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This is a question Letters they'll never read

"Apologies, anger, declarations of love, things you want to say to people, but can't or didn't get the chance to." Suggestion via reducedfatLOLcat.

(, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 13:56)
Pages: Latest, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Dear dyslexics,
The unforgivably excessive permutations of terminology and phraseology in the English language undoubtedly appear impenetrable to you. Etymological derivations from multitudinous antediluvian sources must engender bewilderment; to this problematic repetoire, the inexorable advancement of time bequeaths neologisms - nascent, oft-impenetrable linguistic units frequently defying logical explanation. The vagaries of the language must be vexatious to your lexically-disadvantaged prefrontal cortexes; irrespective of your valiant and most strenuous effort, abject failure to comprehend is unfortunately inevitable. In respect of your likelihood of assimilating the information contained within this unnecessarily-abstruse missive, I can only conclude – you’re fucked.

(, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 22:57, 12 replies)
To my son, born 28th February 2010
To my darling beautiful son,

It's been a week and a half since I gave birth to you, and I just want you to know just how proud I am of you. How much I love you. How perfect you are.

You have your dad's face, you know that? You should know, I told you a million times, I'm sure. But my nose. You were always going to have my nose - there's no way you were getting out of it. It's a good nose. Your perfect little arms and legs, all long and gangly, they're your dad's. Your feet, your hands... Perfect.

I cherish every moment of my pregnancy, every little kick I felt. Even the times you would scare me by not kicking for a while, then trying to karate-chop your way out of me when I got too worried. I even cherish the heartburn you were responsible for!

You're so loved, little one. I spent the whole two days we were in hospital after you were born stroking your little face, amazed by your soft skin. Your dad had a lot of cuddles when I could bring myself to give you up.

I'm not sure I'll ever understand why your heart stopped beating while you were inside of me. Even if all the tests they did on the two of us show a medical reason, I'll never know why I was fated to be the mummy of a stillborn child. I'll never know why I had to plan a funeral for my baby when I was meant to still be pregnant.

I'm happy I was able to give you life inside me, that you seem to have died happy. At 32 weeks, you would have discovered dreams recently. I hope they were nice, baby boy. Did you dream about me like I did you? Could you hear me planning for your birth? Are you as proud of me as I am of you?

I'm glad we were allowed that time with you - I never knew that I would be allowed to keep you in the room with me after you were born. I'm glad we got a lot of photos of you. Do you know that the photographer that came and took your photo is putting some up for selection in an exhibition especially for pictures of sick or stillborn children? Your dad and I are so incredibly proud of that fact - even someone who sees a lot of children all the time knows how beautiful you are!

I was so scared every time someone would come into the room, thinking they were coming to take you away from me. Having to walk away from that hospital room was the hardest part of my life up to that point - it's now been succeeded by having to place the lid on your coffin.

I can still see your little face when I close my eyes. I hope those images never fade away. I hope I never forget the feeling of your sweet soft skin under my fingertips. I hope I continue to smell your scent in quiet moments. I know I'll never forget you.

It's been a week and a half since I gave birth to you, and I'm sure you know how proud I am of you. How much I love you. How perfect you are, even in death.

Love always,
Your mummy.
(, Tue 9 Mar 2010, 14:26, 31 replies)
Dear Mr Waterstone.
Recently I purchased a copy of the Karma Sutra from your online slaes site. I would like to say that it arrived very quickly and within the time promised. I should like to return the book as it has caused some unrest in this household.

I would like to point out several entries in the book which in my opinion could not only cause harm but could result in a breach of health and safety regulations. I would appreciate your feedback at the earliest opportunity.

1. Page 37 Number 29: Now this is supposed to be The Scissors where the gentleman gains entry to the muff while laying in opposite directions. This position is impossible and climax can can only be achieved by lesbians. All we manged to do was fart up eachother's arseholes. Do you not understand that when a man has a broom on it needs to face north. No amount of bending or twisting will allow one's chopper to face the feet with that quantity of blood in it.
We tried it out which resulted in me pulling a muscle in my chap and an embarrassing visit to my GP who failed to contain her surgerylols.

2. Page 41 Number 37: The alternative oral position. What is wrong with a 69? Why do you find it necessary to invent another way? I can only assume this is classed as an oral position as we discovered, all you can actually do is talk about it.

3. Page 61 Number 52: The Dive. Now this is just silly. The diagram (fig 1) clearly shows the man who is clearly nursing a full stiffie belly flopping on top of the woman from a standing position, not only scoring a bull but also both parties escaping injury free.
We tried it but it all went horribly wrong. I stood at the bottom of the bed with a cock like a car jack and as shown, I dived on top of my mrs who was laying on her back with her legs so far apart she was almost doing the splits. Her snapper was wide open and let's face it, it's not exactly a small target these days. She was quite horny and was dripping like a fucked fridge so I was confident this would be a pleasurable experience. Now you know that feeling when you're playing snooker and as soon as you hit the cue ball, you know instantly that you have missed the shot, well that is a realisation you do not want to experience when you are in mid air about to land on top of your wife. This resulted in me doing a diana.

