Dear Mansun

In my younger days, far from clandestinely quaffing R Whites, I was not unimpartial to stronger intake. My idea of fun, or should I say, that of me and the boys in the local football team, was to repair to the local bar after the match for a pint, even if the pre-game "Everyone Must Win" pep talk had resulted in us being thrashed 14-0 by a squad of off-duty policemen.

One such excursion occurred on one of these days, after our central midfielder Tony Beasley had like a fool left a wide open space for an opposing Detective Constable to put the first of many past us with just a couple of little kicks, leading to our victory slipping away. Obviously feeling negative, he so much wanted to make amends that he insisted on paying for all drinks for the whole side until the bar was closed for business.

I am sure that it comes as no surprise for you to learn of my fragile state and fall out of my bunk the next morning, replete with hopes that my then fiance Jean would forgive me for my disgusting state and not check under the bed, whereupon I foggily remembered having been quite ill.

Needless to say, I had imbibed more than I've had before and more than I really need. The special drink that knocked me for six however was a most peculiar concoction whereby one was required to lick some Saxa off of one's hand, quickly drink the clear contents of (from memory) an egg cup and then immediately chomp on a citric slice. It is imperative to relate that at this point of the evening we had been joined by one of the barmaids at the end of her shift, and that the slight grimace at the sharpness of the beverage's conclusive act was displayed by all, irrespective of gender, and not exclusive to masculinity.

Therefore, and notwithstanding the immaterial variant of biting into said fruit segment as opposed to the administration of a partial vacuum upon it, I am compelled to write this letter in the hope that you may soon be able to outline exactly how being a boy is like sucking on a lemon.

I also write with good intentions relating to your predicament of being situated within a vast expanse and gazing fixedly at thin air at the precise instant of a structural catastrophe. It is surely apparent from the very disclosure that the commodious area is shoddily canopied that you must be transfixed in a warehouse, aircraft hanger, shopping centre, pop concert arena or covered market. Although confused as to quite how a roof may crash in a daze, given that to the best of one's knowledge an architectural sheltering is incapable of experiencing bewilderment upon fragmentation, it is recommended that the insurers of said complex be contacted if you may have been harmed in any way as a result of said event, if indeed it can be proved to be resultant of inadequate workmanship

Finally, as regards your alarming impartation that she makes your nose bleed, although I am somewhat befuddled at her ability to instigate your nasal hemorrhage, it is advised that you distance yourself from this unnamed female in social situations. If this is sadly not an option, make sure you've got a red hanky

I have to go now chaps, as I'm expecting the electric man and he has not been here before so I keep looking out of the window in case he has got lost. I doubt that he will be ''bringing his sunshine to me'' (no doubt inspired by Morecambe and Wise) however, but it's O.K.; I may well look at solar panelling at a later date but for the time being we are just having the meter changed to a different tariff.

 

Yours sincerely

 

 

Derek Philpott

 

Reply from Paul Draper received 2/5/15

 

 

Dear Derek,

Thank you for your letter, I see you refer to many Mansun references in your correspondence, from R Whites lemonade, from my long lost B-Side Lemonade Secret Drinker, to My Idea of Fun, a song about a psycopath, quite apt for the band Mansun. I'm impressed with your

 

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