Tesco Reply III

Dear Derek

Thank you for your email and I'm sorry for the delay in replying to you.

I'm sorry to hear that you didn't receive the £2.00 Tesco Moneycard as promised. I don't think it was the Postman's fault but rather a technical error our end.

I've now asked for this to be sent to out to you again and it should be with you as soon as possible.

It must have been very frustrating when your computer blew up but I'm glad that you've bought a laptop and can once again make contact. I can only imagine how annoying it is that you can't use your local library through no fault of your own. However, as the incident happened six years ago perhaps Mrs Freedman-Brown has now forgiven you.

It's very kind of Agatha to want to send me a Christmas card but I haven't actually got an office address which she could send it too. However, it could be sent to our Head Office in Dundee and they could perhaps forward it on.

The address is:-

Tesco Customer Service
Free Post
SCO 2298
Baird Avenue

Dundee
DD2 3TN

I'm pleased to hear that you are going to have some peace and quiet over Christmas and will be able to enjoy the green triangles. I like these as well along with the purple ones, it we’re thinking of the same sweets.

Please pass my best wishes onto Agatha and I hope you both enjoy the festive holiday.

Thanks again for taking the time to get in touch.

Kind regards

Pat

Tesco Customer Service

Tesco (Rotten Avocado II)

Dear Pat,

Thank you very much for your email, and please allow me to apologise most profusely for the tardiness of my reply. Unfortunately our computer suffered a bout of spontaneous internal combustion last month and I have been unable to make contact through electronic mail during the last few weeks. I did endeavour to go to the library to use the communal “PCs” but unfortunately I was ejected from the premises before I had even “logged in”. Six years ago I used to frequent the library quite regularly until I had a furious row with Mrs Freedman-Brown, the joyless and sunken-faced trollop who ran the place, about some extortionate library fines that had been levied against me. The tome in question wasn’t even within my sphere of interests; it was in fact a copy of The Jolly Pocket Postman that Agatha must have taken out without telling me for Augustus. I know it wasn’t I who borrowed it because the only thing I have ever wanted to put in that repulsive brat’s pocket is a small hand grenade or perhaps some maple syrup before tossing him into an enclosure of ravenous bears. Fortunately, his mother has managed to sober up and keep her legs together long enough to take them both on a ski holiday this Christmas, where I am hopeful that one or both of them will seriously injure themselves. Even if they come back unscathed, at least I don’t have to endure their screams of hysterical puerility over the holiday season or their eating of all the green triangle chocolates out of the Quality Street.

After I had been escorted from the library premises by the odious librarian, Agatha and I went to PC World to try and purchase a new computer. After much discussion with a young man called Horace we opted for one of the new “laptops”, so called because one sits with it atop their lap. Or on a table, whichever is most convenient. It really is quite a versatile machine. In fact, at this very second I am typing this out whilst using the lavatory. Agatha forgot to buy my Bran Flakes last time she went to Marks and Spencer so really this new “laptop” could not have come at a better time, especially as I have already read the most recent issue of Reader’s Digest from cover to cover. I do find a potent mixture of whisky and prune juice sends to alleviate the problem fairly quickly though, so do try that if you ever find yourself in a similar situation.

Back to business, I regret I must inform you that the £2 gift card you graciously offered me to compensate for my inedible avocados has failed to arrive. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was due to the vagrants who handle the post these days, who are in my humble opinion amongst the most unscrupulous, ill-mannered and uncouth dregs of society. I meant to alert you sooner but, as you can see, I have been unable to get hold of you in the customary way. You must give me your office postal address so in emergencies such as this I am able to communicate with you. Also, Agatha has expressed a wish to send you a Christmas card this year.

Yours festively,

Derek Haselhurst-Horton

Andrex

Dear Sirs,

I am writing to commend you on the softness, strength and astonishingly pleasant aroma of your new Shea butter lavatory paper. I’ve not experienced such a delightful sensation across my buttocks since I was seventeen and the pastor’s wife took an unexpected shine to me. This was back in the day when the seduction of minors was commonly accepted if not actively encouraged, and I spent many happy Sunday afternoons learning the art of love from a patient and kind woman. I attended a single-sex boarding school in my youth and at an age riddled with sexual frustration, I was extremely grateful not to have to satisfy my hormonal desires by abusing myself while watching Matron, who had the figure, complexion and charm of a London bus, getting undressed through a knothole in room 3B. When the pastor’s wife eventually lost interest in me and moved on to one of my contemporaries, a repulsive and chinless young blister by the name of Harry Futtock, I was utterly heartbroken and vowed never to accept the illicit advances of middle-aged women again. 

