On Graffiti

Dear Octopus,

This evening I sent the following email to the manager of a local bar recently (and fleetingly) visited.

As follows:

Dear Sir or Madam,

A few weeks ago my wife and I frequented your bar on our way to a plumbing and tiling exhibition in Margate ('Plumbing and Tiling And Its Effect On Agrarian Reform 1832-1879' if you're interested, in fact the keynote speaker was the brother-in-law of singer Joan Armatrading). We've passed your establishment many times - not just on our way to these sorts of cultural exhibitions I might add - and have always considered it a charming little venue, a preconception further ratified by our friend Ndegwa, who before he was deported always spoke very highly of its rum punch.

Due to be it being 'happy hour' we purchased four cocktails, and settled in for some relaxing leisure-time.

(Before you ask: no, we were not drink-driving. Due to a violent abhorrence of the automotive industry's recent trading activities in the Far East my wife will only travel by public transport.)

Everything was going smoothly until I noticed some writing scrawled on the wall by my head. As you will see from the attached photograph, someone has written 'I LOVE COCK (TAILS)' on the wall of your bar. The word 'tails' is in a different colour to the rest of the writing. Now I'm not sure if this is supposed to be an intentional joke, or simply whoever 'done the crime' just ran out of green paint and left something accidental which could be construed as rude. Either way, my wife and I thought it sensible to let you know.

Please don't think me a prude. My other wife and I love our share of bawdy ribaldry on occasion (you should see some of the words that come out of our bi-annual Christmas Boggle tournament!), but if this graffiti is indeed unknown to your non-so-watchful eye then we thought it better to bring to your attention than not. It's also worth me noting how much we enjoyed the experience of your bar - other than this crude allusion to an extraneous affection for male poultry - and the Appletinis unofficially commissioned by your barman were absolutely delicious. We will be sure to come back again on our way to a conference on now-defunct railway terminologies (ie: 'ashcat', which ironically also came out at last year's Boggle tournament, but sadly was rejected by my Uncle Wojciech on grounds of being previously-established as defunct) when we are in Earlsfield again in July.

Apologies for the dimness of the image in the attached photograph, although a professional (photographer) might argue that this was more down to the poor quality of light in your establishment that the flash equipment with which my camera was originally endowed in its manufacture.

Yours sincerely,

I came up with idea today whilst trapped in the belly of London's loudest and most intimidating MRI machine, whilst listening to the attemptedly-soothing 'Le Bleus de la Docteur' playlist assembled in the winter of 2009 / 2010:


Laura Marling - Ghosts
Edith Piaf - La Vie En Rose
Smokey Robinson - Don't Know Why
Ane Brun - The Treehouse Song
The Perishers - Pills
Radiohead - Fake Plastic Trees


The song choices are neither here nor there really. Just context.


I eagerly await a reply to both this valuable correspondence and the results of the aforementioned scan. I have a feeling that both could prove interesting.


(Particularly the latter. I'm intrigued to see if the pea-sized ball of tin foil that I forced up my nose in 1989 - and never recall seeing since - has now worked its way into the cavernous and probably hollow atria of what is laughably labelled my brain.)


Your loving friend,


Action Squid