A: Dear Dating Agency

Dear Receptionist/Secretary/Underling,

Please ensure that this letter is hand delivered to your manager.

Thank you

Clifford Spab

PS. You should be at your manager's desk by now.

Sir/Madam,

I recently suffered the misfortune of joining your dating agency, which
you have the audacity to call 'Perfect Match' (surely a blatant
infringement of trading standards). Upon visiting your cleverly
disguised fraud den I exchanged a not insignificant pecuniary sum in
return for a number of forms (NB Photocopied on inferior paper). Your
flimsy psychological research ascertains that my infinitely complex
personality can be described by ticking a number of boxes. Using this
evidence the primates in your employ match my boxes with a similar set
of boxes. I am sure Freud would be proud! Foolishly undaunted I duly
ticked the most Spablike boxes with a biro (I personally had to provide
the aforementioned pen). Following this your staff (highly trained con
artistes) succeeded in instilling a sense of anticipation for my future
romance.

At this point I must draw your attention to certain requirements I made
upon my application form which by neglecting you have performed a gross
malpractice. Please take a few seconds to find my notes&;#8230;..you
will now discover a montage skilfully made from magazine cuttings and
depicting the exact physical requirements of my future bride. Now turn
eyes to the attached polaroid of the shoddy being that arrived on my
date. Yes, shudder at the palpable shock that is close to heart attack
inducing. I expect even your quasi-retarded mind can understand my
request for an immediate return of expenses that I incurred from the
Poe-like nightmare. Please prepare yourself for my account:

The evening of the date arrived. I could barely contain my excitement,
so took the precaution of strapping it back with sellotape. I had also
taken vain measure of washing myself and cleaning my teeth. Little did
I know that the precious time was but a waste of life.

I arrived at Caf? Zorba, an establishment renowned for its value and
range of breakfasts. Taking great care I pinned the symbolic red rose
to my lapel. Nervous anticipation was causing my stomach growl
ferociously. I had no choice but to placate it with food and so placed
my order. Around twenty minutes later whilst tucking into my splendid
sausage and chips I was disturbed by a bumbling red rose clad
monstrosity. My appetite fled quicker than a piss from a tight bladder.
The approaching offal bucket had chosen to hide its bestial form with
an array of shocking make up. Like an obese contortionist it had
somehow squeezed itself into a fold revealing primrose dress. Not
content with this self-inflicted damage it had commenced a battle
between natural odour with some noxious perfume that quite took the
edge off my tomato ketchup.

It grunted: "Hello, I'm Claire, you must be Cliff." (nervous
giggle)

Orca extended her cheek toward me, obviously starved of body contact.
The nasal invasion of her fumes prompted a globule of sick to escape my
mouth, which I had no choice but to release on my untouched
chips.

"My French Fries!!" I cried

Shocked at its culinary crime it guiltily engulfed the opposite stool
with its magnitude.

Silenced followed. Then I asked, "Would you mind if I took a photo of
you?"

This seemed to lift her and a smile stretched like a plague across her
face. I lifted the camera, not daring to look at the vomit inducing
vision down the lens, gambling that the camera would easily focus on
the mass before me.

We patiently waited for the photo to develop. As the black square
unveiled its plump guest I reached for the photocopy of the
aforementioned montage. I put the images side by side and explained to
the confused blob.

"I am the victim of a grotesque error. I asked for deluxe and as you
can see I got economy."

Like a solar powered calculator the creature took a few seconds to
reach my meaning. At which point it rose like an entrapped animal
moaning incomprehensibly. Naturally I was frightened for my life, and
knife in hand I stood before it shouting. "Get back you beast!"

It burbled "You Pig"

To which I retorted: "It is unfortunate that I am not a pig as we would
evidently have more in common."

The maddened horror reached for my remaining sausage and chips and
flung them upon me. It then turned and crashed through the tables and
went howling about the streets. I was left emotionally scarred and
without any dinner. I subsequently paid Big Zorba and returned home
with a bottle of whisky desperate to black out the torturous events of
the evening.

After a glimpse of my 'Perfect Match' hell, I expect that you are
scrambling for your petty cash tin rushing to reimburse me, and
financially sooth the wounds of my experience.

May I take a moment to cast your attention toward another felony
committed by your criminal fraternity. The photographic advertisement
campaign featuring Dave and Marie, "who found their perfect match with
'Perfect Match'".

I met a broken Dave on a park bench with some of his new friends. He
told me that after your campaign was released Marie found yet more
perfect matches with the aid of your company. One example of her
penchant for finding love features in an underground art film I
purchased. I enclose a copy for your review.

Please find below an itemised bill for the costs incurred courtesy of
the 'Perfect Match'. I look forward to receiving the cheque.

Clifford Spab

For Payment:

?9.99 Assortment of Magazines used to make montage
?25.00 Perfect Match 'Love Finder' membership fee
?2.99 Bugdens own Splash on Aftershave ?0.79 1 small role of
sellotape
?5.49 Savlon &; Plasters (to treat sellotape induced injuries)
?1.99 Red Rose
?2.49 Zorba's Sausage &; Chips
?24.25 Polaroid Camera
?2.99 Cost of cleaning Shirt &; Trousers
?9.99 Bottle of Whisky
?1.68 2 Cans of Special Brew for Dave
?14.99 'Attack of the Love Nymphs' starring Marie (stage name: Busty
McMelons)
?0.79 Box of Kleenex Tissues
?75.00 Psychological Damage

?178.43 Total Amount Due