YBother

Dear YPlan,

 

Before I get into things, I’d like to begin by offering you praise for your business idea and wish to express my unfaltering gratitude to you for giving me access to events that I would have otherwise overlooked. Entire evenings of anecdotes and memories have been created by plans consummated within your app, which offer me continual internal splendour when I think back to those lovely times that I will probably treasure forever (or until dementia sets in).

Now that is out of the way, I’d like to make a complaint: You fucked up my Valentine’s Day.

Let me tell you the story from the beginning.

Somewhere along the line I managed to convince someone that I am worth spending time with and through some romantic form of stockholm syndrome this has mutated into a long-term living together type relationship. I would say that we have lived happily together ever since, but I can only speak for myself; I suspect that she wakes up sometimes and wonders where her life went so drastically wrong.

One result of such a long-term relationship is that you simply cannot avoid Valentine’s Day (Hereafter referred to as V-Day). This is especially relevant in this particular relationship, as V-Day happens to also be our Anniversary. Sometimes I like to pretend that the universe has conspired to dress every commercial establishment in flowers and sex-shop lighting in honour of our love and that I am the star of a real life Truman show. Other times I get incredibly annoyed how suddenly full and expensive restaurants get on the one day that I am guaranteed to need one.

I digress… I cannot avoid V-Day and as such planned a lovely romantic surprise for my (infinitely) better half. Note the bit that said surprise; this is important. Surprise is the key bit, is what I am saying.

(surprise)

I booked an allegedly romantic night out at the London Aquarium as part of the evening, with complementary bubbly on arrival and a night-time walk around the many fishy creatures on display with drinks available throughout. This event was found and booked through your mobile application, the tickets delivered to my phone and my pride in finding something a bit different satisfied. ‘She will love this surprise’ I thought, mentally patting myself on the back so hard that my brain nearly fell through my eye sockets.

Little did I know that one of the wonderful, thoughtful features of the YPlan mobile application is to inform your mobile contacts (who also have the mobile application) exactly what you have booked and when, asking them if they would like to join in. Yep, that’s right. My lovely girlfriend got a notification saying “Hey Bro, so your boyfriend has booked this surprise night on Valentines Day; would you like to join him?”

She tried to be nice and pretend that it was still a surprise, but I can see through her like anyone with eyes can see through Matt Damon’s acting skills (slightly more so than say, glass for example). The evening was still wonderful and we haven’t broken up as a result of the incident (she focusses more on stuff like pants on the floor), but needless to say I was surprised that a company capable of developing such a wonderful application and business model could be so incredibly dumb.

As a rule for future V-Day time frames, I would suggest that all romantically themed bookings should not be instantly shared with all phone contacts that use the app. Firstly; it’s creepy as hell. Why do I want my Mum to know what I get up to… It’s a good thing I wasn’t taking her to something slightly risqué, like a Burlesque night or a gang bang in Romford. Secondly it will almost definitely ruin the surprise aspect of any surprise. It’s basically the same as handing someone their Birthday present and saying, “Happy Birthday! …I bought you a stapler” (n.b. metaphor only works if there is in fact a Stapler in the box, so for the purposes of this example please imagine that contained within said box, is a stapler).

Now I like using your application, but could you remove this creepy feature please? Otherwise it pretty much rules out buying anything for a Birthday, V-Day, Christmas, Anniversary, Leaving Present, Thank you or any other version of surprise evening through your app. Yplan Yudothis?

Or maybe at the very least, turn it off on V-Day yeah?

Other than that please keep up the lovely work. I very much like using your app and pretending that I am some form of social guru; informing friends and colleagues of all the lovely events and sights that London has to offer at any given time. I don’t think anyone has caught on yet.

Oh, except for my girlfriend of course.

By way of apology, I will accept an order for a new telephone system from you (this is what I have to sell for a living). Perhaps you can use it to call my Dad and tell him what I have bought him for his Birthday.

Yours Sincerely,

Robert

p.s. In case you’re wondering; it’s socks

Bog Off

Dear Mattel,

If I cast my mind back to my youth there are many things that spring to the forefront as landmarks in my recollection; memories, events and objects that are inseparable from the feeling of youth, freedom and seeing the world through the unadulterated eyes of an optimistic and innocent child.

