Letters You Never Sent
Dear Primark,
You wily, wily minx.
As I stand here, reading this letter in front of these people, I’m wearing no less than two items from your A/W 2011 collection. This skirt, which highlights my – admittedly already pretty nice – arse, is from your new outpost in Stratford Westfield. And the tights, lined with soft velvety fleece and therefore a constant toasty 130 denier, came from the Hackney branch. They’re not just winter warmers, though. No, they are your latest assault on my principles, good judgement and my impoverished writer’s bank balance. They are a blatant play on my brand nostalgia.
I put my foot down in April 2009. The allegations levelled against you were too grave to ignore. There was talk of child labour, third world exploitation, a blouse for a full twenty quid. No more, I said. I severed all ties with you. I even threw out your old things. I sat in my flat, wearing one of your old t-shirts, eating cheesecake by the trough and remembering the day I first met you. It was on a lunch break in East Ham, back in Year 10. Then, I came to you for circulation-hindering skinny jeans in a rainbow of colours – a trend, which in the late 90s, was eschewed by the fashion pack but beloved of black girls in south and east London. I can say with no shame that besides family members and complex carbohydrates, you are probably my longest relationship. And following our split, I resisted your siren call for a good year at least.
To be fair to you, you put up no advertising to lure me back. You respected my privacy at what the tabloids like to call ‘this difficult time’. Friends would tell me you were doing well, or I’d catch a report on your new manufacturing standards on the news. Sometimes, I’d walk past and see other women talking excitedly about you. I can’t lie, that hurt. But the hurt was a price I was happy to pay if it meant I could look those bitches Hennes and Zara square in the eye.
But as is often the case, mine was a hollow victory. Earlier this summer, I found myself at your Oxford Street door. With a heavy heart, and an even heavier tread, I crossed the threshold. I was panicked, eyes flitting about nervously – suspicious behaviour noticed by a security guard made mean by long hours and limited power. With one step, I let you back into my life. I bought a ring – how symbolic – a lizard embedded with cheap coloured stones, and as I placed it on my finger, I knew I was in your clutches once more. I felt like Smeagol in The Lord of The Rings, entranced by the power of the ring. The other shoppers became the Nazgûl – ringwraiths – albeit Nazgûl interested in disposable fashion in man-made fabrics. I may have won the battle, but you, dear Primark, had won the war.
If I could compare my thoughts at the till to a moment in popular culture (and I will, because I’m self-obsessed that way), I would liken it a scene in Annie Proulx’s novella, Brokeback Mountain. As I entered my PIN into the card reader, I fancied myself as the anguished Jack Swift, (played by Jake Gyllenhaal in the movie) crying to Ennis Del Mar: “I wish I knew how to quit you!”. Of course, my Ennis was the faceless Primark overlords, not a taciturn Heath Ledger, but the sentiment remains very much the same. For the more old school cinephile, I quote another great of the silver screen, Al Pacino as Michael Corleone in The Godfather part III: “just when I thought I was out… they pull me back in.”
But I digress.
Now that I’ve re-popped my Primark cherry, I’m in here almost every other week. This skirt and tights, sure, but also a comfy snood which has shed its synthetic yellow wool all over my navy coat, a cute baby pink beanie for just 50p, and only last week, a paddle brush to subdue my afro in the mornings. Your return into my life has been insidious but if I’m honest, not entirely unwelcome.
The truth is, though, I don’t want to shop in you, Primark. I don’t. And when the economy picks up in a few years’ time, no doubt I will leave you in the dust once more. It won’t be personal and you shouldn’t take it as such. Much as I crave cheese despite a ferocious lactose intolerance, I will visit you when I can and repent at leisure.
Let’s not think of the estranged days to come. Let’s take the (500) Days of Summer route – big up the happy times, bury the bad ones at the end of the movie. I am yoked to you and you to me.
Let’s just enjoy our time together, eh? Hey, I’ll probably see you Saturday.
