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



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