Dear Dreary.
There's so much in the news these days about binge drinking, the harmful effects, the safe amount of units we should all adhere to, the constant bombardment is falling all around us.
Yet I hear nothing about an equally pressing matter, that of binge wanking.
I know for a fact people are at it hand over fist sometimes going at it half cocked and willy nilly. No body appears to be aware or care about the dangers of exceeding their daily/weekly wanking allowance.
The chief medical officer suggests men should not exceed 14 units per week, where one wank equals 2 units. Continuing along a similar vein, women should not exceed 12 units per week where one wank is actually equal to three units.
Under government guide lines it is not recommended to use up all your units in one sitting. Try to spread them out a bit. One a day for a man would be satisfactory whilst one every other day would be a sensible option for the ladies. Statistics have to take into account the 'squirters' amongst us which can use up to double the daily tally.
My problem is this dear Dreary. I'm rather partial to a hand shandy and most days I can manage around five. Spread over a week that's 70 units! My glasses already resemble the bottom of a jam jar and throwing the covers off my bed in a morning is like tearing open a velcro fasten on an anorak.
I can hardly see to grab hold of it these days. I'll soon be needing a Braille tattoo on my dinky so I can find it.
Do you think I've spunked my last?
Yours,
Ian Stiff.
Dear Mr Stiff.
If these figures are accurate i would agree that you are overdoing it. Assuming you are being aroused by yourself and not outside forces, i would suggest that the problem is one of boredom. I will send you my leaflet entitled 'Hands Up!' which gives details of various hobbies you may be interested in.
You may also be eligible for a placement on a government scheme to get lazy self-abusers back into work. Hobbycraft and Hobbies R Us are retail outlets that specifically enable serial tossers to earn a wage and keep themselves busy. This idea, sponsored by Kleenexe, is based on medical reports and is an assessment of both quality and quantity. Ask your doctor for details.
In the meantime i suggest you look at www.cagedhands.com and www.guidedogs.co.uk for emergency advice.
Dreary. x
Wednesday 29 February 2012
Tuesday 28 February 2012
Dear Dreary.
Me and my mates are about to become celebs. We have been filmin non-stop over the last two monfs for the new Channel Five reality show innit, The Only way Is Fleetwood. We were paid just to be ourselves, it was awesome! Every day we got completely legless on aldi wine then made absolute arses of ourselves out and about town. We were all amazinly hilarious! They picked us because we are proper like Fleetwood teenagers. Our kids have all now started at primary school and my next one is'nt due for a few weeks yet so i had loads of time to get pissed up and spend time on camera with the kids' fathers. I's hopin to be a gran by my firtief. They filmed us at the jobcentre on our signing days (its like a competition down there, the ugliest gets the jobs),at the STD clinic, and round at my dealer's flat. We all put on our skimpiest togs at the weekend then stood boozing on vodka outside Asda, giving abuse to punters and gobbing at taxi drivers. You'll see my mate Chelsee havin a piss on the roundabout in the park then gobblin some geezer on the war memural, and our Darren nickin flowers from some kid's grave. My staffy, JZ, is on film, shittin outside the library, and my mum gets into the vibe and shows her arse to the manager in Poundworld then smashes up sum winders at the caflick church. I'm buzzin 'bout it all innit.
How do i get meself an agent what can get me more on the telly?
Lol, Trina.
Well done you Trina.
You're already walking in the footsteps of the greats, Garbo, Bacall, Taylor, Hepburn, a genuine God given talent to turn heads and entertain simple folk.
If you're really wanting to get noticed you have to go that extra mile.
Have you shopped in your slippers for example? Ideally pushing a pram but extra brownie points for a towel wrapped round your head and a can of Super T balanced in the pram hood.
The louder you can shout 'ger 'ere now' to some snotty little kid in the middle distance demonstrates an ability to throw your voice and maximising your target audience.
Next time you have your village fete never mind guessing how many smarties are in the jar. Impress everyone by putting on a blindfold and offering a free nosh to all the lads down your back ally. Showing an ability to put a 'name to a face' as it were will guarantee a standing ovation in more ways than one.
Just be yourself, make your children proud and get your tits out for the lads.
Dreary. x
Where's this sodding village and whats a friggin fete?
The moddul villige dick 'ed, nd fetes a cheese innit?
Me and my mates are about to become celebs. We have been filmin non-stop over the last two monfs for the new Channel Five reality show innit, The Only way Is Fleetwood. We were paid just to be ourselves, it was awesome! Every day we got completely legless on aldi wine then made absolute arses of ourselves out and about town. We were all amazinly hilarious! They picked us because we are proper like Fleetwood teenagers. Our kids have all now started at primary school and my next one is'nt due for a few weeks yet so i had loads of time to get pissed up and spend time on camera with the kids' fathers. I's hopin to be a gran by my firtief. They filmed us at the jobcentre on our signing days (its like a competition down there, the ugliest gets the jobs),at the STD clinic, and round at my dealer's flat. We all put on our skimpiest togs at the weekend then stood boozing on vodka outside Asda, giving abuse to punters and gobbing at taxi drivers. You'll see my mate Chelsee havin a piss on the roundabout in the park then gobblin some geezer on the war memural, and our Darren nickin flowers from some kid's grave. My staffy, JZ, is on film, shittin outside the library, and my mum gets into the vibe and shows her arse to the manager in Poundworld then smashes up sum winders at the caflick church. I'm buzzin 'bout it all innit.
How do i get meself an agent what can get me more on the telly?
Lol, Trina.
Well done you Trina.
You're already walking in the footsteps of the greats, Garbo, Bacall, Taylor, Hepburn, a genuine God given talent to turn heads and entertain simple folk.
If you're really wanting to get noticed you have to go that extra mile.
Have you shopped in your slippers for example? Ideally pushing a pram but extra brownie points for a towel wrapped round your head and a can of Super T balanced in the pram hood.
The louder you can shout 'ger 'ere now' to some snotty little kid in the middle distance demonstrates an ability to throw your voice and maximising your target audience.
Next time you have your village fete never mind guessing how many smarties are in the jar. Impress everyone by putting on a blindfold and offering a free nosh to all the lads down your back ally. Showing an ability to put a 'name to a face' as it were will guarantee a standing ovation in more ways than one.
Just be yourself, make your children proud and get your tits out for the lads.
Dreary. x
Where's this sodding village and whats a friggin fete?
The moddul villige dick 'ed, nd fetes a cheese innit?
Monday 27 February 2012
Dear Dreary.
Can you settle an argument between my wife and I? My parents always insisted that it was the correct thing to wipe from front to back, but my wife has always done the opposite. Is it a case of a male / female divide, or is there no set rule? The thing is, i have recently noticed a patch of mottling beginning to develop around my rear. Hard pin-prick size nodules are starting to push their little red heads to the surface, making it harder to wipe in EITHER direction. Wipes are now useless as anything i use just gets ripped to shreds. This always seems to be worse in the winter when the colouring seems to fade and the top surface skims over with a milky substance. Is there a cream or something similar you could recommend? This area also now seems to be permanently damp. I have tried specialist pads, towels, even a hair drier, but nothing drys it out and to be frank it is starting to smell and turn mouldy. I have tried sponges on the inside, which soaks up much of the excess liquid, but they eventually sag and fall out of position due to the weight of the moisture. Then there is an area of peeling, the result, i suspect, of neglect on my part as i have failed to clean on a regular basis. What sort of long term body damage could be accrued do you think by delaying treatment? This is driving me insane but despite all this i still love my Morris Minor.
Please advise,
Frank Ernest Hepplewhite,
Scraggly Bottoms.
Dear Frank.
You must come to a mutual agreement on this one. It's one way or the other.
I wouldn't spend to much time worrying about the damp patches. The bottoms always going to be wet through and once it descends into the murky depths, well, that's another story. As long as you tighten your nuts before entry I can't see any leakage problems.
Always ensure your tubes are clear before firing one off. We wouldn't 't want it blowing up in your face as it were.
Always ensure you never have a build up of too much seamen. This may cause a blockage and instability.
Finish with a smearing of yacht varnish, pipe him on board then it's down periscope and away we go. Your submarine has never looked so go.
I fail to see any relevance to your Morris Minor?
A quick pugwash should do the trick!
Dreary. x
Can you settle an argument between my wife and I? My parents always insisted that it was the correct thing to wipe from front to back, but my wife has always done the opposite. Is it a case of a male / female divide, or is there no set rule? The thing is, i have recently noticed a patch of mottling beginning to develop around my rear. Hard pin-prick size nodules are starting to push their little red heads to the surface, making it harder to wipe in EITHER direction. Wipes are now useless as anything i use just gets ripped to shreds. This always seems to be worse in the winter when the colouring seems to fade and the top surface skims over with a milky substance. Is there a cream or something similar you could recommend? This area also now seems to be permanently damp. I have tried specialist pads, towels, even a hair drier, but nothing drys it out and to be frank it is starting to smell and turn mouldy. I have tried sponges on the inside, which soaks up much of the excess liquid, but they eventually sag and fall out of position due to the weight of the moisture. Then there is an area of peeling, the result, i suspect, of neglect on my part as i have failed to clean on a regular basis. What sort of long term body damage could be accrued do you think by delaying treatment? This is driving me insane but despite all this i still love my Morris Minor.
Please advise,
Frank Ernest Hepplewhite,
Scraggly Bottoms.
Dear Frank.
You must come to a mutual agreement on this one. It's one way or the other.
I wouldn't spend to much time worrying about the damp patches. The bottoms always going to be wet through and once it descends into the murky depths, well, that's another story. As long as you tighten your nuts before entry I can't see any leakage problems.
Always ensure your tubes are clear before firing one off. We wouldn't 't want it blowing up in your face as it were.
Always ensure you never have a build up of too much seamen. This may cause a blockage and instability.
Finish with a smearing of yacht varnish, pipe him on board then it's down periscope and away we go. Your submarine has never looked so go.
I fail to see any relevance to your Morris Minor?
A quick pugwash should do the trick!
Dreary. x
Drear Dreary.
The other walk, i took my day out for a dog. When we got to the poo, he parked a sniff and did a tree. When the chest came out, a young cream took off her sun and put it on her top.We caught the number 14 arcade into the bus, then ran into snow as it had started to argos. Buster likes to watch balls,so when we got home i put the bark on so he could snooker the telly. Later, when we were tired, i decided to take some winalot to my basket and Buster ate his cocoa in bed. My stress reckons that i am suffering from coffee caused by impotence and not enough analyst. He suggested that my defective diary could be helped by keeping a remedy in order to find an attention span. I'm not working that its convinced. Think do you what? Kurt Regards, Horthnampton.
