This is a personal appeal to the common thief whose light fingers chanced upon my overcoat:
Return my jacket or suffer a death so cruel that Eli Roth will be begging to direct a film about it.
Thanks to you I am likely to experience frostbite in every region of my body! Everyone knows that it is impossible to rely on the NHS and I will therefore be forced to undertake a grotesque form of amputation with a backstreet quack. How will a limbless Matthew Phillips hope to play guitar after such an operation? I might still manage a little singing but my energetic live performances will be replaced by a lifeless husk, weeping into a microphone.
The most irritating detail about this tragic (YES, tragic!) episode is that I very much doubt that the hapless criminal intended to steal my property at all. It is my belief that the inebriated half-wit picked up my jacket thinking it was their own. The intelligent reader will stare with incredulity at this assertion – ‘Only a mole would be capable of mistaking someone’s property as their own!?’ – I hear you all exclaim. Well, let me assure you, it is not just blind Talpidae mammals who can’t distinguish Topman from Armani, it’s drunken idiots.
The miserable truth is that I simply cannot afford a new overcoat. Cry for me Argentina! I am undone!
The greasy yuppie who wakes this morning to an Alka Seltzer and an alien garment, will not care one-jot that an innocent soul has been permanently deprived of their winter insulation. They will not think of shivering Matthew rubbing sticks together on the Central Line in a desperate bid to warm his creaking bones.
Ok, so I’m being characteristically indulgent but, for once, I feel I’m being entirely justified.
Let me make a final and belated attempt to woo my persecutor... Please please please give me back my jacket. Kites’ future depends on it.
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