Dear Kenny,

I am bitterly disappointed that you hosted yet another of your Dionysian bacchanalia without inviting me. Is it because I’m white? I hope not. You see, Kenny, like you, I too have done time in prison. Okay, so it wasn’t quite the six years you served. Truth be told, it wasn’t much more than a long weekend. But still. We spring from the same rotten roots and should stick together.

I hear you have decided to give up guzzling sushi from the taut bellies of half-naked models. Smart move. You have obviously realised that, unlike the poor, sushi will not always be with us. Between global warming, marine pollution and the ravening Japanese, there will come a time when there are no fish left in the sea. Since there is little danger of the world running out of beautiful women, I suggest that at your next epicurean orgy you eat the model herself. Even though women have a high threshold to pain, it might be best to drug her beforehand. Going by the photograph of you emptying a bottle of champagne into the blonde sprawled across a Maserati at the recent launch of your new club in Cape Town, you seem to know what you are doing in the anaesthetic department.

Once your minions have determined that she is comfortably numb, your guests could use ornate scalpels crafted from the last of the Mayan silver to slice wafer-thin strips from the more succulent parts of her body. Think about it. Human carpaccio. You will be even more of a legend, my friend.

If you are short of ideas for your next Saturday night saturnalia, here are a few courtesy of food writer DBC Pierre: Kiwi and hummingbird broth; Western fanshell souffle with black rhino horn; Caramelised white tiger cub; Confit of koala leg with lemon saffron chutney; Giant Panda paw with borlotti beans; Golden lion tamarin brain and blue cheese ravioli; Olive Ridley turtle necks in parmesan and brioche crumbs.

Although I applaud you for setting an outstanding example for the youth of this fine nation of ours, I have to say that I am a little put off by the whole black Elvis thing you’ve got going. Why model yourself on a piece of white trash from Memphis? I see you as more of a capitalist Jesus figure turning Chardonnay into Dom Perignon and wearing robes made from antimatter. To the untrained eye, you will appear naked. But to the rest of your adoring fans, the emperor will indeed be wearing the rarest and most expensive material known to humankind.

A word of advice. Maintain a safe distance from Julius Malema, the idiot savant who keeps trying to hold your hand whenever you throw one of your soirees. Not only has he suggested that the ANC has shares in your stately pleasure-dome, but he also dared Helen Zille’s jackbooted Fun Police to try to stop you from serving alcohol to the guardians of the revolution after 2am. Be warned. In these here parts, folk don’t take kindly to war talk.

Put me on your guest list. Or else.

Satyrically yours,

Ben Trovato