Dear Mr Bin Laden,
Or can I call you Osama? Or Big O? I've seen you on the TV so often these past five years or so that it almost seems you're one of the family (and certainly a more acceptable member than Grandpa, who keeps touching himself in places whenever the Meals-On-Wheels lady comes round).
I thought I ought to take a moment to bash out a quick note for you: now that the government's gone and decided that your alleged chum/sinister minion Jack Thomas not be allowed to write you a letter in case he lets on that Phil Ruddock is a bit of a charmless knob, I figured I'd best exercise my rights and seize this opportunity before it's illegal for the rest of us to mail our thoughts, too. What is this world coming to when it's unlawful for a boy to chat with the leader of a feared terrorist organisation? But oh gosh... I've never written a letter to a celebrity before, and it's so hard to know where to begin!
I realise that you’re pretty busy these days, what with being more evil than Skeletor and making sure the lads keep the cave spick and span, but these are uncertain times, and with the world going in fear of sudden fiery death hidden under every hijab and beneath every burqa, there are issues questions that need to be addressed, and to hell with propriety.
For example: how do you manage to get your beard so luxuriant? I mean seriously, I tried to grow me some facial hair recently, and finished up looking like I’d sticky-taped penicillin to my face. But here’s you, managing to keep your whiskers thick and shiny, despite all the dust and muck you must pick up in spider holes. Do you use some kind of wax? Any tips on the matter would be most appreciated. If the whole super-villain thing doesn’t work out, you should totally sell your own hair care range.
Secondly, since public interest is beginning to wane, and you’re currently considered slightly more popular than smokers and childhood obesity, it might be time to think about a quick PR boost. C’mon dude, you’re falling behind! Might I humbly suggest you announce a brief jihad against Millicent Paige down the road – her dogs keep barking at all hours, and I’m sure she’s breaking at least three of Allah’s laws by walking to the mailbox in grubby a pink dressing gown each morning. She often sneers and calls me a fancy boy as I go past; it is most vexing. Please help solve my problem with violence.
Also, I think maybe it is time to lighten up a bit on the whole women’s rights issue. I know you’re a radical Islamist, possibly even a bodacious one, but it might be pertinent to move with the times on this. Why not let women have a little bit of schoolin’? I know, I know, the poor dears’ brains tend to overheat when you try teaching them how to read – not that there’s much more than compressed air in their pretty heads, anyway – but if you at least pretend that they’ve achieved equality, they tend to be much happier about being oppressed. I started telling my girlfriend that she’s my social and intellectual equal before sending her off to do the dishes, and now she performs her chores so much better, and with a happy smile on her face, bless her little heart.
Anyway, listen to me rattle on! I have kept you long enough, and will let you get back to plotting against the great Satan and other general arseholery. The weather here continues fine, and I remain in good health, so if it’s not too much trouble, please refrain from attempts to alter this. Cheerio!