Lots of love,
Bim
xoxo
To: Hutchison Whampoa
Hutchison House,
10 Harcourt Road,
Hong Kong
Dear Hutchison Whampoa,
Why you? Why write to you? It’s the name, I think. In this country, I’m afraid to say, most people won’t have heard of you. Even if they use the mobile phone network or pharmacy chain you own here, they will mostly believe they are customers of companies called 3 or Superdrug, not a corporation called Hutchison Whampoa. But that name, it works a kind of magic – it did for me, anyway. I can’t remember when or where I first heard it, but I’ve always remembered it. Hutchison Whampoa. It’s the perfect name for a corporation. There’s the Hutchison. That’s a name you can trust. Solid, Anglo-Saxon, Familiar. And then there’s the Whampoa. Whampoa! What a beautiful word. Faraway, even exotic, but with confident, declarative edge. I assumed it was a person, the business partner to Mr Hutchison – that’s a great strength of your name, it suggests an alliance between east and west, global scope, a Eurasian colossus. However Wikipedia tells me it’s the archaic English transliteration of Huangpu, the dock area of the city of Guangzhou, a gateway for European trade to China from the 18th Century. All the better. That transnational, cyberpunky edge is given a romantic historical anchor.
Yes, Wikipedia – sorry about that. As I say, you’re an enigma, Hutchison Whampoa. I knew your name, but that doesn’t reveal anything about what you do. That’s the other great strength of the name – it’s abstract, it doesn’t point the mind in any particular direction, you could be be doing anything anywhere. Everywhere, in fact. That mobile phone company you own – you don’t own the phones themselves. You own an infrastructure or transmitting masts, but even that’s not the most important part of the business – you own a section of electromagnetic spectrum, a slice of bandwidth, a portion of the air itself. The masts are just a way of modulating your ethereal empire, making it accessible, packaging morsels of it for sale. Owning part of the air – that’s ubiquity, that’s proper corporate reach. And you own a chain of cut-price perfume shops, too: owning the air, the technology to broadcast across it and the means to scent it. That’s comprehensive service.
Maybe you should buy a kite factory, and cover that atmospheric niche too. Maybe you already own one – is there anything you don’t do? You say you have five core businesses – I like that, core businesses, one day you must tell me about all your less important flesh and pith businesses. Five core businesses, then. There’s ports and related services – nice to see you’re still keeping your hand in. And there’s retail; telecoms; property and hotels; and my favourite, energy, infrastructure, investments and others. Are you sure that last one is just one business, because it sounds like at least three. “And others.” So modest, Hutchison Whampoa.
I hope you’re not sensitive about your size – you’re a $42 billion dollar corporation, have a bit of confidence. Don’t infer any criticism. I like the polymathic generosity of your endeavours. It feels properly corporate – the sum of many efforts. Forgive my intrusion. Can you forgive? I am sure you can forget. Corporations are good at forgetting, and unseeing, and not being seen, and moving on. You are not your holdings. You own, you operate, you merge and demerge. It’s tempting to think of you as the apex of a pyramid, but you’re less substantial and more far-reaching than that. You are a grand transaction, one that has been in process for centuries, a current, a trade wind. Even surrounded by you, we don’t see you. I thought you might like to be noticed, Hutchison Whampoa, this once.
Cordially, etc.
Currently we’re looking for submissions for our 2060 show, which airs December 18th.
Letters You Never Sent to 2060 is an exploration of the not so distant future - we’re thinking about people who we might there, that we’ll have missed, inventions we can only dream of, and jet pack rides to Saturn. Or are we dreaming too big? Will life be that different to how it is now?
The letters should take no longer than five minutes to read, which means they tend to be between 500-700 words.
MP3 submissions should be of a fairly clear quality, but we can help you with any recording issues you may have- tweet us at @LettersYNS and we’ll get back to you!
Final date for submissons is December 9th! International contributions are always welcome.
You can either submit by via our ‘submit’ box or email Vanessa at vanessa@nightmaresandboners.com! We’d love to hear from you!
