Dear Dreary.
I have a very unusual condition, which is basically going to land me a hefty jail term if I don't seek help immediately.
In my religion we worship Boris, the spider God, and every spider is sacred and must be stroked should we come across one.
Only yesterday I glimpsed one run underneath a policeman's hat. I was cautioned under the public indecency act with stroking a police officer gently under the rim of his helmet.
Whilst on holiday in Bridlington I thought I saw a spider nestling in the gusset of a ladies swimming costume. It soon became obvious that the owner of the costume was not best pleased that I had thrust my hand between her legs. Well, if she had kept 'on top' of her hairy purse in the first place the confusion wouldn't have arisen.
It all came to a head this morning whilst I was making beds at the local old folks home. I caught one scurrying under the quilt and proceeded with caution.
It wasn't the fact that I had nearly caused Miss Blissheart to choke on her kippers that got me the sack.
It was the operation to remove my wedding ring from her small intestine and the unlikely excuse that I had been 'hunting Boris' that practically got me sectioned.
I'm thinking of swapping over to the Beaver Cult instead to be on the safe side. Your thoughts?
Keith Loon,
Drummington-Cum-Seldom.


　
　
　
Dear Keith.
Whilst sympathising with your condition, i have to advise against any form of contact with The Beavers. They are a bristly bunch at best, and have been responsible for the early demise of many a fine young buck. At their demanding worst they will guide you in to an apparent heaven but then spit you out the moment they no longer need you, often turning to an imitation alternative. The answer for you lies in a more pragmatic direction. Your spider dilemma can be solved on the web. www.arachnaphonia.org will supply contact details for a local eradication expert, able to terminate the problem at source.
Simply ring your nearest contact and within hours the little hairy fuckers will be no more. I believe your eradicator is particularly loathsome, and with a doctorate to his name to prove it. Dr. Iolanthe Watson's nickname in the trade is the "manic street bleacher" which says it all really. He will simply wipe out anything in your house that moves. He is also available on a 24 hour helpline. Let me know how you get on.

The Twelve Dreary Days of Christmas.
On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me................
12 pints of lager
11 stoners rolling
10 bongs are blowin
9 lads are humpin'
8 ladies cummin'
7 re-possessions
6 giros cashin'
5 BAGS OF WHIZZ
4 broken teeth
3 in a bed
2 hand jobs
and a condom hung from a tree.................
merry xmas from all at Dear Dreary.x

Dear Dreary.
I am due to give birth to my first child in three weeks or so, and to be honest the whole thing has been a bit of a nightmare. I don't even remember how i got pregnant, and the probable father - a bearded scumbag joiner - buggered off months ago. Yet friends, family, and people everywhere, especially the local vicar, keep insisting that this will be some sort of memorable event and will even give people some sort of new belief. God knows they need that round here, it's a right dump. I'll probably end up giving birth in the friggin train shed surrounded by some of the local teenage animals.
They talk of a bright light and travellers from the east. That'll be the police helicopter tracking them gypos from Millwall.
Still, I'll not be refusing any cool presents they might bring. What am I, stupid or summat?
If I am desperate when my time comes I might creep into the train sheds and have it there. Be a proper Virgin birth.
Anyway Drears, I was wondering if you could suggest a few
names. For a boy I was thinking of Brian.
What do you think?
Love from Mary.


Dear Mary.
It's a pity that the father couldn't have given you a more stable relationship.
I have a friend who lives near your neck of the woods. He's done really well for himself. He runs a local rag called The Northern Star. They call him the Ink Keeper and he's made so much money that he now lives in this wonderful barn conversion on the outskirts of town. I'm sure he could put you up for a few weeks. You'd have to get a taxi, it's quite a way out. I'll give you the number for Ass cabs later.
He lives next door to the Kings. They're a lovely well to do family. You'll probably get some dead good presents off them for the little one.
Brian's not a bad name for a lad. Jesus, you could do a lot worse!
D.

Thanks Dreary, you're a star! Merry Brianmas.

Dear Dreary.
My name is not Colonel can you can Harry can i have a dreadful can dreadful affliction that can means i can not Llewellyn can not finish a finish a finish a affliction that means means i jumble jumble up all my afflictions since my my time up the falklands jumbley jumbley afflict can sentence my brain affliction up the argie bargie electrodes jumbled my fucking brains faggots scrambled up the english arsenal boom! headache in port fuck stanley holloway can you limp help me limp end up cock got stuck finish affliction my cannot help myself finish a incoming! jumbley cant finish a help me deirdre my affliction is


Goodness me man!
I don't think I've seen a case as bad as this in my entire life.
You masturbate too much young fellow. As you're on the verge of climaxing all the time you end up talking non sensical
jibberish.
So, I'm afraid the cover up story of a Falklands veteran simply doesn't wash. Shell shock my hat!!!
You need to find another hobby. Why not actually join the army instead of playing at pocket soldiers.
As it stands presently your hand grenade is likely to go off in your hand at any moment causing untold trouser carnage. I'm sure your bayonet skills are adequate, 'they don't like it up 'em' as corporal Jones used to say, although in your case I'm not so sure.
It's the rifle range for you soldier. No more firing blanks willy nilly! It's time to distinguish between your privates and the officers mess!



You Deidre fuck this problem real jumble is genuine and i wank cant both shot arms off during the fuckin bitch you war are

Put it away immediately! At least join the RAF, you can play in your cockpit all day long!Screw you.can you keep a secret. I am captain harry ''h'' llewelyn,falklands war hero.previously thought dead. I faked my death in order to get away from a nagging wife. Please don't publish. I am willing to pay for your silence. H, Buenas Aries


Not 'Harry the horse' Llewelyn? The Stanley Stallion? Those poor sheep! No wonder you're in hiding!!! It's disgusting!
Did you never wonder why the argentinian mutton industry is now the world leader?

Dear Dreary.
I'm a donkey and have been struggling to find work over Christmas. You may think this odd and that I should be inundated with work at this time of year but sadly not.
I recently auditioned for a production of Little Donkey at The Dreary Lane Theatre but I was knocked back on account of being hung like a horse.
They said I might upset the children.
Things have not always been this dire.
Back in the late seventies I was the inspiration behind 'Beast of Burden' by The Rolling Stones'. Back in the day, before they could afford a van they used to throw all their gear on me and I used to hump them up and down the country. That 's me on the cover of 'Get Yer Ya Yas Out. Charlies' wife never found out. You can see how happy we were back then.
My first big break came when I landed the lead role in 'Two Mules For Sister Sarah'. No one ever found out what happened to the other mule. Shirley McLaine couldn't keep her hands off me, Clint never got a look in.
With the fame came the wealth, the drugs, the girls and the inevitable downward spiral.
I lost everything. I got bits of work here and there most notably as a stunt donkey on 'Animal Farm'.
I've applied for a job at Blackpool giving donkey rides in the hope that I may become a gay icon but it's all up in the air at the moment!
Could you recommend a decent grooming parlour?
Your's
Dick the Donkey.

Dear Dick.
With unemployment come many things. Depression, inertion, self-loathing, and even, in some instances ,some type of self-harm. From what you tell me of your circumstances i can detect classic symptoms of Gallagher's syndrome. This was originated by a Mancunian expert who championed the mind over matter theory, where the mind accepts that efforts need to be made to get back to work but the body simply refuses and seeks a more pleasurable substitute. There is also a more sinister side to the theory, an area of the mind that becomes totally delusional. The Stones' tour? The connection with Charlie's wife? Classic Gallaher's. You'll be telling me next that a globally famous cartoon has been made about your life with your voice dubbed by a famous black American comedian. The remedy, my equine friend, is simple. GET YOUR LAZY FAT MULE ARSE TO THE NEAREST JOB CENTRE AND SORT YOUR SAD FUCKIN LIFE OUT YOU SCUMBAG ASS -ARSE.
Merry Christmas.

Dear Dreary.
This time of year always gives me palpitations when it reminds me of a yuletide incident a few years ago. It had been the office party the night before. I woke with strange recollections of dreams about a rather annoying, obese black santa being mysteriously thwarted in his attempts to deliver presents to our house whilst i knelt down in front of him, peeling carrots. I remember laying in bed trying to figure it all out and blaming the drink and the supper i obviously brought home (there was an interesting combination of ketchup and mayo on the pillow). Imagine my horror! As i came downstairs .i thought i had left the tv on as i could hear Lenny Henry rambling on about the fact that he'd much rather be staying at a bloody Premier Inn. Then i noticed that the voice was coming from the chimney. The bottom half of a black male torso was dangling above the grate, legs kicking in an angry manner in time with the incoherent rambling and cursing. It was naked apart from a pair of santa trousers and rudolph undies around the ankles and a pair of doc martins. In the fireplace were more of the same remnants of those in my bed, alongside a potato peeler, a jar of helmanns, my yellow marigolds, and a box of kleenex. There was no sign of any potatoes anywhere, but a pool of what appeared to be a congealed blood and flakes of black skin. Santas engorged, dangling appendage was red raw and in obvious need of a soothing touch. I applied a mixture of mayo and ice to the throbbing gristle, particularly to the area where the foreskin used to be. Santa shot out of the top of the chimney like a human cannonball, and his screams were heard across town, not helped by the fact that he landed arse first on next door's giant Norweigan pine. It was only at this stage that i vaguely remembered eating fresh kebab meat before going to bed. You can understand my subsequent unease with christmas and why i always now prefer Travelodge. Could you offer some advice to help me over my trauma? Seasons felicitations, Lionel Barrymore, Peeler's End.
　
　
Dear Lionel.
This is most peculiar.
Only last week I had a query from a Nat King Christmas who told me of an excruciating ordeal at the hands if his junior office boy after a fancy dress works do went horribly wrong.
He stated that everything was going well until Lionel came in the room dressed only in a mankini and started to try and interfere with Santas sack. At the point where Nat King Christmas started to tease Lionel about his 'chipalata' office boy went berserk and threatened to disfigure Nats Mambo for good.
It was only when Nat awoke astride the Norwegian Fir that his nightmares were realised.
If this is you 'Lionel' I shouldn't be too keen to return to work as Father Christmas has deemed you a very bad little boy.
He did say he'd let you sit on his knee though!!

