We’re Behind You…

Hello world, and watch your backs, because Email, She Wrote now has a permanent home. At least until the Internet collapses. As it doubtless will. Email, She Wrote play the prank game, jumping on open email accounts, composing eloquent and eccentric missives to send to the most random of targets. We now share them with the world for your own personal enjoyment. Dip in!

I’m Your Man

As the British General Election approaches, Jack Berrill is a humble theatre technician with big plans for the Big Man of the Tories, David “My Chin Is Arching Ever-Closer To My Nose” Cameron…

Dear Dave,

I’ve been following your election campaign with more than a little interest, as I too have designs on the position of ‘Primary Minister’ of the UK AND Ireland (I will explain this later). I think you’re doing an excellent job, but let’s make not beat around the bush here Big Dog D, you’re missing the sparkle of Jack Berrill. It’s lucky I’m here, for both you and me. I’ll go on…

First, I think it’s important to note that while you’ve got the credentials, I have the face to front a campaign. Now, normally (and feel free to ask my friends on this one Mr. Cameron) I’m not a man who likes his face on all the papers, not one of the “me-have-it-all-paparazzi-super-time” generation, if you will (and I’m sure you will {you just did}). However, there comes a time for change (I think you’ve mentioned this), and I’m ready (“at last”, you probably say) to be the face of your campaign. It’s time for my face to have its time in the limelight, proving ravishing to ladies and potential voters. It’s a face that says, “Tea?” sometimes, but “Heads up, Scaff Tower Moving” or “Don’t be an eejit”. If some people aren’t sure about voting for us David, they sure will be soon. My face, your credentials and a smattering of CRAZY OSBORNE (it’s how I think he should be rebranded) and we’re on to a winning formula.

Now I know what you’re thinking DC, and worry not, I’m ready for this. What can I (Jack) offer to the world, I hear you (Big Dog D) say…? Well…

• A noble mind
• Understanding
• Athletic

And that’s just three words that I think are pretty apt at describing what I’m at. I know that we can up our game by really hitting this one out of the park DaveCam. I should get to the crux of my proposal, as I imagine you’re sufficiently titillated at this stage. And get ready, cause this is about to get heavy…

What I’m suggesting is a kind of coalition (and not with that Clegg-type), between you and I. You’ve been proposing this as a year for change DC, and what could be more of a “change” than you getting elected (some kind of awesome majority would be pretty cool) and then BLAMMO!

That’s right, you hand over the reigns to me (that’s what the sound is for {there was some kind of explosion}).

That says “change” like nothing else. An elite politician like yourself cruises in and then, HOLY MOLY, he steps aside for a wee lad from Drogheda with a background in poetry and arse-kicking. From there it’ll be pretty easy to get Ireland to agree to “co-habiting under the same roof” as you guys. I’ve got the gift of the gab, it can’t be too difficult. I’ve got the Jack-Factor. I’m really looking forward to it, being Primest Minister, leading the UK and Ireland, or as I like to call it “Jackland”, of which I am “Supreeeeeme Overlord and Tyrant”. You can be “Unnecessarily Racist Vice-Tyrant” if you want, or something similarly awesome.

I’m also considering staging some kind of Live Aid-style event to raise awareness for how “awesome” we are. I’ve got a rake of sound and light equipment and can use them pretty well. I also control The Beatles and a little known outfit called The Tubeway Army.

Now, the first bridge to cross is this “majority” thing. Don’t worry DJDC, I’m on it. That Clegg fella’s nothing to worry about, sure didn’t I only have few jars with him the other week. He’s just trying to put the willies up you but is planning on gracefully bowing out on Monday 3rd May. That is, of course, if you get me on board. That’s his condition, and he’s sticking to it. The bastard.

I’ve already put 35,000 flyers to print saying ‘Berrill and Cameron – Together we can make it all better’, with a big picture of my smiling face. I’ll send your half over.

Keep up the good work, but don’t forget, you can do better, and I’ll see you on Downing Street come May 8th you crazy bastard! Wooooo!

Yours confidently,

Jack Berrill

Where @ At?!

Tim Forde takes issue with the biggest company in the world over the smallest possible issue. We salute you sir!

