Dear Dreary,
I'm very keen to join the magic circle however I'm not convinced my tricks are up to scratch.
I'm finding it very difficult to keep my wand up long enough to tap the rim of Mr Wilsons titfer and produce anything at all.
I think I need to brush up on my 'saw a person in half' trick as my mum is currently at rest in No.12s wheelie bin at the minute and not due to be put out till Monday.
'Now you see it, now you don't' has caused quite a stir. Apparently, 'dad, I'm doing this in the name of art' is not a legitimate excuse for shagging the Sunday roast.
Have you got Paul Daniels phone number? I've got a pair of Debbie McGees knickers under my pillow.
Yours,
Tommy Drooper.

Dear Tommy.
It is not in anyone's interests for us to pussyfoot around our readers' problems. There is no need to spin this cock and bull story about "tricks" you cannot manage with your "wand". We can cut to the chase here.
Up to 50% of men suffèr erectile difficulties at some point in their lives so there is no stigma involved. Don't, however, expect any of that usual condescending, sympathy claptrap from me. I prefer to face facts. You have failed as a man and will never perform your primary role, to continue the species. Put away the fez, put on the dvd enclosed,"Sister Act Dirty Habits, uncut and Unshaved". If that fails to lift your spirits contact me for delivery of "Thelma And Louise, The Hole Truth" or maybe "Shirley Valentine-Lesbos Nights Unwashed".
If still no movement below decks, ring my helpline and order "St.Trinians, Dildos At The Ready" or "Enid Blyton's Five OnTop, Underneath, And Everywhichway".
If there is still nothing stirring in the undergrowth, then perhaps you were right. Sniff Debbie's knix, tap your wand on the kitchen table, shout IZZYWIZZYGETFUCKINBIZZY and hope for the best.
Have you tried Speedy Scaffolding?
Dreary.x
　
　
　

Dear Dreary.
You won't see my dad's name in the gossip columns any more, but believe me, he plays a small but vital part in the lives of many well known stars. He was briefly a film star himself, but has since developed a particular skill to the point where celebs are never 100% confident in their ability unless they've had an appointment with my dad. His area of expertise? He calls it pubic topiary. It was his idea for Victoria Beckham to grow the words ''Way in'' when David was struggling to get her pregnant. The rest is history. Mrs. Bear Gryls maintains a thick, tangled undergrowth, but once a month gets dad to cut an obscure, well-hidden path for her husband to discover. Nigella Lawson has a cherry pie design, Wayne Rooney has had a transplant, Kate Middleton requested a crown, Lawrence Llewelyn-Bowen has a lovely colourful patch of paisley, and Alan Titchmarsh a neat row of sweet-smelling begonias set against a backdrop of Lily Of The Valley.
All of which leads to the problem. Dad was truly blessed with a god-given gift, but a couple of months ago dad's clients suddenly started to cancel their appointments and before long he admitted that he was working less and less.
I was puzzled. He finally admitted to me that he'd been diagnosed with Parkinsons disease and was struggling to perform his duties. On top of everything else, dad had a slight mishap whilst working on porn star Ivor Biggun, and he is now suing dad for loss of earnings as he's now not quite as big as he used to be.
Can you point me in the direction of a help group or someone who could help my dad. He is devastated and really wants to keep his hand in. Here's hoping.
Suzie Scissorhands,
Nutbush, California.

Dear Suzie.
From what you are saying it does appear that your dad has reached his nutbush city limits. It doesn't, however, mean that he can't still be involved.
I'm sure directors would be clambering for his expertise. I know for a fact that there's going to be a remake of The Secret Garden, Alvin and the Chipmunks Down-under and The Grapes of Wrath, a documentary about piles. Your dad could be in charge of set design, c*nt stunt co-ordinator or anything.
He could even take on an apprentice. I'm sure there's lots of young lads out there who'd like to tinker with a ladies privets.
There's rising demand at the moment for old age pensioners wanting their bits tending to. Anything from a bikini wax to back, sack and crack. Some want a Vera Lynne or a Max Bygraves design. I know one randy old chap wanted a Pinocchio.
If there's a gap I'm sure your dad can fill it.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
I stand to lose millions of pounds if I don't get some help immediately.
I'm professor of bio chemistry at the University of Upper Millfe and have stumbled across an anti ageing formula that literally knocks 40 years off how you look.
The trouble is I'm 41 yrs old on the inside but since I've applied the ointment I've taken on the appearance of a twelve month old toddler. It's a nightmare. People think I've gone missing, it's in all the papers.
I'm currently in foster care as they think I'm just some random child who's been dumped by his mum.
I can't get to work presently as I can't drive. It's all I can do to crawl around the living room at the moment smelling of breast milk and shit. I suppose there are some perks, my surrogate mum's only 22 and fit as!!
What if someone steals my formulas? I need to find an antidote to reverse the process. Truth is, I'm too young for a chemistry set now.
My wife's already run off with her body pump instructor whilst I lie flat on my back cooing and booing, wondering what to do whilst looking forward to supper.
Please help me, I can make you rich!
Yours,
Professor Tiny Timmy Twickle-Snuggles
BSc. PHD