Dear Dreary.
I never thought i would get over the loss of my precious fanny. Lost in a terrible accident twelve years ago, i was left bereft in early middle age, condemned to an existence without life's ultimate pleasure. No more the thrill of a quiet night in, losing myself in her various sensual charms.
No more early morning rampant delight, my hardness and stamina a shock to us both. Or so i thought! How she got there i cannot think, but when i moved the settee the other day to lay a new carpet there she was! Still looking pristine in her little pink box, all inviting yet somehow neglected, my pleasure treasure awaiting my attention.
The words "My Fanny" still sparkling like new in silver lettering around the ever-ready clitoris, the faint bitemarks still evident. I can't believe she's come back to me. Can you suggest somewhere i can take her for a romantic weekend? Thanks D. Benjamin Netanyahu, Cairo.


Dear Benjamin.
It begs the question, where are Fanny's other bits? Like her arms and legs, head, torso, green shield stamps?
Isn't it a bit embarrassing taking Fanny out to dinner? I take it she wears a thong at least? Do you take her to the bathroom?
Does she put her teeth in to eat?
Better take them out again before she swallows I suppose!!
What do your friends think? Can she speak?
Has she, could she, ever hold down a job? I'm sure she's filled many positions over the years, I'm just curious.
There's a twat in our office that could do to be replaced.
Should I send Fanny an application form?
I hope she's got her GCSE in English?
Dreary. X

Dear Dreary.
The woman across the street has dobbed me in to the rozzers. I never did nothing ,honest.
She should be so lucky! In her dreams. I was just looking at her, honest. Well, just looking at her as she undressed in her bedroom with a crack in the curtains. That’s her own fault isn't it?
Well ok, I may have been just looking at her whilst i was stood at my window lit only by a spotlight on my naked lower abdomen. Oh and yea ok, i may have been just looking at her whilst fiddling around downstairs and trying the wife's peephole bra and bright pink "Gargantua" dildo.
Was I also just looking at her whilst peeling my banana?
Possibly.
Oh and I may have been practicing my zumba moves and penile stretches and combing my plumed grenadier guards helmet whilst dipping my plums into a drip tray of Absinthe.
And it is remotely feasible that I was at that precise time delivering the dog's weekly anal disobedience punishment.
But what the hells it got to do with her?
Advise. Berndt Foreschkindler, Upper Kolon, West Failure.

Dear Berndt.
Tell the dirty mare to keep her nose out!
What you do behind closed doors and open curtains is your business.
She should't be looking!
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
++ possibly to the tune of The
Floral Dance ++
I've got a boil in an awkard spot, it's deep and it seeps and it weeps a lot. Equally placed via front or back, equi-distant 'tween arse and crack.
The doctor said "you'll probably find this rules out activities of the sexual kind." The doc says the cause was a friction rash, from leathery straps and a dried out gash. I never know
when I've had enough, i've had it all up my flamin chuff. The Royal Marines Band, a boy scout group, Man United and the Riverdance troupe. A Samurai sword with serated edge, hand-picked salad, and assorted veg. So an agony aunt is my final hope, i've even tried antibiotic soap. All i need is a change of luck, a big black fella and an all night fuck. Can you help with some sound advice, my fannys feeling like its in a vice.
Yours, Philomena Minge, Cheddar Gorge.


My dear Philomena ++ to the tune of my favourite things ++
Vaginal warts and a discharge of mucous, turn some men on so are likely to puke less.
Give them a cock ring and soft Vaseline, your nook and your cranny's now spotlessly clean!
A selection, of erection's, what you plainly need.
The tramps in the shelter are desperate this year.
You're just what they all.........might need!
Dreary. x

Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright. On the promenade paedophiles queue, round young virgin wasted on glue. Sleep in heavenly peace.
Silent night, holy night, down the high street scumbags fight. Picasso faces, angry and pained, alcy in doorway trousers all stained. Sleep in heavenly peace.
Silent night, holy night, booze shop trading through the night. Xmas Eve is no time to shirk, one day off then straight back to work. Sleep in heavenly peace.
Silent night, holy night, I need dear Dreary's help tonight. Help to find me a bed for the night, baby will come by morning light. Sleep in heavenly peace.
Mary, Bethlehem Women’s Refuge,
Grange Park,
Blackpool.

Dear Mary?
I recognize that hand writing and school boy toilet humour.
Little Johnny Bamber I presume?
Some things never change. Still the same repulsive little prick I remember from junior school all those many moons ago.
Anyway, don't go trying to blackmail me now cause I'm famous. I only wanked you off 'round the back of the bike shed cause you had a swapsy my brother needed to complete his Star Wars collection of cards.
Now bugger off!
Dreary.

Dear Dreary.
My son has eyes in the back of his head. He's been tormented for this affliction since nursery school.
We've tried everything. Drawing eyes on his face where they should be, dressing him back to front, even shaving the back of his head so he can see properly. Whatever we try he still looks pretty silly.
He constantly lives his life looking over his shoulder. This is of course to see where he is
going.
He's not a very rational young chap either, often losing arguments as his reasoning is often flawed and people say that he hasn't got a leg to stand on.........which brings me onto his other affliction. I'm sick if pushing him around in a shopping trolley, my back's killing me.
Could you recommend a strong painkiller?
Lionel Pear.
Treal.

Dear Lionel.
Forget painkillers, what you need is an optician. The thing you have been calling your son all these years is actually a gonk. Originally thought to have become extinct in the seventies, the gonk gene has survived amongst the intellectually challenged, thriving on a lifestyle of filthy council estate air, chip fat, and weekly bingo sessions. Predominant in northern England, the gene has quietly established itself amongst low-life benefit cheats and scumbags too thick to know better. It was always going to be just a matter of time before the gonks emerged from their host families in order to meet up and breed, then re-establish themselves in vast communities across the country. You must therefore destroy your "son" before things get out of hand. Put a reversible blindfold on him, secure him in a large cardboard box, then wheel him to the council tip before placing in the skip marked "Danger! Gonks!". Then get back to your meaningless, squalid life. Glad to be a comfort.
Drears.

What a relief!
Could I not donate it to a local school?
They were always a symbol of good luck sat on your desk during examinations.

Dear Dreary.
In these hard times I, like so many other people, have had to take on a second job to help make ends meet. I'm finding it very difficult to strike a balance between my job as a judge at the crown court and 'Janice', a sex chat call girl working for 'Dial-A-Wank'.
The other day I had to adjourn proceedings to retire to my chambers to spank myself whilst moaning 'ooo Gerald, you're so big' to a client on my mobile phone.
I was a little embarrassed when, on my return to the courtroom, I was wolf whistled from the gallery by a member of the public when he spied my robes tucked into the back of my knickers.
That wasn't the worst of it!
Tuesday, I was just in the middle of passing sentence when my phone rang on loudspeaker.
Trying to explain to members of the jury, barristers, people in the public gallery etc what was meant by ' how much for a good fisting whilst you blow my shaft was challenging to say the least. However, explaining that it was a query on a very complex case whereby a fellow colleague was asking what the maximum sentence would be for GBH and subsequent wilful damage to his mining business, I think I got away with it.
To make matters worse I've now had to take on a third job at the local biscuit factory in charge of Party Rings and 'Fun Size' Fingers.
It can only get worse.
What would you do if you were me?
Judge Judy 'Two Fingers' McGimpy. QT. x


　
　
　
Judy.
Hard times indeed. Three jobs and you are struggling? This is what saddens and depresses me about our once respected community. Whilst your neighbors battle with redundancy and unemployment, you willingly wallow in a lifestyle that depends on the weaknesses of others on THREE different counts. What an oustanding pillar of the community! No wonder the country is on its knees. My advice is to concentrate on one role and be grateful. Most people who contact me are genuinely desperate and at their wits end, unlike yourself, your honour, a fatcat, sponging, selfish, scrotum of a human. You disgust me sphincter.
PS: can you let me have Janice's contact number.

Dear Dreary.
I've got myself in a right old pickle and urgently need your help.
I popped along to see my GP last week for a routine check-up. I know my Doctor very well, she's a lovely lady and we get on like a house on fire, or rather we did.
I was just popping my trousers over the back of the chair when she unashamedly asked me if I'd ever had a stroke! Tripping over my words I said that I hadn't but I would most certainly like one and promptly shoved my hand up her frock.
Her scream made me jump and I removed my hand far too quickly, catching a nail on her knicker elastic. Luckily I was in the right place and with a blob of germoline and an Elastoplast I was well on the mend.
Unfortunately Dr Goodbody is pressing charges and I am presently detained at Her Majesty's pleasure.
I've a big job on at the end of the month and wonder if you could bail me out?
Yours,
Santa.