Dear Mr. Google

I was recently searching the internet using Yahoo! and came across your site. A fine endeavour you seem to have set out upon: Your name is as amusing, if not moreso than Yahoo! (I for one am glad you have seen no need for erroneous exclamation marks [they merely induce an unncecessary level of excitement disproportionate to the actual service you offer {there was a restaurant near me called Lunch! - what's all that about?! They closed recently <this may or may not have anything to do with their bad syntax but I am hopeful that it did and that the misguided owners have learnt their lesson>}]) and you seem to provide the answer to everything – OR DO YOU?! (No. You don’t. As I shall now demonstrate).
As you can probably tell, I am a keen punctuation-watcher. I am frequently credited as the inventor the € symbol, although many €-skeptics would have you think it was the European Central Bank (agree to disagree, I always say [ask my life-partner, Aloysius, I say it quite a lot]). So you can imagine my shock, nay dismay, nay outrage, nay inrage when I decided to crank up your search engine and entered “@”, commonly known at the “at symbol” (I would prefer to give it a name [the "and symbol", &, is known as the ampersand, so why not the ampersat? Answer me that!]). This particular search yielded NO RESULTS! Go on. Search for it now. Using your very own site. No, no, I’ll wait.

Tum-te-tum.

Done it? Well, hurry up! I don’t have all night.

About time. So, you see where your world-renowned site has failed a professional punctuation fetishist like myself, and the entire internet-using world – @ seems to be quite an important symbol in the world of electronic mail. I for one use it in MY email as I notice you do too. There must surely be others. They are left lost in your worldwide web of failure. They are crying out to be found and you, Mr. Google, have left them to flounder in the briney waves of the cyber-sea. Shame on you, Mr. Google.
Shame.
I trust you will rectify this major lapse and that, when I next search for @ I will not be greeted by the message “Your search – @ – did not match any documents”, but rather, by a vast swathe of results each crying with joy that they have been found: “Free @ last, free @ last, thank God almighty, we are free @ last!”

Yours spontaneously,
Timothy T. F. Forde Esq.

And We’re Back!

Hey there, Email She Wrote fans! We’re back and in dramatic fashion, if you’ll pardon a deliberate pun! Aspiring impresario, Sinéad McMahon, is fishing for high-powered backing for her highly-punctuated musical.

Hello,

Firstly, I would like to say that I am a MASSIVE fan of all your work Mr. Weinberger, I think you sing very well (I particularly enjoyed your drunken {ironically} version at that karaoke bar of ‘The Drinking Song’ from ‘La Traviata’ {do you remember that night? [I don't, because I was drunk]})! One could say I admire you. And for that I thank you.

In some ways I envy you, Mr. Weinberger.

Secondly I was THRILLED to imagine that you are keen to promote and publicise ‘MONIKER!!!: The Sinead McMahon Story…’ my self-written bitchingly-awesome musical. My singing teacher, Mr. Thraxby, said that it’s “mediocre at best” and after this affirmation I am VERY excited! Can’t wait to start working with you. The run begins on Tuesday and I am delighted that you have agreed to put your name to the project.

Given the inevitable success of the production, I have already gone ahead and affixed your logo on the 30,000 posters which I have plastered around Dublin (AND BEYOND!) and also the quote, “THIS IS QUITE POSSIBLY THE BEST MUSICAL I HAVE EVER SEEN! YOU CAN QUOTE ME ON THAT SINEAD!” – Josef Weinberger, and “SHIT! THAT’S GOOD!” – The entire staff of Josef Weinberger Ltd. Thank you for your support! I’ll send you a DVD.

The run begins in my front room (mum said I could) from Tuesday and is on for the foreseeable future, every day at about half four. It’s going to be very (VERY) good! It can seat, at capacity, about 672 (I tried it the other day).

Needless to say, I’m really exciting!

And excited!

Bye bye

Sinead x

An Issue With A Marvel Character

Christina Matthews is loaded and ready to fire. This is one lady who shoots from the hip.

TO: Jeff Klein of DKC for Marvel Comics

10th June 2009

Dear Marvel Comics,
 
My name is Christina Matthew Upson, and above all, I do fires. I read your Fantastic 4 comic novel. Are you aware that poor Johnny Storm aka The Human Torch, is on fire!!!! Surely this counter productive to his team’s efforts to save the planet – I recommened you follow the proper guidelines of the ‘Put People Who Are On Fire Out’ Code and use the pink fire extinguisher to put him out as soon as possible.
 
Thank you and I hope the poor boy is ok,
 
Christina Matthew Upson
Fire and Safety Officer
Sam Bucket Theatre
 
PS: The same goes for Ghost Rider!

Fat Chance!

Marc (with a C) Atkinson ponders something that’s been bothering all of us since the credit crunch hit.

TO: Northern Rock

10th June 2009

Dear….

How does one address a rock?

