Chris, mate, dear old friend of mine. How long have we known each other now? Something in the region of (properly) 24 years? Would that be a fair assumption? You’ve seen me in some pretty awful states. I’ve watched you try to get a refund for the worst steak pie ever cooked and served to human beings. I wrote you a song about a cheeky chaffinch whilst hammered on strong cider. We drove to the South coast of England, twice, ten years apart. We’ve recorded five number one albums together as everyone’s favourite quirky pop duo masterminds. You bought me a ticket to see the band Cake live. I once sent you a sandwich in the post, with Kev as the filling.
I could do this for a very long time.
I want you to know though, and I do mean this in the nicest possible way, I want you to be aware that I could not give two shits about your zodiac business.
Following my shining example, you decided to strike on your own in a new career. This should be commended because it’s never an easy thing to do (see all of my jobs over the last five years plus). Who would have thought you would have chosen astrology out of all the possible jobs available to you? I would have pinned you down as a dog shiner or a soup tester, maybe a road botherer. You may even have cut it as a moose wrangler, not that there are many mooses in the Royskopp area.
I want you to stop emailing me about zodiacs though. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want anything about star signs cluttering up my inbox or my junk folder. Send it to those who want to believe in bollocks that has absolutely no bearing on their lives whatever. Please feel free to indulge those gullible enough to accept that a vague explanation of their existence printed in a newspaper or a book on a daily basis is actually all about them and not beige enough to cover one twelfth of the population.
If I keep getting your emails I may have to contact the police or, worse, your dad who will ensure that you never get a proper key to use the gates at his house. Please stop.
(Photos provided courtesy of “fucking about” with my Windows phone)
11 comments on “I’m flattered but…”
Are you telling me you don’t want to see YOUR SHOCKING MONTHLY HOROSCOPE? I think you should see it. If it wasn’t so urgent I wouldn’t have written Choose your zodiac sign so emphatically the second time round.
To make matters worse, I got another one recently.
Did you not read the post, Chris? How many times do I have to tell you?
Look, all I’m asking you to do is choose your zodiac sign. Get on with it and then I can stop emailing you.
No. I don’t want to choose my zodiac sign. You’ll have to keep asking me, like a pimp, in an endless cycle. You’ll never leave.
This is ridiculous. If you don’t choose your zodiac sign I can’t give you YOUR SHOCKING MONTHLY HOROSCOPE.
It’s for the best if I don’t. I’m not going to choose my zodiac sign. How shocking could it be? What exactly are you planning to pipe at my eye bells?
I can’t tell you your shocking horoscope unless you tell me your zodiac sign. That’s the law.
I’ve had several more emails about this. I don’t feel as though I have a choice, sigh. FINE I will tell you my zodiac sign. Will you stop if I tell you?
You’re a saggy Taurus, eh? Great. I’ll put that into my mystical etch-a-sketch and see what your fortunes hold.