Dear Condé Nast International Limited,
I am writing to you with regards to my subscription to the New Yorker.
You see, it’s because I enjoyed the New Yorker for so many years that I fell in love at first sight with Frank. He was sitting on a bench outside Tate Modern reading an issue, and of course I just thought a match made in heaven! For I, too, turned the pages of my copies of the New Yorker with the kind of special smart flick of the wrist that Frank was using to slide one page of the New Yorker against the next page of the New Yorker, to produce the quiet but distinctive whoosh that informs people who matter that you are reading the New Yorker. Who are, of course, other people who read the New Yorker.
You’d be justified in thinking that I was really bold if I just spotted Frank on the bench and picked him up then and there, sidled up and said I see that you are enjoying the latest issue of the New Yorker. But the truth is that I knew that he was going to be waiting for me on a bench outside Tate Modern and he knew that I was going to sidle up to him. We were on a blind date, you see, arranged by a mutual friend who thought we might be a match made in heaven. So I approached Frank and said, You must be Frank. I see you are enjoying the latest issue of the New Yorker. And Frank said, It’s great to meet you. And I said, I have a subscription, and Frank said, me too! And that seemed like the beginning of something beautiful.
Frank and I started seeing a lot of each other. We discovered that we had so much in common, like we both enjoyed reading books by Philip Roth and watching Woody Allen films and admiring Barack Obama and shopping at American Apparel. Frank was pretty pretentious, but that was cool, because I was also pretty pretentious.
Let me describe for you a typical romantic evening for me and Frank. Usually, I’d go over to Frank’s flat in Dalston and he’d cook dinner, using an organic Jerusalem artichoke that he’d picked up at Broadway Market. I picked up this organic Jerusalem artichoke at Broadway Market, Frank would say, and I would say, what an excellent source of organic Jerusalem artichokes.
Over dinner I’d say, please pass the cheese, and Frank would say, that reminds me of a story I heard once about a comical turf war between local cheese producers in a Tuscan villageand what I would think was: yes, I read that article in last week’s New Yorker too. But what I would say was: oh really? and smile and laugh as if it was new to me.
That was how much I liked Frank!
So that was me and Frank. Until one evening Frank called me and he said, I need to talk to you, and I thought to myself is this the moment I have dared hoped for? Is Frank is finally going to utter those three little words: Share my subscription?
But instead Frank came over and sat in the living room of my flat and cast a coolgaze me across the coffee table on which I had decorously fanned three issues of the New Yorker, like it was the dentist’s waiting room of my dreams. And what Frank said was not share my subscription but rather I am still in love with my ex-girlfriend.And what I said was I wanted you to be the Calvin Trillin to my Alice, the Hendrik Hertzberg of my heart! And then Frank said I’m sorry, and then I said This is more painful than the time the New Yorker rejected the best poem I ever wrote with a form letter. And then I swept the three fanned issues of the New Yorker on to the floor with an angry flourish, and then Frank left.
I never saw Frank again. But sometimes when I am reading the New Yorker and there’s a poem that is definitely not as good as the best poem I ever wrote, but you published it anyway, it reminds me of Frank’s ex-girlfriend.
Anyway, please find enclosed the cheque for my subscription renewal.
This month’s readers are Katie Coleslaw, Alexander Fury, Pippa Evans, and Veronika Thiel. We also interview Helen Gordon about her novel Landfall.
Music comes from Fleetwood Mac, Hole, Babes in Toyland, Jazmine Sullivan, The Gossip, and Trina.
Click here to listen!
Dear House of Commons Culture, Media and Sport Select Committee,
I would like to reapply for admission as my previous foam-pie related crime was a one off as I was hypnotized by Derren Brown … sorry that’s Johnny Marble’s Letter. This is mine …
To the CEO of Müller light [I’ve gone for the big boys. Forget the EDL or News International, I’ve got a Bavarian yoghurt maker in my sights],
I am writing to you about your advertising campaign that featured the Nina Simone song Ain’t Got No - I Got Life, [it’s the song where she sings about having no arms, no legs etc – I think it’s supposed to be an uplifting metaphor for stoicism not an anthem for amputees]. Before I go into that though I would like to commend you on two of your policies.
