Dear Morgan

[John Findlay]

I would like to bring you a very serious problem I have had for years. More years than I care to remember.

 

I was brought up on many would consider a tough housing scheme. Mainly West Pilton.

My mum sadly was an alcoholic. Her favourite tipple of choice being cans of Carlsberg special brew. The thing was when she had been drinking she became violent and for reasons I have never understood she took her violence our on me. Never my sisters always me. She didn't hold back. I received on many occasions a serious doing.

 

Dad although not a violent man had one big weakness. He liked the horses. It would be no exaggeration to say that Willie Hill, Ladbroke and Mr Coral were his best friends. Many a time we went without as dad had wasted his wages at the bookie.

 

So as you can see I had what the experts in inverted commas would call a tough upbringing.

 

I have survived all the above and turned into a very responsible adult and father to three great children.

 

All my life one thing has nagged at me for nearly fifty years now.

 

How do I cope with my three younger sisters being Hibs supporters?

[Bauld]

I would like to bring you a very serious problem I have had for years. More years than I care to remember.

 

I was brought up on many would consider a tough housing scheme. Mainly West Pilton.

My mum sadly was an alcoholic. Her favourite tipple of choice being cans of Carlsberg special brew. The thing was when she had been drinking she became violent and for reasons I have never understood she took her violence our on me. Never my sisters always me. She didn't hold back. I received on many occasions a serious doing.

 

Dad although not a violent man had one big weakness. He liked the horses. It would be no exaggeration to say that Willie Hill, Ladbroke and Mr Coral were his best friends. Many a time we went without as dad had wasted his wages at the bookie.

 

So as you can see I had what the experts in inverted commas would call a tough upbringing.

 

I have survived all the above and turned into a very responsible adult and father to three great children.

 

All my life one thing has nagged at me for nearly fifty years now.

 

How do I cope with my three younger sisters being Hibs supporters?

A dilemma of sisters and Hibs you say?

 

 

This should be good.

 

 

[Dawnrazor]

I would like to bring you a very serious problem I have had for years. More years than I care to remember.

I was brought up on many would consider a tough housing scheme. Mainly West Pilton.

My mum sadly was an alcoholic. Her favourite tipple of choice being cans of Carlsberg special brew. The thing was when she had been drinking she became violent and for reasons I have never understood she took her violence our on me. Never my sisters always me. She didn't hold back. I received on many occasions a serious doing.

Dad although not a violent man had one big weakness. He liked the horses. It would be no exaggeration to say that Willie Hill, Ladbroke and Mr Coral were his best friends. Many a time we went without as dad had wasted his wages at the bookie.

So as you can see I had what the experts in inverted commas would call a tough upbringing.

I have survived all the above and turned into a very responsible adult and father to three great children.

All my life one thing has nagged at me for nearly fifty years now.

How do I cope with my three younger sisters being Hibs supporters?

Has she tried to sleep with you? If not, she may not really be a Hibs supporter at all and may just be pretending to hide other problems, don't judge the girl.

[peter_hmfc]

The details of my life are quite inconsequential. Very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical, summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really. At the age of 12 I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum, it's breathtaking, I suggest you try it.

 

(If you haven't seen Austin Powers this will be absolutely lost on you.)

[Bauld]

The details of my life are quite inconsequential. Very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical, summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really. At the age of 12 I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum, it's breathtaking, I suggest you try it.

 

(If you haven't seen Austin Powers this will be absolutely lost on you.)

 

[Dawnrazor]

Lenny Siberia was the ******* offspring of Captain Africa (the lard mogul) and Tracy. The captain disappeared without Tracy who perished alone with her diamond collection, the victim of a mau-mau hit squad, leaving Lenny alone with the one thing money can?t buy: poverty.

He was discovered at one year old by a wayward nun; he had been living in the dumb waiter of the zambezi juice bar. Sister James (for it was she) lost no time in mailing the child, by first-class parcel post, to a friend in Brussels. Fortunately he was erroneously delivered to the Eros Luxury Club, a converted charabang in the bowels of Manchester?s la quarti?re latin.

