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A confused millennial tries to… send a letter

AS A millennial, I don’t understand things the older generation are into like home ownership, Morrissey and penetrative sex. Today I’m trying to ‘send a letter’: 

Apparently, from Shakespeare’s day to like the 1980s, it was customary for people to communicate by ‘letter’. I’m quite into historical stuff, like my dad’s Blur CDs, so sending a letter seemed like a cool way to learn about the past. How wrong was I?

‘Letters’ are pieces of paper with messages on, and you can’t just download them from the internet. Even if you did you’d have to print them, which okay? They pre-date even texting and take several days to arrive, like the ravens in Game of Thrones. 

So I got a piece of paper and the problems started. Who was I going to send my letter to? There’s my mum, but I see her in the kitchen all the time. Zelensky’s cool, but he’s always being bothered by Brits with problems. So I settled for my girlfriend, Jenna.

I began by drawing emojis, then cut-and-pasted – this is something you can do by hand – part of the Wikipedia page on medieval torture, to bulk it out.

I felt I should include something romantic, so I wrote, ‘Thanks for wanking me off last week lol’. Made it a meme by drawing Garfield saying ‘Thanks for the wank!!!’ and that was sorted.

Was it fuck. Now you’ve got to put the letter in an ‘envelope’, which is like a large, paper cocaine bag, and you can’t scrunch it up into a ball, you have to fold it really precisely to make it fit, like origami. Then you have to write the address on it, and it’s really long with a postcode on, which apparently isn’t just a drill rap thing.

Worst of all is you have to put a sticker of the Queen on, which is morally wrong to me. They cost 95p. If you sent 20 letters a day that’s £19. It’s not like the Queen needs the money now she’s dead.

Fucking finally, you’re tweeting, but no. I still had to take it to a post box in the pissing rain. Then I stood by the letter box waiting for a reply until my dad came out pissing himself to tell me you don’t get a reply straight away. This is insane.

It’s been three days and I’ve heard nothing. Jenna must have dumped me. I’ve DMed Oaklyn, her best mate, to see if I can get a handie off her instead. I can’t believe this was how people used to communicate in the olden days. No wonder Romeo and Juliet split up.

Dear Sir Keir, my speech went down so well I was worried I'd won Britain round. Then I remembered they're nutters

SERIOUSLY worried I’d been too successful out there, Sir Keir. They were clapping every other sentence of my big speech. Then I remembered: they’re nutters. 

At first I thought they’d rumbled me. That I’d been exposed as a Labour agent deep within the Conservatives at my very moment of glory and they were mocking me by applauding empty platitudes about loving enterprise.

Then I looked out at the audience and realised they’re mad as snakes. Tory members, ponying up monthly for the shitshow of the last 12 years, people who really believe that all Boris did wrong was look at a cake.

I rattled through the speech, no longer worried at all about my oaken delivery or it being unintelligible nonsense. They even cheered when I mentioned the anti-growth coalition we made up like I was James Bond exposing Spectre.

And when I finally ran out of Thatcherite inanities and got off stage, it was going great. Priti was glaring at Suella, Gove was spilling the tea about Kwarteng’s remedial maths classes at Eton, and Penny had gone pro-benefits faster than she went anti-trans.

The whole party’s locked in civil war, you’re 25 points ahead in the polls, mortgages are rarer than diamond dog turds and we’re rebranding the winter of discontent as Tory.  I’m doing well, right?

Because I know you’re cross about the U-turn on the tax rate. You’d really pushed for it, it was the flagship policy to discredit Conservatism for a decade, then I caved in when Shapps threatened me. Sorry. He had a knife.

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