Margaret Thatcher
10 Downing Street
London
SW1A 2AA

Madam Prime Minister,

I wish I could be writing under happier circumstances but the situation here is more dire than previously let on. While I am well of body my spirit is considerably worse off. I have simply seen too much for it to be otherwise. The conditions here are appalling. The view from my tent resembles nothing so much as some infernal vision of Hieronymous Bosch, only more exaggerated. Men, women, and children all indistinguishable from one another, black skeletons boiling in the sun—there is not a single tree or patch of shade to be found. Babies wail through the night as their mother’s teats have all run dry until they are too weak to do even that. I’ve seen women desperately gather up grain husks and dead grass, mix it all with mud and salt, boil it over an open flame and ladle it into bowls. The men, driven mad with hunger, set out into the night so as to die away from their families out of some perverse sense of shame—as though they could’ve done something to prevent any of this from happening!

The sporadic air-drops of mealy, substandard grain are met with sheer anarchy: one sees the scene from a distance and can’t help but think of so many ants devouring a cube of sugar. They all push each other out of the way to get there first, though they know full well that the early birds are often crushed to death by the mass of humanity nipping at their heels. I can still hear the sounds of screaming and breaking limbs in my nightmares.

For the love of God, send aid! And by aid I don’t mean sacks of flour and powdered milk and medicines of dubious origin—no, I speak of human beings with love in their hearts, sturdy constitutions, and a sense of purpose and the magnitude of the situation here. While economic aid is indeed necessary, I fear it is useless without the right people to carry it out. It is only by a combination of these, of economic and LIVE AID, that we can rescue these unfortunate souls from the brink of extinction. But time is of the essence, Madam Prime Minister, as I can feel the mouth of Hades growing wider everyday.

But I am not entirely without hope. Sting, despite all the rumours swirling that he is about to bust up the Police and light out for New Orleans to practice “hot nigger jazz”, has given me his word and pledged aid. Paul Weller remains solid as an oak and can be counted on whatever the situation. Ditto Billy Bragg. Even Jimmy Somerville, bless the lad, has offered to help once he has cleared himself of this latest round of buggery charges. Can the Human League and Kevin Rowland of Dexy’s Midnight Runners be far behind? Live aid, indeed!

I had hoped to end this missive on a more hopeful note, but I look at the calendar and realize it is already Boxing Day; meaning that yet another Christmas has come and gone in this god-forsaken land entirely unnoticed. I wonder if these people even know it’s Christmastime at all? But who could blame them if they didn’t? It is my hope that this time next year, we will let them know it’s Christmastime by our deeds, by spreading goodwill through charitable acts, and letting all share in our joy. If not, then I fear these people are doomed. I remain

Your Faithful Servant,
Bob Geldof