4. Page 104 Number 84a: I am not into that sort of thing!

5. Page 147 Number 222: The Wheelbarrow. I quite enjoyed this one at first. The idea is the woman lays face down on the floor while the gentleman lifts up her ankles waist high and she then walks around the room on her hands while the gentleman gains muff entry at the same time. We were getting quite good at it and due to my wife being a champion shot putter she was able to keep going for some time. Everything was going swimmingly until I tripped over the fucking book. I collapsed on top of her pulling another muscle in my fella. She faceplanted the pisspot which catapulted up in the air showering us both in cold piss and knocking a shotgun off the wall which went off blowing a huge hole in the ceiling, rupturing my water tank, flooding the house and to cap it all, my neighbour jumped naked from the wardrobe with his hands up.

I expect a full refund.

Your obedient servant

Captn' Horatio Clutterbuck Hood-Butter III (ret) VC VD and Bar
(, Tue 9 Mar 2010, 12:54, 20 replies)
Letter from a puppy to its owners
When I was a puppy, I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh. You called me your child, and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever I was "bad," you'd shake your finger at me and ask, "How could you?" -- but then you'd relent and roll me over for a belly rub. My housebreaking took a little longer than expected, because you were terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of nuzzling you in bed and listening to your confidences and secret dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect.

We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream (I only got the cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs" you said), and I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the day. Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in love. She, now your wife, is not a "dog person" -- still I welcomed her into our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy because you were happy. Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate.

Oh, how I wanted to love them, but I became a "prisoner of love." As they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and pulled themselves up on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigated my ears, and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them and their touch -- because your touch was now so infrequent -- and I would've defended them with my life if need be. I would sneak into their beds and listen to their worries and secret dreams, and together we waited for the sound of your car in the driveway. There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me. These past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the subject. I had gone from being "your dog" to "just a dog," and you resented every expenditure on my behalf. Now, you have a new career opportunity in another city, and you and they will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. You've made the right decision for your "family," but there was a time when I was your only family.

I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter. It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled out the paperwork and said, "I know you will find a good home for her." They shrugged and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities facing a middle-aged dog, even one with "papers." You had to pry your son's fingers loose from my collar, as he screamed, "No, Daddy! Please don't let them take my dog!" And I worried for him, and what lessons you had just taught him about friendship and loyalty, about love and responsibility, and about respect for all life. You gave me a good-bye pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely refused to take my collar and leash with you. You had a deadline to meet and now I have one, too. After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home. They shook their heads and asked, "How could you?" They are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy schedules allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago. At first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it was you that you had changed your mind -- that this was all a bad dream... or I hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone who might save me. When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention of happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far corner and waited.

I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day, and I padded along the aisle after her to a separate room. A blissfully quiet room. She placed me on the table and rubbed my ears, and told me not to worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there was also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run out of days. As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she bears weighs heavily on her, and I know that, the same way I knew your every mood. She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many years ago. She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my vein. As I felt the sting and the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured, "How could you?"

Perhaps because she understood my dog speak, she said, "I'm so sorry." She hugged me, and hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I went to a better place, where I wouldn't be ignored or abused or abandoned, or have to fend for myself -- a place of love and light so very different from this earthly place. And with my last bit of energy, I tried to convey to her with a thump of my tail that my "How could you?" was not directed at her. It was directed at you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking of you. I will think of you and wait for you forever. May everyone in your life continue to show you so much loyalty.
(, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 17:21, 41 replies)
To my daughter
Just in case something awful happens to me, I'd like you to know that I really did try to do things right for you when you were a baby.

I broke up with your mother before you were born, because she was a violent, abusive, suspicious, paranoid mental case. She acquired the password to my mobile records and would secretly ring them daily to hear a call summary. She locked me out of my own flat (along with my indoor cat) in freezing weather so I had to kick my own door in to get in. She went for me with a knife once, and punched me in the face when I was DJing because I was chewing gum, which suggested to her that I was planning on kissing some made-up woman in the venue.

She covertly took an copy of my doorkey and, when I'd broken up with her, sneaked into my house, went through my shredder and pieced together a phone bill to check up on me. When you were born she wouldn't let my mother see you when you were in intensive care, when she'd spent two hours travelling up to see you. Then she forbade me to see you - I didn't see you after the day you were born until you were four months old.

To achieve this I had to take your mother to court. It cost me and my family over £6000 we didn't have just so I could see you for 1.5h a week, which went up to 3h. Given her way it would have been 1.5h every fortnight. Your mother (who used to smoke crack and was a famous drug fiend, who hadn't done a day's work in three years before you were born) claimed to the court that I couldn't be trusted around you - despite the fact that I ran a £1.5 million turnover business and never missed an appointment to see you.

You will never read this letter - and I shall never tell you anything about all this because I want you to love your mother and think she's great, not be disappointed and disillusioned to discover that the woman who raised you is an evil, spiteful, manipulative cunt who did everything in her power to prevent you spending time with a father who adores you, just to have her twisted revenge.

Lots of love

Your father Monty.

PS hope you like the jumper.
(, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 17:24, 17 replies)
Dear HBOS, Royal Bank Of Scotland and Lloyds,
It appears that you are collectively £37 billion overdrawn. We appreciate that you have enjoyed the benefits of a small overdraft facility from Taxpayers PLC but you have exceeded the amount of £0 that we have deemed fair in your circumstances. You have therefore incurred a £5 billion administration charge to be paid immediately from your designated 'bonus fund' and you have 28 days to repay the sum of £37biliion to avoid futher charges.


