Let's get my cards on the table: I like Domino's Pizza. If there were one company on this Earth that might contribute to my early death, it would be them. But I would go with a lovely barbecue-sauce-and-mozarella-flavoured smile on my face.
I thought, then, it was time to write to the local press in Weymouth and shower them with praise. May contain traces of fiction.
Dear The Dorset EchoI can almost taste that raw mouse pizza now. Om nom nom nom.
Recent letters to your publication have - quite wrongly, in my estimation - decried the lack of welcome and customer service in our seaside town. Let me tell you, then, a tale that tells quite the opposite, and shows humanity is alive and well in Weymouth.
Last week, for bizarre reasons involving a pack of feral cats and an ineptly-installed mail order security system, I found myself trapped inside my own home for two days.
Luckily, on the second day, my paycheck cleared in the bank and I was able to call Domino's Pizza in Weymouth and place an order to alleviate the pangs of hunger running through my cat-ravished body. Within thirty minutes, a van appeared outside my house, and the kindly delivery man rose above-and-beyond the call of duty by posting my tasty, tasty Domino's Meateor with extra bar-b-q sauce through my letterbox, with only minor damage to my meatballs.
Once my raging hunger had been sated, my Domino's rescuer pointed out an open window in my loft room, and suggested I might try to escape my domestic prison via that means of egress. This I did, our hero breaking my thirty-foot headlong fall, suffering what can only be described as horrific injuries to his head, neck, back and legs as the street echoed with the hollow sound of cranium against shattered cranium.
Then I was sick in a hedge.
Luckily for your readers, I managed to take a photograph of what I saw as I plummeted to Earth, which acts a reminder on what one should do if finding yourself in a similar situation (viz: Remember to land on a pizza delivery man).
Picking ourselves up, the gentlemen even went so far as to refuse my tip (A post-it note bearing the words "Never eat yellow snow"), preferring to limp back to his car, dragging his useless, shattered left leg behind him, and returning to his duties.
After this episode, in which I spent a further 72 hours huddled and bleeding in my shed, living off rain water and the various helpless rodents tempted in by cold, hardened, tasty, tasty mozzarella left in the bottom of my Domino's pizza box, I defy anyone to say that customer service is dying in our town.
Albert O'Balsam, Wyke Regis
Not a real letter? Oh yes it is