OOOH, Mr Simcard bach,

Hosannah in excelsis! Who would have guessed? They aren't calling birds at all, look you, but 'Colly' birds, from the same root as 'Colli' in 'Colliers Wood'. Coalie birds: they're blackbirds, isn't it? Mr Coward will be pleased, it will make his day: something that's easy to source at last. Cheers for now, then, and if you're ever this side of the Manche, come and look me up.

Yours,
Dafydd

Dear Mr Duck,

Following discussions with Mr Wright, I am asking you to ignore the previous letter. For reasons related to national security, we have had to revert to “calling birds” for the 4th Day of Christmas Composer of the Week.

As you may recall, two discs containing 25m records went missing recently, and this programme will considerably help our efforts to recover them.

I can now reveal the true sequence of events. The discs went missing from our Porton Down research station; and the 25m records were all by Andrew Lloyd Webber (though government musicologists believe that some records may be the work of other composers).

The discs were entrusted to one of our most reliable couriers, Ottorino Respighi (Code Name: Birds), to be taken to a place where they could be disposed of safely. During this delicate mission Birds was supposed to remain in regular contact with Wireless Operator Fore. However, subsequent attempts at contacting him have been unsuccessful.

If Respighi knows that he will be your 4th Day of Christmas Composer of the Week, he is bound to tune in and Wireless Operator Fore can try and make live contact during the programme. His message will be simple: “Fore calling Birds, Fore calling Birds – come in please”.

I am sure that you appreciate the grave consequences of these discs falling into the wrong hands (e.g. radio stations) and look forward to your full co-operation.

Pi Ping Tom
Head of Security & Surveillance
Government Bunker
Gordon Square
Bloomsbury

Dear Mr Shadbolt,

Your letter to Mr Wright has been passed on to me, as I fear that you may be under a misunderstanding (as opposed to being under a mistletoe, which is more common at this time of the year).

The BBC gets all its jewellery from Ratner’s; so there is never anything valuable on display (as a look at the playlist for “In Tune” will confirm).

As Mr Wright’s personal security adviser, Graham Greene, has already said, the heart of the matter is WRINGS, not RINGS. As you’ll know, Mr Wright has the delicate problem of how to dispose of two doves (not the ringed variety), three French Hens and other miscellaneous birds. These have caused him no end of problems, thanks in no small part to the props department – its goose is cooked as far as he’s concerned (but that may be for another day). 

Thus my firm has been hired to dispatch the aforesaid birds to paradise as expeditiously as possible and to get the best price we can for the remains from Burgher King (Nuremberg branch).

By the way, what’s all this gods stuff concerning Wotan and Fafner about? If it was Jupiter and Hafner, I might be able to understand.

Yours sincerely,

W A Mozart
Fivegold Wrings – Poultry Slaughterers
Peckham
SE15

From the Head of Housekeeping, Broadcasting House.

Dear Mr Wright,

What on earth has been going on in your studios for the past couple of days? I have to demand an explanation since I have received a phone call from our contract cleaners, Pinnafore Services, apologising that they will be unable to do fulfil their contractual obligations any longer since the cleaners assigned to your department have all refused point blank to enter the building ever again. I couldn't believe it, but I went along and took a look for myself. I have to tell you that I was all but physically sick. Deep and even, but certainly not crisp: no wonder poor Petroc's CD player played up on him during the Valse Triste this evening. I expect that you've remained aloof in your executive suite, all but impervious to the mayhem you've created: compared to what I witnessed - and smelt - this evening, even Radio1 in its wildest heyday was a haven of sanity and orderliness compared to this...this....ordureliness.
Under the circumstances I have had no option but to call in Environmental Health, who will have to give everything a thorough decontamination before the studios will be usable again. You should consider yourself extremely fortunate that I have been able to find alternative accommodation for your staff, although it will not always be comfortable. The Proms OB van is being brought out of mothballs and will be available for your use, though for reasons which I am sure you would appreciate had you ever entered the avian convenience which was your studios, it has been decreed that it must be parked well away from BH: tomorrow, and possibly the day after, the nearest it will be permitted to venture is Regent's Park.

Finally, I'm sure that I'll not have to explain to you that the considerable expenditure involved will be deducted directly from your budget.

It's enough to give one the Hebe-jeebies, just thinking about it. It's as if Composer of the Week were Samuel Scheidt, taken literally.


Yours,
Josephine Porter,
Savoy Hill

Dear Ms Porter,

As Executive Producer for the 6th Day of Christmas Composer of the Week edition, I am writing to address the points contained in your letter. The fault lies squarely with the props department. We asked for just six geese, allaying (or so we thought) fears over the hygiene issues you mentioned. Unfortunately, we were sent Canada geese. As you know, these are prolific breeders and soon the six became 6,000 – leading to the above problems.

