Beg Beg Beg

A begging letter dropped on to the mat 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 'Noel's House Party' 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
Thursdays 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 none existent object on the floor at the crucial point
of eye contact. 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 disap
pointed 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. D.E.R are not going
to be pleased.
How's your family? I must say your wife looks particularly good in
those Scholls she's
been wearing to nip to Mr Patel's in lately. 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,not even a statuesque 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 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 pasteurised 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 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 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 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 telling the police, although
being a pal like you are,
I'm sure you wouldn't rat on me to the rozzers.Yours X.
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 X, 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'statuesque' 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 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
spring 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'.