despicable person and a disgrace to the House of Lords.

Yours etc

Brenda Stoat (Mrs)



Dear Big Don

Where is my copy of this month's issue of 'Private Wives'? My annual subscription of £52.99 was paid on June 1st as requested. Please check account of Dora From Devon and supply me ASAP with such back issues you neglected to send.

Yours in confidence
Ron Stoat



Dear Sir,

As Executive Producer of the Nine o'clock news, may I implore you to have a quiet word with every one of your female newscasters. Without exception nowadays, they find occasion to lean forward and expose the upper part of their chest. Whilst others have picked up the unseemly habit of continually crossing and uncrossing their legs, drawing attention to that most sensitive area of their anatomy. Things got so bad last night, I was forced to switch off and send my husband, Ronald, out to make tea!

Yours sincerely
Brenda Stoat (Mrs)



Dear TV Boss,

I wish to complain about newscaster Kate Silverton who does not answer my mail. As an employee of the BBC, I am prepared to accept she will never show me her breasts live on air. However, I have written to her privately on numerous occasions, enclosing a photograph of another woman's breasts which I believe to be similar in every respect. All I request is a simple yes or no answer that my theory is correct. Is that too much to ask?

Yours sincerely
Ron Stoat (62)


Dear Sir,

May I confirm that my husband, Ronald, and myself will be happy to attend your clinic next Wednesday at 11.00a.m to donate blood. Neither of us takes sugar with our tea and we are not fussy about biscuits. Two Shortbread or digestives will suffice.

Yours sincerely
Brenda Stoat (Mrs)



Dear Sir

Further to your advertisement in this week's Dorking Review, may I offer to donate sperm. I'll see you next Tuesday afternoon when you'll be welcome to as much as your nurse can get. Might I request Nurse Karen who I noticed when I checked you out. Or perhaps Sister Denise who looks to have a promising career within the local NHS.

Yours sincerely
Ron Stoat (62)



Dear Doctor Clackett,

I was planning to take my husband Ronald on a hill-walking holiday this autumn. Possibly in Yorkshire. Or maybe North Wales. However, he now tells me that you have strictly forbidden him to walk further than half a mile at a stretch. Furthermore, he now claims you have advised him to take a complete rest by himself on a beach somewhere in south east Asia. Might I ask you to arrange for a second opinion on all this.

Yours sincerely
Brenda Stoat (Mrs)



Dear Nature Lovers,

Further to your advertisement in this month's 'As Nature Intended', I wish to confirm that I'm keen to have a go. My wife and I haven't yet booked a holiday for this summer so we are definitely up for it. Brenda is an avid bird-watcher. Could you send her a list of what birds she might expect to see at your colony. In a separate brown envelope, could you send me photographic evidence of other sights I might expect to encounter. You know the sort of thing: pictures of your guests playing volleyball. Or leaning over a barbecue.

Yours sincerely
Ron Stoat (62)