Letter to The Sun

Dear The Sun,

Please excuse my unsolicited contact but I wanted to offer my services to you in a part-time consultancy position which I believe is vacant, and doesn’t currently exist.

I must concede that I have traditionally never read The Sun until recently, partly due to growing up in Merseyside where your paper doesn’t really have a great reputation and partly due to an ill conceived desire for actual ‘news’. However, I have recently had my eyes opened to the virtues of your ‘newspaper’ and soundly lambasted myself for failing to comprehend that I had such an easily accessible and cheap daily source of tits and unsubstantiated hysteria all along.

The position in question is as Director of ‘News’. The football fans amongst you maybe aware of a recent trend for clubs to appoint a ‘director of football’, which I suspect nobody – including the people appointed in these positions – knows what the title actually means. I interpret that they are there to provide faceless and stand-offish guidance to a non existent and irrelevant process. A bit like a mental elderly lady who claims she strangled her cat because the ghost of her dead husband told her to do it.

That’s what I believe I can offer The Sun. I will operate very much behind the scenes, confidently pulling the strings of whimsy like a masturbating puppeteer with a puppet made of lies. This is metaphorical masturbation only, I try to keep that out of the workplace as much as possible and have a character reference to this effect.

But how will you affect our news output Mark? I hear you ask. Well, assuming that you would ask this, I have prepared some examples of stories and columns which I think illustrates the direction I intend to bring with me. Too many news outlets seem to have their priorities skewed and tend to focus on actual events rather than the essence of what good news should be – the fabrication of absolutely anything which doesn’t even have to sound vaguely plausible let alone legally compliant. Having closely studied the different daily newspapers, you seem to share this ethos so I think, together, we could make a formidable collective.

What would you rather read a headline saying “Bank of England warns of severe market strains”, or “WAXWORK BISHOP WANKED HIMSELF INSIDE OUT  – NOW LOOK AT THESE TITS!”. Yes, me too.

Previously the Sport have attempted this revolutionary approach to news, but I feel they have lacked the touch of class that we can offer.

Here are some examples of the kind of the output which I think we would achieve together if you appoint me to this post. You’ll notice that none of the material is particularly well written, intelligent, nor indeed true, but I think we can both agree that these are all trivial hurdles which blight many rivals attempts to sell papers.

News in brief

Police in Dudley have detained seven urban foxes and ‘a shifty rat-looking thing’ in what they describe as “a vague interpretation of the Terrorism Act.”

It is understood that the investigation, which involved security service MI5, relates to suspected Islamist extremism after the animals were discovered to be rooting round some bins which were ‘only 7 miles from a Mosque’ and contained materials synonymous with home bomb making.

Animal rights activists have lobbied against the arrests, campaigning for the release of the creatures outside Whitehall in a protest dubbed ‘fairly gay’ by Police Commissioner Tom Godwin.

“I really don’t understand some people. First we can’t shoot Brazilian people running to catch the tube and now this. How about we just sit around scratching our balls and let these enemies of freedom just waltz around blowing up your children? How about that? Is that what you want? Didn’t think so. I don’t go round to their shanty little vegan cafes telling them how to make a flapjack out of cress or whatever so I don’t see why they’ve got the audacity to turn up here telling me how to do my job” Godwin told BBC News 24.

Television Review

Drug-debt Firesale, ITV1, Weekdays 12.30

ITV’s new flagship afternoon suicide distraction for the housebound, presented by Claudia Winkleman, visits the squalid homes of drug addicts as they desperately scour their bedsits for items they can sell at auction to ease debts and fund addiction.

This week saw a notably appalled Claudia help Clive, a hapless but committed glue sniffer from Oldham, try to sell his TV aerial, bath taps and rusted cheese grater for scrap metal in time for the visit of the Albanians’ debt enforcer.

