This morning, a piece of paper sailed through my window and landed on my desk (it was tied around a brick, which must have opened the window (I suspect the Historian, because of his intense hatred, the crude way of delivery, and the obvious inferiority of writing and spelling)). I speak for the whole Tavistock Society when I state that we have nothing to do with this shady character who calls himself the Historian, after reading the next bile:
To Nana Mouskouri’s Fans
May we just say that lamp shanks should always be accompanied by mint sauce and none of your vile juice extracted from some unidentified berry? [we gather you found them growing in the bins of M&S; we spotted them there earlier]. Moreover, it could be a good idea, and we say this with all intended irony, to refocuss on cooking the lamb, as leaving it raw and dropping it on a lukewarm plate won’t do for us. It is treacherous (it looks sloppy) and Mexican (as in the cookbook). We have also tried the dry gravy granules that came with it and they were simply disgusting, especially after they mingled with the aforementioned berry juice in our stomachs. The result, dear Madame, was horrific, and we are still rushing to the toilet at regular intervals (every 5’55’’ (five minutes, fifty five seconds) exactly).
This was on Sunday. On Monday, your new record hit the stores and we did what anyone would do: pop it in the toaster and let it melt. It sounded great and we regret not taping it on the BETAMAX to send you a copy of our remix. And what exactly do you mean with the next ‘lyrics’: ‘There was a time I prayed to Jesus Christ/There was a time I had a mother/It was nice’ There is no other interpretation possible than that you want our babies. We find this despicable, but would like to experience sleeping with you for the sake of the experiment (we are a young men, desperate, and willing to oversee the fact that these were Madonna’s lyrics).
On Tuesday (this is purely a wordy tool to create continuity in our letter) there was more smoke as we turned on the toaster. You could blame us, but that would be too easy; so let us go back to the lamp shank and its trimmings: there was not only no proper mint, but the butler you sent us to serve up this concoction was Mexican; we suspect treachery at every level. A Greek boy would have sufficed.
Later that day, you called us about the incident, but we forgot what it was about. We didn’t grope anyone, definitely not the young lady in the bar, who somehow has managed to get your number. All we did was ask for free crisps, but she said she didn’t serve them ‘between 20h45 and whenever you would leave the bar’. This obvious invitation to wait for her to finish her shift (to get to the crisps) was welcome like a hand in a warm, damp pocket. We are only ever apprehended by female cops, so this seemed like a great diversion. Flash: the priest back home, however, always calls this a ‘near occasion for sin’. You girly temptress with your T-shirt and eyes!
We are now thinking of you, Nana, and we want to let you know we have found peace (it is however hard to write these things when a rather hairy man with a sombrero is staring at us like we are a bag of candy. Once again we are in a filthy prison cell awaiting trial).
The Historian (in a former life)