From Range Rovers to Fiestas in the blink of a blind eye

EMISSIONS:I RECENTLY received a letter – handwritten, no less. While it states clearly in red ink (I think it is ink, although there is a certain sanguinary whiff off it) that it is to be treated in strictest confidence, I thought I'd help the author out by passing it on. I know how hard it is to shift a car these days. I'm sure she won't mind.

Dear Mr Doyle,

Síle Wagon here. You will, assuming you are not clinically braindead, remember me from some of your previous columns, if that is indeed the word one uses for the semi-literate drivel you spout from whatever gutter you happen to find yourself in on any given day.

Before I continue, I must warn you I’m not a woman to be crossed. I have a Range Rover, as well you know. And I am none-too-impressed by your previous witterings about me. Indeed, I once briefly considered driving to your house and ploughing over whatever bashed-up rustbucket a penniless oaf like you drives.

But you lived in Crumlin, did you not? I could hardly venture there. Imagine I was spotted – I’d never be able to show my face in the Four Seasons again. They’d all be pestering me for that cocaine stuff.

I have since learned that you have moved to the verdant surrounds of north Kildare. You have therefore risen – very slightly – in my estimation.

So, to the matter at hand. My snivelling chinless weasel of a husband Derek left at Christmas. He went off with the maid, a flighty little Swiss thing. Before leaving, he handed me his wedding ring wrapped up in one of your columns. “Even this twit knows you’re a battleaxe, and he’s never even met you or your precious Range Rover,” said he before skipping off, no doubt thinking himself quite the wit, pathetic fool that he is.

I was quite sad to see him go. I enjoyed tormenting him (one needs a hobby). Sipping lattes and admiring waiters’ pert buttocks in Fallon Byrne just doesn’t quite fill the days.

Unfortunately, I now find myself a trifle short. I pillaged our joint account while Derek was in the taxi to the airport, but the money’s all gone. Manolo Blahniks are so expensive these days. Now I can’t get another penny out of him. His lawyers tell me his bank shares are worthless, his directorships have dried up and that Swiss girl turned out to be neither Swiss nor a girl and he is being held hostage in a village outside Tirana by a gang of Albanians who want €50,000 to let him go.

Much as I despise the pigeon-chested twerp, I need him back, for no other reason than I want him earning again so that I can squeeze him for everything he has once the divorce comes through.

Which leads me to why I’m contacting you. Now that you have moved to the country and presumably entered the equine set, have you any interest in a Range Rover? Yours for €50,000. One lady owner and a mere 8,000 miles on the clock. Other than that time I went to Brittas Bay for a romp with a swarthy Brazilian barista, its never been off road in its life. It’s got a few bumps and dints, I’ll admit; cyclists do make a terrible mess of one’s paintwork when one hits them.

Perhaps, if you have no interest yourself, you might ask at the next hunt you attend if anyone needs one?

Believe me, you are my last resort. Four dealers I tried shut their doors when they saw me coming. Another told me the car was as sellable as a Gary Glitter t-shirt. My (former) friends are no use either. They’ve all decided they’re now recessionistas and have swopped their Volvos for second-hand Fiestas. Can you imagine? How could things have gotten so bad?

Yours,

Síle