The proprietor, a swarthy ill-mannered character of Armenian origin, received the package with a bestial grunt. Taking a curved knife from a canteen of curved knives, he slashed it open. Lenny gazed into the face of this his first stranger and what he saw was pure malevolence.

He ran down flattened streets patrolled by aimless amputees through a world of refugees, out of the cold war into the deep freeze, he ran out of money, he ran into trouble.

He was adopted by Sheba and Rex, a pair of alsatian dogs who regarded the boy with an uneasy ambivalence. They lived in an Art Deco cocktail cabinet by the bicycle sheds of Salford Metropolitan Police Compound. They were devout Catholics.

It was arranged for Lenny to attend the School of Our Lady of the Seven Robes of Gold by the Garden of Sorrows in the Vale of Tears which was run with teutonic efficiency by the little daughters of the sick under the iron rule of Mother Cyrene.

Mother Cyrene was everything rancid to Lenny: her mouth a malignant slit in the murderous mask she called a face; her cheesy breath steaming up his spectacles; her eyes like mobile ball bearings ? their colour left a mechanical taste in the mouth.

Daily religious instruction furnished his vacant mind with tales of treachery, morbid betrayals, oceans pink with the blood of multitudes, saints looking to the sky their living bodies smashed by hammers before the alien idols of the heathen. Incense filled his nostrils with the fatal breath of ghosts, hermaphrodite choirs droned in his ears.

Each student could elect to spend their free time in one of three ways: sporting activities, visiting the sick or in the service of the Knights of the Sacred Orchid. The latter seemed the least demanding, the most hygenic, and it also appealed to the lad?s naive sense of chivalry.

The Knights of the Sacred Orchid held their thrice-weekly routines in the spacious open-plan lounge of the sinister Raoul, who affected the manner of the proto-fascist with psychotic attention to detail. His navy blue hair sleeked with ancient grease, his meagre Don Amechie moustache waxed stiff like the legs of a dead fly. He went nowhere without the chums.

The chums were namely Horace and Boris, the brothers Morris, a titanic duet each in possession of a powder-blue safari suit and arms of anthropoidal length. Their physical immensity fully emphasized the stiff angular grace of the nifty Raoul who now led the way into the lounge.

The lounge was furnished by three rows of seven leatherette easy chairs faced by one formica table. The curtains were the colour of mustard embellished with the bleeding heart motif. The walls were hung with colourless daubs. The carpet was monotonous, its pattern gave the impression of small animal crapping at regular intervals. The whole scene was lit by a soundless colour TV and a row of six orange table lamps in which shifting globules of molten wax moved like specimens of rare snot.

Enter Mother Cyrene, flanked by the chums and a hyper-reverent Raoul who wore the look of a man obsessed. She stood on the table and began.

?Even as I speak a filthy tide of bolshevism issues from the dives of tin pan alley in short the world is a subterranean playground for lounge lizards from every sphere of idleness and crime who their pockets a-jingle with Moscow money go unchecked about their evil business take china cathedrals ransacked churches turned into judo schools I have seen the finest laundries in the world converted into bordellos for the gratification of the lumpenproletariat what with the drink trade on its last legs and the land running fallow for the want of artificial manures I leave you with this thought??

Mantovani strings cascaded from the Queen Anne Dinatron stereo system. Everyone crossed themselves and left. The chums in their lilac Isetta bubble cars headed for the golden finger bowl where they were employed as part-time knuckle merchants.

Upon his arrival at the compound, Lenny to his horror, found the cocktail cabinet in flames and his devoted guardians, Sheba and Rex, their heads split by faceless vigilantes, slaughtered in the rabies scare of ?62. ?Christ! Where do I live?? thought Lenny in genuine desperation and the heavy traffic seemed to whisper ?Raoul, Raoul.?