Favourite scene – Claudia gagging raucously while helping a naked and visibly inebriated Clive sift through mounds of his own excrement looking for a gold tooth he suspects he may have swallowed after collapsing head-first through a table the night previous. The moment where Clive finally conceded that he may never have had a gold tooth, nor a table, was an absolute treat. 8/10

Film Review

Jizzmatazz 3d, on general release

Pixar’s latest animation follows Frank and Raymond, two cheeky sperm whose lives are turned upside down as they find themselves catapulted violently from their testicular domicile into the tear duct of a prostitute and set upon on a whacky adventure as they search for the promised land of the uterus.

The main characters, voiced by Nicholas Lyndhurst and Chris Tucker, embark on a heartbreaking tale of friendship, tragedy and innards as they decide who gets to fertilize the egg if they ever reach it, if indeed the prostitute in question is not barren after years of drug abuse and grotesque genital hygiene. The initial scene where the pair are ejaculated into the sobbing eye of the prostitute is what 3d cinema was invented for and will have you ducking from the huge glob of spunk in your seat – spectacular. Watch out for an excellent cameo from John Leslie as a grumpy Caledonian liver.

Favourite scene – After taking a wrong turn at the esophagus, Frank’s heroic gesture to risk his life to save Raymond after he tickles the whores gag reflex and the pair battle valiantly to hold on amongst a perilous river of vomit. 9/10


Following their announcement that they plan to build a state of the art training complex in the heart of the city, Manchester City executive Brian Marwood has announced that the club plan to open a fully functioning Death Star by 2015 to “maximize intergalactic commercial opportunities”

“It’s an interesting project. The owners have a vision far beyond football I don’t see any reason why the transformation of Manchester City wouldn’t naturally progress onto an omnipresent super-corporation like Skynet from the Terminator films. But rest assured that our intentions are purely commercial, and at this stage the club has no plans to develop a race of part-sentient killer cyborgs who look like Robert Patrick, hell-bent on destroying the human race” read a statement on the clubs official website.


Aquatic swan-bothering comedian David Walliams has exclusively revealed to The Sun the secret of his endurance during his latest swimming heroics – necromancy!

The star has revealed that he was first introduced to the dark art by showbiz pal David Furnish and has taken to shamanic droning atop a pile of fishermen skulls for the purposes of divination, enhanced stroke technique and to harness the unforgiving majesty of the ocean.

Walliams said “He told me that he and Elton used to use Necromancy in the bedroom to really spice things up a bit as Elton has always had a bit of a fetish for Sabian star worshipers, and after getting him to read parts of Homer’s Odyssey to me it really struck a cord. I’m planning on swimming the pacific, using only butterfly stroke, in April.”


These are just some vague examples that we can explore, and we can discuss my remuneration package and the finer details more at interview, so let me know when is good for you and I’ll come in to get this tied up. Please note that I do currently work full time so this will have to be on a part time basis, I’m free Wednesday and Thursday nights.

Thank you for reading (if you have got this far), and I look forward to hearing from you. Big things await.

Kind regards,

Mark Jorgensen

Letter to Nestle – The day you made my soul Rolo-ver and die.

To whom it may concern,

Before I embark upon the main point of my letter, I would initially like to congratulate you on two Rolo related matters as I am a staunch advocate of credit where credit is due.

Firstly, my love for your little toffee filled chocolate cylinders really knows no bounds. I am completely genuine when I say that Rolo’s have played no small part in the memories and experiences that make me who I am today at 28. (And by that, I don’t mean fat, nobody likes a fat kid do they? I was always careful to subsidise my Rolo consumption relative to my natural childish exuberance for scampering around the neighbourhood).

Secondly, thanks to your “give someone special your last Rolo” I actually encountered my first kiss with a girl and I remember it like it was yesterday. She was called Jennifer, her beautiful smile and understated coquettish charm had been overlooked by many of my peers and, one night at the school disco having spotted my chance, I offered her my last Rolo. She was earnestly taken aback and we ended up sharing a magical kiss behind the 6th form block – which I account squarely to your campaign. The same night she actually got fingered by George Matthews after necking a bottle of 20/20 which broke my heart and left me nursing acute issues of self worth and a warped mistrust for females, but this is none of your concern and I will be writing a separate letter to the makers of 20/20 regarding this.

