Misssy M recently highlighted a delightful jape on her blog; seems some smartarse prankster wrote a letter to The Guardian’s resident agony aunt, Mariella Frostrup, that was basically the plotline to the film Little Children. The funniest bit was that the cigarette-butt gargling Mariella didn’t pick up on it and replied in earnest.
Of course, being a caring sharing kind of blogging community ever waiting in the wings to pounce on someone’s gullibility to increase our own internet profile the idea was mooted that as many bloggers as possible write in to Mariella in a similar vein – choosing our own favourite films as source material – and thus stretching Mariella’s sandpaper voiced advice to the absolute limit. Here without further ado, is mine:
London, October 4 1969
I am writing to you because I am at my wit's end. I am tired of hiding it. I know that the Law says there is something wrong in loving another man but I no longer care about all that! I am hopelessly madly in love with my friend Marwood. There are no lips on earth I would rather kiss, no body on earth I would rather fondle. What a fool I have been. I thought he felt the same way. He told me he loved me only last week. But when he came down from that particular three day acid trip he claimed he couldn't remember having told me that 'your body is a bongo I want to keep drumming, your pubic hairs a guitar I want to keep strumming. I love you man.'
What makes me so angry Mariella is that I have given him the best years of my life. For ten years we tried to make it as thespians. You should have seen me a decade ago, I had the body of an Adonis. But Marwood perverted me, he corrupted me, and soon we were taking all manner of hallucinogenics to get us through the dark days of auditions which never led to any parts. And now, after all these years of debauchery; which have taken their toll in that I now look like Dorian Gray's portrait in the attic while Marwood walks around with skin as flawless as a cherub; Marwood landed an acting part somewhere up North amongst all those flat capped oiks and just upped and left. When I asked him when I was going to see him again (we squatted in a flat in London until we were elbowed out by a satanic drug dealer) he shrugged his shoulders as if to say he didn't much care if he ever saw me again.
You do understand of course that because homosexuality is a sin I can't talk to anyone but Uncle Monty about this. Monty (himself an invert) advised me that Marwood's trip up North is just the last in a long line of flirtatious 'catch me if you can' games and that he really wants me to hot foot it up to Manchester - but I'm not so sure. Uncle Monty swears blind Marwood bats for other team and that Marwood gave him the green light when we were all guests at Monty's country cottage but I refuse to think that Marwood is the sort of 'toilet trader' who would offer himself to Uncle Monty just as a sort of thank you for bed and board. I won't have the man I love soiled by those sorts of aspersions.
What I want to know is do you think Marwood feels the same but is in denial? What pray should I do? Should I follow him up North or should I give up and just hurl myself on the sword? Should I pursue the love of my life or should I simply throw in the towel, go to India and live in an Ashram? I am dying here and I have run out of booze. Right now I am quaffing lighter fluid..... it may be too late....
Please dear bloggers send me your advice or do your own pisstake letter on your blogs!
|A scene from the movie: Revenge of the Beta Boob (When Boobs Attack)|