The first memory that appears, like an eager kitten bounding into a fluffy tunnel is that of curiosity and pain. I had just recently watched an episode of Tom & Jerry, where Jerry lays an ingenious trap of endless garden rakes on the floor. Thomas (that’s the cat by the way), spends about 2 minutes of on screen time walking endlessly into multiple garden rakes which each flip up and hit him square in the face. I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed; watched it again and laughed some more.

I then went outside to give it a try myself. I walked boldly up to the garden rake, which was annoyingly stored away in the shed. After dragging it out onto the lawn and laying it down on the ground I then retraced by steps and pretended to absent mindedly walk towards the cartoon trap with much excitement and perhaps a bit too much speed. What my under-developed mind hadn’t managed to take into consideration was a few fundamental laws of physics; the most important of which being the relationship between surface area and pressure. Unfortunately for me, the extensions of metal on the rake were hard, thin and pointed, whereas my 6 year old foot was fleshy, flat and soft. As two of the rake blades perforated through the bottom of my foot, I thought something along the lines of. ‘This didn’t happen to Tom, I think Mummy will be mad at me’.

Another memory that gives me a warm fuzzy nostalgic recollection is when I first discovered Boglins. Boglins, Boglins, Boglins. I instantly fell in love with their fleshy, ugly, bubbly faces and easily identifiable, shallow personalities. Needless to say they had a huge effect on me during my adolescence and the adult I subsequently have turned into. Through the medium of Boglins I have made friends (and lost some), bribed classmates, laid traps, made and lost lunch money, laughed, cried and dreamed. As a child I enveloped myself in my own imagination, exploring endless worlds, stories, characters and possibilities for innumerable hours with Boglins at the forefront of each and every storyline.

Imagine my horror, as an adult when I discover that Boglins are now a thing of not just my past, but the past. I went onto your website to see where they could be hiding and what had replaced them; through what escape a new generation of children would be exploring the back of their own minds.

Mattel. When was your water supply replaced with liquid LSD and who do I speak to in order to get it changed back? What on Earth is ‘Monster High’ and ‘Ever After High’? ‘Little Mommy’? THESE ARE NOT TOYS! These are not escape. This is children pretending to be adults, pretending to be at school, pretending to be parents. The only good thing about children is that they are not adults. Adults are irritating, time-consuming and for the most part intensely boring. Don’t train them how to be adults too early, don’t let them play mummy and daddy. Give them a poxy Boglin and watch them go mental for a little while. It’s brilliant.

Now I understand that perhaps you changed your product portfolio, because you thought that you’d done everything you can with Boglins and there was nothing you could do to perpetuate increasing sales and market share. I am here to tell you otherwise.

Please find attached a photograph of my ex-girlfriend. I think that if you were to release a new series of Boglins, modelled upon her visage it would prove to be a huge success with a new generation of potential dreamers. The thing that made Boglins great was the difference the offered to every other toy out there. They weren’t perfect, they weren’t normal and they certainly weren’t attractive. These are all qualities that my troll of an ex-girlfriend possesses and I think that you would be foolish to miss out on a business opportunity such as this. It’s fool-proof, it’s fantastic and unlike my munter ex-girlfriend; it’s perfect and I want it in my life.

Now you can have this idea; you can use this photo to remake a whole new range of Boglins and I won’t charge you a single penny. This idea is yours to have, keep, hold and use. Watch the money roll in and thank your lucky stars that I am around to share it with you.

All I want is some mutual help. I scratch your back, you scratch mine. One of the unfortunate side-effects of having such a vivid and wonderful imagination is that I find it rather difficult to focus on anything mundane or productive for very long. This has made my adult life rather difficult and my current job fairly troubling and in all probability; doomed to failure. I work for an IT company that look after stuff like your phones and printers, data and mobiles… all that sort of sensible adult-world stuff. Can you buy some of it from me? That way I get to keep my job for a bit longer and will have some more time to day-dream.

My direct dial is below; I am a product of your inventive genius in need of assistance surviving in this mundane adult world. Maybe just a little printer? How about a Phone?

Kind Regards,

Robert

Nature Calls

Dear I want One Of Those dot com,

Last night I had a dream; a dream of epic proportions of potential life changing significance. In this dream my subconscious invented something that the world has never seen before, but like the iPhone, the computer tablet and the butt plug have done before it, once it is released into the market everyone will want one.