Regardless of the tumultuous events of my boyhood, I really feel I must reiterate my esteem for your new innovation in bum-wiping. I’ve never known something which is essentially there to remove remnants of faeces to be not only to be so luxuriously thick but also so sweet-smelling. It is actually of superior quality to the bedding at school, which was so itchy and uncomfortable that I barely got a wink of sleep in fourteen miserable years. My only complaint is the packaging; I know the Andrex brand is famous for its golden Labrador puppies – and incidentally, what happens to them once they’ve grown up? Do you sell them on to laboratories? – but I really do find it quite discriminatory towards cat-lovers. Our own cat, Throgmorton, is very territorial and becomes extremely distressed with even a printed image of a dog in the house. There have actually been a few incidents where he has attacked Andrex packaging and utterly destroyed several rolls of lavatory paper, which, although worth every penny, does not come cheap.

So, to summarise, I think your products are wonderful. To my mind they are the equivalent of a thirty-second spa experience, but please do away with your puppies. It’s unfair to those of us who aren’t dog people.

Yours obsequiously,

Derek Haselhurst-Horton

Tesco (Avocados) Reply

Dear Derek,

Thanks for your very entertaining email. I'm sorry that I haven't managed to reply to you sooner.

I do indeed converse with many customers in my role but don't normally have such amusing emails such as yours to read.

I'm sorry that you've had such a hard time whilst visiting your godchildren. It sounds like it was a very traumatic experience. Of course, this wouldn't have been helped by the fact that the avocados were of such poor quality and 'minging' as described by Honoria. I can see by the attached photos that she was quite right.

As one of our most loyal customers, I'm sure that you appreciate that this certainly isn't the standard of produce we usually offer to our customers and are horrified that these were for sale and bought by yourself.

Regrettably, it's not possible for me to send you replacement avocados in the post but I've instead sent a £2.00 Tesco Moneycard to your home address for you to spend as you please. I hope that if you purchase some more avocados, they will be of excellent quality and Honoria and Augustus may enjoy them.

Thanks again for getting in touch and please give my best wishes to your wife, Agatha.

Kind Regards

Pat Cronin
Tesco Customer Service

Tesco (Rotten Avocado)

Dear Pat,

I hope you are well; it has been some time since we last conversed. I’m sure you correspond with many people in your role as a customer services representative but you may recall that some time ago I had a near-traumatic experience with some garlic bread that was nowhere near as garlicky as I had been led to believe.

Since we last spoke, I have been forced to spend a lot of time with my detestable godchildren, Honoria and Augustus. They are the foul spawn of one of Agatha’s old school friends and I loathe them with the intensity of one thousand suns. They are loud, obnoxious and ill-mannered and frankly when I was their age I wouldn’t have been able to do half the things they get away with without feeling the buckle end of my father’s belt. Spare the rod and spoil the child, say I, and these two young blots on the landscape are nothing but spoiled. Quite frankly I’d like to find quite a large rod – a curtain pole, perhaps – and bring it down over both their reprehensible little skulls.

When Honoria and Augustus are at the Haselhurst-Horton residence, which is far too often as their mother is an idle alchoholic whore, I take a perverse pleasure in exercising my authority as master of the household over them. To date I have issued no fewer than 122 directives, which include the banning of spitting, swearing, sweating, breathing or laughing too loudly, chewing gum, slurping, passing wind, belching, scowling, smiling and getting in the way of our cat, Throgmorton, who has priority seating privileges at all times. As Agatha is bent on constantly indulging the little brats and refuses to deny them anything they want (this is grossly unfair as I, a fully-grown man, am only allowed half a chocolate digestive with my afternoon tea) the role of nutritionist has fallen to me. Loathe as I am to prolong the pint-sized bastards’ lifespan any more than necessary, there is an illicit thrill to be had from forcing vegetative matter down their throats, particularly Augustus, whose corpulence is such that I suspect he may soon be the proud owner of his own gravitational field.

Yesterday I stopped by at the my local Tesco to pick up some new and exciting vegetables with which to torture Augustus and picked up a packet of organic avocados. I very much resent paying £1.97 for a pack of three but unfortunately there weren’t any alternatives. Now, I know that avocados have a notoriously short window of optimal deliciousness, but the first one I cut up was more rotten than Augustus’ back teeth, which have already needed five fillings even though he is only nine. As you can see from the attached photograph, it certainly wasn’t in an edible state even though its best-before was before 5th November.

Honoria, who normally is as capable of as intelligent remarks as a rabid weasel, described the avocado as 'minging', which I believe in this instance means a deplorable disregard for health and safety on the part of Tesco supermarkets. Who knows what this festering piece of vegetation was harbouring?

I would be very appreciative if you would arrange to have a new avocado sent to me immediately.

Yours disgustedly,

Derek Haselhurst-Horton

Loch Fyne

Dear Sirs,

I am writing to complain about a nightmarish experience I had recently at your branch in Milton Keynes. To be completely blunt, I wasn’t hugely inclined to dine at your restaurant in the first place; after a documentary I watched about open sewer being tipped into the ocean I don’t usually touch so much as a prawn. The idea of eating something that may have been tainted with my own faeces frankly turns my stomach. Secondary to this, all fish remind me of the various occasions during my schooldays when I was beaten about the face with a raw kipper as punishment for underperforming in sport. Unfortunately, I was a sickly child and suffered from asthma but my fellow students were unsympathetic and ruthless. On one memorable occasion a young brute by the name of Thwaites struck me repeatedly with said aquatic fauna until our House Master, Mr Capstick, burst onto the scene like a knight in shining armour. Taking Thwaites by the scruff of the neck, he dragged the wretch into his office to whip him within an inch of his life. I must admit I took a dark and perverse pleasure in hearing Thwaites’ screams of pain from down the corridor and even now, fifty years on, thinking of it gives me an agreeable warming sensation on cold winter’s days.

