(this letter was sent to Russell Brand on 30th March 2010 – awaiting reply)
Dear Russell,
May I first begin by saying that you have lovely hair. I have such love for you and your hair, Russell, that if ever I get the chance to fulfill my dream of banning all men from wearing skinny jeans, then I want you to know this, Russell, I would let you carry on. You could keep one pair.
Now then, you lovely thing, I feel a bit like a biblical angel here, come to tell you of your task. A task that you must perform to save all mankind. I just wish I hadn’t buggered my angel wings going into a loo cubicle at Rio’s in Leamington Spa.
Anyway, Russell, without further ado you must become Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. You must start a new political party called The Brand New Party (see! see what i did there!) and your colour shall be purple because that really suits me. You’ll need a Money Chancellor Person so I thought you could get your mum to do it. Mum’s are good at budgeting and we need a woman around, and get her a stylist please, the person who does Lady Gaga would be good. And all your comedy friends could be in the cabinet and you could make everyone use long words and do yoga.
Oh please, Russell, pretty please. It would look really good on business cards and they even throw in a house in Central London which is on some good bus routes.
So chop, chop, Russell! Put Katy Perry down and get cracking!
Cheerio Russell or should I say PM?
Yours very, very sincerely and I meant that about the skinny jeans.
A. Friend
Oh by the way Russell if you don’t intend to follow this through then please let me know ASAP as I’ll have to write to my second choices.
Now then, my lovely, I’m just writing to offer you a little bit of work related advice. I haven’t actually seen your job description but I have looked at your job title and I think we have a little problem.
I was under the impression that the drug naming procedure went like this:
1) A drug is given a long scientific sounding name that not even sober people can pronounce, eg. Lysergic acid diethylamide
2) You shorten the long scientific sounding name to something….now then, what’s the word I’m thinking of, oh yes, shorter. eg. LSD or Acid.
Now, let’s talk about a drug called 4-methylmethcathinone. 4-methylmethcathione is very hard to say, even Stephen Fry would need two gos to get this right. So who you gonna call? You! You must shorten it. It’s your job. If you don’t shorten 4-methylmethcathinone there will be chaos. No one will be able to pronounce it and it will take up far too much copy in the Daily Mail.
Now, I’m not sure how you go about naming things.. but this is what i would do, first of all, I would clap my hands together and squeal. ‘Ooooo. I love naming things. What shall I call it? Charlie? Angel Dust? Ecstacy? God I’m good at this. I’ll just do a Google search to check they’re not already in use. Oh titties! Back to the drawing board. How’s about Frenzy? Cosmo? Rapture?’ and so on.
But, you came up with, and I’m shaking my head in disbelief as I type, mephedrone. I would have thought that one of the main rules about naming things is to make sure that the name you choose sounds different to other things.
To illustrate my point let’s meet two imaginary hapless teenagers called Toby and Fraser. Toby and Fraser want to be like the cool older teenagers at their school. One day, the cool older teenagers are in the playground talking about how they go clubbing and take mephedrone. (for the purpose of this exercise you need to bear in mind that teenagers tend to talk like they’re undergoing root canal treatment)
‘What did he say?’ whispers Toby, picking an old bit of bacon out of his brace.
‘I think he takes a metronome when he goes clubbing,’ whispers Fraser, picking a spot.
‘What’s that?’ asks Toby innocently.
‘It’s a thing, like, that helps you keep the beat of the music. My sister Izzy takes one to her piano lessons.’
‘Cool. Shall we borrow it and go clubbing?’
So Toby and Fraser go to a nightclub with fake ID and Izzy’s metronome. Fraser is grounded for stealing the metronome and both are branded ‘losers’ by the cool teenagers. But that isn’t as bad as what happens when they mistake the word Mephedrone for the opioid, Methadone. Or methedrine. Or methedrone.
Now then, to your credit, you realised that poor young Fraser and Toby were buggered but not in a good way. So you thought you’d shorten the name again, to something shorter. And you came up with ‘miaow-miaow’. But the problem we have here is that you’ve shortened a drug’s name to a word that takes longer to say. Miaow-miaow has a whole extra syllable and a hyphen.