Kurt dear?
You are a rare disorder from common suffering in cognitive people with too much dog action who enjoy walkies and not enough cue.
The dog's going and you're coming or know you want both.
Your reversed roles will not be careful and fido will be tossing office paper around and you'll be green in the village shagging the pond and shitting in your wife!
NHS treatment free on his end up and hundreds of pounds of bollocks you'll remove whilst with a fork.
It's too late for God. Get the Phil Drabble channel DVD before John Noakes gets back on the telly.
Both barking, not mad, be, be.
Dreary. x
The other walk, i took my day out for a dog. When we got to the poo, he parked a sniff and did a tree. When the chest came out, a young cream took off her sun and put it on her top.We caught the number 14 arcade into the bus, then ran into snow as it had started to argos. Buster likes to watch balls,so when we got home i put the bark on so he could snooker the telly. Later, when we were tired, i decided to take some winalot to my basket and Buster ate his cocoa in bed. My stress reckons that i am suffering from coffee caused by impotence and not enough analyst. He suggested that my defective diary could be helped by keeping a remedy in order to find an attention span. I'm not working that its convinced. Think do you what? Kurt Regards, Horthnampton.
Kurt dear?
You are a rare disorder from common suffering in cognitive people with too much dog action who enjoy walkies and not enough cue.
The dog's going and you're coming or know you want both.
Your reversed roles will not be careful and fido will be tossing office paper around and you'll be green in the village shagging the pond and shitting in your wife!
NHS treatment free on his end up and hundreds of pounds of bollocks you'll remove whilst with a fork.
It's too late for God. Get the Phil Drabble channel DVD before John Noakes gets back on the telly.
Both barking, not mad, be, be.
Dreary. x
Sunday 26 February 2012
Dear Dreary.
My cock Hertz, a Bavarian Purple-Head, has been driving me to distraction with his recent antics. I allow him to roam the garden at will as this keeps the hens happy and laying, but since the clocks changed and i started to add knockwurst sausage to his feed he has been letting himself out of the garden gate and basically forcing himself on anyone and anything he encounters. He pounced on the butcher's boy, young Richard last month as he was delivering next door. Gave the lad a nasty turn i can tell you. After the court case the local liar ran the banner headline 'Young Dick's Meat Ravaged By Rampant Cock'. Since then he has taken sweet little frauline Hitzlesperger behind the substation, startled a resting migratory mallard on the village green, and played merry hell with the middle aged chap who was passing the house on his way to a fancy dress party dressed as Carmen Miranda. There was fruit everywhere!
The postman refuses to come to the door since his pecker got pecked, and the milkman is still recovering since the unexpected delivery of two pints of cock sperm into his anus.
Hertz has now also taken to watching Das Danken Schrictly through the kitchen window. It's unbelievable! His favourite is the bloody footballer!
The other morning i opened the coop and there he was crooning away to his harem, togged out in dicky bow and tail and silver cummerbund. The little sod is simply insatiable. Henrieta and her pals are bow-legged, bemused and bewildered and whenever i mention the word 'lay' they go into a frenzy.
Hertz meanwhile is now wearing a snazzy smoking jacket and constantly puffing on a king Edward. He just winks at me like he is planning some horrendous poultry gang bang. What can i do? I'm scared that he'll fill his boots at the upcoming livestock show in Baden-Badenpowell and its weeks since i had an egg for breakfast.
Yours, Albert Z.Glockenschpiel,
Moenchengladallover.
Dear Albert.
I'm sending you my leaflet on cock control called Cock-a-Doodle-Do. It tells you everything you need to know about handling your cock correctly.
It's full of tips that puts you in control. For instance, just gently stroking your cock two or three times a day will have him stood to attention in no time.
There are several methods we have developed to cater for any eventuality. The Shuttle Cock is a technique used to fire him off in a deep, dark space which is a little treat when he's been a good chap.
The Cock-A-Leaky teaches the handler tissue techniques, whilst Cock-A-Hoop is just one if the many games to keep your cock stimulated.
They say that love Hertz, and you will.
Dreary x
My cock Hertz, a Bavarian Purple-Head, has been driving me to distraction with his recent antics. I allow him to roam the garden at will as this keeps the hens happy and laying, but since the clocks changed and i started to add knockwurst sausage to his feed he has been letting himself out of the garden gate and basically forcing himself on anyone and anything he encounters. He pounced on the butcher's boy, young Richard last month as he was delivering next door. Gave the lad a nasty turn i can tell you. After the court case the local liar ran the banner headline 'Young Dick's Meat Ravaged By Rampant Cock'. Since then he has taken sweet little frauline Hitzlesperger behind the substation, startled a resting migratory mallard on the village green, and played merry hell with the middle aged chap who was passing the house on his way to a fancy dress party dressed as Carmen Miranda. There was fruit everywhere!
The postman refuses to come to the door since his pecker got pecked, and the milkman is still recovering since the unexpected delivery of two pints of cock sperm into his anus.
Hertz has now also taken to watching Das Danken Schrictly through the kitchen window. It's unbelievable! His favourite is the bloody footballer!
The other morning i opened the coop and there he was crooning away to his harem, togged out in dicky bow and tail and silver cummerbund. The little sod is simply insatiable. Henrieta and her pals are bow-legged, bemused and bewildered and whenever i mention the word 'lay' they go into a frenzy.
Hertz meanwhile is now wearing a snazzy smoking jacket and constantly puffing on a king Edward. He just winks at me like he is planning some horrendous poultry gang bang. What can i do? I'm scared that he'll fill his boots at the upcoming livestock show in Baden-Badenpowell and its weeks since i had an egg for breakfast.
Yours, Albert Z.Glockenschpiel,
Moenchengladallover.
Dear Albert.
I'm sending you my leaflet on cock control called Cock-a-Doodle-Do. It tells you everything you need to know about handling your cock correctly.
It's full of tips that puts you in control. For instance, just gently stroking your cock two or three times a day will have him stood to attention in no time.
There are several methods we have developed to cater for any eventuality. The Shuttle Cock is a technique used to fire him off in a deep, dark space which is a little treat when he's been a good chap.
The Cock-A-Leaky teaches the handler tissue techniques, whilst Cock-A-Hoop is just one if the many games to keep your cock stimulated.
They say that love Hertz, and you will.
Dreary x
Friday 24 February 2012
Dear Dreary.
It's a bit of a cheek I know but is there any chance you could plug my new book 'Battles Over Breakfast - World Domination Over A Nice Cup Of Tea'?
It's a little known fact that most of the great, or not so great, military campaigns have been planned over scrambled eggs, kippers and a toasted tea cake.
Napoleons disastrous campaign against the Russians was devised over the morning paper in his dressing gown and cozy toes carpet slippers.
He seized his chance the moment Josephine nipped out to the privy.
He sent a tray of sausages around the teapot to thwart any counter attack from Josephines muffins whilst at the same time making a direct assault on her bacon toasty with twelve boiled eggs and soldiers.
With her plate surrounded by black pudding and a Cumberland ring Napoleon was convinced he had it in the bag.
He did not, however, take into account Josies pet poodle Stalin who leapt onto the table devouring Napoleans armies in an instant.
Later, Adolf devised his invasion of Blighty sat up in bed with a breakfast tray tucking into a hearty helping of German sausage and Austrian smoked cheese.
As Eva nipped out for a quick 'stroodle' Adolf unleashed hell by flicking his baked beans onto her bedside cabinet surrounding her crunchy nut clusters and polluting her teapot.
With victory in his grasp he dropped hid guard. Before he knew what had hit him a rogue packet of chocolate hob nobs appeared from the top drawer and outflanked his bratwurst, causing him to retreat under the bed next to his potty.
Finally, the development of the chemical weapon, agent orange was realised over a plateful of marmalade sandwiches by American scientists.
In his seminal masterpiece, 'Apocalypse Now', Francis Ford Coppala used Micheal Bond, the creator of Paddington Bear as senior consultant on chemical weaponry, condiments and preserves.
When's me book signing?
Yours,
Dick Tater.
Here we go again eh Dick?
I take it that you have done your time on the isolation wing and have access to the outside world once again. Your ideas are, as ever, entertaining and ultimately, i assume, are your way of maintaining interest in your case until you are released and you can publish your memoirs. I do believe however that you have misjudged the amount of public interest. The world may know you as ''the breakfast bomber'', but the public were largely repulsed by your bacon barm attack on the Tate gallery and disgusted by the poached egg fire bomb destruction of the Covent Garden Wetherspoons. Your shredded wheat mortars, packed with alpen and six-inch nails, caused carnage when you targeted them at the M25 Little Chef, so i will do all i can to keep you where you are. You may have destroyed the traditional English breakfast industry, but you have now been sussed my froggy friend. Your plan to introduce the dreaded continental breakfast to the UK has been thwarted. Croissants will never be accepted in blighty. Think again Ricardo.
Dreary. x
Curses.
I'd have gotten away with it too if it hadn't been for those pesky kids.
Careful of your next pizza delivery Dreary. It won't be the only six inches to blow off in your face!
Sticks and stones slimeball. I am in contact with a bankrupt former pig farmer on your wing, AKA ''The Barnsley Chopper'' . Be careful not to slip in the shower.
It's a bit of a cheek I know but is there any chance you could plug my new book 'Battles Over Breakfast - World Domination Over A Nice Cup Of Tea'?
It's a little known fact that most of the great, or not so great, military campaigns have been planned over scrambled eggs, kippers and a toasted tea cake.
Napoleons disastrous campaign against the Russians was devised over the morning paper in his dressing gown and cozy toes carpet slippers.
He seized his chance the moment Josephine nipped out to the privy.
He sent a tray of sausages around the teapot to thwart any counter attack from Josephines muffins whilst at the same time making a direct assault on her bacon toasty with twelve boiled eggs and soldiers.
With her plate surrounded by black pudding and a Cumberland ring Napoleon was convinced he had it in the bag.
He did not, however, take into account Josies pet poodle Stalin who leapt onto the table devouring Napoleans armies in an instant.
Later, Adolf devised his invasion of Blighty sat up in bed with a breakfast tray tucking into a hearty helping of German sausage and Austrian smoked cheese.