Fond memories of Thwaites’ well-deserved flogging aside, I was persuaded by my good lady-wife Agatha to visit your seafood eatery last Friday with my odious godchildren, Honoria and Augustus. I ordered the plaice and was pleasantly surprised to find that despite my misgivings, the fish was actually quite delicious. I was enjoying my new-found fondness for pan-fried creatures of the deep when I saw something that makes me nauseous even to recall: a slug writhing under the skin of my lunch. Stifling a scream, I caught the attention of a waitress, who explained that the gruesome thing was in fact an egg-sack that was moving because of the heat.

You have completely and utterly ruined seafood for me. The very thought that I may have accidentally consumed the black pustule brings bile up in my throat and makes me feel quite lightheaded. I had already had an abhorrent day with someone else’s revolting offspring and this incident just plummeted the day into new levels of horror and revulsion. I believe that all fish ought to be properly gutted before serving, especially in restaurants where I am expected to pay through the nose for it.

Please ensure this never happens again, or I foresee some closures by the Health Inspector.

Yours stomach-churningly,

Derek Haselhurst-Horton

McDonalds

Dear Sirs,

I am writing to complain about the abysmal level of customer service at your drive-through restaurant in Kingston, Milton Keynes. Despite your history of environmental devastation, worker exploitation, child-baiting and animal abuse, I must admit that you do offer one thing that others do not: convenience. Sometimes, when no better option presents itself, I find myself with no choice but to force down one of your greasy McBurgers or a handful of lukewarm fries.

On one such occasion last week, however, I made the mistake of stopping off at McDonalds Kingston and using the ‘drive-thru’ ordering system. My suspicions should have been aroused by the bizarre spelling of the word ‘through’ – presumably this is an example of a multinational corporation piggybacking on the trend for blatant illiteracy amongst today's youth, most of whom are simply too lazy to refrain from unnecessary elision. Unfortunately, on this occasion I was extremely tired and had two unruly brats in the back of my car; not my own, thankfully, but my two godchildren, Honoria and Augustus. Although my good lady-wife, Agatha, dotes on the little blisters, I myself find myself at odds in their company and tend to fall back into glorious daydreams where I am throttling one of the little sods whilst kicking the other into some sort of ravine. On this excruciating excursion I had been forced to drive to some ghastly attraction in Staffordshire, which I had been unfairly tricked into thinking was a museum about Ernest Alton, the late Irish educator and politician. After a full day of what can only be described as financial rape and varying levels of nausea, I was allowed to crawl into the car and drive back home amidst the screams of the unholy spawn in the back. Despite warning Agatha numerous times about the effects of candy floss and carbonated beverages on children, she had stuffed them so full of sugar that no amount of threats or pleading would shut them up. In the end, close to tears, I had to resort to bribery; a McDonalds if they promised to cease their infernal yelling.

And thus we ended up at your godless ‘restaurant’ in Kingston. Exhausted, bedraggled and ready to stab, strangle or otherwise maim all children under the age of twelve, I drove to the ‘Drive-thru’ to pick up some cholesterol-laden meat products and a bagful of toxically over-salted fries. When our tepid food was finally shoved through my window, I parked in a lay-by to devour my portion of Chicken McNuggets and chips. After a day of surviving on Werther’s Originals and water from the log flume strained through my moustache, I was ravenous even for limp, dehydrated potato fries and pulped breaded chicken. Imagine my dismay, however, when I discovered that your staff had neglected to give me any sauce whatsoever. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to eat McDonalds fries without sauce, sirs, but it is a gruelling and tasteless ordeal.

The employees at the Kingston branch could not possibly have been unaware of this, and yet they chose to ignore my requests and sent me on my way, £16.47 lighter in pocket but with a meal that was inedible. For shame, sirs! Is this the latest measure in the battle to cut costs and please shareholders? Depriving the hapless consumer of the sauce that makes the rest of the meal palatable, nay, edible? I presume it comes from the same school of thought that prevents employees from giving out napkins with meals. While other fast food restaurants give out lemon-scented wet wipes, each packaged in its own sanitary little pouch, McDonalds doesn't even provide its loyal customers with a tissue to soak up the copious amounts of grease oozing from its products. By the time Honoria and Augustus had finished with their meal, the leather upholstery in the back of my car was swimming in shining oil and I was about ready to drown them in it.

I understand that this may be a minor blip in your customer service, so I am giving you the opportunity to repair the untold damage you have caused (both to myself and my car). Please rectify the issue immediately, otherwise I will be forced to take these diabolic bastard godchildren of mine to Pizza Hut next time they start getting on my pip.

