Northern Rail

Northern Rail have customer service posters on their trains inviting feedback on the service and providing an email address. They were literally asking for this...

Dear trains,

I travel by train quite frequently and have some suggestions for how the service could be improved so thought i would share them with you.

It's often been said that train services in this country fall some distance behind those of our continental cousins, and being a proud Englishman i feel that instead of trying to catch up with those smelly foreigners we should be striving to imbue our rail network with a sense of true 'Englishness'. Never mind what Johnny Foreigner does in their train time, let's celebrate our insular social vision and get our trains reflecting what is really great about this country. 

In the first instance i feel we should address the 'first impressions' that we are greeted with upon entry to your trains. One of the things i think about when i think about England (usually when i've just got out of the bath and i'm vigorously drying my testicles) is our great English sense of humour: that shared unspoken narrative we all subscribe to which allows us the freedom to point and laugh at the foolish, the pompous, the arrogant and the mentally ill. And cripples. So to encapsulate this sense of fun-poking joviality i think it would be a really nice idea to have a movement-activated sensor upon entering the train which triggers a spotlight and pre-recorded soundbites from the X Factor judges. Simon Cowul going "Hahaha you're rubbish you bastard!" and (in a more condescending tone) "Well look at you limping onto the train, it's like watching a legless hippo trying to navigate a hobby horse you pathetic worthless tramp of a man!". Or maybe Louis Welsh saying "Ya look loike a cunt, ya sound loike a cunt, ya ARE a cunt!!" 

'Cos we all like a laugh don't we??! And what better way to welcome immigrants into our country than to remind them straight off the boat that in our class-driven society they are worth no more than the piss off a rats pubes. 

Once on board the train, let's reinforce the notion of our famous English sense of awkward politeness and enforced good manners by removing all the seats in the carriages, leaving just one in the centre so passengers can spend their entire journey either in a ridiculous Mexican stand-off with the person next to them, verbally to-ing and fro-ing along the lines of "You sit down" "No really it's fine, YOU sit down" "No honestly i'm ok standing, have a seat" "I'm only going a few stops seriously, it's fine. I'm fine" etc etc etc. Or alternatively getting on the train and not daring to take the one seat then when someone actually does risk social ostracization by sitting in it, silently seething for the entire journey with an internal monologue about how 'people these days have no manners'.  

I also think trains should celebrate our 'cool' English cultural icons, so here are just some of the ways we can represent a few of them to remind those foreign types who's best:

• Chris Martin of Coldplay - embody his unique blandness and milquetoast banality by smearing all the handrails with mayonnaise and only serving Skol lager and cottage cheese sandwiches in the buffet car
• Steve Wrightintheafternoon - recreate the tortuous experience of having to listen to this smug piece of shit by having your conductors jab people with forks as they walk past whilst spouting a recent piece of scientific research as a 'factoid' (fucking 'factoid', what are we 5 years old??) followed by an ill-informed opinion on it which completely ignores any sense of nuance or context
• Piers Morgan - fill your trains with Piers' sense of deluded entitlement and gargantuan level of shit-headedness by listening in on all the passengers phone calls and then broadcasting their private business over the tannoy because it's 'in the public interest'

Finally, make us all practice that most English of traits, the 'stiff upper lip' in the face of adversity, by making all your trains late. Oh wait, you already do that one. Well played! 

Peace,

Niesche x

Sainsbury's

I hate Sainsbury's. I hate sentimental xmas adverts. I wrote Sainsbury's a letter...

Dear the Sainsbury’s,

I haven’t seen your xmas advert to be honest but from what I hear it’s a bit of a tear jerker. Now, that’s all well and good but what you’ve gone and done is set a precedent for future years, where every Tom, Dick and Wanker will be trying to ‘out-sad’ your efforts this year leading to the tv being full of tragi-wank xmas vignettes involving animated animals, and no one wants that do they? Therefore I am proposing that you end this shit-fest once and for all by producing the tear-jerker to end all tear-jerkers! And it just so happens that I’ve gone and written it for you! You lucky bastards! So without further ado, here’s your advert for next xmas:

Scene 1:

The screen fades in on a garden scene, the camera panning slowly across a snow-covered lawn towards a tree at the back of the modestly-sized, well-manicured garden, upon whose branches two robins sit by a nest full of chicks twittering to each other. As the camera gets closer it becomes a static close-up shot of the birds talking to each other in bird talk. They kiss (well, they touch beaks) and one flies off with the camera following behind as music begins to fade in (Shakey’s xmas ‘classic’, ‘Merry Christmas Everyone’)

