an open letter to the johnston press

Dear Scum and Scrotes.
Where are you?
It's very strange.
No Johnston Press visits to my website in ages.
What can have happened.
Since I wrote that scene where Satan asks John Fry if he bugged my phone, I've scarce had a single visit from you.
The daily stream of Johnston Press log-ons to my humble blog simply ceased.
It's as though the well of parvenus has dried up.
You guys were dropping in 200 times a month.
But now.
Nothing.
It's very strange.
I must admit I had grown somewhat accustomed to your constant log-ons from around her majesty's realm, (I am referring to Queen Elizabeth The Second's realm, not John Fry's) from Derbyshire, Leeds, East Sussex, West Sussex, your Bulldog DSL line in London, the Scotsman, your vaginal sounding legal advisers Hyman Roberts, all of em.
Stopped dead.
Almost as if the whole lot of you have disappeared.
Vanished.
Swept away on a voodoo wind.
Time was when I could bump up the ratings on The Heelers Diaries with even a mild Johnston Press mention.
But July's record figures of 1444 visitors (I have my stat counter set so you can read it, no need for any bugging device there) lacked even one visit from your odious selves.
Now I pour forth vituperation and there's no response.
My basest provocations availeth nought.
Not even one visit after yesterday's schtick about the film.
Not even one.
It's most amazing.
James Healy
PS: Three months wasn't it. What the News Of The World editor got for bugging phones.