General Gash's Bulging Sack
Past Letters: Issue #1| Issue #2 | Issue #3 | Issue #4 | Issue #5 | Issue #6 | Issue #7
Afternoon everyone! Yes, it's me, Brompton Rhodes! The real star of this comic (it's got my fucking name on it, hasn't it? Jesus). The General has asked me to take over letter-answering duties this issue, although I'm not entirely sure why. All I know is that he's locked himself in his office and is currently listening to Trout Mask Replica at deafening volume. We did foil a massive heroin-smuggling operation a week ago (bloody Albanians!) so perhaps he's decided to take a little down-time? I suppose he deserves it.

Before we crack on with the correspondence I'm reminded by this little, badly-scrawled note by the side of the computer (I think it's in blood...) to tell everyone to follow General Gash on Twitter. Personally I wouldn't bother, since all he does is use it to abuse mentally-vulnerable celebrities and make sexual innuendo towards Louise Mensch, but there you go. You can also make “friends” with him on Facebook although why you'd want to is beyond me. Far better to “like” my superior “fan page” instead (is this right, Alex?).

Now, to the letters! The first one comes from Albert Henry Hawkins in Primrose Hill, and he seems to have missed the memo since it's addressed to General Gash...

Dear General Gash

I'm sure, like me, you were glued to your screen at the shocking scenes that unfolded in Libya as Colonel Gadaffi was dragged from a tunnel, anally raped ('buckwheats' is one term for it, I am reliably told) and then shot, all the while being beaten black, blue and bloody.

My question to you is this: Which world leader would you like to see dragged from a hole in the ground, sexually humiliated in defiance of all tenets of their faith, and then unceremoniously executed, their body left to rot in a garden shed as people poke it with a stick?

Yours, curious,

Fucking hell, Albert. No wonder the General's taken this issue off, if this is the sort of shit he gets sent. Well, I suppose I should probably try and answer your question. Now, I could go for the safe sort of answer and choose someone horrible, you know, like Mugabe or that other fella from Iran with the fucked up name (Ahmadinejad - Alex). Or I could take the radical option and choose someone like Obama, or that bloke who runs Sweden (I have no idea – Alex).

Sadly, the truth of the matter, Albert, is that the person I would most like to see this happen to isn't a world leader, because I just don't care about them that much. No, the person I would inflict this most biblical of punishments on is a comedian. His name is Jack Whitehall, and it would be a Youtube hit.

Eurgh, I feel all dirty now. Let's see if this letter from Yvette Fielding in Hanwell can wash away the stain...

Dear General Gash,

I am a forty-six-year-old housewife with three children and a husband who works away, sometimes for weeks at a time. One of the few pleasures I get is settling down of an evening to read Brompton Rhodes. I get most excited reading about his exciting adventures. The text stories are okay (not enough romance, really, for my liking. Can you fix??) but most of all I like taking a long time looking at the comics. I particularly like the big pictures where I can see all of Brompton in one shot. Sometimes I come downstairs at night, when the children are asleep, and go on the computer. That way we can be alone.

I get quite desperate in the wait between issues, so can you please do something about that? It gets quite frustrating. Also I would like to know if there will be any posters available? I would like a small one for the fridge and a big one for my bedroom (the kids are too young at the moment so I won't get any for them until they're older!). I would also like a mouse mat for my husband to take away with him, so every time he looks at it he knows that I'm not alone, and that I'm okay at home with my Brompton.

Please publish my letter, as it would make me so happy!

With Love,

Eurgh. I feel all dirty again. Yet, strangely aroused...

Onwards! This next one is from Sam Beckley in Acton...

Dear Brompton Rhodes,

Move over, Brompton! There's a new hero in town – Scott Geldart! Why on Earth is the comic called 'Brompton Rhodes: Rude Bwoy'? It should be called 'Scott Geldart: Powerhouse'!

Seriously, he is so much sexier than you. No offence but you look like an underfed chicken. Like a anorexic duck.

Don't get jelly now!!!!


Well, two things: One, you're clearly fucking blind. Two, have you read the latest issue yet? Sorry love. My name's up there for a fucking reason.

Honestly. I bet you're fat, and all. Fat and in a fucking tracksuit. Piss off. Cow.

Moving swiftly on, Derren Nesbit from Peckham has sent this...

Oi, Brompton Rhodes,

You fink your bad, innit? I beg you come down south. Mans will show you what bad is. You get me?


Wasn't I at school with you? Fuck off.

Jesus, it's a parade of perverts and idiots. Can Kevin Fabrizio from Earl's Court improve on things...?

Dear Brompton Rhodes,

My friends and I would like to write a play about your adventures. It will be called 'Brompton Rhodes: Sailor for Truth, Sailor for Pleasure'. It will be performed by an all-male ensemble with musical interludes performed by our talented harpist (you should see him pluck and strum!) in various pubs around the Earl's Court area before we attempt to take it national. Myself and my good friend Steve have written the book and the script just needs a few little tweaks.

We'd be delighted if you'd come along to our gala opening night. There will be nibbles and champagne before the performance, and a question-and-answer session afterwards which we'd be delighted if you'd contribute to. A funny twist for the evening is that all the patrons and performers will have to be naked! (Not in the play itself, although there is nudity).

I've enclosed the details. Hope to see you there!


Um. Yeah, it's actually my dad's birthday that day, so, you know, cheers, but I'm a little busy. Also, I suspect you may be violating my copyright in some way (as long as that's all they violate! Ho, ho! - Alex).

Oh no, what's this!? Bloody Sam Beckley again...

Dear Brompton Rhodes,

I see after receiving my previous letter you decided to kill off the fantastic Scott Geldart. Well, I hope you're all proud of yourselves. You obviously couldn't take the fact that he was a sexier, more interesting and funner person than you'll ever be. I hope you burn in hell.

Fuck off.

Hah. Stupid cow. Now, time for a couple more. First up, a pertinent question from Stanley Ash in Cricklewood...

Dear Brompton Rhodes,

I'm enjoying the comic but it's a bit of a ball-bag affair, isn't it? Get some more birds in, you cunt.


No, fair enough, Stanley, fair enough. The sad truth is that the comic is a true record of events, and sadly, as of writing, there just aren't that many birds about the place. A consequence, I suppose, of dedicating myself to my work so thoroughly. I know what you mean, though, we do need a bit more minge (my sister certainly doesn't count, you filthy sod. Besides, she could break your legs just by looking at you funny).

Tell you what, any dirty birds reading this, this is a call out. We need your bodies. Poor Stanley and most of all, poor me, have decreed it.

Now, one last one, from a chap named 'Aladdin' in White City...

Got live ting dere. Holla me.

God, yes.

Right, that's it from me, folks. I imagine the General will be back next issue to horrify and excite you in equal measure. I'm off for a spliff, a wank and a Buffy boxset.