Dear Ms. Sinatra

Re: These Boots Are Made For Walking

I had the pleasure on Tuesday morning, in the midst of partaking in a leisurely afternoon stroll in the New Forest, of listening to your ‘Go-Go chart-topper’ on my favourite last birthday present, a snazzy, up to the minute Ipod Walkman.

However, although undeniably uplifted by its infectious melody and ‘elastic bassline’, my enjoyment of the ‘track’ was sadly tinged with justifiable ire at a completely unfounded and splinetic denunciation levelled at yours truly (ie., myself), and encompassed therein.

I am somewhat perturbed that you seem to think that "I have been messin' where I shouldn't have been a-messin'". I am the first to admit, Madam, that I am sometimes quite slovenly at home, much to my wife's mild chagrin. Jean does have cause to occasionally berate me for leaving oily handprints on internal door handles after servicing my Honda, having to pick up my meal plate from the settee after a ‘T.V. dinner’, or retrieving rolled up socks from my orthopaedic loafers, where I have nestled the cotton sweat absorbers instead of placing them directly in the ‘dirty pile', as our used laundry basket is affectionately referred to here at Philpott Place, as well as some other minor housekeeping trangressions. Nonetheless,. it is vital to note that my occasional untidiness is restricted to our own home, and not extended to beyond its thresholds. For example, it would be anathema to me to accidently drop a Daily Mail Sunday Live Magazine onto a Toby Carvery carpet and leave it there even if I had finished reading it, or sneeze into a tea towel at a Bingo partner’s dinner party. Whilst fully deserving of my spouse’s half-mumbled censures as she cleans up after my domestic misdemeanours however, I am sure that Jean herself would agree that if there is one place that I am perfectly entitled to be ‘a-messin’’, it is within the comfort of my own semi-detached bungalow.

If on the other hand, Ms. Sinatra, you are referring to the urgent call of nature that I was desperate to respond to one third of my way through the wooded ramble which bought your work to my attention after a particularly virulent curried baked bean jacket potato lunch, you would be well advised to note that, despite no little discomfort, I was able to ‘cross my legs’ until eventually able to gratefully avail myself of the conveniences within the complex of a static caravan park two miles away. Ergo, despite severe temptation I have only ever ‘used’ appropriate, plumbed facilities since early childhood, hence your imputation is not only erroneous, but borders upon an acute defecatory defamation.

It strikes me that, like Elton John before you, who penned the composition “Kiss The Bride’, you have been in a bit of a hurry to record your song and consequently omitted to write the final word of its title prior to doing so. Considering that boots are most often cobbled or fashioned from synthetic, textile, alloy, lumber-based and animal hide composites, none of which are ordained with sentience, it is inconceivable that yours could walk or heavily stamp of their own accord; these peregrinations are exclusive to the wearer. Assuming therefore that you are not in possession of living footgarb, which I doubt, it is reasonable to request that, as with the word ‘groom’ in the case of Mr. John, the word ‘in’ should be appended to the name of your ‘tune’ in order to render it factually accurate.

You repeatedly state that I repeatedly state that I have ‘something for you’.

Admittedly my memory is not what it once was, but I am confident that my inability to recollect such an assertion is reliable, especially given that we have never met or entered into any written correspondence prior to this missive. In short, I have said no such thing and, unfortunately, I have nothing for you. If you are alluding to my your father collectable figurine that I inexplicably received in duplicate some Christmases ago I regret to relate that I submitted the Frankin Mint Limited Edition Witchcraft-Singing 19” mannequin to online auction last month and the item has now been sold. I am therefore sorry that your bid was unsuccessful. If it is any consolation I do still have a Sammy Davis Jr. Crystal Statuette tucked away somewhere which is extremely life-like except for the fact that both of its eyes are glass, and would be happy to offer this to you for a reasonable price (and not ‘Something Stupid’), plus postage and packing to America, should you be interested.

Despite my protestations, Ms. Sinatra I must state that overall Jean and I are not impartial to your ‘output’ and wish you well in your future career. Bearing this sentiment in mind, I must ask you to refrain from walking all over me one of these days. At the very least, if you insist on the unprovoked trampling, I would appreciate a degree of forewarning in order that I may prepare some old clothes and don a cycle helmet


Derek Philpott


P.S. As regards your observation that I “keep losin’” when I “oughtta not bet”, I am afraid that you are once again mistaken, given that my success rate on the 10 pence minimum stake fruit machines at Bournemouth Pier Amusements is, in the words of the Arcade’s proprietor Mr. McGillan, ‘just about average’

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