All my best,

Marc Atkinson

Pillage and Plunder

Guess who’s back? Yep, it’s our old friend Ross Dungan. You just can’t keep this kid down. This time, he’s ready for some rape and booty…

TO: Viking Direct Stationery Suppliers

9th June 2009

Dear Viking Direct
 
My name is Ross Dungan, or Thorsten Hargood, king of all the Norse. No doubt my name will be familiar to you and my reputation will precede me (does it? [it does {it better}]). As the leading Viking lord of this 9th Century, I have a fearsome history and will surely be honoured in Valhalla, if not in this life (my origami skills are legendary). I have recently begun my summer pillaging programme and will be, as usual, targeting the fishing villages on the eastern coast of Brittania. The long-boats are loaded with supplies, my warriors have donned their horned helmets and herring-bone armour and are lean and supple (so supple…), ready to go a-plundering. We have been offering up long-sacrifices of gutted reindeer and praying night upon night to Odin, all in the name of a good raiding season. As you well know, my long-sword, Ravenous Fireflash, is hungry for blood (oh, how well you know it). It would seem that all is ready and that the many monks and impoverished fishermen of Brittania ought to be quaking in their leather sandals. I am of course eager that we will fare well – the long-wife has been dropping hints all winter that she quite fancies a new golden torc and a silver chalice or two, and far be it for me to deny the buxom love of my mortal life her merest whim (plus she has quite the temper, as the Archdeacon of Lyon has no doubt told you, and I am loath to tempt her wrathful wrath [she's a dab hand with the long-sword {you should see her fillet a snow-pig}]).
However, the one outstanding issue remains my poor sense of long-direction. Ever since I got lost in that ill-fated hunting trip to Stockholm, I have been wary of setting foot outside the front door of my long-hut without consulting the stars and winds and the AA long-website. I once cowered in fear beside the umbrella-tidy for an hour when faced with the prospect of needing to drop down to the local merchant’s for a gourd of goat’s milk. “What? You, Thorsten Hargood, king of all the Norse? Cowering in fear?” I hear you ask (I have very good long-hearing). Yes, ’tis true. I am not proud. And it is for this reason that I beg this simple request of you at Viking Direct. As I look ahead to this long-awaited trip to Brittania, I would be not ungrateful if you could issue me with the appropriate directions to reach this isle of many plunder-worthy riches from my own long-citadel at Furstbingjen, 2nd fjord on the left, Norway (it has a green door [and a weather-vane]). If you were to furnish me with a map, or even a comprehensive set of directions, you will be much rewarded with 2 hearty slave-girls of your own and a sack of finest mead. If you refuse, prepare to lose your head to my own Ravenous Fireflash, and your blood will flow like the tears of the mighty goddess Freya when her pet snow-snails were crushed beneath unthinking Loki’s careless boot.
 
I anticipate your swift reply – I may be reached at this long-address or by homing snow-pigeon.
 
May your children be many and heterosexual (mine are).
Yours bloodthirstily,
 
Thorsten Hargood, king of all the Norse

A Request

Paul Musiol contacts everyone’s favourite motoring programme, Top Gear, with a very special request.

TO: Top Gear

9th June 2009

‘Sup
 
Can I score some top gear?
 
Yours,
 
Anonymous (c/o Paul Musiol)

Lovely Jumpers?

Ross Dungan returns to the Email, She Wrote scene with a shocking accusation for Marks and Spencer.

28th May 2009

Dear Sir/Madam,
 
As a valued customer (and I bloody well am {I own much of your ‘Blue Harbour’ range, INCLUDING the ‘Blue Harbour’!}), I feel you should know that I find your “turtle-neck jumpers” abhorrent and feel they are very cruel to turtles.
 
Have you anything to say in your defence?
 
Yours outraged,
 
Ross Dungan

Bullying, Please Help Me Fat Duck!

Heston Blumenthal’s Fat Duck Restaurant is called upon to offer advice about coping with being an oversized mallard to Matthew Smyth.

TO: The Fat Duck Restaurant, England

19th May 2009

Dear Fat Duck,
 
I am writing to you this day because I am being quite badly bullied. Many of my friends pick on me for being, like yourself, a fat duck. I don’t really know why I chose to contact you about this (I’ve been thinking about it for some time now {in my alone time on the other side of the pond [within the rushes <please don't tell the other mallards!>]}), but have finally plucked (for you see I am a duck {my little joke}) up the courage to contact you about this, and wondered if you could advise me, or had strategies for coping with the incessant bullying (I don’t use that word lightly {they do it in shifts}).
 
