Thanks very much for t’letter. It was reet good to hear from you down in t’big smoke.
Couldn’t make much out of it meself. Hope it’s good for you. Saw you play in France while ago. I’d like to go to France, but our mam says that we’re off to Skeggy again for us hols. Can you bring me back summat French next time you go? Some onions or summat?
Mum and Dad are fine, in good form and pops tells me that his black lung is much better than the last time you saw us. We’ve got a new whippet to replace Bonnie. She’s reet frisky, and loves nothing more than watching us in International matches. Well, against St. Helens.
The reason I’m writing this letter, is that summat reet fishy is going on up here.
I’ve been told that we’ve got a world cup coming up, except I asked our geography teacher, Mr. Grindstone, and he tells us that the only places in the world that anyone plays our game is in somewhere called “Australia” and round us parts.
I honestly, don’t know how long I can go on getting beaten by t’ozzies in front of empty stands. It’s getting us down.
As a result, I’m writing this letter to ask you to rescue me.
I’m fucking grand on the pitch with a ball in my hand, but I feel that my talents are being wasted performing before this crowd. I’m not joking, it gets me right down playing “internationals” in front of less people than you’d see at a Kula Shaker reunion gig.
She reckons cobbles on t’hill are playing right havoc with her posh shoes. I keep telling her that I’ll buy her some more, cos Primark have a two for one special on patent leather ladies’ shoes, but she’s not having it. “Our Sam”, she says to us, “You’ve got to save up my lad. You never know when you’ll need the money, as it’s grim round here.”
We all know that you play sport to pull t’lasses, and I feel I’ve got more chance landing some quality if someone outside of Wigan knows who I am. London is wall to wall with quality muck, apparently, and I’m told less of them smell of chip fat. Which is a bit of a disappointment, but I can put up with it.
Anyway, give our Chrissy a slap round chops for me, and I’ll be waiting in a packing crate outside the Little Chef at Worksop Services on 24th June. I don’t mind bunking down at your place till I can get somewhere for me sen, and I promise I won’t take up too much space for too long. I hear that you’ve got a nice Fez picked out for us, but you know I’ll not be giving up Grandad’s flat cap any time in the near future.
Anyway, big brother, I’m really desperate, so if you can make this happen, I’ll be reet grateful and promise to steal you that Ford Cortina like I should have done when we were lads.
As intercepted from a lost racing pigeon somewhere in South Yorkshire by Dr. Claws Cat