Dear Gary Lineker…

Leicester’s most famous son…

—

Dear Gary,

What are you doing for new year? My friend George and I have a bet on what you will be doing, and would like to settle it sooner rather than later (we may tire of the bet soon).

I think you will have a quiet night in with friends and watch Terry Gilliam’s ‘Brazil’ with a dried fruit salad. George however, believes that you operate on a unique calendar (he calls it ‘The Lineker Calendar’) and as such will celebrate your new year of 487 days sometime in what we would call ‘June’.

Is George right, or ‘mental’ – as his niece recently daubed on his bicycle.

Yours,
—
Herbert Rumbelow

Dear Jesus… Happy Birthday!

Dear Jesus

I just wanted to write to let you know why I was unable to post a birthday card prior to the official cut-off date for Christmas delivery as set down by the UK Post Office.

I forgot.

Yours,
—
Herbert Rumbelow

Dear Germaine Greer…

Hello Germaine!

—

Dear Germaine,

My friend George and I are thinking of releasing a booklet that describes how to perk yourself up a bit using nothing but some hot water. It is a method we call S-Team (clever huh!? George thought up the name while canoeing).

Would you like to test the method? We would be happy to email you a print ready PDF of the booklet if you would like, we will also include a hand drawn diagram of happiness (by George’s niece, Fenella).

Yours,
—
Herbert Rumbelow

Dear Andrew Marr…

Dear Andrew,

Do you busk? My friend George (an avid supporter of the busking art) is convinced he saw you playing the accordion on Tottenham Court Road last night. You were playing a track by The Jesus and Mary Train (or it may have been Dave Brubeck) and looking perplexed. If it was you, well done.

Yours,
—
Herbert Rumbelow

Dear Dr Who…

Dear Dr,

Would you like a Dundee United football shirt (child size)? I have tried all other avenues and am left with offering it to you. If you do not want it I don’t know what I will do (I’ll use it as a flannel).

Yours,
—
Herbert Rumbelow

Dear Mick Jagger…

Dear Mick,

How many tissues can you fit in your closed fist?

I only ask as we are considering running a game like this at a Christmas fair (to raise money for orphaned cats) and we feel that a celebrity endorsed competitive element could make it a real winner. We want to charge people £1 to try and fit more tissues in their fist than Mick Jagger (you) and if they can, they get a lottery scratch card.

A quick response would be great. We are of course able to reimburse you for any tissues you need to get hold of in order to complete this challenge.

Yours,
—
Herbert Rumbelow

Dear Garth Marenghi…

The dreamweaver

—

Dear Garth,

I was given your television series on DVD (downloaded files rather than an official version I’m afraid) and I must say, it is wonderful. One issue is that I am unable to find time in my schedule to watch the final 2 episodes before the Summer solstice (after watch I do not watch television) and thus wondered if you could email me a brief synopsis of these programmes? Something 100-120 words would be ideal, which I can read over breakfast.

Yours,
—
Herbert Rumbelow

Dear Miss Martina Navratilova

Dear Martina,

Do you own a set of hurdles?

Yours,
—
Herbert Rumbelow

Dear Jamie Oliver…

Dear Jamie,

Are you a fan of the gas hob, electric hob, halogen hob, calor gas stove, or aga? Or, to put it another way, which would you take to a desert island (assuming suitable utility pipes could be installed). Would the answer be different if I asked which would be better for basting a gopher?

Yours,
—
Herbert Rumbelow

Dear Jeremy Paxman…

Don’t question me…

—

Dear Jeremy,

Do you enjoy the sound of an apple dropping into a pond? My friend George describes this as the most wonderful sound in the world suitable – and I quote – ‘even for the tepid ear of that Jeremy Paxman‘. If you could accept or deny your approval for this sound, I think George would be most pleased and may yet reinstate you on his Christmas card list. If you could also provide an address to send the Christmas card this may help.

Yours,
—
Herbert Rumbelow