So you can see, I am a big fan of both your product, and the cheekily effective way in which you market it.

This is why it is with great regret that I have to contact you on such terms.

A couple of days ago, my friend Oliver and I were sat in a local cafe putting the world to rights after a heavy week. Feeling slightly world-weary and nursing an expresso to try to ignite some much needed caffeine energy into my bruised and jaded mind, Oliver pulled a packet of Rolos from the inner pocket of his cagoule. (It was pissing down, by the way, he wasn’t using a cagoule as some sort of bohemian fashion statement – I wouldn’t associate myself with someone like that. I’ve only just learnt to forgive another close friend for wearing deck shoes without socks).

Anyway. There they were. In my hour of down-trodden desperation, this unassuming little cylinder of joy was to provide the chocolate coated, caramel filled shot in the arm I needed. The shot in the arm is a reference only, I am not likening my love for Rolos to any sort of chemical dependence, and particularly not mainlining heroin into a genital vein as this reference may be wrongly interpreted.

Like a child on Christmas day, I eagerly watched on as Ollie opened the packet, chomping at the bit to seek solace in the majesty of these little chews. Ollie, forever the gent, saw my mewing expression and offered one my way first which I nobly pounced upon.

After taking a bite, something was wrong. It was tough all the way through. The look of abject horror written on my face must have cause alarm for Ollie as he paused with his Rolo in hand.

“Bite it in half”, I ordered sternly.

“You what? Why?”

“Bite. It. In. Half.” I reinforced, more calmly but no less stern. The tone of my request I later regretted.

Ollie obliged and bit his Rolo in half. Just as I’d suspected, no caramel. Just chocolate all the way through. ‘Not today’ I thought, ‘please not today of all days’.

But yes, today. Not one single Rolo had so much of a speck of caramel goodness inside. These are not Rolo’s, these are insulting lumps of indiscriminate chocolate in Rolo clothing.

“Where did you get these?” I pined, clutching at straws as though inferring he had bought them from a vagrant in a pub toilet.

But I could not square any blame at Ollie. He had done things by the book and bought these ‘Rolos’ through the usual channels. No, the blame lies squarely with Nestle for what happened to me that day.

I’ve spoken to many people about this kind of issue and some people suggest they would be delighted to receive chocolate-only Rolos as some form of mutated treat. Well, frankly, I am not one of those people.

In my hour of need, my Rolo reprieve was ruined, and without being sensationalist, from the way it made me feel, a Nestle representative may as well have come into my house on Christmas day, burped on my turkey then battered the family kitten to death with an empty sherry bottle as the queen looked on in mocking indifference through the television.

I wanted to write to you in order to make you aware of this grievous error in quality control, and seek your reassurances that I will never, ever, be subjected to this again.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Upsetting regards,

Mark Jorgensen & Oliver Furness


Manchester City Council – Freedom of Information


Dear Manchester City Council,

You may have seen in the news recently that following an enquiry from a concerned citizen, Leicester City Council were forced to concede that they have are unprepared for the advent of a zombie attack.

Being the progressive and well managed local authority you are, I’m confident you have the requisite zombie provisions in place. Personally, I have my own plans in such an eventuality and excuse me if I don’t share them. After such a catastrophe, it will be a ‘dog eat dog’ situation and the fewer people who know about my plan the better really. (What I will say is something that people in zombie films have all failed to realise is padding. The first thing I’d do is put on several layers of clothes as insulation against bites).

While I am confident that you have the necessary contingencies for zombies, I’m concerned about what provisions you have in place for supernatural threats of other kinds.

Under the Freedom of Information Act, I would appreciate if you could advise me on your provisions for the following –

–         ManBearPig

This is a hugely dangerous hybrid creature which is half man, half bear and half pig. Or maybe half man and half bear-pig. Or maybe half pig and half man-bear and was first identified by former US President Al Gore.

A rogue ManBearPig on the loose in Manchester would cause a significant public threat so what actions would the council take to ensure the safety of the people of the city?

