Dear The Sun,
First of all, I’d like to say how thrilled I am to be able to write to you. I’m a massive fan and have been since the summer of ’76. I would have written earlier but it took a while to find your surname and house number. I wrote to the Moon first to see if he could help but he told me to “jog off” and to stop staring at him when he’s asleep or, and I quote, he’d ” fucking turn me inside out like a baby’s bladder”. I think he needs some help with his dark side.
When I thought about writing to you to ask your advice, it occurred to me that I don’t really know you. I mean, I know about you but I know nothing of your personality. Your likes, dislikes, favourite hymns or colours (orangey-yellow, right?). There has to be more to you. What’s it like up there, big guy? Spinning around, firing off jets of radioactive gas is probably alright for a while but I figure you must get a little lonely. Just so you know, you have loads of fans down here. People literally queue up just to lie down and get burned by you. (It’s a strange human custom not an S&M thing).
There is also a practice here of looking to your fellow stars as a means of predicting personal fortune. It’s called Astrology, you’ve no doubt heard of it. And as you’re the brightest of all the celestial beings you’ll be fully aware what a steaming barrel of gimp biscuits it is. Or is it? Sure, the chance of Mars’ orbit affecting our day to day lives is patently nonsense, however, you, my friend, do make a difference.
Not only have you been supplying warmth, light, life, vitamin D and melanomas for the past 4.6 billion years but also, since the arrival of western civilisation, the opportunity to get drunk and get our fat bits out.
Now, as I said before, I’m a huge fan of your work. I dig the whole Northern Lights thing and just love that you won’t let us harness enough power from your nuclear core in one week to power-up my Nintendogs, but seriously man, one glimpse of you down here and it’s chav flab apocalypse. A swirling maelstrom of pink and white colliding with the stench of lager vomit, CK1, crabsticks and regret.
I know there’s not a lot you can do from up there. I’m just saying maybe you could notch it down a little, just a few degrees and then maybe, just maybe, those pasty, pockmarked “fuckhandles” and cankle tattoos can stay covered up for another season. In return, we’ll stop blaming you for the Greenhouse Effect and David Dickinson.
Yours in hope and love,
Blackface G x
PS. Sorry about Icarus. You know how it is, he had a few meads, strapped on the wings and before you know it, he was off… We all told him it wouldn’t work.