Dear Mr. Dickinson from Iron Maiden

Last Tuesday my son David was enlisted by his little girl's Primary School to help supervise an educational day trip to a farm some distance away. By all accounts Lucy had a wonderful day with her classmates, feeding the other kids (meaning baby goats!), pigs and such-like pre-butchery carcasses until, sadly, she mistakenly strayed from the main party, her curiosity, it later transpired, apparently piqued by a low collective moo.

Imagine the deviating pupil's dismay at following the ever-increasing bray of bovine lamentation and eventually finding herself wandering unattended into the abbatoir section of the agricultural tract, whereupon she was sadly just in time to be privy to the opening shift of a not insubstantial cattle cull. The poor unfortunate was tragically not to be located by her overseers for a full ten cows.

Given the mite's unimaginable ordeal, and to lighten the mood on the M27 coach-trek home, her biology teacher, Miss. Hollis, beseeched the driver to tune into Bournemouth's peerless Wave 104FM and 'crank up' the communal vehicle's intercom to optimum capacity, just in time for your 1988 chart-topper to fill the 26-seater and remind all aboard that my son had indeed brought his daughter to the slaughter. Needless to say the third-former's traumas were incalculably exacerbated by your 'metal fistraiser's' revolting chorus and your ear-piercing screech goadingly reminding her that there was 'no where, no way, no place to hide', not even on a privately chartered charabanc, from the raw memories of the roast dinner cutlet enabling blood-bath that she had so recently and unwittingly witnessed.

Allow me to suggest that, in order to make good your reprehensible insensitivity and dreadful timing, yourself and the rest of the Iron Maiden be real 'Troopers' and retire to your 'rock studio', thereby to 'cut' a personally themed 'EP' for the now insomniac minor. I will then arrange for David to present the finished work to his harrowed offspring over, obviously, a Thin-Crust Vegetarian at her favourite Pizza Hut (Caste Lane West), on a date to be confirmed. This sterling deed could well act as the first much needed tentative step towards the guilt-ridden father/livestock massacre beholding firstborn reconciliation that our family so yearns for. I would suggest that the work take the form of a condensed 'concept album',  it's narrative embracing possible future educational expedition locations. 'Tracks' such as perhaps "Bring Your Daughter To Russell Cotes Art Gallery & Museum", "Bring Your Daughter To Throop Mill", "Bring Your Daughter To Compton Acres Historic Gardens" and "Bring Your Daughter To The Monkey World Ape Rescue Centre' may in time bridge the progenitorial chasm that your New Wave Of British Heavy Metal anthem has so oafishly served to widen.

Obviously, given that the 'session' is to be of a non-fee paying nature, acoustic or 'unplugged' versions of the 'pieces' are perfectly acceptable and I also enclose, together with a self addressed envelope, a 'The Best of Budgie' cassette (purchased in error some years ago under the misconception that it was an audio montage of Adam Faith's cockney 'wide-boy's' finest moments) which you are welcome to tape over and send back on completion of the project, in order to further save on costs.

I look forward to your prompt redemption.


Derek Philpott

P.S. I read on Teletext recently that you are a keen fencer. Ours is leaning slightly to the left, hence I would be quite happy to consider any estimate for it's straightening that you may care to draft up for me, which I will then compare with other contractors in the area. If I find your quote to be reasonable and decide to engage you to instigate the repair, I would thank you not to wear a studded armband whilst attending to the task, so as to avoid possible conical indentations to the trellis, creosote and/or underlying cedar. I should warn you that I am well aware of your abominable past history of accurately telling the time, after hearing you claim on the Metal Hammer channel last year (which I mistakenly viewed expecting it to be a Do-It-Yourself station) that it was 11:58pm. With mounting panic I 'realised' that I was therefore two hours late in picking Jean up from the Shania Twain't concert at the Gala Bingo in Wimbourne Road, before a frantic glance at my kitchen clock and a 'belt and braces' call to 123 clearly both confirmed that it was in fact just after ten past eight. Please be advised that any non-punctuality arising from this handicap would not be tolerated were you to be under my contractual jurisdiction.

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