I have been a regular reader of your column since last year, when you first began to post insinuating and importuning pieces concerning me vis-a-vis the possibility of my procuring for you a variety of pornographic materials featuring my good self variously attired in the uniforms of several branches of the emergency services. Much as I was initially amused by this novel (although scarcely effective) attempt to increase the traffic passing though your (supposedly) humourous webblog, the joke has now worn *very* *very* thin indeed and I have had no recourse - especially as you now seem to have taken to observing a rather pathetic and ignoble round the clock vigil outside my plush Knightsbridge residence - but to seek legal advice.
I know it must be difficult for you, what with the rotting cock and the mildewed calliper - but *please* stop pestering me. I have a very busy (not to mention unpleasant - do you think I *enjoy* working 15 hours a day on dreck like Deuce Bigalow 2: *Not* Just a Gigolo??? Give me a new series of Teachers anyday...) schedule at the moment. And what of my husband and small infants - don't they have a right to leave the safety of their own home without seeing you waving your diseased and pestilent member in their faces whilst mouthing a stream of Drambuie-based alcopop-fuelled obscenities at them? It really has to stop, immediately. They are starting to enjoy it. Especially Miranda. She's six, Bob, for fuck's sake.
I'm a reasonable woman. I am prepared to make concessions if it will stop the living *hell* that you and your bizarre peccadillos have forced me to endure. Will this do??
So kindly move your pathetic protest elsewhere or I will have no option but to apply for an exclusion order.
Zoe Telford (the actress.)
* © Brian Damage, R.I.P.
** ...so it's *that* sort of letter, is it?
*** also © Brian Damage, R.I.P.
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