So for two weeks Lenny resided in Raoul?s broom cupboard which he shared with an upright vacuum cleaner and Doris the chums? slender loris, a cute little number redolent of the lazoon of Fireball XL5 fame.

Raoul imbued Lenny with the tactile beauty of the luger and the surly prose of Mickey Spillane. Finally, however, it was the prospect of nude fencing lessons that drove Lenny out. Leaving a bag of onions for Doris he left silently via the laundry chute. That winter he got a job at Barmy Sid?s Elephants Graveyard of up-to-the-minute accoutrements, during which time he moved into the bathroom with an all-girl cycle gang. On the back of a Woodbine packet in lipstick he wrote this his first poem:

 

The mopeds head for the seaside

Yvonne

Looked at trees

And her stomach turned

 

?That?s arguably the greatest poem in the world today,? enthused a sudden voice. Lenny turned around to see a tall, loose-limbed young man dressed in the beatnik anti-mode of the committed; his lank hair was hacked into a carless coup-sauvage style favoured by the existentialists who were A-1 credibilitywise in the flourishing capitals of the EEC. Lenny noticed that although his lips moved his voice seemed to come from the side of his neck.

His name was Reg Trademark, heir to a crumbling biscuit empire who, by virtue of his artistic endeavors, had secured a position of trust at the Marxist-Lenninist ping-pong club. He persuaded Lenny to declaim his work the following Thursday at the club?s variety night.

Among those appearing were Harry, Barry, Garry, and Larry, the Brothers McGarry, reading a three-hour concrete poem entitled ?The Yes No Interlude?; a neo-functionalist mime troupe presenting a two-act play based on ?Stop the World I Wanna Get On?: a novel by Larry Dines concerning the Judaeo-Christian ethic of self as not self. Finally, however, it had to be agreed by all that the night belonged to Lenny; agreed by all but Larry Dines who had been poisoned.

In a vain attempt at bourgeois credibility Lenny changed his name to John Cooper Clarke and under this title embarked on a polysyllabic excursion through Thrillsville, UK. Yes, it was be there or be square as, clad in the slum chic of the hipster, he issued the slang anthems of the zip age in the desperate esperanto of the bop. John Cooper Clarke: the name behind the hairstyle, the words walk in the grooves hacking through the hi-fi paradise of true luxury.

[peter_hmfc]

 

The details of my life are quite inconsequential. Very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical, summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really. At the age of 12 I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum, it's breathtaking, I suggest you try it.

 

(If you haven't seen Austin Powers this will be absolutely lost on you.)

 

 

 

:rofl:

 

 

[Bauld]

:rofl:

 

 

[peter_hmfc]

Dear Morgan, my problem is like that philosophical question: I got the call too early to grab a shower, so I had to make do with a quick rinse around the key areas. If a tree falls in the forest, and I'm not there, and it makes a sound, but I don't hear it, but someone records it and plays it back to me at a dinner party, does that mean I'm still in the forest? And if I am, then why can't I just take a piss in the garden rather than queuing for the toilet? And that's if the toilet even exists, I've been trying to use it all ******* night. I'm starting to doubt the existence of the toilet quite frankly at this stage of the proceedings. Get a portaloo is what I'm saying. If you're going to have a party of that size, get a portaloo. 'Cause I don't want to spend my entire ******* evening in the corridor. And if philosophy can solve those questions, then it's worth it. But thus far it can't. So I'm ******* busting, and what's Plato doing about it? Nothing.

[peter_hmfc]

 

:rofl:

 

We're living in dangerous times Bauld, we're living in a climate of fear. Kin is pitched 'gainst kin, and all along we're forgetting what is actually the real threat: the Dutch. They look very peaceful, they appear to be keeping themselves to themselves, but I'm watching them. And it's a good job I am because no-one else is. And if any aren't too sky-high off homebrew weed to be watching this, heed my words: I'm on to you.

[AlimOzturk]

Dear Morgan,

 

You and I have we can make a pact. We can bring salvation back. Where there is love...I'll be there.

