I'm sorry, but I don't believe you. You, Sandiford-Mitchell,
dialled my Bolton phone number and invited me out for a driver's
lager. It certainly wasn't your female so-called friend. Would you
say you had the voice of a slightly gay ice hockey player? If so, I
am sure it was you.

I was aware of your evil presence as the anti-BFSS, but I wasn't
going to let it bother me. Not so many years on, anyway. Your
letters to James H Reeve were truly awful in a toe-curling way, in
stark contrast to mine, but we both pailed in comparison to Eric's
work.

No, several weeks after your phone call, I too got a letter from
James. I was at University at the time, but I was visiting home
with the letter in my knap sack. I inadvertently left it out on the
unpleasant bedside cabinet thing [stage note: fake mahogany...this
was Bolton of course]. It was written in James' erudite style. I
had previously complained at the fact that you had been in touch
when I believed you to have been the antichrist. He replied with
the following words (amongst others):

"I am sorry that Sandiford-Mitchell has managed to foist himself
upon you"

Unfortunately the letter was picked up and read by my mother who
concluded that I was therefore homosexual which, whilst not being
true, nevertheless flavoured the next several years of our
relationship.

In some ways I am deeply envious of your successful career in local
radio. In radio terms you must be at least as successful as James,
and many times more successful than me, although I did meet Timmy
Mallett and just last night was hanging out with the female
presenter of DIY SOS. Of all of the contributors, you were the
worst; yet you have done yourself (and all of us) proud.

Bless you.

Martoole