Tennyson go to Hell!

I stumbled across Alfred t Tennyson's letter in your last issue and was initially surprised and eventually nauseated.

Disposed to retiscence (the sweet consequence of a retiring temper and a pathetic physical stature) I am seldom one to swim in the turgid waters of public remonstrance; yet in this instance my conscience pricks me on.

Alfred t Tennyson is a pseudonym, and the stupid society which this cheap, nay criminal, prankster claims to represent is a mere fiction.

Those are the facts. Disturbing enough in themselves, the unpleasantry approaches monstrous proportions when given the bogus weight of Mr. Tennyson's' absurd insistence on the English Genius being none other than himself.

The English Genius lives next door to me and we get on quite sell. His name is Bulwer Lytton and he is elevel hands in height. He is no relation to the imposter Tennyson'.

Tennyson' is in truth, a captain of local industry, and, in the eyes and mouths of those acquainted with the sniveller, is a bit of shit. Once, in an unguarded moment, the swine let slip two things about his own obstinately repugnant person.

(a)	its name (which is physically impossible to write)
(b)	that it never listens to music ('guttershit') and that it could not read poetry ('get sore arms')

Given those salient (no pun intended) shortcomings in Tennyson's' cultural composition, I question his right to pass any comment on music or peotry, and in view of the circumstances which led him to venture into so protean a pasture, Mr. King's generally accurate and auspicious observations on Mr. Brown's lyrics.

I'm sorry that this letter is so big while Mr. Tennyson' is so small, but pretending you are something you are not gets on my goat.

This brings me around to what I want to say. Your film reviewer, who whitewashes an ugly mind with the nom-de-resistance of 'the Trev co-op' is guilty of the same criminal subtefuge. In the fetid imagination betrayed by the grisly style, lurks a need for anonynimity which would be granted as understandable, were it not more important that the individual recognise his awful inanity.

If I may say so. The Trev Co-op' is indicative of the consequences of the implementation of the principles which lay behind Forster's Education Act of 1870.

Not only is the puerile 'iggernerant' stance of the congenital cretin a pale echo of that of a public persona, who, through overexposure, we'we all grown to loathe, but also 'the Trev co-op' gets its facts wrong.

Joseph Levine did not direct The Night Porter'. He produced it; leaving the unenviable job of directing it to a certain Ms Liliana Cavani, who is an Italian and enjoys a good reputation. As Ms Cavani's premier proponent, and a great one for facts, it seems only proper that I should put the record straight and narrow.

Consequently, as a paid up member of Hollywood's 'Freddy Club', I wish to dissociate myself from captains of industry, the 'Trev co-op' and its unusual interpretation of the responsibilities under taken by the executive arm of a motion picture company; Mr. Swinburne and the whole 'modern school' of poetry.