letter from the editor

this is in response to a letter sent on the 24th april to the editor of the daily harbinger from a somewhat irate mr habberdasher; his letter can be viewed here (at present the letter has been misplaced, but as soon as i’ve located it i’ll fix up the link….promise) the editor’s retort below is reproduced verbatim so i apologise profusely for all the fullstops, capital letters and syntactical accuracies:

Dear Mr. Habberdasher,

I am writing in response to your letter, dated 24th April 2012, in which you bring to light a number of issues you have with this paper’s edition of the same day.

First of all let me tell you that I am always open to a letter from one of our readers, especially one who has been so faithful as yourself over the years (I must admit I was obviously mistaken about the length of time we’ve been publishing the Harbinger based on the number of years you purport to have read it).

Allow me to answer your queries in turn and to the best of my abilities, and hopefully go some way in alleviating your concerns, thus retain you as an avid customer of our humble rag.

We strive to report the truth, although I feel this goes without saying I wish to iterate it, and much of the time this involves printing quotes, both from our named and anonymous sources, and not simply gratuitously; I stand by the use of, ‘harpy’, ‘bignose’, ‘bellend’ and ‘fuckabollock’ in the writing of the front page article and their integral part in its probity…….I must however admit i agree with you on the phrase, ‘she has the face of Simon Cowell excreting his own sense of self-satisfaction,’ it was an indulgence of only too human a form, but in general I back the piece on the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee.

Kat Slater is not a real person.

Our article on fiscal management was intended to be facetious; just walking in to the Royal Bank of Scotland and demanding your share of the 84% back just because you don’t bank there is not how the world works; and whilst I always admire initiative and innovation, robbing the joint is a little more than just frowned upon and I therefore urge you to return the bonds (and tearing one up in to an appropriately sized fraction does not then bear relation to its subsequent value).

Ed Milliband is actually a real person.

I’m extremely sorry to hear about your sister and the loss of her leg in a shark attack just off the coast of Whitby; quite the anomaly I’m sure. However, I feel our ‘How to exercise cheaply in your own home’ – a superbly informative piece of advice on how to make use of your own furniture rather than expensive exercise machinery in order to get that body you’ve always wanted, written by another equally loyal reader, Dotty Headbanger – really can’t be blamed; the description of the kitchen table as a life raft was not intended to be taken literally (‘in your own home’ is clearly stated in the article’s title) and whilst I fully appreciate your sister’s extenuating circumstances, I think that the staff members of the institute at which your sister until recently resided should really be taking the greater proportion of the blame, if not all of it. But of course I will gladly run the ‘Wanted’ poster as long as it takes for the foul beast to be captured.

Tesco’s returns policy regarding tankinis is really nothing to do with me.

I do hope this goes some way towards mollifying your concerns Mr. Habberdasher, and should you at any point, on any issue, feel the need to contact me again, I would be delighted to hear from you and will do my utmost to help.

Yours most sincerely,

Jackson van Diemen – Editor in Chief

P.S. I shall be taking the liberty of sending you and your sister a gift to the address at the top of your letter – from what you tell me about the various conditions from which you both suffer, but the self-medication and sense of humour which help you both see the positives, i trust that a packet of Great White Shark cannabis seeds should do the trick.

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is this poetry…

the boss is coming and i need this out

before his flabby jowls assault me

he’s tall

he’s overweight

his excess coagulates at random points about his person

he treads boards

amateur ones

musical ones

they sing with pleasure

as one does when the whip spurs

when you think all your breath has gone

there’s always a little extra for a song of praise or the safety word

and then there’s next time

i can see the future and it’s too bright

it hurts my eyes and i don’t like it

no not one little bit

&c &c &c

i don’t fully understand poetry; i don’t entirely know what it is about their content that makes them poems, for if it is not about content, then layout is all i have; this for instance, is a catchy story:

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, while I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door – only this, and nothing more.’ Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow from my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore – for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore – nameless here for evermore.”

it goes on……

i initially thought that it was just the poems that rhymed which were ‘obvious’ poems; but i changed my mind and am now at a complete loss……or maybe not, and it is just layout

turn the dark on

the boss is coming and i need this out before his flabby jowls assault me; he’s tall, he’s overweight, his excess coagulates at random points about his person; he treads boards, amateur ones, musical ones, they sing with pleasure as one does when the whip spurs; when you think all your breath has gone there’s always a little extra for a song of praise or the safety word, and then there’s next time; i can see the future and it’s too bright, it hurts my eyes and i don’t like it, no not one little bit, but i can’t really leave on my own and those i’m with i couldn’t take with me; i ache with weariness in the parts of my body i no longer use, i’d like to exercise them, exorcise them, the power of joy compels you, leave me alone, why do you think that your stupid answers would be preferable to a state of not knowing yet; i’d rather not know at all than be left with your insipid dregs on which to feed; to only know that you’re wrong would suffice; you are ontologically unsound, you have neither essence nor existence and the order with regards to you is moot, sivuseikka, i tire of even thinking about you and i hate myself as thought is the only way by which you can exist yet i continue to do it; i could stop writing for starters, but then all i’m left with is thought; i have no safe place, only safe state; i’ve nowhere to go and everywhere to be, diluted, lost with no singularity, nothing to which a sense can be fixed; to begin with no light…….please