Complaint letter to Chuppa Chups

Dear Sir,

Before get to the main crux of my point, I was bemused when I recently discovered that the Chuppa Chups logo was designed by none other than Salvador Dali?!! I’ve never before thought to combine surrealist art with lollipops but I guess the renegade decision to impale what is ostensibly a boiled sweet on a stick is perhaps, in itself, comparative to Dali’s bizarre genius.

Saying which, Dali once said “No masterpiece was ever created by a lazy artist” and while I agree with him I’d argue that it’s a touch hypocritical considering the efforts he put into your logo design were half-arsed at best. No melting clocks, no conceptual imagery, just your name in a pretty rosette. He could have at least done some ghoulish giant head made out of lollipops, crying liquid pianos in some sort of dystopian desert landscape with the shadowy severed limbs of the recently deceased scattered around spelling Chuppa Chups in deranged font on a marzipan skyline. I’m not sure if that would be particularly ‘on brand’ but that’s the problem with Dali; no imagination.

If all you wanted was a rosette you could have got Neil Buchanan from Art Attack to do that and he could have made the image of an American footballer out of towels on your staff car park in the process. I’ll keep out of it though, that’s your call.

Until recently I actually wasn’t sure how socially acceptable it is for a grown man to eat lollipops. Perhaps I’m being dramatic or just a worrier but I thought it may be construed as childish, or even buying them may rouse suspicion that I may be sourcing them as bait for noncery.

On the other hand, the reward by far outweighs this undoubtedly irrational concern. The immensely enjoyable taste of the sweet itself aside, I often enjoy lollipops largely due to the fact that I can rattle the stick around in my teeth and practise a ‘thousand yard stare’ while pretending to be John Wayne or Clint Eastwood. I think they actually just used little sticks in cowboy times, but I’m confident that if they had the option of a fruity boiled sweet on the end of it they’d have snapped your hand off before saving your village from some nefarious Mexican banditos and romancing the village sweetheart in one fell swoop.

So far, so good. However..

Having suffered at the negligent hands of a defective sweet maker recently myself – who I will definitely not name as serial human rights offenders and caramel crooks Nestle – my friend Kelly confided in me about a grievous incident at the hands of you; Salvador Dali’s favourite lollipop merchants. I was distraught – is nothing sacred?

Kelly, like so many stressed and busy London professionals, had treated herself to an afternoon lollipop; no doubt on a similar train of thought to I where she was going to use the stick to pretend to be some sort of femme fatale from a western, but not before enjoying the sweet itself.

I’m sure you’ll agree you can divide the people in the world strictly down the middle into two camps based around how they would tackle a lollipop; suckers and crunchers.

Now, like me, Kelly is a cruncher and thankfully so in this instance as her impatience to gradually savour the lollipop in question allowed her to identify that it was hollow. Hollow!

I’m not sure whether this is the latest in your surrealist marketing agenda, using the sweet as some form of metaphor satirising a notion that the earth has become a hollow orb of wanton misery. But if it was then I would suggest it belongs in a gallery rather than on a stick and retailed to people looking for a lollipop to enjoy.

I know Kelly has been in touch with you and you have offered some form of lollipop-based olive branch for this grave injustice and I respect you for this, but I am suspicious that this may be simply an automated and arbitrary response as hollow as your lollipops. This is typified largely by the fact that you have referred to someone called Kelly as ‘sir’, suggesting this is just a template email churned out to anyone to suffer the same misfortune.

I think you’d agree that Dali would turn in his grave if he knew about all this, so I wanted to raise the alarm bells before this whole wretched affair could go any further.

I welcome your input/feedback on this.

Hollow regards

Mark Jorgensen

p.s. According to Wikipedia your company’s ‘current anti-smoking slogan is “Stop smoking, start sucking” with their packages parodying cigarette pack designs’

I appreciate the sentiment of trying to discourage smokers but I hardly think widespread fellatio is the answer to the problem. How about we also encourage rim jobs as an alternative to heroin abuse? Frankly, you’re a disgrace.

Letter to Orange – MY survey


Subject: Account feedback request – Mobile Pay Monthly

Dear Orange

Ref mobile number – 07XXXXXXXX

I recently received notification that you are increasing my monthly charge by around 4% in January. Negligible amount perhaps, but being inside contracted terms and without any changes to product or service and I find this a little cheeky you adorable capitalist scamps, you.

