Dear Dreary.
I hope you can help me settle a marital disagreement that has escalated into a serious business problem .
My family originates from Strasbourg and since 1664 has owned the most famous brewery in France, responsible for the production of a quality beer loved by the French and many others across Europe. My fellow countrymen are still able to enjoy our product at 5.5%, but, abroad we became victims of our own success and the stringent UK tax laws forced us to down-grade to 5%. Our product has nevertheless been a great success in Britain for decades and continues to be so, but I'm afraid that is not the end of the story.
During a fact-finding mission to Leuven in Belgium, I encountered Lady Stella Artois, a fascinating, beautiful Belgian heiress whose family were in the same business as my own. In no time at all I was hooked. Her compelling, exquisitely sweet taste drew me back time after time. She was always finely presented and easy on the eye, and I found her premium strength satisfied me like no other. Within months we were inseparable and I dreamed of the perfect union of of master brewers and the future generations of perfection we could create. We married in Paris and were blissfully happy for years.
Alas, the UK government has intervened again. I was all for maintaining our family's mark of quality and targeting the top end of the market, but the price increase forced on the business was too much for Stella's family and they opted to down-grade to a slightly weaker beer and aim for the mass market. We argued constantly and, I must admit, this has affected our marriage. We seem to be constantly at loggerheads, competing against each other. Thank god I've never sober enough to give her the children she's craved.
The only thing we still have in common is our joint hatred of those despicable, tacky supermarket own-barnded beers that the low-life scumbag British now lap up as they undercut us by slipping the government endless back-handers.
Can you suggest a way forward for us? I still want us to stay together, but I fear the our business differencies are going to drive us apart.
Yours,
Baron Von Kronenbourg, Alsace.

Dear Baron.
To be honest we British couldn't give a rats whisker what you ponsy lot get up to over the stream. If I'm to be perfectly frank I can make a pint of me widdle taste better than that muck you churn out.
When our Theakston was born up in Masham times were tough, demanding a brew to be strong, robust and could take yer head off without so much as a by your leave.
Similarly, Charles Wells would certainly play the dandy but cross him and you'd be shitting through the eye of a needle.
And I suppose you think that a treck across our Lakeland fells is sustained by mint cake and mars bars? Wrong. Ten pints of Wainrights should just about see to that.
My cat, Owd Tom, shags rats for a laugh. In short, we're hard bastards over here and refuse to drop our standards let alone our strength.
If you persist in your incessant whining I shall send the Hobgoblins over, thrust a Fursty Ferrett down your trousers and give you a Skull Spliter you'll never forget.
PS do not incur the wrath of The Bishops Finger!
Sod off.
Dreary. x