As Eva nipped out for a quick 'stroodle' Adolf unleashed hell by flicking his baked beans onto her bedside cabinet surrounding her crunchy nut clusters and polluting her teapot.
With victory in his grasp he dropped hid guard. Before he knew what had hit him a rogue packet of chocolate hob nobs appeared from the top drawer and outflanked his bratwurst, causing him to retreat under the bed next to his potty.
Finally, the development of the chemical weapon, agent orange was realised over a plateful of marmalade sandwiches by American scientists.
In his seminal masterpiece, 'Apocalypse Now', Francis Ford Coppala used Micheal Bond, the creator of Paddington Bear as senior consultant on chemical weaponry, condiments and preserves.
When's me book signing?
Yours,
Dick Tater.
Here we go again eh Dick?
I take it that you have done your time on the isolation wing and have access to the outside world once again. Your ideas are, as ever, entertaining and ultimately, i assume, are your way of maintaining interest in your case until you are released and you can publish your memoirs. I do believe however that you have misjudged the amount of public interest. The world may know you as ''the breakfast bomber'', but the public were largely repulsed by your bacon barm attack on the Tate gallery and disgusted by the poached egg fire bomb destruction of the Covent Garden Wetherspoons. Your shredded wheat mortars, packed with alpen and six-inch nails, caused carnage when you targeted them at the M25 Little Chef, so i will do all i can to keep you where you are. You may have destroyed the traditional English breakfast industry, but you have now been sussed my froggy friend. Your plan to introduce the dreaded continental breakfast to the UK has been thwarted. Croissants will never be accepted in blighty. Think again Ricardo.
Dreary. x
Curses.
I'd have gotten away with it too if it hadn't been for those pesky kids.
Careful of your next pizza delivery Dreary. It won't be the only six inches to blow off in your face!
Sticks and stones slimeball. I am in contact with a bankrupt former pig farmer on your wing, AKA ''The Barnsley Chopper'' . Be careful not to slip in the shower.
Thursday 23 February 2012
Dear Dreary.
I took my wife's grandmother to the antiques road show the other day where she was valued at over £250,000.
Well, as you can imagine I was delighted and signed her over immediately. The journey home was full of mixed emotions. On the one hand I was a quarter of a million pounds to the good but what do I tell the wife?
Luckily from my point of view there has been a spate of OAP disappearances at road shows up and down the country of late so I kind of suppose I've a legitimate excuse.
If you remember Edna McDougal who was sold at Largs back in July. She went for £450 plus a half bottle of Bells.
Then you may remember there was that poor, unfortunate gentleman who was mistaken for an early Jacobean sideboard at Nateby. They got £70,000 for him. I think he's in storage in Putney at the minute waiting to be shipped out East.
And who could forget Albert Tickle who sold, together with his very rare Windsor Cornet for a wapping 6 shillings in 1903. He's since been stuffed and mounted which is more than he got when he was alive,
It's going to be very upsetting for my wife knowing that grandma has been 'taken'.
But, on a positive note, she will be on permanent display in a glass cabinet outside Ye Olde Knocking Shoppe at Frisby-on-the-Wreake.
Are my fears unfounded?
Yours,
Larry Dripping.
Trumpton.
Dear Larry. Some leopards just never change their spots. The Scrubs' gain is the community's loss. How long have you been out? Two weeks? Three? Your affrontery, as ever, knows no bounds, you never could resist bragging about your victims could you? One day the Columbian police will repatriate your old partner Walter 'Beef' Farmer, and the whole sick story will be exposed.
The Beef-Dripping crimes will create a right old stink. And don't assume you won't be tracked down. I recognised the tell-tale signs immediately so others will as well. Where have you stored the pensioners' bodies this time? In the queue at the post office? In the crowd at Preston North End? Your days are numbered sonny Jim. Expect a knock on the door.
Dreary. x
I took my wife's grandmother to the antiques road show the other day where she was valued at over £250,000.
Well, as you can imagine I was delighted and signed her over immediately. The journey home was full of mixed emotions. On the one hand I was a quarter of a million pounds to the good but what do I tell the wife?
Luckily from my point of view there has been a spate of OAP disappearances at road shows up and down the country of late so I kind of suppose I've a legitimate excuse.
If you remember Edna McDougal who was sold at Largs back in July. She went for £450 plus a half bottle of Bells.
Then you may remember there was that poor, unfortunate gentleman who was mistaken for an early Jacobean sideboard at Nateby. They got £70,000 for him. I think he's in storage in Putney at the minute waiting to be shipped out East.
And who could forget Albert Tickle who sold, together with his very rare Windsor Cornet for a wapping 6 shillings in 1903. He's since been stuffed and mounted which is more than he got when he was alive,
It's going to be very upsetting for my wife knowing that grandma has been 'taken'.
But, on a positive note, she will be on permanent display in a glass cabinet outside Ye Olde Knocking Shoppe at Frisby-on-the-Wreake.
Are my fears unfounded?
Yours,
Larry Dripping.
Trumpton.
Dear Larry. Some leopards just never change their spots. The Scrubs' gain is the community's loss. How long have you been out? Two weeks? Three? Your affrontery, as ever, knows no bounds, you never could resist bragging about your victims could you? One day the Columbian police will repatriate your old partner Walter 'Beef' Farmer, and the whole sick story will be exposed.
The Beef-Dripping crimes will create a right old stink. And don't assume you won't be tracked down. I recognised the tell-tale signs immediately so others will as well. Where have you stored the pensioners' bodies this time? In the queue at the post office? In the crowd at Preston North End? Your days are numbered sonny Jim. Expect a knock on the door.
Dreary. x
Dear Dreary.
I'm having real trouble selling my house and wonder if you can help me. It's been on the market since 1981 and no body has been to view.
The front garden is slightly overgrown but if I have prior warning that someone is coming I can direct them in from the bedroom window.
There was a lovely open aspect to the rear. The sewage works has obscured the view a bit but luckily the house has subsided slightly so you can still see the abattoir from a hole in the roof once the smog from the crematorium clears.
Crime isn't an issue, which is a big plus. The streets are protected by the local mafia, certainly as far up as Rippers Alley in the North and Hindley Avenue to the South. I let the mob use the cupboard under the stairs for their weekly 'meeting and beating' sessions.
The house benefits from a conservatory. It actually belongs to next door but they were evicted for growing cannabis. We've removed a fence panel for easy access. Double-glazing comes as standard. The bin bags double up as curtains during the night and I am prepared to leave those in at no extra cost.
The house has a downstairs toilet. The floorboards were so rotten upstairs the whole thing collapsed and the toilet now sits next to the lazy Susan in the hallway.
There are three bedrooms, which are deceptively spacious. They presently sleep 27. The gypsy camp on the square has just been evicted and so I'm putting swampy and his mates up for a night or two.
I'm thinking of getting Kim & Aggie in.
Your help in this matter would be greatly appreciated.
Yours,
Ralph Biggs,
Choppers End,
Krippen-on-the-Moor.
Dear ralph.
The housing market is currently depressed and the negative equity position you are in is a common dilemna for owners who want to sell. Your property will always be your main asset so my advice would be to sit out the depression and put all thoughts of selling on hold for a couple of years.
Keynes' generelly-accepted economic theory regarding boom and bust states that the market will start showing shoots of revival within 24 months,so rent rent rent!
If you able to live elsewhere in the short term you will maximise potential rental income. One factor in your favour is that sleeping on a park bench for a couple of years is a step up on your current circumstances, you dirty scumbag dirtbag lowlife wanker.
Who the fuck in their right mind would want to live near you? I could'nt imagine anything worse. No wonder everyone else has moved away. Do the community a favour and fuck off.
Fondest regards,
Dreary. x.
As my next door neighbour I thought you'd be a tad more understanding!
No more free crack for you, cow!!
I've got news for you : your crack gave me crabs
I'm having real trouble selling my house and wonder if you can help me. It's been on the market since 1981 and no body has been to view.
The front garden is slightly overgrown but if I have prior warning that someone is coming I can direct them in from the bedroom window.
There was a lovely open aspect to the rear. The sewage works has obscured the view a bit but luckily the house has subsided slightly so you can still see the abattoir from a hole in the roof once the smog from the crematorium clears.
Crime isn't an issue, which is a big plus. The streets are protected by the local mafia, certainly as far up as Rippers Alley in the North and Hindley Avenue to the South. I let the mob use the cupboard under the stairs for their weekly 'meeting and beating' sessions.
The house benefits from a conservatory. It actually belongs to next door but they were evicted for growing cannabis. We've removed a fence panel for easy access. Double-glazing comes as standard. The bin bags double up as curtains during the night and I am prepared to leave those in at no extra cost.
The house has a downstairs toilet. The floorboards were so rotten upstairs the whole thing collapsed and the toilet now sits next to the lazy Susan in the hallway.
There are three bedrooms, which are deceptively spacious. They presently sleep 27. The gypsy camp on the square has just been evicted and so I'm putting swampy and his mates up for a night or two.
I'm thinking of getting Kim & Aggie in.
Your help in this matter would be greatly appreciated.
Yours,
Ralph Biggs,
Choppers End,
Krippen-on-the-Moor.
Dear ralph.
The housing market is currently depressed and the negative equity position you are in is a common dilemna for owners who want to sell. Your property will always be your main asset so my advice would be to sit out the depression and put all thoughts of selling on hold for a couple of years.
Keynes' generelly-accepted economic theory regarding boom and bust states that the market will start showing shoots of revival within 24 months,so rent rent rent!
If you able to live elsewhere in the short term you will maximise potential rental income. One factor in your favour is that sleeping on a park bench for a couple of years is a step up on your current circumstances, you dirty scumbag dirtbag lowlife wanker.
Who the fuck in their right mind would want to live near you? I could'nt imagine anything worse. No wonder everyone else has moved away. Do the community a favour and fuck off.
Fondest regards,
Dreary. x.
As my next door neighbour I thought you'd be a tad more understanding!
No more free crack for you, cow!!
I've got news for you : your crack gave me crabs
Dear Dreary.