I called to inquire about this and was told that it was in my contract that you were legally within your rights to do so, providing the increase ‘wasn’t excessive’. Far from being the type of pedant who would open a discussion about semantics to prove a point, but how exactly would you quantify ‘excessive’ rationally? It is at its very essence a subjective and unquantifiable word. It must be relative to some sort of measurable scale to provide any context.

Lets do the math(s).

If you had increased by 4%, while increasing my monthly minutes allowance, or by providing a brand new phone, then yes, 4% wouldn’t be excessive at all. You could probably get away with 8% if you notified me by gift card with a chimp wearing humans clothes on the front.

However, a 4% increase for doing nothing is excessive by anyone’s standards. Well that’s not fair, you don’t do nothing, you do what you are contracted to do and I thank you for that. To make this announcement out of the blue seems a bit like suddenly demanding 17p from your wife following  a quick bout of poor quality cunnilingus. Even if she’d let herself go and looks like an cranky Gorgon. It’s not much, but it might grind her gallbladder a touch.

I therefore requested an upgrade as a compromise which seems fair to me given I’m 19 months into my contract, but was flatly and quite rudely refused. I was assured a call back from management which never came.

I therefore suspect that this may be personal, so I’d appreciate if you could fill out my Phone Provider Satisfaction Survey. It should only take a few minutes – please could you complete the attached document and return to

Your feedback is important to us (me), so thank you for taking the time to complete the survey and I hope that we can reconcile these upsetting differences.

Many thanks
Mark Jorgensen

Click to download copy of Mark Jorgensen’s Phone Provider Satisfaction Survey

Subject: FW: Account feedback request – Mobile Pay Monthly


I’m definitely taking this personally now – I thought my request was rather jovial, playful and nice  – if not a touch irreverent, but it obviously just doused your already throbbing hatred for me in the despicable petrol of unwanted custom.  I’ve still not recieved that call I was promised either.

Have you ever been dumped via an accidental text message intended for a friend while eating beans from the tin with your fingers and watching Jeremy Kyle? That’s how this feels. But less beany and more phoney.

My current iPhone (aged nearly 20 months) deleted all of my music again last night and refuses to upload any more. It says all the memory is being used up, but there’s nothing on there. It’s the phone equavalient of a dementia-ravaged old lady staggering around a graveyard glugging a jug of her own urine and shouting at the crows which aren’t in her hair. I just wanted you to know that.

Distraught regards,

Mark Jorgensen

Subject: Re: FW: Account feedback request – Mobile Pay Monthly Reference Number: 02354712

Dear Mr Jorgensen

Thank you for your recent email outlining your concerns about our impending price increase.

Inflation is impacting businesses and consumers alike and we are aware that many customers will be experiencing increased charges from other service suppliers. Orange Price Plans will rise by less than the rate of inflation, as measured by the Retail Price Index (RPI), which currently stands at a 20 year high at 5.4%.

All other call charges, including out-of-plan voice, text and data charges remain unchanged. Our Pay Monthly Terms and Conditions (T’s & C?s) allow us to increase charges by up to the RPI figure in any 12 month period and we have tried to keep these costs to a minimum at just 4.34%. In the event that you would like to check your T?s & C?s I would like to draw your attention to section 4.3 and 4.3.1 which relate directly to this issue.

Whilst we are increasing the base cost of your Price Plan I would like to reassure you that Orange are still committed to providing excellent Customer Service and value for money.

We believe the 4.34% tariff charge increases are reasonable, as they are below RPI, and therefore in real terms are not a material detriment to our customers. RPI for the last 12 months, as published by the government is 5.4%, and we have increased prices by less than this. So a customer paying £15 a month, will see their monthly tariff rise by 64p to £15.64 (inc. VAT) and a customer on a £20 a month tariff will see a 86p increase to £20.86 (inc. VAT) and so on.

If you wish to discuss a change of service plan or adding a bundle which may save you some money each month, please call Customer Services on 150, free from your Orange phone. They are available 7 days a week, 08:00-22:00.

I hope this email has given some context as to why we have introduced the price increases and trust that this clarifies our position.

Kind regards

Orange Online Services

Subject: FW: Account feedback request – Mobile Pay Monthly

Hi Joe,

Thanks for your feedback.