You know when you’re watering the garden and you can adjust the nozzle on the end of the hose to transform an otherwise mundane stream of water into something more useful or interesting? For example you can increase the water pressure allowing you to reach those distant daffodils dying for drink or split the stream in twain allowing you to water multiple plant based life forms. You can even convert the single stream into a fine spray creating a rainbow in the sky around you, transforming a typically everyday task into the sort of childlike daydream that adults were stripped of during the tremulous years of puberty.

Well I want to make one of those, but for your penis. I have named this revolutionary device:

The Pinkler

Imagine all the things you could do with it? You could piss into the trees without having to leave the doorway of your tent, with the pressure increase function. You could produce a double urine stream, adding and endless range of possibilities to your fetish night. Perhaps there could even be a switch that adds a dye to your typically yellow stream of relief, adding a whole new range of fun to what has up until now only been considered a simple necessary bodily function (I see endless possibilities for the modern art world with this one). You could even turn on the fine spray option, magically turning your jet stream into a liquid waste rainbow. Glastonbury festival would never be the same again (Sunny day required of course).

Envision all the possible tag lines and slogans such a contraption could have? It would be such an easy thing to sell: Piss the Rainbow – P P P Pick up a Pinkler – Urine for a treat – As time pisses by – Wee Pun of Mass Destruction – Urine Danger – Buy yourself a wee treat (Scottish accent) – It hurts when IP.

This could make us millionaires! Well perhaps you are millionaires already, but it could definitely make you a little bit richer. What do you say?

Now I realise that by this stage you are probably wondering why someone like myself would want to share this idea with you; what am I doing and how much do I want? Well let me tell you: I am willing to give you this idea to use as you will and all I want in exchange is for you to buy something from me. Last night I had water and wishful thinking for dinner, so I would quite like to improve my life by introducing some solid food into my diet. Unfortunately this sort of change requires money. I currently work for a company that deals with various aspects of IT stuff such as your telecoms or print. Fancy a lovely chat about it? Perhaps we can kill two birds with one stone and also discuss the schematics and production timeline of adding the Pinkler to your range of products.

Also as a side note, I am not too sure on your recent rebranding as IWOOT. To me it brings to mind a narcissistic owl, or a Liverpudlian grandma trying to put her teeth back in. Can you change it back to I want one of those? Thanks in advance.

I look forward to your response. I’m off to go and clean the bathroom walls.

Kind Regards,

Robert

FAO Your Soupavisor

To: The Covent Garden Soup Company

Dear Food Creators,

Wassoup? (ref: Budweiser ad, circa ’99 -’03). I have something that I wish to discuss with you about your soup and the effect it has had on my largely uneventful and souperfluous life.

Up until about 2 years ago, I was the sort of person who could consume whatever they wanted, without any discernible effect on their waistline. This personal trait has shaped my lifestyle in two major ways:

1. My clothes stayed the same for the best part of a decade (So long in fact, that they fell out and came back into fashion again twice over).
2. I became very used to being able to eat whatever the hell I damn well bloody well wanted thankyouverymuch so there.

The failure to keep up to date with current fashion trends has made me something of an oddball when it comes to attire; however this is something that I will have to deal with on my own. I will stick to my guns for a little while longer though, as I am convinced that bell bottom cord flares will come back into fashion any time now.

The second problem however has resulted in a problem that your soupreme product has helped to soupress. Eating whatever you damn well bloody want is a fine way to live, right up until the point where you get terribly fat. As my cheekbones seemed to disappear into the swelling pink of my face, I didn’t mind.. too much. As the difficulty in removing and replacing the ring on my finger become more and more of a logistical challenge, eventually requiring lubricant and the levels of exertion usually reserved for crowd pleasing charity tug of war matches and push-starting a car up a mountain, I didn’t mind… kind of. The tipping point came some months ago when travelling to work in my usual attire, the material of my trousers relented to the laws of physics, exposing my swollen thighs and gargantuous bum to an unsuspecting bus full of school children and grannies. It was a humiliating experience and I consider myself lucky that my name didn’t end up on the East Finchley sex offenders register.