Yours greasily,

Derek Haselhurst-Horton

MP for Stoke-on-Trent

Dear Sir,

I am writing to commend you on Stoke-on-Trent’s latest accolade as 9th Worst Place to Live in the UK (2011). Although I have not personally visited all the other cities that were recognised as even worse than Stoke-on-Trent, I must offer you my warmest congratulations on missing the top spot by a whole eight places. Considering what a squalid mess the town was in May this year when I was unfortunate enough to visit, I can only presume that some radical clear-up must have occurred between now and then as I don’t believe it possible for it to have otherwise been beaten by eight other cities.

I have read that there is some sort of initiative to regenerate Stoke. Initially I assumed this would involve a small, localised nuclear weapon and plans to sterilise approximately 95% of the population, but was perplexed when I discovered it instead involved bolstering employment and developing enterprise zones. As I’m sure you are aware, the majority of people in Stoke are neither seeking employment nor enterprising in demeanour. The incumbent population is too idle and mentally deficient to even engage in the more rewarding areas of crime (such as fraud and money laundering), instead turning to mindless thuggery and criminal damage, which is twice as high in Stoke as the national average.

I do not mean to sound like southern bigot, sir, and I’m sure you envision yourself as a missionary of sorts, trying to bring prosperity and opportunity to the hapless folk of Stoke-on-Trent. Unfortunately, you are labouring misguidedly; would you endeavour to enrich the lives of cattle or potatoes? Of course not; it's a fool’s errand. Despite your woolly-headed left-wing tendencies and innate longing to ‘see the good in everyone’, I can’t believe that you haven’t noticed that your constituents are lazy, incomprehensible, ugly and inconsiderate. I have read in the news recently about a child who started a smear campaign online against her teacher using the Facebook and was punished by being excluded from her school trip. Although this seems like a disproportionately light punishment for causing such distress and humiliation to one of our fine educators, the brat’s parents fought tooth and nail to have her punishment revoked. If the Facebook had existed when I was a boy and I had pulled such a stunt, rest assured that my father would have beaten me to within an inch of my life with the buckle-end of his belt, and rightly so. What kind of town produces parents that are so imbecilic and indulgent they would let their revolting spawn behave so atrociously? One that should have introduced stringent reproductive laws long ago, that’s what.

I apologise sir, what began as a warm message of goodwill has turned into a long rant against your life’s work. Regardless of how I feel about your illiterate and loathsome youth, rest assured that my congratulations remain notwithstanding.

Yours sincerely,

Derek Haselhurst-Horton

London Midland

Dear Sirs,

Firstly I would like to express my intense fury at the latest instalment in a long series of deplorable price hikes in fares. To increase the fixed costs of commuters’ travel when wages are barely even rising with inflation is both insensitive and cruel, especially when other costs of living are too increasingly at alarmingly high rates. I am retired, and I consider myself extremely fortunate that I do not work in London and live at the mercy of your laughably poorly-run organisation. The most diabolical part of your price hikes, though, is that the service is still as odiously dreadful as ever. Where is the value for the train-user? Trains are poorly staffed, dirty, unreliable and filled with screaming children and scum whose antisocial behaviour isn’t kept in check by overstretched employees. I somehow doubt that these problems will be eradicated even with a 8% increase in revenue.

My good lady-wife Agatha and I don’t commute, but we did travel to London by train last week to see the Titanic exhibition at the architectural monstrosity that is the ‘O2 arena’. Although the off-peak price was not unreasonable, the conditions of the train were worse than those of a concentration camp. The seats were filthy and every carriage reeked of human defecation and despair. We came home late and discovered to our dismay that all three of the lavatories were out of use. I am an old man and cannot be expected to wait fifty minutes to empty a brimming bladder, so I asked an attendant to unlock one so I could use the facilities. It soon transpired, however, that the lavatory was closed with good reason as the bowl was overflowing with tepid pisswater and nuggets of human excrement. Clasping a handkerchief to my face like a gasmask and clutching Agatha’s travel-size bottle of doorknob sanitiser, I ventured into the water-closet with an air of trepidation. Like a fireman running into a burning building filled with noxious gas, I was acutely aware that if I did not make sufficient haste the fumes would overcome me and I would quickly succumb to unconsciousness. Fortunately, on this occasion I was lucky and escaped with nothing more than scandalised nostrils and wet shoes. I was able to save them, however, with some cobbler’s shoe cream (£3.25), which I fully expect to be reimbursed for.

The one concession in the whole nightmarish experience was your staff; there was one lady in particular called Mary who was charming, courteous and an all-round shining example of how ticket inspectors should be. In comparison to the rest of your service, she was a gleaming beacon of loveliness, and if anything good is to come from these heinous and rapacious price hikes, I hope Mary is given a raise and a Cadillac as a reward for her excellent customer service.

I look forward to receiving your compensatory cheque for my urine-sodden shoes.