Scene 2:

We follow the robin over the rooftops of a middle class neighbourhood from behind, a birds-ass eye view, and as we reach the city below we see a homeless man begging for change on a street corner. The robin lands on the edge of his cup, twitters for a bit then shits in the cup and fucks off, the homeless man is too busy crying to notice and so he drinks the shitty coffee (close up of his neck making swallowing movements and gulping sounds so we know the shit is going in). The homeless then grins a toothless grin and we see bird-shit and coffee residue all over his disgusting yellow teeth.

Scene 3:

The robin then flies low and in through the door of a Cash Converters, where we see a haggard and dishevelled young woman, old beyond her years, handing over a brand new Playstation 4 to the cashier and receiving a fraction of the price she paid for it before heading outside and handing the money straight to a man in a fleece lined coat who drops a few bags of smack into her wrinkled hand.

(Cut to)

The robin is in a squalid flat now, perched on the windowsill. The same woman from Cash Convertors is slumped against the radiator with a hypodermic needle sticking out of her arm, a poorly-written Santa’s letter beside her which the camera closes in on, the words ‘Dear Santa, I would like a PS4 for xmas’ scrawled across the paper, and commotion in the background as an angry 9 year old trashes the house and cries and cries and cries and cries and cries. Whilst crying.

“Children plaaaaaying, haaaving fun!” ay, AY!!!!

Scene 4:

The robin now flies into an industrial estate, where we see a man leaving work, laughing and joking with his colleagues as he walks out of the loading bay. He is carrying a large bag with what appears to be a box inside.

(Cut to)

The robin perched on the top of an old armchair in which the same man sits, the glow and flicker of the tv illuminating his weary face. He wears a look of complex emotions: sadness, fear, despair, self-loathing. He swigs from a bottle of vodka, the bag next to him revealing a case of 12 bottles of the same. The camera closes in on his face and a solitary tear emerges from one milky eye and slowly rolls down his ruddy cheek. His face contorts into a grimace and as the camera sharply pans back we see him reach forward and smash the bottle on the coffee table in front of him causing the robin to fly off hurriedly (the ‘smash’ of the glass timing perfectly with a ding-dong noise in Shakey’s annoyingly saccharine ditty). He takes the jagged remnant of the bottle and holds it above his wrist, his whole body tense and shaking with grief as he tries to summon the courage to end this miserable, lonely existence. The camera pans away as the man looks to the ceiling and cries out in mental anguish, his body shaking as he begins to sob uncontrollably as we hear Shakey crooning “Love and un-derstaaaaaaaandiiing….”

Scene 5:

We are now back following the robin’s ass as he passes over a market stall. A jolly man stands behind the stall and smiles and waves as the robin stops to pick up a bright red bow from a selection of trinkets then flies off into the snowy sky.

Scene 6:

We see a repeat shot of scene 1, the camera slowly panning down the garden, coming to rest focusing on the robin family as father returns to the nest and passes the bow to his wife, who tweets her delight (as in, she says it in bird language. I don’t mean she writes 140 characters on a website where twats go to argue. After all she’s a robin. And robins don’t have hands. You fucking idiots). The chicks chirrup and jump around excitedly as the two parents embrace. The scene fades out with a snow flurry and the following words fade in:

‘Never mind ‘them’, have yourselves a very merry Xmas!’

The end.

It’s ok Sainsbury’s, wipe away those tears. Just think of all the extra money you’ll make by cynically exploiting the public’s emotional response to sentimental claptrap in the hope that they somehow internalise a false association between a corporate supermarket giant and ‘the spirit of Christmas’, as if those two things weren’t fucking light years apart.

