Dear Hazell Dean,
I found your song on the internet whilst looking for how to get to friends in Hazeldene, Chieveley.
In these celebrity and appearance-obsessed times it is admirable that you are searchin' (looking for love) for a man who needn't be handsome or have fortune or fame.
I fear however that you may be setting your sights a bit low, Ms Dean. You appear, rather than ''looking for someone to share your life" with' on nights out with friends or on tentative dates, to be ''seekin' '' a long term partner either on the train, or, more worringly, as reinforced by your disclosure that you ''want no disguises'', a Police I.D. Parade, as you ''move on down the line''.
It is suspected that your judgement may have been impaired by ''never sleepin''' and that there is no guarantee that a stranger on the Underground, or for that matter, from the Underworld is likely to be ''sweet and kind'.'
''Whatever You Do, Wherever You Go'', Ms. Dean, I implore you to be cautious in your quest and not to explore ''every place you can''.
Dear Mr Philpott
Think not of “Searchin’” as a light hearted missive, extolling the virtues of promiscuity.
No! This work should be considered a seminal piece – a late 20th Century celebration of the seeking of love above all else.
Looking for love
All the time I can.
Looking for love
I've got to find a man.”
This is not a transient pop song, but should be compared as contemporary to the popularist lyrics of Byron, Browning, Rossetti and Wilde.
Were these great romantics ever concerned by the trivialities of sleep sir? I think not.
As the great Oscar Wilde himself wrote:
"You don't love someone for their looks, or their clothes, or for their fancy car, but because they sing a song only you can hear."
Additionally, aspersions cast on my predilection for members of the criminal fraternity are most unwelcome and unfounded,and I would therefore be grateful if you could leave me to my insomnia and romantic musings in peace.
Further to this, over the past 35 years I have received 100’s of photographs of dull establishments bearing any vague semblance of my name, in its many variants. The highlights of which include a B&B in Blackpool, and cattery in Crewe and a hovel somewhere slightly South of Brighton.
Why people presume these will interest or even slightly amuse me, I do not know.
Would you enjoy receiving a steady and annually persistent selection of “Philpotts Avenue’s”, “Philpotts Crescents” and “The Philpott Home for the Perpetually Ridiculous”? The novelty wears off very quickly I can assure you.
Quite frankly Mr Philpott the locating of your friends at Hazeldene, Chievely, is of absolutely no interest to me whatsoever.