 

[millerjames398]

The details of my life are quite inconsequential. Very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical, summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really. At the age of 12 I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum, it's breathtaking, I suggest you try it.

 

(If you haven't seen Austin Powers this will be absolutely lost on you.)

[emoji23] [emoji23] [emoji23]

 

Sent from my SM-G920F using Tapatalk

[hmfc_liam06]

The details of my life are quite inconsequential. Very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical, summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really. At the age of 12 I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum, it's breathtaking, I suggest you try it.

 

(If you haven't seen Austin Powers this will be absolutely lost on you.)

 

Read that in his accent too!

 

[Morgan]

It's fine John.

 

We need to sit down and chat over a nice cup of tea. Maybe a digestive or a rich tea or two.

 

It's fixable, have no worries.

 

A problem shared is a problem halved.

[luckyBatistuta]

Dear Morgan,

 

I have a cat called Nahla (I?d rather have a dog but cats bury their own poo in the garden ? usually someone else?s ? which is a lot better than picking up smelly poos and putting them in a bin). She?s named after the lioness in the Lion King. She doesn?t look much like a lion, in fact she looks like a tiger that shrank in the wash because she?s small and stripy, but she seems to like the name.

 

She also likes Whiskas ?Oh So Meaty? in Jelly. In fact, she likes Whiskas so much that she gets very stroppy when we give her crunchy cat food which the vet says we have to on account of her gum disease. Her favourite Whiskas is the poultry selection. She doesn?t like the ?Oh So Fishy? ones ? probably because we live a long way from the sea.

 

Anyway, I am beginning to get a little worried about Nahla because she keeps being sick after she has eaten her Whiskas. Unfortunately, she seems to prefer to throw up in the house instead of in other people?s gardens. I don?t particularly like the look or smell of Whiskas when it?s fresh from the pouch. When it?s been inside a cat for ten minutes, it?s not nice at all!

I think she is displaying a lot of the classic symptoms of Bulimia.

 

I have looked up Bulimia on the NHS website and it says that low self esteem could be a major factor. Nahla is much smaller than all the other cats in the neighbourhood and her tummy is a bit ?saggy? since she had kittens when she was very young. I suspect that she is being bullied. She is also adopted (she was already over a year old when she came to us) so perhaps she is insecure.

 

As you are clearly an expert in the area of pussy nutrition, I was hoping that you may be able to offer some advice.

 

Yours hopefully,

 

LB

[Ryan Jarman]

Dear Morgan, you inherit 1 Trillion pounds but when you die it comes out you where a massive peado.

 

This never actually happened in reality but, there is enough 'evidence' that your family and loved ones are convinced. Obviously you are not around to have to deal with this or to change their minds.

 

So, in summary, is the allure of a near unlimited supply of money to do what you want with during your life time enough to have your family's lasting memories of you sullied and your legacy in ruin as a big beast?

[Morgan]

Dear Morgan,

I have a cat called Nahla (I?d rather have a dog but cats bury their own poo in the garden ? usually someone else?s ? which is a lot better than picking up smelly poos and putting them in a bin). She?s named after the lioness in the Lion King. She doesn?t look much like a lion, in fact she looks like a tiger that shrank in the wash because she?s small and stripy, but she seems to like the name.

She also likes Whiskas ?Oh So Meaty? in Jelly. In fact, she likes Whiskas so much that she gets very stroppy when we give her crunchy cat food which the vet says we have to on account of her gum disease. Her favourite Whiskas is the poultry selection. She doesn?t like the ?Oh So Fishy? ones ? probably because we live a long way from the sea.

Anyway, I am beginning to get a little worried about Nahla because she keeps being sick after she has eaten her Whiskas. Unfortunately, she seems to prefer to throw up in the house instead of in other people?s gardens. I don?t particularly like the look or smell of Whiskas when it?s fresh from the pouch. When it?s been inside a cat for ten minutes, it?s not nice at all!