In light of this, I’ve renamed the drug mephedrone for you. It is now called Garden-Gnome, which has much better branding opportunities. But I haven’t shortened it further because I was going to suggest that the Daily Mail hold a competition to do that. And whoever comes up with the best nickname for the drug Garden Gnome will win a Garden Gnome (a small china figure- not the newly named drug- I will tell the Daily Mail to make that very clear)
So there we have it. I’m sorry you weren’t suited to the drug naming business but on a more positive note you are clearly a cat lover, and you may well suit a career in cat grooming or cat flap fitting. But please, please, don’t even think of cat food naming. I mean it. I know how your mind works, you’re thinking ‘Whiskies, what a great name for a cat food.’ Stop it. Stop it now.
(this letter was sent to Kate Moss on the 18th March 2010 – awaiting a reply)
Dear Kate Moss,
May I begin by saying that you are very pretty and slim. If you were a savoury snack you’d be a bespoke cheese straw or a cashew nut and they are the best savoury snacks to be.
Now then you won’t like what I’m going to say but I feel I have to say it anyway. Kate Moss, you need to stop smoking. You’re too old to smoke, Kate. You’re not too old. But you are too old to smoke. Remember this, Kate: you’re not French.
In your 20’s you’re supposed to smoke. Just like you’re supposed to snog idiots and drink shots even after you’ve vomitted. But you have to stop smoking when you turn 30. When you’re 30 you have to take up yoga, oriental cooking and deviant sexual practises. It’s the law. It’s not all bad though Kate, you can have the occasional post coital cigarette once you turn 70. So something to look forward to.
I hope you don’t mind me writing it’s just we, the general public, like you and we worry. You rarely hear an uplifting smoking story, do you?
(this letter was sent to Gordon Brown on 12th March 2010 – awaiting a reply)
Dear Gordon Brown,
Let me first begin by saying that you are a very handsome man. Don’t worry this isn’t one of those letters. I haven’t enclosed my knickers.
I saw you once in real life. Afterwards when people said, ‘oo, what was Gordon Brown like?’ I said ‘much hotter in the flesh than he is on the telly’ and they said ‘no way’ and I said ‘yes, way.’ You see Gordon I know a handsome man when I see one, and you, with all that height and thick hair and the Scottish lilt, are a handsome man.
The public deserves to know that you are much hotter in real life and the election campaign is the perfect time to tell them. I’m thinking billboards and a party political broadcast. Don’t worry, darling, I know you’re busy so I’ve sorted out the campaign for you. It’s sexy. This election needs to start getting us hot in our M and S briefs. And it’s funny. I’ve always found that the main problem with parliamentary campaigns is that there just aren’t enough knob gags.
Your billboard is a beaut. It is a photo of you, Gordon, standing alone in just a pair of union jack boxer shorts. I’ll let you keep your socks on, you are a Scots man. You’re looking directly at the camera with your lips slightly parted and come-to-bed-eyes. The slogan reads Gordon Brown: Better In the Flesh. Good eh? And that’s not all. At your feet lie a pair of boxing gloves to show us that you’re up to the challenge, to show us that you’ve got balls. But, Gordon, I don’t mean balls literally. Make sure those boxers don’t gape, the electorate doesn’t want to see your hairy fellas. The boxing gloves show that you are going to fight for our vote, fight for our love, fight for this love, Gordon.
Do you see what I did there? I cunningly led into the lyrics of Cheryl Coles pop classic Fight For This Love.
We gotta fight, fight, fight, fight, fight for this love
We gotta fight, fight, fight, fight, fight for this love
We gotta fight, fight, fight, fight, fight for this love
If it’s worth having it’s worth fighting for
You must use this song. I’m sure you know that. I’m sure the first time you heard those words, you thought, ‘back of the net! That’s my election campaign song’ and you popped some hair Extension shampoo in the post to Cheryl to thank her. But let’s take this one hip-wiggling-step further. You remember Cheryl’s sensational appearance on The X Factor? Course you do. No one could forget the sight of our Cheryl in those slashed-at-the-side-trousers.
You and your cabinet are going to perform Fight For This Love in a party political broadcast. Don’t worry Gordon, you won’t need to sing actual notes, you can just say the lines in a sexy voice like she does. The outfits can be made really cheaply with a pair of old suit trousers and some scissors.
Now then, I’ve enclosed some DVDs to help you with the dance routine. Gordon, I don’t wish to be indelicate, it’s just I have a feeling that the lot of you probably dance like Bez with both his legs in plaster. You may find it hard to copy Cheryl’s choreography down to every hip flick and jazz hand. So I’m going to set you off with something simple.
Right, gather the cabinet together in a V formation. You at the front, flanked by Darling and Mandy, the rest of them in rows behind. Get a Lord to read the dance steps in bold.
