Dear Mr Amitri,

It was indeed chucking it down the other day when my Nissan Juke conked out after I depressed the clutch a bit too quickly pulling away from a junction.

Especially given that it was so miserable out I was most relieved upon turning the engine over again that it started first time and I was able to continue my journey; the outcome was everything I’d hoped it would be. Had you have been in the vicinity, Mr Amitri, and being an amiable enough chap, I would probably have offered you a lift and sanctuary from the downpour

I can assure you that I would NOT have exited my vehicle and horizontally tumbled over nor executed a forward somersault across the wet tarmac or macadam towards you. Not only would these ridiculous antics be highly unlikely due to my ongoing sciatica; even were the terra firma manouvres possible they would have made a terrible mess of my corduroys and Fred Perry which were both clean on that day.


Furthermore, the entire ‘wrong situation’ would no doubt attract the unwanted attention of any passing patrol cars, and if apprehended and cuffed you would be right in your assumption that I would have been ‘down so long I can hardly see’.


In conclusion, Mr Amitri, when my engine stalls and it wont stop raining this is certainly NOT the right time to roll to you and you will be thanked for not directing the record buying public toward similar low level revolutions across hazardous drenched thoroughfares in future

Please contact me directly to confirm that you now acknowledge that there is something wrong and you now can put your finger on it.

I respectfully request that this dialogue be communicated to me without prior recourse to a third party in order that I may not be the last to know.





Derek Philpott




Dear Derek,

I have read and re-read your recent letter regarding your car problems and I cannot for the life of me make any sense of it. Although you (as always) appear articulate and perfectly (perhaps overly) courteous, I can't help feeling that you harbour deep-seated violent urges, very possibly of a perverted nature. Your wilful misinterpretations of lyrics from my classic oeuvre (1969-95) seem to me the savage ravings of a psychopath, bubbling from the pits of a ravaged soul to seep through the serene surface of your suburban plausibility in the form of a trivial complaint like a cry from hell. I worry for you, I worry for your family and I worry for the displaced orphans of the world but that's another matter. I wonder perhaps, if you should recourse to a little self-medication, something in which we rock stars are exceptionally knowledgable. Ketamine, LSD or Mandy, maybe? I'm sure a soupçon of one or other of these substances might ameliorate your neuroses.

In the absence of these however, I feel it incumbent upon me to alleviate your obvious distress in any way I can. Which is why I have enclosed a copy of a picture painted by my wife, Harmony, of my uncle Ken's old garage. If you look carefully at this beautifully rendered image you will notice a sign with a cream background and green lettering reading "Kenneth's Roll-To-Me-Repairs". Are you staring to twig yet, my poor repressed epistolary friend?

Uncle Ken's garage was situated (until 1983 when it was burnt down by skinheads) at the bottom of Gardeners' Hill, the steepest gradient in Muirton, the town all we Curries come from. Ken was a hopeless mechanic (although a very romantic lover) who had a history of non-consensual piercing incidents dogging his reputation. On his uppers and at the precipice of irredeemable despair after the dissolution of his third marriage, he desperately sought the advice of the notorious office burglar, Donald Swinn, a man who knew every scam, wrangle, wrinkle, dangle, fix, hoax and tortoise in the book.
Swinn's ingenious idea was for Ken to situate his dodgy grease shop at the foot of Gardeners' near-vertical incline thus insuring a steady flow of customers with brake and clutch trouble who would simply "roll to Ken's" as his popular radio advert would later have it. I'm not too proud to tell you, Derek, that it was none other than I who composed this commercial's jingle (I was paid exceedingly poorly as I recall) at the very beginning of my hit-making career. It was decades later, while being harangued by A&M Records to produce a short, perky driving song that I suddenly remembered that catchy ditty and so came to adapt it as the now world famous excrescence, "Roll To Me".

Don't ask me about the rain because I just don't fucking know.

I hope this letter settles the matter, if matter exists. I do sincerely worry for you and hope that your passive-aggression and brutally repressed yearnings will not, in the end, lead to family annihilation, obsessive DIY-ing or a rash of unstoppably weeping boils.

My friend, forever at the end,


Justin Currie



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