While I fundamentally disagree with all of the below I appreciate the explanation. It’s not really rationalised the context if I’m honest, it seems abit of a rudimentary template of corporate information and numbers disguised as a personalised response but I suppose this is to be expected.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but the entire point of a contract is so that each party knows where they stand and stops me from saying, for example, I only want to pay 50% just as much as you want to increase my payment by 4%.

However, we do have a way of rectifying this, which is in two steps –

1. Please can you arrange for somebody to fill in my phone provider satisfaction survey which I have attached (again). I originally asked for this to be completed on 2nd December and require this for my records and it will impact whether or not I will continue with Orange in the future. Please can you arrange for this to be completed by close of play tomorrow if possible and emailed to me on

2. I’d like an upgrade on my handset.

Both of these requests are perfectly reasonable.

Should we reach an impasse on this matter I will be looking into making some amendments to our contract myself, or – a deed of variation is the correct legal term as I’m sure you’re aware –  obviously with terms that aren’t excessive and which may or may not allow me make payments a few weeks late, demand photographs of Orange representatives howling at the moon, get an upgrade on a monthly basis and have my bill hand-delivered by someone dressed as a sexy seahorse.

This may go some way to help substiantiate your claim below that “Orange are still committed to providing excellent Customer Service “, which I am, to be honest, yet to enjoy to fruitful bosom of.

Many thanks

A phone call from Orange followed this email and I now have a new iPhone 4S. However for legal purposes and brand policy they were unable to fill in my survey.

Up grit creek without a paddle

Manchester City Council have announced that they are setting up a Twitter account named @MCCGritters1 to keep the public abreast with their gritting schedule as we approach the peak of winter.

For a country susceptible to the odd cold snap, Britain – or should I say Britons – cope spectacularly poorly each and every time one comes around, like a decrepit old dog still terrified by it’s own flatulence.

The television and news outlets become awash with hysterically apocalyptic reports from gloomy red-nosed doom correspondents, repeating painstaking details about the frozen floor bastard as their researchers paw away at online thesaurus’ desperately searching for synonyms of ‘treacherous’. The reference to treachery in the context of frozen sky water used to seem unnecessarily sinister to me.

The intent of the councils Twitter feed is admirable, utilising technology to service their duty of catering for and informing the community. However, for a couple of winters now its been building. News reports, campaigns, complaints, emergency rations, treachery, discontent, danger, fear, treachery. It’s bubbling to an inevitable breaking point.

We always run out of grit. Then shout about it a lot.

This Gwitter announcement therefore may just be the catalyst. Just as the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand in the Balkan powder keg in 1914 kick started WW1, this announcement may finally see the advent of……….Grit War 1. (In the North West).

In a sentence that could easily have been lifted from a Pablo Escobar autobiography, the council has proudly boasted they have imported stocks of over 5000 tonnes. Of grit.

That may sound a lot, but slippy pavements and skiddy roads seem to be the kryptonite which exposes our weakness as a collective who lack basic survival mentality and ability to remain rational in a non-existent crisis.

After our initial childlike frolicking in the powdery crisp smattering which crunches enjoyably under every footstep, the snow will spitefully freeze into sheets of translucent death, plunging Manchester into a Siberian tundra of yellow slush and precautionary sick days.

“5000 tonnes and they’ve not gritted Deansgate yet. Harrummph. Typical. Pfft.”

This failure to grit properly will rapidly descend us into a dystopian nightmare, with haughty city types becoming luddites huddled round shopping trollies filled with flaming summer clothing, shivering forsaken shrugs.

Trains, buses and trams will be cancelled as huffing commuters splutter furious vitriol disguised as visible clouds of hot breath. The roads will become fairground Dodgem arenas with cars sliding lazily around at jaunty angles, thudding into one another as drivers exchange helpless hand gestures.

“They’ve not even gritted the pavements. Harrumph. Just, bloody typical. Pfffffffffft.”

You might slip and smash your cranium. You might EVEN slip and smash your new iPad.

Perhaps you’ll be taking your fragile kitten to the vets in a little cat box, only to slip and inadvertently hurl Mr Wibbles under the thumping pneumatic drill blade of a man trying to break the metre-thick iceberg engulfing the windscreen of his new Audi.  A drill he paid for with a gram of poor quality salt he received for re-mortgaging his house, as grit becomes bartering currency like prison cigarettes.

