Dear Federation Against Copyright Theft

I wouldn't steal a car. I wouldn't steal a CD.

I did, however, just shell out five pounds of my hard-earned money for this DVD from a legitimate retailer, so would appreciate it if you could knock it the fuck off already.

Kindest regards,
Davis.

Dear Boris Johnson

Might I be so bold to suggest that your quest to end the knife-crime "epidemic" in our beloved capital is unlikely to be helped in any way by getting together with Lily Allen for a chinwag?

That said, I have been quite enjoying seeing the citizens of London get picked off one at a time, so feel free to carry on as planned. Next time you find yourself with a pressing and complex social issue on your hands, be sure to give T4 a call - I hear Alexa Chung’s quite keen to pitch in a few thoughts.

Heartfelt regards,
Davis.

Dear UK Radio Programmers

Just seen a poll which revealed that the most-played song of the last five years is Daniel Powter’s Bad Day.

Given that no-one actually likes the song and has only learned to live with it through years of repeated bludgeoning between commercials for used cars and Coldseal windows, do you think you could give it a fucking rest for a while?

Thanks.

Regards,
Davis.

Dear Man in Local Shopping Centre

Saw you wearing that Celine Dion T-shirt of yours today. Yep, that’s right, a Celine Dion T-shirt. A T-shirt with a picture Celine Dion on the front, and the words “Celine Dion” plastered next to it.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but generally one wears a T-shirt to give other people an idea of the kind of person you are - what makes you tick, the inner workings of your personality, or to share hilarious pieces of wisdom like how great beer is or that fact that "it won’t suck itself". It was at this peculiar juncture that I found myself pondering precisely what sort of a person would feel the urge to share the fact that they’re a Celine Dion fan with anyone besides their own sweaty palm in the privacy of a darkened room.

I thought for a moment you were joking, perhaps concocting some kind of supreme irony beyond the comprehension of conventional humourists. Then I took a glance at your hapless little face and realised that there was no such frippery at play. You genuinely were a true-as-day, real-life Celine Dion fan.

What a massive cunt you are, sir.

Regards,
Davis.