Peace,

Niesche x

Cunts

I came across this website the other day: http://www.raisingtheskirt.com/about.html

Have a read (it's totally NSFW by the way). I did. Then i sent them this:

Dear Nicola,

First of all congratulations on your successful ‘raising the skirt’ workshops, from the photographs on your website they sure look like a lot of cunt-staring fun! What a set of cunts! You're not only displaying your cunts, you are by your actions personifying them and projecting their power outwards through your very being on a profoundly moving level. You are literally 'being' cunts, and that's a beautiful thing. Your work is so inspiring and I feel compelled to open up my inner soul to you and to lay bare my personal vision of cunt wonderment. I must confess though that although I do feel a very personal connection to your work, my own ‘cunt’ needs a bit of work to be honest as it is actually much more like a ‘penis’. Ok, it is actually a ‘penis’, but if I tuck my balls between my legs and then squeeze the sides of my jap’s eye so it opens a bit, then get someone to look at it from a distance through binoculars while squinting their eyes, it could pass as a cunt I reckon. And wouldn’t that be wonderful? ‘Cunt-derful’ even? Me, a male human, sharing my inner cunt, my bell-end cunt, symbolic of the alpha and omega with the balls representing Adam the first man and my cock-cunt jap’s eye as Doreen the last biblical woman opening ‘her’self up to shower the world in glorious femi-juice. I feel that with your expertise and experience you can help me finally realise my dream of being a 'total' cunt.

Your work also reminded of the words of Margaret Phillllling, the 17^th Century white witch, who wrote the famous ‘cunt-grimoire’ magical text - ‘Spastic Jam and Other Treatise on Witchdom’. She first invoked the 5 words of feminine power, which are more relevant now than ever: Cunt, Tipple, Fruitcake, NibNib, Bobbin and of course, Titties. According to Maggie’s magic book, when spoken together really fast (like you’re one of those rappers or something) these words provide the power of a thousand winds which can be used to blow away the shackles of male repression and furnish you with the freedom to set about abolishing the nasty patriarchy forever!

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I think the next logical step on your road to cunt domination is to open the workshops up to other men of my ilk so we can join in the fight to reclaim the cunt and to present it back to society as the weather-controlling magic orifice it always has been. Maybe us like minded femi-men could gaze in wonder at all the cunts on display and worship them by chucking milk out of a window or something. Then the women could piss on us, further reinforcing the power of the cunt over the penis but then our peniseses would transform into mini-cunts and we could stand in a line and again squeeze the sides of the jap’s eye so it ‘talks’ like a mouth and ventriloquize it saying stuff like ‘it's a piss disaster my cunt master’ or ‘ladywinners, shower us with cuntfetti!’.  

Alternatively, maybe look to get some sponsorship from the world of showbiz, and publicise your movement a bit. You could even turn the whole concept of cunt-power on its head by having a total cunt like Piers Morgan endorse you thus raising your profile while at the same time striking a sarcastic ‘blow’ to the figurehead of patriarchal cunts everywhere. This would surely be the perfect triumph over misogynistic wankers the world over as a truly post-modern ‘blow’ job delivered to an enormous ‘cock’.   

Anyway, have a think.

Peace,

Niesche.

BBC News

I decided to write to BBC News, they have a section on their website which says 'Have you got a good story?' so i sent them this:

Hi there,

I wanted to write to you and inform you of the funny goings on round our way recently. I live on a peaceful street in the middle of the lovely village of Castleford in the North of our great country. Well, i had some building work done a while back (a new work space in the back garden for my husband’s pottery business) and although myself and Enoch (my husband) were relatively happy with the results there have been some decidedly odd 'happenings' since the structure was erected. It was Enoch who first noticed something a bit ‘rum’ in the back garden. As he went out to his new ‘pottery palace’ (that’s what he calls it. I suggested ‘potters juicy flaggonwazzock’ but he didn’t like it, he never likes anything I suggest! Like when I suggested we call our son ‘Bermuda’ he kicked up a right fuss, I said ‘Enoch you’ve got to get with the times! It’s trendy to call your children names that aren’t names!’ but he wouldn’t have it, the shit) now where was i? Oh yes, he went out to the ‘pottery palace’ but as he approached the door he noticed a strange purpley-blueish glow emanating from the window. He peered through and was shocked to see two of those grey big eyed alien thingies smearing their galactic faeces all over his potters wheel and were in the process of moulding it into a giant effigy of Lionel Blair! Well, he ran back inside all flummoxed like and started trying to tell me but he was mumbling and incoherent so I kicked him in the balls real hard and told him to get a bloody grip! After he finally gathered himself he told me about the space freaks but I said ‘you daft old bastard they int no spacemen int shed!’ and I went out me sen to investigate. Well, he were right weren’t he! Only when I got there they were pissing in each others mouths the dirty bleeders so I chased em off with a garden hoe! That night we sat and chatted about our strange visitors and the following day I phoned our builder friends to see if they knew what was going on.