At the moment your poor moggy gets splattered, you’ll cry floods tears which immediately freeze the moment they leave your tear ducts and hurtle down to crack the screen of your new iPad.

The demand for grit will spiral out of control as stocks run low and the street price soars. Rival gangs of Eastern European grit cartel will fill the streets in murderous, blood tinged iceball fights to leave Piccadilly gardens like a giant strawberry slush puppy filled with severed limbs.

“Pffft.They’ve not even cleaned up the fingers and heads. They should collect the teeth and grind them into grit. Harrruuummpph.”

The council will have to rename their Twitter feed to @TheRealMCCGritters1 to ward off fake accounts of entrepreneurial conmen selling sacks full of 12% grit, cut with 88% filler of now worthless materials like gold, saffron, truffles and pulped Justin Bieber CDs.

Disenchanted youths, sickened by the councils flaky grit distribution begin to take city by storm as they did in August, but instead of burning down Miss Selfridges, bobble-hatted chavwits will fill Market Street retail outlets with water, leave them over night to turn them into huge clothing-filled prank ice cubes for giants.

Jack Frost becomes the new panto villain in the war on terrorism, facelessly pulling strings in the axis of winter evil as grit becomes the new oil.

Then again, it might just be a bit cold, white and slippy for a bit. All of a sudden the ice will melt where we’ll all immediately snap out of grit-pissed frenzy, yawn, rub our eyes and just get on with our lives.

Either way, follow @MCCGritter1 to find out first hand if you don’t pawn your laptop for a bag of bogus salt.

Phonecall with Barclays – The Panther


Transcribed from vague memory….

Hello Mr Jorgensen, its Jenny from Barclays Premier. Are you free to speak?

Briefly Jenny.

Ok fantastic, thank you. Before we start I’d like to ask if it would it be ok if I call you Mark?

No, I don’t think so.



Ok then, Mr Jorgensen

I don’t want you to call me that either

Erm, Ok. What would you prefer?

The Panther

The…The Panther?

Yes, that’s right, The Panther

Erm, I’m not really sure if…

Everyone calls me The Panther Jenny, and I would ask you to extend me the same courtesy

Oh, ok, panther would it…

Sorry Jenny, it’s ‘THE Panther’, if you don’t mind.

Oh, sorry, The Panther.

Sorry this was terribly rude of me. Is it ok for The Panther to call you Jenny?

Yes, thats fine The Panther, thank you for asking.

Courtesy is a two way street isn’t it Jenny?

Very true The Panther. Are you available to speak to me about upgrading the account level we currently hold for you at Barclays?

No Jenny, I’m afraid The Panther is busy.

Is there a better time for me to speak to The Panther today?

Probably not Jenny, I’m going to be tied up all day with meetings and searching for a wounded gazelle I can smell  in the distance. I’ve been trailing it for a few days now.

Oh, ok The Panther. Perhaps I can try again next week?

Is that a philosophical quandary or a request, Jenny?

I suppose it’s a request, The Panther.

I see,  appreciate your frankness. Yes that’ll be fine Jenny. Have a great day.

You too The Panther, thank you for your time.

Attacked By a Swan: My Story

Originally published by Manchester Confidential


A couple of weeks back, I’d been at a friend’s house drinking budget Caribbean rum and bogaling to some mild commercial reggae and had reluctantly embarked upon the arduous trudge home.

I decided to take a short cut due to the rain, opting to brave the cottagers and weirdos along the Manchester canals. As I ambled cautiously down the dark, snaking pathways back towards the city centre, my attention was drawn to a noise.

A horrifying noise.

A noise I can only liken to a banshee being kicked up a staircase made of broken glass by an elderly blues musician passing a kidney stone.

Stealthily pushing a key between the fingers of my nervous fist, I approach the fluttery epicentre of the racket. I was immediately relieved to see that it wasn’t a howling sex offender as I’d feared, but, a swan engaged in an altercation with a goose. Inherently recalling the first rule of observing nature, I decided it was not my place to intervene so I tried to respectfully sidestep the carnage and carry on about my journey.

Tried being the appropriate word. As I got adjacent to the duelling birds, the swan craned his ridiculous neck to shoot me a menacing glance akin to that of a beaked Jack Nicholson from The Shining after he’d smashed through that door.