I made the decision then and there to stop being fat. At first I tried to do plenty of exercise and start running in order to attain the sleek lines that old photos seemed to mock me with. There is definitely a skull somewhere under all of this pulpy pink mess and I intend to find it. As it turns out exercise is rather hard work, often involving increased levels of excursion and effort, so I decided to give up and find another way to lose the human-skin ring doughnut that has taken up residence around my waist. After much research and a lot of soul searching, I decided it was probably a good idea to trying eating less stuff. Being a man and therefore a virtual stranger to balance and moderation, I decided to eat nothing but Soup. After trying various soup soupliers, I decided to settle on your delicious concoction.

Now whilst your product itself is for the most part souperb; souperior even to other Soup souppliers, I have a small problem to discuss with you, followed by a suggestion. If you could pass this on to any soupavisor, who could soupport me, that would be souper.

Now I cannot in good conscience and loyalty to my diet purchase anything but soup for lunch and soup for dinner. This doesn’t mean that my soul doesn’t scream out for something solid every now and then, but to date I have persisted in my chosen method of starvation. This is a problem that I have been wrestling with for some time, but I think I have come up with the perfect solution.

You know how in Charlie and the Chocolate factory, they made loads of chocolate bars and hid a special Golden ticket in a few bars for the lucky, lucky people of the world? Well I was thinking that perhaps you could do the same thing with your Soup, except that instead of a Golden ticket you could put a Chicken Wing in there.

Even if I never ever won the Chicken Wing, the idea of potentially winning the chicken wing would effectively put a stop to the agonising moment when I am in a shop with a basket full of soup and I walk past the bit where the chicken wings are (How do they make them smell so damn good!?). I wouldn’t need to worry, because I might already have one in my basket!

Now I realise that this idea is as brilliant as it is ground-breaking, but as a decent human-being I would like to give this to you for free. You can have it; it’s yours. There is zero charge, nil fee, no invoice and not a single monetary exchange required for you to take ownership of this inevitably successful campaign.

I do however have a small thing to ask… In addition to being fat, I am also poor. Now I am working on the fat bit (thanks for your help by the way), and I was wondering if you could also help me with the poverty bit? Now I don’t expect charity or a ‘free ride’ as such, but I would love to be able to work for the money. Could you buy something from me? As I work for an IT organisation, it would be extremely helpful if this were to be somewhat IT related. I can help with exciting things like printers and phone systems, how about it? I have never been a souperstitious person, but I have a good feeling about this. I want you to be in my life as well as in my belly.

I await your response with the eagerness of a starving squirrel in a Nutella factory.

Endless Regards,

SouperMan (Robert)

Good Will Netflix

To: Netflix

Dear Magic Moving Image Makers,

I have a complaint to make. Don’t worry though, it’s not about you; it’s about my girlfriend. If you bear with me however, you will see how this upcoming diatribe about my marital failure loops back around to a phenomenal Netflix idea (imagine Billy Connolly at a marriage counsellors).

Now my Girlfriend and I (I will hereby refer to her as Margaret) spend the majority of our time in blissful happiness. There are however odd instances where external factors seem to ignite the sort of verbal disagreements usually reserved for that part in the movie where the guy has to choose between the blue or the green wire and the lady with the crying baby in her arms behind him is screaming like a seagull on speed.

One of these instances for example is when Margaret steps on a pair of my dirty pants, left abandoned on the floor like some filthy monument to my failings as a human being. I never remember tossing said pants aside with such recklessness, but I must do it; the dirty pants do not lie. I understand that this problem is in fact my challenge and Netflix cannot help me.

Another problem we have is when Margaret and I decide to watch a film of an evening together. The issue arises when we are trying to agree upon a film to watch. It is only a matter of time before we start to pull each other’s hair out (not literally of course; she has lovely silky hair that I wouldn’t dare disrespect). It sometimes gets to the point where have spent so long trying to agree upon a film to watch, that there isn’t enough time left to watch an entire film anyway. On these occasions we usually give up completely and have to resort to something insufferable like tidying up, laundry or talking to each other.

Now I have come up with an idea to help solve this problem and I would like to share it with you. When two or more people want to watch a film, instead of discussing what they would like to watch and reaching either an agreement or compromise like mature adults, there should be an instant and definitive black & white answer. This will avoid all arguments and improve my quality of life in the process. All participants should choose the film they want to watch in turn and then with some technical wizardry Netflix should randomly pick one of the selected movies as the winner. Hey presto, the decision has been made, the relationship has been saved.