The British Public.
(, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 14:46, 7 replies)
I'm sorry, cat. For sicking on that bush you were sleeping in, and making you run out scared
(, Fri 5 Mar 2010, 21:35, 5 replies)
Dear Obi Jnr:
( If your looking for funnies look elsewhere)
Now you are mastering the lost art of reading I can say things I doubt I would ever say to your tiny little face. Thank you, Thank you for giving me a reason to carry on after mummy went to heaven, thank you for still saying Im the best daddy ever even after I dye your pink dress a vile mush of colours in the washing machine, thank you for the hugs and smiles when I walk through the door that brighten even the shitteyest of days.

Thank you for listening to my silly stories and strange advice, thank you for so far not growing up like one of those vile feral little shits that give kids everywhere a bad name, thank you for prefering to watch 80s cartoons with me on youtube rather than cbeebies. Thank you for making me so proud of you, and thank you for being mine.

(, Fri 5 Mar 2010, 16:48, 12 replies)

Dear Terry,

I want to thank you for all the hours of reading pleasure that you've given me. I must have spent literally hundreds of hours - and I am a very fast reader - reading the collected works that sprang from your towering intellect and imagination.

My whole family has avidly devoured your books, whose humour and genius has meant happy reading for us all.

I cannot believe that one of the brightest minds that has ever written in the English language has been struck by the horror that is Alzheimer's.

There seems so be something so fundamentally wrong in this.

I don't know what to say now without sounding awfully fucking trite, so I'll simply say thank you.

Thanks, Terry.
(, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 23:28, 7 replies)
Dear Kittens,

Who's a little kittenses? It's you! Yes you are!

(, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 23:20, 10 replies)
Dear Mr Schrödinger
We are pleased/sorry to inform you that Mr Tibbles is fine/no longer with us.

Please call if/when you observe this message

Parrot Docs Veterinary Centre
(, Fri 5 Mar 2010, 12:40, 5 replies)
Dear Gordon Brown...
Look, I know it's been your dream to play at running the country and that your jug-eared friend said he'd let you have a go in much the same way that a kid with a new Playstation says he'll let his poorer mate come round to play it, but then refuses to give up the controller. I know you really, really, wanted to fulfil your eogtistical power fantasies, presumably as a way of getting over the fact you were probably bullied through school and were the unfit wheezy kid that everyone picked on.

I understand that you thought letting the countries finances be run by people whose expertise was based on their ability to wear a suit and lie convincingly was a good idea and that, presumably, you had some thought that meant lending money to those who couldn't afford to repay it in order to secure the votes of the underclasses who felt life was good as they ordered Plasma TVs they couldn't actually pay for was probably sound political thinking.

I understand that you think that spending more on a political witch-hunt over expenses than the expenses claimed had cost was sensible.

I understand that you thought that devolving the UK into petty squabbling factions was genius, despite the fact that Scotland is now a haven for public services that are funded out of the English Parliament (after all, if Scotland, Ireland and Wales are self-governing, then surely England should be, as well).

I understand that you think sending troops into battle with equipment that a boy scout would turn down and under-funding the compensation and treatement of the poor sods who are being blown apart is good fiscal probity, whilst awarding bonuses and medals to Labour civil servants who happen to pass over Afghanistan on a quick jolly is fine.

I understand that it's not fair that people say you're unelected because in the UK we elect the party, not the leader, despite the fact that you have changed the way the party manifesto is headed, thus negating the points on which your party gained power.

I understand you think it's fine to sling accusations of corruption at any competitors, whilst re-hiring and offering a peerage to a man who had to efectively flee the country to a quiet job in the EU over huge scandals over corruption.

I understand that it's not fair to criticise the fact you can't even be bothered to spell a soldier's name correctly in a letter when he has given his life for this country and that it's unfair to blame the fact you're blind in one eye and obviously care about no-one other than yourself.

I understand that you feel it is fine to create an atmosphere in your own cabinet where no-one would even tell you the uilding is on fire in case you attack them, where you can accept no personal responsibility for any decisions you have made that have gone wrong or which have been found out to be deliberately misleading or dishonest.

I understand this all, Mr Brown, because you are a cunt. I, and 90% of the british public, wouldn't piss on your gums if your teeth were on fire. How can we trust the leadership of the country to a man whose long-term vision matches his monocular outlook on life? I'm surprised the helmet you wore when trying to look "down with the lads" visiting the troops in Basra didn't have a fucking bullseye on it - why, after all the por sods who have been shot, a sniper couldn't have hit you will remain a mystery to me. Presumably it's because you made a deal with the devil you soul-less slack-jawed, pious twat.

Yours Sincerely, etc...
(, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 14:34, 13 replies)
Dear Mr Kinnock
I come from a poor but proud family in the Rhondda valley.

You may just remember my grandfather. He was the big deaf feller you came across in the Treorchy Labour club back in the early 1970's.

My grandfather was the feller you kept deliberately turning your back on even though you knew damn well he was deaf from birth and needed to lipread.

After an hour of this, when he threw his pint to the floor to get your attention and swang a haymayker at your smug face, he unfortunately missed and was bundled away out of the club and social justice was delivered to his ribs and face as he took a kicking from your "stasi" entourage of hangers on.