Well, turns out the builders we hired have only gone an installed an inter-dimensional galactic portal at the back of the pottery palace! And it’s true, since that first scatological incident we’ve had aliens fighting in their pants on me back lawn, they’ve been riding round on Enoch’s big lawnmower pissed up off cheap cider, and worst of all last week I caught em gang-raping a poor hedgehog on me back porch! You should of seen his poor little hedgehog face, a mixture of deep shock and excruciating pain with just a hint of awe and wonder. I tell yer, I were right back ont phone to the builders! ‘Look you lot’ I said, ‘look you lot, we never wanted no inter-dimensional galactic portal in our outhouse let alone any sex-crazed alien freaks so you best get round here and get rid or else I’ll set our Tanya on you and she’s built like a brick shithouse with a black belt in carrot cake so BE WARNED!!!!’

Well I’m pleased to report that they did indeed come and get rid of the inter-dimensional galactic portal and since Monday we’ve not had sight nor sound of them pissy grey flannel-faced bastards. Which brings me nicely to the point of this correspondence: now the pottery palace is alien-free once more I was wondering, can you feature it on Grand Designs?? Or if not can you just get Kevin McCloud to come round our house and service my manky twot? He’ll have to spit in it first though, I dried up in me 70’s.

Yours sincerely,

Brian Milm (Mrs)

HTC

I've had numerous problems with my new HTC phone so this is more of a genuine complaint letter than a spam type thing but i figured it belongs here anyway. I sent this as a proper letter through the post but i also found an email address so have sent it there too. P.S. don't ever buy a HTC One M8, they are shit.

                                                                                 Niesche

                                                                                 5, The Windpipe Rotary Club,

                                                                                 Church Fenton,

                                                                                 Engerland

                                                                                                                                                                theniesche@hotmail.com                    

Dear HTC,

I am writing to you in order to convey my undying gratitude for your most recent smartphone, the HTC One M8. I purchased mine 6 months ago and just had to share with you the multitude of joys I have experienced since that day. Consider this letter the literary equivalent of a slow and considerate ego-wank off an Egyptian prossie dressed as Cleopatra with a milk moustache. Yes, the phone is THAT good! Let me count the ways…

1.       The main thing I love about your new phone is the ‘stunning’ HTC ‘Blink Feed’, a feature which shows me customisable content from my social media and browsing history. Now correct me if I’m wrong but this felt to me like having some annoying cunt (Eamon Holmes springs to mind) rifle through my bins every week pulling out random packaging and saying “Here, you had beans last Wednesday do you want beans again this Wednesday I bet you do. And you know Malcolm, the guy you vaguely know from that course you were on three years ago he had beans last Wednesday too but he got indigestion shall i tell you all about it?? Don’t look away though here’s more useless information that you just can’t bear to miss even though the actual app it has come from is a mere 5mm away from your thumb and to access it would literally take less effort than scratching your arse, but NO you must have it bombarded at you constantly ‘cos you might miss something!!!!” Also, not sure why it’s called Blink feed either, as ‘Blink’ implies a fleeting encounter with something, quite literally a ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ kind of deal. Your ‘feed’ however remained in my eye vision in spite of some major blinking on my part in an attempt to get it to fuck off from my home screen every time I opened the bastard phone.  Alas, I feel you should change its name to ‘Nope, still here’ feed. In keeping with the pointlessness of this waste of screen space I’m assuming your next phone will have a ‘home screen info home screen’ screen which tells you what’s on your fucking home screen all without having to visit your home screen?

 

2.       Speaking of ‘amazing’ features on the HTC One M8 I just love the way you’ve made the touchscreen so bloody sensitive it’s like you’ve actually incorporated a bona fide ‘ghost in the machine’ that accesses random apps while the phone is in my pocket. Such a useful feature! It is often the case that I’ll be thinking to myself “I really fancy very nearly placing a bid on a pair of skis via my ebay app but can’t be bothered to take the phone out of my pocket do so” and then finding out much later that my phone had read my mind and done just that very same thing without me lifting a finger! Or maybe I’ll be in a meeting at work and I need something to make me look a proper cunt and my phone will magically launch the music player and start playing random music from my playlist, you know something very appropriate for a meeting with fellow professionals such as NWA’s ‘To Kill A Hooker’ or perhaps the 2-Live Crew’s ‘Me So Horny’? True story. Of course this could be remedied by buying a case for said phone and why not ‘cos after just spending a bunch of money on a piece of ‘state of the art’ technology the next thing I want to do is spend more fucking money on it!