You may have heard of my husband, the great British explorer Sir Randolf Fynds. He is rightly considered to be a national hero following several amazing expeditions to the earth's most hazardous extremities. His two recent accounts of his adventures have become bestsellers, and the BBC have now agreed to film both ''Randy Fynds The African Bush'' and the follow up ''Randy Lost Up The Gorge''. There is something, however, that is being kept from the public. During his latest expedition, a project that included inseminating lesbian crocodiles along the banks of the Zambian Limpopo, my darling Randolph contracted a rare strain of elephantiasis. They shipped him straight back to England and he is currently being held in isolation at Whipsnade zoo, undergoing various tests. It is all very upsetting as they will not allow me any direct contact and I have to settle for watching video reports whilst they struggle for a cure. So far they've established that he's suffering from a strain of the disease never previously researched, where the patient is only affected from the waist down.
They've had him testing his new appendage by feeding buns to his keepers and sometimes by hosing down the dirty zoo vehicles. The zoo is currently clearing a wooded area in order to build a petting zoo and under cover of darkness they are using Randolf to move the fallen tree trunks. This is surely not right. Is this how we look after our heroes? The zoo have assured me that such tests are necessary in order to help them fully understand his illness, and that he is helping to save them money in the meantime. But what's next, Billy Smart's circus? We've now been apart for six months, so if and when we are reunited, what can i expect? there are so many questions i need answers to. Can i allow him the house, for example? Will he still function sexually? Will i still be able to accomodate him? Will he ever wear shorts again? I am overcome with anxiety.
Please help.
Lady Fiona Fynds, Fynds Hall,
Fylingdale.
Oh Lady Fynds.
You lucky, lucky gal!!
Your very own elephant man! Looks like it's going to be more 'That'll Hurt' than John Hurt in your case from now on.
I'd certainly be looking into having your vestibule widening to accommodate your new furniture!
We have to face facts I'm afraid. You're going to have a lot of ribbing off people. Ha, past your ribs in Ralphs case!! Sorry. Ahem.
What's your favourite film?
Hurt locker! Sorry love, see what I mean?
First record on your wedding day? Everybody hurts!! Ha ha ha ha, oh my days!!
At least he'll be able to carry you and the presents over the threshold at the same time.
Hey, when you go away on yours hols he'll be able to pack his trunk!!!! Ho ho, fuck me!!!!! I can't breath, ha ha ha!!!!!!
He'll give a whole new meaning to swimming trunks. Aaaaaaarghhh!!
Oh bugger, hee hee hee, I'll call you back................
You may have heard of my husband, the great British explorer Sir Randolf Fynds. He is rightly considered to be a national hero following several amazing expeditions to the earth's most hazardous extremities. His two recent accounts of his adventures have become bestsellers, and the BBC have now agreed to film both ''Randy Fynds The African Bush'' and the follow up ''Randy Lost Up The Gorge''. There is something, however, that is being kept from the public. During his latest expedition, a project that included inseminating lesbian crocodiles along the banks of the Zambian Limpopo, my darling Randolph contracted a rare strain of elephantiasis. They shipped him straight back to England and he is currently being held in isolation at Whipsnade zoo, undergoing various tests. It is all very upsetting as they will not allow me any direct contact and I have to settle for watching video reports whilst they struggle for a cure. So far they've established that he's suffering from a strain of the disease never previously researched, where the patient is only affected from the waist down.
They've had him testing his new appendage by feeding buns to his keepers and sometimes by hosing down the dirty zoo vehicles. The zoo is currently clearing a wooded area in order to build a petting zoo and under cover of darkness they are using Randolf to move the fallen tree trunks. This is surely not right. Is this how we look after our heroes? The zoo have assured me that such tests are necessary in order to help them fully understand his illness, and that he is helping to save them money in the meantime. But what's next, Billy Smart's circus? We've now been apart for six months, so if and when we are reunited, what can i expect? there are so many questions i need answers to. Can i allow him the house, for example? Will he still function sexually? Will i still be able to accomodate him? Will he ever wear shorts again? I am overcome with anxiety.
Please help.
Lady Fiona Fynds, Fynds Hall,
Fylingdale.
Oh Lady Fynds.
You lucky, lucky gal!!
Your very own elephant man! Looks like it's going to be more 'That'll Hurt' than John Hurt in your case from now on.
I'd certainly be looking into having your vestibule widening to accommodate your new furniture!
We have to face facts I'm afraid. You're going to have a lot of ribbing off people. Ha, past your ribs in Ralphs case!! Sorry. Ahem.
What's your favourite film?
Hurt locker! Sorry love, see what I mean?
First record on your wedding day? Everybody hurts!! Ha ha ha ha, oh my days!!
At least he'll be able to carry you and the presents over the threshold at the same time.
Hey, when you go away on yours hols he'll be able to pack his trunk!!!! Ho ho, fuck me!!!!! I can't breath, ha ha ha!!!!!!
He'll give a whole new meaning to swimming trunks. Aaaaaaarghhh!!
Oh bugger, hee hee hee, I'll call you back................
Wednesday 22 February 2012
Dear Dreary,
my name is Noddy made famous in the books by Enid Blyton and to cut to the chase, I've lost my bell-end. It's shiny, very bulbous and it makes a noise when you shake it. Thing is, it's getting me into trouble every time I ask if anyone has seen it.
For instance, I went up to Mrs Bear the other day and asked her if she'd seen it. She gave me a lollipop and after looking over her shoulder she tried to drag me in the lady bears toilets.
I asked the same question to Mr Plod who went all giddy and pink cheeked, strip searched me,hosed me down and left me stood next to his desk with only his helmet to protect my modesty. Even Big Ears gets a lump in his throat at the very mention of my shiny tinkle!
Please Dreary, have you seen it?
Noddy.
Dear Noddy,
please try not to worry. Marvellous things can be achieved with reconstructive surgery these days and i believe Toytown boasts a fine repair and restoration department. The London-based consultant, Dr.Hamley, is recognised as the world's finest in his field and i am sure he will restore your appendage to a fully working model. He performed outstanding work on Looby Lou,after the sorry incident that resulted in Andy Pandy being found guilty of puppetphaelia, Her reproductive organs have been replaced with a new tighter set. and she can now look forward to years more fun in the toybox. You will be dangling your bell again before you know it. I an sending you my leaflet "Safe Fun In Toyland"
You can upload photos to :-www.DD.co.uk or to my facebook page once the operation is complete and the bandages removed. Once i have seen the evidence i may be willing to pull your string personally if i decide to feature your case in my upcoming summer special, " Private Lives Of Puppets, Finger Control". Until then,look after yourself and remember, lubricate, lubricate, lubricate.
my name is Noddy made famous in the books by Enid Blyton and to cut to the chase, I've lost my bell-end. It's shiny, very bulbous and it makes a noise when you shake it. Thing is, it's getting me into trouble every time I ask if anyone has seen it.
For instance, I went up to Mrs Bear the other day and asked her if she'd seen it. She gave me a lollipop and after looking over her shoulder she tried to drag me in the lady bears toilets.
I asked the same question to Mr Plod who went all giddy and pink cheeked, strip searched me,hosed me down and left me stood next to his desk with only his helmet to protect my modesty. Even Big Ears gets a lump in his throat at the very mention of my shiny tinkle!
Please Dreary, have you seen it?
Noddy.
Dear Noddy,
please try not to worry. Marvellous things can be achieved with reconstructive surgery these days and i believe Toytown boasts a fine repair and restoration department. The London-based consultant, Dr.Hamley, is recognised as the world's finest in his field and i am sure he will restore your appendage to a fully working model. He performed outstanding work on Looby Lou,after the sorry incident that resulted in Andy Pandy being found guilty of puppetphaelia, Her reproductive organs have been replaced with a new tighter set. and she can now look forward to years more fun in the toybox. You will be dangling your bell again before you know it. I an sending you my leaflet "Safe Fun In Toyland"
You can upload photos to :-www.DD.co.uk or to my facebook page once the operation is complete and the bandages removed. Once i have seen the evidence i may be willing to pull your string personally if i decide to feature your case in my upcoming summer special, " Private Lives Of Puppets, Finger Control". Until then,look after yourself and remember, lubricate, lubricate, lubricate.
Dear Dreary.
I think the woman who runs 'The Dripping Sausage' cafe at the end if our road has feelings for me and I'm not sure her intentions are wholly honourable.
Every time I go in she's there at the sink suggestively washing her rolling pin, whilst looking at me, more like she'd just had a stroke than anything else.
It's the same scenario every time, bending over the bay Marie telling me she'll keep my meat warm until she can slip it between her fresh, firm baps.
I've so far managed to avoid the tossed salad but not the question as to whether I prefer a two or four fingered kit kat.
She's just started a home delivery service. What if she arrives on my doorstep with a hot beef muffin?
Yours,
Patrick Bexbistle.
Dear Paddy.
Seems to me the only sausage that’s dripping here is your own. I note that you fail to name the caterer in question or even describe her. Maybe its time to respond to her advances and get to know her a little . Why not test the water by asking if she serves up hot crumpet. If this goes well, order a delivery of two full English breakfasts, in bed, with a special request that she blows on your hot plum tomatoes. This is not the time for waffling or making a hash of it. A hearty brekky sets you up for the day. And she'll be doing the washing up!
Go for it.
Dreary. x
I think the woman who runs 'The Dripping Sausage' cafe at the end if our road has feelings for me and I'm not sure her intentions are wholly honourable.
Every time I go in she's there at the sink suggestively washing her rolling pin, whilst looking at me, more like she'd just had a stroke than anything else.
It's the same scenario every time, bending over the bay Marie telling me she'll keep my meat warm until she can slip it between her fresh, firm baps.
I've so far managed to avoid the tossed salad but not the question as to whether I prefer a two or four fingered kit kat.
She's just started a home delivery service. What if she arrives on my doorstep with a hot beef muffin?
Yours,
Patrick Bexbistle.
Dear Paddy.
Seems to me the only sausage that’s dripping here is your own. I note that you fail to name the caterer in question or even describe her. Maybe its time to respond to her advances and get to know her a little . Why not test the water by asking if she serves up hot crumpet. If this goes well, order a delivery of two full English breakfasts, in bed, with a special request that she blows on your hot plum tomatoes. This is not the time for waffling or making a hash of it. A hearty brekky sets you up for the day. And she'll be doing the washing up!
Go for it.
Dreary. x
Tuesday 21 February 2012
Dear Dreary.
My son Eric has got it into his little head that he wants to join the ballet. I blame myself for leaving a Billy Idiot dvd on the coffee table. His father is-as usual with family matters-indifferent on the matter, que sera will be he says. But i do worry. He seems to be totally distracted from his daily routine and won't talk of anything else.