Your use of Genetically Modified food to feed your cows is a great idea. [The German company imports all it’s feed from the US. I am lactose intolerant so don’t partake but I’m more than happy for you to wreak havoc on the dietary systems of those who do buy your products. However, if the trend continues more and more people will develop the intolerance leaving you with less and less customers. Oh the irony!]
Secondly, the financial support you give to the far-right National Democratic Party of Germany is a superb idea which shows you believe in tradition, family values and, of course, racial purity. It would appear that you don’t agree with adding colour to the white majority – despite being the makers of the Müller corner where racially pure yoghurt is encouraged to be mixed in with dark chocolate. Oh the irony!
Which neatly brings me to the use of the Simone song. I find it deeply perverse that you feel it appropriate to use an anti-slave song to sell your mass-produced goop. The civil rights activist will be spinning in her grave – she only died four years ago – if she knew that a German company with apparent Nazi connections is using her song.
[Since I sent this letter off they’re changed their advertising campaign and it now features cartoon characters such as Yogi Bear, Muttley and David Hasselhoff. But I want more…]
Withdraw your adverts. Withdraw from this country and give back the €70m the EU gave you which you used to open up a new factory (Müller then closed down another factory effectively using the grant to make 21 people unemployed).
Yours faithfully,
David Jesudason
PS: I now hope the phrase “mullered” can be used to mean someone who is backing racism instead of when a person is drunk. For example the following is now incorrect. “I went to the pub last night and I got Mullered.” And this is now the correct way to use the term: “John Terry went to a football match last night and Mullered the opposition.”
PPs: I hope this email finds its way to the CEO in Germany. Hopefully he won’t choke on his bratwurst.
[Spoiled it by a bit at the end with racial stereotyping but it could have been worse. I could have gone STOP polluting the world you fucking Nazis! But I didn’t…]
Dear Pepsi,
I recently heard that Diet Coke is now outselling Pepsi, with Coca Cola outselling Diet Coke on top of that. I can only offer my sincere sympathy. I totally understand what it feels like to always be losing. I’m not a loser or anything, but like, I understand.
You remember when you did the Pepsi Challenge? You made people drink Pepsi and Coke blindfolded and asked them which one they preferred. And 88% of people preferred the taste of Pepsi. But then no one bought Pepsi afterwards, because everyone knows Coke is cooler and better looking.
Well, where I live; Barham near Canterbury, in Kent, me and Gareth did the Village Challenge, where we made Caroline, Phillipa, Cora and Hannah kiss us blindfolded. All four of them preferred kissing me, but none of them wanted to go out with me afterwards.
You remember when you paid Britney Spears loads of money to be the face behind Pepsi, but she kept getting photographed secretly drinking Coca Cola?
That’s like when I went out with Grace in year 8 and I bought her loads of Charlie perfume, ring binders for her homework and a didgeridoo, but people kept seeing her kissing James White outside McDonald’s by the clock tower.
Isn’t it funny when someone walks into a bar and says, “I’ll have a rum and coke,” and the barman says, “is Pepsi okay,” and they say, “Is monopoly money okay?”
Every time that happens it reminds me of when I said to my dad, “I want to go on Nemesis at Alton Towers with you and mum,” and he said, “why not with me and Jennifer?” and I said, “I hate you, she’s not my real mum!”
Coke outsells you despite making Fanta, a drink invented for the Nazis. How do they still outsell you, Pepsi?
It’s like how my sister, Sally used dress me up as a girl and make me bark like a dog whilst sitting in a pram eating marmite straight of the spoon. And now she’s a social worker. How is she still my mum’s favourite?