This, Mr Kinnock, caused a bit of a rift in our family. Grandad, a staunch and grizzled old Labour man had you worked out for the crook you were, but my Dad would have none of it. As far as my Dad was concerned the sun shone out of your damn arsehole. According to Dad, you were the great redeemer, come to save us all.

I remember well when I was a young child the arguments my Dad and Grandad would have. Not any ordinary argument, but an argument in sign language. The rapid silky sound of fingers moving rapidly over fingers and the slap of skin against skin, the exagerated facial expressions and most of all the periodoc thumping of a fist on a table or wall to push a point home or to interupt the other.

I always knew when they were arguing about you Mr Kinnock as it would always end up with my grandfather bellowing like an Ox in his very limited speech and Dad shouting back almost as incoherently.

My grandfather died in the mid 70's and was spared from seeing you go on to become leader of the party he so cherished, but my father still saw you as the great redeemer, the man to save us all from the Liberals and Torys.

Not even Mr Kinnock, could my father be swayed from your unholy influence when your stasi boys got hold of me, his beloved son.

Do you remember those cheeky likely lads who threw snowballs at you outside St Davids hall while you were preening and pontificating as the leader of the Labour party in front of the TV cameras. That was me . Those loveble rogues who you threw snowballs back at and got some prime "Lovable Neil man of the earth getting down with the yoof" TV footage from.

Want to know what happened the second the cameras were off?

Some very big nasty men lovingly pinned us to the wall by our necks, took our wallets and wrote down our names and address from them and after a nice headbutt to say farewell told us in no uncertain terms if they saw us within 100 feet of the glorious windbag they would break our legs.

Even after your cronies did this Mr Kinnock and beat up his son for the crime of throwing snowballs, My Dad was devoted to you.

Even after you snatched defeat from the jaws of victory in 1992 and let the grey man have another 5 years he still thought you were hard done by.

Until he saw you go into the European gravy train with the gusto of a starved pig.

And found the trough so fullsome you dragged you wife in to scarf up a bigger share.

When you finally showed your true colours, a little part of my father died there and then.

When Blair came to lead the Labour party it finished the old man off.

He voted Tory for the first time in his life and was dead from the cancer less than 2 weeks later.

For that Mr Kinnock, I can never forgive you.

To drive a good honest decent man like my father to turn against all he held dear and for him to see the start of the rot that became New Labour which has given us the monsters that are Blair and Brown.

I met you myself again, without a snowball in my hand this time, at a function in Cardiff a few years ago.

"You met my grandfather" I said

"Wonderful" you said

"Treorchy in the early 70's, he always regretted his punch missed" I said.

You looked at me for a moment, blinked and turned away without a word.

This time at least I didn't get beaten up by your stasi.

I look forward to reading your obituary you traitor!
(, Sat 6 Mar 2010, 19:38, 8 replies)
Dear QOTW users,
We get some good questions, we get some bad questions. Sometimes we get heartfelt, amusing or interesting answers, sometimes we get trolling, utter lies and a whole page of 'First lol'. Often, we get bitching and whining about shit questions, or people running to the mods because someone's been nasty to them online. On behalf of the good people of QOTW, I implore those that would bitch and whine and mod-gaz: man the fuck up, switch your internet off and go and do something less boring instead.

Lots of love,
(, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 14:22, 7 replies)
Dear Amy
You don't know me. You probably have the vaguest idea that I even exist. I'm your dad. And I have just two words I'd like to say to you.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that your mum and I fought constantly when she was expecting you. I'm sorry that I did some things that I'm not proud of.

I'm sorry that when I went to the hospital about the time I knew you were due to be born your mum refused to see me.

I'm sorry about the fact that I only found out I had a daughter a month after you were born when a friend of your mothers came into my work.

I'm sorry that your mother had taken to telling people that she had a one night stand and didn't know who your father was, despite this being an obvious lie.

I'm sorry for not knowing your exact date of birth. I'm sorry that this leads me to be depressed the last week of May and the first week of June.

I'm sorry that I couldn't be there for you growing up. I'm sorry that I couldn't sit down with you and watch the return of Dr Who, a show I loved as a child and wanted to share with you.

I'm sorry that I couldn't pass on my love of reading and introduce you to Roald Dahl, Enid Blyton, The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, His Dark Materials and others.

I'm sorry that I never got to introduce you to Johnny Cash, Belle & Sebastian, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and other favourite bands of mine.

I'm sorry that I didn't get to watch Toy Story, Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and other favourite films.

I'm sorry that you haven't got to meet your grandmother, grandfather, aunt or either uncle. I'm sorry that you didn't get to attend your aunts wedding.

I'm sorry that you didn't get to meet your great grandmother or great grandfather before they passed away. I'm sorry that I haven't got to take you to Sandhaven, still for my money the most beautiful place in the world.

I'm sorry that I got drunk one night after watching Pushing Daisies and looked your mother up on Facebook. I'm sorry that this led me to her myspace where I finally found out your name and what you look like.

I'm sorry that the only pic of you I have, both in my wallet and on my wall, is one I got a friend to crop your mother out of.

I'm sorry that you don't know that I have your name tattooed on my left wrist. I'm sorry that you don't know that any other children I have will be tattooed on my right arm, the left being solely for you.