He spends hour after hour pirouetting in front of the landing mirror,so much so that his wooden leg has burnt a hole in the carpet,and it's costing me a fortune in tights and hair removal cream. I am pleased he has found an interest, but it is now playing on my mind that he has never brought a girl home,and the only thing he watches on tv is some programme about a dance studio. The chaps on there seem to be very athletic and flamboyant. I am concerned that Eric might not be made welcome in such company, with his beer belly and flat foot. We may also have trouble finding a ballet shoe big enough to cover his big shoe.
He would also be required to move to London, which is trauma enough for any middle-aged man. How he'd cope with his false arm is anybody's guess. He was spinning round the living room the other day when it flew off and shattered the fishtank, and poor old Jaws had to be given the kiss of life. None of this helped Eric's stammer one bit.
There is also the question of packaging. I don't want him to compare unfavourably with any of his new friends. What do they use down there? Is it tissue paper or could it be some type of fruit? Your advice would be very welcome. I just feel that this may not be for him.
Yours,
Mrs. April Showers,Rainham.
My dear Mrs Showers.
It's quite clear to me that little Eric is destined for the stage. Perhaps the ballet is a tad out of reach but I'm seeing a life in comedy.
He reminds me of my sisters lad, Ernie. He always dreamt of being a wrestler and was forever throwing himself around the bedroom in his underpants. He's six stone wet through and can barely reach the door handle and at twenty nine years old you do worry for his career prospects.
I could arrange for your Eric to come and stay with little Ern. They'd have to share a bed although Eric would have to leave his wooden leg next to the chamber pot for fear of giving Ernie splinters.
There's a few open mic nights around our end where they could hone their routines. Ernie's been learning a striptease recently involving a grapefruit and an electric toaster. Would Eric like to smoke his pipe?
Call me.
Dreary. x
My son Eric has got it into his little head that he wants to join the ballet. I blame myself for leaving a Billy Idiot dvd on the coffee table. His father is-as usual with family matters-indifferent on the matter, que sera will be he says. But i do worry. He seems to be totally distracted from his daily routine and won't talk of anything else.
He spends hour after hour pirouetting in front of the landing mirror,so much so that his wooden leg has burnt a hole in the carpet,and it's costing me a fortune in tights and hair removal cream. I am pleased he has found an interest, but it is now playing on my mind that he has never brought a girl home,and the only thing he watches on tv is some programme about a dance studio. The chaps on there seem to be very athletic and flamboyant. I am concerned that Eric might not be made welcome in such company, with his beer belly and flat foot. We may also have trouble finding a ballet shoe big enough to cover his big shoe.
He would also be required to move to London, which is trauma enough for any middle-aged man. How he'd cope with his false arm is anybody's guess. He was spinning round the living room the other day when it flew off and shattered the fishtank, and poor old Jaws had to be given the kiss of life. None of this helped Eric's stammer one bit.
There is also the question of packaging. I don't want him to compare unfavourably with any of his new friends. What do they use down there? Is it tissue paper or could it be some type of fruit? Your advice would be very welcome. I just feel that this may not be for him.
Yours,
Mrs. April Showers,Rainham.
My dear Mrs Showers.
It's quite clear to me that little Eric is destined for the stage. Perhaps the ballet is a tad out of reach but I'm seeing a life in comedy.
He reminds me of my sisters lad, Ernie. He always dreamt of being a wrestler and was forever throwing himself around the bedroom in his underpants. He's six stone wet through and can barely reach the door handle and at twenty nine years old you do worry for his career prospects.
I could arrange for your Eric to come and stay with little Ern. They'd have to share a bed although Eric would have to leave his wooden leg next to the chamber pot for fear of giving Ernie splinters.
There's a few open mic nights around our end where they could hone their routines. Ernie's been learning a striptease recently involving a grapefruit and an electric toaster. Would Eric like to smoke his pipe?
Call me.
Dreary. x
Monday 20 February 2012
Dear Dreary.
They say that a dog owner looks like their dog and in my case my husband looks so much like his pooch that if he doesn't get rid of it 'yesterday' I'm divorcing the bastard.
My other 'alf was so hung over one Monday morning he sent 'Sooty' to work in his place. I mean, from a distance you can hardly tell them apart but expecting a dog to drive the school bus and take the correct fares does seem a bit much if you ask me.
I've recently suspected my husband of having an affair. One night I followed him through the park and up on to the new estate. It was only when I saw him cock his leg, piss up a lamp post and shag a poodle on the mini round about that I breathed a huge sigh of relief and went back home to make his packin' for the following morning.
Would any of your readers like a four year old Yorkshire terrier with a twinkle in his eye?
Please help save my marriage?
Yours,
Thelma Doo.
Dear Thelma.
You need to step back and give your little chap a bit of slack. Let him have a bit of a run occasionally, allowing him to use up any spare energy. By all means demonstrate a level of control (this often intrigues the male species), but you can build trust and loyalty while he satisfies his natural territorial yearnings.
Sniffing a bitch or two doesn’t mean he's cheating on you, it is simply a natural instinct that has to be attempted. Turn a blind eye and you will be rewarded with love affection, and, who knows, there may even be special nights when you allow him to sit on the settee. I would draw the line, however, at picking up after him.
Let him be your best friend. Has he been neutered by the way?
Best to play safe.
PS: how much for the dog?
Dreary. x
They say that a dog owner looks like their dog and in my case my husband looks so much like his pooch that if he doesn't get rid of it 'yesterday' I'm divorcing the bastard.
My other 'alf was so hung over one Monday morning he sent 'Sooty' to work in his place. I mean, from a distance you can hardly tell them apart but expecting a dog to drive the school bus and take the correct fares does seem a bit much if you ask me.
I've recently suspected my husband of having an affair. One night I followed him through the park and up on to the new estate. It was only when I saw him cock his leg, piss up a lamp post and shag a poodle on the mini round about that I breathed a huge sigh of relief and went back home to make his packin' for the following morning.
Would any of your readers like a four year old Yorkshire terrier with a twinkle in his eye?
Please help save my marriage?
Yours,
Thelma Doo.
Dear Thelma.
You need to step back and give your little chap a bit of slack. Let him have a bit of a run occasionally, allowing him to use up any spare energy. By all means demonstrate a level of control (this often intrigues the male species), but you can build trust and loyalty while he satisfies his natural territorial yearnings.
Sniffing a bitch or two doesn’t mean he's cheating on you, it is simply a natural instinct that has to be attempted. Turn a blind eye and you will be rewarded with love affection, and, who knows, there may even be special nights when you allow him to sit on the settee. I would draw the line, however, at picking up after him.
Let him be your best friend. Has he been neutered by the way?
Best to play safe.
PS: how much for the dog?
Dreary. x
Sunday 19 February 2012
Dear Dreary,
there's this chap at work i really want to bed. I keep talking about the decor in my bedroom and how i really need to get a man in but he's not taking the bait.
I have described where i need a dado rail putting, where i have a patch of damp that needs touching up, and how i need some wallpaper paste to stop a corner peeling. I have even shown him photos of my new false frontage and how i would like it to have a gloss finish, and i have told him that he might need to dangle his plumline next to my bed & that i have some tiles in my bathroom that require very sticky adhesive but still he frustrates me.
I must tell him about the neglected dusty crack that i've got that needs quite a bit of filling and the ceiling mirror that requires a bit of attention. Am i scareing him by being too forward do you think? I know i can be a little emulsional.
Kirsty Spinster,
Isle Of Dogs
Dear Kirsty,
Any tradesman worth his salt likes to keep his hand in.
I remember, years ago, asking this lad I fancied called Daryl, if he'd have a gander under my bonnet, as i kept losing precious fluids.
Well, in no time at all he had me up over his ramp and was ogling my undercarriage. He said to get a better look he'd have to get inside my inspection pit.
Anyway he let me wipe the dipstick whilst he cleaned my rims with an oily rag.
He could see where I was dripping from and spent a good while trying to fill the hole.
Anyway, after he finished polishing my headlamps and adjusting my glove box he turned me over, slipped me into first and pulled out slowly over the damp patch and back up my driveway.
I was exhausted!
Dreary. x
there's this chap at work i really want to bed. I keep talking about the decor in my bedroom and how i really need to get a man in but he's not taking the bait.
I have described where i need a dado rail putting, where i have a patch of damp that needs touching up, and how i need some wallpaper paste to stop a corner peeling. I have even shown him photos of my new false frontage and how i would like it to have a gloss finish, and i have told him that he might need to dangle his plumline next to my bed & that i have some tiles in my bathroom that require very sticky adhesive but still he frustrates me.
I must tell him about the neglected dusty crack that i've got that needs quite a bit of filling and the ceiling mirror that requires a bit of attention. Am i scareing him by being too forward do you think? I know i can be a little emulsional.
Kirsty Spinster,
Isle Of Dogs
Dear Kirsty,
Any tradesman worth his salt likes to keep his hand in.
I remember, years ago, asking this lad I fancied called Daryl, if he'd have a gander under my bonnet, as i kept losing precious fluids.
Well, in no time at all he had me up over his ramp and was ogling my undercarriage. He said to get a better look he'd have to get inside my inspection pit.
Anyway he let me wipe the dipstick whilst he cleaned my rims with an oily rag.
He could see where I was dripping from and spent a good while trying to fill the hole.
Anyway, after he finished polishing my headlamps and adjusting my glove box he turned me over, slipped me into first and pulled out slowly over the damp patch and back up my driveway.
I was exhausted!
Dreary. x
Dear Dreary,
I’m an eighty three year old pensioner and I’m thinking of handing myself into the police.
Owing to the recent riots, especially the constant, violent imagery on our tv screens, I feel I have been influenced to such an extent that I have been terrorising the local village where I live.
On Sunday evening I was on my way home on the bus when I rang the bell one stop early, causing the bus to pull into Puddle Lane, which is normally quite unnecessary.
On Monday, on the way out of Mr Peebles Post Office, I moved the sign on the door to ‘closed’ when he was still open. Elsie and Doris had to wait outside, in glorious sunshine, for three minutes until Mrs Peebles spotted the root cause of the problem.
On Tuesday, when Miss Langtry called ‘round for tea with her dog, Nipper, I put out the custard creams instead of the rich tea fingers and hid Nippers favourite toy under a cushion.
Wednesday night there was a beetle drive in the church hall. I had a small sherry during the interval and purposely fell over to reveal my underskirt and bloomers, much to the excitement of Rev. Eccles.