Dear Santa. Funny how events at this time of year ,in your sorry case especially ,bring to mind fables and children’s stories. I am thinking in particular of the boy who cried wolf once too often. Do you not recall why you had reason to contact me just twelve short months ago? That poor child is still traumatized (i was forced to adopt him whilst his parents saw out their sentences for the fully justified assault upon your aroused personage).
And again the previous December, i advised you on that legal issue regarding your good lady Mary that resulted in the innocent verdict. For someone who manages to deliver billions of presents in a single evening how poor your memory appears to be.
I just hope you are still complying with the injunction and that the treatment has cured your penchant for hard seasonal veg.
So i'm afraid this year i find myself unable to help. Que sera sera. I have arranged an announcement on tonight’s news to warn all kiddies to stay in bed a little longer on Xmas morning as your little helpers are short-handed this year, and i have contacted Mary Quantas (queen of shops) to recruit a replacement for your position.
The ad highlights the need to be reliable and dependable.
Perhaps you should take heed of that during your imminent festive break in Pentonville.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
Every time i travel by public transport i develop a stiffy. Nothing to do with the movement or vibrations, its the conductresses. Ugly, fat, and unfriendly, they do things to me when they root around for change in their bumbags and struggle to tear off my ticket. I always make sure that i present a twenty pound note, just to see the sexy expression of annoyance on their flabby faces. I once got talking to a particularly bad looking specimin on the last tram one friday night. I asked her if she fancied a nightcap, but when she said that she had to guide the tram into its shed for the night i swear i very nearly creamed myself.
I am currently in Blackpool for the weekend for the annual tram drivers convention, and boy am i worn out! I never realised there were so many female tram drivers. I now realise i have been blind all these years. Why have i been messing around with the second in command when i could have been ogling the main girl? I now always sit right behind the driver and lick my travel pass suggestively as i watch her nimble fingers twiddle nobs and flick switches.
How i would love to be a tram! My life is coming off the rails somewhat with all the frustration. Whats the point? I've lived a very sheltered life, and need to get back on track. I am lacking some electricity in my life, and have now resorted to tramadol.
What can i do?
Yours, Dick Nerd, Starr Gate.

Dear Dick.
My auntie Betty is a tram driver. Proper brute she is, looks like a bloke who's had a sex change.
If you like, I could pass on your details to her and she could 'sh e-mail' you directly.
She could give you a tour around the back of the old tram sheds before punching your ticket.
She might give you a free ride before taking you off to the changing rooms to help her shave her back before she goes home.
Ok with you?
Fondest,
Dreary. x

Does she wear a peaked cap?

Fez, smokes a pipe!

Dear Dreary.
What do you think about this? I was out carol singing the other night when i noticed something going on, even though i had some of my favourite carols in my head. Drugs king Wes Les Ness went out with his nephew Stephen. They had a 12 inch Dominos, deep pan, crisp and even. Brightly shone the moon that night and the frost was cruel. When a poor man came in sight the bastards mugged the fool.
Two friends Holly and Ivy appeared, and both were fully-grown. They also stuck the boot in and the fucker did'nt half moan.
Three blokes then turned up singing : 'we three queens of funny girls are,one in a tutu one in a bra, one in a gimp suit sucking a grapefruit,following yonder tart. Thongs of wonder, thongs so bright, thongs up arseholes stained with shite, santas coming, for a bumming, emptying his sack all night.' Later, away in the hospice,no bench for a bed, the battered old wino lays down his bruised head. The scumbags are gloating, the homos awake, but the poor little hobo no movement he makes.
So help me dear Deirdre, I ask you to say, advise me forever and write me i pray.
Hark! The Evening Herald sings : 15 years for the old drugs king.
Glad tidings,Nic.


　
Dear Nic.
People do forget there is a dark, seedy side to this festive time and you have been witness to some terrible things.
On the estate where I live we have seen our fair share of Christmas calamity. Families feud constantly and no one is safe.
The other night whilst The Shepards washed their cocks whilst seated on the bed, Liz Angel from next door came around and promptly gave them head!
The three Kings brothers who live in a flat above Orient Spar are worse. One drives a tractor, the other a hearse. Killed a copper who came a cropper, he'd left it in reverse.
The Halls got blamed for this and were decked with a baseball bat and left for dead in a holly bush.
Our City is run by the notorious David Royal. Once, there stood a lonely drunk smack head. Got a mother and a baby, two pit bulls and off his head. Mary was the mother, wild she was but, Jesus Christ!!!! That wasn't his child.
Peace on earth, my arse.

Dear Dreary.
Tis the season to be jolly but not I'm afraid in our house.
We don't have a chimney. We live in a block of council flats and the truth is, Santa won't stand a chance if he tries to empty his sack round ours.
The only gobble anyone gets round here is round the back of the lift shaft.
Any reports if a stuffed bird on the table is generally some reference to some slapper who's been banged over the pool table in The Needle and Pram pub.
My auntie Mary's boy child isn't called Jesus, nor was he born in a barn on Christmas Day. He's called Leroy and was born in a nightclub on Saturday.
The three Kings appear quite frequently, usually on a poker night.
We do have a Joseph round the local area who, like his famous carpenter namesake, is handy with a piece of wood in his hand. Unfortunately in this case, it's more often than not a baseball bat.
The only reference to Bethlehem is some crude graffiti scrawled on a bench in the bus shelter which eloquently reads 'Beth/Liam shagged 'ere'.
And if people would only scrub their sprouts round 'ere it would at least reduce the queue at the Health Centre.
Please Dreary, don't let Santa stop here. The only light in the night sky folk around these parts follow is the police helicopter.
Yours,
Stella Artwat,
Crumbling Heights,
Mold.


　
　
Dear Stella.
What a sorry state of affairs. Santa does'nt see good or bad, or right or wrong. He just sees where a little hapiness needs to be srinkled, the places where he's most appreciated,where the kids happy smiling faces will light up the most. I suspect the reason for your letter may be a tad more down to earth than you are letting on. I saw your ravaged pockmarked visage on Crimewatch last month. The family business had an early morning visit then? Spared another stretch because there's nobody left to look after the kids? I now know where you're coming from with your desperate dispicable heartless plea to santa. Not nice when your assets are frozen in december. So your ploy will not work, you can tell little Chardonnay, Peaches, Britney, Beyonce, and baby Winston that santa WILL be calling after all. Get back to your day job, do some horizontal overtime, and get those punters sucked. Christmas is for families. If you would like to visit yours,ring HM Prisons to check seasonal opening times. All the best.

Dear Dreary.
I went swimming the other day to get fit and promised myself that on the first day I would swim five lengths, which I did. Trouble is, I'm now stuck in the deep end of the swimming baths with no way of getting out as the changing rooms and exit from the baths are accessed from the shallow end. I know I should have geared myself up for six lengths but there you have it I suppose. Stranded.
I've gone all wrinkly and very chilly. The pool attendants have been most encouraging, one or two even suggesting that I swim to the other
end or climb up the ladder out of the pool and walk back around. Ah, the ignorance of youth!
I'm getting in the way of an aqua zumba class at the moment and people are accusing me of leaving floaters in the pool. Well, I have been stranded for over a week, what do they expect?
Save me!
Yours,
Sharon Crisp
Poolton

Dear Sharon.

A less appropriate surname would be hard to imagine,given your current predicament. I commend your patience and fortitude. I am very impressed. A couple of thoughts spring to mind : do they turn the lights off at night? You could pretend to be a Titanic survivor,clinging desperately to passing turds, or an Amity Island holidaymaker squinting through the darkness on the lookout for that solitary fin. Just a couple of ideas to help you get through those damp lonely evenings. I also wondered how much weight you had lost during your forced immersion. You could be onto something there. New diets are always popular, and there would be no easy opt-out with this method. Lack of willpower would not even be a consideration,especially if the participant were say padlocked to a heavy bouy or possibly chained to an anchor. Perhaps you could let me know at what point the skin begins to degenerate and flake off. Just so i can cover my back against possible future legal claims after i h
ave launched the diet. I was thinking of calling it The Swim Yourself Slim Diet. I'd be interested in what
you think. And lets face it,you have plenty of thinking time on your wrinkly hands. D.
I'm very sorry. I can't reply presently as my Basildon Bond keeps getting wet and my Parker pen won't work under water.

Dear Dreary.
I'm a dog, and have a loving owner who thinks the world of me. He's always had dogs, working dogs, show dogs, you name it. He's lived and breathed a dogs life, so much so  that I have grown very concerned for his recent behaviour and well being.
On Sunday I trotted into the kitchen as usual for my breakfast. I was horrified to find my owner with his nose buried in the  last of my chicken and rabbit from the dog bowl before rolling over on the kitchen floor and licking his balls.
That wasn't the worst of it.
We were out walking the other morning when
he stopped right outside the front gate of the vicarage, dropped his trousers and shit all over the pavement. I was mortified having to knock and ask the vicars house keeper for something to clean it up with. She was very kind and provided a set of silver tongues and a silk handkerchief. I walked down the garden path and out onto the pavement to clean up the mess to find my owner shagging the lolipop lady doggy style on the grass verge.
Anyway, someone called the dog warden and they've taken him away and locked him in a kennel.
I'm too embarrassed to go and collect him.
What should I do?
Yours,
Dil The Dog.

Deat Dil. I always knew this would happen. As soon as it became the norm for owners to clean up after their pets,it was inevitable that one day the tables would be turned and some dogs would take advantage. I mean, what a fantastic ego boost to be able to shit anywhere you want and have someone immediately pick it up for you and carry it home! Dogs are also eating a healthier diet than ever before,so are consequently more regular in the toilet department. Perfect! Even more for your down-trodden owner to pick up. No wonder dogs are living longer. No reliance these days on bonemeal to supplement the diet: when's the last time you saw white dogshit? Animal Farm is becoming reality! This may be the start of the revolution Dil, so i am honour bound to dob you in to the authorities before it gets out of hand. By the way, you type brilliantly! D.
Thankyou.
It was very wuff at our school, the headmaster wouldn't think twice about hitting you with his canine! I can also speak English sheepdog, French poodle and German shepherd.

The warden is on his way. And he won't be taking any shit from you. Ever been to Battersea?
Do you know, my Dography's terrierable!
Is it near Clacton?

No its near London zoo,which is rubbish by the way. Shit zoo.

Dear Dreary.
I'm a very old crocodile and I live with my wife in a river.
I used to watch me dad fighting Tarzan and swallowing Wilder beast from the comfort of the river bank.
Those were the days, when crocs were crocs.
Things have got steadily worse over the years, the old ways giving in to new ones.
My daughter for example always used to say, when she was a child, 'I want to be a handbag when I grow up'! And our Colin always wanted to be shoes. Fortunately, jobs were easier to come by in those days and our kids were lucky and their dreams came true, big time. Colin not only became a pair of shoes but several belts, wallets and a passport holder. Our Christine became a hat box for Liz Taylor.
I've got the photo! Very proud.
Of course, it's very difficult for the grand kids to find work these days. They're all wanting to move into television but with the death of Steve Irwin, Neighbours moving to Ch5 and Home & Away (god only knows) it's impossible to find work.
Is there to be a new Crocodile Dundee movie or perhaps a new Jimmy Nail video?
Yours,
Clifford S Napper.

