Dear Boris

Mayor of London
Greater London Authority
City Hall
The Queen’s Walk
More London
London 
SE1 2AA

31^st May 2013

Dearest Boris,

It has been a while since I applied quill to parchment, please accept my deepest apologies.

I have enjoyed some of your recent escapades, I particularly enjoyed watching Eddie Mair apply some journalism on your ass. I hope your mate gave that geezer the fucking good shoeing he richly deserved.

I have a problem. And thought you’d be just the middle aged straight white man to help. The problem Boris my big blonde cuddly bear is homosexuality. That’s right, I said it, homosexuality.

There is not enough of it going on.

Do you see what I did there I subverted the anticipated direction, very clever, and very postmodern to reference it mid letter.

We all know that homosexuality is fabulous; homosexuals are fabulous, they are stylish, energetic, look after themselves, are creative and make the most wonderful entertainers.

You need to move immediately to promote homosexuality as the ideal life style choice. Think logically, there is a long list of societal ills and woes that you could strike off your to do list if you pushed to enforce homosexuality as de rigeur.

We live in an over populated city Boris; people living cheek by jowl, public transport is a squeeze, schools are overflowing. Yet if there were no children begat for a few years we would quickly decrease the pressure on the NHS, education services, social services, benefit budgets. See, a bit of bum fun starts to make good fiscal sense.

I appreciate that there might be some sections of society that struggle to swallow (excuse the deliberate, and funny pun) this new and exciting policy, but we’ll come to them later. Let’s get back to the positives.

As a public school educated Conservative I am sure you know loads of closeted homosexuals. Just think what a breath of fresh air this would be, they could stop living a lie and tow the party line with gusto. They would carry you on high down Old Compton Street praising your wisdom and bravery.

You might have some religious types that seem to think homophobia is cool. It’s not cool Boris, they need to learn that, and I’d be inclined to put them in prison at the slightest hint of quibbling. Fuck the police, due process and courts, build you own massive gay re-education centre and process them as soon as possible. I have a notion that the Catholics won’t take too long to convince.

Back to the good stuff. Gay tourism – by positioning London as the modern Sodom or Gomorrah (those places sounded like a shit load of fun) you would be able to draw in the pink pound, dollar or rial. Did I mention they are all rich, rich and fabulous?

Do you remember how confusing it was trying to meet women, probably not, due to your sheer animal magnetism? But for some of us it was fraught with anxiety and confusion. Not so for the homosexual. Just think of how easy life would have been if you went out looking for an erotic encounter and it was not dressed up as anything else. There would be less social anxiety, more honesty and openness, and a joie de vivre just lacking thanks to your mate Evil Dave. Splendid, those wonderful homosexuals.

So I hope I have started to paint an interesting picture – the positives far outweigh any perceived negatives, so go on Boris, be brave, embrace homosexuality as the answer to all of our problems.

Love and hugs,

Adam

Mayor of London
Greater London Authority
City Hall
The Queen’s Walk
More London
London 
SE1 2AA

20th September 2012 

Comrade Boris,

I was sat this morning, eating my proletarian breakfast cereal and casually flicking through the latest editions of The Socialist Worker, The Morning Star and Razzle, when I felt a great disturbance in the force, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. I feared something terrible had happened. 

Flicking on the communal wireless I got the soothing tones of John Humphries, and then I realised what it was. Michael Gove is at it again – ruining lives so that he can win big on Dave’s tick off list of ‘British institutions to ruin within a five year government’

And it set me to thinking as to how you can play a part in this fun and nationwide game. Obviously you had a grand Olympics - passing it off as your idea, that you built the stadia single handed, invented the sports, mined, refined and forged the medals, personally purchased and distributed tickets for all and set the price of all the terrible Olympic Park food at £6.50. £6.50 for a dry sausage sandwich…christ almighty, but I digress.

To keep in the public eye you need to employ two powerful devices:

The popular love of talent shows, and voting for your favourite thing on a Saturday night

The popular disdain for actually voting in democratic, power bestowing elections

In the midst of those two things you can get the public to vote on policy in an amusing and entertaining way.

My suggestion is this – prise Dave’s big book of hate from his clammy mitts – you know, the one where all tories send in their selfish, spiteful, racist ideas, and he then distils them through his special filter of super evil – by talking to Gove about them to make sure they contain the right level of malevolence. The content is just too good to keep to yourselves.

Then you need to be able to share these ideas – my suggestion is a giant electronic scoreboard – physically built in London, and ideas are voted up and down the list by text, phone and internet.

I would suggest blowing up Great Ormond Street and using that site to build the giant scoreboard – no-one gives a shit about ill children anymore do they. Or perhaps the Royal Chelsea Hospital, who really needs all those useless, expensive red coated old gippers.

So the screen goes up, and on opening night you introduce the three hour special spelling out the latest ten ideas for the public to vote on. There can be entertainment between each idea – perhaps you could show a young family being made homeless because of a cap on housing benefit, or how about a young child dying in her father’s arms because her local A&E has been shut…ha ha, bloody hilarious, and so much better than the X Factor.