–         Vampires

I have recently become suspicious that within our society we have a secret cabal of super vampires living amongst us. These fangy ghouls, I suspect, seem to the naked eye to be every day people, who may work in shops, offices and most notably in positions of power such as the Police. You may even have some over there at the council. Everyone knows that vampires have both an insatiable blood lust as well as a sneering pompous hatred towards humans and it must only be a matter of time before they decide quietly picking us off one by one in alleyways is not enough, and wrangle us all together in to huge abattoirs to be cultivated like blood cattle.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. They can’t have jobs like that as they are strictly nocturnal and evaporate into a cloud of dust when exposed to daylight, but I believe this is simply a fallacy used for illustrative effect in films and pop culture – either that or they could cunningly lacquer their skin, rendering them impervious to the damaging effects of the sunlight; like vampire sun block.

I know I’ve rambled on but I wanted to give you as much information as I can and I am genuinely concerned about the safety of the people of Manchester.

Please provide any information you may have.

Yours worryingly,

Mark Jorgensen

Abramovich’s letter to Watchdog

Copy letter

Dear Watchdog,

Firstly I’ve always been a big fan of the show, your steely, philanthropic crusade to ‘battle for the little guy’ is reassuringly heart-warming and you are undoubtedly the ‘Jim’ll Fix it’ of criminal negligence. Not Nicky Cambell though, he always slightly nauseated me.

Onto business. I am the owner/CEO of a company called Chelsea Football Club, providing football solutions to both the 35-68 Crayfish Ciabatta, and the 18-45 tattooed Lambretta demographics. After ploughing a significant amount of personal capital in transforming my company into a market-leader, I have over the last couple of years, tempered my investment.

I’m not going to lie, I’m not exactly a ‘little guy’ as such, but I have felt the pinch of the global recession as much as any other Tom, Dick and Gary. That was until recently, with growing stakeholder pressure mounting through poor performance in the first 2 quarters of the financial season, I agreed to bankroll an investment of £50m to purchase a Fernando Torres.

With my company long needing a Torres to boost the potency of our market standing and to uplift a beleaguered workforce, I managed to source one from a company called Liverpool Football Club I found in an industry magazine.

Now, as a youngster growing up in rural Russia, my father was an astute businessman who only ever gave me once piece of entrepreneurial advice, which I’ll never forget.  “Roman, there are two types of people in this world who you should never do business with, Cossacks and Scousers, you’ll end up paying through the arse.” he said.

Wary of this, I made my first telephone enquiry to the company they told me they didn’t have any Fernando Torres available, but they did have an N’gog and a couple of Poulson’s. Sensing the opportunity to barter, “even for £50m?” I asked confidently. “er…I’ll av te get the gaffer lad, ang on”. Check. Mate. I felt like Gary Kasparov.

A few moments passed when a rather out-of-breath American gentleman answered the phone “hey there sir, I’m John W Henry, Frank told me all about your generous offer, and I’d like to say we’d be delighted to accept. How would you like your Torres delivered, is helicopter ok?”.

“Well, yes that would be fine. Send us an invoice and we’ll do a BACS transfer tomorrow”. This seemed to easy, I thought, smelling a rat. Nevertheless, the record of the Torres model is unquestionable, so it seemed like a no-brainer. As the popular expression goes, if something sounds too good to be true, it invariably is.

My instincts never usually let me down so I was happy to have done the deal, as were the board, the whole company was buzzing. However, this hysteria turned out to be short lived as upon installation, the Fernando Torres we purchased transpired to be fraudulent dross, allowing those bastards to get the better of us in monthly performance.

I was absolutely furious, as we have shelled out our biggest investment for years on a foppish lesbian looking thing which couldn’t hit a bison’s arse with a BMW.

They said they have posted a receipt, which has never arrived. Their accounts department claim they have no record of my transaction and the invoice number I’ve quoted doesn’t exist. Through stifled laughter, their Finance director advised me that “all of our invoices start with LFC01 lad, so we’ve got no record of MUG50000000”.

