Usually, my letters have a playful tone – you can get your point across with humour

I started writing to my local paper, the Liverpool Echo, in 1978, when I was 28. One of my first letters was a response to a story about what’s known locally as Mizzie Night, an annual event with a folklore reputation, when the youth go mad, setting fire to cars and robbing pensioners at knife-point. At the time, Liverpool was a pretty lawless place: I was being ironic when I wrote in to say it was just another normal day in the city.

I soon realised there wasn’t a lot that I didn’t have an opinion on. I had opened the floodgates. It’s been more than 40 years since that first letter and I’ve written one every day. Hundreds have been published – usually three or four a week. Lots of people get angry, but they don’t know how to process their emotion. I just pick up a pen. It’s cathartic.

When the day begins, I go to my favourite cafe to read the papers: I start with the Echo, then move on to the nationals. Politically, I like to think I’m middle-ground. I try to get as rounded a view as I can. Some stories are so ridiculous they demand a response, and I’m always ready with one. Usually, my letters have a playful tone – you can get your point across with humour; it warms people up a bit. We’ve seen some seismic events in Liverpool, so getting the tone right is really important.

The Militant council of the 1980s was just embarrassing – I was busy with my pen during that time, trying to bring attention to the lunacy. I sent one very critical letter when the council paid for taxis to send out redundancy notices to teachers. Hillsborough has been a huge part of Liverpool’s story, and I have written a lot of letters in response to the tragedy, as it unfolded.

Right now, I’m angry about nonstop fireworks. “People clearly have money to burn,” I wrote. Also, cosmetic enhancements: “An odious vanity epidemic”. Then there’s dog-poo bags hung on park railings: “A tasteless new Brit-art genre intended to provoke thought and debate, like Tracey Emin’s grubby bed.”

I also hate the overuse of the words “gutted”, “amazing” and “devastated” – all of which are commonly found in local papers. Don’t get me started on Brexit.

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I don’t sleep that well, maybe because I keep the radio on all night. I have a notebook next to the bed and, if something piques my interest, I’ll switch the light on and write it down. I’m not one to moan quietly; I harrumph quite a bit. It drives my wife up the wall. She should probably write a letter of complaint.

I’m sticking to my analogue ways in a digital world, and I don’t really want to take up the social media sword. Twitter is full of inconsequential rubbish and the space restriction would hamper me – it’s quite hard to be nuanced in 280 characters.

I used to write all my letters by hand, on whatever paper was around, until about five years ago. I had to stop: the cost of the postage was killing me. Nowadays, I draft my letters by hand and then sit at the computer for hours sending out emails.

The act of writing gives me closure, and I like seeing my letters in print. I keep copies of the published ones around the house. I also enjoy the interaction they start with other people. Often they’ll agree with me, which makes me wonder why they didn’t write in themselves.

I’m not sure anything I’ve written has resulted in concrete change, but that’s not the point. I don’t think people question things in the way that they should – there’s a pathology of complacency in Britain. My response is to get on and do something about it. If writing a letter means people might talk about it, then that’s the job done in my book.

I don’t often write about things that make me happy – although I did recently make an exception for Liverpool manager Jürgen Klopp. I joshed that he was coming over here and stealing our jobs. Liverpool loves him. I’m supporting a campaign for a statue of him in the city.

I’m often asked why I don’t have a column in the paper, but I think it would be controversial. People would write in telling them to get rid of me. I know I would.

• As told to Camilla Palmer

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