Through the course of the evening you would spell out the inestimable benefits for those with cash beyond the dreams of avarice, and let the general population how lucky they are not be charged for the oxygen they hoover down willy-nilly.

The votes would come in, be independently verified – but obviously not by any of those dirty European communists and on the Sunday result show the top rated policy would be brutally enacted live on our screens.

And that sir would be democracy in action – I cannot wait to see the cut away to the studio to see all those police officers being made redundant, tanks being sold off to third world despots, and especially all those dirty foreign bastards being put back on the banana boats from whence they came.

It’ll make you famous Boris, more famous than Dave, just think of that.

No fee required for this idea – your lot are so close to ruining everything good in Britain I’m just going to spend this weekend quietly weeping.

Love your work

Adam

Mayor of London
Greater London Authority
City Hall
The Queen’s Walk
More London
London 
SE1 2AA

13th August 2012

Dear Boris,

London stands apart, glorious and lovely. I have nothing to complain about – the last few weeks have been simply splendid, the triumph of effort over celebrity, fraternity bridging divides and some wonderfully supple young bodies to admire. I have been a lifelong Olympics fan, and the London 2012 games will go down as the finest in history.

Chapeaux sir, chapeaux.

I do however have some suggestions; I hope you take them in the spirit of free love in which they are meant.

With the British people basking in a reflected glory, and being as George Michael so eloquently and subtly put it ‘At the centre of the Universe’, surely there is the danger of a peak of arousal quickly sliding into a flaccid disappointment. I would suggest a series of closing parties, just to show the world how fucking special we really are.

Now last night’s musical extravaganza might have got old call me Dave dancing like an embarrassing Dad , but is the Spice Girls miming and Take That whining really the best we can do. I think not sir, we can do so much better than such derivative and middle of the road crap. We want the whole world to say ‘what the fuck just happened’ not ‘Oh, that was nice, they wheeled out Eric Idle for his customary ten pounds to talk about the good old days of python’

So in rightly establishing myself as the artistic director for next months televised closing party here is what I suggest:

A show displaying the best in British music and creativity – split into three parts.

I’ll explain the first here, so that you can get a feel for the creative direction – I’ll send the rest later in the week for your approval:

The psychedelic space worms – atomised LSD is pumped from small containers underneath each spectator’s seat in the half hour preceding the start. The event starts, the lights pulsate and strobe around the stadium in time to Belfast by Orbital the audience respond to the music swaying in time, obeying the subliminal messages in the accompanying footage – the audience strip off their clothes and start to salaciously devour lime calippo after lime calippo. As the rapture increases the audience sweat, and thanks to the bioluminescence in the calippos the audience collectively glow and the glowing syncopates, pulsing with the music.

While the audience glow and love, one hundred giant space worms descend from the roof –the worms dance to the music, the worms love each other and start to copulate rhythmically. Each giant space worm explodes, shooting hundreds of thousands of small          flying worms around the stadium. The stadium is full of writhing, glowing worms, all singing along beautifully to the music, the audience sway in time, captivated by the beauty they reach out and eat the worms, they rush onto the track and writhe and bathe in the gentle, soothing, warm worm mucus while eating those worms within reach. Suddenly a hole in the centre appears and a one hundred metre long thirty metre wide worm leaps out of the ground. It is being ridden Princess Anne, disgusted at the feculent, rampant worm driven fornication she directs the worm around the ground, eating the naked humans and absorbing the tiny worms.

Having wrested order back into the stadium, Anne silences the shrieking the humans, terrified by the twenty minutes of worm based human destruction they have just witnessed.

Insectoid wings sprout from Anne’s back and she rises gracefully into the air – communicating telepathically she eases the minds of the audience and the TV viewers. Bathed in a glorious white light she is beautiful, we are all calm, we love her. Anne     dematerialises, and at that second appears simultaneously in the homes of everyone watching on TV. Leaving a small warm egg to worship, she vanishes never to be seen again.

So, there we go, I am sure you can get a feel for the creative direction – something a little more challenging, a little more cerebral – that is the message we need to get across to the world.

I have investigated the space worms, and have discovered where in the Universe to get them – George Michael showed me as he has such good galactic spatial awareness.

So for the worms, the drugs, the music and production I have estimated it will only cost ninety seven million pounds. If you would be so kind to send payment by return I can start to acquire the worms, and put the rest of my plans into place.

This will be an earth shattering performance, and one that would stamp your mayoral tenure as the most enlightened in the history of all Universes.

Love and hugs

Adam

Mayor of London
Greater London Authority
City Hall
The Queen’s Walk
More London
London
SE1 2AA

5^th July 2012

Dear Boris,

Hello handsome, it’s been a while, I apologise. I’ve been terribly busy over the last few weeks cataloguing my beetles – a taxonomic delight, yet trying when one’s assistants disappear for days on end on opiate binges. I’m sure you know how it is, having to drag Kit from East End Dock Side crack dens while thrashing the oriental proprietor about the head and body with ones shillelagh. You just can’t get the staff these days. So with boys chastised and back at their task, I thought I’d write to my dear friend, Boris.

