Agony

My last couple of posts seem to have have rubbed some of you up the wrong way, and my postbag is bulging with letters. Some of the respondents are mad, and some quite sad. I have selected one of each, for your delectation.
Please note; I do not enter into personal correspondence, and my trusty P.A. sifts all mail, to save me from anything too upsetting.

The first is from a Mr. D Redwards of the Marxist-Leninist Workers' Rights Co-operative Street Dance and Theatre Group (Highgate branch), and was hand-delivered by his chauffer. Mr. Redwards takes issue with my comments on left-wing dictatorships.

He writes; .... 'Cuba is a workers and peasants paradise, a bastion of socialism in a region terrorised by Yankee imperialist oppression, and anyone denigrating the living revolution is a dirty, lying, thieving, cheating, fascist, capitalist bloodsucking bull-boy who will meet a sticky end come the inevitable victory of socialism, as predicted by Lenin.
Capitalism will eat itself, and when the great day dawns, the poor, the downtrodden, the oppressed and marginalised will wreak terrible vengeance upon the vermin that make up the boss class; City fat-cats, corporate big-wigs, traders in human misery, stockbrokers, and all the other leeches that have grown fat feasting on the blood of the workers. The grotesquely bloated, fat, smug, complacent middle class scum will be annihilated....... the seeds of destruction have been sown, the people will have their say and they are ready. Bring it on. I yearn for the day I can stand shoulder-to-shoulder with my pastry chef as an equal, and not a capitalist lickspittle....'

Mr. Redwards goes on in similar vein for eight pages (in green ink) but I think we've captured his drift.
The second is rather different, but equally odd. It is from a Mrs. Nobinson, of North London, and here it is, in full;

Dear whoever you are,
I am writing to you about my husband, in desperation, as I know he likes to read your ramblings, and sees himself as a kindred spirit. Like you he is obsessed by gambling, and spends all day, every day, trading on Betfair.

Anyway, seven days ago I left for work as normal but didn't make it to the petrol station and ran out of petrol after half a mile. I trudged back home to be greeted by the horrible sight of my husband, who I had left in bed only 15 minutes earlier, vigorously rogering the yummy-mummy from next door. She was bent double, with her head in a wheelie bin. He had a look of pure joy on his face that I hadn't seen before. This was accompanied by what can only be described as demonic cackling. I was in such a state of shock, I couldn't speak, but turned and ran all the way to my mothers house.
Since that fateful day, nothing. Not a phone call to me, family, friends, work, no-one. I am beside myself. I know this semms weird, but I am lost. What would you advise?

Dear Mrs. Nobinson,

My advice to you is this;
Make sure you carry a can of petrol in the boot of the car.

Yours etc.

Sportstrader