Dear Meghan Trainor…

Dear Meghan,

Do you think it would be possible to train a lobster as an office assistant? My friend George (something of a whizz with a stapler) is convinced that the dual-clawed crustacean would make a rather wonderful ‘In’ and ‘Out’ tray: those items that need to be done clasped tight in the right claw, those items that have been recently completed clamped solid in the left. We wonder if, aside from these duties, you could also use it as a paper weight (once dry).

We would welcome your thoughts on this and, if they’re suitable, we may also ask you what we could do with a bag full of coral (please DO NOT reference this in any response).

Yours,
—
H. Rumbelow

Dear Gareth Bale…

Dear Gareth B,

It can’t have failed to escape your notice that your name, when written backwards, is ‘elabh terag‘ which – if I’m not mistaken (I have been mistaken seven times since records began) is the Welsh name for that phenomenon when you can’t remember if you’ve actually locked the front door or turned off the oven or fed the kids and you worry about it just enough to ruin your evening, but not enough to actually do anything about it.

Well done.

Yours,
—
H. Rumbelow

Dear Chris Rock…

Dear Chris,

If I were to cut you in half (which I have no desire to do, other than with kindness), do you have ‘CHRIS’ written all the way through?

Yours,
—
H. Rumbelow

Dear George Osborne…

Dear George,

What do you listen to on the radio? I don’t mean ON the radio as in physically sat upon a wireless transistor radio (my friend George has urged me to make that quite clear), but rather what do you listen to that is playing on the radio. I suspect that you, modern bloke that you are, indulge in the deluge of digital offerings e.g. Mgaic, Magic Chilled and Mellowed Magic that tip-toe across the airwaves, while George is adamant that you will listen to nothing but Radio 4 muffled through a scarf.

Yours,
—
H. Rumbelow

Dear Bernie Sanders…

Dear Bernie,

There’s no other to say it*, ‘you da man’. My friend George (who taught me that phrase during a game of Boggle) and I have been following your campaign closely in recent weeks and have kept every newspaper item featuring your good self in an old shoe box (circa. 1978) that in turn we keep on top of one of the kitchen cupboards. How long do you plan on being ‘da man’? I only ask as it is tiresome going through the daily ritual of removing the box from the kitchen cabinet and there really is nowhere else to put it that wouldn’t crucify the feng shui.

Yours,
—
H. Rumbelow

 

*there are actually quite a lot. I noted them on the back of an envelope after sending this.

Dear Louis Van Gaal

Dear Louis,

When times are tough, do you know what I do? I weave. And I don’t weave willy nilly Louis, I weave with a purpose. Often this purpose it to impress Mary (a widowed pharmacist who once appeared on The Krypton Factor), but not always. Other purposes have included the creation of a woven basket to store miniature jars of preserve (AKA jam) and to fill time in between episodes of Boon. The latter may be of interest to you.

Yours,
—
H. Rumbelow

Dear Idris Elba…

Dear Idris,

There’s a worm at the bottom of the garden (communal patio), and his name – according to his name badge at least, which we found a few feet away from him – is ‘Donald McCluskey’. We have been keeping an eye on Donald for some weeks now and his mood has dipped significantly since the last episode of Luther was aired. He no longer wriggles or wiggles with quite the same finesse as he did and he seems more ‘sweaty-pig-pink’ than ‘sloppy-worm-pink’. We (George, a neighbour in spirit if not literally, and I) are worried. In order to woo Donald back to full worminess, would you be able to supply a suite of Luther dolls we could use to create stop-motion animations? We would plan to project these onto the soil if that makes any difference to the kind of models you plan to create (we recommend NOT plasticine).

Yours,
—
H. Rumbelow

Dear Kendrick Lamar…

Dear Ken,

With regards the messages that you’ve been trying to telepathically thrust into my brain: I’m not receiving them. Please try a postcard.

Yours
—
H. Rumbelow

Dear Jeremy Hunt…

Dear Jeremy,

You know that thing about duck quacks in tunnels? And you know that thing about not being able to lick your own elbows? Do you think these are in anyway related? My friend George (a man with the hair of a mallard) is convinced he read something about it on the back of a cereal packet, and we figured you might know.

Yours,
—
H. Rumbelow

Dear Ed Sheeran

Dearest Ed,

I found a kumquat earlier that reminded me of you. I’m actually in the process of having it pickled (lightly) as I break to write to you. Tell me, would you like a provide a jar in which I can keep the picklequat (trademark me) or shall I just keep it with the others: Damian Lewis picklequat, Donald Trump picklequat and a hand full of not-quite-raisins.

Yours,
—
H. Rumbelow