It’s easy. Like a line dance. So…off we go.
Step, step, step (by step, step, step obviously i mean sexy stomp, sexy stomp, sexy stomp -with ATTITUDE, head up, lips in a pout – that’s it Gordon, looking good)
Rotate hips to the right. Rotate hips to the left. (Think Shakira. The Hips Don’t Lie. We’re all very relieved John Precott resigned for this one)
Right shoulder up and back. Left shoulder up and back (make sure David Milliband stops grinning, his lips should be parted seductively for this one)
Step to the right and shimmy. Step to the left and shimmy ( tell Harriet not to look down, she’ll look like a drunk mum at a wedding.)
Step, step, step and boxercise punch
Repeat
Really it couldn’t be easier. For the finale, the cabinet are going to lift you up, Gordon. So you just lean back and they’ll take your weight and lift you gloriously in the air (I would check the height of the room first) They’ll walk you round the stage area and then exit. It is usually advisable to strike a pose when you are in the air Gordon. Legsakimbo can be very dramatic.
And there you have it. Your new poster campaign and party political broadcast sorted. I’d take the morning off now and watch This Morning.
On a lighter note. I’ve joined a gym. You’re fighting for this love, I’m fighting the flab. Not that you’d be able to comment Gordon, when I met you I was in a thong. Good grief, I didn’t mean that, did I? A throng! Anyway, yes, time to fight the flab and combat the cheese. Because I do like my cheese ,Gordon.
Well, warmest wishes to you and I really cannot wait to see it all.
(This letter was sent to Nick Clegg on 4th March 2010 – awaiting reply)
Dear Nicky,
Let me first begin by saying that your mum and your old school must be proud of you. You da man. You’re living the dream. You’re head of a political party. But we have a little problem, Nicky. And that is, how shall I put it?….No one’s ever heard of you.
Shhh. I know what you’re saying. You’re saying, ‘Oh, but they have heard of me. I’m leader of the liberal democrats. I’m in the papers a lot.’ Yes, Nicky, love, but you’re in the papers that noone reads and unless they start putting boobs in The Telegraph and Ashley Cole Love Rat headlines in the Guardian they never will. I saw a friend last night. ‘Kirsty,’ I said, because that’s her name. ‘I’m going to write a letter to Nick Clegg.’ And she said ‘Who’s he?’
It’s not really your fault Nicky. No one had heard of Ming either. I once mentioned Ming Campbell when I was having dinner with my sister. Later that night as my sister lay in bed, entwined in her husband’s arms, she said, ‘baby, who the fuck is Ming?’ and he said, ‘how the fuck should I know?’
So the odds are stacked like chairs against an assembly hall wall. With you being the assembly hall wall. But it’s all right poppet, I’m here to help you. I’m here to help you dazzle. Because dazzle you need to do. Hasn’t anyone told you, Nicky, there’s an election coming up? And we don’t like the other two candidates.Now is the time for us, your people, to take you, little Nicky, into their hearts.
The way I like to look at it, Nicky, is like this. Imagine that the nation is a young lady at a party. She’s feeling good. She’s done a 5 sunbeds for a fiver deal, she lost a bit of weight last week after some dodgy Sweet and Sour prawn balls and to put it plainly Nicky she’s up for it. The only available men at this party are Gordon, David C and you. Now she’s already had a bit of Gordon and frankly it was dissappointing, she thinks David C. is a plonker, and, Nicky, all you need to do is give her a lukewarm WKD or do a silly dance to the PussyCatDolls and you could be copping a feel in the downstairs loo. But you’re not doing anything, Nicky, you’re standing by the fridge picking your teeth.
Darling, it has to stop, you have to get in there. And that’s why I’m writing. I’m going to give you some tips to dazzle.
1) You must call yourself Nicky Clegg from now on. Nicky Clegg, see how warm it sounds. Think Nicky Clarke, Nicky Campbell, granted they’re both pretty odourous, but we’ve heard of them, darling. So Nicky Clegg it is.
2) You must stop wearing suits. The only people who wear suits are bankers, undertakers and Piers Morgan. And we don’t like any of them. Haven’t you noticed the popularity of Lady Gaga and Strictly Come Dancing? We want feathers, shades, sequins and hats shaped like lobsters. But failing that a nice tank top with a shirt underneath would do. Never unerestimate the effect a tank top has on a woman, Nicky.
