Dear Supermarkets,

Dear Supermarkets,

‘Hand selected’ is not positive selling point when marketing fruit and veg. It merely means that some complete fucking stranger, no doubt nicknamed ‘Shittyfingers’ by his friends, has handled my courgettes and apples.

Sincerely yours,
Munky

Dear David Walliams,

Dear David Walliams,

Although I was delighted to shake your comedy hand when we were introduced earlier, I have been forced to spend the rest of the day washing the abiding stench of Titmuss cunt off my fingers.

Showbiz mwah,
Munky

Dear Sanitary Towel Floating Under Hammersmith Bridge,

Dear Sanitary Towel Floating Under Hammersmith Bridge,

You float so gracefully, there with the ducks and the geese and the swans. Drifting along on a current, bobbing away with the tide; winding your sweet, sanguine way through to the canals. And then, who knows? Perhaps to Camden, where you will, at long, long last, meet up with your bloody brethren.

PS: I didn’t know Sarah Jessica Parker was in town today. Golly.

Use the bins provided,
Munky

Dear artists,

Dear artists,

If art is ‘all about interpretation’, why do you get so upset when I interpret your art as being shit?

Xxx,
Munky

Dear Jordan,

Dear Jordan,

Ah, right. So you think you can represent the UK in the Eurovision Song Contest, do you? You, with the fake tan so badly applied it looks as though you’ve been sprayed with silage by a blind farmer tending a herd of spongiformed moo-moos? You, with eyes colder and deader than a shrivelled chicken breast, left slowly to rot into icy dust at the back of a never-opened freezer draw?

You, the nation’s foremost celebrity whore, shitting out sleaze, silicon and sprogs like someone’s exploded a water-balloon full of laxative over the seventh circle of hell, then sent you swimming out through the faeces to bring the chunky bits back up to the surface, ready for celebration in Heat!Now!Ok!Closer!Reveal!Felch! ?

You, the nation’s foremost screaming, wailing, vomiting, staggering, spread-eagling, soul-selling, shit-wearing, star-fucking, brain-rotting, self-pitying, self-worshipping, self-destroying, airheaded nobody?

You?

To represent the United Kingdom?

Yep, you’ll do perfectly.

Best of luck,
Munky

Dear Fat Woman On The Bus,

Dear Fat Woman On The Bus,

I understand that it must have been very disturbing when that perfectly pleasant young man had to engage in physical contact with you this morning. I appreciate that, for a microsecond, your world must have turned upside-down, simply because his thick coat pushed against your very tight coat, possibly creating a little friction. I sympathise with your plight that, for the duration it takes a cheetah to sneeze, your capacious sense of personal space was downgraded from penthouse to bedsit.

But did it occur to you, before you screamed blue bloody murder at the gentleman in question, that he needn’t have "pushed past you" at all had you not been so fucking fat?

No? Well, maybe it will next time.

PS: You fat bitch.
PPS: You know how you were telling your equally fat friend that your grand-daughter’s always ruining low on her mobile credit, so you always have to call her back? That’s because she spends all her money on condoms, crack and poison to put in your tea. Because she fucking hates you too.

0845 345 1500, luv…
Munky

Dear Dizzee Rascal,

Dear Dizzee Rascal,

I know you’re just a rascal, and a dizzee one at that, but carrying pepper spray on your person is a little bit girlie. Do you also carry a rape alarm and a multi-coloured collection of scrunchies in your pocket? Do you keep some super-glue handy in case your heel snaps off, and a copy of Grazia magazine (total shit! every week!!) in your mock-croc handbag? Do you coo at the fashion sense of the Desperate Housewives? Do you think Freddie Llungberg is straight? Do you calorie count and take pole-dancing lessons and drink Smirnoff Ices?

Are you me?

Innit,
Munky

Dear Sunny Camden,

Dear Sunny Camden,

'Tis a sunny day in ole' Camden Town. The crack glistens and the heroin shines with the rays of the sun. The goths unite in song with the Chavs, and the chorus line of media-types make their way through the streets, Vaseline smeared on their teeth so their smiles never tire.

So light up, my fellow Camdenites, and let the spark of your cracklighter against the aluminium foil ignite your soul!

Or rather, fuck off you scaggy cretins. You’re ruining my perfectly nice day.

Yours truly,
Munky

Dear Sarah Jessica Parker,

Dear Sarah Jessica Parker,

Despite your khaki prancing and tossing about of flowers, whenever I look at you, I just see…

…menstruation.