Swan: Prick
Swan: Prick

Completely unprovoked, he immediately switched his fury to me, abandoning his battle as the cowardly goose took his chance to escape and left me to face the wrath of his feathery assailant. I can’t really blame the goose, I suppose they are bound by the same rules of observing nature as I was.

In the heat of the moment, time stood still as I was struck by a decision of fight or flight. Being the only one in this tussle incapable of flight, I abandoned my innate desire to never wish to cause harm to an animal and made the admirable decision to fight. I considered a swift, devastating kick to the face. I considered an ambitious, jumping choke hold to incapacitate the beast. I even considered removing a shoe to thrash my foe like a father from the Beano.

As he approached, I had settled upon the perhaps foolish option of trying to punch my way out, and adopted a south-paw boxing stance to try and get inside his evident reach advantage. At the critical moment, that sentence passed through my mind, “the queen owns all of the swans – it’s illegal to kill them”.

Buoyed by sheer terror and mild embarrassment, I revised my plan in a split second. I ran. I ran faster than I’ve ever ran before, thundering along the path with the psychotic bird in tow, squalking intimidating squalks that amidst the chaos, sounded as though they were getting closer.

Just as I scampered under a little overpass, I saw ahead of me a pleasant couple taking a romantic, night time stroll along the canal, who looked absolutely terrified as I came lumbering towards them screaming “FUCKING SWAN!” in a pathetic quivering yelp.

I was astounded that they didn’t run, so I began to slow down, turned around frantically to reveal he had gone. Relieved, yet humiliated, I offered a hopelessly overconfident nod as I attempted to casually swagger past them.

“They’ll break your arm, you know” goes the old apocryphal tale. Well not in Manchester, they’ll rip your head off and quack down the neck hole.

Letter to Venkys – Blackburn Rovers Manager job application

Dear Venkys,

I hope this letter finds you well. I would like to pre-empt the availability of the post of manager of Blackburn Rovers and formally offer my services.

I’m not going to waste time repeating echoes of Steve Kean being a clown, this has been done. I’m not going to accuse you of being just poultry merchants from a distant land whose knowledge of football is on par with my mothers (she once said “there’s a lot of kicking in this game isn’t there?” about a FOOTball match)

Under Big Sam’s guidance we were a quirky little northern club who may have, on occasion, centred unlikely success on the pitch by kicking people in their knees and faces and livers. For years this was an accusation chucked at Rovers which, personally, I loved.

Seeing Arsene Wenger’s post match whining after a brutal 1-0 thrashing at Ewood (in a biblical rather than footballing sense) was a joy to behold. All his pathetic ‘they didn’t play fair’ or ‘knee dropping a fallen opponent in the spine has no place on a football pitch boo hoo’ diatribe simply served to provide the supporters of the ‘little men’ with the kudos of knowing that in the face of great adversity, violence usually wins.

If I were to liken premier league clubs to animals, which I often do, I would probably have once considered us the honey badger – small and unassuming creature with a fearsome bite foolishly viewed as a pushover for larger foes.  I don’t know whether you have seen any footage of the honey badger but there’s one of these lads eating a massive cobra.

Unfortunately, I fear we are now plankton, simply there to serve a purpose as bottom of the pile in the football food chain. There are no youtube videos of plankton other than them being eaten by whales.

Where has the violence gone? We are still comfortably near the bottom of the fair play table, yet are bottom of the league after a string of woeful performances. Consider that when we were under the tutelage of Big Sam, we were still magnificently bottom of the fair play league but comfortably mid table and reaching cup semi finals.

Big Sam brought in people like Michel ‘Mad Dog’ Salgado and Gael ‘The Bastard’ Givet to kick the leagues so-called cultured footballers into writhing little shitheaps on the ground. All the while their management ‘tacticians’ with sand in their vaginas screeching hysterical accusations of foul play and complain to a camera in the safety of a television studio.

We need our players to be angry, fire-breathing wankers who may not be technically the most gifted footballers in the league, but how many step-overs do you think opponents will be able to do with dislocated hips or a perforated ribcage?

Therefore I have devised a management plan, which I have under trademark to avoid Steve Kean using as his own. It’s called the Mame And Destroy Complete Unbridled Nightmare Terror System, or to use the acronym MAD CUNTS.

The system is separated into three main areas; combat, mind control, and conditioning.


