Teeth Like Sugar Puffs

A begging letter dropped on to the boot sale carpet square that was more oblong to tell the truth on the morning following the win. "Dear Eric, it read and assumed an air of familiarity that I suppose only a lottery win or an appearance on 'Watchdog' can achieve. 'Dear Eric, I was pleased to hear of your good fortune on the lottery. Although you don't know me, I have long admired you as an upstanding and decent man. You might remember me, I passed you two Thursday's ago in the park. You were walking your delightful dog and I was on my way to the DSS.We passed on the footpath. You attempted to say hello, but I pretended to be looking incredibly interested at a non existent object on the floor at the crucial point of eye contact.You see I don't like smiling at people poor oral hygeine and a liking for refreshers (those yellow sweets with the sherbert filling) have rendered me with teeth like sugar puffs, my brother who is a clever man says I only need a white for a set of pool balls. I would have said hello, I wanted to say, "Hello, you are my friend, we go back a long way, well not exactly ages but at least the four months I've been living in your road. I was disappointed you didn't come to my recent party. No, I never invited you, but I never invited the man at number eight but he turned up, ate all the chicken, did three laps of the garden in a solo conga and was sick down the back of the telly. Crazy George is going to be a lot crazier wen he finds out rest assured. Still at 37 per cent apr what's three chicken legs and a slice of Pizza to such a man who preys on peoples poor credit history and lust for new electrical goods.
How's your family? I must say your wife looks particularly good in those Dr.Scholls she's been wearing to nip to Mr Patel's in lately. ( Although he must ave been a preety awful doctor to end up making shoes, perhaps the seven years training would have been better spent cutting keys and engraving dog tags at a 'cobblers') What a fine figure she cuts as she glides across the road. Now my friend you have it all, a beautiful wife and tremendous wealth. On the other hand, I your good friend, have nothing,no substantial wife to nip over to Mr Patel's for an ounce of baccy. Not that you'll be sending her over for baccy anymore. You'll go on the proper ciggies from now on and I suspect you'll get them delivered by Benson and Hedges in packs of ten thousand by Dale Winton or Harvey Marine from Celebrity Fit Fool, no doubt in a black velvet sack. You'll probably use a solid gold ashtray that you'll throw away after every cigarette. You could buy out Mr Patel ten times over and replace those cakes he has filled with shaving cream for something decent like spray cream. Speaking of Mr Patel, I'm sure he's got his own best by date stamp. He's had that Tom Allinson small wholegrain on the shelf for at least two weeks and I know it's the same loaf 'cos there's a scuff mark where that bit about 'Nowt Taken Owt' should be. You could be my friend at the newsagent's, with fresh bread and real spray-cream doughnuts. Your good lady wife, my friend also, could mark up the papers dressed in a designer overall, you could even I bet, get Mr Jeffery Banks, also my friend, (as I got his autograph on my smooth chest at a Leeds Marks and Spencers) to design some nice new paper bags for the paperboys and girls. He could even design uniforms like he did for British Airways. Then instead of snotty-nosed children in sportswear and hoods with bright orange bags, we'd have smartly- dressed youngsters with some pride in their appearance. You, my friend, can achieve all this, you and your lovely wife.
However, with a heavy heart I must bear my soul to you my good friend. you see, I have a request, a ransom demand if you like, that's really the purpose of this letter, apart of course from cementing our friendship. You see I need eighteen thousand pounds. "Ha, I hear you say, "A drop in the ocean to a rich man like me. but I really do need it, otherwise my friend, they will come and take away my house and the body of your dead wife in the cellar. Yes I said 'dead wife' 'cos if you don't make this act of financial friendship, then I'm afraid I shall have to kill her. 'Fine friend I am 'you must be thinking? Well, needs must as they say my friend. Please don't bother contact the policemen, they are very busy acting in The Bill, although being a pal like you are, I'm sure you wouldn't do such a thing.

Remember I hold your future happiness in my lonely hands and your wife in my
cellar.

Please organise for cash at your earliest convinience.

I'll be in touch

Your friend .

I had no choice but to reply. I took a pen and a pad of paper, surprisingly calmly all things considered and began to write. 'Dear Friend, Thank you for your ransom demand for the safe return of my wife.' How terribly English this was. This lunatic had my wife and here was I thanking him for the note. Still old habits die hard. Back to the letter.