3.       I really like that there’s cohesion between all the features on this phone in that they all adhere to the obvious theme of ‘utterly pointless’ that was clearly in the design brief, which brings me neatly on to the camera. That u-focus thing where you can refocus a picture after taking it is genius for a start. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve taken a picture and focussed on the things in the foreground only to realise afterwards that what I actually meant to do was focus on that grubby old man in the distance fiddling with a seagull. Now I can enjoy the crisp splendour of a bird-rapists flabby cock without having to re-take the shot! Also, I love that the front facing camera is specifically for ‘selfies’ and that you’ve made it far shittier than the not-so-great-itself main camera on the back because let’s face it anyone vain enough to take selfies would of course want a grainy poor quality picture to show off their grotesque insecure pouting.

4.       You know what else is wonderful? The HTC file manager that lets me put music and other media content on my phone via my computer. Or rather, lets me put music and other media content on my phone providing I don’t want to do anything else at the same time like maybe listen to a track before I decide whether I want it transferring or not. It’s so great that you’ve made the application so user unfriendly that it cripples itself if I have the audacity to want to hear a track whilst transferring files. “Hmm, can’t remember what this track goes like. I’ll just press play while these other tracks transfer……(nothing happens for 2 full minutes, screen freezes, I get sick of waiting so decide to press the stop button in the vain hope that maybe that will make the fucking thing work again but no nothing happens so I wait for  another full minute when finally the track I originally wanted to listen to comes on so, infuriated, I press stop again but have to wait another full minute until the song actually stops by which time my knuckles have taken a pounding from punching the fucking wall in sheer frustration)…..oh fuck it who wants music on their phone anyway???”.

 5.       Emails are a pain aren’t they? I hate the way they conveniently reduce the need for paper waste, and the simplicity of the Hotmail interface is a constant chore. Thank fuck for the HTC One M8 then, which, after a trip to your repair department now refuses to log me into the email app. Huzzah! I never wanted to be able to check emails simply, it’s much more pleasurable to have to load Hotmail via the web browser and fiddle about with the screen magnification every time I want to see what the manager of Burkina Faso Bank has left me in his will!  And how about wifi?? That ‘secret feature’ you put in where the phone will for no apparent reason stop connecting to the wifi in my house is absolutely amazing. Sorry, did I say ‘amazing’? I meant ‘shit’.

6.       Finally, I’d like to praise your ground-breaking customer service. I went to America once, years ago, and what struck me was just how bloody insincere everyone sounded. It’s all syrup-coated small talk like “Have a nice day sir” and “Can I help you with that sir?” and “Is there anything else I can do for you sir?” all the while showing perfect teeth and smiling like Bonnie Langford on speed. Thank fuck we have things like the HTC customer service hotline in good old bolshy England. Not for me this being spoken to like an actual human being with feelings and genuine grievances, oh no. I want to be told I’m lying by a Croatian youth with a lisp. I want fobbing off with blunt responses to reasonable requests to speak to a manager along the lines of – Me: “May I speak to someone in higher authority please?”….HTC staff: ”No”….Me: “No, but really, you must have a manager there that I can speak to could you put them on please?”…..HTC staff: “No”….Me: ”Ok then can you put me through to your repair centre so I can speak with someone there about the problem please?”…..HTC staff: (slight pause for dramatic effect) “No”. You should be rightly proud of the stand your staff take against the most basic of human niceties. Fuck customer service, I want to be spoken to rudely by someone with only a rudimentary grasp of the English language. I want to be sent emails charging me 80 quid for a hardware fault that I had nothing to do with and then bombarded with further emails telling me ‘what a great phone the HTC One M8 is!’ while patronisingly asking me for feedback as I’m ‘such a valued customer’. You utter twats.

It really is such a ‘special’ phone the One M8 (who thought of that name by the way, did you pay a drunk tramp in cider to come up with it? “Only ffuckkin ONE MATE carnt yer gerrus TWO??”). It is often said that through adversity we become stronger, and without challenges to face our lives are meaningless and lack purpose. So thank you HTC, your phone really is the perfect thing for reminding us that life isn’t a bed of roses but if we stick through the tough times we’ll reap the rewards (like when my contract is finally up and I can throw this heap of shit in the bin and get a different one. Something with better features. Two cans on a piece of string for instance). And if I ever get too comfy with how life is going or I begin to think that humankind might actually be worth something I can always ring your ‘customer service’ department and be brought crashing back down to earth by a rude, obnoxious teenager.