I’m sure you also heard about the competition in Delhi University, ‘Who can drink the most Coke?’ The guy who won, drank 20 litres of Coke in 20 minutes and died instantly on the spot from too much carbon dioxide in his blood. No one has ever died from drinking too much Pepsi.
It’s kind of like how Oliver died from heat stroke after playing so much cricket outside in year 8, but no one died at chess club. Even though Thomas nearly choked to death on a white rook after mistaking it for a piece of cheese.
I think you can learn a lot from me, Pepsi, we’ve had similar experiences, but I’m on the up, whereas you’re going down. So I’ll finish my letter with some suggestions about how you can join me on my upward curve and be back to your best.
You may never get to be the top because Coke is too good. Just like I’m never going to be the oldest in my family because Sally is. But, like my mum says, you can be the best second best.
I think you need to change your name. When I changed my name from Christopher to Caveman, I got well more popular at school. Everyday loads of people chant my name when I walk into the classroom. It’s cool. And maybe you could get better sponsorship. I’d drop Michael Jackson, Gareth’s dad says he’s a nonce, which I think means something bad. Maybe sponsor popular TV shows instead, like Byker Grove or Knightmare. Also, Coke basically sponsors Christmas, with Santa being red and that. Why don’t you sponsor a cool day of the week, like Sunday? Then we could have Pepsi at Sunday school instead of weak orange squash.
Anyway, I hope that helps. My hand’s starting to hurt so I’m gonna stop the letter here. Plus I’ve got to finish my painting of Bobby Fisher’s victorious battle against Spassky in 1992 for Mr Howe’s art class tomorrow.
Yours in sympathy and hope,
Caveman
Enjoy! Here we have David Whitehouse, Dixe Wills, Gavin James Bower, Grainne Maguire and Frances Morgan. Be sure to check out their work afterwards!
Music comes from The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, Kelis, Sonic Youth, Aaliyah and Summer Camp.
Click here to listen!
Exciting news! We have a radio show starting on Oct 23rd, on NTS Live. It’s monthly, on a Sunday, between 9-10am but DON’T WORRY, it’ll be on the site to listen back to later.
Currently we’re looking for submissions for our Bad Bitches show, which airs on November 20th.
Letters You Never Sent to Bad Bitches is exactly that - it can be a letter to a fictional person, a historical figure (think Elizabeth I, Eleanor Roosevelt) girl at your school you were secretly in awe of, the crazy lady in town, your quirky aunt who gets too drunk at Christmas, Courtney Love, to your secret self, etc.
The letters must take no longer than five minutes to read (between 500-700 words).
MP3 submissions must be clear quality, but we can help you with any issues you may have- tweet us at @LettersYNS and we’ll get back to you. Best place to upload is probably SoundCloud. Final date for submissons is Nov 14! Hope to hear from you.
International contributions especially welcome!
Our third LIVE show will be in November on the 17th in central London. We’ll even have seats this time for everyone!
If you’re interested in reading for it, let us know. We’d LOVE to hear from you. So far Will Wiles, Steve Aylett, Jean Hannah Edelstein, Kieran Yates and Kit Caless are reading.
Our previous amazing readers have included David Whitehouse, Grainne Maguire, Frances Morgan, Nikesh Shukla, Dixe Wills, Ben Brooks, Patrick Lappin, Jim Campbell, Niven Govinden, Matt Thorne, Anna Fielding, Vanessa Pelz-Sharpe, Sarah Drinkwater, Jesse Darling and Jack Scott (x2!)
The theme of third LYNS is corporations. As before, letters can be fictional or based on real life experience (!), though we’re expecting most to be fictional. We’re aiming for wry, surreal, amusing, rather than polemical but there’s room for that too.
Vague ideas: it’s about advertising and the ways in which it affects our lives; how we form intensely personal relationships to brands; how corporations inform our daily lives in big and small ways. It’s less restrictive (and way less grand) than it sounds (hopefully!)
Letters should be between 500-700 words, and take no more than 5 minutes to read.
Contact us at @LettersYNS by Oct 29 and we’ll get back to you.
