Raquel Briggs. 

I have no idea who you are, but you turned up today, courtesy of Facebook, offering to have a relationship with me.

Where do I begin in telling you that this is never going to happen. Here’s just for starters, dear Raquel.

1.       I know that, for some inexplicable reason, you have accidentally stumbled upon me in this bizarre virtual world that we all now inhabit. But I did not invite you, so I can only imagine that, given your attire, I must have Googled something along the lines of “tarty, cheap, slutty, skimpy underwear” in the past and, strangely, that led somebody to believe we were a perfect match.

2.       I could never be with anyone who writes so ungrammatically. You state that you have just “broke up” with your boyfriend. No, you HAVE broken up with him, or you broke up with him. “I’ve just broke up with my boyfriend” is just wrong, love; you can’t have it all ways.

3.       I am not surprised he left you, as your ill-fitting, hideous pink and black bodice is the kind of garment that would have even moles running for more cover, and your suntan would not look out of place at an Independence Day barbecue.

4.       Why do you call me “sweety”. For a start, the correct endearment spelling is “sweetie” (I can see I am going to have to get you post haste to those English classes!), but, as we have never met, how do you have any idea regarding my gradations of sweetness? Trust me, Sweety, I am anything but.

5.       You say “I don’t want a serious relationship at the moment.” So, what made you pick me? For all you know, I might spend my weekends immersed in bridal magazines and fantasising about how my life might change, were I to go on Millionaire Matchmaker.

6.       Now, you ask do I want to go out and have some fun with you? This is a bigger philosophical question than it might appear. There is so much I would need to analyse in that sentence before giving it even a second thought. Going OUT? What if it’s raining? In which city would constitute “going out” mean? New York in January (No), Spain in August (No)? And what do you mean by “fun”? I am not optimistic. Fun to me is staying in watching back to back Gabriel Macht as Harvey Specter in Suits. With a curry. And a bottle of Rioja. You, Raquel, look to me like the kind of gal for whom “fun” means “Three licks and where’s my 50 quid?” Forgive me if I am out of touch with inflation.

7.       You say you have seen me on Facebook, and that it is this that assures you we can have “some great time together”. It’s the “some” that bothers me here most, Raquel. How are you going to measure it? I already feel judged. Only SOME time? Are you already thinking of other women? You see, I have a very jealous nature, and I am already not happy about sharing you. Also, what do you mean by a “great time”? How do you know what I like from just a cursory glance at Facebook? Trust me, I have been over my page many times since you sent me your very enticing offer, and all I can ascertain regarding the “great times” I enjoy are that I like dogs, wine, curry, and obsess about Gabriel Macht and Judge Alex on the telly.

8.       Which brings me to my next point, dear Raquel. You are not Gabriel Macht or Judge Alex. All your gaudy bodices, fake tans, sultry looks, and invitations for me to sup with you at the furry cup cannot compensate for the one thing that will always be missing in our relationship: a penis. Men have many faults, and I have endured many of them, but, for me, they will always have that trophy between their legs that makes it all worthwhile.

And so, dear Raquel, it is with deep regret that I must decline your offer of a fun time. Saddened as I am that you have “broke up” with your boyfriend, if he is at a loose end, please feel free to give him my details. He will have a darn sight more luck than you ever will. 

When it comes to the furry cup versus the penis, for me there is no competition. 

Ever.