Thursday, 5 April 2007

Jim'll Fix It? He'd better...

Dear Jim'll Fix It...

I know that I'm unsure as to whether you're in the land of the living or simply just dead and I know that I'm obviously not your favourite person in the world, otherwise you may have responded to one of my letters when I was a nipper. I was the one who wanted to be He-Man for the day. I know that the make up and costume department would have had their work cut out concealing the flab and all, but you could have at least tried. And don't tell me that you actually got in contact with Madonna about the possibilty of an eight year old duetting on her, ahem, album, or even, erm, taking a year off school to perform backing vocals, dance moves and all round glamour on the masturbation-friendly Blonde Ambition World Tour, because that's a lie.

Face it Jim: you let me down. You can rattle-rattle-jewellery-jewellery all you like, but you failed. Crushed, I was. Heartbroken. No He-Man, no singing and dancing. It's probably your fault that I'm a gay.

You want a second chance don't you? You want to put it right, don't you? Okay, fella, I'm going to fix it for you by letting you fix it for me...

Dear (alive? Dead? Whatever...) Jim,

1. Please fix it for me to have some kind of machine gun attached to my car, Nelly the Nissan Micra. And please ensure that I am issued with some kind of James Bond-ish licence to kill thingymejig, so that when I slay the BMW and Landrover drivers who think that it's absolutely fine to cut me up or pull out at a roundabout when I am hurtling towards them from the right, that I don't get into trouble for it. In fact, as I will be doing a service to all the other patrons on the road, I should possibly be rewarded handsomely. I like diamonds, Jim.

2. Please fix it so that when I am in a queue in, say, Tescos, that I am unable to hear fat people with sweaty top lips breathing/snoring as they queue behind me. And Jim, I don't want earplugs. Take last night... I'd got home from work, almost tearful with rage after the ninth near miss with some slag in a - SURPRISE! - Landrover when it dawned upon me that I had no food. I popped to Tescos, as you do, and deposited the following into my basket: soup, cobs/rolls and some eggs that will undoubtedly go off before I finish them, but hey ho. Nothing else tickled my fancy, so I took my place in the queue and cursed my luck as a gypo started arguing with the woman behind the till. And that's when the grumbling behind me started. What the bleeding hell is that, I wondered in terror as the floor began to shake, the lights flickered and tins of Whiskas started flying from the shelves. I span around all ready to shout, SAVE YOURSELVES, and realised that, no, it wasn't an earthquake, it was a fat knacker in a dirty tracksuit. Breathing. Gurgling. It was rancid and I felt violated, Jim, especially as I could feel his questionable breath on the back of my head.

3. Please Jim, I know I sound irritable and I'm not. I'm rather jolly most of the time. I'll tell you when I'm not jolly and hopefully you can remedy this little situation... I'm not jolly when I can hear people eating noisy food, like crisps... and then sucking their fingers like a heathen. What happened to the art of eating quietly, handwashing, or wiping your mits on a bit of tissue? This only usually bothers me when it's silent or I'm trying to watch a film at the cinema and someone is shovelling popcorn into their cake holes whilst Forrest Gump's Mam is trying to tell her son, her only son, that she's dying. Would it be possible to invent rubber teeth? I'm sure you could have a go. Remember Jim, I'm still hurting from not being on tour with Madge. Broke my heart, you did...

4. Will Smith gets on my tits, Jim. I don't know why, but he just does. I KNOW that everyone else thinks he's, like, the funniest thing in the world, but I find myself wanting to punch him in the throat whenever I am confronted with his goon-like image. He's as funny as cancer, Jim. Oooh, I hope that's not what finished you off, if you are dead, but even if it is, all the more reason to take him out, eh? Take him down with you, like. What do you think? Fix it for me, Jim. You know you want to.

5. Please Jim, can you fix it for world peace, an end to starvation and if poverty isn't yet history, can you see to it that it is? I don't want you to think that I'm just adding this one to appear altruistic and therefore score the necessary brownie points that will elevate my letter to the top of the pile, Jim. Well maybe I am, but your previous neglect damaged me. Bed wetting. Bulimia. Kylie's Greatest Hits. I blame you for all that.

It's time to right your wrongs.

Looking forward to sitting on your sofa with a badge round my neck.

Yours hoping that you've not slipped off the dish...

Johnny Red Pants xxx

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

When I was little I wanted Jim to fix it for me to play for Nottingham Forest. My wife wanted to be in of the A-Team. Ain't getting on no plane Sucka!

Heathy, www.neilheath.co.uk

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