I think she is displaying a lot of the classic symptoms of Bulimia.

I have looked up Bulimia on the NHS website and it says that low self esteem could be a major factor. Nahla is much smaller than all the other cats in the neighbourhood and her tummy is a bit ?saggy? since she had kittens when she was very young. I suspect that she is being bullied. She is also adopted (she was already over a year old when she came to us) so perhaps she is insecure.

As you are clearly an expert in the area of pussy nutrition, I was hoping that you may be able to offer some advice.

Yours hopefully,

LB

Dear LB,

 

I'm frantic about your pussy.

 

But, as you know from the snooker club in Morningside, that's always been the case.

 

Uncle xx

[Morgan]

Dear Morgan, you inherit 1 Trillion pounds but when you die it comes out you where a massive peado.

This never actually happened in reality but, there is enough 'evidence' that your family and loved ones are convinced. Obviously you are not around to have to deal with this or to change their minds.

So, in summary, is the allure of a near unlimited supply of money to do what you want with during your life time enough to have your family's lasting memories of you sullied and your legacy in ruin as a big beast?

Ryan,

 

It's so hard.

 

Let me sleep on it.

[Samuel Camazzola]

Dear Morgan

 

Please excuse my writing

I can't stop my hands from shaking

Because I'm cold and alone tonight.

[luckyBatistuta]

Dear LB,

I'm frantic about your pussy.

But, as you know from the snooker club in Morningside, that's always been the case.

Uncle xx

Your frantic about my pussy

 

 

 

 

[Dia Liom]

Dear Morgan, you inherit 1 Trillion pounds but when you die it comes out you where a massive peado.

 

This never actually happened in reality but, there is enough 'evidence' that your family and loved ones are convinced. Obviously you are not around to have to deal with this or to change their minds.

 

So, in summary, is the allure of a near unlimited supply of money to do what you want with during your life time enough to have your family's lasting memories of you sullied and your legacy in ruin as a big beast?

 

[Morgan]

Dear Morgan

Please excuse my writing

I can't stop my hands from shaking

Because I'm cold and alone tonight.

Hot water bottle or Ibuprofen.

[Morgan]

Your frantic about my pussy

Sorry.

 

It just slipped out.

[RobNox]

It's fine John.

 

We need to sit down and chat over a nice cup of tea. Maybe a digestive or a rich tea or two.

 

It's fixable, have no worries.

 

A problem shared is a problem halved.

Will you be sitting in the bog having that nice cup of tea with John, or is the bog only for lager drinking?

 

By the way, a problem shared is a problem doubled in my book!

 

[Morgan]

Will you be sitting in the bog having that nice cup of tea with John, or is the bog only for lager drinking?

 

By the way, a problem shared is a problem doubled in my book!

 

If John drinks only tea 'in the bog' he's on his own.

 

BYOP (Bring your own Peroni) and Mr Findlay can stay all night. Metaphorically speaking of course.

[luckyBatistuta]

Dear Morgan,

 

I?m writing you this letter to tell you that I?m leaving you forever. I?ve been a good wife to you for many years now and I have nothing to show for it. These last 2 weeks have been hell...Last week, you came home & didn?t even notice I had a new haircut, had cooked your favorite meal & even wore a brand new silk negligee. You ate in 2 minutes, & went straight to sleep after watching all your soaps and then spending the remainder of the night on your forum. You don?t tell me you love me anymore; you don?t want sex or anything that connects us as husband & wife. Either you?re cheating on me or you don?t love me anymore; whatever the case, I?m gone.

 

Your EX wife

 

Mrs Morgan

 

P.S. don?t try to find me. I'm now with that guy on Jambos Kickback that your always going on about and we are moving away to West Virginia together! Have a great life!

[Morgan]

Dear Morgan,

You and I have we can make a pact. We can bring salvation back. Where there is love...I'll be there.

Alim?

 

Relax.

 

You scored a fantastic goal at Fester Road.