Ok prof here's the deal.
You tell me where the formula is. I then try it out on some ageing relic, say Bruce Forsth or Terry Wogan, to prove that it works. Next, I pose as your long-lost aunt + kidnap you. You move into my place and work on the antidote. I only wish to be comfortably off and to drive a modest car. This is how you can repay me :
i want you to restore me to how i looked at age twenty one. I also require introductions to the 25 year old Paul Newman and 22 year old Robert Redford in cowboy gear. Oh,and first class train tickets to Bolivia.
Oh, go on then, chuck in the teenage Katherine Ross to even things up. And, if you insist, thirty year old Sacha Distel to sing to us as we trundle around playfully on our bikes before the boys bang my brains out in the barn.
See you soon. Auntie D.

Dear Dreary.
Question : When is a sport not a sport?
Answer : When your doctor says so! Allow me to expand. Following my annual 'MOT' at the local surgery, my doc suggested i needed to lose a little weight. He said i should exercise more and eat healthier. As a clever way of combining the two, i took up fishing. I also discovered darts, doms, + snooker by joining my local British Legion. I was so pleased with myself. I was suddenly a committed all-round sportsman and a regular fish eater. After three months i made a follow-up appointment at the doctor's. Imagine my bewilderment when the doc weighed me. I had put on two stone! Now he's told me i should be playing some sport called cardigan vascular or something. Trouble is i don't own a cardigan. Would my tank top be ok do you think? He also put me on medication for high potention, whatever that is. Finally, and i thought he was quite rude at this point and started shouting at me, he thinks i'm ready for a new hearing aid.
It's very confusing getting old! Can you help at all? Love, Albert Pierjoint, Hanging Rock.


Dear Albert.
If you haven't got a cardigan why not take up knitting and make your own? Kills two birds with one stone. Well, in your case, two stone!
Knitting is one of the newer sports being introduced into the modern Olympic Games this year.
As well as speed knitting there's also cross country stitch, cox less crochet for women and endurance embroidery.
Then you've got the thimble relay, pin vaulting onto a lovely soft cushion and the bobble hat sleigh team where you've got to knit a bobble hat whilst careering down an icy slope.
Give it a go. You could be one if the nations national treasures by the end of the summer.
Just a warning, take regular breaks from exercise or you may suffer from pins and needles.　
Dreary. x
Thanks D. Strangely enough, prior to the offensive on El Alamein, we were trained up as speed milliners as the army ran out of suitable headgear. My favourite creation was a lovely pink fedora. Unfortunately, i was shot in the head twenty minutes after i first wore it. Could'nt understand it.

Dear Dreary.
I need some advice regarding my career. When i left school i was forced to become a carer for my elderly aunt. She had a reputation as being something of a witch but we generally got on well enough to get by. Then one day she suddenly turned on me. Although bed-ridden, she forced me out to work and then spent what little money i earnt.
Fortunatey i became good friends with my workmates down the mine. They are something of an odd bunch though. Between them they're either child-like, stupid, reclusive, germ-ridden, depressed, or hopelessly shy. It all makes for an interesting day at work and at least they all spend the day with a tune in their heads.
I do need a change though and would appreciate any advice. I get so tired that some days i feel like going home and sleeping forever.
Can you suggest where i can turn?
Yours, Miss S.white

Dear Miss White.
A change is as good as a rest.
There's a castle just up the road from you. You can sleep all day there and get a shag off a fine Prince afterwards.
If you fancy a bit of rough you could stay over at the Beasts house. He has some amusing crockery.
If you fancy somewhere a little more exotic why not take a trip to the jungle. They like big pussy there and you could happily hang upside down from a tree with the king of the swingers.
Personally I'd stay where you are with your little friends and get the witch 'round. You could all pile on your bed and play bedknobs and broomsticks all night long!
Dreary. x
　
Ahhh thanks Dreary.
I'm off to work in a mo but i'll think about what you've said. Like the idea of shagging the Prince.
Now, just going to have this apple for breakfast........