Now I am giving you this idea as a gesture of good will for all the lovely visual entertainment that you have given me over the last year or two. I estimate that this idea is worth somewhere in the region of one million dollars, yet I am sharing it with you for absolutely nothing (what a guy). However, I would very much appreciate it if you were to buy something from me instead, improving both my work and love life in a single gracious blow. I work for an IT company, who do immensely interesting things such print and telecoms. Can I come to meet you and sell you one of these services please? Perhaps I will then be able to afford to buy solid food, leaving my soup and water diet behind me in a glittering trail of dust and dreams.

I await your response with anticipation and joy.

An Abundance of Regards,

Robert

p.s. Margaret says hi

Googlehog Day

To: Google HQ

Dear Google,

I can’t pretend that I have a legitimate or sensible reason for doing so, but tonight I decided to see what happens when you Google Google. I discovered that when you Google Google, Google is the top answer. Although I guessed Googling Google would give Google as the answer, it was really the precursor to my next line of inquisition (not Spanish). I immediately decided to see what would happen when you Google what would happen when you Google Google.

Now I can’t pretend that my heart wasn’t praying for this, however I more honestly expected some witty line about how I had broken the internet and that a horde of World of Warcraft fans or the Church of Scientology was already on its way to my house to beat me into some form of purée (or something like that).

Imagine my disappointment, when the results merely display numerous people questioning the results of what happens when you Google what happens when you Google Google. When I Googled what happens when you Google Google, I certainly didn’t just expect to be linked to various pages answering my question of what happens when you Google Google. I wanted facetious, I wanted smartarse, I wanted to be shown how ridiculous I was being with a concise and witty put-down. You don’t prod a bear in order to be treated like an adult and receive a dignified and mature grizzly response; you do it because you are bored and you’re not supposed to poke the bear.

In an attempt to see if this wasn’t just a test to separate the quitters from the committed procrastinators like myself, I gave it one last gamble and Googled what happens when you Google what happens when you Google Google. My disillusionment was complete, when the results for what happens when you Google what happens when you Google Google were the same as what happens when you Google Google. I mean, what kind of world are we living in? I gather Googling what happens when you Google what happens when you Google Google is Gratuitous time-wasting and not high on your list of ‘things to do’, however it would make my day if you could rectify this minor error in your otherwise lovely search engine craftsmanship.

Failing that, you could simply make up for the disenchantment you have caused me tonight by sending me a present. Preferably a Lego Pirate ship, so that I can build something to compensate for this sinking feeling (see what I did there?)

If however you do with to persist in treating me as an adult and denying me my childish whims, then we can do this properly if you like and you can buy something from me by way of a present. I work for an IT company that look after the stuff in your office that you don’t care about (things like phones and printers); would you like one?

Right. I’m off to Google what happens when you email Google about Googling what happens when you Google what happens when you Google Google. I can’t helping being an optimist.

Lots of Regards

Robert

An Offer You Can’t Refuse

To: Domes Kitchen

Dear Saviours,

When I woke up this morning I knew that today was going to be something of a struggle. I went out with a few colleagues after work last night and although at the time I considered both my behaviour and levels of consumption fairly conservative, upon reflection it would seem that I was a bit of a berk on both accounts.

My situation was only made worse during my travel into work in the sort of temperatures that people who live in the Sahara desert would describe as a ‘pretty damn stuffy’, my trousers suddenly and violently split open (this happened mid-commute on the 102 bus near East Finchley station). Now I would suppose that the people of East Finchley must have seen a lot of things over the years, but I don’t think anyone expected to see my underwear suddenly appear where trouser material should be. After a very awkward and quick dash back home I changed my trousers and restarted my commute into the office. Needless to say, my expectations for the rest of the day were not good. In fact I had the same sense of dread anticipating the rest of my day as you do in that fraction of a second before you have to rip a plaster off a cut that you’re not entirely sure has healed. Not only that, but the plaster is a little bit too small and the sticky bits are right on the sore bit, because let’s be honest; who can find a plaster that fits when you really need one. Most of the time I only ever seem to find plasters when I’m looking for my house keys and never when I am in fact looking for a plaster.

Imagine my surprise then, when at around 1 o’clock I was presented with one of your 16 inch Godfather pizza’s with accompanying Garlic bread. My colleague Greg must have taken pity on me and my haggard appearance and decided I needed something to cheer me up. Boy oh boy did he get it right!

