A Little Letter...

Just put down the torch, Will. Now.

Pardon me from deviating from my regular blog posting. It's just that I have a little message for the ubiquitous Marrowfat Black Eyed Pea Will. I. Am:


Dear Mr Am
In the words of the spectacular Malcolm Tucker: Fuck the fuck off. 
You see, you're absolutely frigging everywhere and if I have to meet your turnip-faced stare one more time I'll shove ragged chip forks into my eyes. 
Are you angling for a British passport by any chance? Because I can think of no other reason why you should be ingratiating yourself so viciously upon the British public. First you pitch up on the X-Factor. Then you appear on the underwhelming screech-fest that is The Voice. From there you somehow manage to carry the Olympic torch through Taunton, although what the fuck you have to do with British heritage, sport or cider is beyond me. Then you hold hostage the entire royal family by barking your vapid lyrics at them on the Jubilee stage outside Buck House. 
Would you like us to shove a stick of Blackpool rock up your arse to complete the US-to-UK transformation? Or perhaps we could flog you publicly with a reinforced teabag? I'd even, personally, be delighted to force feed you a selection of Fray Bentos pies.
Look, Will, the problem isn't that you are here at all. It's just that you appear to be so agonisingly desperate to be noticed. It's even more embarrassing than the stuttering bollocks you churn out in the name of music. 
So spare us will you, Will? Restrain your urge to turn up to the opening of a British envelope, for fuck's sake, because with the recession, the Tories and JLS we've already got enough shit to contend with. 
Yours sincerely
The Kraken