You look like you’re constantly on the go, like there is an ever-present crust of menses on your girlie bits.

Adoringly,
Munky

P.S. You should star in the remake of ‘The Blob’.
P.P.S. Ha, I am so damned funny and witty.

Dear Everyone Who Knows Mr Munky,

Dear Everyone Who Knows Mr Munky,

You are cordially invited to a party to celebrate Mr Munky’s 30th birthday this weekend. We will have the following:

a) Bass-thudding music so loud, people in Afghanistan will be scratching their heads and wondering why the bombing has restarted.

b) A queue of people so long at the toilets, your chances of actually doing a wee-wee or a poo-poo are approximately zero. Unless you just let rip in your pants.

c) Lots of people with wee-wee and poo-poo in their pants.

d) An incredible number of Japanese people, each one of whom confers infinite coolness upon Mr Munky, purely by dint of the fact that, having invited them, he must also know them. And, by knowing them, he must be oh-so-bohemian.

e) One chair / seat / square inch of floor space per every 50 attendees. Room in which to move / breathe / undertake the basic functions of human existence and interaction is so 90s.

f) The Queens Of Noize.

g) Nibbles.

Alternatively, no we fucking well won’t. Parties are bloody horrible, so you are all invited to send the cold hard cash you would have spent on booze / drugs / cabs / hiring hitmen for the Queens Of Noize to Mr Munky instead. He will then spend it on Mrs Munky, to make her feel a little bit better about being married to an old, old man.

Eternally,
Mr Munky

Dear The Air,

Dear The Air,

While I appreciate that you, like God, have a very difficult job, being everywhere all the time and everything, I would like to register my disgust at your recent activity. I learn that you contain 78% oxygen, 21% nitrogen and 1% argon-y shit but, somehow, that doesn't seem to add up. Because, from where I'm sitting (over a toilet bowl, painfully reacquainting myself with my barely-swallowed lunch), you seem also to contain approximately 99% disease. As in the air-borne virus death disease which has passed into my lovely body from the bodies of repulsive, contaminated, bastard Camden cunts.

Make yourself useful and carry good things in future - such as puppies, floating in your breeze. Or big cheques made payable to Munky, wafting about in your currents. Or the head of whichever pikey fuckbag gave me their stomach flu, bobbing along the ground like a particularly bloody tumbleweed.

Air kisses,
Munky

Dear 13 year olds who ask me for a ‘smoke’ or a ‘light’,

Dear 13 year olds who ask me for a ‘smoke’ or a ‘light’,

Although I don’t approve of children smoking fags, I must always oblige your requests because otherwise you’ll punch me in the head and set me on fire. My rationales are completely selfish, but at least it will prevent The fucking Sun from running a ‘tragic’ story about my ‘tragic’ death from a ‘tragic’ addiction.

Cordially,
Munky

Dear mountains,

Dear mountains,

You’re really pretty to look at, but aside from that, you’re pretty fucking useless.

Regards,
Munky

Dear consumers of fast food,

Dear consumers of fast food (including, but not limited to, McDonald’s, Burger King, KFC, sandwiches, crisps and some types of fruit),

The only thing you are ‘too busy’ to do, it seems, is swallow before you open your fat fucking gobs full of food, displaying mashed-up food stuffs while you spray into your mobile phones, “Durrrrr, what you up to?” as the scrags of your partly masticated stupidity cling to your double chins.

Cordially,
Munky

Dear hot caffeinated beverages,

Dear hot caffeinated beverages,

Every day of my life there is a powerful struggle.

I have two options to survive the rest of the day; tea or coffee. I stand in the kitchen for at least five minutes, jerking back and forth between the tea and the coffee in an action film 'red wire, blue wire' scenario.

Today I chose coffee.

I chose wisely.

Yours truly,
Munky

Dear road grit,

Dear road grit,

I really really hate you because you camouflage poo as something more innocuous and tread-in-able, such as dirt or even homeless people.

Grit, you make poo the stealth bomber to my well-honed and highly advanced poo-dar. You give me poo-shoe, and for that I will never forgive you.

Best,
Munky

Dear William Faulkner,

Dear William Faulkner,

If I were magically endowed with the ability to travel through space and time, I would hurtle my way back to 1897 Mississippi and dip your teeny baby fingers in acid, thus ensuring that poor college students would never have to endure your variety of damaging literary allergens.