Yours disgruntledly,

Derek Haselhurst-Horton

Tesco II

In response to this charming letter Pat sent me in reply to this letter of complaint, I sent the following:

Dear Pat,

Firstly, I hope you have had a lovely bank holiday weekend. You will be pleased to hear that Agatha's gout has cleared up significantly since I last wrote, so we spent the weekend in the local woodland indulging in a spot of bird-watching. Unfortunately, the idyllic pleasures of the weekend were marred slightly by our stumbling across a young couple necking in the forest. Initially we thought we had heard the distinctive cry of a Red-backed Shrike, which I'm sure you're aware is an extremely rare and endangered species. Our excitement soon turned to dismay when we realised it was the sound of a disgustingly public display of hokey-pokey, but I am proud to report we did our duty as public citizens and thwarted the pair's licentious enterprise. Agatha, who plays the position of Goal Attack in the local over-65s netball team, placed the lubricious duo under citizens' arrest while I ran for the local constabulary. The miscreants were apprehended and Agatha and I resumed our bird-watching trip without further incident, although sadly without spotting a Red-backed Shrike.

To business: may I convey to you my appreciation for your timely reply. Despite Tesco's reputation for employing mindless automatons, you have proved to me that in fact corporations such as yours need not be completely faceless. For that, dear Pat, I applaud you. I would also like to extend my many thanks for your heartfelt and sincere apologies for the inadequately seasoned garlic bread I bought last week. I appreciate its deficiency was not anything to do with you, but I would like accept your gracious offer for a compensatory £5 moneycard. Agatha and I would be delighted to resample your garlic bread and, hopefully, this time we will not be disappointed.

Please find my address attached.

Yours appeasedly,

Derek Haselhurst-Horton

Tesco Reply

In response to this letter, Pat at Tesco customer services sent me the following apology and extended the olive branch with a £5 voucher:

Dear Mr Haselhurst-Horton

Thank you for your email. I’d like to apologise for the delay in replying. Normally, we can get back in touch with you within 24 hours and I’m sorry that we haven’t managed to do this for you on this occasion.

I'm very sorry to hear that you and your wife had your Pizza meal spoilt due to the lack of butter and garlic in your garlic bread. I can understand how annoying and disappointing this must have been for you both. We set very high standards for our suppliers and this helps to make sure that every product has the correct balance of ingredients. However, due to the speed of production, our Quality Assurance staff may occasionally overlook a product that doesn't meet these standards.

To say sorry for you meal being spoilt, I'd like to send you a £5.00 Tesco Moneycard which you could perhaps put towards another Pizza and maybe the Garlic Bread again which should be up to your expectations on the next occasion. I like to eat this as well so know that it should be nice and garlicky. If you could get back to me with your postal address, I'll be happy to arrange for this to be sent out to you.

It's good to hear that apart from some shortcomings in our stores, that you are generally very happy with the service we give you and particularly our Clubcard scheme. It's our way of saying thank you for your loyalty for shopping with us so I'm glad that you're both enjoying going to Pizza Express when you can. I'm sorry to hear that sometimes your wife's gout prevents this.

I hope that you'll be able to enjoy another night in with the Pizza and Garlic Bread. It sounds like a really good night especially if you can watch Midsummer Murders at the same time. Of course you can use the Moneycard to purchase other items in the store which you may like as well.

Thanks again for contacting us and please pass my apologies on to your wife as well for the disappointment caused.

I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Kind Regards

Pat C
Tesco Customer Service

House of Fraser

Dear Sir/Madam,

I don't know if you're aware that a recession is still raging through the country, but everyone, including your middle-class target demographic, has been cutting back and denying themselves the pleasures they once took for granted. I, for instance, used to be a leading British plasticine sculptor, but the rising costs of both plasticine and additional materials such as petroleum jelly have forced me to cut back and not indulge myself as often as I did. We are in the midst of hard times, sirs, hard times.

Regardless of the sad stifling of my potent creative juices, I have taken offence to your cruel mocking of the British public's terrible plight. My good lady-wife Agatha decided to treat herself to a new lipstick after recovering from a severe case of gout and, because we are trying to be more economical, perused the sale section of your website. When she saw your BellaPierre lipstick was on offer she was delighted...until she saw the generous reduction you had set upon it: a penny. A penny, sirs! This discount actually equates to 0.007%. As a long-term House of Fraser customer, I am appalled at your insensitivity. You should be ashamed of yourselves.

Yours disgustedly,

Derek Haselhurst-Horton

Tesco

Dear Sirs,

I would like to begin by stating that although your chain has many shortcomings – detestable in-store baked goods and an irksome habit of changing stores’ layouts every six months, for instance – it also has many sterling qualities that make it my supermarket of choice (aside from Waitrose, obviously). Your Clubcard scheme is particularly commendable; it frankly leaves the loyalty schemes of other retailers looking extremely sub-par. I shopped in Sainsburys for three years before Tesco moved in and earned precisely £15.33, which I spent on a Jeffrey Archer novel and a cheap bottle of wine. With Clubcard Rewards, however, my good lady-wife Agatha and I have enjoyed many sterling meals out with minimal expense. Our current favourite is Pizza Express; although we are usually opposed to continental food on the grounds that it is filthy foreign muck, we have developed quite a fondness for the cuisine of the Italian people. Although I hear their attitude to driving is quite deplorable, their pizza is quite delectable.

