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
Wednesday, 24 August 2011
Monday, 8 August 2011
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
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
Friday, 5 August 2011
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
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
Tuesday, 2 August 2011
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
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
Tuesday, 19 July 2011
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
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
Friday, 15 July 2011
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!
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!
Thursday, 14 July 2011
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
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
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