I'm sorry for joking that the migraines you suffer have a bright side in that you can't sit through an entire Westlife concert.

I'm sorry that I haven't had the guts to try and get in touch with you, not knowing what your mum has told you and not wanting to risk upsetting or unsettling you.

There are a couple of things for which I'm NOT sorry however.

I'm not sorry for thinking about you every single day since you were born. I'm not sorry for loving you, even if I'm not able to demonstrate it.

With all the love I have,

Your father.
(, Tue 9 Mar 2010, 13:43, 12 replies)
Dear parents everywhere
Your kids are interesting to no one except you and your parents. Not even your brothers and sisters are that bothered by them.

Your kids are not special (unless they're special), they're not gifted, unique, or all those glorious things you hope they'll shine at. They might well have a reading age of 11 at the age of 6. It's really not that much of an achievement.

Every step they take is, like for the rest of us, just one more closer to the final curtain.

The legal age for kids to be in pubs is 14. Yes I know a lot of places say kids welcome. I know a lot of places where you're welcome to take crack, but I don't. Please don't bring them in. They are loud and hideously annoying to everyone else who is there - including other parents - and yes you will get hostile glances and comments, so don't be surprised.

Also - if when you've ignored the above and your miracle runs into my knee as I enter the garden, causing me to spill the three pints I'm carrying all over it, and annoy me even further, then please don't act surprised when I refuse to care that your spawn is wet, and yes that I insist you replace the beer spilt. You and your spawn are very, very annoying, and your spawn shouldn't even be here in the first place. Face up to it and your responsibility - your life is on hold now, mine is not.


(, Fri 5 Mar 2010, 14:34, 17 replies)
Well my final one for this week. A serious one to make it even.
Dear Parents,

We are not a demonstrative family. We do not hug or share our feelings, and we are very English in the way we relate to each other. So this letter is where I can thank you. Thank you mum for looking after me when I was ill. You went through what no parent should have to, the idea that your child was going to die before you. I know you fought for me. Even when I was on that edge I knew that you fought others for me. The nurses who abused, the physios who bullied, the doctors who threatened were warned off by you. You kicked the ward sisters door when she wouldn't respond to your letters and complaints and forced her to realise my care was unacceptable. You read books to me for hours, biographies of Patrick O Brian, science fiction, and Japanese surrealism, and insisted on holding my hand through every painful medical procedure, every lumbar puncture and all the rest.

Dad you did the same, you cut and polished my nails when the nurses weren't allowed, you devised a way for me to communicate, you went out and bought me boxset after boxset of DVDs to amuse me- CSI:NY, The Mighty Boosh, Bruce Lee films. You were the first one to realise that I could no longer see properly and to alert a nurse. You remembered that I only read the Times, and to buy me a copy of Private Eye for every one I missed.

I do remember that time, though sometimes I pretend I've forgotten. I found the diary you kept mum, during that time, and I read the love that every entry had been written with. I read that if I had died, you think you would have gone mad. And everything that had ever been wrong with our family was fixed then. Every harsh word spoken, every action we'd hurt each other with, was forgiven and forgotten in the knowledge that you both genuinely loved me, that there was no-one in the world who cared for me as much as you both did. So thank you for that. Because I still reckon that it's due to you two that I am fully recovered and well, far more than it is due to the medical profession.

Also Dad on a seperate note thank you for not laughing at me making such an arse of myself a couple of weeks ago. It meant more than I can say, that you hugged me and told me it wasn't my fault, and that you would fix it. Also that you promised not to tell mum!

With all my love


P.S. I'd tell you this to your face, but you know me. I'd freeze up, and mumble something stiffly about feeling very grateful, and the impact would be entirely lost. So I hope I show my gratitude and love in the way I act, rather than in what I say

And //shuffles feet// thanks to a particular b3tan as well for some very pertinent help. I don't think I could have written the letter above, as much as a week ago. So cheers for that
(, Mon 8 Mar 2010, 11:52, 7 replies)
An actor
Dear Tom Davey, RSC member, actor, thesp, luvvie, resident of Hackney.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry Tom that we share very similar email addresses - despite not being related to our actual names.

I'm sorry I get a lot of your emails, and I'm sorry that when I forward them on to that you dont ever thank me.

I'm sorry you did Hamlet (or Macbeth) with David Tennant and Patrick Stewart.

I'm sorry that your assistant director - and ex girlfriend of Dr Who I'll add - mails me your call sheets instead of you. I'm further sorry that they also include the email addresses, and phone numbers of the other cast members. And the details of their drivers, their mobile numbers and times and locations to pick everyone up for "shoots".

I'm sorry that I inadvertently redirected Patrick Stewart & David Tennants drivers to pick you up from Soho, at 5pm, on a friday, when they should have picked you up from Stanstead.

I'm sorry it had to come to that.

Also, that new central heating boiler you had installed? They threatened you with bailiffs so I told them, and I quote, "Keep your fucking boiler, I'm not paying. You can come and rip it out of the house - even if you have to kick the fucking doors down. I'm not giving you a penny."