I’m so ashamed, my community is in tatters. I blame ITV! What should I do to put things right?
Alfie Noakes.
My dear Alf. Try not to worry unduly about your problem. There’s a little of the rebel in all of us. Even I, just last Wednesday, paid for seven items at Asda’s six or less checkout and I once parked in a family only spot at Aldi even though my kids were all at school.
But if you feel a need to be forgiven for your antics there might be a solution. Contact the BBC’s Riot Hotline and ask for the Shop A Celeb department. Here you can anonymously inform the police that you saw Paul McCartney looting a Tesco Express in Tottenham High Road, or that you witnessed Anne Robinson ripping down the shutters at PC World, Ealing, Broadway.
Think of the benefit to the nation if we remove these morons from society. You would be a hero in the village!
Carpe Celebrius.
Seize the Celeb!
Dreary. x
I’ve just passed Keith Harris shitting in a bin!
Hope he doesn’t wipe his arse with the duck! Or rather, I hope he does!
I’m an eighty three year old pensioner and I’m thinking of handing myself into the police.
Owing to the recent riots, especially the constant, violent imagery on our tv screens, I feel I have been influenced to such an extent that I have been terrorising the local village where I live.
On Sunday evening I was on my way home on the bus when I rang the bell one stop early, causing the bus to pull into Puddle Lane, which is normally quite unnecessary.
On Monday, on the way out of Mr Peebles Post Office, I moved the sign on the door to ‘closed’ when he was still open. Elsie and Doris had to wait outside, in glorious sunshine, for three minutes until Mrs Peebles spotted the root cause of the problem.
On Tuesday, when Miss Langtry called ‘round for tea with her dog, Nipper, I put out the custard creams instead of the rich tea fingers and hid Nippers favourite toy under a cushion.
Wednesday night there was a beetle drive in the church hall. I had a small sherry during the interval and purposely fell over to reveal my underskirt and bloomers, much to the excitement of Rev. Eccles.
I’m so ashamed, my community is in tatters. I blame ITV! What should I do to put things right?
Alfie Noakes.
My dear Alf. Try not to worry unduly about your problem. There’s a little of the rebel in all of us. Even I, just last Wednesday, paid for seven items at Asda’s six or less checkout and I once parked in a family only spot at Aldi even though my kids were all at school.
But if you feel a need to be forgiven for your antics there might be a solution. Contact the BBC’s Riot Hotline and ask for the Shop A Celeb department. Here you can anonymously inform the police that you saw Paul McCartney looting a Tesco Express in Tottenham High Road, or that you witnessed Anne Robinson ripping down the shutters at PC World, Ealing, Broadway.
Think of the benefit to the nation if we remove these morons from society. You would be a hero in the village!
Carpe Celebrius.
Seize the Celeb!
Dreary. x
I’ve just passed Keith Harris shitting in a bin!
Hope he doesn’t wipe his arse with the duck! Or rather, I hope he does!
Dear Dreary,
I’ve applied to join the Royal Air Force as a Hercules transport aircraft but have grave concerns that they are not taking my application seriously. I’m such a size that I know I’m capable of carrying large quantities over long distances.
I love the idea of men in uniform inside me and as a boy I used to stick amphibious landing craft, tanks and assorted artillery up my bum.
My favourite past time used to be sticking my arse out of the bedroom window and pumping out those little green plastic soldiers on parachutes and watching them land in the back garden.
The man at the recruitment office looked very uneasy at me before making a private phone call to his superiors.
I’m desperate to join the military. Should I perhaps apply for the navy instead as a small frigate?
Yours,
Chumley Trinder,
The Asylum,
Knotty Ash.
Dear Chumley,
I have spoken to a top civil servant whom I am currently chewing. He has arranged everything. A dark saloon will collect you at oh six hundred hours and whisk you off to Brize Norton where you will be given immediate clearance for take off.
Your emission is to excrete 100 of your liitle green chaps over Helmand Province. Oh, and don’t forget to pick up a jar of their yummy mayonnaise whilst you’re over there.
Then it’s full steam ahead and back to Blighty for tea and muffins at Claridges. A quick dose of shut eye, then we’ll slip another regiment into you and the whole bally game starts again.
Chocs away Trinder!
Dreary. x
I’ve applied to join the Royal Air Force as a Hercules transport aircraft but have grave concerns that they are not taking my application seriously. I’m such a size that I know I’m capable of carrying large quantities over long distances.
I love the idea of men in uniform inside me and as a boy I used to stick amphibious landing craft, tanks and assorted artillery up my bum.
My favourite past time used to be sticking my arse out of the bedroom window and pumping out those little green plastic soldiers on parachutes and watching them land in the back garden.
The man at the recruitment office looked very uneasy at me before making a private phone call to his superiors.
I’m desperate to join the military. Should I perhaps apply for the navy instead as a small frigate?
Yours,
Chumley Trinder,
The Asylum,
Knotty Ash.
Dear Chumley,
I have spoken to a top civil servant whom I am currently chewing. He has arranged everything. A dark saloon will collect you at oh six hundred hours and whisk you off to Brize Norton where you will be given immediate clearance for take off.
Your emission is to excrete 100 of your liitle green chaps over Helmand Province. Oh, and don’t forget to pick up a jar of their yummy mayonnaise whilst you’re over there.
Then it’s full steam ahead and back to Blighty for tea and muffins at Claridges. A quick dose of shut eye, then we’ll slip another regiment into you and the whole bally game starts again.
Chocs away Trinder!
Dreary. x
Dear Dreary,
I seem to be obsessed with second rate celebrities. I was sat opposite a pretty girl on the tube the other day. She noticed me looking, then hitched up her skirt and parted her thighs.
I thought at first that I must be mistaken, but no, it was real : Dale Winton’s head was sticking out of her fanny. He was singing ‘What’s New Pussycat?’.
The next day I was at the gym and happened to see a young lady sat on the toilet as she had left the door open. Peering out over the front lip of the loo was the dripping head of Tony Robinson performing the death scene from Hamlet in a range of voices.
Last night was the last straw. I went down on the wife in bed, and there he was : Jim Bowen saying "super, smashing, great".
Should I send back my Skyplus box?
Dear Anon,
These are quite common problems you are experiencing, especially with old boxes.
The Dale Winton is quite easy to fix. Just gently rub some factor 15 between the girls legs and position a shopping trolley below the gusset. Mr Winton should easily be coaxed into the trolley and you can then wheel him to the nearest Waitrosse. Your view of the young ladies clam should be near perfect.
The Tony Robinson is slightly more of a problem.
You might try placing a spade, a metal detector and an old hippy in a silly hat near the rim of the toilet bowl. You should find him scurrying out of one hole into another in no time, beavering away looking for old relics.
Finally, the Jim Bowen is a quite tricky operation.
He’s rather partial to a small prick from the tip of Jocky Wilsons dart.
Try putting your cock in his mouth and dragging him out that way. Be very careful. Explaining this to the kids on the way to the bathroom isn’t easy.
Failing all of that, have you tried Virgin?
Dreary.x
I seem to be obsessed with second rate celebrities. I was sat opposite a pretty girl on the tube the other day. She noticed me looking, then hitched up her skirt and parted her thighs.
I thought at first that I must be mistaken, but no, it was real : Dale Winton’s head was sticking out of her fanny. He was singing ‘What’s New Pussycat?’.
The next day I was at the gym and happened to see a young lady sat on the toilet as she had left the door open. Peering out over the front lip of the loo was the dripping head of Tony Robinson performing the death scene from Hamlet in a range of voices.
Last night was the last straw. I went down on the wife in bed, and there he was : Jim Bowen saying "super, smashing, great".
Should I send back my Skyplus box?
Dear Anon,
These are quite common problems you are experiencing, especially with old boxes.
The Dale Winton is quite easy to fix. Just gently rub some factor 15 between the girls legs and position a shopping trolley below the gusset. Mr Winton should easily be coaxed into the trolley and you can then wheel him to the nearest Waitrosse. Your view of the young ladies clam should be near perfect.
The Tony Robinson is slightly more of a problem.
You might try placing a spade, a metal detector and an old hippy in a silly hat near the rim of the toilet bowl. You should find him scurrying out of one hole into another in no time, beavering away looking for old relics.
Finally, the Jim Bowen is a quite tricky operation.
He’s rather partial to a small prick from the tip of Jocky Wilsons dart.
Try putting your cock in his mouth and dragging him out that way. Be very careful. Explaining this to the kids on the way to the bathroom isn’t easy.
Failing all of that, have you tried Virgin?
Dreary.x
Dear Dreary,
I did something yesterday that made me really proud of myself. There I was, sat straining for ages over it I was. Then, I breathed I sigh of relief, stood up, and looked down at what I had done. I couldn’t believe the size of it. It was one of those that you want to take a picture of and tell your friends.
It curled up at the corners and completely filled my vision.
Then I shouted my Mrs up to have a look at it. She screamed, ‘my god, there’s a piece missing’!
‘I know’, I said, ‘a thousand piece jigsaw and I’m missing one bloody piece’!
Do you think you could help me find the piece with the picture of the postman’s bulging sack?
Yours, Patrick Cock Ring.
Are you sure it’s not you who is the postman, Pat?
This is clearly a euphemism for your life since the tragic loss of your treasured cat.
You need to move on, to replace the missing piece in your life. You are a clever chap, you have letters after your name. Get out into the leafy lanes and spread some happiness around with the contents of your sack. It may not bring back Jess, but there’s plenty of village pussy out there who would be thrilled to receive your special delivery through their eager letter boxes.
Think of it as community service. And when you’ve finished servicing the community get back to me. There’ll always be a slot at my place for you to park your bike.
Did the police never trace Jess by the way? I was told she was catnapped by some cockney pikey called Dick Thearnley – Whittington.
Dreary. x
I did something yesterday that made me really proud of myself. There I was, sat straining for ages over it I was. Then, I breathed I sigh of relief, stood up, and looked down at what I had done. I couldn’t believe the size of it. It was one of those that you want to take a picture of and tell your friends.
It curled up at the corners and completely filled my vision.
Then I shouted my Mrs up to have a look at it. She screamed, ‘my god, there’s a piece missing’!
‘I know’, I said, ‘a thousand piece jigsaw and I’m missing one bloody piece’!
Do you think you could help me find the piece with the picture of the postman’s bulging sack?
Yours, Patrick Cock Ring.
