Granny D's Heartfelt Letter to Auntie Kath
4th April 2013
Dear Auntie Kath
I do hope you don’t mind me calling you Auntie Kath, seeing as we’re almost family n’all. I say that in the expectation that our Michael did actually tell you that we’d found each other. However, as we both know how forgetful the little fella could be, always moonwalking around Neverland looking for his other glove, bless him, I thought it might be a good time to drop you a line and bring you up to speed.
Michael, or Mickey as I affectionately came to know him, first contacted me back in 2005 when, as one of my agony column fans, he phoned to wish me happy birthday. I found his thoughtfulness particularly touching, especially as I knew that he had a lot on his plate at the time, what with that gold-digger Gavin on his tail, in a manner of speaking of course.
As it turned out, Mickey insisted on singing me a song, which, as luck would have it, was “I wish I was in Dixie”. Not surprisingly, I thought Dixie was the name of one of his young fans, and so the conversation drifted towards his fantasies and fears. In fact, we chatted about his likes and dislikes in general. He said, “Granny D,” - at that stage I still liked to keep things on a relatively formal footing- “my perfect scenario would be for me to be sitting on a pink cushion that looked like a big fluffy cloud and listening to classical music. I’d have Diana Ross sat on my right knee spoon feeding me cheese enchiladas, the pop star Prince on my left knee with a strawberry milkshake, and a sweet, innocent, parentless child in the middle nibbling away on a red, sticky toffee apple and sucking a Margarita through a stripy straw.” It was a touching side to Mickey that I’d never really seen before.
At that stage, I guess we were no more than ships that pass in the night but then, just recently, something came to light that left me totally and utterly flabbergasted. I’d actually been researching my family history on ancestry.com when I came across the Jackson name way back in the 18th century. It turns out that my great, great, great something or other was called Elijah Shamone Jackson. Now before you bring it up, you will have noted from the enclosed photo of myself that I ain’t exactly the same colour as you guys but, apparently, the Jackson genes are slightly flawed; that’s why cousin Mickey came out in cock blotches, it had nothing at all to do with an allergy to Nesquik.
Anyhoo, being as I could barely believe what I was seeing, I did what any logical-thinking person would do having just found out that he or she might be related to a deceased, mega-rich superstar, and went straight round to the local Spiritualist Church to invest in a private reading. That’s where I met Billy ‘Running Water’ Sigo. If I’m honest, I chose him because I naturally assumed that someone with a Native American ancestry would be more likely to summon up our dead rels, but it turns out he was no more than a Librarian from Milton Keynes with a weak bladder. Fair play to him, though, he was pretty much on the money. To cut a long story short, you are not going to believe what he told me about our lineage, Auntie Kath. Apparently, Elijah fathered an illegitimate child to a woman called, Elmira, and that’s who yours truly is descended from.
It was a such an intense, eye-opening experience, I can tell you. Thinking about it, it can’t have been good for him drifting in and out of comas like that, but that’s how he does it, apparently. Having come out of the last one, the colour began to drain from Billy’s cheeks and he began to shake violently. His eyes looked like they might pop out of his head at any moment and saliva dribbled down his chin. I don’t mind admitting, Auntie Kath, I was a more than a little frightened for my own safety. He looked like Nan did when we force-fed her that half-bottle of gin thinking it was gripe water. That’s when he told us about what happened in that dusty, West Virginian Field all those years ago. He explained that Elmira had stooped to gather in what was left of the harvest. There she was, singing, “Jump down, turn around, pick a bail a cotton,” and minding her own business when Elijah, without warning, crept up and took her from behind; that’s when the alarm bells started ringing. This man obviously had uncontrollable sexual urges; yet another box ticked! But that’s not the end of it… Billy said that Elmira wasn’t exactly an oil painting; in fact, she was quite a hirsute woman that, not only had a hunched back, but also had some kind of sensitive skin problem. So sensitive was her skin, it would often blister under the mid-day sun, and this gave rise to her nickname… wait for it… Bubbles! WELL HELLLO! How spooky is that, Auntie Kath?
