Dear The Alabama 3

I write as a matter of urgency.

It is my normal custom upon rising after a good night's sleep to start the day with a bowl of Bran Flakes and a cup of Earl Grey. Today, however, I was dismayed to find upon opening the cupboard that the carton was fourteen days past its sell-by date, which exceeded high fibre consumption deadline went some way in solving the mystery of nigh on a week's worth of soggy breakfasts. Deciding against the only other option in the house, namely my wife Jean's, in my opinion, rather staid Quaker Oat So Simple, I opted to turn the irksome situation to my advantage by popping into Cafe Riva on Overcliff Road and treating myself to a read of the Daily Express, a double espresso and a toasted tea-cake.

Imagine therefore my considerable alarm and discountenance upon settling my bill and turning to hear your 'Country Rave Offering' at the start of a programme on the television behind the counter about an opera singer driving to work. Not only had you (through means unknown) been somehow tracking my movements since I roused, which is unsettling enough, but your lead singer, The Very Reverend Dr. D. Wayne Love, was now without my permission incorrectly proclaiming your covert findings for all to hear. Most distressing of all, his gravelly misenunciation was extremely likely to result in our living room, which my wife Jean is particularly rigorous in keeping tidy, being severely disarrayed in the near future.

This is hardly the standard of behaviour expected of a man of the cloth.

To be perfectly clear, The Alabama 3, I woke up this morning and got myself a bun. I must therefore insist that if you must pursue your directive of advertising my daily errands to all and sundry, and in order that a warrant to search Philpott Place is not issued on the grounds of suspected contravention of Section 1 of The Firearms Act 1968, your ''propulsive hip-hop staple'' be removed from the public domain or veraciously re-recorded immediately upon receipt of this missive.

Although I am less concerned with regard to a further oversight vis a vis your assumption that I was born under a bad sign (I am in actual fact a Libran; intuitive and fair, according to Russell Grant), I can fully understand how one may be cursed, being put in mind of a young lady whose waters broke beneath a tattoo parlour in Bournemouth recently, which bore the placard 'Ears Pearced While U Wait'.


I look forward to your prompt action in resolving the sorry matter above-mentioned and sincerely hope that this can be achieved amicably without recourse to a civil action.


Yours

Derek Philpott

P.S. With regard to your pop group name, I was intrigued to discover through the perusal of a renowned 'online information tool' that you are neither Alabamian nor have the stated number of musicians in your 'line-up', and wonder whether, as a harmonious counterpoint, there exists in the relevant Southeastern region of the United States a similar combo meeting both criteria known as The Brixton Nine. Also, given that your billing is often abbreviated to 'A3', whether this has at any time caused confusion when ordering posters at Prontaprint to publicise your 'Acid Hoedowns'.

 

Reply from Larry Love received 3/7/2014

 

 

Dear Mr Philpott,

It is with great concern that I reply to this missive. You are obviously labouring under delusions that a tea-cake is a bun.

According to The Health Food and Safety Regulation Act 1973, a tea cake does not have self raising flour in it.

A bun,

 

To see Mr. Love's full response click here to pre-order your copy of ''Dear Mr. Kershaw - A Pensioner Writes''

 

 

 

With Extreme Thanks To Stephen 'Goughy' Gough

 

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