I hope you have a jumper.
(, Fri 5 Mar 2010, 12:21, 4 replies)
Dear Sharon
do you remember the good times we used to have on sunday nights? you, me and my parents, having a laugh and chilling in the pub?
do you remember when i moved in with you, and that night we ate that speed julie gave us and decorated your bathroom?
do you remember when you hid behind the curtain in my bedroom, so you could jump out and scare my arse-hat of a boyfriend?
do you remember the night we went to secrets and you met martin?
do you remember when we had that massive row and didn't speak for months, because martin was abusive and wanted to separate you from your mates?
do you remember the time when he beat you so badly, you ended up in hospital with a fractured eye socket and a broken cheekbone?
do you remember when we made up and got really drunk?
do you remember that christmas, 6 years ago, when you went with martin to visit his dying father?
do you remember crashing into the central reservation and being killed outright?
i remember how much i cried.
i remember how much i blamed myself for talking you into going out the night you met him.
i remember how much i missed you.
i still miss you.
do you remember you were my best friend?
i hope so, because i do. that's something i will never forget.
(, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 18:42, 7 replies)
Dear Cheryl Cole
Why don't you just come clean, as it were, and admit that your 'marriage' to Ashley Cole was nothing but a face-saving excercise?
It seems too much of a coincidence to many people after your racist altercation with a lowly toilet attendent, within six months you had married a black man (incidentally putting to bed those rumours about him being gay, which occurred about the same time).

I'm sure you'd like the majority of the british public to believe it was just a coincidence. Just like the fact you and Mr Cole have the same management team is 'just a coincidence'.

Like it's 'just a coincidence' that rumours of Ashley's affairs always seem to come out just before you release a single, like 'Fight for our Love', which makes the public go all weepy and sympathetic for you.

I'm sure you had no idea that the press had been sitting on the latest affair rumours for six months before they decided to release the details on the day you announced your new single, thus allowing the media to plug it everytime they mentioned the 'news' story.

I'm sure that you're not that thick, that you can't see that you're allowing your life to be turned into a fun-packed soap-opera which benefits only those people around you, and means that when the truth finally emerges the public will go back to hating you almost as much as they hate your 'husband'. You also realise this whole affair has probably killed any chances your 'best friends' in Girls Aloud ever had of having a career of their own (except maybe the ginger one).

As Troy McClure said to Selma Bouvier: "Of course this marriage is a sham. The difference is, we know ours is a sham."

Sarah Harding
(, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 10:13, 4 replies)
Dear invisible ink manufacturers.

(, Mon 8 Mar 2010, 1:08, 1 reply)
Dear God...
...while I appreciate the extra warmth of the back hair you have blessed me with, please can you return some to my head?


P.S, can I have your autograph please.
(, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 15:01, 4 replies)
Dear Stephanie from Lazytown...
...once they lift the restraining order I will be able to continue telling you about my penis.
(, Fri 5 Mar 2010, 14:47, 5 replies)
Dear Jan Moir
You say it best... when you say nothing at all.


Steven Gately

PS Kiss my 'boy zone', you lonely, troubled bint.
(, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 15:33, 4 replies)
Dear Mum,
Please learn to pick your boyfriends better. You don't realise that your bad decisions in your past mean shit dads for the rest of us. Picking younger men with messed up home lives, does not a stable relationship make. It means that when you have two children, and promptly die, that nobody wants to tell our dad we even exist because they're scared. We're seperated and my sister is treated like a princess, and I'm treated like practically slave labour. That gave me a complex for most of my entire life, I did stupid and irresponsible things because I simply didn't care about anything at all. If you'd picked some nice young man without the potential of evil, I'd probably have grown up entirely normal. I certainly wouldn't have been maimed both physically, and mentally (kissing your sister unknowingly is *not* nice.) However you're dead and this letter will never get there.


Luke Skywalker

So very, very sorry. I needed to do it once
(, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 14:13, 5 replies)
Right, you snot nosed little shit – turn off that bloody Cure record, turn your brain on for two minutes and read this.

For starters: YOU ARE NOT VANILLA ICE !!! You’ll go through a teenage phase of wearing baseball caps backwards, walking round with your arse half hanging out and saying shit like: “Wussup, bee-aaa-tttcchh???” This makes you look like an utter, colossal, monumental wanker. You are not a Beastie Boy. You are not the next big thing in rap music. You are a simpleton. Just don’t do it.

The first time a girl lets you go down on her don’t clamp your lips round her piss n sweat flavoured weeping black hole and blow with all your might as if you’re playing the fucking tuba. This will end in tears; your tears after she involuntarily clamps her legs together and crushes your skull between her thunder thighs while simultaneously clawing at the top of your head with her adamantine claw strength glued on false nails.

Don’t ever grow your hair long. If you do this you’ll bear a remarkable resemblance to Ralph out of The Muppets. And let’s face it no one in their right mind is going to shag a bloke who looks like a talking dog who plays piano who constantly gets upstaged by a talking frog with rickets.