Still, despite the strength of evidence, I told Billy that I needed even more proof; something that would prove the family connection beyond all reasonable doubt, maybe through some kind of spiritual sign perhaps; and that’s when he told me about an incident that took place whilst Elijah and Elmira were out in the field one hot summer’s day. As he recalled the event, he said he couldn’t for the life in him understand why Elmira was telling him this as it made little sense, but this is how he described it to me.
This one particular day he said that Elijah had found a Lion Dollar (whatever one of those is) buried in the soil, but instead of using it to buy extra food on the black market, he frittered it away on weed, moonshine and herbal skin-dyes. Before long, his emaciated frame was barely able to stand upright. Elmira could see this and, although she herself was living off locust and small mammal droppings, she took pity on him. Reaching into her pocket, she took out a small white mouse she had caught earlier in the day, a mouse that she had been saving to feed her family of six, and she gave it to Elijah for him to feast upon. That night, Elmira and her children went hungry, yet that one, single, selfless act saved Elijah’s life.
Ok, so you’re probably thinking, how is that a sign from beyond? Well that’s what I thought too, until the next day when I opened up the morning paper and saw the photo of you holding a dead mouse in your fat fingers. I tell you, Auntie Kath, it brought a tear to my eye, it truly did. Just to think, a couple of people in a remote field all those years ago and it turns out that we’re from the same stock.
Dear Auntie Kath
I do hope you don’t mind me calling you Auntie Kath, seeing as we’re almost family n’all. I say that in the expectation that our Michael did actually tell you that we’d found each other. However, as we both know how forgetful the little fella could be, always moonwalking around Neverland looking for his other glove, bless him, I thought it might be a good time to drop you a line and bring you up to speed.
Michael, or Mickey as I affectionately came to know him, first contacted me back in 2005 when, as one of my agony column fans, he phoned to wish me happy birthday. I found his thoughtfulness particularly touching, especially as I knew that he had a lot on his plate at the time, what with that gold-digger Gavin on his tail, in a manner of speaking of course.
As it turned out, Mickey insisted on singing me a song, which, as luck would have it, was “I wish I was in Dixie”. Not surprisingly, I thought Dixie was the name of one of his young fans, and so the conversation drifted towards his fantasies and fears. In fact, we chatted about his likes and dislikes in general. He said, “Granny D,” - at that stage I still liked to keep things on a relatively formal footing- “my perfect scenario would be for me to be sitting on a pink cushion that looked like a big fluffy cloud and listening to classical music. I’d have Diana Ross sat on my right knee spoon feeding me cheese enchiladas, the pop star Prince on my left knee with a strawberry milkshake, and a sweet, innocent, parentless child in the middle nibbling away on a red, sticky toffee apple and sucking a Margarita through a stripy straw.” It was a touching side to Mickey that I’d never really seen before.
At that stage, I guess we were no more than ships that pass in the night but then, just recently, something came to light that left me totally and utterly flabbergasted. I’d actually been researching my family history on ancestry.com when I came across the Jackson name way back in the 18th century. It turns out that my great, great, great something or other was called Elijah Shamone Jackson. Now before you bring it up, you will have noted from the enclosed photo of myself that I ain’t exactly the same colour as you guys but, apparently, the Jackson genes are slightly flawed; that’s why cousin Mickey came out in cock blotches, it had nothing at all to do with an allergy to Nesquik.
Anyhoo, being as I could barely believe what I was seeing, I did what any logical-thinking person would do having just found out that he or she might be related to a deceased, mega-rich superstar, and went straight round to the local Spiritualist Church to invest in a private reading. That’s where I met Billy ‘Running Water’ Sigo. If I’m honest, I chose him because I naturally assumed that someone with a Native American ancestry would be more likely to summon up our dead rels, but it turns out he was no more than a Librarian from Milton Keynes with a weak bladder. Fair play to him, though, he was pretty much on the money. To cut a long story short, you are not going to believe what he told me about our lineage, Auntie Kath. Apparently, Elijah fathered an illegitimate child to a woman called, Elmira, and that’s who yours truly is descended from.