 

You have nothing to be worried about.

 

I strongly recommend six pints of Guinness, 14 dark rums and a near fatal car explosion on the Bridges.

 

 

Morgan. (Uncle)

[Morgan]

Dear Morgan,

I?m writing you this letter to tell you that I?m leaving you forever. I?ve been a good wife to you for many years now and I have nothing to show for it. These last 2 weeks have been hell...Last week, you came home & didn?t even notice I had a new haircut, had cooked your favorite meal & even wore a brand new silk negligee. You ate in 2 minutes, & went straight to sleep after watching all your soaps and then spending the remainder of the night on your forum. You don?t tell me you love me anymore; you don?t want sex or anything that connects us as husband & wife. Either you?re cheating on me or you don?t love me anymore; whatever the case, I?m gone.

Your EX wife

Mrs Morgan

P.S. don?t try to find me. I'm now with that guy on Jambos Kickback that your always going on about and we are moving away to West Virginia together! Have a great life!

No.

[luckyBatistuta]

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

 

FTFY

[luckyBatistuta]

Alim?

a near fatal car explosion on the Bridges.

Morgan. (Uncle)

[AlimOzturk]

Alim?

 

Relax.

 

You scored a fantastic goal at Fester Road.

 

You have nothing to be worried about.

 

I strongly recommend six pints of Guinness, 14 dark rums and a near fatal car explosion on the Bridges.

 

 

Morgan. (Uncle)

[Ryan Jarman]

Ryan,

 

It's so hard.

 

Let me sleep on it.

 

Answers please. 

[Seymour M Hersh]

Right!

 

I had to get up in the morning at ten o'clock at night, half an hour before I went to bed, (pause for laughter), eat a lump of cold poison, work twenty-nine hours a day down mill, and pay mill owner for permission to come to work, and when we got home, our Dad would kill us, and dance about on our graves singing "Hallelujah."

 

But you try and tell the young people today that... and they won't believe you'.

[John Findlay]

Right!

 

I had to get up in the morning at ten o'clock at night, half an hour before I went to bed, (pause for laughter), eat a lump of cold poison, work twenty-nine hours a day down mill, and pay mill owner for permission to come to work, and when we got home, our Dad would kill us, and dance about on our graves singing "Hallelujah."

 

But you try and tell the young people today that... and they won't believe you'.

Ah. The meaning of life.

[Morgan]

Dear Morgan, you inherit 1 Trillion pounds but when you die it comes out you where a massive peado.

This never actually happened in reality but, there is enough 'evidence' that your family and loved ones are convinced. Obviously you are not around to have to deal with this or to change their minds.

So, in summary, is the allure of a near unlimited supply of money to do what you want with during your life time enough to have your family's lasting memories of you sullied and your legacy in ruin as a big beast?

Dearest Ryan,

 

this is a strange scenario.

 

At the end of the day (indeed of life) the surviving family and their memories of the person are only going to exist for a few decades at best.

 

The fun had with said 1 Trillion pounds would surely far outweigh a few snidey comments from Auntie Doris and Cousin Hector etc.

 

Basically, feck them all if they didn't know you better than that anyway.

 

Hope this helps Ryan.

[Harry Potter]

Dear Morgan.

 

At night now im having to get up 3 times to go to the toilet.

Please help as my wife works nights and sometimes not there to remind me to get up.

Please help

 

Yer auld mucker Harry.

[¼½¾]

Dear Morgan,

Je suis un froggy taxhomme. Eet haz come to my attention that tu est raking in les euros from employment as un tante de agony.

 

Ou est ma cut?

 

Cheers,

 

Monsieur Citrongrab.

[@VladMagic]

Dear Morgan.

 

You once played me your reworked version of ABBAs Disco Hit "Dancing Queen".

 

The lyrics "You are the dancing queen, young and sweet only Seventeen" you cleverly changed to "I am a mincing queen, camp and lean bumb'd since seventeen".