If you still managed to write with your horrifically disfigured nubbins, I will be obliged (for the betterment of collective world sanity and good taste) to dash back again and torch any possible reference to the Family Snopes, single-handedly the most tedious and brain-anaesthetizing collection of creatures ever to have been vomited onto a piece of paper.

If these efforts - selflessly performed for the benefit of all mankind – fail, I will have no other choice than to go completely eeeeeerk and sterilize both of your parents by way of death.

Always the best,
Munky

Dear Camden,

Dear Camden,

Outside my office there is curdled milk covering the pavement. I assume that it is breast milk, as the people in Camden would be foul and depraved enough to remove their mammary from their shirts and spray the mother fluid on the sidewalk.
Best,
Munky

P.S. Actually, the people in Camden would be so foul as to devour this fetid, curdled breast milk.

Dear Sainsbury's,

Dear Sainsbury's,

"A plump, juicy, fragrant berry ideal for eating on its own or as part of a luxurious dessert!"

It is just a fucking strawberry.

If a person is so dumb as not to know what a strawberry is, they sure as hell won't be able to read your bloody description.

Sincerely,
Munky

Dear cancer,

Dear cancer,

Every single moment of my life I wish you didn't exist.

And you never existed.

And you never hurt people I love.

Love,
Munky

P.S. Whoops, forgot to swear! Cunt, shit, bugger, etc.

Dear Mr Munky,

Dear Mr Munky,

Wearing fur into a health food store: fucking genius.

Welcome to my malevolent fold. I hope you find my realm of evil quite cosy.

Kisses,
Munky

Dear my former roommate,

Dear my former roommate,

I'd like to make a confession.

The day I moved out, I squatted over your car and pissed in your radiator.

I am so sorry*,
Munky

*Oh yeah, I'm not fucking sorry, you shitting psychopath.

Confessions really should be for those who feel a sense of guilt about their actions.

Dear snow,

Dear snow,

I like you. I like you an awful, awful lot. To me, you are what today’s youths normally refer to as ‘a friend’.

I like you because I live within walking distance of work, and I can laugh at all the poor cunts who are stuck in the destructive bedlam of London’s snow-induced transportation blackout.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!!!

You made my day bright and lovely.

Love,
Munky

Dear Special K,

Dear Special K,

Who the hell are you to say what is a 'real woman' and what is not?

I'm as shapely as a stick insect, and the last time I checked, my vagina was not molded from rubber.

I am not the Pinocchio of my gender just because I'm a single digit dress size, you cunts.

Love,
Munky

P.S. Yep, just checked again. I am still a fucking 'real woman'.

Dear Mr Munky's shit trousers,

Dear Mr Munky's shit trousers,

Thank you for not giving Mr Munky the squids, thus proving my point that the only valid excuses for not wearing expensive demin are the following:

1) "These trousers, they gave me death."
2) "These trousers, they show my balls."

xxx,
Munky

Dear Mr. Pete Doherty,

Dear Mr. Pete Doherty,

I'm watching you on the television, I am. I didn't realise you were so gay (although, let's be honest, anyone who waggles their penis around inside Kate Moss probably likes fucking young boys.) The fact that you come across so gay actually makes me rather...

...noooooooooooooooo!!!

...AaAaAAaaaAaAaaaaAaAAgh!!!

...I can't say it!!!!

Shit. It actually makes me rather (gulp) like you.

You've broken my blog.

Cunt.

Dear boys who hit on me,

Dear boys who hit on me,

I'm rude to you because I imagine you all have crab lice and distended anuses.

Love,
Munky

P.S. Or maybe it is just because I fucking hate strangers.

Dear Brett Anderson of Suede/The Tears/heroin fame,

Dear Brett Anderson of Suede/The Tears/heroin fame,

You look a bit like you are a leftover shop window dummy from C&A, confused as to where the shop’s gone and why you're all plastic and stuff.

Which, of course, makes you a shit lead singer.

Kisses,
Munky

Dear the London 2012 Olympic bid committee,

Dear the London 2012 Olympic bid committee,

I have taken this opportunity, bearing in mind the current visit from the IOC, to change your slogan from ‘Back the Bid’ to ‘Oi, give us the fucking Olympics, you foreign bastards’.

