Dear Franny…

Dear Franny,

How are you? Hope your prolapsed bowel isn’t giving you too much trouble and that Franny Junior has gotten over her lust for pyromania and you can, again, keep books in the house. Anyway, I’m sorry it has been so long since I last wrote, but – to be honest – I don’t really like you and writing to you is a real fucking chore. Every last word I’m writing now is like a visual affirmation of the existence of misery for me. Honestly, I’d rather be eating arsenic and having my bikini line waxed by a blind monkey whilst having a sulphuric acid enema than to be writing to you, but I thought it had been long enough, so here I am!

They say pre-warned is pre-armed. But who exactly are they – and what are they doing in my house dressed in traditional Indian leisurewear? I’ve offered them a cup of tea, but all they do is sit in the corner humming and undulating. Perhaps I ought to call the police – but what would they do about it? Bang on about ‘squatters rights’ probably, but they’re not really squatting, more like levitating on a less grand scale – it’s always the innocent butter dish who suffers when margarine invades their personal bar-stool of destiny. I did what any sensible, sane person could do and played my favourite game, ‘Twister’. Naked – naturally. Mrs. Lambswool across the road usually joins in on Wednesdays, but as it was October, she declined my pink, wobbly offer. No-one cares.

You know, Franny, God spoke to me – he told me to take a red pencil and place it in a blue receptacle. He then told me to spin around on a lettuce whilst chanting the Mongolian national anthem, which is ‘Wannabe’ by The Spice Girls. I told him to go get himself another pawn with which to hatch his diabolical schemes. God didn’t appreciate that. He told me that I was going to be very sorry. I told him that if he didn’t stop hassling me that he was going to be sorry. “Oooooh!”, he said, clutching a handbag, “I’m like really scared!”. “Yeah, well, you should be, you bearded plate of frogspawn – there’s only room for one shrimp-buster on this island and it’s me!”. God conceded defeat after a long game of twister and I danced a nifty salsa to celebrate. It’s good being me sometimes, especially after 2pm when it becomes 2.01pm, apart from on Wednesdays when anything can happen, as well you know!

You asked me what you should do about your husband. Well, let me just say this for nothing. A richer man would be poorer in the knowledge that vegetable oil only congeals when caressed with a rusty beansprout in June. I want to plunge into the abyss, but no-one will hold my jacket and I paid nearly a hundred pounds for it, so I’m damned if I’m getting abyss juice on it. It’s a bugger to get out, abyss juice, even when I go to the same dry cleaners that Phil Collins uses – they specialise in removing tomato and kumquat stains, of which Phil is particularly fond, usually in sandwiches. Now – there’s a question. If they run out of Quats in the Kumquat factory, how on earth can they continue production and still market the product? Anyway, don’t mind me – or come too close… this level of despondency is contagious.

Why does everyone sound like The Beatles these days? I was listening to this album called ‘Abbey Road’ the other day and it sounded exactly like the Beatles! Plagiarising Bastards! I wrote into the BBC to complain, even though I’m not the complaining kind. I composed a letter on parchment and, using Branston Pickle as ink and a pheasant feather to inscribe my words of passion and belief, fired off a brilliant, incisive, cutting, scathing essay to the Director General of the world’s finest broadcasting institution. Well, I actually wrote, ‘I’m going to kill you all, you scum-eating pigfuckers!” I suppose they’ll have a problem with that. The bastards. The local constabulary are quite gentle and understanding, but I don’t know how much longer I can keep on trying their patience. Perhaps they’ll just give me a light kicking like last time. I wasn’t keen when they used their truncheons last March, although I was grateful they lubricated them first.

Anyway, back to my problem. Should I take the blue tablets or the red ones? They both calm me down, but the blue ones make me act and talk like Loyd Grossman, which – to be honest – I’m not entirely convinced is a good thing, as he sided with Elvis and, possibly, Richard Nixon over who should produce the film of my novel and critique of Mexican animal-cruelty, ‘Tequila Mockingbird’. They were utterly adamant that Sam Peckinpah would serve it’s purposes better than my choice, David Cronenberg, but I wanted it be a little more left-field and was dubious about Peckinpah’s misogyny and, yes, sanity. Plus, he smells of poo.

So, I popped a couple of red ones instead which, unfortunately, cause me to believe that the walls are melting and all that colours come from an artistic elephant called Catherine who spends her days travelling the world, colouring things in, spraying paint, sunbeams and sparkling magic from her trunk. They give me the munchies, though – I can’t help snacking on crackers, coated with sugar and carrots. Hang on, there’s someone at the door… it could be the police… oh God, I hope not… No, it was just a Cub Scout trying to sell me heroin and disposable contact lenses. Disposable bloody contact lenses? I don’t even smoke! What is this world coming to? Why can’t people be a bit more like Barbara Streisand and a lot less like Liza Minnelli? Is that too much to ask? I mean, David Guest – he looked as if he was made from polished plastic and he had a smile which could embalm a corpse at ten paces.

A funny thing happened to me today. I was minding my own business – for it is my business to mind and I exercise that right with regularity – strolling along the street when I came across a dirty, smelly, hairy, busker (I wiped it up afterwards, naturally) who was playing a selection of Talking Heads songs on the mandolin whilst twittering like a bird. I thought nothing more of it until later when I was in the shower, cursing my terrible memory and removing my now wet clothes. I realised that the busker had been none other than Bob Dylan and I’d missed probably my only chance to meet my idol, shake his hand, smile, then punch him viciously and scream at him, asking him exactly what the hell he was thinking when he released Dylan and the Dead. Naturally, the disappointment was much too much for me to take, so I attempted to kill myself by throwing the radio into the bath. I then cursed my stupidity again because, as I explained earlier, I was taking a shower and electrocution would be unlikely. I looked around for some other method of ending my life on earth, but decided that it was too much trouble and, besides, I had a chocolate cake in the kitchen which had my name on it!

Yours, (though not literally – don’t get any funny ideas – dirty bitch!)

Sara Lee.

p.s. I really don’t like you at all.

p.p.s. Write soon!

About A.D.S.

You are reading the musings of a music-obsessed forty-something who was brought up on The Beatles, lived through Britpop and now spends his time in pursuit of the best music around. This 'blog gives me an outlet to write about the huge number of albums I buy and the many gigs I go to. All of the opinions expressed are my own and if you don't agree with me, then I understand - music is a very personal thing. I like to receive comments, especially if they're nice ones.
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