In my opinion, this latest incident is part of Mr Coward’s on-going vendetta against R3. Its origins go back to some missing props following a performance of the Sea Symphony. I can understand Mr Coward being mad about the buoy, but I feel that his subsequent attitudes and actions are out of all proportion to the number of props that were lost.

The problems you refer to simply compound the others we have experienced in broadcasting this particular edition. As you’ll know, Igor Stravinsky was the featured composer for the 6th Day of Christmas. This was based on Mother Goose, a pantomime version of the Rake’s Progress (with Alan Titchmarsh as Tom Rakewell).

Unfortunately, when Mr Stravinsky attended the broadcast there were fireworks and he demanded numerous revisions. He became very agitated, rushing like a wild man around the studio. Containing him was very difficult, but luckily the duty R3 presenter managed, in the end, to pen Igor.

I look forward to receiving your invoice for the damage done, but would request some clarification regarding payments. When your office was first in contact about this, I was told to send the money directly in my own name. Then someone called and asked if the money could be paid through my secretary. Shortly afterwards there was another call asking for payments to be made through my builder, a man who hates music and who only ever listens to Andrew Lloyd Webber.

Yours etc.

Eugène Goossens

PS Regarding the up-coming 8th Day of Christmas Composer of the Week, Sir Arthur Sullivan, we now only need 3 maids and not the 8 originally requested. We don’t want too many of them swanning around when the previous day’s edition goes out.

Dear Mr Wright:

Re your request for three maids:

 I'm sure that you must be aware that the BBC is an Equal Opportunities Employer, and that as such, we are no longer permitted to advertise gender-specific posts. Bearing in mind the reputation your department has at the moment, none of the contractors we deal with has yet managed to persuade anyone of either sex to apply for the position, and even by advertising in-house, I've only managed to solicit one reply so far, from a Mr Ap Huw in Props, who says he'll do it 'if the frock's fab enough, isn't it, cariad', and that he 'might be able to persuade his mate Despard to do it for a laugh and a can or three, bach, but he probably won't shave off his beard, look you'. I'm sorry not to be able to provide anything more peachy so far, but perhaps one of your staff might care to dress up and join them. I thought maybe Petroc might have cared to appear as a princess: I'd a vague memory of him doing something similar before. How about Hazlewood? Perhaps you could butter C. up to do it?

On a brighter note, Environmental Health have all but completed the task of mucking out your studios, and you can expect to move back in in time for the recorded live concert tomorrow night, provided that our cleaning and scrubbing runs to schedule. After much searching around we've managed to find a safe polish for your CD players, so we've even Halled the Decks: perhaps they'll not break down so often now.

Best wishes for the future, but please, no more livestock....

Yours,
Josephine Porter,
Sudbury
 

 Roger, boyo,

Just to let you know that I'm giving you a hand up to play Maid A Vale (after all, Vale's just another name for Valley, isn't it cariad, so what could be more to the point?). Despard is coming as N Britton (his blue tattoos are just the job) though it did take one of the seven cases of malt and a few cigars to persuade him - those little metal tubes are fun , isn't it, bach? He'll not be in a frock exactly (six foot seven and twenty stone he is) but I've managed to improvise something out of Uncle Idris's robes - he was a Bard, look you, and his gown just about does as a mini-pelmet on Despi. It's got no colour, though, white it is like a virgin, though it's a long time since either of us was one of them, isn't it? The only option would have been to wrap him up in lengths of some old Indian cloth we've got in store, but maidens of Saari's not what you're after, I'll be thinking.

As for your third maid, he don't know it yet, but Mr Coward's doing it - we might need another case of the malt. We'll dress him up and lock him in the firearms room like a maiden in a tower, and only let him out when he agrees, then get him well and truly oiled ready for the job. Just in case it don't pan out, and we need a No 4, I've got A minor, standing by....

Please don't tell the old HoD about the swans, boyo: he's no idea that we did this off our own bats while he was away. The thing is, see, swans is Crown Property and you should just have left them swimming in the pond nearby your van in Regent's park, isn't it. How was I to know they were as kamikaze as a flock of Lemming? Cannon wouldn't have stopped that lot, it's just a pity that the jumbo did. At least I was behind the camera so that I wasn't seen with cranes trying to get the debris off the roof of BH. But don't breathe a word; destruction of crown property is an offence, and they could have our nadgers for it, and we wouldn't want that now, would we (perish the thought, isn't it, cariad?). Anyway, I've got this mate, Christian, and he's a swan-upper, see (takes all sorts, doesn't it, boyo): so perhaps a couple more cases of malt and a few Cuban smokes might be enough to make him "miscount" next time: I'll be seeking Christian to ask him if this will do. How cuol am I, eh?

Well that's it for now, cariad; next time we're in touch I'll have me best frock and slap on, and I'll be so high I'll have my head in McLeods....

Iechyd da - it's not a bad malt this, is it?

Dafydd