Unsurprisingly I have a bone of contention, an issue that threatens to engulf this fair city of ours that I demand you deal with immediately. I am lead to believe that at some point this summer De Courbertin’s Games are coming to London, and that the citizenry is somewhat concerned as to their ability to attend market, clerk at their jobs and most importantly walk through St James’ to acquire a new hat.

This sir is simply shocking – gentlemen wearing the wrong hats in summer will be the very downfall of this country. Although I am fairly close to attributing that to the mobile telephonic exchange – but that can be addressed in another letter.

However, as you well know I am not one to simply grumble and gripe, but I am at your service to offer expediencies as to the best way to move the denizens of London betwixt home and work.

I am forgoing my customary summering in India and Papua as I have volunteered my athletic services to the country – I anticipate winning in weight lifting, boxing and pistol shooting.

But while I break a sweat in honour of King and country, I have considered and outlined some alternative transportations to enable London to keep on the move. I have researched all of these thoroughly, and would easily work to ameliorate the pain felt by the commuting classes.

1: Psychical Bridging – Every worker makes a facsimile of themselves to sit at their draughtsman’s board , loom or typesetting machine. Dressed in appropriate clothes, and with a liberal dosing of ones own vital fluids that facsimile can be made to work via the power of thought.

The worker sits quietly at home, focusing his thoughts on the physical tasks that need to be done, he then imagines those tasks ejaculating from the top of his head in a rich stream of energy – focusing the energy towards his place of work, and thence his facsimile the energy will enter the body establishing a psychical bridge allowing the worker to control the remote personage to carry out the days toil.

While there is no scientific basis for this, it is scientific fact and it really is very simple, I’ve done it, and to aid how busy I am I have up to 10 facsimiles wondering the streets of London going about my business – procuring cheese, hats, birds of paradise, while I can focus on the important things – drinking gin and playing baccarat.

2: Britain loves animals – In our glorious country we have 2.1 million dairy cattle – and in London around 2.67 million people use the tube per day. So if everyone using the tube were to be issued a cattle to ride to work, not only would the tube be lovely and quiet, but those cow-riders would also have access to a lovely glass of milk should they require. I am sure you have noticed the 0.57 million disparity, but fear not – we would implement a cattle sharing scheme whereby smaller people could share a cow if headed in a similar direction.

The alternative would be that there are many other animals in the UK that could be put to use to plug the 570000 person gap – horses, sheeps, llama, zebra etc. It would all be quite exciting. You could even hold a competition so that a few lucky commuters would get to choose an animal of choice from the zoo to ride to work. I’d go for a bear, or a tiger. What would you go for Boris – a panther I bet?

3: My final suggestion might not be possible to action on time, but maybe useful in the future to aid congestion in London. At the start of this missive I noted my interest as an amateur coleopterist . I also have an interest in genetic mutation and have been working to genetically alter the world’s strongest beetle so that it might be put to use by human overlords. I have succeeded in creating a 70kg Onthophagus Taurus, of the superfamily scarabaeoidea – a dung beetle in laymen’s terms. As a creature that can lift 1100 times its own weight, this equates to my new uber species being able to carry 6 full double decker buses.

So far I have 10 of these magnificent flying beasts in my stables – they are a bit snappy, but are learning to obey my every command. I have harnessed them, and trained them to carry a large wicker gondola – each capable of containing 500 people. Just picture the scene Boris, humans carried work under the wings of a giant beetle, it would certainly ease the strain on the train.

One small problem is that scaled up they do eat upwards of 5 tonnes of dung per day – and if they run low they will have a pop at the stable hands.

So with three magnificent, manageable and scientifically considered options at your disposal what are you going to do? What are you going to do Boris.

As per our previous agreement I will settle for the very reasonable 75% of fees taken along with my standard £500000 consulting fee. Think nothing of it- I await my payment by return.

Tinkerty tonk old boy

Adam Proops

Boris Johnson 
Mayor of London
Greater London Authority
City Hall
The Queen’s Walk
More London
London SE1 2AA

 15th May 2012

Dear Boris,

Apologies for drawing you away from Olympic training – I hope that the sessions are going well and getting you properly prepared for the events you are entering. I am looking forward to seeing the surprise on the faces of the worlds press as you run a sub 2 hour marathon, squat 775 kilos, win the men’s 100m freestyle, crush the Chinese at the wiff-waff table and show the poise and grace for which you are best known as you slaughter the dressage competition.

I have an issue that only you are in a position to help with – help me Boris it is a life-threatening problem.

The issue may appear trivial at first. I know that to date I have only addressed you with the most pressing matters afflicting our good city – lack of mime artists etc. but please bear with me as I have noticed a broad pattern of doom which could easily bring down society as we know it.

We’ll start from the position of your own sartorial excellence – the finest tailors of Saville Row must climb over each other to swathe your athletic frame in their finest cloth. If only the other denizens of London paid such attention.