Yours Sincerely,

Niesche xxx  

Direct Line Insurance

Due to the fact that big companies no longer provide a contact email address I've had to do this the old fashioned way and send them an actual letter. I've provided them with my email in case they way to reply but I won't hold my breath. Here's what I wrote to them:

                                                                               Niesche

                                                                               1, Parma Violet Avenue
                                                                               Beeston

                                                                               Leeds

                                                                               theniesche@hotmail.com

Direct Line Insurance
The Wharf,

Neville Street,

Leeds LS1 4AZ

Dear Sir/Madam,

I was overjoyed to see your recent advertising campaign on the telly in which you have co-opted the 'Mr Wolf' character out of that film by that man with the big chin. It's so lovely to see such a well respected and, dare I say, 'cool' character appointed as the face of an insurance company. Major kudos for that fictional coup homies! The fact that said fictional character is a foul-mouthed, impolite odd-job man who associates with criminal kingpins and two-bit hitmen who murder people for fun is neither here nor there! In fact, as insurance companies are essentially in the business of racketeering anyway, due to the fact that they not only force customers into paying an excess regardless of the huge amounts of money they pay in over the years, and if you so much as dare to make a claim against all this money your premiums skyrocket faster than a cat in a bucket of tramps' sick, he's the perfect match! So, with this in mind I have some suggestions for future advertising campaigns involving 'cool' fictional characters, all tailored to the different types of insurance you offer (i'm so fucking good to you guys!).

Home: how about Freddy Kruger the crispy-faced dream fiddler? Not only does he invade your home but your head too! “1, 2 Freddy's coming for you......3, 4 better lock your door........or alternatively sign up to Direct Line Home Insurance! He might make your dreams living nightmares but at least your building and contents will be safe!”

Car: Now, i've thought long and hard about this one as it's tricky. There are the usual suspects of Steve McQueen's character out of Bullit, or Nicolas Cage's idiot from Gone In 60 Seconds, but even though they both drive cars they're not really in keeping with the total criminal scumbag image you're trying to embrace. With this in mind I thought the ideal candidate would be Vincent Vega, Mr Wolf's friend from Pulp Fiction! There's a bit where he drives a car so it's relevant and he ticks all the 'cool scumbag' boxes! Murderer: check! Reckless driver: Check! Heroin addict: check! Violent psychopath: check! Who better to ensure you get all that cool-by-association kudos than a piss-poor actor trying to capture 'effortless cool' but instead coming across as a lethargic moron with about as much menace as a piece of toast?!

Pet: Jefferey Dahmer. Now, strictly speaking he's not a fictional character. I know. Sorry. But he did start off his killing career by murdering dogs in the woods behind his parents' house so he certainly fits the 'unsavoury' theme you've got going on, and those dogs were probably pets to someone so it's all good no? Plus he's got mad charisma! How else do you think he enticed all those fellas back to his flat for sex and cannibalism?? Just think, the young, suave and handsome Dahmer casually dragging a dog off into the woods, his weedy thin moustache twitching abnormally while the voice over talks in a menacing way about 'keeping your pets safe' and repeating sinister cliches like 'you wouldn't want anything bad to happen would you...'.

Travel: The 9/11 bombers. Again, not fictional but thanks to the amount of column inches dedicated to those guys over the years, they're bordering on fucking mythological! Slogan could be something like, I dunno, “Our travel insurance is 'planely' the best” or “We can't offer you 72 virgins, but we can offer 7.2% no claims bonus after 2 years!”.

Life: Now this one's a surefire winner. You ever seen that movie Faces of Death?? The one with all the real life footage people being dead and that?? (Of course you didn't you’re probably just a 19 year old intern whose favourite movie is fucking Dodgeball). The narrator was a guy called Dr something or other, here's a picture of him:

Look at that sinister beard! If ever a facial hair arrangement screamed 'socially inept animal rapist' then this is it! Look how he's got one side of his collar out and the other side tucked in! And in spite of his smart attire the look on his face suggests that he thinks he's naked! He’s a walking erection in a suit! He'd be perfect to lecture your potential customers on the likelihood of their impending demise whilst slowly undressing, never for one minute taking his eyes from the camera. You could end with him saying “Trust me, i'm a doctor” as he advances towards the screen...