As my good lady-wife Agatha and I have discovered such enthusiasm for the culinary delights of Pizza Express, we made plans to go out for dinner there last night. Unfortunately, Agatha is suffering from a particularly severe case of gout, and we eventually elected to stay in and watch one of our old Midsomer Murders video tapes instead. To ease her disappointment, and also to get out of the house as Agatha is prone to sudden bouts of savage rage when her gout plays up, I went to my local Tesco to purchase some of the Pizza Express home-cook pizza and some garlic bread. You’ll be pleased to hear that the pizza was delicious; almost as good as it is in the restaurant. The garlic bread, however, was a crushing disappointment.

The Tesco brand garlic bread was drier than a cork leg and, as far as I could tell, completely devoid of any butter or, indeed, garlic. I myself am partial to the distinctive flavour of allium neapolitanum, and I believe I am personally capable of excreting more garlicky artefacts the morning after indulging in a late-night chicken Kiev sandwich. The ludicrous absence of anything even remotely resembling garlic in the product was not only wildly distressing, but also potentially very dangerous to those looking to consume it for medicinal reasons.

I do hope you rectify this problem as soon as possible; it is simply unacceptable and I will not be purchasing it again.

Yours hungrily,

Derek Haselhurst-Horton

Abercrombie & Fitch

Dear Sirs,

I entered one of your stores this weekend whilst on a shopping trip with my dear lady-wife Agatha. The trip was principally so she could invest in a pair of ‘control pants’ from Marks & Spencer that she had seen advertised on an abhorrent piece of programming called Loose Women. The premise of the show appears to be a group of wizened and barren old hags publicly discussing their cervical smear tests and their teenage sons’ masturbatory habits. Because we are going to the local bridge club’s annual charity dinner next month, she understandably wants to ensure she looks her best, although personally I can’t understand how a few yards to elasticated girdle will make one jot of difference to her womanly bulk.

I digress. I am actually writing not to furnish you with the details of Agatha’s undergarments but to lodge a complaint about the state of your store. As its exterior presented a welcome change from the glaring bright lights of other emporia, I assumed its target demographic was not the trendy young whippersnappers of ‘Generation Y’, but the older, better-dressed generation. Lamentably, the assumptions of this poor, misguided old fool were wildly inaccurate.

As I stepped over the threshold, I was appalled that there was no emergency lighting in operation as there had obviously been some sort of power cut. This posed a terrible heath hazard and I consider myself fortunate that I didn’t trip and break my neck. Not only was the entire store swathed in darkness, but the air was so heavily fragranced I felt like I was entering an opium den or a whore’s boudoir. I was greeted by a dead-eyed blonde who seemed to be there on some sort of Care in the Community programme; the poor girl was clearly soft in the head as she seemed to have forgotten her blouse. Despite her sad state of intellectual incapacity, she flitted from room to room so stealthily I never even saw her move. Indeed, it seemed almost as though the entire store was filled with her clones; every time I turned around she was there. It was most unnerving.

It soon became apparent that Abercrombie & Fitch is not the kind of store designed for discerning gentlemen such as myself. After blundering deeper in the labyrinth of the store, eyes watering with the fumes and ears near bleeding with the constant thump of mindless bass, I finally espied daylight and made my escape.

Frankly, I’m grateful I lived to tell the tale. Your store is a tasteless death trap and even if it were the sort of place I would normally frequent, it was near-impossible to find anything as it was so sunken in gloom and darkness. At one point I picked up a garment thinking it was a pair of formal black trousers when in fact it was a red and pink tartan brassiere. Quite a difference, I think you’ll agree!

I do hope you’ll take my comments on board and rectify the issues – of which there are many – immediately.

Yours outragedly,

Derek Haselhurst-Horton

Vaseline

Dear Sirs,

I am writing to commend you on your excellent product, Vaseline. It is, in my considered opinion, the most underated product of the three centuries its production has spanned. Around the home I've found use for it in all manner of things - chapped lips, hardened cuticles and, of course, softening plasticine. I do not mean to brag, but I am considered in various circles to be one of the best plasticine sculptors in the British Isles. I would not have reached these higher echelons of acclaim without your innovative and versatile petroleum jelly, so from the bottom of my heart I offer you my deepest gratitude. In addition, I have found it to be an excellent personal lubricant. When I walk long distances I have found the chafing sensation on my inner thighs to be most unpleasant. A quick dab of your inestimable jelly eradicates the problem, however, and I have enjoyed many long rambles through the glorious English countryside because of it.

