This has been the hardest thing I have ever written, and I hope you see how brave and important I am for having committed pen (typed) to paper (phone touch screen) to write this important open letter to you.
Sure, you’re the fictional antagonist in my blatant cry for attention, and while some of the people who read this will relate to the situations and events that I list, I can’t help feeling that this is all your fault.
We used to be fine, going along, buying The Guardian because it had a promotion where you could get a free pack of Thornton’s toffees at John Menzies, or maybe they have an interesting column written by one of our favourite curmudgeonly celebrities where they complain about mundane things but really they’re making an ironic statement about the condition of the NHS or something. Maybe there was a handy flowchart to find out just how much your house price will be affected by the impending penguin apocalypse, or a token collection promotion so you can have a free child’s ticket to Diggerland (if purchased with 3 adult tickets, off peak times only).
In any case, we were living the dream, and as with any dream one day we have to wake up. What you’ve done is akin to shaking one awake at half eight on a Sunday morning because you forgot what day it was and need a lift to work. You don’t work on a Sunday, and even then you work from home so you don’t need a lift. Also, why are you in my house? You don’t live with me, you live in Hertfordshire with your two ungrateful children and your jolly wife.
Have I complained about what you’ve actually done to offend me yet? Have I listed your crimes against all goodness and decency? Why do I think you’re a ruddy great shit who deserves an open letter publishing on the internet, for similarly entitled people to identify with, at best ironically, at worst in a way that would get them all uppity in the comments section, maybe start an argument about immigration or the bedroom tax or something. I even mentioned the NHS earlier, so there’s probably an impending flame war already brewing in amongst the people writing “LOL” and “So True”.
The answer to those questions is obviously no, because why would I get straight to the point when I could write more about unrelated things that I’ve done to fill my word count, and make the readers of this scroll down to the bottom faster, overshoot the end of the article and then accidentally click on a sponsored ad for tooth whitening medicine so this open letter gets monetised and I get asked back to write an opinion piece about fat people driving hovercraft. This will surely cause all the fat hovercraft drivers on twitter to be outraged and thus will cement my career as a Hopkins-esque tabloid harpy and I can make literally fives of pounds making celebrity appearances on cookery shows or The Chase. The bloody Chase.
So why am I going on and on? And on and on? What have you done to me, o fictional antagonist in my pathetic life? This. This is what you’ve done. Open bastard letters.
Sure, if you’re a mega celebrity like Taylor Swift, Prince William or Charlie from Busted, I’ll understand if you feel the urge to write a letter to the head of the UN trying to stop badgers being sent to work in minefields. I also understand if perhaps you’ve done such a good job writing this Wilde-esque letter full of nuance and literary mastery that you might want someone else to read it, maybe all the members of the public who read your favourite newspaper. I suppose if you wrote an open letter for those reasons it’d be fine.
Your 7 year old kid is a bit of a disrespectful shit and the accident of his birth has ruined your social life? Your nephew didn’t text back his creepy uncle who only shows up once a year to drop off a £5 book voucher? Your neighbour lets his dog poo on your lawn and even though he picks it up with a poo back, it’s stained the grass a bit yellowy? These are not reasons for writing an open letter.
Sure, some people might identify with your plight. They might nod in agreement at the points you’ve identified, maybe chuckle like when Michael McIntyre points out something that exists while shouting and shaking his hair like he has nits but isn’t allowed to scratch.
In truth though, nobody cares about your problems. In fact, you’ve only really written your open letter because you want to be considered a real writer for a fancy newspaper and you have nothing actually interesting to write about in your life. You don’t want to write about a TV show you’ve seen because you watched it all in one go after everyone else saw it live, so anything that could be said has already been said.
In essence, your beige chunterings are being spouted to fill up a page on a website, or maybe half a page in a newspaper. I reckon you’ve already found a stock photo of a swarm of bees or something for the photo to accompany your rant because you think that it’s a metaphor for your issues and people will instantly think you’re some kind of wise genius. Really though, you’re just a whiner and you need to stop writing open letters about non-issues. Just stop. If you have to do something, why not photoshop a Disney Princess so it is a manatee and then watch Buzzfeed post it without crediting you.
I leave you now, broken and crying into your glass of herbal vegan humous tea, as I go and suffer a true test of a man’s patience, that of a child’s birthday party. See? Your issues pale into insignificance compared to mine. Maybe you should write me an open letter explaining how I made you feel insignificant. Or not.