This landed on my desk today:
Dear Met office.
Hey up, may we cordially suggest that we have found you out? If possible, add a slight edge of sinisterness alongside a drifting gargle of contempt into our cordiality. That would seem to be the ‘tone’ we craveth for. It is our opinion (to you, a fact) that the ‘Met’ in your title stands for ‘met’, as in we have not ‘met’ your expectations of some nice weather.
Does this not make you liars, cowards and francophones? Why not call yourselves the ‘Not Met Office’, or alternatively the ‘Bad (suffix to the) News Office’ or even sit astride the whole hog with balls alternately sliding left and right over the sow’s spine, yes indeed, realise your innermost desires: just go and call yourselves the ‘Central Committee of the Communist Party’.
The Tavistock Society has never caused inclement weather. Who are you to do so? We find ourselves to excel in several aspects*, while you seem to be incapable of germinating event the most marginally lascivious sensations within the depths of our psyche. Can you afford to pay our legal fees, for we feel it would be most appropriate to peruse you in the courts for this baseness? The previous sentence did not contain any errors. Nor did the one previous to this one(the remainder of this epistle lacks continuity in several places. Sorry about that). We indeed want to WATCH you so as to better understand what clothes you are wearing on any given day.
My mother’s given name was Lough and she was not a nice lady but she could dress like one when we so pleased. I often think back to her when eating an onion, remembering those exciting trips we would make on the Paris Metro, me dressed in a cloth, her in the garb of a Romanian peasant freshly escaped from Ceausescu’s ‘rape camps’, and she would rub the essence of fresh Parisian onion ‘pon my hands and then have me wipe me eyes - thereby succumbing to a teary flood - in the hope of driving some coins out of the onlooker’s pockets. Her in the garb of a Romanian peasant, me in a sack. Is that clear? I have not eaten an onion for over five years. Nor have I ever been formally convicted of mendicancy in a Crown Court of HM Government. Does this not give me rights as a citizen? Are these rights not reinforced by our status as the Tavistock society?
This letter consists of seven questions (soon to be eight). Can you answer them all? I will be down the town later this week, we could meet for coffee and maybe get on with each other? If not I like to stand under the heating fans under the door at Aldi. You can tell which one I am by my consumptive cough and bow legs. This was going to be more about the weather, but as The Secretary points out to me, “someone done that before” only they were much funnier than me. I think The Belgian is plotting a coup d’etat and the rash is spreading. This really is a bad week and I don’t know if I’ll sleep well (warm, dry, covered) tonight (gosh damn it, if you didn’t make it so cold and rainy I’d be well again, wouldn’t I?) If it isn’t too cheeky to suggest this before we’re on first name terms, I think you might have to pay for those coffees.
I’m not going back to the mission, no matter if they try and make me. I swear it. I swear it.
Love, The Tavistock Organisation. ( A Subdivision of The Tavistock Society).