Crab School

Dear Sir,

Thank you for your belittling and poorly written application for your child to apply to join crab school. As you know here at crab school we pride ourselves on our reputation, we abhor controversy, vacuums, and also keep nets.

It is with this in mind that we have decided to further your application ontowards in the directional of the vice administrator Hercules WendyGoat for his consideration.

We had to take into the account the following points. Firstly, crab school is dangerous. Crabs are dangerous. Children are not crabs. Your emergent daughter, post-foetally will be neither a crab, nor immune from the destructive claws of crabs. Crabs can be crabs. Crabs sometimes rip other crabs apart. This does not usually make it onto Midlands Today. This is partly because we at Crab School are a secret organisation. No one knows we are here, not even yourself. You just think you do.

Anyway...what I'm trying to say is we would have to think very carefully about allowing a human child into crab school. You know...things might......Well, let me ask you this? Can she speak French? I only ask because none of the crabs can and our French GCSE results are looking a little desperate. We could do with a boost. Would she be willing to eat the human pate that we serve at lunch? You see we couldn't really serve a human alternative...crab pate? I mean could we....

Anyway, I'll let you know. Or I wont (in which case ablskdfbadsfuhalh)

Yours saltily,

Barry Took




Dear Barry Took

I read your recent ramblings with distaste, worry and a slight gnawing horror that has since not quite left me.

It took me back to a little known story, found written on a scrap of storch fuselage I picked up in a Dagenham flea market - telling the fearful tale of a child trapped on a desert island raised by various crabs. That man's name was Andy Black, you may have read of him and his infamous return to the south of leicester where he snipped his way through the local indie scene in a shower of guts and gooey bits the like of which even satan's abbatoir would have found excessive.

Now, many years later your words have focussed me on action.
Later today I will fashion a brass cannon (from brass) and fix it to the forehead of the local ombudsman, arrive at your squalid lodgings and repeatedly blast you with hot lead globes until you beg for mercy through smashed gills.

You better look out. I am coming with my orbs.

Yours,

Verity Guildford.