Your website describes the Godfather pizza as ‘Topped with chorizo, Italian sausage, salami, pepperoni and Italian chee’. According to Urban Dictionary, chee is another word for marijuana, which could go some way towards explaining why when once I had begun, I simply couldn’t stop eating. It got so bad, that it was physically impossible to fit any more of your delicious concoction in my mouth. I was so full in fact that I had genuine concerns that my intensely satisfied stomach would burst straight through my Thundercats t-shirt and flip over a desk or two in the process. For the sake of argument however I am going to assume that this is in fact supposed to say ‘cheese’, as there seemed to be a lot of cheese on my pizza and not so many drugs.

I will however suggest that the description be changed to something more along the lines of ‘Topped with meat, more meat, a different type of meat and cheese (no drugs), garnished with a substrate straight from the loins of God himself’. To put it mildly, your Godfather pizza was absolutely, astronomically amazing. During the relatively short period of time that I was consuming your heavenly produce I felt the sort of happiness that I haven’t experienced since being a child, on Christmas morning, when it’s my turn, whilst opening a Lego pirate ship, in my pants. It was joyous, it was glorious and I want to thank you personally for sharing such a beautiful creation with a mere mortal like myself. Such is the depth of my gratitude, that I will quite willingly tell everyone I meet for the remainder of my life about your fantastic Godfather pizza, sharing joy throughout Shoreditch like a pale western Buddha. Secondary thanks however must go to Greg, because as lovely as you are, I don’t think you gave it to him for free.

Thank you for making something so beautiful as the Godfather pizza. Hopefully given time, I will be able to stop crying these tears of unadulterated joy and resume the rest of my waking life.

P.s. Could you please buy a telephone system or printer from me, so I can afford to buy some more Pizza?

Yours i sincerechee,

Robert

Nice to Meat You

To: Burger King

Dear ‘the King’ (Not Elvis),

I have a retrospective bone to pick with you (‘the bone’), tethered to a sure-fire way for you to make it up to me (‘the solution’). Like an incredibly successful date, I shall begin with the bone.

The Bone:

When I was 16 (12 long and agonising years ago) I used to have a far more active social life than I do now. This included numerous trips to London with my friends to peruse record stores, searching for the latest import, rarity, live recording and special edition 1 of 100, limited press once in a lifetime release 7” single of the band I’d only discovered the week before.

During one of these futile trips, I was understandably famished from staring solidly at a wall of CD’s for 2 hours and decided to venture out to find some fuel. Sustenance came in the form of one of your delicious Burger King Restaurants near King’s Cross Station. I purchased a stomach stretching Whopper with its customary side kick: the dream fries of Babylon. The meal was everything I expected and I left the establishment both happy and full (this is not where the problem lies).

The very next day, I came down with a server case of appendicitis, culminating in a rush to the hospital, a doctor fisting my ring piece, invasive emergency surgery and two mind-bending days on a morphine drip wondering not only what country I was in, but what breed of flower I was.

Now I am not saying that Burger King causes appendicitis, but I think you’ll agree that the timing of my internal body collapse is slightly suspicious. I have looked up appendicitis from many sources and have found no instance where it states that Burger Kind does not cause major appendix failure. I rest my case.

The Solution:

I like to think of myself as a good citizen; someone who adds to society rather than someone who detracts from it. For this reason, I promise not to take you to court for causing my body to fail on such a catastrophic level. Nor will I vent to strangers about how the consumption of your Whopper led to a doctor exploring my sphincter in ways that no-one had done before or since. I would however like to ask for a gesture of good will on your part to help soothe the trauma that this memory has left coursing through my veins.

Please can you buy something from me? I imagine a company like yourself has a fair bit of sterling lying around the place. A relatively small transaction of goods through myself would result in a ripple so small that not even the Princess on the pea mattress tower would notice it. I work for an IT company, who mostly deal with exciting things like telecoms and printers; would you like one? I would be forever grateful, and consider our turbulent past settled, fair, complete, concluded and resolved. You can contact me on my number below, or alternatively you could just arrange a courier to turn up to the office and throw money at my face; I’ll leave this decision up to you.

