Dear Chav,

I trust this letter finds you in rather better health than I am at the moment as I sit here typing, a bag of frozen peas on my distressed knee, unable to move my neck through ten degrees.

You probably don’t recognise me, having only glimpsed my face momentarily before I demonstrated just how fast this slightly tubby Taff can move when duly incentivised. The threat of immediate divestment of various parts of my anatomy producing bursts of speed reminiscent of a constipated whippet with a bum full of dynamite.

In case you are wondering, I am of course referring to your canine friend who decided to show his friendly nature by enthusiastically introducing me to his lock jaw. I mention this only by way of mentioning that Burberry do a fabulous line of muzzles, including quick release catches for those all important gang soirées, that are surely a must own item for the Chav about town.

And I feel almost churlish pointing out that you might want to consider a treadmill for your pet. Surely it needs the exercise must given it was outrun by a weary Welshman contemplating the vagaries of corporate life, carrying the laptop that time forgot and blessed with a dodgy ACL.

One last, small, request. I quite understand the need to have a dog, particularly given your chosen profession – after all those little bags of powder don’t distribute themselves. But I can’t help thinking it would make your enterprise run more smoothly if you trained your weapondog not to attack passers by.

I hope you find this advice of use.

Regards,

The Ballistic Fat Welshman

PS – Given your dog’s eyesight you may wish to pull your trousers up a bit, they can really get in the way when running for your life.

PPS – Oh, and apparently screeching whilst running is not terribly masculine. Crazy world.