This morning as I was pushing the studs into my shirt, buffing my winter boots and readying the Macintosh I was looking forward to admiring the other rain based accoutrements of the day. You would be shocked and appalled that when I boarded my London bound train at Isleworth I found myself sat next to a young lady wearing slippers.

“Excuse me Madam” I asked “Are you aware that you are wearing slippers, did you forget to don your sensible rain shoes?”

She was taken aback, and as a shrill tone issued forth about ‘minding my own facking business’ it was made clear to me that she was wearing something called an Ugly Boot. Straight from the colonies these Australian woollen abominations seem to be seen as acceptable ladies outdoor footwear. I would no more consider wearing my smoking jacket, fez or Turkish slippers out of doors, yet the youth of today have no such compunction.

I see it thusly; first they wear their slippers to work, next you will see a young lady in a night garment in a grocer, and before you know it young gentleman will remain in pyjamas and robe travelling to work. Workplaces will degenerate into pits of feculent disgrace as gentleman and ladies become aware of each other’s nocturnal appurtenances.  

Seething masses of ill mannered, erotically charged Londoners will prevail, unable to focus, companies will fold, footmen will loose their jobs, homes will close and society as we know will be brought to it’s knees. And all because of the young lady, sur le train wearing her slippers.

You Sir, have it within your power to stop this, to halt the very end of society. Laws must be passed, style police employed, and swift, vicious punitive justice metered out.

London would once again be a style capital; a train full of gents in bowler hats could only be a good thing.

So I have collated a brief list of those items that when worn out of context should not be allowed. I have listed the appropriate context next to the item, and a suggestion of the punishment applicable for ill judged wearing.

Ugg Boots - Context, August 30th at midnight in the Australian Outback  -  Punishment, Death

Flip Flops - Context, to stop feet from burning on the Cote D’Azur sand - Punishment, 10 years hard labour

Hot Pants - Context, 1962 – 1964 only - Punishment, 10 years hard labour

White Socks - Context, nothing applicable - Punishment, Death

Leggings - Context, acceptable with a long top - Punishment, when worn as trousers, 25 years solitary

Polo Shirts - Context, playing polo, or relaxing on the Amalfi Coast - Punishment, for wearing Hollister or Abercrombie & Fitch, instant execution

I hope that helps you to formulate some useful policy ideas – and at the same time make London a better and more stylish place. I would be only too happy to lead the fashion police, a salary of £750000 will suffice, and I have ordered my first five suits from Kilgour on account for the Mayor of London’s Office.

You could advance these ideas to a national, and even global level – making you the sartorial representative to the UN – splendid.

I hope to hear from you soon, and look forward to a long and brutal reign.

Tinkerty tonk,

Adam Proops

Boris Johnson 
Mayor of London
Greater London Authority
City Hall
The Queen’s Walk
More London
London SE1 2AA

11^th May 2012

Dear Boris,

Congratulations on getting narrowly re-elected, and for adding another four years to the Boris for PM campaign trail.

I thought this might be a good time to pause and reflect; not on your successes in power, they have been nil, but to look forward and to make plans – such plans as to ensure no-one ever forgets the name Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson.

Some great, and not so great leaders set out a long term plan – Hitler for example had a five year one – didn’t turn out quite so well unless you count ‘dead, on fire, in a ditch’ a success. Yet they have their merits, and I thought a little visionary thinking, coupled to your customary buffoonery would serve us well.

Feel free to pick and choose ideas, but remember Boris, if you don’t push yourself you will get nowhere – think big and they’ll remember you.

Year One

Starting is often the toughest thing to do, so think big. You need money; Georgie and the government won’t help, so let’s get a plan in place to line the pockets of city hall.

Simple – you declare yourself the messiah. Then deny it, and then claim it to be true, then deny it again – seed a little hysteria – a YouTube clip of you converting a Lib Dem voter by ruffling his hair and you’ll have them queuing down the street waiting to be blessed. Turn City Hall into the holiest of holies – proclaim a sanctum through which people can talk directly to hashem, allah or the dark one – get it lined with jewels and opulence beyond the dreams of avarice and have tory party contributors pay you a million pounds each to ‘talk’ to god.

Year Two

Now you’ve got the money you need the project. Paris has it’s tower, New York it’s skyscrapers and Rio a scary giant Jesus. What are you going to build? Isn’t it obvious, a 500 foot tall fire breathing flying laser eyed autonomous Bobby Moore robot. As the finest Londoner of all time, we (even Milwall fans) would feel safe as our 1000 ton moral guardian paraded and jetted the streets. It could be co-opted by the old bill should they require.

So by this time next year you could see on London Tonight the regular ‘What did Giant Bobby do today’ as we see footage of him rescuing a cat from a tree, using his body as a temporary bridge over the Thames or mercilessly destroying shoplifters with his laser eyes and napalm breath. Wonderful stuff.