Dear Dreary.
I am the Governor of the local prison in the village and am very troubled as I seem to be losing an awful lot of inmates. I can't for the life of me think where they might be and therefore I wonder if you might shed any light on the matter.
All my prisoners are very well behaved and always impeccably dressed. They favour a white, chunky knit, role neck jumper and smoke a pipe.
They're all very religious too, holding daily choir practice in the exercise yard.
Many enjoy tending to their allotments often producing award winning turnips and other seasonal veg. Mind you, we have a mole problem presently. You should see the size of the holes they leave outside the perimeter fence! You could fit a man down there.
Anyway, any suggestions you may have as to where they might have got to would be greatly appreciated.
PS. I don't know if this helps or not but there are an awful lot of strange men walking around the village carrying battered old suitcases dressed in long macs, a silly hat and wearing a fake moustache and glasses. It's probably nothing.
Yours,
Rudolph Vest
Cold Tits Castle.
Little Divett.


Dear Rudi.
You seem to be taking your position a little too seriously. Here's a reality check: yes, you are governor, but merely an employee of The Disney Corporation. You are a second rate Kraut actor in need of a steady job, much like those around you. Disney built Camp Coldtits on the site of the famous casle ten years ago and it has since become a major tourist attraction. Did you not see Robert Vaughan and David McCallum wondering round the village in their cool Yankee uniforms when the place first opened? They're long gone of course, like Richard Attenbrough and Phillip Madoc. The yanks now only employ stereotypical stupid yet impeccably-mannered English actors who bumble round town like they're in a Monty Python sketch or something. None of it is real Fritz ok? It's just people being paid to play out a part. Not understand the concept blockhead? Is this thy there's never been a decent German actor? The prisoners are now SUPPOSED to escape. The war is over. The Boschboys were marched out of Coldtits in disgrace. And - get this - many of your visitors are Jews driving VW's.
So get real Rudi.
You lost again.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
Do you know anything about employment law? I am considering a claim of constructive against my recent employer, Dreem Bathrooms.
Up until recently i was employed there as a toilet seat tester. I am a rather large lady and they apparently saw me as the ideal guinea pig. What attracted me was the healthy diet as i am trying to shed some of my 20 stone. In order to test as many seats as possible (and i had to clean them all myself!), i had to constantly drink water and eat only muesli, prunes, mixed nuts and seeds, and soft licquorice. Apart from the inevitable ringwurt, all went well for the first month. I lost 2 stone, i tested hundreds of seats, and as a result of my efforts, the company's top seller, the Thunderbox, achieved a world record straining weight.
But my talent dried up. My intestines refused to co-operate any further, the fruit no longer had any effect, and my new career slowly trickled away through my fingers. I received a letter from the company informing me that i was in breach of contract as i could no longer perform my duties. As i had nothing further to go on, and not having the stomach for a fight, i reluctantly accepted their judgement. I just felt so empty, but, even though i found it near impossible to get anything down on paper, i began to realise that my Dreem job had suddenly gone down the pan through no fault of my own, and that my employer's actions had put me on shit street.
Can you offer any advice? I feel like the bottom's fallen out of my world and the world's fallen out of my bottom.
Yours, Sue Wurr, Wookey Hole.

Dear Sue.
There's a job going at Boggs & Son down the high street next to the Charity shop and Pound World. It's not really a bathroom centre as people around here are unlikely to bathe however, ones and twos recognise no class boundaries. In short, everyone needs a shit!
To get you regular again you need to start consuming like the locals to 'get your bot ready for the pot'! So, breakfast usually starts with last nights pot noodle, a can of strong cider, a couple of e's and a spliff.
Carry on drinking through till dinner time where you can look forward to chips and curry sauce washed down with a bottle of lighter fluid, a bomb of whizz and another spliff.
You should have the munchies by this point so enjoy hearty helpings of cakes and sweets.
Your tummy should be rumbling by now and your new employers at Boggs should be eagerly anticipating your first test emissions. Still not quite there yet? Then tuck in to a local delicacy of fish fingers and another pot noodle, a bottle of sherry and another spliff. E's and whizz optional depending on whether your children have any money left in the piggy bank.
You're ready to go. If that toilet seat survives that lot it can stand anything. You in turn should win employee of the month which should allow you to make a large deposit in the bank and not just in the bog.
Good luck.
Dreary. x
PS Can you get me a tenner bag and an eighth of green? :-)