It is also indispensible on the rare occasions my good lady-wife Agatha is receptive to my amorous advances. Fear not, good sirs, I am well aware of its incompatiability with latex contraceptives. They are not in fact products I consume regularly - nay, ever! - as the undercarriage of my good lady-wife Agatha is drier and more barren than Chenoybyl post-'86. Whenever I see a young lady in the street, however, I always take the time to stop and explain its corrosive nature to 'Johnnies'. Although she may only be using it to balm her lips, it is the sad nature of society today that the young are quickly and often without warning initiated into the world of illicit hanky-panky. Although the issue troubles me deeply, I would much rather these young sluts exercise proper caution than plunge the country even deeper into a detestable cesspit of unwanted crotch-spawn.

Yours lubriciously,

Derek Haselhurst-Horton

Wagamama Reply

In response to this letter, Wagamama graciously sent me the following reply and £20 worth of vouchers. I applaud their efforts to adapt to Western values, but I fear they still need some more guidance in how to correctly use full stops and capital letters.



dear derek,

thank you for taking the time to inform us of your experience at wagamama spitalfields. we pride ourselves on the highest standards of food, service and customer care. I was therefore upset to hear that you had a negative experience on your recent visit and for this I sincerely apologise

I can appreciate how disappointing it must have been not to be able to eat the delicious chicken katsu curry as quickly as you desired using our chopsticks and for this I apologise. on a positive note, I am pleased to advise you that a portion of our stores already offer western cutlery as an alternative to chopsticks and that over the next three weeks these will be available in all wagamama restaurants across the uk

further to your enquiry about purchasing wagamama sauce, we do sell a selection of sauces in large supermarkets but unfortunately the katsu curry is not one of those as it remains exclusive to our restaurants

I have enclosed some complimentary vouchers so you are able to revisit wagamama and dig into the chicken katsu curry with full force using cutlery. these vouchers can be used in any of our uk locations. once again please accept my apologies and thank you for taking the time to give us your feedback

Easyjet

Dear Sir/Madam,

I have never flown abroad before as my good ladywife Agatha has never had any truck with foreign languages or alien foodstuffs. However, we were recently persuaded to visit the Costa Brava by Amanda Lamb from A Place in the Sun, the only programming effort that has challenged the supremacy of Midsomer Murders on our television in the last fifteen years.

Spain turned out to be a mistake; although Ms Lamb had assured us that the Spanish are very much acclimatised to the manner of Britons, we found them to be loud, obnoxious and incomprehensible. Several times we had to ask for directions and were subjected to nonsensical babble; no amount of shouting or pointing seemed to penetrate their sun-shrunken skulls. In addition, the food was filthy muck; I quickly learned not to order prawns as they were served to me with heads still attached. On the first occasion this barbarianism offended my sensibilities to such a degree I had to go and lie down in a darkened room with a cold flannel for 45 minutes. The second time I hoped would be different, but still the wretched shrimp was presented to me with all its appendages intact. Rest assured I will be contacting the Spanish embassy to lobby against this vile and distasteful practice.

Regardless of the uncouth ways of our European neighbours, I found the Easyjet experience to be a pleasant one, regardless of its unfortunate colour scheme. The cabin crew were all excellent, but it was the lady on the ground who really cemented my regard for your organisation. Her name was Fiona, and she was truly a reincarnation of Boadicea, the glorious leader of the Celts. Although lacking in the fiery red hair department, I could clearly envision her clad in an iron breastplate and riding a spiked chariot. I am talking about queue-jumpers, sirs! It has pained me that respect for the practice of queuing in the British Isles has declined in recent years and numerous people - some of them my fellow countrymen as well as ill-mannered continental types, I am ashamed to say – tried to push to the front of the queue at the gate! Of course I was bristling; my good ladywife Agatha and I had been waiting patiently for 35 minutes in order to secure ourselves window seats and now a legion of self-entitled crusties were trying to get in front of us. Fortunately – and thank goodness, because although a pacifist at heart I have a very low tolerance for queue-jumping ne’er-do-wells – Fiona clearly shares my views on waiting one’s turn. With poise and professionalism she in effect told the blights to sod off to the back of the queue, to my immense gratification and delight. When they protested, she told them everyone had to wait their turn.

What I mean to say, sirs, is thank you for employing such wonderfully fair-minded staff. In such an increasingly impatient and ill-mannered world, it was deeply refreshing to see someone upholding the pillars of respect and civility in your organisation, and I salute you.

Yours admiringly,

Derek Haselhurst-Horton

Blackberry

Dear Sirs,

I have been a loyal Blackberry customer for many years but I am afraid to inform you that my current handset will be my last. Since I got my Bold 8900 last June, I have put up with defunct ring tones, an alarm that only sounds nine times out of ten and jammed trackpads. This is actually my third model in a year and despite numerous vacuous promises from your customer support team, I still do not have a product fit for purpose.