Unbeknownst to the rest of the world you have secretly been having an army of other 1966 world cup winning robots built – each with their own unique skills and uses in running the capital more effectively. Giant Nobby Stiles could bore and lay new underground tunnels at a remarkable rate, Giant George Cohen could process the entire cities garbage producing clean drinking water and power from his robot urethra and anus. Giant Jimmy Greaves could do naught, Giant Roger Hunt would cure all illness with magical tears, and Giant Jackie Charlton would police the entire capital with his terrifying all seeing eye.

At a press conference, sat in the palm of Giant Bobby you reveal the rest of team, and demonstrate how collectively they can deal with all of the problems of London, and make it a beautiful, safe and harmonious place in which to live.

Little would the population know that you are their ultimate controller, responsible for their every action, and in turn able to enslave the populous with your undefeatable robot army. Not that we are going to do that just yet.

Year Three

Expansion is the name of the game – at a press conference suggest that Surrey, Middlesex, Bedfordshire, Hertfordshire, Essex and Kent cede all land to London immediately – you will send out the Giant Bobby Charlton to crush any insurrection. You will call this dramatically enlarged city Super London. You will also change your title from Mayor to Emperor.

Month by month you will step further afield taking new counties and cities, amalgamating the whole of the UK. Don’t worry about the Isle of Mann, it’s a miserable hole.

As you approach Scotland, the uppity locals will no doubt complain. This is where you play your ace. Calling together your robots and uttering the magic words ‘Margaret Thatcher was so hot’ they form together like Voltron creating a 2000ft tall robot model of you.

Using your super bumbling, and ultra latin declension powers the Scots will submit to your will. Scotiam veni vici so to speak.

Returning to your newly built opulent palace in the Thames, the citizens of Super London sacrifice 1000 bullocks to your glory and conduct brutal gladiatorial games for 100 days in your honour. Splendid.

Year Four

So having created a cult, become the richest man in the world, expanded London to envelope all of the UK (excluding Isle of Mann), built the world’s most terrifying fighting force and a giant permanent sand castle that you live in betwixt Westminster and Waterloo bridges the fourth year of your glorious reign should be about consolidation. You only have a year of power left, so it is time to start deciding who will replace you.

There is only one answer, you of course. So as the blessed and honoured ruler of Super London you will reign in perpetuity and the citizenry will worship at you feet. Light a cigar, whip a poor person and toast your good health

So, there we go, just an idea – but hopefully something to get the old grey matter going.

Pip pip old boy

Adam Proops

Boris Johnson 
Mayor of London
Greater London Authority
City Hall
The Queen’s Walk
More London
London SE1 2AA

13^th March 2012

Dear Boris,

I trust this finds you well, and as handsome as ever – apologies for disturbing the afternoon’s human chess session. Take Kit’s Queen with your Livingstone Pawn.

Meandering through Kensington at the weekend, I slowed to revel in the warmth of the sun, spring was hinted at in the air – pausing time I played with the light and watched it bounce through the Brazilian topaz topping my cane. The very topaz I had won from Zico after an impromptu penalty competition at the Maracana.

Adjusting the bunch of violets worn at the neck in place of the customary cravat, I settled down for tea, gin and crumpets at a local hostelry. Having completed my afternoon tea I called for Wainwright, he fetched the Sunday Bentley and drove me home.

“Wainwright” said I,

“Yes sir?” he replied with his typical Bermondsey perspicacity,

“What on earth are all these people doing?” I enquired, looking at the throng

“Tourists sir, thousands of ‘em.”

For the streets of London were awash with foreigners – speaking all manner of tongues – Frankish, Breton, Latin, Welsh – Wainwright was forced to drive at speed while shouting all manner of obscenities out of his window to make the blighters move.

On arriving home I retired to the laboratory to consider the issue – how to clear the streets, and thence move more quickly about the city? The answer was obvious – if the masses of humanity were conducted from place to place out of sight then we might be driven or perambulate at ease. But how to do this?

And then I struck upon it – when I invented vermiculture to deal with the issues of household waste I was fascinated at the burrowing ability of earthworms. Are you aware of earthworms, I invented them – splendid beasts. I invented sericulture too.

What I propose is a massive building scheme requiring state investment to create a series of subterranean tunnels beneath the very streets of London. You may think me mad sir, but no. I am breeding an earthworm large enough to carry hundreds of people in comfort in its internal slime cavity.

If that does not work, I would certainly propose some manner of underground train. Fear not, the advent of ‘electricity’ would mean you need not use a steam engine. You could have a number of these ‘underground lines’ linking up different parts of London for the workers to use. For instance, one could run from the car plant at Vauxhall to Walthamstow so that they can gamble away their wages on a hound. Splendid. Name it after her Maj the Q, or one of her predecessors.

I’m sure you would agree that it is a winning idea, fear not, as a gift to London and humanity I will not ask for a fee, just that I might pilot my underground worm personally.

