Dear Editor,

Thank you for your phone call yesterday morning in which you asked me to leave your so-called magazine. While disappointing, this is for the best, because you are an incompetent moron with the judgement of a lobotomised goldfish.

It has been my privilege to serve as Sketchwriter and deliver on what the British people have sent me to Westminster to do. I want to thank all of those MPs, special advisers, ministers and political secretaries whom I have covered and whose work has been exemplary. But I’m more grateful to the ones who couldn’t find their arses with both hands, who have given me so much material to work with.

I am proud of what we achieved together: delivering on our pledge to write 20,000 new jokes and making weekly references to Boris Johnson’s stash of illegitimate children.

As you know, I bit your hand off at your offer to serve as Sketchwriter in September 2020 on certain conditions. Despite you having been rejected by a majority of readers and thus having no personal mandate to be editor, I agreed to support you because of the firm assurances you gave me on key sketching priorities. These were, among other things:

1. A mini fridge on my desk to be fully stocked with cans of Hazy Jane;
2. Never to have to mention “notwithstanding clauses” in my sketches, however many times Sir Bill Cash called for them, and not even to have to understand what on earth they might be;
3. Deliver at least one case of BBQ Pringles to the office each month.

This was a document with clear terms to which you agreed, and which I shall be releasing to the press as soon as I’ve found it in the pile of unprocessed hotel bills and rejected book proposals in my study.

I trusted you. It is generally agreed that my support was a pivotal factor enabling you to become editor. That and no one else wanting the job.

For a year as Sketchwriter I have sent you numerous emails on the key subjects contained in our agreement, made requests to discuss them with you and your team, and put forward proposals on how we might deliver these goals. I included links to Argos offers on mini-fridges and investigated discount booze delivery services. This was often met with equivocation, disregard and a lack of interest.

Someone needs to be honest: your plan is not working, your headline puns are terrible, and the photoshops over the sketches are worse than ever

You have manifestly and repeatedly failed to deliver on every single one of these key policies. Either your “distinctive” style of not reading emails means you are incapable of doing so, or, as I must surely conclude now, you never had any intention of keeping your promises.

These are not just pet interests of mine. Well, OK, they are, but I take them very seriously. They are what the British people voted for in the 2016 referendum. Or they might as well be, for all anyone understood that superfiasco.

Our deal was no mere promise over dinner. In fact, there was no dinner at all, which is something else I’d like to have a word about. Brunch in a greasy spoon off the Horseferry Road is hardly the same thing.

Your rejection of this path was not merely a betrayal of our agreement, but a betrayal of your promise to the nation that you would do “whatever it takes” to start the jokes. I can only surmise that this is because you have no appetite for doing what is necessary, and therefore no real intention of fulfilling your pledge to The Critic’s so-called readers.

I have become hoarse urging you to consider a monthly column on great World War 2 movies. I regret to say that your response has been uncertain, weak, and lacking in the qualities of editorship that this “magazine” needs.

As on so many other issues, you sought to put off tough decisions in order to minimise so-called expenses.

Someone needs to be honest: your plan is not working, your headline puns are terrible, and the photoshops over the sketches are worse than ever.

I may not have always found the right jokes, but I have always striven to take the piss.

I will, of course, continue to submit invoices for lunches with imaginary Cabinet ministers.

Sincerely,

Robert Hutton