It was a such an intense, eye-opening experience, I can tell you. Thinking about it, it can’t have been good for him drifting in and out of comas like that, but that’s how he does it, apparently. Having come out of the last one, the colour began to drain from Billy’s cheeks and he began to shake violently. His eyes looked like they might pop out of his head at any moment and saliva dribbled down his chin. I don’t mind admitting, Auntie Kath, I was a more than a little frightened for my own safety. He looked like Nan did when we force-fed her that half-bottle of gin thinking it was gripe water. That’s when he told us about what happened in that dusty, West Virginian Field all those years ago. He explained that Elmira had stooped to gather in what was left of the harvest. There she was, singing, “Jump down, turn around, pick a bail a cotton,” and minding her own business when Elijah, without warning, crept up and took her from behind; that’s when the alarm bells started ringing. This man obviously had uncontrollable sexual urges; yet another box ticked! But that’s not the end of it… Billy said that Elmira wasn’t exactly an oil painting; in fact, she was quite a hirsute woman that, not only had a hunched back, but also had some kind of sensitive skin problem. So sensitive was her skin, it would often blister under the mid-day sun, and this gave rise to her nickname… wait for it… Bubbles! WELL HELLLO! How spooky is that, Auntie Kath?
Still, despite the strength of evidence, I told Billy that I needed even more proof; something that would prove the family connection beyond all reasonable doubt, maybe through some kind of spiritual sign perhaps; and that’s when he told me about an incident that took place whilst Elijah and Elmira were out in the field one hot summer’s day. As he recalled the event, he said he couldn’t for the life in him understand why Elmira was telling him this as it made little sense, but this is how he described it to me.
This one particular day he said that Elijah had found a Lion Dollar (whatever one of those is) buried in the soil, but instead of using it to buy extra food on the black market, he frittered it away on weed, moonshine and herbal skin-dyes. Before long, his emaciated frame was barely able to stand upright. Elmira could see this and, although she herself was living off locust and small mammal droppings, she took pity on him. Reaching into her pocket, she took out a small white mouse she had caught earlier in the day, a mouse that she had been saving to feed her family of six, and she gave it to Elijah for him to feast upon. That night, Elmira and her children went hungry, yet that one, single, selfless act saved Elijah’s life.
Ok, so you’re probably thinking, how is that a sign from beyond? Well that’s what I thought too, until the next day when I opened up the morning paper and saw the photo of you holding a dead mouse in your fat fingers. I tell you, Auntie Kath, it brought a tear to my eye, it truly did. Just to think, a couple of people in a remote field all those years ago and it turns out that we’re from the same stock.
A sign... Auntie Kath clutching the dead mouse
But of course you must be wondering why I’m telling you all this now, so let me say from the outset; whilst some skeptics might criticise my timing, it has nothing at all to do with your $40 Billion claim against AEG. It’s true, I could make use of another free-standing fridge freezer being as my present one is making a shrill, grating sound but, I figure if Janet’s Record Producer can put up with it, so can I. Anyway, it’s not like I’m too proud to purchase an ex-display model, even if it is on the never-never. No, I just wanted you to know that, should you need me, I’m here for you, Auntie Kath. It might just be for a kindly word over the internet, a cheery wave on Skype, or even if you’d like to borrow a few bucks just to tide you over until the court case is sorted out, don’t be afraid to ask. When all said and done, BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER, and that’s something no one can ever change. Oh, yeah, whilst I think on, please pass on my regards to Prince and Paris for me.
Hope to hear from you soon
Granny D
Hope to hear from you soon
Granny D