The problem started when I became the favourite duck of the local Reverend (I believe you know him, the Rev. Teuton Folkesbury?) and he would feed me bread, well, at the start, at least… Since then he has been plying me with Danish pastries, bagels, saffron buns, Cornish hevva cake and steak and kidney pudding. I fear he wants to have his wicked way with me (thankfully not yet!). Now don’t get me wrong, I am, in many ways a DELIGHTED fat duck! I am well fed and do like a nice croissant of a morning, but the other ducks pick on me for my girth. I have, on more than one occasion, been called “Tubby tubby fat beak”, “Big twatty mallard”, “Chubby McDuckpants” and “Lardy Fatquack”. And it hurts, it hurts a lot. Yes, I am large (very large, for a duck), but why must they taunt me so?
 
As a self-confessed fat duck, I was wondering if you endured the same kind of abuse as me for being “of the larger persuasion”? Or does your acceptance of your obesity mean that you are left alone? Should I be honest with myself? Should I too call myself ‘The Fat Duck’? I just want the abuse, casual violence and stone-throwing (these are very clever and nimble ducks) to end! Is that too much for a fat duck to ask? Is it Fat Duck?
 
I have, of course, flirted with the idea of ending it all, but am not sure I could bring myself to it. Though, should you know someone who requires a big, dead fat duck, let me know. It may be all I’m useful for at this stage, I do take a lot of room up in the pond. Perhaps I should say, “Stinky Big-Bill Hippofeathers” takes up a lot of room in the duck pond. Or, as my subjugators have been calling it, “The fat-f**k pond”. I am literally crying duck-tears as I write this…
 
Please don’t dismiss my duck-call (a little joke {but still I weep}) for help. It has literally taken me hours to write this with my big and clumsy webbed feet. They just don’t make keyboards for ducks, and it’s all wet now. I know I can trust you Fat Duck. I look forward to your response.
 
Speak soon, I promise I’ll hold on until you offer me guidance Fat Duck,
 
With love,
 
Matthew the Duck x

Playa Lookin’ For Some Muhfukkin Gunz An’ Shit…

Matthew Smyth continues to display his “unique” prose style in another email, this time to Gilbert’s Guns, Frankfort, Kentucky.

TOL Gilbert’s Guns, Frankfort, Kentucky, USA

15th May 2009

What up fool?
 
Playa juss droppin’ y’all an e-mizzle cause I’z gotta get mahself some muhfukkin heat. Y’all know I wouldn’ be droppin’ yo a line, but a Playa gotta “exact some sweet revenge” (I actually sayz that to mah mum).
 
Y’all bettah knowz tha backgroun’ to mah issuez and unnahstan’ why I gotza get some gunishment… Playa be cruisin’ in his hoopty (real smooth, like a muhfukkin alligaytor), when some punk-ass bitchez comez outtah the local playgroun’ an Playa (who be doing forty in a thirtizzle zone with some Dre comin’ outtah tha soun’system {real bassy, I got some muhfukkin’ JBL bass bins [word]}) gottah hit hiz brakes real hard. Anyway, I end up hittin’ thiss kid (who shouldn’ oughta been in the muhfukkin way anyway, cause Playa knowz these roadz like the back of hiz hand) an’ the kid got some broken bonez an’ shit.
 
Anyway, tha kid’z mum come outta tha playpark an’ be cryin’ an’ shit and I windz down mah window and she be all cryin’ an’ callin’ me a shit drivah. She waz sayin’ mah drivin’ waz totally whack. I tellz her thiss only tha third time I ever hit no one (last one was some chick who was drunk, an’ the time before was mah gran {but she waz real oldz anyway [ya dig???]}). Anywayz, I put up with her verbal fo’ some time, when I’z all, “Fuck this shit, I gotta get me some heat an’ cook this fool”.
 
Anyway, I drive home, tellz mah mum what I’z gottah do, an’ she unnahstan’ so she let me use her computer. This happen about twenty minutez ago, then I be e-mailin’ y’all lookin’ for a gun. I need a piece that could cook a fool from a distance (like, twenty yardz) an’ that a Playa can hide in the small of hiz back. I know y’all got summa that shit, cause my main man Timmy ‘Skip’ F got humselve some sweet-ass bitch-muhfukkin trippin’ Scooby Gang bad-ass gunz from y’all. Plus, apparently thah Gardaí iz all ovah mah ass on thiss one, so I’z gonnah need it real fast.
 
Anyway, word to ALL your motherz, ‘specially if y’all can post that shit to Dublin, Ireland. Cause that be Playa’z stohmpin’ ground. He be down to reprezent the D14 massive (thass two biggah than D12).
 
Hit me back, y’all. I be waitin’ on yo wordz. I gotta lotta money, so y’all say an’ Playa will give y’all extra dollah for this heat.
 
Peace out, fools.
 
Matthew ‘The Dog Whisperer’ (I’s real good with dogz) Smyth x