Riddled with flaws, it is the most poorly thought-out thing since my first marriage. I pay through the arsehole for my contract with Orange and for the extortionate sum of money they diddle me out of I expect a handset that will at least reliably awaken me from my slumber every morning. Because Agatha, my good lady-wife, suffers from chronically blocked nasal passages, I am accustomed to sleeping with background noise not unlike a donkey being sawn in half. Subsequently, conventional alarm clocks do not cut the mustard and my Blackberry is the only thing loud enough to wake me up. This is patently no good if the alarm cannot be relied upon to go off every time. On numerous occasions I have missed very important events because of the poxy design of your product and it simply will not do. According to my calculations, it would have been cheaper and more effective had I imported a child from a Third World country a la Angelina Jolie, positioned it on my bedside table with an airhorn and instructed it to let rip at 6am every morning.

Depending on the stringency of international child-snatching rules, I will be investing in an HTC or iPhone when my contract is up in December.

Yours peevishly,

Derek Haselhurst-Horton

McCoys

McCoys have a campaign where they advertise their crisps as just for men. Their website features such pearls of wisdom as how not to cry and how to avoid catching man 'flu.

Dear Sirs,

Although my good lady-wife Agatha frowns upon unwholesome food like crisps, often I can persuade her to make an exception in the case of your delicious McCoys. The deep ridges of each delicious crisp intensify the flavourings and satisfy the most savage of cravings, and more importantly I have found your ‘crisps for men’ campaign to be most instructive. It has even helped me to overcome my issues about my sub-par masculinity. Although I am a proud member of the heterosexual community, from a very young age I have been ridiculed for my somewhat womanly features and higher-than-averagely pitched voice. Since my school-days I was the unfortunate recipient of all manner of unsavoury monikers including ‘cissy’, ‘pansy’ and ‘knob-gobbler’. Although my good lady-wife Agatha is a delicate flower at heart, she has always ‘worn the trousers’ in our relationship and I have always been privately intimidated by her ability to grow a more substantial moustache than I. Because she disapproves of your delectable potato products and I am not allowed to use the World Wide Web without supervision, I have had to slip Nytol in her morning Earl Grey in order to communicate my gratitude to you over e-mail. Even as I type this, she is slumped face-down on the kitchen table. I actually feel quite empowered and feel this is the sort of behaviour the staff at McCoy HQ would endorse. Before I read your manifesto of manliness I would never have had the courage to drug my own lady-wife, so thank you, sirs, I take my hat off to you!

Yours admiringly,

Derek Haselhurst-Horton

P-s. I must applaud, particularly, your guide to tackling a grizzly bear. Although I am a pacifist by nature and have never ventured anywhere more exotic than Great Yarmouth due to my fear of snakes, planes and foreign food, I am whole-heartedly looking forward to ‘smacking a bear between the eyes’. Bravo, sirs!

Wagamama

Dear Sir/Madam,

I ate at one of your establishments in Spitalfields recently and for the most part the experience was a satisfactory one. The seating offered all the comfort one would expect from a wooden bench and the staff did their best to accommodate our party of eleven. I ordered the breaded chicken and sticky rice with curry sauce – and you need to sell that sauce in supermarkets, by the way, so I can bulk-buy and then bathe in it – and it was delicious. The only fly in the ointment was the apparatus I was expected to eat it with; chopsticks are not the implements of choice for most Western people. I cannot speak for the whole of Europe, but here in the UK we like to eat out with the sole intention of shovelling as much food into our face-holes as possible. It is impossible to do this with chopsticks, especially if you were saddled at birth with chubby sausage-like digits like yours truly. I very much understand you’re trying to replicate the experience of eating at a genuine Japanese noodle-bar, but when a customer requests a knife with which to eat their dinner, I think there should be some available. I was told by the waitress that there were no such implements for diners to use and that I’d have to soldier on with my set of chopsticks and a spoon. I’m sorry sirs, but a spoon quite literally does not cut it!

As it were, I struggled on with my meal – how I wished I had ordered the soup! – and subsequently spent about an hour ferrying my food to my mouth, four grains of rice at a time. I hope you take my suggestions on board and if you cannot provide knives to guests, at least warn them in advance to bring their own cutlery. Frankly, this refusal to acknowledge and accommodate Western eating habits shows an unwillingness to assimilate to British culture. I find this unacceptable.

Yours patriotically,

Derek Haselhurst-Horton

Burtons Foods Toffee Dodgers

Dear Sir/Madam,

As a long-time fan of Jammie Dodgers I never thought I would be tempted to stray from my biscuit of choice. I've always found the Jammie Dodger to fulfill my snacking needs; its jam is always of the most delicious piquancy and its outer shell the very embodiment of crunchiness and buttery texture.

However, after seeing your witty advertising campaign, I decided to take the plunge and purchase your new Toffee Dodgers. How I wish I had refrained. As soon as I bit into the product, the bitter taste of disappointment washed over me and with every mouthful more and more of my faith in Burtons Foods was eroded away. Despite promising lashings of velvety caramel in your adverts, every biscuit in the pack was graced with nothing but the most parsimonious smear of what could charitably be called toffee. I've literally seen more goo in a nun's gusset.

I am extremely disappointed in this new variant of a timeless classic and hope you rectify the toffee issue immediately.

Yours hungrily,

Derek Haselhurst-Horton