I understand that some of the other great Metropolae have dallied with such an idea – perhaps unknown to my current self I have transported between existences to advise their civic leaders on the benefits of intra-city mega-worm travel. So I shall endeavour to examine what exists already/has existed/is yet to exist and report back. I am planning month long sojourns to New York, Tokyo, Babylon and Teotihuacán.

Allowing for butlers, snuff, champagne, ortolan and steamer passage I would estimate the exploration to cost in the region of £337000, I will of course return with some sweet confection adorned with an offensive name, and provide a public speech on the efficacy of worm travel. I will call it ‘On the efficacy of worm travel, or, why an ‘underground’ rail system would be beneficial to the citizenry of London’

I await your cashier’s cheque; in meantime I ready my staff to journey.

Tinkerty tonk old boy,

Adam Proops

Boris Johnson 
Mayor of London
Greater London Authority
City Hall
The Queen’s Walk
More London
London SE1 2AA

6^th March 2012

Dear Boris,

Pip pip old boy, sorry for dragging you away from the swan hunting, but I had an urgent thought I needed to share.

I was watching the news the other evening, and delighted in seeing those two oiks getting convicted for robbing that poor Malaysian student. I’m looking forward to a disproportionally long sentence to be handed down – do see if you can lever in the most punitive judge.

It got me to thinking about local pride. While I love London, as do you, as do millions of our fellow Londoners – some do still feel at odds with society. What can we do to draw them in, engage and excite them, without them having to resort to the type of extreme shopping we witnessed last August?

I’ve looked across time and space, at all universes that have been and ever will be and have a couple of suggestions for you to mull over.

The Palio in Sienna is right good – for hundreds of years, the different quarters of the city have been pitted against each other in a break neck city centre horse race – the citizens are passionate about their place, fiercely competitive and immensely proud when they win.

We could do the same in London – a city centre location for the people to descend upon – teams representing different areas of town would race for glory, with the eventual winner netting a 25% discount on council tax for their locale. You could have the Hackney Rude Boys racing the Stamford Hill Frummers, the Shoreditch Barleys against the Soho Fruits – wonderful.

It would be a visual spectacle, get people behind the place they live and a great opportunity for summer based public drunkenness, black market gambling, and a perfect use for the Olympic Stadium post games.

It’s not as though we have any existing tribal or aggressive sporting organisations – so I think it would be a great way to relieve stress without resorting to smashing up stuff or each other.

That is the libertarian route to social cohesion, the other might be deemed a little darker, but bear with me as it might be worth examining further. I read a great instructional tome about a group called The Stasi, I don’t know if you’ve heard of them – a wonderful organisation.

Through a system of brutal interrogation, divide and rule, mental and physical torture and the implementation of the Orwellian paranoia of everyone around you being a secret policeman, they kept order for years. While I would never advocate ‘killing’ people as such – we could send them to France. They have loads of space, and are almost entirely communistic malcontents.

If that seems a bit strong then my final idea might be a little softer.

Naturism, state sanctioned, neigh mandated naturism. With the exception of Ken Russell’s 1969 masterpiece Women in Love I have never seen two men fighting while in the all together. The human form is quite amusing, and I cannot see a group of angry young men throwing bricks at the fuzz, tackle out.

So if the state was to ban clothes altogether, we would cut down on crime, increase the peace and all enjoy even suntans. The high streets would be rid of identikit stores – there’d be nothing left to steal and we would be left with time to literally consider our navels – spawning societal happiness and joy all round.

I’m happy to undertake the mandatory six-month research period – I have found a naturist retreat in Tahiti at a very reasonable US$850 per night. Along with 1^st class return flights, including a fortnight in San Francisco to get over the long flight, per diems, days out and scuba diving lessons a round cheque of £65000 should cover my costs.

In fact I am sat at my desk sans vetements, and it’s making me happier already.

I look forward to receiving my cheque; I will of course buy you some sweets with a rude name.

Kind regards,

Adam Proops

Boris Johnson 
Mayor of London
Greater London Authority
City Hall
The Queen’s Walk
More London
London SE1 2AA

19^th January 2012

Dear Boris,

Oh Boris my love, what a wonderful Boris you are, you are, what a wonderful Boris you are. And none are more fitting to have an island named after them.

Some previously named islands were named in a peculiarly haphazard fashion – just collections of letters to make noises like Anglesey or Tahiti or Man. Surely the better islands are those named after someone splendid, The Cook Islands (Captain Cook), Tasmania (Abel Tasman) and Bouvet Island (Jean-Baptiste Charles Bouvet de Lozier, of course). Splendid.

But, surely the finest island of all islands named after people is Tracy Island. This extravaganza of underground supersonic weaponry is a joy to behold – i’ve been there, met the eponymous Tracy’s – a stout family of chisel jawed, blue eyed heroes. May Odin bless them all with cattle, mead and crumpet.

I’ve been there loads, it’s really good.

And it got me to thinking about your island, I was reading about it in the press and I am very excited about it. As a native Londoner I am delighted in the focus on large scale investment and infrastructure investment. We need to stay competitive with the rest of Europe and the Thames Estuary is perfect placed to support it. Coupled to increased employment and a balance of air traffic I think it is a great idea.