Are you sure it’s not you who is the postman, Pat?
This is clearly a euphemism for your life since the tragic loss of your treasured cat.
You need to move on, to replace the missing piece in your life. You are a clever chap, you have letters after your name. Get out into the leafy lanes and spread some happiness around with the contents of your sack. It may not bring back Jess, but there’s plenty of village pussy out there who would be thrilled to receive your special delivery through their eager letter boxes.
Think of it as community service. And when you’ve finished servicing the community get back to me. There’ll always be a slot at my place for you to park your bike.
Did the police never trace Jess by the way? I was told she was catnapped by some cockney pikey called Dick Thearnley – Whittington.
Dreary. x
Dear Dreary,
Can you offer me some solace? I look at it some days and all I see is a sad and limp shell of its former glories. All wrinkled and forlorn, the head of this unloved specimen resembles a melted walnut whip, or, somedays, the cut off nozzle on a tube of bath sealant.
He can also take on the look of a button mushroom and the hairs just seem to drop off nowadays and stick to the settee.
Is there anything you could recommend to perk him up a little? I’ve been attached to him all my life and it has become so unsightly it kills me to stroke him or look him in the eye.
Please help.
Regards, Lucy Lastic.
P.S. My pug is called Harold.
Well now,
there are several things you could try to perk him up a bit.
Stroke him at least five times a day. Grab him with both hands and from the head, pull back hard but slowly. This, over time, should iron out the wrinkles lending to a healthy, glossy sheen.
Try walking and let the air get to it. Talk to it, especially whilst waiting to cross the road. Make sure it sits upright close to your leg, nose pointing to the heavens. The tip should be a healthy pink colour and nice and wet.
Burrowing it in dark places is also good for its constitution. Keep a tight hold of him though, he might be sick. Hope this helps,
Dreary. x
P.S.
Does it sleep with the light off? They do tend to roam aimlessly around in the dark, banging in to things and upsetting the natives.
I’ve tried strapping it down but it just seems to encourage it. Perhaps it’s those little blue tablets I gave him.
God man, he’ll be up all night. Open the bedroom window and stick hid head out, that should cool him off. Remember to pull it back in before dawn. We don’t want it dribbling on the milkman’s hat.
That’s odd. He originally belonged to the milkman. When he was little he became stuck in an empty bottle of gold top.
Must have been the thick, creamy white texture that……….hang on! How did you manage to get hold of it?
I had to waggle the bottle against the wall. Gave the poor little chap a hell of a fright I can tell you. No damage done though other than a slight nick to the collar.
Mmmm.
Dreary. x
Can you offer me some solace? I look at it some days and all I see is a sad and limp shell of its former glories. All wrinkled and forlorn, the head of this unloved specimen resembles a melted walnut whip, or, somedays, the cut off nozzle on a tube of bath sealant.
He can also take on the look of a button mushroom and the hairs just seem to drop off nowadays and stick to the settee.
Is there anything you could recommend to perk him up a little? I’ve been attached to him all my life and it has become so unsightly it kills me to stroke him or look him in the eye.
Please help.
Regards, Lucy Lastic.
P.S. My pug is called Harold.
Well now,
there are several things you could try to perk him up a bit.
Stroke him at least five times a day. Grab him with both hands and from the head, pull back hard but slowly. This, over time, should iron out the wrinkles lending to a healthy, glossy sheen.
Try walking and let the air get to it. Talk to it, especially whilst waiting to cross the road. Make sure it sits upright close to your leg, nose pointing to the heavens. The tip should be a healthy pink colour and nice and wet.
Burrowing it in dark places is also good for its constitution. Keep a tight hold of him though, he might be sick. Hope this helps,
Dreary. x
P.S.
Does it sleep with the light off? They do tend to roam aimlessly around in the dark, banging in to things and upsetting the natives.
I’ve tried strapping it down but it just seems to encourage it. Perhaps it’s those little blue tablets I gave him.
God man, he’ll be up all night. Open the bedroom window and stick hid head out, that should cool him off. Remember to pull it back in before dawn. We don’t want it dribbling on the milkman’s hat.
That’s odd. He originally belonged to the milkman. When he was little he became stuck in an empty bottle of gold top.
Must have been the thick, creamy white texture that……….hang on! How did you manage to get hold of it?
I had to waggle the bottle against the wall. Gave the poor little chap a hell of a fright I can tell you. No damage done though other than a slight nick to the collar.
Mmmm.
Dreary. x
Saturday 18 February 2012
Dear Dreary.
St Valentines is a potentially lethal time of year and my girlfriend and I will most certainly not be celebrating again.
Last year began perfectly.
There was the obligatory mood lighting. The Love Walrus was crooning suggestively from the I-pod docking station whilst rose petals marked the way from the dining table to the box room upstairs, holding promises of bawdy romps and drunken fumblings.
We'd just finished desert, our eyes still transfixed o'er candle flame when there came a sharp 'rat a tat tat' at the front door.
Not expecting anybody I sauntered along the hallway and opened the front door.
I had to look twice. Two naked, fat dwarves stood there in the porch, pissed, wearing some cheap angel wings each holding a bow and arrow set.
The first volley smashed into a vase and a picture on the wall.
As we dived for cover the wife's pussy took the fall force of a sharpened tip. Bleeding deep from her gash she managed to crawl into her basket and lick her wounds.
As soon as Cupid and Stupid fired their last shot I ran for the champagne bottle uncorked it in their general direction and hosed the pair of them out of the house and down the garden path.
Remember, love hurts, at least it did in our house.
Don't let this happen to you!
Lock your doors before you drop your drawers.
Yours,
George & Mildred xx
Thanks for that you two.
As with everything these days, where rumpy is involved Health & Safety has to be at the forefront of your thoughts. I've not heard the one about the door before, but there are many similar sayings out there that act as gentle reminders to take care.
These include: once you're certain close the curtains.
Open the packet and put on the jacket.
Be a cynic and visit the clinic.
Hand stuck in your purse? Call the nurse.
Be a polite little sentry when considering rear entry.
Rub the old man up the wrong way, red helmet at dawn the next day.
No lady lingers for inpolite fingers.
I hope these help your valentines night go with a bang.
Dreary. x
Thankyou so very much. No one wants people looking when the meat in the oven is cooking.
Don’t lose your bottle when going full throttle!
Don't want to look daft when she's riding your shaft!
Indeed.
Dreary. x
St Valentines is a potentially lethal time of year and my girlfriend and I will most certainly not be celebrating again.
Last year began perfectly.
There was the obligatory mood lighting. The Love Walrus was crooning suggestively from the I-pod docking station whilst rose petals marked the way from the dining table to the box room upstairs, holding promises of bawdy romps and drunken fumblings.
We'd just finished desert, our eyes still transfixed o'er candle flame when there came a sharp 'rat a tat tat' at the front door.
Not expecting anybody I sauntered along the hallway and opened the front door.
I had to look twice. Two naked, fat dwarves stood there in the porch, pissed, wearing some cheap angel wings each holding a bow and arrow set.
The first volley smashed into a vase and a picture on the wall.
As we dived for cover the wife's pussy took the fall force of a sharpened tip. Bleeding deep from her gash she managed to crawl into her basket and lick her wounds.
As soon as Cupid and Stupid fired their last shot I ran for the champagne bottle uncorked it in their general direction and hosed the pair of them out of the house and down the garden path.
Remember, love hurts, at least it did in our house.
Don't let this happen to you!
Lock your doors before you drop your drawers.
Yours,
George & Mildred xx
Thanks for that you two.
As with everything these days, where rumpy is involved Health & Safety has to be at the forefront of your thoughts. I've not heard the one about the door before, but there are many similar sayings out there that act as gentle reminders to take care.
These include: once you're certain close the curtains.
Open the packet and put on the jacket.
Be a cynic and visit the clinic.
Hand stuck in your purse? Call the nurse.
Be a polite little sentry when considering rear entry.
Rub the old man up the wrong way, red helmet at dawn the next day.
No lady lingers for inpolite fingers.
I hope these help your valentines night go with a bang.
Dreary. x
Thankyou so very much. No one wants people looking when the meat in the oven is cooking.
Don’t lose your bottle when going full throttle!
Don't want to look daft when she's riding your shaft!
Indeed.
Dreary. x
Dear Dreary.
I took up rambling several years ago and it has completely transformed my life. I love the feel of the wind in my hair and the challenge of the open road ahead, and i have met some fascinating and inspiring characters along the way.
I have tramped across the northern rim of the Sahara (sunburnt!), walked the Icelandic coastalway (first degree frostbite), and scaled Kilimanjaro (damned mozzies!). My favourite amble,however, has to be the coast to coast from workington to robin hoods bay. Such a bracing walk! The weather over Shap was invigorating to say the least,the cold northerly blasts freezing the parts other winds don't reach! The warmer valleys on the eastern side of the pennines provided a different kind of problem : midges! The pesky little blighters nibbled away at me for days on end,reducing me at times to a whirling,squirming shambles. Perhaps i should've dressed as a beekeeper! I found that emersing the extremities in mud helped to calm the bites. In the end,the comrarderie of my fellow walkers and the interest and fascination of the general public made the walk worthwhile as always,and when a group of us dropped down into the bay at the climax of the walk we certainly seemed to be the centre of attention as we sat on the sea wall eating our celebratory 99's.I also managed to raise nearly £1000 for my favourite charity the Free N Easy foundation,which sponsors the
disabled and mentally impaired to take part in our society's outdoor activities. We try to treat them equally in all we do. My area of expertise is walking,but we also offer participation in handgliding, free-running, horseriding, waterskiing,climbing.extreme ironing,and even archery,as well as several others.
There is also an introduction to famous english mazes for the visually impaired.
My problem? We are seeking advice on a somewhat delicate matter. During the course of our activities we seem to go through an extraordinary amount of vaseline,mostly down to chaffing and strap burns. Do you know of a cheaper alternative? The club's accounts are taking a battering! Thank you in advance for any suggestions. How would you like to join us sometime? We could change your life forever.
Regards, Bill Brownwhistle,Kirby Stephen,treasurer, Whistle Down The Wind Naturists' Society.
Dear William.
Chafing has been the thorn in the side of every extreme naturist since the dawn of time, from the outer rim to the horn of plenty.
Early literature on extreme punting at Oxford and
Cambridge reveals that enthusiasts would rub linseed oil deep into their shaft so it didn't rot when forced down into the bottom of some murky thoroughfare.
