Dear Tom Jones

I am always telling my children and grandchildren to write thank you letters. After a weekend in Hawkes Bay last year I thought I had better practice what I preach .


Dear Tom Jones,
I am writing to thank you for your appearance at the Mission concert in Napier. I was tempted to suggest that yours was a brief appearance, given the arrival of at least six pairs of ladies knickers upon the stage during your performance. I did notice that a lady fan took the opportunity to dispatch one of her high heels in your direction. (Was it the face lift or were you genuinely surprised). Do not get too excited regarding this fresh demonstration of adoration, a hundred years ago audiences threw their hats, fifty years ago it was gloves and handkerchiefs, two decades ago it was panties and it appears that your stage career is now, sadly, reaching the point of no return…shoes. Of course it may well have been a case of misunderstanding. Let’s face it anybody wanting to rock to the sounds of a 68 year old may act young, even feel young but will be suffering some of those ageing woes such as hardness of hearing. ‘Try throwing your shoe’ was in fact her friend saying ‘I’m going for the loo’.
I need to put your mind at rest regarding the naming of your band. Although it is unwise to attempt to introduce anyone who’s name you do not know, especially before an audience of 27,000 people, we have all experienced that temporary loss of memory. Do not be concerned with your embarrassing faux pa. I am convinced that the trombonist, who’s name you did actually forget (in front of 27,000, or was it 28,000 people) will always be remembered for the simple reason that right there on the stage in front of …you know.. he was allowed to remind you what his name actually is, so good on you Tom for giving old whatsisname, the trombonist, his moment of fame.
I am wondering what you thought of the other acts, sometimes they can outshine the main event. I thought Annie Crummer and the group ‘The Cats Away’, were excellent. However when Jimmy Barnes came on, as the warm up singer, something told me that the cats had come back again and they were doing terrible things to my lug ‘oles. Still, old Jimmy is a grand old rocker and he did not have a hernia as he screeched out some great old hits. I thought I perceived a new instrument sound but realised it was the reverberation of creaking bones as baby boomers began shaking their booties and popping their corks. I will say, Jimmy really did warm us up and I was particularly impressed with the announcement at the end of his performance that Mr Barnes would be available for autographs. I was going to give him mine but by now we had cracked open our second bottle of Merlot and I was concerned that if I fell over in the vineyard none of my intoxicated friends would be mission me and I would finish up in next years vintage.
I must say, Tom, I was intrigued by your very attractive gray shirt that gradually turned a sort of dual gray and black during your performance, my wife loves that wet look. She almost passed out when you gave us a fleeting glimpse of your chest. Personally I could not comprehend what all the fuss was about until I read on the net that those chest hairs of yours are insured for $3.5million. (My grandkids are fascinated with my long hairy eyebrows, do you think State would consider a small policy, say around thirty quid).
Now Tom it’s not that I think you are passed it…oh.. No, no, no.. there is still a bit of that old spark in your performance but sadly you were not exactly ‘burning down the house.’ It pains me to say, you are no longer a ‘sex bomb.’ The bomb bit is still there but ‘why, why, why, Delilah,’ don’t you call it a day. You’ve made $170 plus million and ‘it’s not unusual’ to be loved by someone when you are worth that sort of coin. I admire your resilience and fortitude Tom but now is the time to retire to ‘the green green grass of home’. If you insist on continuing your career and trying to do that sexy walk thing….well Tom, without wanting to be unkind, to put it bluntly, Mary is not going to be there to greet you when you step down off the train.