Dear Cliffy.

Auntie Dreary has passed your enquiry on to me as she's staying over here for the Clam festival. I am sorry to say this but its a simple case of you being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Africa has had its day. The future is out here in the Keys. All the Florida sunshine you can manage, and murky yet appealing waters crammed full of tasty  Yankee crayfish, and fat juicy Yanks on lightweight hovercrafts all over the place. I never need to go anywhere a
else to eat my fill. I have also appeared as an extra on "A Place In The Sun", have been offered a lead role in the new Miami Vice movie, (where i get to swallow Danny De Vito whole!), and i have a permanent walk on part on the fairway of the eigjteenth hole at the Florida Masters. This is the life! There is also the prospect of retirement at the new Disney Zoo, where i will feature in the Peter Pan enclosure. Why don't you put in for a transfer and come and join me?

Regards, Ally Gator, Key West.

Dear Dreary.
I wish to make allegations against several seventies rock musicians, the confessions and carry on lot and the porn industry.
I was a groupie in those days and followed all the top bands around in the hope of getting a closer look you might say. Once, Jimmy Poge of Deep Turtle found me hiding naked in his cistern cupboard at a hotel and promptly aroused a member of staff before slapping my buttocks with a dead fish.
Once, on the set of 'Confessions of a Druggy Slapper' I was snorting a line if coke off Robin Askme's knob when suddenly he reached out and touched me just above the knee. It was
disgusting!
On the set of carry on matron I was in the dressing room with some of the other girls having a sexy lesbian orgy when Bernard Braces walked passed, stopped and went Phwoar, looking right at me! The dirty pervert has ruined my life ever since.
During filming 'Spunk Everywhere, Fist Me Without My Pants On' I was being spit roasted by my co-actors when one of the camera men starting filming it for fuck sake! I couldn't believe it! Peeping Tom!!
Anyway, like I said, my life is in tatters now thanks to these dirty molesting bastards!
Give me some compo I'm hard up,
Linda Lovepants.
Paris.

Ah Linda.
Do i detect that familiar sound of an ex-celeb hitting rock bottom? Where have you been for the last 30 years? I take it the money has run out. You can forget the desperate plea for compo. Time to seek employment in the grannie-porn market i'm afraid. Get yourself into the studio and get out those once luscious,fullsome boobies and let em warm your kneecaps; trim the grey goarse from your once tight love lips and get used to the feel of them flapping in the wind. There is a whole new market out there ready to welcome you with open legs. Current hotflix in the 'mature' field include 'Granny Rides Delaney's Donkey', 'Nanphomaniac 2: Anal Bingo', 'Fill My Ageing Dried-up Tunnel Sonny', 'My Gums Await', and 'Flaps Down'. With your reputation you cannot fail. It's a lucrative market and if you employ a good accountant you could receive your pension as well!
Swallow your pride : you'll need the space in your throat. D.


Well I like that!!
You might just as well have put your hand up my skirt as say those derogatory remarks!
You big fat lezza! I'll make sure you never work again!
　

Dear Dreary.
HElP! I believe battery hen farming has been made illegal, but i had to move huts recently and am now being forced to work in a soulless enclosed space that has no natural light or atmosphere.
My closest friend has been sent to slaughter and my new colleagues are boring and unfriendly, and the boss is so incompetent that he hasn't even yet realised that not only am i still to produce my first egg, but that this is because i am actually a cock. Our production levels are to be checked at the end of the month so i can't imagine what will be said.
Those all around me seem happy enough and keep pecking away, apparently happy with their lot. I think though that this could be because they are all either conditioned to be braindead or have no sense of humour whatsoever.
I would love the fox to get in one night and chew their fat irrelevant knecks. Is this my reward for years of loyal service? Maybe it will be for the best if i join my buddy.
I am so unhappy.
Please help me.
Floghorn Cleghorn, Henley.

Dear Cleggy.
A cock like you needs to spread it's wings! You need to get out whilst you can before they realise that you are incapable of laying an egg and they reduce your daily corn allowance.
You need to leave the coup door open leaving your cramped space vulnerable to attack from a wily old fox. He could ravage all the other hens, nick all the eggs causing such a commotion that no one will notice you slipping out the back.
It's time to break out. You decide when and how you like your eggs, not anyone else!
I like mine fertilised, call me?
Dreary. xx

Dear Dreary.
The ink has run out of my pen!
Sebastian Biro.
Inklington.


Dear Sebastian.
This worries me slightly. The production of semen from the testes should continue well into old age to some degree. Though you fail to mention your age or any recent problems, to say you have simply dried up probably masks an underlying issue of some kind. Are you suffering from stress at work maybe, or under pressure to perform in the bedroom? Have you experienced a recent blow to the coconuts or are they mis-shaped or swollen? It's possible that supply lines may have become blocked or even that there has been a total tube strike. Or,more likely,your lifelong history as a serial masturbator has finally caught up with you. My advice? As the great Greek philosopher Coppernickers once said, '' If there's nowt left in't tank, find thee a fresh hobby and fill up lad''.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
My knickers are very tight and i'm having trouble fastening my bra clasp. My tights rip constantly owing to the strain of my voluminous flesh and my Sunday frock keeps coming undone at the back revealing rather more than a girl would like.

I have trouble getting a gentleman friend though it's not from lack of trying.
Young boys run away when I approach them and I've appeared in several identity parades.
We all have needs Dreary. Next door won't let me look after little Harvey the dashund any more and Farmer Poole has an injunction out against me. Not allowed within a mile of his sheep.
Any of your male readers want a pen pal?
Geoff.

I think most of my readers would indeed rather have a pen as a pal to be honest Geoff. There is much to be said for it. A reliable constant companion who has no needs or mood swings, but one who is always there for you when you need them. No need for a computer here, just a trusted and loved partner to support you through life's dramas. I treasure my collection like they are husbands, and if one day their supply of fluid expires I tend for them in my breast pocket and pass on their duties to a hand-picked substitute. My favourite is my Parker Swivelhead, a long chunky model boasting dual action and either soft or hard nib. It never fails to satisfy! He even says ''Yes m'lady?'' every time i flick his little switch, and always sees me through to the end whenever my creative juices are flowing. I am caressing him as i write. Then,when I'm all done, i'll pop him somewhere snug and warm in case i need him during the night and then it's off to Bedfordshire for the two of us. You can rely on
a pen Geoff.
Dreary. xx

Dear Dreary.
Every time i lick a stamp to put on an envelope my wife has an orgasm.
It's not too bad when we're at home although Christmas can be quite challenging. Birthday cards, spot the ball coupons and the Freemans catalogue always end up in an accident on the breakfast room carpet.
It's obviously most embarrassing down at the post office. The whole area in front of the glass screens had to be evacuated last Tuesday when my wife lost control as we weighed a second class parcel bound for Australia. It took three cleaners armed with a Vileda and bucket to pronounce the area safe. I dread to think what she'd have been like had we sent it first class.
Have you any idea when a new communication system might be developed to spare my wife and I from this constant shaming?
Please be quick, the vicar's just popped round and I need to post my Blue Peter competition.
Harry Paddley,
Puddleton On The Piss

Dear Harry.
Good god man. 1). Go to living room cupboard. 2). Take out big yellow book that postie Pat brings once a year. 3). Under 'C', locate nearest branch of shop named Currys. 4). Drive to said shop 5).Purchase either item A. computer or B. laptop. 6). Join rest of planet on remarkable development named internet. 7). Forget letters and cards : fucking email people. Alternatively, do nothing and just enjoy the fringe benefits. Save all necessary stamp licking until the two of you are tucked up in bed and hey presto : a satisfying little quickie every time! Start a stamp collection and see how she responds to a penny black. Spoil her a little and make a fus of her every now and then. As all us women know, a little philately gets you everywhere!
Dreary.xx

Dear Dreary.
My best friend at work was recently made redundant and this has been affecting both my life in general and my performance in the office. I just can't get him out of my head and cannot seem to shake off my depression. Colleagues were sympathetic at first but i sense that their patience is running a little thin as it is now a couple of months since Kenneth left. If they only realised the full story. Kenneth had in fact told me that he loved me and would never leave me. We were extremely close and tended each other's vegetable patches every sunday morning. His onions are legendary in the local community.
At weekends he also sings in a band,playing the local pubs and clubs,and one night he sang a song he said he'd written about me,a touching number entitled ''Summer In The Fields''. From that moment on i knew he was the one for me,even though at first he found it difficult to return my feelings and I had to raise the difficult subject of halitosis and his somewhat trembly alto singing voice. Then it happened. It was after he had left that i emptied his drawers and found it. It was a letter from our colleague William,expressing his undying love and affection. I was devastated. That evening I confronted Kenneth with the letter. Unfortunately, when he admitted to the relationship, I lost my temper and in a stupid act of revenge that i now totally regret, i snapped his clarinet in two. He responded by pissing into my flat cap. Can you see any hope for us? I would still like us to keep in touch,and we actually have tickets for a Bucks Fizz concert next month,but he seems to making loads of new friends in his new job at the mortuary so i fear any offer of reconciliation would simply be snubbed. Will he willingly want wee Willie's winky like he once wanted mine? I can't bear this. The least he could do is give me back my '' I Love Peanut Butter'' y-fronts. Crunchy, of course. Yours brokenhearted, Charles Whoretree, Dungeon Ghyll.