Our distant relations in the extreme, nude, medieval jousting tournaments used to grease their pole with the urine of a soon to be sacrificed witch. This would give them a stiff healthy tip and confidence when whizzing their hard, prickly balls around the head of their opponent.
Branston pickle has been used in the world extreme,
nude cheese and biscuits eating contest whilst goats cheese, smeared around the trossacks aids saddle soreness in the lands end to John o'groats penny farthing race.
I'll send you my leaflet, 'lube in the nude, introducing your index finger' by Pierre Bambino.
Dreary. x
Don't bother! I was involved in ghost-writing that collection of half-truths.
He's just a gay charlatan with a good pair of binoculars.
Frog fag!
Wouldnt last five minutes up Coniston Old Man
I took up rambling several years ago and it has completely transformed my life. I love the feel of the wind in my hair and the challenge of the open road ahead, and i have met some fascinating and inspiring characters along the way.
I have tramped across the northern rim of the Sahara (sunburnt!), walked the Icelandic coastalway (first degree frostbite), and scaled Kilimanjaro (damned mozzies!). My favourite amble,however, has to be the coast to coast from workington to robin hoods bay. Such a bracing walk! The weather over Shap was invigorating to say the least,the cold northerly blasts freezing the parts other winds don't reach! The warmer valleys on the eastern side of the pennines provided a different kind of problem : midges! The pesky little blighters nibbled away at me for days on end,reducing me at times to a whirling,squirming shambles. Perhaps i should've dressed as a beekeeper! I found that emersing the extremities in mud helped to calm the bites. In the end,the comrarderie of my fellow walkers and the interest and fascination of the general public made the walk worthwhile as always,and when a group of us dropped down into the bay at the climax of the walk we certainly seemed to be the centre of attention as we sat on the sea wall eating our celebratory 99's.I also managed to raise nearly £1000 for my favourite charity the Free N Easy foundation,which sponsors the
disabled and mentally impaired to take part in our society's outdoor activities. We try to treat them equally in all we do. My area of expertise is walking,but we also offer participation in handgliding, free-running, horseriding, waterskiing,climbing.extreme ironing,and even archery,as well as several others.
There is also an introduction to famous english mazes for the visually impaired.
My problem? We are seeking advice on a somewhat delicate matter. During the course of our activities we seem to go through an extraordinary amount of vaseline,mostly down to chaffing and strap burns. Do you know of a cheaper alternative? The club's accounts are taking a battering! Thank you in advance for any suggestions. How would you like to join us sometime? We could change your life forever.
Regards, Bill Brownwhistle,Kirby Stephen,treasurer, Whistle Down The Wind Naturists' Society.
Dear William.
Chafing has been the thorn in the side of every extreme naturist since the dawn of time, from the outer rim to the horn of plenty.
Early literature on extreme punting at Oxford and
Cambridge reveals that enthusiasts would rub linseed oil deep into their shaft so it didn't rot when forced down into the bottom of some murky thoroughfare.
Our distant relations in the extreme, nude, medieval jousting tournaments used to grease their pole with the urine of a soon to be sacrificed witch. This would give them a stiff healthy tip and confidence when whizzing their hard, prickly balls around the head of their opponent.
Branston pickle has been used in the world extreme,
nude cheese and biscuits eating contest whilst goats cheese, smeared around the trossacks aids saddle soreness in the lands end to John o'groats penny farthing race.
I'll send you my leaflet, 'lube in the nude, introducing your index finger' by Pierre Bambino.
Dreary. x
Don't bother! I was involved in ghost-writing that collection of half-truths.
He's just a gay charlatan with a good pair of binoculars.
Frog fag!
Wouldnt last five minutes up Coniston Old Man
Dear Dreary.
My husband is a driving instructor and driving me up the wall, particularly in the bedroom department.
He's adopted his own terminology for various sexual positions.
Anal sex is now 'wrong way up the one way'.
'Slipping into first and second' lends reference to coming up my garden path and dumping his rubbish in my back yard.
'Fill her up' and 'dribbling nozzle' are fairly self explanatory whilst a 'hill start' is when he takes me from behind half way up the stairs. At least that's what he told his mother he was doing as she passed us 'en route' from the kitchen to the vestibule to water her begonias.
Don't even get me started on his theories about duel carriageways!!
I wish I could do a U turn with my life and marry a fighter pilot.
Yours,
Mrs P. Handbrake.
Mrs. H.
Be careful what you wish for. I had a boyfriend who was training in the RAF and his idea of foreplay was to whistle the dambusters theme and launch himself, arms in the wing position, shouting ''chocs away capn'' and when he climaxed ,''bombs gone!'' .
Another old flame was a submariner. On shore leave he would romance me by arousing himself then announcing ''periscope up!''. His party trick was accompanied by ''torpedo gone'', but, believe me, it very often missed its intended target. Sad to say, this is a normal man's way of communicating and not something to worry about.
My first husband was a captain in the army. His was a scattergun approach and something like living in a minefield. We tried for a family but despite him aiming at any girl who moved, turned out he was firing blanks. He ended up on stage in The Gay Hussars.
Hope this helps. Fondest doodahs,
Dreary. x
My husband is a driving instructor and driving me up the wall, particularly in the bedroom department.
He's adopted his own terminology for various sexual positions.
Anal sex is now 'wrong way up the one way'.
'Slipping into first and second' lends reference to coming up my garden path and dumping his rubbish in my back yard.
'Fill her up' and 'dribbling nozzle' are fairly self explanatory whilst a 'hill start' is when he takes me from behind half way up the stairs. At least that's what he told his mother he was doing as she passed us 'en route' from the kitchen to the vestibule to water her begonias.
Don't even get me started on his theories about duel carriageways!!
I wish I could do a U turn with my life and marry a fighter pilot.
Yours,
Mrs P. Handbrake.
Mrs. H.
Be careful what you wish for. I had a boyfriend who was training in the RAF and his idea of foreplay was to whistle the dambusters theme and launch himself, arms in the wing position, shouting ''chocs away capn'' and when he climaxed ,''bombs gone!'' .
Another old flame was a submariner. On shore leave he would romance me by arousing himself then announcing ''periscope up!''. His party trick was accompanied by ''torpedo gone'', but, believe me, it very often missed its intended target. Sad to say, this is a normal man's way of communicating and not something to worry about.
My first husband was a captain in the army. His was a scattergun approach and something like living in a minefield. We tried for a family but despite him aiming at any girl who moved, turned out he was firing blanks. He ended up on stage in The Gay Hussars.
Hope this helps. Fondest doodahs,
Dreary. x
Dear Dreary
I'm looking for somebody to fund my film project but so far I have been unsuccessful in securing any backing.
Having witnessed all this recent hype about Speilbergs' latest offering - War Horse, I wanted to tell the story from a much overlooked perspective.
'War Chicken' gives a beaks eye view of the harsh realities of war on the front line from the point of view of a chicken.
Millions of chickens were slaughtered, their mutilated bodies thrown into stews and hotpots at the hands of crazed chefs. Some were served on a bun often garnished and seasoned with a wide variety of trench condiments.
Many suffered from trench beak and egg shell shock. Some were captured by the enemy and forced into hard boiled labour camps.
Probably the most famous chicken to survive was Wing commander Ed Beak who's book, 'Couped Up - Doing Bird On The Seigfried Line is the inspiration behind my film.
His story needs to be heard.
Any genuine offers will be considered.
No taking the piss.
Yours, Alfie Cockitch.
Dear Mr Cockitch.
Your letter has been passed on to me by our company solicitors. They have previous experience in this field and have smelled a rat. Cockitch directing hens?? Nice try genius but no cigar this time! Back in the thirties they had a
business proposition from a Mr Hitler of Brandenburg,who requested funding for a research trip to Poland. Sometimes they just sniff these things out.More recently a Mr ripper from Pontefract wrote to us wanting a map of the back streets of northern england. Thank god we sussed it or it could've been even worse. Your obvious fixation on our feathered friends is your undoing and your weakness. Your plan is well and truly poached my friend. Counselling will be offered in the long run, but expect the old knock on the door sometime soon.
Dreary. x
I'm looking for somebody to fund my film project but so far I have been unsuccessful in securing any backing.
Having witnessed all this recent hype about Speilbergs' latest offering - War Horse, I wanted to tell the story from a much overlooked perspective.
'War Chicken' gives a beaks eye view of the harsh realities of war on the front line from the point of view of a chicken.
Millions of chickens were slaughtered, their mutilated bodies thrown into stews and hotpots at the hands of crazed chefs. Some were served on a bun often garnished and seasoned with a wide variety of trench condiments.
Many suffered from trench beak and egg shell shock. Some were captured by the enemy and forced into hard boiled labour camps.
Probably the most famous chicken to survive was Wing commander Ed Beak who's book, 'Couped Up - Doing Bird On The Seigfried Line is the inspiration behind my film.
His story needs to be heard.
Any genuine offers will be considered.
No taking the piss.
Yours, Alfie Cockitch.
Dear Mr Cockitch.
Your letter has been passed on to me by our company solicitors. They have previous experience in this field and have smelled a rat. Cockitch directing hens?? Nice try genius but no cigar this time! Back in the thirties they had a
business proposition from a Mr Hitler of Brandenburg,who requested funding for a research trip to Poland. Sometimes they just sniff these things out.More recently a Mr ripper from Pontefract wrote to us wanting a map of the back streets of northern england. Thank god we sussed it or it could've been even worse. Your obvious fixation on our feathered friends is your undoing and your weakness. Your plan is well and truly poached my friend. Counselling will be offered in the long run, but expect the old knock on the door sometime soon.
Dreary. x
Dear Readers.
Welcome to my new agony aunt column. I am neither an aunt nor in agony at the present time.
I publish a daily blog of problems sent to me by some of the more troubled members of our society. If the contents relate to yourself in any way or help to raise a smile and give you a 'stiff upper', then my job is done.
Content is published on a daily basis unless, on the rare occasion, I've been at the sherry.
I love you all.
Dreary. x
Welcome to my new agony aunt column. I am neither an aunt nor in agony at the present time.
I publish a daily blog of problems sent to me by some of the more troubled members of our society. If the contents relate to yourself in any way or help to raise a smile and give you a 'stiff upper', then my job is done.
Content is published on a daily basis unless, on the rare occasion, I've been at the sherry.
I love you all.
Dreary. x
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