If you ever end up in a club in Manchester and start chatting with a girl named Susan, don’t take her home and fuck her. Might make you feel like Billy Big Bollocks at the time, but waking up at three-thirty in the morning several days later with hot sweats and an urgent desire to piss is definitely not fun. Staggering to the toilet, getting your cock out and standing there for several minutes without any satisfying yellow hose effect is also definitely not fun. And realising when you sleepily look down at your piece there’s some weird funky grey blamanche stuff that stinks like gorgonzola gurgling out your japs eye, smearing over your hairy balls and dripping like candle wax onto the toilet rim is fucking terrifying. And let’s not even go into the who ‘visiting the clinic’ thing. Let’s just say having some burly male nurse ram something not too dissimilar to a cocktail stick down your cock and wiggle it around a bit while asking casually which football team you support is absolutely fucking horrific. So, if you bump into Susan, just walk away and have a wank instead.

Which leads me onto the carrot incident. When you’re fifteen and your parents and sister are out at the supermarket don’t, I repeat DON’T take a carrot out of the salad crisper and stick it up your arse. It will break off and you’ll spend the rest of your Saturday shitting blood trying to get the fucker back out again.

In the week when Kurt Kobain dies don’t – when Sarah Hughes starts suggestively rubbing your nutsack through your Levis in the Student Union, DON’T say: “Sorry, Sarah – I’m just feeling too sad at the moment...” You’ll regret never having a crack at that fantastic posterior for the rest of your life*.

Oh, and when you’re in your final year at Uni you and your group of inebriated halfwit mates will actually win the big pub quiz for the first and last time ever. They’ll be a tie-breaker question where you could win a rollover jackpot that no fuckers won for the whole year. We’re talking SERIOUS MONEY!!! For some unknown reason your mates will nominate you to go up in front of several hundred people to answer this tiebreaker. Now, you’ll be drunk. Very drunk. But that’s no excuse. None at all. When the fella running the quiz asks you: “Who wrote Paradise Lost?” Do not, PLEASE CHRIST-ON-A-BIKE DO NOT drunkenly slur: “Errr.... ummm.... I KNOW THIS !!! DOMESTOS !!! DOMESTOS !!!” The answer is not Domestos, you titMILTON !!! MILTON WROTE PARADISE FUCKING LOST, YOU THICK FUCKING CUNTY-BOLLOCK-BRAINED-MOLLOSK!!! You lost out on two grand because you got your cleaning fluid brands mixed up... two... fucking... grand...

God, I’m angry now. Gotta calm down. Let’s just leave you with this advice – if you think it’s a good idea, don’t do it. If you think it’s a bad idea, probably best to leave it alone. If you’re undecided, I dunno, toss a fucking coin - what the fuck am I - your fairy fucking godmother ???


Your Older Self

PS – When you’re eighteen don’t get that tattoo of that snake coiled round two silver dollars on your arm. The first time you show it to someone they’ll ask: “Why have you got a green cock tattooed on your arm with bright yellow balls?” And you’ll hear this at least another couple of hundred times before you actually save up enough money to get it covered up with something decent.

PPS – If there was some way I could write down the winning lottery ticket numbers for last week and give them to you I would. I fancy a nice life living in Monaco with a couple of supermodel girlfriends, a Ferrari, a helicopter and free access more drugs than you find in your average A & E department.

PPPS – The Cure are shit. Their lead singer sounds like he’s got his testicles stuck in a mincer and he looks like a very bad transvestite on . But don’t worry – you’ll grow out of it.

*Sarah Hughes, if you happen to be a B3tan please gaz me. No strings, I just want a quick jump or at least the chance to crank one off over your voluptuous heaving bottom.
(, Fri 5 Mar 2010, 13:45, 14 replies)
Another "ex" one.
Dear Ex.

When we broke up, it was hard. Not hard because of my missing you, or the other way around - we both knew it was over long, long ago.
It was hard, because I thought I would hardly see my daughters...and after reading some post on here, I realise (I already did, TBH) that you are not as bad as some, and in fact, only ever show love for our daughters, and you know that I (and my partner) do too.

For that, I must thank you, and I wish you well with your new partner and your new baby. I know you won't favour any of your children over any of the others.

I thank you for phoning and telling me what is going on in their lives, I thank you for saying "I have arranged for the kids to do xxxxxxx because of xxxxxx, however, pop in for a cup of tea for a few hours and see them, and have them for longer next week."

I thank you for not caning me financially - when I get a pay rise, the money I give you to help with the upbringing of our children goes up too. It's only fair.

It's for these reasons that our girls are happy, funny and smart - if only other women (and some men, of which I have read about on these pages) could see the benefits of not being a complete cunt when they split up can bring to their children.

Thank you,
(, Fri 5 Mar 2010, 19:31, 4 replies)
Dear you.
When we met I thought you were really sweet. The first few times we exchanged banter I knew you had a boyfriend and kept my distance accordingly. That time a few weeks later when I bumped into you in the pub, you told me you'd split up with him and we ended up getting pissed in the park and snogging, I bounced around like crazy when you left. Finally, someone was interested in me, she was fun and sexy and obviously into me.

When you called me a couple of weeks later telling me your dad had kicked you out, I said you could stay with me for a few days until you got your shit together. You came and stayed, and climbed into my bed that first night and did naughty things to me and I was elated and instantly hooked. After so long alone, someone wanted me.

A few weeks on, you told me you were pregnant. As you'd said you were on the pill this came as a huge shock, but I told you I'd stick by you because it felt like I loved you and I thought it was The Right Thing To Do. A scan revealed you were carrying twins which was also shocking and terrifying but I stuck by you.