Dear Charles.
You need to try and see where your relationship has gone wrong and why he fancies old Willy in the first place.
I bet Willy looks like you which may be of some comfort. Tall, rugged, a bit thick, bespectacled and away with the fairies.
It's a cry for help. Whilst your fella is taking one from the pavilion end from old Willy I bet he's secretly wishing it was you.
Think back how you have treated your loverboy and this may be where the answers lie.
Have you ever poked fun at his tubby tummy? Laughed at every song he's ever written? Taken the piss out if his love of disco music? Out dressed him in the office perhaps? So all the boys look at those military creases in your shirt and scoff at his tramp like appearance? I bet all he ever wanted was to be like you. An apprentice upon your milk float dripping head to foot in your gold top. Leaving you an extra pint perhaps?
This could be the last of the summer wine. Offer him a drink from the brim of your flat cap and perhaps get a couple of tickets for Saturday Night Fever.
That should do the trick!
Dreary. x
Thanx Drears. I can see that you may be correct. Underneath that skin of bravado and bluster, there is a sensitive, loving person. He just needs to take care of himself a bit more, cut out the daily pack of hobnobs and the creme de menthe breakfast. I'm not hoping for Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen, more an elegant Jim Bowen.

Dear Dreary.
Watya no bitch. I woud be intrested to know your thawts on the curant stait of our motherfucker edducatering sistern. Yeers of dumbling down have, I beleive, left a generashiun of motherfuckin kids under prepaid and, in sum cases, bearly illiterate. This is the resultium of concentriode puriode on exampliode passiode. We are contintinuing to let these mothers down with a softly softly heyhey i'm a monkee appwoach to dissiplin that leafs them confusiund and dishengreengaged.
Watyasay bitch? There are thymes i disrepair. The old school tie is long john, the progreshun to university no
longer anne achievement. Standrads have not just slipped,they have fallened over and re-fuse to pull themshelves back up. Even the roll of a proffessa has changed beeyond all recognishun. Wattle and daaube have todays' younglitude gotten to luck four wood too eye ear ewe say? Our next genderation of market garders
and shopcreepers,what will they a spire to? No motherfuckin barsted has any standawds or screwpulls.
Its all me me me ow are we gonna prowgress?

Prof.Green, Kings College Cambridge.

My dear Professor.
Thank goodness for great intellects such as yours.
The way they speak these days is an insult to the English language. Luckily us few remain what can speak proper innit and shall never be influenced by such shite as that.
I pride meself on me grammer nd the way av bin brought up nd that just like me mam, aunty Janice nd her mum before her.
I never ad sex before marriage. Probably why I'm still a virgin. I always brushed me teeth after a blowy though and never took it up the bum between meals.
It's what keeps Britain great people like you and me Cheesy.
PS yer rappin's well shit!
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
I feel utterly redundant as a human being and helpless to go anywhere or do anything.
You have to be 16 to ride a moped and 17 to drive a car.

You have to be 14 to see a AA and 18 to see an X.
16 to join the armed forces and 17 to become an au pair. You have to be 18 to vote and 16 to fly an aeroplane solo.
I'm 47.
Why do teenagers have all the fun?
PS Apparently there are no age restrictions in becoming an astronaut!
Lester Grebe.
Upper FluteBarrow. Ipswich.


Get a grip Lester. Half your life is still ahead of you! Take heart from the example of Sir Hilary Bangs, intrepid East Anglian turkey farmer and Antarctic Explorer. He had never left his native Stiffam before the age of 50, but went on to sail singlehanded to South Georgia accompanied by only 2 dozen hybrid Norfolk Blacks in a daring attempt to establish the turkey in the South Americas. All this despite being a cross-dresser and having only one leg since birth and a bit of a sore throat on the day he sailed from Lowestoft. What courage! What determination! What an entrepreneur! A shining light for us all to follow. There is nothing you can't achieve if you set your mind to it!
Love,Dreary.
PS : Hilary's courage never left him, even though the farm failed as it transpired that male turkey's testicles drop off at temperatures of minus twenty, and Hilary lost his other leg when his favourite gingham frock became trapped in the wheels of a passing combine harvester. He ended his days lonely but proud of his efforts, comforted by the sound of mating whales and the occassional penguin fritter.

Dear Dreary.
I'm chief inspector of the local village police force and our local council is playing merry hell with the way we do things around here.
They've taken the panda car, two bicycles and the Morris mini van that we use to throw villains in and sometimes to transport tables and chairs from the church hall to the village green for the annual fete.
In return, they've given us a selection of old council vehicles to cut costs on tax and fuel.
PC Windsock has been given a milk float, PC Nuts has been given an old bin wagon to put the robbers in and we've even been booted out of the police station and moved into Thowd Truncheon & Trumpet, the local Inn.

We've become a laughing stock. We're hard pushed to catch a blind man with a stick and our new jail is overcrowded as everyone wants a lock in in the Truncheon & Trumpet. The vicar's been arrested three times this week already. Once for preaching naked in his pulpit, once for drinking all of the blood of Christ and pissing in the font at a christening. Talk about wetting the babies head! And once, last night, for playing his pipe organ in full view of Miss Down, the flower arranger.
Please help. I feel they've taken the pea out of my whistle.
DCI Dick Barton.


Dear DCI 'Dead-Eye'.
Local authority cuts are biting hard these days, all you can do is put your case forward to central government. My local council have been reduced to sweeping the streets with the scalps of illegal immigrants, and are now staffing care homes with vagrants and gypsies. Kills two birds, you see. Rubbish collections are now monthly, but if you have a family you can arrange for the council to give you a fox, which will rifle you bins for the smelliest scraps and deposit them elsewhere. All public lavatories have been locked up. Each now has an adapted oildrum outside where the desperate can squat. A drive-in version is sometimes available for wheelchair users. Council tips have closed, so a list of addresses is displayed where rubbish can be deposited. Coincidentally, these are the homes of local sex offenders.
Good luck Dick!

Dear Dreary.
I cannot live with this any longer. It has eaten away at me for decades now, but the recent 'perormance' by my nemesis at the Olympics has simply left me shaking with rage. How this man could live with himself all this time, and reap fantastic rewards from my misery is almost beyond my comprehension. Let me say this name just the once. McCartney. There i've said it. Idolised and feted around the world, this worthless piece of shit has made my life a misery since 1966. He shamelessly used my name because it happened to fit that moronic, childish tune he wrote. Not only that, the words were totally
as well as idiotic. Surprise, surprise I did in fact NOT keep my face in a jar by the door, nor was i buried along with my name. I reckon the dirty old fucker was stalking me. I am still very much alive and about to make you pay you spineless, cringeworthy specmen who has the face of one of those twatting toads you unfortunately warbled about. Even though the local vic
ar is now a very close friend and a trusted confidante, I would not even consider wasting my life picking up rice in the churchyard after a fucking wedding. What do you take me for shitface? Forty years of hurt will soon be avenged. watch your back, twat. You can't buy MY love. You'll be wishing it was yesterday. Yours, Eleanor Rigby and Father McKenzie, Liverpool.

Dear Eleanor and Father McKenzie.
You're not the only ones wanting revenge over that smarmy, mop top twat.
Yesterday seemed very far away but it's very much today and his troubles are breathing down the back of his underpants.
Jude has finally got out of prison after forty years and is very much looking forward to fire bombing his house again.
The relatives of the sixty four year old terrorised on the Sgt Pepper hit are planning to release pictures of our bastard Beatle performing a sex act over the 64 yr old bus driver.
Recently, a rent boy back in the late sixties, came out to the national papers saying that back in the day Paul couldn't keep his hands off me and his favourite position was giving him a 'honey pie'! My bottoms not been the same since. He never saw any royalties from that song and is looking to sue the knob.
The list is endless.
It's going to be a long and winding road, hopefully leading to Beachy Head.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
It's happened again. I just can't help myself, what am I going to do? Some days i simply cannot pass anyone in the street without saying a cheery ''morning!'' or ''how are you?'', or smiling at a total stranger. I must stop it. People look at me as though I'm an alien or something. Women usually reply with ''pervert'' or ''weirdo'' and give me an evil stare. Older chaps tend to simply look away, and young lads usually cast some obscenity or other in my direction, not even bothering to stop fiddling about down their tracksuit bottoms. My condition has been christened by experts ' Compulsive Politeness Disorder' and is mainly suffered by people aged 50 and
above, many of whom find it impossible to shake off the habits of a lifetime. Elderly men can also by afflicted by an additional urge to doff their hat when approaching a woman, whilst women of a certain age may whisper a shy 'good day to you' before quickly looking away. My doctor prescribed the usual treatment, two weeks
' supply of strong cider, a month spent watching daytime tv, the very occasional visit to the jobcentre, constant participation on facebook and twitter, and a copy of the government sponsored leaflet 'The Chav's Guide To Modern Britain', but all to no avail. I've even bought the standard issue bull terrier and i can now spit in the street, but there's been no obvious improvement. I am beginning to think it's a genetic issue. Is there anything more i can do?
Yours, Major Laffe, Little Todgerington.

Dear Major.
Obviously a gentleman and schooled in the old ways, holding open doors, helping old ladies across the street and doing your home help badge in cubs.
Society, as you know, has no room for people like you anymore. You have to toughen up. I see you are trying but you need to try harder.
On no account use the words please and thankyou. Don't hold anything open for anyone unless it's your flies.
When you next pop round to see grandma DO NOT make tea and biscuits! Tie her up, hide her under the stairs and pinch her false teeth.
Next time you help an old dear over the road throw them under a bus instead.
Get the idea?
Dreary. X

I DO try, honestly, but i just find it so difficult to stop. I went to Tesco though yesterday, so I pulled out all the stops. At the checkout when the girl-between chews-managed to mumble ''would you like any help packin ?'' I scowled at her and growled '' Do I look like I know any pakis bitch?''. I'm proud to say I'm now barred. Thanks D.

Dear Dreary.
I was so excited about going on holiday the other week I nearly weed my self.
Imagine my disappointment when they refused to let me on a plane with the lame excuse that I needed to get a new passport as the picture of the one I had didn't 't look like me. 'I'm sorry
sir, but of coarse it's me'! Those dimples, those chubby little cheeks, that wry, innocent smile.
Even the fact that it was black and white and I'm in colour, I could still see a likeness.
I know it was thirty years ago but you can't mistake those big blue eyes and those cute curls!
I can't afford a new one. I want to go on holiday!!!!!
Dick Turpitz.

