I've read all about thee in't papers, and reet queer ferk tha sounds too.

That's enough cod dialect for one letter, although I should point out, in case you ever drop by my humble terraced abode on Hutt Street and partake of a simple, honest meal, that round here road is pronounced 'rerd' and that to speak to someone in Grimsby we use the 'fern'.

Anyway, now that two of our more notable sons, Tony and John, will be spending more time together, I thought that in the interests of party unity you extra-virgin-olive-oil-swilling north Londoners should get to know us cod-chompers from the East Riding a little better.

Unless you're heavily into rugby league or the smell of fish, you're unlikely to have ever had a reason to come to Hull. And it's not the sort of place that crops up much on The Late Show, although we did get a quick cameo in an Only Fools and Horses Christmas special. And I think Channel 4 (we only watch it for the racing) might have done one of those gut-wrenching documentaries about urban deprivation that makes the likes of you think about voting Labour.

So where is Kingston upon Hull, to use the posh name? East Yorkshire, mate, and proud. Find Leeds on the map and then turn right until you hit the sea.

Long before you lot played at politics by signing up for Charter 88, creating the People's Republic of Islington and declaring a nuclear-free zone, we were shaping history. Our refusal to let Charles I inside the city walls in 1642 was the first overt act of rebellion that led to the Civil War. So don't talk to us about revolutions. Linen or otherwise.

Yes, you've got your share of movers and wavers - Simon Rattle, Clive Anderson, Martin Jacques (sounds French). But so have we - William Wilberforce, the other John (Godber, not Prescott), the Housemartins (remember Hull 4 London 0?) - and at least they were native. If we're getting into imports, I could add Philip Larkin (chuffin' southerner), John McCarthy and Jill Morrell (chuffin' students), and Everything But The Girl (more chuffin' students).

We also have a cracking good bridge, with the longest span in the world, as well as Britain's first independent telephone system.

Come and see us some time, although not for tea (we're not big on shaved parmesan and rocket salad up here). No, best come at chucking out time on a midwinter's Saturday night. You'll glimpse us walking down Ferensway in T-shirts, tabs tucked up the sleeves, on our way to Lexington Avenue (a disco). Forget the Cuvee Napa, we'll be arguing about who downed their last pint the fastest. If it's a special occasion (like Hull KR giving Castleford a right good kicking), the lasses'll be out with us, wearing miniskirts with no tights.

By the way, we couldn't give a trawlerful of herring how you spell bresoala, as long as it comes with chips and a pint of Theakston's.

Up the workers, comrade.

Hull person

(Photograph omitted)