Love,
Munky

Dear Cosmo,

Dear Cosmo,

I have written ‘Munky’s Step-by-step Guide to Great Sex!!!’ I hope you will publish it. Thank you.

1)Don’t have a funny vagina.
2)Don’t read Cosmo.*
3)Repeat 1 and 2 until you actual gain a bit of fucking self-esteem and learn to enjoy yourselves.

Then you can fill your pages with hot man-on-man action, because girls like that shit, too.

Thank you,
Munky

*I have it on good authority that inserting an ice cube into your husband’s arsehole is grounds for divorce. ‘Good authority’ being common sense, you arsing fuckwits.

Dear leather,

Dear leather,

Why so you cost so much? You're just made of a fucking cow. It's not like I want a jacket made of supermodels' eyelids.

And for Christ's sake, beef mince only costs £1.29 down at Safeways.

xo,
Munky

P.S. I hate cows. I went to the countryside once and the shitting evil cows chased me.

P.P.S. Phoenix is a nice cow, because everyone likes a 'baby cow escaping from a flaming pile of fetid diseased cows' story.

P.P.P.S. Although, a jacket made of Phoenix....hrmmmm...

Dear awful bloke in Café,

Dear awful bloke in Café,

Don’t pull that smug sneering bullshit face when eavesdropping on my girlie conversation about shoes, fluffy kittens, hair products, the necessity of boys and a multitude of other topics which necessitate vast quantities of oestrogen to appreciate. Don’t titter and shake your head in dismay when I squeal about the latest copy of Vogue.

I saw you pick your nose and eat it. I may be a big girlie part of the time, but you are a big booger eater all of the time. And you possess some of the worst table manners I have ever encountered, you socially inept cretin.

Cunt.

So don’t lord it over me as some superior species of thinker merely because I bathe, wear lipstick and choose, at certain times in my life, to discuss such topics as “jeans which give great ass” and “buying new eyeliner.”

Kisses,
Munky

P.S. And you smell bad.

Dear today,

Dear today (10 Feb),

Fucking shit off and leave me alone. I'm tired of you.

Luv,
Munky

Dear Camden Council,

Dear Camden Council,

Please hire people who can spell.

The 'Fir Access' next to my office is slightly alarming. I'm on the lookout for renegade evergreen trees...

Love,
Munky

Dear Mr Munky,

Dear Mr Munky,

“These trousers give me diarrhoea,” is not a valid excuse not to wear a £150 pair of jeans.

Love,
Munky

P.S. It merely makes me laugh to the point of hyperventilation at the thought of a pair of trousers plotting to give you the shits.

Dear Kentish Town,

Dear Kentish Town,

I fucking hate you because all of your residents either have seeping green facial scabs or are failed reality TV 'stars' who sell their tits to tabloids.*

And you smell of sperm. That disturbs me.


Kisses,
Munky

*Yes, Nush, that includes you.

Dear Amy Winehouse,

Dear Amy Winehouse,

Yes, we all saw you in the bar on Saturday night. It was hard not to notice, due to all your jumping, screaming and depressing/unpleasant/overwhelming desperation to be noticed.

We just didn't give a fuck, you annoying twit.

Love,

Munky

P.S. The same goes for The Black Eyes Peas last week in Harrod’s men’s department. “If people don’t notice me, I’ll dance on a chair, wear a BEP shirt and sing my own songs!!” Shame…

Dear pigeons,

Dear pigeons,

I hate you because I'm afraid you'll shit in my mouth.

Best,
Munky

Dear Adobe,

Dear Adobe,

Your shitting little software bug in Creative Suite has cost me 6 hours of my very precious time.

And all I needed to do was change the time zone from GMT-Cardiff to GMT-London. THAT WAS IT. 6 hours of resetting the shitting PRAM, updating pre-bindings, resetting the NVRAM, multiple reinstallation of the OS and of Creative Suite, cleaning caches, running fucking fsck, dumping preferences, fixing the bloody permissions; all the while looking like the complete fucking moron who shitted up the poor designer's computer. And all I needed to do was to change the bloody time zone.

How the fuck was I to know that you don't like the Welsh?

Love,
Munky

P.S. Oi, a little mention on your pocking little support site would have saved me all this stress and time.

Dear Pronunciation Police,

Dear Pronunciation Police,

Despite my years in the UK and my ever-rounding vowel sounds, there are still some words I still can’t enunciate without sounding like the small-town corn-fed Midwestern redneck I am.