I’ve been taken for a ride by these cowboys and I also hear through my network of sources that they are planning to take £45m off rival competitor Manchester United for a ‘blag’ Pepe Reina they picked up in Egypt for £50. They have to be stopped before anyone else can suffer at the hands of these fraudsters.

I look forward to hearing from you to explain in more detail.

Jilted regards,

Roman Douglas Abramovich

P.s. I will offer a reward of £1,000,000 and one Soloman Kalou to anyone who can bring me Damien Commoli’s head in a leather satchel. Put that in your TV show.

Complaint email to BT

To whom it may concern at BT,

I trust this email finds you well. Unfortunately, this is where my pleasantries must cease. I am not usually a confrontational person so it is with regret that I contact you in such a manner. Last night whilst contacting BT trying to solve a quandary with my BT homehub broadband service I was reduced to angrily pacing around my flat shouting and swearing like a Milwall supporter with tourettes syndrome.

To provide a bit of background as to how out of character this is, I’d like to regale a short story to you. A couple of years back, in the height of a particularly clement British summertime, I was unexpectedly stung by a bee whilst dancing around my room to some mild commercial reggae. Chaka Demus and Pliers, if memory serves.

After the initial shock, I was hit with surge of anger which left me wanting to smash the offending bee into a sticky twitching clump with a nearby copy of the metro, but having picked up the paper, I was suddenly hit with a pang of conscience. I recalled the fact that once a bee has administered its sting, its entrails and vital organs are torn away from their housing and the bee is left to die. Despite the pain I was suffering, I didn’t want to deprive the bee of a respectful death and consequently guided it out of the window with a glass and a piece of cardboard to afford this sentient creature the chance of a peaceful death in its chosen surroundings.

I’ve since discovered via the quiz show QI that only one species of the several indigenous to the UK actually die after administering the sting. It probably wasn’t dying and so perhaps I should have killed it. But, even so, I’m still quietly glad that I didn’t. I don’t know if insects bleed, as such, but there is no bee plasma on my hands.

The only reason I told you that story is to explain that I am not the kind of person to lose my temper at the drop of a hat. So for BT to reduce me to an obscene screeching gargoyle, the circumstances must have been rather severe.

I’ll give you some background. After idle research into broadband providers, my flatmate ordered the BT homehub service on somewhat of an arbitrary whim. Of all broadband providers, BT’s name, arguably alongside Sky and perhaps Virgin (i’ve no time for Murdoch or Branson), seemed the standout provider so she felt in the heat of the moment that it would be a safe bet.

And thus our hub arrived. Having spent the previous few months desperately trying to beg, steal or borrow any form of connectivity in an age so dependent on the internet, I was delighted to have finally cast our flat free of our Luddite existence and into the 21st century.

The dizzy world of the internet was suddenly at my excited fingertips. Whether my desire was to view videos of a fat Korean boy breakdancing on YouTube, or the rather more murky worlds of Brazilian cake-farting or Japanese Bukkake porn, I could finally surf the net as I pleased.

Suddenly, I received a bill for my first month’s usage; £42. For one month. As it transpires, the tariff we’d been placed upon meant that we had a download limit of 20GB, and were charged £1 for every GB thereafter. I’ve discussed this with my flatmate and I’m not going to debate whether the BT sales department had communicated this at the point of sale, but I suspect not.

I looked online and realised for just over half of what I was paying with you, I could have unlimited broadband with a faster speed complete with Sky TV. Nevertheless, I thought, it may cost a lot, but at least I have the internet. Plus we were contracted anyway.

A few months elapsed without incident. Costly, but without incident.

Then, I was unfortunate enough to be the subject of debit card fraud, with some pilfering scoundrel snaffling every penny from my account the day after pay day before any of my direct debits were due to come out. Naturally, all payments bounced yet I solved the problem with my rent, utility bills and mobile phone without any problem as they all empathised with my situation. BT disconnected my line and demanded I paid a reconnection fee once the outstanding fees were settled.

