To whom it may concern

I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate your Bexley Heath branch on there appalling standards of Hygiene.

A month ago my wife and I purchased a number of your ‘Home baked, ethically reared’ Cornish Pasties. Wrapped in ‘Free trade flour from the fields of Palestine’ and stuffed with ‘Organic locally sourced British vegetables’.

That evening we served them with ‘Minted new potatoes’ to my waspish wife’s awful mother.

Happily one of the many Cornish Pasties the obese Gorilla ate was also stuffed with a finger tip, the nail painted in what I believe is called, Barbie pink. This in no way stopped the old bitch stuffing it down her fat gullet; the Barbie pink finger tip became lodged in her throat.

In a bid to save her monstrous mata, my wife attempted the Heimlich manoeuvre and the aforesaid finger tip shot out and smashed into the antique porcelain urn on the fireplace containing her husbands ashes, which crashed to the floor and made a terrible mess on my new shag pile carpet. On seeing this happy event my mother in law had a heart attack and collapsed on my scraggy wife, crushing her beneath her enormous bulk.

It required six good men and true along with a block and tackle to lift the creature into the waiting ambulance. My wife was tossed in the back of another complaining of nothing more serious than six broken ribs and a crushed sternum.

The ambulance carting the beast, also known as my mother in law, was half way up Shooting break hill, when she woke. Her hideous bellowing caused the driver to swerve and crash into a Porsche inconsiderately parked on the street, but not before and elderly lady had been bounced off the bonnet and two of her yapping dogs squashed.

The crash caused the rear doors of the ambulance to spring open and the blimp on her trolley shoot out and career down the hill to deposit the Harpy in the river.

Given the chaos the old baggage caused, it was some days before she was found floating in the English Channel, but only because her already massive bulk had swollen to alarming proportions on death and had to be exploded off the coast by the Royal Navy, as a danger to shipping . The Sailors onboard generously gave her a burial at sea, mostly as she sunk without a trace moments later, for which I am deeply grateful as it saved me the cost of a funeral.

The screaming shrew, my wife, was less fortunate. On entering our local hospital whose motto is ‘Cleanliness is next door’ she rapidly contracted a Super bug and died an agonizing death some days later, which I thoroughly enjoyed watching.

I enclosed the police, ambulance and Navy reports along with the bills for the broken porcelain urn, the cleaning bill for the shag pile carpet, the bill for the repairs to the Porsche, the cost of replacement of two Jack Russell, extra yapping variety, Terriers and the funeral cost of one miserable old woman and the hideous horror that was my wife.

The finger tip should you wish this to be returned to the owner, is currently residing in the freezer next to my new Russian girlfriends bottles of Gold-digger Vodka.

Please make your large settlement cheque out to Romana Radanovich.

Yours sincerely

Bill Wiggins