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