I finally managed to get this fee quashed after a series of heated and expensive phonecalls. Yet I seem to recall the tone of the supervisor I’d spoken to being very much that they had afforded me a philanthropic olive branch of such magnitude, that any future payment indiscretions would result in me being brought before an omnipotent panel of BT directors to explain why I’d had the gall to treat British Telecom in such a manner.

Additionally, I must also point out that the process of both disconnecting my line, and contacting me to demand monies was extremely efficiently and quickly administered.

Fast forward to 17th January 2011. ‘Blue Monday’, as it was dubbed by the British media as the most depressing day on the calendar. I’d had rather a frustrating day at work, not to mention the raging hangover I was suffering from a weekend of drinking cheap supermarket cider, I arrived home looking forward to laying in bed and browsing internet pornography at my leisure.

It’s important to note that for the month preceding, the performance of my homehub had begun to resemble a wheezing, emphasemic child with rickets competing in the 110m hurdles, cutting out every fifteen minutes.

But this night, on Blue Monday, it finally collapsed.

Frustrated, I contacted BT and after 15 minutes of holding, I was put through to the contact centre in where I suspect to be India. Now, I have been party to several arguments about overseas call centres in the past as I’ve always seen it as an excuse for people to vent snobbery and casual racism. I’m pleased to say that your counterparts in India were charming and, unfortunately, shackled by the ineptitude and bureaucracy of British Telecom. Their dealing with my complaint, obsequious as it was, showed genuine altruism and I could sense the embarrassment that they were as pissed off with BT as I was.

I got extremely angered during the call, not through the dealings of the operator, but through BT’s casual stance of ‘there may be some sort of problem with the line so we’ll probably have to have a look into it and come back to you’. I explained that due to a number of commitments for which I am bound (not porn, this time), I desperately need internet access every evening. He said they would call me back at 12.30 the next day once remote diagnostics had been done. I was called at 1.30 saying that the problem had been fixed and they’d call me at a convenient time when I was at home to confirm so we agreed 6pm.

At 7pm, with the broadband still not working I called and, after being on hold for 25 minutes, (I’d also suggest a more uplifting hold music to be interspersed with hollow apologies and assurances of my importance, maybe ‘No Letting Go by Wayne Wonder. It’s a shit song but its the one I feel best incorporates the scenario in hand), I was given assurances that BT will endeavour to perhaps get an engineer out to me tomorrow, if it’s convenient. Which it isn’t as, surprisingly, I’ll be at work. I asked if we could predetermine a time so I can ensure that I could come back on my lunch hour to let the engineer in. “(sigh), I’m sorry sir, but the best we can offer is some time between 1pm-6pm” replied your Indian counterpart.

Deciding to seize the ‘bull by the horns’, I respectfully requested to speak to the supervisor. In a surreal turn of circumstance, the operator informed me that there is a strict BT protocol for which someone can be put through to a line manager, and my situation was “not severe enough to warrant a manager” as I’d only reported the problem 24 hours earlier.

This was the point that I suffered a flashback like that lad from the Bourne trilogy, albeit less dramatic, and was cast back to the moment that stripy-arsed bastard stung me those years before and with a surge of adrenaline, I unleashed a tirade of fury befitting of Gordon Ramsey trying to manage the kitchen at your average Little Chef. And for this, I am not proud, but I found it interesting that my circumstance suddenly transformed to being severe enough for a supervisor to issue me the divine honour of His presence.

Perhaps, my unabated and deep-seeded subconscious vengeance of letting that bee, masquerading as a kamikaze attacker, out of my window manifested in my angry outburst toward your operator and emotion got the better of me.

Still, despite our 20 minute conversation reiterating my discontent, an engineer may be here tomorrow, perhaps between 1pm-6pm, probably GMT.

I don’t know what I’m expecting by writing this correspondence to you, but I look forward to receiving the thoughts of BT, should my circumstance be deemed ‘severe’ enough to warrant a response of course.

Please bear in mind that my contract is shortly up for renewal, so it would take a gesture of astounding proportion for me to renew with BT for the next year, so I implore you to consider your response diligently.

Hysterical regards,

Mark Jorgensen