Thank you Dick, or should i call you 'anon'?
Sometimes i receive letters where,on the face of it, the problem appears trivial, like this one. It pays to look a little deeper here to find the REAL reason for contacting me. That will be why you mention that you nearly weed yourself and why the name you thought of was Dick. Incotinence is not the easiest topic to discuss, in fact it stinks. Sufferers often feel like the bottom has fallen out of their world ( or is that the other way round?) and soiling yourself in public can leave an indellible stain on your character as well as your pants. You will find that people will just take the piss if you pee yourself, and you will feel like you're just treading water all the time. So, you need to grasp the problem with both hands (especially in public), fit a new washer on that dripping tap, and never bend down suddenly. Fit a butt plug if the symptoms are severe but never for longer than 24 hours or you risk explosion. Oh and keep the window op
en. D.

Dear Dreary.
PLEASE SEND HELP!! I am sending this message by pigeon and simply hope that it reaches you quickly as I don't think I'll survive much longer. I was abducted by a militant order of nuns whilst visiting Salzburg to take part in the annual choir festival, and then sold as a slave to a well known Austrian politician named Von Krapp who has a secluded mansion high in the Austrian Alps. He keeps me against my will so that i can act as governess to his obnoxious children and teach them to sing well enough to take part in next year's festival. But how I now hate the sound of music. Would you believe, he even
employs guards kitted out in nazi uniforms to make sure I don't try to escape. The hills are alive with them. At night I am strapped to the bed and force-fed Von Krapp's smoked Austrian sausage. Apart from this, they just feed give me tea, a drink with jam and bread. I am forced to wear a tag if the children wish to play in the grounds and severley beaten and gang-raped by the guards if I step out of line. The oldest child, who is sixteen going on seventeen, even lets her postman boyfriend have a go. Now there's idle vice-talk of them letting me be abused by a lonely goatherd. My only chance of escape would be to climb every mountain between here and Germany, but I am so weak I know I would never make it. It's too far, a long long way to run. So long, farewell. I hope this reaches you in time.
Please come quick!
Maria, somewhere in Austria.

My dear Maria.
How do you solve this problem?
It's time to say so long ,farewell to these Von Krapps. You're going to have to disguise yourself as another musical film star. Have you got a motorbike? In The Great Escape The Musical, Steve The Queen slips one past Fritz with ease. In Von Ryans National Express The Musical you could disguise yourself as ol' blue eyes himself dressed like Henry Fonda in The Battle of Midway, The Musical, running after a bus. Can't afford a train in the budget, but don't let Harry Hun stop you dead in your tracks. Frank spoilt the whole film for me, missing that train, being such a pansy!
Your best bet would be to dress as a Zulu warrior woman out of Zulu, The Musical. You could dress up in just a skimpy loin cloth with a few beads hanging between your bazookas carrying a little spear. What would look nice would be to wear a jacket like Micheal Caine had with all the buttons undone so we can still see your jubblies. Then, borrow the vicars bike and ride like the wind to the nearest train station and get a one way ticket to Blackpool North.
You could get a job in Chuckle Brothers The Musical.
Thinking about it though, i'd stay where you are. Dressed as a nun, all that kinky German gear lying around? Phwoar!!!!!
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
I don't actually have a problem. My life is perfect and I am completely without fault. It strikes me however that it's you who has the problem you nosy, prying busy body!
It's disgusting the way you finger your way through other people's misery. Why don't you
finger yourself for a change?!
My giraffe, Darren, killed himself because of you. He wrote in once telling you he wanted to be a hen but you just laughed in his face and told him that it's a stupid name for a hen and that if he did lay an egg from that height he could potentially kill someone.
How do you sleep at night?
On your own I bet!
Johnny Morris,
Leamington.

Johnny. Was i right or was i right? Giraffe? Hen? And i thought you called yourself an expert? It's no good trying to blame ME for your mental state, i was just offering a little advice. I see now that my softly softly approach to your problem has not helped as much as i had intended, but it is always difficult to gauge somebody's true mental state without meeting them in the flesh. I won't make that mistake again. So, fruitbat, still talking to the animals? Still making up those ridiculous animal accents you worthless piece of elephant dung? How is the new tv series going? That's right Johnny, there's been no new series for thirty wasted years, has there, loser? Your imaginary alter-ego Dolittle has turned out to be strangely appropriate, as you've been doing VERY frigging little now for decades. If someone told me you had actually died ages ago i honestly could not say i had missed you. And i should imagine the animals feel the same way. Why would they want to be looked after by som
e looney tune, overtly gay paedo keeper with voices in his head? Bet you even bought the hat in Whipsnade souvenir shop didn't you ,shit-shoveller? You are the ultimate example of a washed-up,pointless, has-been. Go stick your bonce up a hippo's arse. And stay up wind of me please. Dreary. ps : Dear friend, if you find this service has helped you, please be kind enough to post a comment on my feedback wall, available at www.ilovedreary.co.uk.

Dear Dreary.
The job market is certainly at it's worst for many decades and I'm feeling the pinch like the rest of us.
I can't find a job for love nor money and hope you can help.
I used to be the bloke who played the drum in all the old war films especially when the Germans were about. They used to employ blokes in the war to follow the soldiers about giving that, de de de de de, wherever they went. Gerry liked it as it gave a cool, menacing ambiance to proceedings.
Before getting a job in the film industry after the war, I was employed by Adolf himself as his own personal drummer. I'd be on a battlement one minute, back of a tank the next
before finding myself leaping out of a Dornier into resistance infested France whilst all the time banging my little drum....de,de,de,de,de......de,de,de,de,de.....
He sacked me after I got a little tipsy one night and started banging my drum, de,de,de,de,de, outside his bedroom door as he was trying to get it on with Eva. Apparently there was a time and a place.
Anyway, my talents were spotted by a young Spike Milligan at a party after the fall of Tobruk. He thought I'd sound great on the big screen and the royalties I could rake in could be enormous as I'd written it all myself, de,de,de,de,de.....
Eagles Dare, Great Escape, Colditz, I was loaded. But, as the war film started losing favour and my hands were tired what with all that drumming I ended up with nothing.
Please help me knock one out, one last time.
Buddy Reich.

Dear Buddy. Much as i admire your spunk, i really cannot advocate you continuing to work in today's climate. How old must you be? It's time for you to stand down and give today's generation of unemployable scumbags a chance. Maybe a new Keith Moon or Ringo can be discovered. What i can do is pass on contact details for Drumbeat, a self-help group that rallies round elderly folk who are in need of a new pastime or hobby. You certainly fit the bill for their marching band which often plays at garden fetes and festivals. Secretary Louis 'Snatchmo' Armstrong tells me that members bring in their instruments, but all are sufficiently experienced to then swap around. That way you have the chance to say experience having a fiddle with Mrs. Smith's maraccas or even have a blow on old Mr Johnson's french horn. I'm sure your snare and cymbals will be of interest to the ladies, and i am told that miss Tibbs loves nothing more than having a gentleman finger her piccolo. Sounds like this will keep
you out of mischief for a while and should also help to keep your pecker up. Enjoy. D. ps : did i mention that they play totally in the nude?

Dear Dreary.
Have you ever wondered why we sometimes use the word 'bird' as slang when describing a woman? This expression,a vivid if somewhat lazy comparison, has its roots as far back as the Roman occupation and its not difficult to see why. At first glance one might see the likeness between human and flying,feathery friend as one of beauty. Both are often beguiling, captivating,appealing,even entertaining. There are endless colours and varieties, and either is capable of making one's heart soar at any given moment, enough to make one instantly dedicate one's life to
their wellbeing and longevity. But they also, of course, have a dark side. Both can be over protective of their young, violently territorial, and capable of mood swings that go off the scale. My own little bird of paradise was especially guilty of this. She was a gorgeous, enthralling specimen, a joy to observe. The countless happy hours i spent, secretly studying her every move in her caged,unclothed splendour,her so frustrated that i had clipped her wings. She'd agree to anything for a few scraps of food, and, i must admit, i abused her trust and accessed my pleasure more than once before i granted her release into the garden. She's just to the left of the apple tree, under the azaleas. I miss her terribly and often just stare at her remains. Do you think there's another as beautiful out there for me?
Yours,
Prof. Albert Ross, Sea-bird Behaviourist by Royal Appointment to Her Majesty,
Fraggle Rock.

Dear Prof. Ross.
I am to assume that your little bird of paradise was tiny. Following on from this deduction, if, as you say, you had carnal pleasure with this bird, then I am further to assume that you have an unusually small tinky. Therefore, I would suggest that your little slice of paradise died laughing.
I bet it's not the first time you've been laughed out of the bedroom is it Professor? Where have you hidden their remains eh? Under the lupins? In the vegetable patch perhaps?
The next bird of paradise you'll see is called Ethel. She's my mate and lives around the corner from you. She's just won gold at the Olympics for the shot put. By the time she's finished with you you'll be able to join her ex husband and enter the cocks less pairs Olympic rowing event. You might even come first. But what's new?
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
PLEASE SEND HELP!! I am sending this message by pigeon and simply hope that it reaches you quickly as I don't think I'll survive much longer. I was abducted by a militant order of nuns whilst visiting Salzburg to take part in the annual choir festival, and then sold as a slave to a well known Austrian politician named Von Krapp who has a secluded mansion high in the Austrian Alps. He keeps me against my will so that i can act as governess to his obnoxious children and teach them to sing well enough to take part in next year's festival. But how I now hate the sound of music. Would you believe, he even
employs guards kitted out in nazi uniforms to make sure I don't try to escape. The hills are alive with them. At night I am strapped to the bed and force-fed Von Krapp's smoked Austrian sausage. Apart from this, they just feed give me tea,a drink with jam and bread. I am forced to wear a tag if the children wish to play in the grounds and severely beaten and gang-raped by the guards if I step out of line. The oldest child, who is sixteen going on seventeen, even lets her postman boyfriend have a go. Now there's idle vice-talk of them letting me be abused by a lonely goatherd. My only chance of escape would be to climb every mountain between here and Germany, but I am so weak I know I would never make it. It's too far, a long long way to run.
So long, farewell. I hope this reaches you in time. Please come quick!
Maria, somewhere in Austria.

