DEAR MR. JHONS [Dixon wrote, gripping his pencil like a bread knife]. This is just to let you no that I no what you are up to with yuong Marleen Richards, yuong Marleen is a desent girl and has no tim for your sort, I no your sort. She is a desent girl and I wo’nt have you filing her head with a lot of art and music, she is too good for that, and I am going to mary her which is more than your sort ever do. So just you keep of her, Mr. Jhons this will be your olny warning. This is just a freindly letter and I am not threatenning you, but you just do as I say else me and some of my palls from the Works will be up your way and we sha’nt be coming along just to say “How do” you can bet. So just you wach out and lay of yuong Marleen if you no whats good for you, yours fathfully, Joe Higgins.He read it through, thinking how admirably consistent were the style and orthography. Both derived, in large part, from the essays of some of his less proficient pupils. He could hardly hope, even so, to deceive Johns for long, especially since Johns had almost certainly got no further with Marlene Richards, a typist in his office, than staring palely at her across it. But the letter would at any rate give him a turn and his dig-mates a few moments’ amusement when it was opened, according to his habit, at the breakfast table and read over cornflakes. Dixon wrote, “To:--Mr. Jhons,” and the address of the digs on a cheap envelope not specially bought for the purpose, sealed the letter up in it and then, griming his finger on the floor, drew a heavy smudge across the flap. Finally he stuck a stamp on, slobbering on it for further verisimilitude.
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— Kingsley Amis, Lucky Jim.