'I was somewhat surprised by your letter and the news that my 'substantial'' wife
was imprisoned by your good self... There I go again, 'Good self ', Good self! this monster was holding my nearest and dearest trussed up in some dark cellar and I was calling him good. 'As a former small business development officer, I was impressed by your plans for the newsagent's. If you weren't a kidnapper I'm sure you'd have a bright future as an independent newsagent. I particularly liked the part about the image of the paper boys. It has long been an opinion of mine that our paperboys and girls are poorly kitted out. Only the other week I mentioned to my wife, (who you have trussed like a Christmas goose in the cellar), that young people of today dress in shabby sports gear all of the time. As for the bread, I must say I couldn't agree with you more. Usually myself and my now sadly imprisoned wife purchase two wholegrain loaves from the Asda. However, on two occasions, once when my sister Eunice came unexpectedly and ate us out of house and home and once when the freezer defrosted late at night and
the economy fish finger juice soaked through a air hole in the defrosting loaf, have I
had to purchase it from Mr Patel. I was disappointed and too hungry to complain so
both myself and my hostaged good lady ate a displeasing supper of stale bread toast.
As for the 'cream cakes', well I'll take the word of a friend on that point. Eighteen thousand pounds is a lot of money. Not that my other half imprisoned is not worth that. oh no, you can't put a price on a life. why you could get that for one of her kidneys on the south American black market. Not that I'm trying to get you to break her for spare parts like some old MG, oh no my friend, I'm just pointing out that eighteen thousand pounds is a lot of money, but not a lot in comparison for what you could fetch by selling her parts individually.
My lovely wife being not greater in value than the sum of her parts. I think I remember
you. Are you the bloke who wears the second-hand army clothing and the T Shirt of Che Guevara that looks like a chubby Robert Lindsay? I hope that is you. I mean, it's good to have a mental image of the man who has enforced custody your soul mate. Are you feeding her? She's very fussy you know, too fussy I say. What ever you do, remember, no added salt. Her ankles will swell up and you won't hear the last of it. I myself made the mistake of being too liberal with the sodium chloride on some young carrots from the allotment. She had her feet up on a piano stool and a a chair from the kitchen for four days. If looks could kill. She still blames me for the fact that a nice pair of flat court shoes- 'the most comfortable pair of shoes she's ever owned', still don't fit her. Between you and me, the fact that she sits in a chair and stuffs Fry's Chocolate cream after Fry's Chocolate Cream into her mouth, might have something to do with the fat ankles. As you probably know if you've had to carry her
bound body anywhere, it's not just her ankles that are fat. you've probably noticed, shall we say 'her broad beam'.It used to be as tight as a drum in years gone by, tight as a drum. you could bounce a table tennis ball on it. I often did on those summer Pontins weekends when all those snotty-nosed kids buggered off from the games room. Happy days before The Fry's Chocolate Cream lifestyle and the orange peel legs. She may look good to you trussed like a festive goose in the half-light of the cellar, but believe me, in the cold light of wednesday morning, she's no oil painting. oh no, more like a cheap photocopy on a second-hand machine that's low on toner. Not that I don't love her. I didn't say that, oh no. Just that your description of her in your very nice letter seemed to play her part up a bit. You gave her a starring role in my life instead of a walk on part. I'm not unhappy, oh no, happy as a sandboy. She gets on with her life i.e. her fist in a bag of sweets packing more fat onto those cow hips of hers and me having my pint and a special relationship with Sandra, who's the
bingo caller at the club. When I say 'special' you know what I mean. It's not love, no we're both too old for that. We both have needs shall we say and luckily enough, the fact that Sandra's need to be taken' shall we say, every second wednesday whilst in full stocking and suspenders rig out ties in quite nicely with my desires on that front. The woman you have lashed to a central heating pipe in the bowels of your house gave all that up years ago. Oh yes, one evening when I had one too many rum and peppermints I was a bit rough with her,nothing violent, just more dominant than usual. After we'd finished she calmly said, "that'll be it for that sort of thing from now on. That was it, my sex life was over. I went to the shed and wept. the next day when I was putting a copy of the Examiner in the bin I saw the nylon tangled clump of all her suspenders. The fat bitch you justifiably have clamped at your house was watching from the kitchen window, face like the smell of gas. It's hardly surprising, is it my friend that I had to go elsewhere. Saying that, Sandra's 'need' has been on the increase of late. she even suggested we lay together as man and bingo caller in between the first full line and the full house link the other evening, although that might have been down to the gin she'd been swigging from her bag. It always makes her randy. Some drinks are like that aren't they? I mean, my brother is as placid as anything, but give him a whisky and he'll want to take on the world. That ugly lump of chip lard screwed to the floor of your basement used to cry when she had gin. It used to sicken me when the fat-gobbed sow would sit balloon-faced, sipping gin and watching those stupid soap operas. She'd shush me loudly and whine about
how Wayne had found out Charlene was his sister on the eve of their wedding. She'll not like it in that cellar of yours, oh no, she'll be missing the soaps. Serves her right. It'll do her good to have her lard arse dragged away from the television. Anyway, back to your request for her release. You've guessed haven't you, You little tinker? That's right, you can bloody keep her!
I'm off with Sandra for a week on Southport sands. It's a nice eight berth caravan left to her by her former husband. A nice chap by all accounts. A welder. Anyway, yes, keep 'chunk legs'. As for the lottery win, your information was indeed correct. I am a winner, but it was only a bloody pound on a scratchcard.

I'll send you a postcard 'my good friend'.