I present to the court the word ‘yogurt’. No matter my laborious efforts, no matter your guffaws of mockery, no matter your rigorous pronunciation training program, I will always say it with a twang that suggests in-breedin’ and off-roadin’.

Love,

Munky

P.S. The word ‘bollocks’ shits me up, too. Bollocks. Bollocks.

See? Aw, bollocks.

Dear my stomach,

Dear my stomach,

If I give you some candy, will you shut the fuck up?

Kisses,

Munky

Dear smoking,

Dear smoking,

I love you. I love how you make me smell bad, which is OK because I have a boy who smells bad, too.

I love you. I love how fellow smokers give me the nod off appreciation and encouragement.

I love you. I love how I can be mean to people I don’t like by blowing smoke on then and blame it on ‘wind change’.

I love you. I love how you make me feel satisfied and happy 20 times a day by merely fulfilling an addiction need.

I love you. I love how you make me look ‘well hard’, cool and sexy.

I love you. I love how a burning cigarette can also be used as a weapon against all the really mean people in Camden.

I love you. I love how you make me friends through our common love of smoking.

I love you. I love how I spend more time outdoors because of you.

I love you. I love how you make me enemy through the simple act of having smouldering dried leaves touch my lips. It is way better than the days when doing something really bad would make me enemies!

I love you,
Munky

Dear the people who call me a 'commie liberal',

Dear the people who call me an 'anti-American commie liberal',

I suffer a mental mêlée with the moral dichotomy of being pro-choice and anti-capital punishment. Both are legalized killing, making my stance on each hypocritical. At least I admit it.

I am a small town American.

I am a Londoner.

I am wary of any actions taken or laws enforced on theory alone, i.e.:
The war in Iraq.
GM foods.
Global warming.
Gun control.

I am fully aware that there are genuine motives for said actions and laws, i.e.:
The war in Iraq.
GM foods.
Global warming.
Gun control.

But it still doesn’t always make them right.

If you read the above stories, you’ll just wind up being as confused as their categorisation within this text.

Repulsive, hateful, malicious ignorance can be masked by passable proofreading. But only just.

Home-schooling does make you weird.

I’m not an environmentalist. I just like things to look pretty, smell pretty and not give people cancer.

I am an atheist, but recognise the need for people – all people – to practice their religions (or lack of) openly in society. I also realise that this is difficult, as each religion (or lack of) has their faction of hate which would render this impossible.

Religion is merely a matter of geography. If I were born in Pakistan, I would pray to Allah. Michigan? God.

‘Liberal’ isn’t a dirty word. We all became the way we are through our life experiences and varying degrees of study. Sometimes these combinations of life experiences and study makes one conservative and other times liberal. The only unacceptable standpoints are those which arise from hatred, ignorance and the wilful disregard of facts. Unfortunately those positions have become the norm.

For the deceitfully religious, leather-wearing fur-haters and cheerleaders: you cannot pick and choose your morality.

Would you kill because of pride? Spiritual pride? Home pride? School pride? Self pride? False pride?

If God protects America (86% Christian), He protects Rwanda (80-93.6%) and Columbia (90% Christian), too.

Youths With a Mission's Method Kamanzi: "Rwanda had been evangelised but not discipled."

And we all know what happened there (genocide.)

A significant portion of the worldwide Christian population would say the same about a significant portion of their Western Christian counterparts. Please, starting now, become disciplined.

I've seen The Pope's Christmas Midnight Mass in the flesh and cried with joy.

I've seen the KKK in the flesh and cried with hatred.

I've seen Abu Hamza in the flesh and cried with fear.

Love,

Munky

Dear the stupid fuckers I call my 'friends',

Dear the stupid fuckers I call my 'friends',

It is official. You are going to have to tolerate 11 days and nights of pure unadulterated Munky-ness starting on 25 March. Deal with it.

Love,
Munky

P.S. Get my 'Big Fuck Off Party' planned.

Dear The Stupid Fuckers at Sainsburys in Camden,

Dear The Stupid Fuckers at Sainsburys in Camden,

My New Year's resolution is that you all perish in a horrific accident and I get to watch.

OK, maybe I don't want you dead. You have families.

Suggestions welcome as to how these absolute cretins should suffer.

Best wishes,
Munky

P.S. This is because you all possess the rare but perpertually irritating attributes of being both fucking stupid and fucking rude.