 

Dear Dreary.
I'm managing director of a new adult medieval theme park called Cumalot and was wondering if we could use your column to advertise for staff.
So far we have Lady Muffdiver, a lesbian witch who's only too keen to lower her draw bridge as a gesture of welcome.
In charge of games and outdoor pursuits is our olympic champion, Sir Gay of Jisbourn. According to legend he can 'scale the ramparts other queers cannot breach'.
The George and Dragon tavern is run by Boy George and Ann Robinson whilst the feuding Galahad brothers Noel and Liam battle it out in the jousting arena.
Entertainment is provided by a court jester, a group of wandering minstrels and a dancing bi-polar bear who suffers from depression.
If any of your readers would be interested in a position then please take down their particulars and forward them to Friar F*ck at Bottomley Castle.
Yours,
The Sheriff of Cockingham.


You're welcome sheriff, and thank you for the complimentary tickets for the spit-roast preview evening.
I will be bringing along my twin cousin Abigail if that's ok. I wish you every success. I hope your venture survives longer than the ill-fated American version, Florida's Muffin Island ,which was forced to close last year. Advertised as ''The American Wet Dream'', the island catered for every possible taste and perversion.
My favourite ride was The BIG One, a naked 100-foot vertical drop in the dark onto a waiting twelve-inch dildo. I still have bruises!
I also loved The Big Clipper, an old fashioned wooden roller coaster with a difference: it shaved your private parts on every ascent. Boy was it draughty!
Their downfall, however, started with a failed hygiene inspection of The Log Flume after a complaint about the smell.
Then, Kiddie's Korner hit controversy and the staff became known as the 'peados in the speedos'. I hope you learn from their mistakes.
I wish you good luck.
See you soon.
Dreary.x

Dear Dreary.
I have recently been diagnosed as suffering from the ''Kitty'' virus as it has become known, an attack on memory cells caused by a tiny bug that lives in cat litter. As a result, i suddenly forget random things, anything from where we keep the tomato sauce to directions home from work.
The symptoms first became apparent when i returned home from a walk one day without the dog. Then a few days later i got into a fight in The Angry Cock after drinking someone else's beer. I have now been signed off for a second month and the doc says i can only be trusted to stay in bed.
I do forget this from time to time of course, and can end up anywhere. It's brilliant!! I spend days aimlessly wondering from pub to pub, i went joy-riding in an Aston Martin, i've streaked through Marks and Spencers lingerie department, and yesterday i spent the afternoon playing twister with the rather buxom young lady next door.
It's like my birthday everyday, I get away with everything!
Do you have any suggestions for further jolly japes and antics i could get up to? I've still got three weeks left on my sicknote.
Roger the Dodger, Dodge City.


It's a long time since I've been called buxom, eh Roger? That was an original, first edition Twister too.
Good job it's wipe clean eh Roger?
Sorry about your broken nose.I always see red when someone touches my pint.
Your granddaughters first day working at M & S was eventful to say the least especially after denying any knowledge as to who the naked fat bastard was racing away in the MDs astin martin.
Kindly stop referring to mummy as a dog. She came to mine in floods of tears after your walk saying something about being tied up outside the pub whilst you popped in for a swifty. Being forced to pee up a lamppost, especially when you are the mayoress was too much to bear.
If you carry on like this I won't get you a card on fathers day and you'll have to go and live with our Dave.
Stop being a dick dad.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
This hose pipe ban has taken me to the brink of losing my sanity.
So, I got rid of my hose pipe. But I still needed to wash the car, wash the windows, water the plants, hanging baskets etc.
Elephants aren't cheap and living with one brings it's own agenda.
The queue for the bathroom is horrendous now, Nelly uses all the big bath towels and has stretched the shower cap to the point of being useless.
The stench of elephant dung hangs wantonly in the air which at least gives the mother in law an excuse to blame someone else for a change.
It's costing me a small fortune in fruit, hay and a monthly subscription to 'Tusk & Trunk', the essential health and fitness magazine for your jungle jumbo.
Don't get me wrong, he's a dab hand with a sponge and a shammy and the garden has never looked quite so lush.
However, recently I've spotted him eyeing up next doors Pomeranian. I think he's in love. My worry is this. Although very sweet, an African bull elephant and a miniature prize winning puppy make for an unlikely couple and I imagine 'Tricksy Von Treats the Third' would find it near impossible to thwart the amorous advances of our hefty hero and therefore runs the risk of never walking down the aisle at crufts again.
Should I tell him she's a bit of a slag or something?
Yours,
Joy Doolittle.