My dear Maria.
How do you solve this problem?
It's time to say so long, farewell to these Von Krapps. You're going to have to disguise yourself as another musical film star. Have you got a motorbike? In The Great Escape The Musical, Steve The Queen slips one past Fritz with ease. In Von Ryans National Express The Musical you could disguise yourself as ol' blue eyes himself dressed like Henry Fonda in The Battle of Midway, The Musical, running after a bus. Can't afford a train in the budget, but don't let Harry Hun stop you dead in your tracks. Frank spoilt the whole film for me, missing that train, being such a pansy!
Your best bet would be to dress as a Zulu warrior woman out of Zulu, The Musical. You could dress up in just a skimpy loin cloth with a few beads hanging between your bazookas carrying a little spear. What would look nice would be to wear a jacket like Micheal Caine had with all the buttons undone so we can still see your jubblies. Then, borrow the vicars bike and ride like the wind to the nearest train station and get a one way ticket to Blackpool North.
You could get a job in Chuckle Brothers The Musical.
Thinking about it though, i'd stay where you are. Dressed as a nun, all that kinky German gear lying around? Phwoar!!!!!
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
My wife often smells of fish when she comes home at night. But she's a lovely lass and she's always eager to please. Only last night she rinsed my cockles under the tap in the
kitchen before rubbing my hard muscles with her gentle hands.
Our Tracy caught crabs last weekend, which certainly gave people a talking point in the village.
My wife's battered ring has been popular with the lads of the rugby union 11 for years now but time has begun to take it's toll.
Any of your readers want to buy a chippy?
Cap'n. Cod.
Fleetwood.

Good luck with that Cap'n.
Funny you mentioning Fleetwood. I was up there recently for the funeral of a distant cousin. Used to visit on day trips during holidays in Blackpool, going up there on the old trams. Plenty of fresh air but not much fun, I remember.
My cousins used to sell their botties to perverts under the pier. It was sordid and nasty, much like the place is now. I would sit on the beach and stare at the beauty of the Cumbrian fells across the bay, listening to the childrens' giggles and the paedos' groans going on around me.
Even then I tried to give them advice on safe sex , but a salty trawlerman tried to give me his fisherman's friend and I ran off to mummy.
One thing the place does have of course is a reputation for good fish and chips, and your missus seems to be able to land a catch or two, so why not add to the nation's black economy by starting up your own kind of fish farm in the spare bedroom above the chippy.
Tell her to get her fishnets on and put a sign in the window advertising her services. It would have to be easy for the locals to understand,something like
''Fleetwood Fish Special. £20.

Crunchy Ocean Pie £25. Fish Fingers £5. Ask for Stacey.'' Perhaps you could invite me up for old times sake. D.

Dear Dreary.
Bear with me on this one. My Alpaca Timothy seems to have a problem. Take him to a vet I hear you say; well i don't think it's as simple as that Dreary. Let me explain. It all started on the day I had decided to go fishing. I was sat on the riverbank, my rod dangling in the reedbeds, when i noticed Timothy doing exactly the same thing from the opposite bank. Then the other day i was merrily minding my own business, taking a dump in the corner of the lower field, when Timmy trundled over and did exactly the same thing. I assumed at first that this was merely a coincidence, but then the following day i was
sunbathing under the old beech tree in the paddock when he also came over, lay back, legs akimbo, luxuriating like myself in the splendour of having the warm sun on his tackle. What surprised me was his ability to masturbate. At least i have hands! But why would he want to copy my actions all the time? Is he just lonely? Can animals have mental health issues? Soon after, i allowed my two favourite ewes, Kylie and Brittany, into the field to graze. Well, to cut a long and messy story short, boys will be boys Dreary! There's no excuse i know, but just let me know if you'd be interested in seeing the photos. I have even discovered that becoming so close to Timothy has inspired me to speak Alpacan and that he and I can hold a conversation! It's brilliant to be able to discuss the previous night's telly with him or what he wants to do at the weekend. By the way, regarding the matter i wrote to you about a while back, you'll no doubt be pleased to know that i am now down to 10 pints of Old Rosie a day, and the doc reckons that the illusions should soon become less frequent and that i may yet avoid the stigma of the psychie ward. What do you think?
Yours, Dr.Doodoodoodedadada-Little, Funny Farm, Pratts Bottom.

Dr Do.
To be honest you're better off sticking to Old Rosie and passing the time of day with your farm yard friends. It beats living in the real world.
When I lived out in India as a child, back in the days of the Raj, I often remember taking granddads 'firewater' down the bottom of the garden where he lived with a family of antelope. I'd spend hours watching them chase each other, talking about the periodic table and hiding from space men.
Then I'd return to the house to go upstairs onto the roof to pass old granny her sour mash bourbon and watch her fly with the vultures discussing amongst other things, crop rotation and the invention of the spinning Jenny.
Beats writing this shit for a living.
Dreary. x

Thanks dear, i was coming to that cmclusion anymay to be honest. Never knew they had antelope in India though. Interesting. Are you sure they were'nt Bombay Onyx?

Dear Dreary.
I hope you don't mind me getting in touch. I am in London at the moment as an Olympic competitor. I am team captain of the Nigerian Onanism squad taking part in the games,and as such, expected to lead from the front and set an upstanding example at all times. I have fulfilled my duties without fail for many years. I am the current olympic champion in both the time trials and the freestyle lob, and i am recognised world-wide as a leading player in the elite members club. My nickname, ''Black Rod '', is, i am often told, well deserved, and i can hit a bullseye from ten paces. My sperm content has been
analysed as being of the highest calibre on several occasions. Suddenly, however, with the grand opening and the initial heats of synchronised jiz-off only a week away, there's a problem. I appear to have lost my mojo. I have not changed my warm up routine or my diet, and i am still getting a full eight hours sleep at night. I follow team instructions to the letter : go to bed thinking about bananas, straight from bed to competition venue (no hand contact en route), watch repeat of Nigella's Kitchen (chocolate cake episode), lie in darkened room and imagine a naked Bridgette Bardot singing ''Step Inside Love'' with the voice of Karen Carpenter, watch the film of the destruction of several factory chimneys in reverse, and finally, watch the episode of The Good Life when Felicity Kendall rolls around naked in mud then hoses herself down whilst easing a marrow into herself. But alas, nothing. No signs of life down there. Not a sausage. I have even got my girlfriend back home to whisper sweet nothings to me down the phone but again, the trigger is refusing to be pulled. Not a twitch. I face the prospect of returning home in shame,my career as a professional masturbator in tatters. I feel like i am completely losing my grip and that matters are being taken out of my hands. As a competitor, performance-enhancing drugs of any type are a no-no, but is there anything else you can suggest to get me lifting the quilt again quickly?
Money is not a problem.
Arthur J. Ranke, Olympic Village,Stratford,East London.

Dear Arthur.
I'm sure you love your old chap very much and would put 'him' first before yourself.
The stresses and strains of a modern Olympic athlete are obviously beginning to take their toll. I guess you've been training from a young age? Perhaps starting with the underwear section of the Freemans catalogue? Pumping hand over fist thinking about your friends mum in her platex girdle making jam sandwiches in the kitchen. And you will have been training six hours a day plus? In the queue at Tesco, at the pictures, on the bus on the way home and possibly at the dinner table.
Your little mate is going to feel used, neglected perhaps and I think it's about time you gave him a life. Treat him as an equal and give him time to himself.
Give him an education. I'm sure he's enjoyed looking at 'pictures' over the years but teach him to read and write. You never know, he could write a number one best seller one day.
Let him travel, see a little of the world by himself. He could write his first postcard to you! Imagine that. You'd be so proud.
You could take him to the theatre, send him to high school and even take his driving test.
Remember, if your winky had been a dog then it would be classed as mistreated. Strangling the poor beggar at every opportunity. I'm surprised if it let's you touch it now let alone anyone else!
Just sever all ties with him, let him go and spread his wings. It'll do him good and you might be not so cocky in the future.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
I'm a man who likes a firm crease. I love holding my balls and rubbing them up and down my thighs before going at it full pelt to give a good, hard delivery.
I especially like to oil my wood to keep it in tip top condition, holding it with both hands, impressing my wife by throwing it over my shoulder.
I'm looking for young boys to share my
passion and live out my fantasies.
I shall groom them to concentrate hard on their stroke and to hit my balls hard all the time, every time.
I'll be coming from the Pavilion end and I fully expect them to take everything I give them. Sometime it's going to hurt but that's the name of the game.
Any youngsters who don't know their googlies from their elbow should get in touch with the M.C.C and ask for Larry Hatchback.

Thanks for that Larry.
It's always heartwarming to hear of people willing to put something back into today's youngsters. My second husband Perry was the secretary of the under sixteens section of the West Cumbrian Highland Games, and spent hours with kids up in the fells and practising Cumbrian wrestling. The stories he used to bring home about introducing young Dickie Fiddles to Craggy End or guiding an inexperienced Patsy Squerm around Nether Crevice. He got on the news once when he single-handidly rescued half a dozen teenage boys lost on High Stack and assisted them hand in hand down to Black Rim where they huddled together in a disused drover's hut in Dante's Hole. He was a hero, and wrongly imprisoned in my view so don't let that put you off. These kids are lucky to have a helping hand as they find their way along life's rocky path. Just make sure they have their boxes fitted correctly. We wouldn't want the little darlings to be harmed, would we?
Regards, Dreary.

Dear Dreary.
Were the Germans sexy in WWII?
Heinz Beenz.