I have an issue though – the drawing in the paper was a bit boring. Tracey Island has a rocket that comes out of a pool – do you have that? No, I know you don’t. Get rid of Norman Foster – yes I know he’s done drawings of other airports, but it is very dull. A very fun exciting airport would draw in greater interest and create a much needed draw in a tired, depressing corner of England.

Imagine pulling up at the Terminal carpark at Boris Johnson International. You step out of your car and the cohesion of the floor gives way, you sink through the carpark with your family and luggage. Licked clean by a swarm of friendly Swiss bees you are loaded into the underwater cannon – and directed towards your check in desk. You and yours are fired in the comfy, hopeful compartment of a torpedo across the bottom of the estuary.

Arriving 3 minutes before you left you can see yourselves preparing in a previous time/universe. The torpedo wobbles to a halt, the nose cone opens and you are ready to check in at the terminal. Your luggage is hoovered up by a giant octopus and you are issued with your tasty gloves – each finger represents a subsequent course in an extravagant meal. You perch upon a tame emu which walks you through the airport to your gate. At this point you are reaching the denouement of your meal – you and your wife are sucking your thumbs with gay abandon, the people are chanting your name, they are being massaged by small monkeys, children are tattooing each other, the carpet is singing Kentish sea shanties and all is well.

Where do we go from here? I don’t know, that’s the beauty of it.

So my point is, relish having an island named after you, but make it bonkers, really really bonkers.

Do, do, do, do, do, i’m loving it,

 ours

Adam Proops

Boris Johnson 
Mayor of London
Greater London Authority
City Hall
The Queen’s Walk
More London
London SE1 2AA

5^th January 2012

Dear Boris,

In between leaping from rooftop to rooftop foiling crime, driving your new vanity bus and translating Proust into Esperanto I am sure you have noticed a blight upon the fair streets of London town.

I refer not to the miserably pious new street preacher at Oxford Circus, the lack of decent, authentic street food or the dawdling that curses our streets come the sales.

London has become boring. It’s surprising, but true. Art, music and contemporary culture is no longer raging against the machine as in previous times of financial hardship, rather it has sidled up to wealthy patrons like a cloying lapdog.

Look at the shops Boris, totally anodyne. Look at the fashion, awful – the 80’s were rubbish, so why resurrect the awful clothing of that dire period?

I got on the train this morning and the people need excitement. I love London, and it is capable of so much more. Further to my previous letters I’m sure you are looking forward to hearing my suggestion because I have THE answer.

Two words – car chases.

I had what alcoholics refer to as a moment of clarity while sat in the cinema on Wednesday. Mrs. P and I were at the Richmond Odeon watching David Finchers version of that Swedish dragon girl book. Don’t bother going, it is properly shit. I was sat watching Daniel Craig mumbling to Captain Von Trapp. It went something like this:

Daniel Craig:  Mumble, mumble, missing girl, mumble, mumble, getting sued, mumble, James Bond, mumble, mumble, inappropriately violent sex

Captain Von Trapp:  Mumble, jumper, mumble, missing niece, mumble, island of inbred Nazis, mumble, edelweiss

Daniel Craig:  Mumble, spectacles, mumble, too cold, mumble, doesn’t the sun ever shine in Sweden, mumble, I’ve got a hot wife, mumble

After an hour of this poorly paced, badly written, impenetrable dross, I looked at my wife and said, “it needs a car chase”

Put simply there is nothing in life that cannot be made better through the delicate inclusion of a right good car chase. Just consider all those awful character based books, paintings and art films that would be better for Jason Statham hammering the nuts off an Audi R8 while shouting expletives and shooting out of the windows.

It should not stop at the arts – the streets of London would be perfect, and it would make London a much more interesting place for locals and tourists alike. Schedule ten or so cracking car chases of different size and variety throughout zone 1 daily and Robert is your mother’s brother – London is interesting and dangerous again.

You would be supporting stunt drivers, giving the police much needed high-speed pursuit fun and giving an impromptu jolt of excitement back to the people of London.

None of this anodyne, insipid and characterless entertainment that Cowell and ITV seem to think we want – fuck no. We want muscle cars doing a ton up Shaftesbury Avenue.

I propose that my wife and myself go on an immediate fact finding mission – we will be visiting the sites of some of the worlds best known car chases – San Francisco, Tokyo, Chicago, Paris, Rio and Marseille to name a few. To allow for car rental, road closures, travel, accommodation and grub I reckon £150000 will do it. I look forward to receiving a cheque.

On our return we would prepare a report for your consideration, and would definitely bring you some sweets with a rude name. The report would spell out some stuff and make a good case for high speed thrills to combat the curse of dull crap.

Think how pleasurable it would be to park your bike outside the office, and watch a Citroën 2cv jump over a skip chased by some Indian cops on scooters waving comedy truncheons.

Brilliant.