3) You need to stop talking like a politician. When you come home after a hard day’s work and your lady says, ‘ey up, squidgy bum how was your day?’ do you respond by taking a deep breath, doing a quick impression of a girl about to throw a netball and saying, ‘well, i start from the simple premise that this election to be different to the last several elections for the simple reason that…’ ? Of course you don’t because your good lady would say, ‘Whoah, there, Nicky, back up till it beeps. Why are you talking like a freak?’ Well, that’s how we feel when we hear politician speak. Now please stop it.
4) You need to use fake tan. You have an unfortunate case of politicain palor. You look grey. Don’t worry it’s common. I would recommend Johnson and Johnson Holiday glow, and while you’re in Boots I’d get some of their Protect and Perfect serum as politics causes premature aging of the skin.
5) You need to do something so that the little papers will write about you. I would suggest calling Simon Cowell and asking him if you could cover Danii’s maternity leave but I’m not sure he’d take the call. Therefore, you must harness youtube and Twitter. I realise you’re already using them. But Nicky, darling, you’re not doing it right. No one wants to watch you on The Andrew Marr show unless you’re saying ‘Ed Balls,’ and then sniggering like a twelve year old over the word ‘balls’. This I recommend you do, you then need to post the footage on youtube under ‘Nicky Clegg’s Gaffs’ along with another short clip where you attempt a Justin Timberlake dance move at a wedding and fall onto a bridemaid and break her leg. As for Twitter, don’t Twitter links to your interviews, Nicky! No one wants to read that. Twitter things like ‘David C. is a twat’, protest your innocence by saying you were hacked, but keep them coming.
I do think these little changes could make all the difference, Nicky. Jolly good luck with it all. I shall be following your progress avidly.
On lighter notes, I really think Spring might be on the way. Hurrah!
(this letter was sent to Wayne Bridge on March 2nd 2010 – currently awaiting reply)
Dear Wayne,
Let me first begin by saying that you are a very, very good-looking man. If you were a dog in Eastenders you’d be called Well Fit.
When the story broke of John Terry having adult fun with your ex lady, girls reading The Screws Of The World thought ‘ooo, he’s nice, and he plays for England, bonus, at least there’ll be some totty to look at while we lose the world cup.’ Then they scrunched up their faces, shook their heads and added, ‘why does John Terry do that with his hair?’
But Wayne, Wayne, Wayne, what are you doing?
You are dangerously contravening the Wounded Party Manefesto to such a severe extent that I am wondering whether Max Clifford ever sent you a hard copy.
1) Giving up your place in the England Squad.Wayne, the Wronged Party Anthem, Surviver by Destiny’s Child, clearly states what to do. You’re ‘not gonna stop’. You’re ‘gonna work harder’ because your ‘mamma taught you better than that.’ Those poor underweight girls didn’t climb out of the sea in ripped dresses and sing ‘gonna to jack in my dream job because someone boffed my other half who I wasn’t technically with at the time’, did they, Wayne? No, course they didn’t. The public will only forgive you if you turned down The World Cup because Simon Cowell asked you to judge the new series of The X Factor.
2) Snubbing JT’s hand on the pitch.Anyone would think it was JT’s birthday, Wayne, because with that one action you made JT look the better man. And there’s a rarely seen grouping of words. As Oscar Wilde said ‘always forgive your enemies, nothing annoys them more’.
Star Wars informs us ‘Anger, fear, aggression. The dark side are they. Once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny.’ I had to write, Wayne, because you’ve been paddling in the dark side. And I don’t want you to do that, Wayne. You’re far too pretty. So grab hold of this stick and let me gently hoik you out. And please, please, please play for England this summer, because the team will be proper minging without you.
On a lighter note, isn’t the sunshine that we’ve had the last few days lovely? I do hope you’re enjoying it. And jolly well done for Man City’s 4-2 thrashing of Chelsea on Saturday.
You’ll be all right , poppet, time is a great healer
Yours very sincerely
A.Friend
PS. I’ve enclosed a homemade compilation CD for you to play frequently in your car. Learn all lyrics and sing along loudly.
CD playlist: Right Said Fred- I’m Too Sexy, Gloria Gaynor- I Will Survive, Destiny’s Child-Survive, M People- Moving On Up, Pat Benetar- Love Is A Battlefield, Bon Jovi- You Give Love A Bad Name, Shaggy- It Wasn’t Me ( do a John Terry impression to sing along to this one), New Order- We’re Playing For England (Eng-er-land), That nice Match of The Day Theme Tune
Letter From A.Friend's Blog 