So, if that doesn't whet your creative palette then nothing will. I don't want any money for these ideas by the way, even though they are incredibly high quality and so very well thought through. No, instead the mere feeling of warmth from knowing i'm helping a culturally blind corporate organisation gain some much needed kudos so their executives can swan about pretending to be 'cool' for a couple of weeks is sufficient for me.

Peace out brothers and sisters of ripping people off insurance,

Niesche x

Well bugger me with a fridge, i got a reply! It's a bit weird though and smells a bit spammy, though the contact details seem legit. My reply is below it:

From: segun.alayande@directlinegroup.co.uk
To: theniesche@hotmail.com
Subject: Re: Complaint letter about Direct Line advertisiment
Date: Fri, 10 Oct 2014 11:47:55 +0000

Dear Niesche,

We have recently received a complaint letter from your about the advertisment run by Direct Line. To enable us deal with the concerns you've raised , please can you provide us with your full name, contact address and phone number.

Thank you.

Segun Alayande

Customer Relations

Case Handler

Direct Line Group

Telephone: 0845 246 2455

Email: segun.alayande@directlinegroup.co.uk

Reply:

From:	Niesche (theniesche@hotmail.com)
Sent:	10 October 2014 21:09:28
To:	Alayande, Segun Direct Line Group, Churchill (segun.alayande@directlinegroup.co.uk)

Hello there Segun :)

Lovely to hear from you, i'm so glad you got my letter. While i am ecstatic that you have seen fit to 'deal' with my 'complaint', i am a little apprehensive about giving you my full name, contact address and phone number. After all, you insurance guys are pretty much just government sanctioned criminals aren't you? (as evidenced by your association with Mr Wolf! Gave the game away there didn't you eh?!) So i'm scared that if i do give you my shit then i'll get a visit from an unkempt man called Barry one Saturday afternoon telling me to "keep my maaarrrff shut" in an over-the-top cockney accent. You might even put dog poo on my car handles, or sneak into my house and superglue a fork to my cat. I'd be leaving myself open to a whirlwind of crappy low-level pranks, I'm sure you can understand my concern.

So, in the interests of my peace of mind i require some form of proof that you are indeed a Direct Line representative. Now i'm a reasonable man so i won't be asking for a picture of you taking a big shit on a Churchill nodding dog statue while licking a red telephone or anything like that (though that would be a very beautiful thing). No, instead just a quick selfie of you sat at your desk holding up some kind of Direct Line branded item will suffice. And if you could hold up a sign next to it saying 'That's not a baby that's a potato', even better!

Alternatively, you could just email me with a full apology and some token of gratitude for the world-beating ideas i sent you, you ungrateful shits (I know i originally said i didn't want anything for them but i've changed my mind. Show me the money! Or the kebab. A kebab would be nice).

Looking forward to your reply honeybun x

Niesche.   

Hahaha she replied again!!!!

From: segun.alayande@directlinegroup.co.uk
To: theniesche@hotmail.com
Subject: RE: Complaint letter about Direct Line advertisiment
Date: Mon, 13 Oct 2014 12:08:20 +0000

Dear Niesche,

Thank you for your response. However, as stated in my e-mail of 10 October 2014, we'll not be able to deal with the concerns you've raised without a valid contact address details and your full name.

Regards

Segun Alayande

Customer Relations

Case Handler

Direct Line Group

Telephone: 0845 246 2455

Email: segun.alayande@directlinegroup.co.uk

 

My Response:

 

From:	Niesche (theniesche@hotmail.com)
Sent:	13 October 2014 22:29:40
To:	Alayande, Segun Direct Line Group, Churchill (segun.alayande@directlinegroup.co.uk)

 