A few weeks passed and you came to me while I was at lunch and told me you'd had a miscarriage. I was gutted, of course, so you comforted me by telling me it was ok, you'd got pregnant again. I remember almost fainting with confusion there in the sunshine and my brain screaming at me that this was all wrong, that you were crazy, flashing back to a few nights previously where we'd had sex and we lay in each other's arms and you asked what I'd do if you lost the babies and I told you I'd prefer to wait for two or three years until we got a stable financial footing before trying again for kids, especially as we'd only really been together ten weeks. I deflected these warning sirens because I was In Love and dedicated and it was The Right Thing To Do.

When things progressively went to shit, when your lies became more obvious and started eating away at my soul, when you started being confrontational and argumentative and just downright nasty, I stuck with it because you were carrying our child and my blind determination that I'd continue to support that child no matter what drove me to ignore the bad things and try to stick with you.

The day we went to hospital to bring our daughter into the world, I loved you more than anything I've ever loved despite all the shit. I loved you right up until she slithered noisily into this world and you told the doctor to give her straight to me when she was all cleaned-up. I took hold of her and her bright blue eyes looked straight into mine and pierced my soul. I put the tip of my little finger in her mouth and as her first action in a cruel world she suckled on my fingertip and captured my heart forever. At that moment all my love for you drained away and transformed into my paternal instinct.

For the first two weeks of her life I did every single one of our daughter's night feeds to give you a rest and let you recover from the birth. This was the only time I had alone with her and I'd sit up in our mattress and feed her quietly while you slept, all the time staring in awe and this tiny bundle of wonder we'd made from so much hurt.

In the storm after the calm, once the shine had worn off, I spent a long time trying to bolster myself for the long haul. Every fight we had was put aside, every lie I caught you out on was brushed under the carpet and not brought up. Unfortunately my resolve became weaker and weaker as I was worn down, things got worse for both of us and we had some truely horrible fights, sometimes physically bruising but always mentally scarring.

Ultimately my resolve broke and I called time on the relationship, a week before our daughter's first birthday. At her Christening and birthday party we carried on as if everything was ok, while at home we argued about who should move out and who should get the kitchen implements. When you finally left for good you walked out of the house and down the path with our daughter over your shoulder looking back at me and that image is as clear in my mind now as that moment.

In the years that followed you ripped every spare quid out of me. You bullied me and threatened to stop me seeing our daughter if I didn't bow to your wishes. You pushed me and pulled me and tricked me and twisted me and I just got on with fortnightly weekend visits and paid my way and loved those smiling bright blue eyes that pierced my being every time they locked with mine.

A few years later and you split up with your guy and took off to the other side of the country I missed our daughter like mad but paid my way. When you had a medical emergency and daughter ended up coming back here and living with her step-dad, I supported that. When you didn't come to get her, I was surprised but secretly quite pleased. When you finally returned and scrabbled around desperate for some mug to dig your claws into and give you a roof over your head, I revelled quietly in the irony. When you finally pissed him off and moved onto the next poor sap, I pitied you. When you'd sucked out his soul and moved out into a proper house and finally got our daughter back, I thought it might work. When you got kicked out of that house and moved in with yet another humble, supportive nice guy, I diligently took our daughter every fortnight, got my 'fix' and delivered her back into your care again, unquestioningly.

When our daughter told me things about you and your behaviour and your treatment of her and her siblings, it tore me apart inside but all I could do was tell her I was there for her if she needed me. When we were out walking once and she told me how scared she'd been of you when you held her brother down and screamed in his face and she sobbed in my arms while trying to form the words, I knew change probably wasn't very far away. When it finally came, I did what I knew I must do, what I promised I'd and took our daughter in. Eleven months later, after many meetings with social services and solicitors and organising access and having that access cancelled by you at short notice, I can confidently say that you're gradually pushing our daughter further and further away from you. Don't get me wrong, she's pretty happy and resilient and strong and forward-thinking and it bugs the shit out of me that she still wants anything to do with you despite how you've treated her, but she's free to do what she needs to be happy and I'll never stand in her way.

It took me a long time to get past all that happened between us. I wouldn't change it for the world because we made the most beautifully wonderful human being in the history of the earth and she makes me so proud every single day. I just hope that you can come to terms with who you are before you throw away the chance to be part of our daughter's life forever.
(, Fri 5 Mar 2010, 14:27, 9 replies)
Dear Mr. Umbutu Mbabwe
Firstly, may I say how saddened I was to hear of the death of your Great-Great-Uncle-Twice-Removed, King Ptangwe Tgnthr the third of kettleonia. It must have been a great shock to you and your family and you have my deepest condolences at this very difficult time.

I find it absolutely appalling to hear that, in your country, inheritences can not be paid directly to the beneficiery, but must instead be cleared through an intermediate, non-related, third-party bank account instead?

Needless to say, I would be delighted to help you claim your (sic) "12.2,000,000 $ (TWELVE POINT TOO MILION DOLLERS US)". I have enclosed my full banking details below for you to make the deposit at your leisure.

Given your current situation, I could not comfortably take a commission of "sixty thouzend pounds" for providing such a small service, so please use my account with my blessing.

Kind Regards,

N.D Bailey
(, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 16:31, 1 reply)
Dear Stevie Wonder...

(, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 16:13, 4 replies)

This question is now closed.

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