 

I just wondered where the incredible inspiration came from that enabled you to improve one of the Swedish megastars anthems?

 

Yours in adulation

 

Vlad Magic X

[Morgan]

Dear Morgan.

 

At night now im having to get up 3 times to go to the toilet.

Please help as my wife works nights and sometimes not there to remind me to get up.

Please help

 

Yer auld mucker Harry.

Harold,

 

Two simple suggestions:

 

Drink less

 

Set an alarm for each hour.

 

Yours, Aunty x

[Morgan]

Dear Morgan,

Je suis un froggy taxhomme. Eet haz come to my attention that tu est raking in les euros from employment as un tante de agony.

Ou est ma cut?

Cheers,

Monsieur Citrongrab.

Monsieur Citrong (may I call you Rab?),

 

Mon travail as a Aunty in agony est gratis.

 

However, as you are probably poorly paid by zee Frog government as a taxhomme, I would be delighted to offer you a dozen cans of Kronenbourg 1664 as a will of good gesture.

 

Amore,

 

Aunt Morg.

[Morgan]

Dear Morgan.

 

You once played me your reworked version of ABBAs Disco Hit "Dancing Queen".

 

The lyrics "You are the dancing queen, young and sweet only Seventeen" you cleverly changed to "I am a mincing queen, camp and lean bumb'd since seventeen".

 

I just wondered where the incredible inspiration came from that enabled you to improve one of the Swedish megastars anthems?

 

Yours in adulation

 

Vlad Magic X

My dearest Vlad,

 

the inspiration came, quite simply, from seeing your very good self in that video you sent me.

 

You had everything an ancient (dare I say Cougar type?) Aunty could desire.

 

For that, and that alone, I thank you and am in no way surprised that your surname is Magic. You certainly are.

 

Aunty Cougar x

[luckyBatistuta]

Loving this thread

[Morgan]

Loving this thread

It's feckin hard work though.

 

Not something I'm used to!

[Riddley Walker]

Dear Morgan,

 

Would you rather have a phallus where your nose is, or a vagina where your mouth is?

 

Thanks

 

Love Riddley.

[AlimOzturk]

Dear Mrs Morgan,

 

Today whilst busking a lady asked me what was underneath my kilt. I instantly thought of you. I never passed wind or anything, and anytime I do I make sure to check if there any children behind me. I don't want to be faced with that situation again.

 

Kind Regards,

 

Tom xxxxxxx

[Ryan Jarman]

Dearest Ryan,

 

this is a strange scenario.

 

At the end of the day (indeed of life) the surviving family and their memories of the person are only going to exist for a few decades at best.

 

The fun had with said 1 Trillion pounds would surely far outweigh a few snidey comments from Auntie Doris and Cousin Hector etc.

 

Basically, feck them all if they didn't know you better than that anyway.

 

Hope this helps Ryan.

 

Good to know. 

 

Kind regards

[Marvin]

Your frantic about my pussy

 

 

 

 

That's why I drink alot of tea. I think. Morgan can you add some insight?

[Morgan]

Dear Morgan,

Would you rather have a phallus where your nose is, or a vagina where your mouth is?

Thanks

Love Riddley.

Riddles,

 

the former.

 

Cuddles from Aunty.

[Morgan]

Dear Mrs Morgan,

Today whilst busking a lady asked me what was underneath my kilt. I instantly thought of you. I never passed wind or anything, and anytime I do I make sure to check if there any children behind me. I don't want to be faced with that situation again.

Kind Regards,

Tom xxxxxxx

 

Good boy Alim. Keep up.being considerate, there's a chap.

 

Mme. Morgan

[Morgan]

That's why I drink alot of tea. I think. Morgan can you add some insight?

Marvellous Marvin,

 

this is the first one to stump me.

 

I'm struggling to see the connection between Batistutas pussy and your Tetley addiction?

 

Perhaps if you can furnish me with more details I can offer some advice.

 

My breath is bated.

 

Aunty.