Hello you,

Oh dear oh dear, we're in a bit of a pickle aren't we? This is like a really pathetic Mexican stand off via email. Hmmmm, what are we to do.........ooh i know! How about i count to three and then we both reveal our identities to each other! No, wait. That won't work will it? Shit. I've got a better idea! I'll describe myself to you, in detail, and then i'll also give you a bunch of names that i'm NOT called and by process of elimination you can cross them out of the phone book and you'll be left with a bunch of names that MIGHT be mine then we can play like an email version of Guess Who! 'Have you got brown eyes?', 'Are you wearing a tie?' that sort of thing. This is great! Ok, about me: I'm six foot one and i'm tons of fun and i dress to a 't', you see i've got more clothes than Mohammed Ali and i dress so viciously, I got bodyguards, i got two big cars that definitely ain't the whack, i got a Lincoln Continental and a sunroofed Cadillac. Doesn't that paint a lovely picture Segun?! Also, here's a bunch of names that i'm NOT called:

John Thebaptist
Warren Polythene
Lady Miscarriage
Ampitheatre Brown
Andy Paradox
Aubrey Felch
Malcolm Disaster

Let the games begin!!! I'll start. Is your dress blue? Do you have your hair up in a bun? Are you wearing a look of mild confusion? Do you, Segun Aleyande, read The Dandy?

Isn't this fun?!!
Niesche x

 
 

Coldplay

Dear Coldplay,

It has been almost 20 years since you first appeared on the pop scene and during that time i feel that you have contributed more than any other band to the endless wave of flaccid ‘rock’ music that’s been weakly trying to penetrate our souls like a whales’ soggy limp cock. In fact ‘wave’ is probably too exciting a word to use, maybe ‘dribble’ would be more appropriate to describe the creeping beige menace of ‘safe’ music which you have inflicted on the youth of 00’s Britain. Rock music should be hard and thrusting, like an erect narwhal’s horn violently stabbing us in the eyes while piranhas rip and tear our leg flesh in a frenzied orgy of blood lust.

So, bearing in mind we’ve had 20 YEARS of this (nearly) i think it’s time for a change don’t you? But rather than just ‘shutting the fuck up’, as i’m sure many people would like to see, i am proposing a masterplan to transform our vanilla youngsters and middle-aged mums (that’s totally your fanbase right?) into the drug-addled reprobates they deserve to be. Sort of like what Insane Clown Posse did when they made all their albums with satanic themes and sweary lyrics then came out in an interview and stated that they were actually devout Christians and they were only doing it to draw in the disenfranchised youths of America with the intention of then converting them to Jesus once they had them hooked. Only you’d be doing it the other way round! Luring in the bland mainstream masses with your hypnotic elevator musak then BAM! hitting them with some GG Allin type shit and getting them to mainline heroin into their eyeballs while taking a shit on a church roof. Stick that in your organic falafel salad and smoke it pop pickers!

My plan is 3-fold:

Act 1 – Do nothing! Seriously, do absolutely nothing for at least a year. No interviews, no tours, no singles, no albums, do not even give the public a whiff of your mainstream melodies. Thus, you create expectation. HUGE expectation. “Where are Coldplay?” “What will we do without the safety of their rock/pop ditties?” “What will we use to soundtrack our dull insipid lives?” *GASP*” Have they split up?????” etc. etc.

Act 2 – Change your band name, however you must make clear that it’s still Coldplay but in a different guise. Call yourselves Chris Martin and the Shits or something. Or Cockplay. Whatever, i’m sure you’ll think of something. Then announce this name change in the first interview you’ve done for a year! Talk about “the exciting new album” that “all Coldplay fans MUST buy”. You know, really lay it on thick like “if you don’t buy this album then we’ll get Downton Abbey taken off the telly”, you know really put the shits up them.

Act 3 – Now your audience is primed, release the heaviest, most sweary, disgusting, offensive bunch of tracks the world has ever heard, each with its own message of conversion to debauchery. Like, track one could be Chris vomiting onto a microphone for 2 minutes while the rest of the band murder pigs with chainsaws in the background then use their severed piggy limbs to beat a disgusting bloody rhythm on the drums. Then drop some lyrics over the top like “Do-smack-do-smack-do-smack-do-smaaaaaaaaaack-do-smack-do-smack-do-smack-do-smaaaaaaaack-fuck-life-do-smaaaaaaaaaack” or something. Track two could be the continuous sound of an industrial drill with a strained voice screaming “Your desk job is worthless” and “Would you like to buy a monkey” and “This coffee is shiiiiiiiiiiiit” over the top.

With the three phase plan complete you will have hopefully transformed the lifestyle choices of the masses so they more accurately reflect the true spirit of rock music. You can then sit back, relax and enjoy the sight of society collapsing into anarchy!

There’s no need to thank me :)

Peace,
Niesche.