Here I will attempt to utilise techniques pioneered by the Korean People’s Army. Despite often being diminutive in stature, their soldiers are hard as nails by using a campaign of good old fashioned battering. I have provisionally contacted Kim Jong-il for a ‘Director of Football and Oppression’ position now that he’s currently unemployed.

There is a quite famous clip of a series of Korean soldiers being ‘evaluated’ by illustrating who can best withstand being smashed over the head and limbs with massive logs. Seems extreme but if I were to come face to face with a man who has prepared by being smacked repeatedly with a ‘two be four’, I reckon he’s got the edge from the off.

After each training session, the players will have to participate in a ‘log off’. I’m aware this sounds like a defecating competition, but I can assure you it isn’t – that’s in phase two which I will introduce in due course.

The players’ weekly wages will be halved, with the remaining 50% earned on a commission basis for how long they can withstand me and my coaching staff smashing them with sticks whilst repeating insulting limericks about their loved ones.

Mind Control

Here I will implement brainwashing and acute psychological goading, as used in British Espionage film The Ipcress File.

IPCRESS stands for “Induction of Psycho-neuroses by Conditioned Reflex under Stress” and is a process of systematic brain-draining and subliminal mind programming through carefully controlled and intrusive stimulus. I won’t so much use careful control and opt for my own revolutionary approach of brutal torture and mindless hectoring. Let’s see how many good chances Jason Roberts spurns after a couple of sessions of waterboarding while watching warped looped videos of someone dressed as a mutilated clown smashing rabbits under a hammer.

Michael Caine admirably got the better of this process in the film, by using distractive pain with a needle. Luckily, I can’t imagine many of the Rovers players having had any ‘in the event of capture’ training.

As part of this, I will also ensure that each of the players undergoes regression therapy to try and understand their deepest fears and anxieties in order for me to use these memories as bait for aggressive riposte. For example, I’d get one of the YTS lads dressed as an apparition of Paul Robinsons grandmother to visit him during the night and repeatedly belt him with a slipper shouting “you worthless little prick, you know why Jesus died? Do you? It’s because you touched your winkie. And the dog, think of poor fluffy – he died because you humiliated the family by crying at school.”


Ivan Pavlov, as I’m sure you’re aware was a Russian Physiologist best known for classical conditioning and famously used dogs to demonstrate associative learning in which a stimulus acquires the capacity to evoke a response that was originally evoked by another stimulus. This may sound complicated but in lamens terms, I will reward the players for displays of aggressive acts. So if N’zonzi kicks an opponent in the throat, he will receive a biscuit.

In the training ground I will implement automated kicking posts, whereby the players will have to perform the most aggressive foul possible, whereby a treat will be release automatically if the correct force is used. Like in the Crystal Maze.

 To retain the right balance of learned behaviour and unbridled fear, there will be a random surprise or two, whereby instead of a treat, a swarm of antagonised hornets will be released at the player.

If they do not deliver the correct force onto the kicking post twice during any one nine-hour session, they will spend 45 minutes encased in a Perspex chamber filled with spiders and a violently diarrheal honey badger, with each of their team mates forced to watch every upsetting second.

I don’t really know an awful lot about tactics or any of that mumbo jumbo, but considering you wrongfully identified Steve Kean’s ‘tactical knowledge’ as the right direction for the club, I’m thinking a fresh approach might be just the ticket.

I realise much of this may sound harsh, arguably bordering on psychotic, but I think once Stockholm Syndrome kicks in a la Josef Fritzl and they begin to respect and even admire their mistreatment, the aggression will kick back in and we can once again turn Ewood Park into the fortress it used to be.  Watch the videos of those Korean soldiers and tell me cruel oppressive punishment doesn’t get results.

 My initial basic wage will be £25,000 per week and unlimited access to chicken, if Yakubu hasn’t eaten your stocks dry.

fowl regards,

Mark Jorgensen


Letter to the Daily Mail

Dear Daily Mail,

I wanted to get in touch with you regarding a matter that has been nagging me for a little while. I have only ever passively read the Mail due to my liberal, leftie stance on most issues which tends to be in conflict with the neo-conservative and pitchfork-waving position you hold. I have actually only really read your paper when visiting family members or in waiting rooms.

Nevertheless, I know there are many things for which your big racist flag is stabbed well and truly in the ground and leaves no opportunity for conjecture or wrongful interpretation.

