You Keep On Pushing My Love Over The Borderline...

Dear Madonna,

I tried, really I did. I resisted the urge to blast you. I resisted the urge to hark back to the glory days of shower caps, biker jackets, box steps and Borderline. I bit my tongue when for the fourth album in a row you thrust your crotch in my direction whilst singing the virtues of living a good spiritual life. When I say kabballah, you say 36 bucks for a bottle of water. You are scathing to say the very least about the very magazines you dominate the cover of. You do not allow your children to watch television, but apparently it's perfectly acceptable for you to appear on it. Believe me, I get it, you're flexible, you like yoga and you could crack walnuts with your thighs.

I thought, in my right on fashion, it really does look like you're trying to buy a baby and you're jeopardising the very laws that keep those children safe, even though when I shut down my left wing heart it seemed to me an ill child, in a poor country, living in an orphanage really would be better off with you. I even found it funny, ironic even, when your new boyfriend had the name Jesus. The whole thing might scream fuck you Guy Ritchie, check out my mid life crisis, where are the keys to my Porsche and have you seen my penis? But come on, Madonna and Jesus? You couldn't make that stuff up, truly inspired.

Then you had to go and wear that. Not only did you wear it, and you have worn many dreadful outfits, but you wore it to Anna's party. The high priestess of the Wintour, her party, the big one, the one that shines bright, ah monsieur my sunglasses tout suite! Hooker boots and the kind of headpiece that is synonymous with hen parties and Bacardi Breezers up and down the country. And so, I am done with you, back catalogue or not, we are done...

Yours sincerely,