Dear Heinz.
whilst the answer to your question is obviously ''yes'', i have to say i find Kaiser Bill's boys were even sexier. Those massive shiny helmets never fail to make my thoughts drift away to a different type of physical conflict, and those jack boot straps say to me extreme human bondage and multiple pleasure. Which is all rather odd in reality because Germany has both the highest quota of homos and the smallest average penis size in Europe.
Some make a conscious decision to dye their hair a dark colour, black their faces,and fling themselves headfirst out of the closet as a modern day anti-nazi protest. And the chaps are even worse!
The lederhosen industry is breaking all production records and giving itself a good old fashioned slap on the thigh as faggot Fritz demands newer and tighter styles. The population is falling by a staggering 5% a year as a direct result of groin and testicular injuries.
At the current rate the German race will have been completely wiped out by the year 2525. A kind of poetic justice,you could say Heinz.
Dreary. X

Dear Dreary.
Can you help me please?My problem is one of consistency. I can sometimes vary between rock hard and disappointingly soft. There seems to be nothing i can do to achieve a regular,satisfying standard, however much i practice. And the more i worry the worse it gets.
What i do find,however,is that when i'm left to my own devices i can maintain a healthy thickness,but the moment anyone tries to help me it goes all sloppy and i have to start all over again.
Perhaps my wrist action is particularly beneficial in attaining the best results,or maybe i have some sort of mental block when
someone else goes anythere near it and this affects my confidence and performance. It is very frustrating! I have a feeling that this may be a subconcious reaction to a bad experience i had with my uncle Nobby when i was ten. He loved to show me what to do and at what speed to do it,but whenever it was my turn he would always end up trying to do it for me and this put me right off.
He's got a lot to answer for! Is there anything you can suggest that might help me?
My job as a plasterer will be at risk if i am not able to get the correct consistency.
Regards, Phil McCrevice,
Sphincter's Wood,
Legoland.

Dear Phil.
It all reminds me if a friend I used to know in Lower Wiffy many moons ago.
He'd be sat for hours sometime straining like buggery trying to tease the problem out. It was as though his insides would fall out at times.
Other times it would be straight out without him breaking into a sweat. Blink and it was gone.
With the concentration and straining he was always wiping himself which often chaffed and brought him out in a terrible rash.
I used to say, oh, the life of a mathematician! How we laughed.
Don't over egg the pudding, give it a stiff whisk and don't lick the rim afterwards, it's dirty!!!
Dreary. xx

Dear Dreary.
Forget that Bolt bloke who thinks he's the fastest man alive. My son, Randy's faster than him and not just at running either.
He can lift a packet of penguins off of Tesco shelf and be back in our kitchen in ten seconds flat just as am brewing the tea. If he calls Mr Timpani, the shop keeper turban chops he gets home three seconds faster as Mr T often sets his dog Vesta on him.
He never keeps a girlfriend down. Fastest shag on the estate our Randy. One dip Dick they call him.
He's been joyride champion six years running which we're very proud of. He's only nine.
Anyway, we're giving him the week end off for a party for him as we've just found out he's got his aunty up the spout.
Anyway, he's up for the 400m relay next week passing tellys out of Currys window.
Come and see a true Olimpik champ.
Heather Smalls,
Chertsey

Dear Heather.
Glad to hear little Randy's doing so well for himself.
You and Angelo must be so proud. Is he out yet by the way? You must've been so proud of him becoming the unofficial torchbearer of the London riots last summer. He became the iconic figurehead when he lit that flame and torched DFS, sparking a memorable couple of weeks. The sight of the sweeney doing the steeplechase after him around your estate will linger long in the memory, culminating, sadly, in him being for the high jump. Perhaps he could now focus on Rio 2016 and compete in the heptathlon. This will include such events as the slum marathon, the best grafitti on the jesus statue, the 100 metre beach slap-dash (slapping as many birds' arses as possible),the fastest brazilian waxing of a teenage whore, gang member stab relay, kayaking illegals onto the beach, and the famous 'last man standing' event (partying all night on hardcore drugs whilst injecting your opponent). It will do him good to have an ambition again.
Dreary.

Dear Dreary.
C-can you help me? I am a retired b-boxer, a c-compulsive l-li-liar, and I s-suffer from a t-terrible s-s-stutter. I am just a p-poor boy and my st-storys s-seldom told. I have sq-sq-squandered m-my resistance for a p-pocket fer-full of mumbles,such are per-per-per-per-promises.
All l-l-lies and j-j-jest,b-but a man her-hears want he wants to her-hear and he d-der-der-disregards the rest. W-when i left my h-home and m-my family i was no mer-mer-more than a b-ber-ber-boy,laying l-low,ser-ser-ser-seeking out the per-per-p-poorer qwe-quarters where the r-ragged people go.
L-Lie l-lie. L-lie lie lie,lie lie l-lie lie,l-lie l-lie,lie lie,l-lie lie l-lie,lie lie l-lie,l-lie,lie lie,l-lie lie l-lie. Sorry. That's just n-not t-ter-true.
I am actually a per-per-policem-m-man.I c-can-can-cannot her-help m-my-my-myself.
Wer-wer-what c-can-can i der-der-der-do?
Simon Kerplunkel. L-ler-ler-long Island.

Dear Simon.
My goodness, what a to do.
I don't know where to start. Are you drunk? These words are sure ramblings of a mad man!
It's strange but I can tell certain things from the shite that you spout.
You're a short man with a strange fixation for tall friends with curly hair who look a little bit odd.
You've travelled from America to Scarborough. Why? You're first girlfriend was a Mrs Robinson? Not Kerry? You spend a good deal of your time waiting for trains and walking over bridges in bad weather.
I'm sorry but I just think you're a bore with no future!
Sort your fucking head out short pants!
Dreary. xx

Dear Dreary. I am contacting you on behalf of a friend who has a rather unusual problem. My friend runs a swimming school. He swam for Great Britain back in the day, but some of his recent training techniques have got him into trouble. He films all his pupils so that he can show them where they are going wrong. To make this worthwhile, he also films them underwater,and this is what got him into trouble. Turns out that he was posting the clips on youtube and somebody reported him to the police as the camera work seemed to concentrate largely on the swimmers' crotch area. He tried to deny this when originally questioned, but the fact that he listed the clips as ''Genitalia Aquatica'' probably didn't help. One particular swimmer,a middle aged chap, (let's call him Ian),obviously excited by his new-found passion, was shown to be releasing a little wee as he completed each length. My friend also posted this clip on a more specialist website called www.cloudy waters.com. Unfortunately,this lead to more and more ''leakers'' requesting lessons,even though most of them were perfectly good swimmers. There were sessions where they were queueing up to be filmed, each one desperate for the toilet. The pool was becoming murkier each week,and the local Y.M.C.A,who own the pool,began to ask questions. Ian's patience also ran out one day when he was filmed in the changing room. Normally he didn't mind this,but on this particular occasion he was suffering from post-swim chloride shrinkage so asked my friend not to post the clip. However,there it was a few days later on http://www.towelmedown.com/. At fist there appeared to be very little obvious evidence for the police to use,but with the use of computerised magnification they prosecuted. His business and private life in tatters, my friend attempted suicide in his bath, but his nerve failed
him at the last minute and,ironically, he pissed the bath when he looked at the razor. Can you suggest a way forward for me--er,sorry--him? J. Weismuller-Yoghurt, Poole.



Dear J.
Out in the far East is where you're best trying your luck. Their swimming pools are everything ours aren't anymore and they are always actively seeking middle aged western blokes to fly out to Bangcock and help out with the breast stroke.
They encourage heavy petting and there's always a bloke on hand to scoop out the 'jelly fish' afterwards.
Back, inner thigh, cock and snatch stroke have all been perfected here.
The butterfly or madam as it is known was invented here too. Old widow wanky fell in a lake and her flaps swelled to the size of giant butterfly
wings. Flapping wildly in the breeze her 'wings' brought her safely to the shore.
Don't flounder in the deep end, Ian, you middle aged, fat fuck. Get over there.
Do be careful though, they are fond of whale meat. Wouldn't swim in the sea if I were you.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
My goldfish is dead. Do you have any idea why he's dead? Regards, John West, Iceland.
PS: I have come up with some bodily cures for boredom. These are useful as everyone has a body. Here they are: draw an imaginary line across your teeth; count your penis,or if you're a girl,your pigtails; place your ear on the bottom of the bath and listen for bath bombs; scrape your elbow with a cheesegrater and leave the skin in there for whoever has cheese next; close one eye then poke it with your finger. What a lovely sense of relief when you remember that it's closed; check your feet for thumbs; go to the toilet pretending you are a teapot; hold your knees to prevent knocking; make your own candle by inserting a finger into an ear,scrape with fingernail,ignite finger; in winter,remove belly button fluff and place between toes for insulation; face east with a mirror to your left. Once the sun rises,check how long it takes your shadow to travel 360 degrees; hold hands with yourself;
whilst knelt in a hot bath,place scrotum in a beaker of cold water then try to masturbate; lie naked on your back and play hoopla with donuts; surprise yourself by suddenly shouting ''Turtle!'' ; stand at a window and remove an item of clothing each time a double decker bus passes. I've been so bored since little Jaws died.

Poor Jaws. RIP little chap. Have you thought of desposing of the body yet? Horrible thought but consideration is necessary I'm afraid.
It can be so expensive too. Can you afford it? A fish burial isn't cheap. Gone are the days when you could just dig a hole in the back garden and job done. Now you have to apply from planning permission for a burial plot in your back garden. A hole at least six foot deep has to be dug for health and safety reasons. Cause of death has to be determined and I'm afraid having him filleted in the back of Teds chippy just won't do these days.
Flushing him down the loo has been banned since the Chinese spoilt it all by flushing Moby and his mates away almost causing our entire sanitary system to grind to a halt. Don't hide him under the floor boards or the patio. Once the rotting stench filters through to the neighbours you'll be on a murder charge pal.
Hope the memories of you and little Jaws were worth it!
Dreary. x