These generally seem to be things that you are in staunch opposition to such as immigrants, gays, students, foreigners, travellers, rap music, poor people, the 10 billion nonces living in MY neighbourhood, rock music,  drugs (even the fun ones), liberals, teenagers, mobile phones, war-protesting cowards, vegans, foxes, Belgium, to be honest the list could go on until my fingers bleed weary tears of tedium.

I must clarify that I agree about being in opposition to nonces if nothing else, but I think you go a little over board. Better safe than nonce-buggered I hear you cry. Perhaps so, but I’d argue its better to be rational than ridiculous.

There is one issue that I really can’t seem to get my head around where you stand. Assuming that a large proportion of the populace may sculpt their opinions, actions and lifestyle in accordance with whatever their daily rag of choice spoon feeds into their mushy, impressionable brains; I wondered if you could clarify your position once and for all.

The issue in question is the big C word. Not that one, you mucky minded Tories, you. No, not what Jan Moir would chant while performing her bigoted, celebratory dances on the graves of gay people, the other C. Cancer.

Cancer is just a grim reality of modern life that will unfortunately probably touch each of us in one way or another. However, I don’t think that your current approach to covering such an important and emotive topic provides any insight, guidance, information or any form of reality whatsoever to be even considered horseshit let alone news.

Here are some of the things the Daily Mail has thus far warned – on separate occasions  – contribute to the development of cancer:

Till receipts, sausages, Pringles, pizza, soup, water, pickles, fish, Hoola Hoops, Diet Coke, well cooked meat, under cooked meat, being a man, pork, being a woman, coffee, deodorant, chicken, bread, bubble bath, sex, Worcestershire sauce, being from the south, biscuits, being tall…..and so on.

(I am happy to provide URL’s to any of these articles if you think I am being facetious).

And here is a list of things that The Daily Mail has in separate articles suggested can both cause and prevent cancer:

Tomatoes, fibre, eggs, fish, grapefruit, being a man, being a woman, mouthwash, vitamin pills, sex, milk, well, to save my typing again, you get the picture don’t you?

Perhaps if you could come back to me and suggest your stance on the following which I am concerned about, by writing next to each, either –

a) Causes cancer

 b) Prevents cancer

 c) Possibly both in one way or another dependent on a multitude of different genetic, chemical, biological and environmental factors. Truth is, there’s probably evidence to support either answer depending on which way you choose to interpret vague information, data, studies and ‘rent an expert’ interviews. So its advisable to just know how to try and live a healthy lifestyle as best you can and we’ll just keep quiet about the whole thing until we get some form of resounding proof that what we’re saying holds any tangible or reasonable health advice whatsoever. To be honest, we’re not a health journal and we have very little knowledge of the onset of most if not all diseases, so literally anybody could actually tell us anything and if it sounds vaguely sensational or scary enough we’ll print the bastard.

So that’s a, b or c for…

 Snails, unicycles, hp sauce, oxygen, Eastenders, doors, juggling, badgers, urination, custard creams, chimneys, wasps, grass, pate, dogs, masturbation, corned beef, ice pops, wham bars, erotic dancing, Tippex, carpets, penny whistles, the music of Brian Adams, desk fans, jelly, wolves, pepper, the wind, the moon, the sky, Monster Munch, Earth, Wind & Fire (the band), the Swiss, toboggans, Soda Streams and newspaper ink.

 I suspect that bar obvious things such as smoking (for which there is unquestionable scientific evidence) the answer is generally going to be C for most things. So it’s probably best just keep out of it and stick to what you do best; trying to insight unreasonable prejudice from rar rar’s and bastards toward minority groups and poor people.

Let’s face it you have the creative control and aversion to reason which seemingly allows you to print pretty much anything you like. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to read an article warning that polish immigrants will mercilessly bugger my unborn children and house pets with dildo’s made from pulped taxpayers banknotes unless I eat more organic cucumbers. Or that waving at trains almost definitely leads to the onset of amoebic dysentery. (At the time of writing you have not yet printed any articles to this effect but I will be checking after I have sent this letter for signs of plagiarism).

To thank you with your cooperation with the above request, I have the address of a guy who looks suspiciously like a paedophile to me and would be happy to send across for you to print. He wears unfathomably large glasses, seems like a bit of a loner and always carries a bulky looking rucksack. That’s generally good enough for me.

Kind regards,