Morning Bellend

Look, if this is going to work, you're going to need a daughter. If you don't already have one, and are unable or unwilling to acquire one, I'll have to ask you to imagine her. Take your time over this. Give her a name. A back story. A personality. She needs to feel real to you. What does she look like? How tall is she? What are her interests? What kind of relationship do you have with her? Do you even know? Do you actually care? It may help to write an exhaustive biography and character study; about 150-200,000 words should suffice. After you've done that, come back and read this.

So... We have a daughter. Now I want you to imagine that she's met self-styled saviour of Radio 1, Chris Moyles in, ooh, how about the Hemel Hempstead branch of Games Workshop? And he's asked her to join him for dinner.

Now that's bad enough, you might think, but wait! It gets worse. Let's imagine he's picked her up in his big, fancy, chauffeur-driven car. She's bowled over, as you'd expect. But see, this is where Moyles starts to show his true colours, because less than a mile into the journey he sets about dismantling her self-esteem with ruthless efficiency. Perhaps he says things like, "you'll wanna get them tits done, love," or, "I'll probably do you if I don't find anything better tonight." You might like to imagine that, every few minutes or so, he winds down the window and wolf-whistles at other women, perhaps asking the chauffeur to pull up beside one, giving her his number and telling her, "don't worry about this one," indicating your daughter. "I'm just giving her a do out of curiosity."

Once her ego is sufficiently trampled, he then starts his evil work in earnest. "Come on," he says, "don't be so uptight, let me see the merchandise, eh?" before ordering her to remove her underwear. "It's alright, I suppose," he says, inspecting her with a scowl. "I don't eat pussy, by the way. Keep 'em off, yeah?"

For the next few minutes, as your daughter quietly sobs, Moyles looks out of the window in silence, occasionally turning back to look her up and down, his round marshmallow face shot through with contempt. Eventually, he says, "for fuck's sake, love, cheer up, eh? You're bringing me right down. Tell you what, why don't you eat them panties? Eh? Go on, eat 'em, you silly bitch! It's just a bit of a laugh, innit?"

Hesitantly, she brings them up to her trembling lips. Moyles leans forward, and forces them into her mouth with his stumpy sausage-like fingers, cackling wetly like a malevolent, bloated Sid James might between spoonfuls of thick, rancid cream.

At the restaurant (actually just a Beefeater - "I haven't brought you anywhere posh 'cos it'd be a waste of money"), Moyles makes no conversation and ignores all your daughter's attempts to do so, instead leering at other women as they pass by. To the waiter who comes to take the order he says, "she won't be having anything, 'cos she's already ate. Hahaha! Only kidding, bring her a bowl of wedges. Can we get 'em cheaper without the dip?"

Moyles remains silent for the next hour, but for his chomping and slurping. Your daughter anaesthetizes herself with glass after glass of cheap house white. By the time the meal is over, your baby girl is almost unable to walk, stumbling into the other patrons as her companion drags her out of the restaurant and back to the car, which takes them on into town, tinned misery on wheels.

They stop on a side street. "Come on, skank," says Moyles. "We're gonna get you a tattoo."

He pulls her out of the car into a dark alley, and from there into a red-lit room through an anonymous doorway, throwing her into a chair. "Do a cock and balls on her forehead," he tells the tattooist.

Freshly tattooed, your daughter is led sobbing back to the car. "Let's just drop her off home," says Moyles to the driver. "She's no fuckin' good to anyone, this bitch." About three miles from your home, he tells the driver to stop the car by a young blonde in a tight-fitting dress, walking home from a night out. "Alright, love?" he says, opening the door. "How'd you like a shag off the saviour of Radio 1?" He turns to your daughter - "you can walk the rest of the way, can't you, love?" - and pushes her out of the car with one fat, clumsy hand, pulling the giggling blonde in with the other.

Your daughter arrives home an hour later, mascara intermingled with the dry salt tracks that stain her cheeks. You lay her head upon your chest and hug her, consciously radiating all the parental warmth that you can muster, but nothing seems to bring her comfort. Everything's different now...

Readers: as long as Chris Moyles is permitted to roam free, all of this remains a possibility. He cannot be allowed to get away with it. So please, join our efforts to bring this monster to justice. Boycott Radio 1, write to your local MP, attend our rallies, support us in any way you can. Chris Moyles must be stopped.

But first, if you do have a daughter, go to her and hug her. Hold her tight and tell her that you love her.

If, on the other hand, you had to conjure a daughter from your imagination, it's possible that she's now so real to you that there's a gaping hole at the centre of your being. I'm afraid I can't help you with that. Sorry.