Kind regards

Adam Proops

Boris Johnson 
Mayor of London
Greater London Authority
City Hall
The Queen’s Walk
More London
London SE1 2AA

15^th December 2011

Dear Boris,

In between bacchanalian luncheons of nectar and ambrosia, prognosticating on the merits of floating airports and artfully disheveling your hair you may be aware of arguably the biggest issue effecting London since the explosion of talking on public transport (see last weeks letter)

That’s right, the lack of mime artists.

When I were a lad you could not throw a pretend stone in the west end without hitting a sad pig, a slutty robot or magnanimous panda – mounted on their boxes gathering florins, they would mime for a small amount of time for a small amount of money. It were wonderful Boris, the joy that would spread through the crowd as these masters of their art demonstrated the type of nuance, subtlety and exquisite characterisation one simply does not see any more.

And London is the worse for it.

Now, while considering the perverse conservative prerogative of making the poor poorer I struck upon a once in a lifetime idea. With so many youth out of gainful employment, surely we could turn some of them into the mime artists of tomorrow.

You’d deal with London’s spiralling unemployment figures; get people back into work while learning a most valuable skill in today’s society – spreading joy.

Run it past Dave, christ knows he needs an idea. We could bundle them into local co-ops for taxation and management purposes. With small to medium size business providing nearly 60% of our jobs and half of our GDP this upsurge in mime co-operatives would also be beneficial to the economy. We could perhaps be less reliant on the City and more reliant on the noble art of mime.

Obviously, the ramblings of a man longing for a lost or imagined past might not be the best route to create a way out of London’s entertainment, employment and financial quagmire. My suggestion would be a three-month research period starting in June 2012, which I would be very happy to undertake.

My wife and I would start in Athens, the home of the Theatre of Dionysus, the birthplace of mime. We would then move onto Milan, mime’s medieval capital and thence to Paris where it blossomed into the modern era. I have taken the liberty of preparing a conservative budget for the trip. Please send a cheque by return and we will prepare a hand drawn report for you on our return.

Car Hire £750 per day, Aston Martin DB9 x90 days               £67500

Fuel £200 per day, it is an Aston x90 days               £18000

Speeding Fines £5000 £5000

Accommodation £500 per day x90 days               £45000

Salary £5000 pcm x2 people x3 months           £30000

Per Diems £50 per day per person x90 days               £9000

 TOTAL                   £174500

I would of course bring you some sweets with a rude name.

I am sure that you would agree that £174500 is a meagre amount when we consider the multiple benefits to London – decreased unemployment, increased happiness, decreased reliance on the financial sector and increased joy.

That’s right Boris, you would be a hero – carried on high, and lauded for your foresight and imperious genius.

I await your response and my cheque,

Kind regards

Adam Proops

Boris Johnson 
Mayor of London
Greater London Authority
City Hall
The Queen’s Walk
More London
London SE1 2AA

7^th December 2011

Dear Boris,

In between your acts of derring do, cycling around absent-mindedly and amusing a decreasing percentage of the population, I wondered if you had noticed the single biggest blight affecting the citizenry of London?

It is not the spiraling cost of housing, economic doom or the paucity of decent coffee and cake shops. It is people talking on public transport.

I can remember the halcyon days of 1989, getting the bus to school in a strict and reverential silence. The school children of Sutton and Cheam would give up their seats to old ladies, only whisper on odd occasion, and definitely not smoke on the upstairs deck of the 213 betwixt Sutton and Kingston.

Last night I endured a rail and bus journey with the kind of aural assault one might expect if being held by the security services and they believed one was in possession of valuable info. There were three young ladies talking loudly, a gentleman shouting into his movable telecommunications device, a young man listening to a small transportable record player and an couple on the cusp of being old discussing their holiday plans – they are going to Barbados in May should you wish to know. Blimey it was loud – I left the bus in dire need of stiff sherry.

Mr Mayor, I beseech you, implement an immediate and strictly enforced ban on unnecessary talking and noise on all public transport. I would then be able to enjoy the novel I am reading without the facile comments of my fellow commuters.

You may think my suggestion reactionary, or even extreme – however it is based on the public transportation rules enjoyed by the splendid people of Japan. Mobile phone conversations are banned and societal rules ensure that all enjoy a respectful silence.

I propose that my wife and myself go on an immediate fact finding mission – I have prepared a budget for your approval and look forward to receiving a cheque.

Salary £5000 x2 people  x6 months £60000
Flights £10000 1^st class return x2 people £20000
Accommodation £250 per night x180 days £45000
Internal travel £10000 1^st class train £10000
Per diems £50 per day per person x 180 days £18000

TOTAL £153000

The budget seems very reasonable, and I’m sure that for due diligence and budgetary constraints I’d be able to crash at my mate Ben’s house in Tokyo for a night or two.

On our return we would prepare a report for your consideration, and would definitely bring you some Japanese sweets with a rude name. The report would spell out some stuff and make a good case for silence.

Think how pleasurable it would be to travel in blissful, mutual respected silence – I can make it happen for the bargain price of £153000.

Kind regards

Adam