Dear Ms. Cooper

Re: School's Out


I demand your response to this correspondence by immediate return in the pre-paid Airmail envelope provided, given that your ‘self-penned rock song’ has been the fundamental catalyst to a most unsavoury event for which you must be held acutely and solely accountable.


My next-door but one neighbour Gordon Gilliard alerted me this over Viscounts and tea in our conservatory this morning (after we had enjoyed a particularly closely run edition of Ken Bruce’s Popmaster which saw us both assume the role of each contestant and score 2 points each) that his son had received some very distressing news in the form of a letter from the Welfare Officer acting on behalf of the Bishop of Winchester Comprehensive on Mallard Road, threatening his own offspring with expulsion from said tutoring institution on the grounds of truancy.


It would appear that young Tristan had not once attended registration prior to morning assembly since learning from your appearance on the Kerrang! Channel some months ago that the Secondary Modern was ‘out’, (which should not be interpreted to mean 'uncool' but closed) forever, having been subject to an explosion. In addition to the blast, which appears to have been sanctioned in order to contain a viral outbreak ergo the disclosure “School’s Out With Fever”, the facility was also said to have been exhausted of pencils, books and teachers. As an aside, I would also like to point out at this juncture that you most likely 'can't even think of a word that rhymes' as a result of paying scant to no attention in poetry class.


After a protracted discussion which continued considerably past The Tracks Of My Years and into Jeremy Vine, Gordon and myself finally elected to make a trip to the educational debris with the inadvertent malingerer in tow, whereupon the mite was horrified to find not a demolition site peopled by hard-hatted salvagers, but a distinctly undetonated alma mater and untarnished playground bursting with staff and pupils (some of whom encircled our Fiat Panda upon spying the now half-sobbing absentee on the back seat and ran around the perimeter of the vehicle shouting ‘Skiver! Skiver!', ‘You Bunked Off!’and 'You're Going To Be On Jeremy Kyle!' amongst other barbed goads, only serving to exacerbate his mortification). Also, contrary to your latter claim, our cursory internal inspection of the structure, overseen by the bemused caretaker Mr. Foster, revealed an abundance of graphite and wood writing utensils in the supply stockroom and a fully equipped library and stationary cupboard. Furthermore Madam, your assertion pertaining to the eradication of ‘teachers’ dirty looks’ was completely countered by the Head of Year and dual-careered geography specialist Miss. Channing, who when overhearing Gordon in a particularly echoic corridor declaring that all academic personnel ‘had it easy’ by only working a four hour day allowing for break-times directed towards him a particularly withering facial expression.

In summary it must be reported that our explanation for the poor tyke's prolonged Third Form non-appearance was met by the Deputy Head and a hastily assembled Board of Governors with guffaws and mutterings of the child being subject to Social Services intervention.

Thanks to your ‘soft metal classic’ dear, young Tristan’s formative eruditional development has been perhaps irreversibly curbed or at the very best abridged.

I put it to you that your post as a vocalising correspondent reporting upon fictional faculty containment combustions on digital heavy metal stations is an untenable one which you must relinquish immediately. Please also forgive me for noting that you have exhibited some decidedly unlady-like characteristics in your ‘piece to camera’ on the Old Grey Whistle Test which do not become an elegance paved by other newsreaders of the fairer sex. Jan Leeming or Angela Rippon have never to my knowledge gone ‘on-air’ reading auto-cued bulletins whilst sporting live serpent neck jewellery, festooned in cosmetics which to even the most untrained eye appear to have been been applied in the shower with a paintbrush, or had me pondering about their possible over-indulgence in Hormone Replacement Therapy.

Gordon and I are the souls of propriety Ms. Cooper and would never wish a maiden any ill, even if she has been complicit in the temporary suspension of a grandchild from his GCSE studies pending further investigations. Why not heed our advice and take that reptile off, treat yourself to a bit of a pampering at a beauty spa, and don't worry your pretty little head with any more ideas about wanting to get mixed up in telly? You strike us as being far happier with flower arranging or nunnery.


Yours

Derek Philpott (and Gordon Gilliard)

P.S. With regard to your stirring ballad as 'covered' by Julie Covington, I can assure you that haemorrhaging is not restricted to females. Whilst pruning my roses last week I fell victim to a rather nasty thorn gash on my index finger which took half a tube of Savlon, three plasters and as many hours to stem

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