Letter Of Complaint

To Whom It May Concern,

Might I respectfully request that the madness stop at some point in the near future? It’s all becoming rather wearing.

Things have become so mixed up and crooked that there is the stench of musty confused vexation over my affairs, all through them in fact, soaked in, and it is mighty hard to untangle what has become tangled. Matters now demand attention, and that is why I am writing this letter.

My job is still a cause of some concern. Put simply, it is silly, and poorly paid and a tad embarrassing, although there is a TV on my desk, with access to pay TV sports channels, and it is difficult to complain about that. But it is still silly and I am trying very hard to get away from silly things this year. I’m too old for silly. I’m the right age for eccentric, but perhaps if I could be squandering a large inheritance rather than being paid a pittance then eccentric would work better. (See, I’m trying to be constructive here.)

Twitter still awaits my first sparklingly witty comment. This should have come by now. I’m an amusing guy. Perhaps not a funny guy – that would imply some kind of stand-up comedian making a room full of strangers wet themselves with laughter, and this is an unlikely scenario – but I can be entertaining and make people smile. Quite a lot, if I’m in the right mood. Often people need to think about what I’ve said, and maybe repeat it to themselves a couple of times, and then the response, if it comes, is wan smiling, or maybe slow head shaking and murmurs of, “Oh, Johan, you had to go there didn’t you!” or “Yes … that’s very clever” – yes, clever. I can be clever. But not where Twitter is concerned. The continued absence of a mildly risible comment from the Twitter account of an obscure nom-de-plume composed by me is a source of deep consternation. I had thought there might be one really stunning comment each day, but so far: nothing. Could something be done about this please?

And my hair? Maybe that’s OK as it is. It’s weird, but perhaps this Julian Assange thing is the beginning of my eccentric phase. Let’s keep it. (See, constructive, and willing to compromise or back down.)

Shortness I’m stuck with, I suppose. Well move on. It would be nice to be taller, but then tall people are arseholes. (No they aren’t – that was a joke.)

The stories of my childhood, particularly of my former athletic prowess, are losing credibility. For all my tales of taking the entire opposition forward pack with me as I scored my sixth try one day or hitting a six out of the park and across the road to win the match it doesn’t change the fact that I bring in far fewer shopping bags from the car than Laetitia does; and Laetitia has never played competitive rugby or taken part in a cricket match of any consequence. My stories are not so grand, not really, but I have ceased to believe them, and I would like a new set, please. Memories of success and glory as a substitute for the present dearth of actual success and glory would be great. Perhaps something from World War II? The day we repelled a Nazi invasion which started at school, where some of the teachers were double agents (especially the strict men and the attractive young women teachers). It wouldn’t need to be realistic memories, just something to hold onto.

And if, perhaps, there were more items I could add to this list that would be good too. I seem to have run out of things to complain about. And I love a whinge. Nothing to whinge about is something to whinge about, if that’s not too obscurely phrased, but more material would be good.

Betrayal and despair have been in short supply and I feel like I ought to complain about that.

Yours faithfully,


Published in: on August 9, 2012 at 8:48 pm  Leave a Comment  

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