Letters Page

Greetings, greaseballs! Has it really been that long since last I had to address you all? By Allah's furry beard, in that time I've been on holiday twice, spent early August twatting rioting little shitbags round the head and managed to fire at least ten whistleblowers from this department. Honestly, I turn my back for four weeks and all of a sudden there's more leaks than an African refugee boat.

In other news Ludmilla, my lovely secretary-cum-personal assistant has managed to fall pregnant. Well, either that, or she's succumbed once more to her perilous addiction to Dallas Fried Chicken. Either way, I don't want to ask her! Send her your best, though, eh folks?

Right, before I get on with this issue's weighty sack of post, remember you can contact me on gash@bromptonrhodes.co.uk. I've been very busy lately making ready for the Chinese State visit by arresting everyone with a beard, but I promise to do my best. Also, I can still be reached on that Twitter thing, although I am giving serious thought to having the entire thing shut down and everyone who uses it shot in the throat for treachery. I'll see how I feel. Lastly, I recommend everyone adds me as a friend on Facebook. So I can abuse your wives, girlfriends, young daughters and work colleagues.

The first letter of the day: One Bertie Simmons from Palmer's Green has a little complaint. There's a fucking surprise...

Dear General Gash,

What's going on, eh? Why am I waiting so long for the next issue of Rude Bwoy to drop through my metaphorical door? It's a fucking disgrace and you should all be ashamed of yourselves. If you need someone to come round and horsewhip that lazy shitbag Smith into doing some fucking work I am available. I have recently been made redundant.

Yours, festering,

Well, Bertie, I feel your pain. We've pumped millions into this propaganda project, despite my fears that Smith would spend it all on booze and drugs, leaving the taxpayer out of pocket and us with no advertising. Fortunately, I was only partially right. You see, despite being an idiot, Smith has managed to find himself yet more work; illustrating some sort of comic strip, much as he does here. The subject matter isn't really my thing, and neither, Bertie, do I think it is yours, since you sound like a lonely old nonce, in all honesty. However, he's done a bang-up job and can be seen here.

Of course, that won't stop me applying the electrodes to his testicles the next time he's late...

Now, what's this? Simon Wiggins from Ealing is concerned about social justice. The prick.

Dear General Gash,

I was as shocked as anyone by the riots seen over the summer. Why, we haven't seen such disturbances since the EDL firebombed the Regent's Park Mosque and the Muslim Brotherhood responded by firebombing every Wetherspoons in Central London. Nevertheless, I fear, in our haste to administer justice we may lose sight of the reasons our youth feel so alienated – lack of jobs, lack of family support, etc. While I'm certainly not excusing their behaviour, it would help us in preventing this ever occurring again if we could perhaps take a more 'holistic' approach. Who knows; maybe, from the ashes, we could build a better, stronger society?

Yours, with hope,

What do you mean preventing? I've got agent provocateurs (excuse the French) all over the web agitating our youth into rioting again; I need my excercise, after all, and the population is hardly going to thin itself out.

In any case, you appear to have come to the wrong website; this is not the Guardian. Twat.

Let's see if Jane Harmsworth from Shooter's Hill can do any better...

Dear General Gash,

Regarding those horrifying images of violent youths roaming our streets, causing devastation, I can say only this: They should all be sent back to where they came from.

Yours, sickened,

Ah, dearest Jane. You appear to have come to the wrong website; this is not the Daily Mail.

Christ on a bike. Can anyone read, any more? This epistle from someone known as Candy Hotlips in Chiswick supposes otherwise...

Dear General Gash,

I am a forty-six year old businessman, married, with three children, all of whom attend Latimer Upper School. My main interests are humiliation, rough foreplay, public sex, role-reversal, PVC, and the position known only as 'The Halibut'.

If you are interested, please let me know.

Yours, filthily,

Sigh. You appear to have the wrong website; This is not Adult Friend Finder.

Fucking hell, that's the fifth one this week! Now, hang on, there's an attachment with this email from Chardonnay Williams in Brent...

Dear General Gash,

Wot do you think, hunnyxxxX???X?X???

L8rs,

I'm sorry, my dear, you appear to have the wrong website. This is not Reader's Wives. Oh, and you're thirty-eight but dress like a twelve year old. I accept that some people like to cling on to their youth, but when you require actual cling-film to do it, the time to let go is nigh.

Fucking retards. Perhaps Susannah Bailey from Kew can restore my faith?

Dear General Gash,

Crystal-healing, dream-divination, herbal remedies; Enjoy life to the full and rid yourself of the vile toxins that are part and parcel of the modern world. Pop on down to our shop and receive a free dream-catcher, worth £44.99 RRP.

Yours with love,

Oh, I give up. Time for one last letter from Timothy Taylor in Southwark...

Dear General Gash,

What's your favourite steam engine? Mine is the Mallard.

Yours,

Ah, the Mallard. A fine choice. Personally I've always had a soft spot for City of Truro.

That's it for now, folks. Remember – stay safe, lock your doors, pay your taxes and change the PIN on your voicemail – we're here to listen, after all!

G'night!