You rogue, Crapper.
I returned to my fair towne of Lassiters-Upon-Creek, after fruitfully persuing my Euro-dance career (successfully, I might add) to happen upon the vengeful and unwelcome knowledge that you have been admiring and love-making (it meant something different in olden times, you dirty knave!) to my betrothed woman-thang, lady World of Sheds.
O, unhappy knowledge, Crapper. You should know that I have persued Lady Sheds for more than eight long years, trying to catch her eye. Gazing ‘pon her flushed coutenance down the local park when she be delighting herself with a tea towel and some insette hairspray up her delicate, bulbous, vein ridden nose, walking into Dorothy of Perkins, where she holdeth a Saturday job, pretending to buy something for my mother, and following her to ye olde Superbowl and trying to brush up against her tracksuit enclad figure, in ye olde Energiser at ye Quasar. A fine, fine figure, the envy of all from Ye Olde Roan in Aintree to the Saint of Helens. Legend has it that gazing upon her disrobed figure is so beauteous, that it woud make a man drop his curry and chips. Yes. Now, you wretch, you threaten to rob me of such pleasure! To rob me of finding out whether the legends be true! This must stop.
I had communication from ‘Lady’ (at least I thinketh she be a lady, she may be a knave, or an ox, I am unsure as to which) Sharon, who has a sickness of the mind. A sickness so great, she beliveth herself to be ‘in love’ (I’m snorting that derisorily) with your worthless, scab encrusted self. She writeth about you in a manner that would turn the hardiest of stomach and create a bilious state of affairs that only Gaviscon ultra coule abate. She told me that whist I had been tying a neckerchief firmly around my manly neck, and emulating David Hasslehoff, you had been trying to entreat Lady Sheds by announcing ” J’ai un sac du confectionaire”. Everyone knows how lady sheds cannot resist a shrimp of pink or a ‘jaw breaker’ or two. You insufferable rogue.
There remains only one outcome to this current situation. We must come to blows. Not the kind of blows that you were hoping to receive from Lady sheds, no, hard blows. Oh damn, that still doesn’t sound right. I fear this epistle may end up a script for a ‘carry on’ film. I challenge you, sir, to fisticuffs at the Interchange of buses, in the town square. My esteemed friend, Lord Edmonds will only be there only to hold my coat, I advise you sir, to come alone. No more shall you push your confectionary sack into my lady’s hands.
Lord Stefan of Dennis
sac du confectionaire