Yours Sincerely,

The boy without an appendix (Robert)

Face Off

To: Bulldog Products

Dear Founder and Hero,

My name is Robert and I am a part-time alcoholic. Being both a part-time alcoholic and an individual who is fast approaching the dreaded 30, I have noticed that all sorts of weird and wonderful things happening to my body of late; namely around the face. I don’t look like me anymore; My skin has decided to abandon ship in clumps of flaky dead stuff and the once pronounced angles and lines of my youth are beginning to slide down my skull like a Dali painting. In fairness I still look a bit like I used to, but slightly melted. The sort of melted you get when you accidentally put the wrong type of plastic in the microwave, and manage to rescue is just in time before things start to explode. You may have avoided electrical disaster, but you have a serious melt situation on your hands: in this instance, the situation is on my face.

Now being a boy I have often felt awkward and embarrassed when looking for things to rub onto myself to try to rectify or at the very least slow down this horrifying process. I have enough understanding of lotions and potions to know that if your skin is dry enough that a mild breeze can cause a major snowstorm behind you, then you should probably moisturise. Also if your face starts to look like a marshmallow held over a barbeque in those delicate few moments before everything spills over, then you should probably put something on to firm that stuff up.

Whilst perusing the lotions and potions section in my local supermarket, weaving in and out of buggy traps, angry mums and seemingly ownerless toddlers, whilst also pretending not to really be looking, but actually trying to really look (a difficult situation as I am sure you are aware) I gave up and went to the male section…. Bingo! Why had I not given this section any real consideration lately? I didn’t realise that anyone had taken this sort of stuff seriously. I always thought male grooming consisted entirely of ‘MOAR BLADES’ razors, deodorant advertised dangerously close to nasal rohypnol and lose the grey hair granddad dye. There were loads of your products there that I could rub all over myself in order to prevent my natural decay. There was anti- ageing cream, stuff to put around my eyes to stop this eternal puffy hangover vibe I’m putting out and moisturiser to stop my face turning into a skin blizzard. I bought it all!

Although my girlfriend hasn’t said anything directly to me yet, she has stopped cowering away from me when the lights are on and every now and then she actually touches my face. This progress is all thanks to your products and their firm and unapologetic place in the male grooming section. Well done and good thinking!

I want to show my appreciation in a way more useful to you that simply buying your products; this just doesn’t seem quite enough. I spent a few minutes working on a formula for a new cream that you put on your ears to help block out the incessant noise of your colleagues ,but quickly realised that I don’t know anything about either chemistry or biology and quickly abandoned the attempt. This leaves me only one way in which I can become part of your life and show my gratitude; please let me sell you something. I would look after you, I would care for you, I would love you like a mother loves its child.

It could be anything you like, but as I work for an IT company it would be extremely helpful if it were to be something IT related. My company does telecoms, mobile, print and data services. We could have a meeting and I would be able to look you in the eye, knowing with complete certainty that at no stage during the proceedings would any section of my face fall off. It is firmly held there by a perfect mix of blind optimism and Bulldog products.

I won’t forget this.

Robert

This is bound to Take Off

To: Ryan Air

Dear Michael O’Leary of Europe’s only ultra-low cost carrier, Ryan Air.

I understand that you a very busy man operating a very busy company and must have a to-do list almost as long as my ‘things I haven’t achieved in life’ directory. I am however hoping than you can spare some time to read my honest and heartfelt words.

As an avid reader of business columns and industry trends I recently read that your yearly profit guidance has been cut down £432 million, largely due to a “lower fare environment”. This news caught my attention and I wanted to get in touch directly to ask you; please can I have some of it?

Of course I wouldn’t expect you to just hand over the dosh straight away; I naturally anticipate that I will have to do a little bit of work first. As a man of meagre means I have somewhat limited experience to draw from to earn this lolly, but like a loyal and stupid dog you will find me willing and eager to please.

Now in theory there are many ways in which I could work for this moola, however as I am currently employed by an I.T. & comms company it would be extremely convenient if the work were to be vaguely I.T. related. For example I could sort you out a lovely new printer, or take a look at your phone system to earn some of that lovely coinage of yours.

Please don’t let the above leave you with the impression that I am merely a gold digger simply looking to get a slice of the O’Leary Pie; I am driven in life by more than simple brass. I am also motivated by fear of death and an almost constant and simmering existential crisis; the money is just a bonus. I have read the words of many wise men, who say that money does not bring you happiness. All I want is the chance to prove them right.

Yours in anticipation and poverty,

Robert