Dear Lupo,
I have read a piece in your paper entitled “Marley the Chef and Charlie Kirk”, and I am staggered. Murder, trauma, grief — all reduced to a stage on which a young man may “find his voice.” How convenient. How ghastly.
Tragedy is not a prop. Death is not entertainment. And extremism is not to be admired under the guise of empathy. Your publication has, with spectacular thoughtlessness, chosen sensation over conscience. One can only hope the world has not yet grown so callous that it applauds this.
Can you please have a word with the ridiculous buffoon who wrote this?
Yours in despair,
Stephen Morrissey
Dear Mr Morrissey,
I have read your words with interest but feel there is little I can do to intervene when it comes to a journalist’s independence.
If I recall correctly, I understand that after looking for a job, you’ve found a job. Perhaps you should stick with that?
Yours,
Lupo
Dear Lupo,
I was hoping for more and am left flailing. My gladioli have wilted and without proper redress, my mind is a clouded sky over a dreary Northern beach, and the light keeps blinking.
I still think a firm word with this miscreant is what is needed.
Yours woefully,
Stephen Morrissey
Dear Morrissey
I just hit a double-decker bus back with two tonnes of German steel. Safe to say, to die by your side was not an option but it sure was a heavenly way to go for that Number 38!
Yours truly,
Karin Von Richthofen
Kennington SE11
Ps
Is Lupo married?
Dear Karin,
I’m delighted to hear that the Number 38 was relieved of Mr Morrisette-or-whatever’s rather persistent and tiresome company. I would advise you do the same with his attentions.
I am indeed wedded. This pint of Guinness next to me is my current wife.
Yours betrothed,
Lupo
Dear Baby Wolf,
Many, many people — and I hear this all the time — say that the Baby Wolf launch at El Vino was a GREAT success — the greatest, most incredible party of all time, I’m told. Everybody wanted me there. Sadly, I couldn’t go. Why? Because I wasn’t INVITED. Can you believe that? Maybe next time.
I’ve been to El Vino many, many times with good people. I’ve had MANY — the BEST people, VERY classy — who’ve reached out and said, “Donald, sir, you should’ve been there,” and I had to tell them, “I wasn’t invited.” VERY unfair and dishonest. SAD!
Let me tell you: no one reads Baby Wolf like I do. Nobody. And I read it better than anyone. Strong reading, tremendous comprehension. People are shocked at how well I understand it. Some people even call me The Wolf Whisperer. True story.
So next time, Baby Wolf, don’t make the mistake. Invite me. It will be the BIGGEST launch ever if I’m there. Believe me.
Dear Mr POTUS,
I am delighted to hear that you are a regular reader and would add that it is a GREAT HONOUR. The editorial team here have asked me to look into the oversight around your invitation to our El Vino launch party, as they were convinced that an invite had been issued.
After detailed investigation, it appears that the direction to send your invitation was passed to an intern who was working in the post room. Unfortunately, as we are based in the UK, this intern saw the name Trump and took it as a direction to express flatulence rather than a clear instruction to send a party invitation. You can be assured that the ‘person’ in question has now been made to stand in the corner, dressed in sackcloth and ashes and told to repeat the words OH SAY CAN YOU SEE until they run out of breath and collapse.
I cannot apologise enough for this DISGUSTING OVERSIGHT. Next time you are over, please give me a call and I will escort you to a nightspot of your choosing and hopefully get the opportunity to ask your ADVICE on how to improve my tan, as you are clearly the ABSOLUTE DON on this, if you’ll forgive my humble pun.
Yours,
Lupo
Dear Mr Morrissey,
I am sorry to hear that the light in your room will not go out. I will have a word with the concierge at your hotel and send up an electrician.
I have also been informed that a) your girlfriend remains in a coma and b) you are in possession of both Irish blood and an English heart, and our medical team are confounded by this. They request that you stop honking on sadly about these two events.
I hope this helps,
Lupo
Dear Babi wolf
Arright dere I’ve eard that you recently had a loorrrnch parti and dat you were thinkin of avin some more — as this was yer ferst I was wondering if you were gonna ave any more? And ave yer taut about yer security? Ave attached me seevee — — boh –I thought it would be quichher just to giv yes an overview of me recent expeeerience. I’ve erd you journaliists like a fockin booze-op -an this can attracct the wrong sort of people know worra mean? I’ve dealt with these types there usually omeless and startin on yer or they’re beggin for fockin money. Me technique for dealing with unwanted requests for fockin money for a cup of tea that is not a cop of tea it’s a cup of focchin ket is to lamp em one right in the focchin mog. After tha they don’t wanna come in. I think this might be really helpful. Lerrus know would ya?
Yours
Scouse Sean
Dear Scouse,
I assume that is your first name? Sean is also unusual as a surname, but I reside in admiration of your corruption of the normal naming conventions.
Thank you so much for your kind offer. As journalists we will quite clearly be having a lot of parties, as this is part and parcel of the job. No one so far has approached us about security, so your CV (I think that’s what you meant) is incredibly timely. I share your distaste for tramps — the ten pence ones in particular, who are rarely truthful about what the ten pence is for. It’s not, in your immaculate description, for a cup of fucking tea. Lager, heroin, unusual sexual habits. Journalism lives and dies on the sword of truth and there is little coming from these desperadoes.
I think it unlikely we can countenance punches in the face, though. There are issues around lawsuits that, unlike three-piece suits, do not fit us well. If you’re prepared to look at some diversity training, I think we may have a win!
Looking forward to meeting you in person, preferably about three feet away, as I suspect your reach is limited.
Yours punchily,
Lupo
Dear Lupo,
It doesn’t help at all.
Yours in decline,
Stephen Morrissey
Dear Mr Morrisette,
It’s like rain on your wedding day.
I thank you for your continued thoughts.
However, I should point that you are a flatulent pain in the arse. So, give us your money.
Yours with irony,
Lupo
