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
Wednesday 21 September 2011
Monday 12 September 2011
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
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
Monday 5 September 2011
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
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
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