Joy.
You have my sympathy dear. Although it struck me that you may have your wires ever so slightly crossed here ( a bull called Nellie?!? ),this scenario reminds me of my second husband Henry. He was a big chap, in more ways than one. Loved his stout, and had a strong liking for a pie or two, mainly steak and stout or the game bird variety. He was phallicly endowed to the point of being unable to purchase underwear, so most of the time it just hung there, a redundant monster.
My first love, Albert, had already given me my three lovely children, so there was no way Henry was coming anywhere near me with that damn thing.
Remember your bible. Mary's legendary plea to Joseph in the garden of Gethsemamee.
''You shall ne'er thread the eye of one's needle with thy enormous cock-like staff thingy. Not even at Crimbo old son''.
So don't worry about Nellie.
Ain't going to happen.
Dreary x.

Dear Readers.
I would like to extend a very happy mothers day to all the mums out there on this most mumsical, wumsical of days.
I'm treating myself today!!
A visit to a local Spar.
A bottle of Cromwells, 20 full strength and a card to myself should set me up for the day.
I was never blessed with children..............

Anyway, I shall be spending the day with the local drunkards underneath the little lighthouse gathering plenty of 'agony' for my column over the coming weeks.
And you never know, I always say it's never too late to become a mum. Who knows, a quick fumble in the sand dunes or under the pier, I could be pushing a pram down the high street in me slippers in nine months.
Mind you that sand doesn't half chafe your crack.
I'll probably catch crabs! Hic!
Anywoos,
Happy muthers day, parp!
Dreary.xxx

PS. I’ll leave you with some poignant words of encouragement from a lady who needs no introduction.

"Oh the irony.
I may be the most famous mother the world has ever known and yet i could never have kids. Mind, who in their right mind want to shag this ugly crinkly old bag anyway? Any offspring would have needed to have been strangled at birth for being so ugly.
Not that i'm bitter. I did once get Tom Cruise to slip me one up the rear vestry. He was disappointingly small. Had to stand on a pew. So, no cards or flowers for me then. No choccies or wine.
Motherfuckers Day more like.
May god be with you".
Mother Theresa.

Dear Dreary,
I've stumbled across a serial killers 'lair' and need to call the police before he strikes again.
It's just like in the movies, you know, when you come across a room and it 's full of pictures and newspaper cuttings all over the walls.
If it helps, I recognise alot of his intended victims, and we could warn them to lock their doors and hide behind a cushion before he strikes.
There's a big poster of Jedward next to a picture of the teletubbies. This maniac is ruthless!
Justin Beiber could be next and there's a news paper cutting of some boy scouts singing round a campfire. They're just poor defenceless kids, the bastard!!
He's targeting pop combos too. The likes of the Foo Fighters, Elbow and Herman’s Hermits are all for the chop if we don't act fast! This guy is one sick puppy!
Anyway, got to go, mum's shouting me down for tea and told me to keep out of little Ben’s room.
Should I call the cops, or will you?
Yours, Basil Morse
　
　
Dear Morse.
I think you may be letting your imagination run riot here. Just to err on the side of caution my advice would be to remove the poster of Elbow ASAP. The others aren’t worth saving.
Anyway, i believe those other bands have either been living in a remote Afghan cave for the last 40 years or are currently stationed somewhere south of the rebel front line in the rain forests of northern Foo.
Just eat your tea like a good little chap and get your toy jag out. How’s the gimpy foot by the way?
PS: get back to me if he puts up posters of the England football squad. I could arrange for him to be sent the necessary ammunition.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
I have always been on the big side but i think i am now in danger of becoming paranoid about my weight. Last year i appeared briefly on the reality tv show Come Whine With Me, singing with my band ''Cartoon Nude''. It is very true what they say, the tv cameras add at least a stone to your weight. When i saw the show I was shocked at how bulky i looked in my favourite tank top and flares and immediately vowed to do something about it. I have tried all types of diets and exercises but cannot shift the weight. In desperation i spent a weekend at an exclusive spa eating nothing but fruit,but still no loss. I am also beginning to wonder if some of their advice is really necessary.
They told me that wrapping myself in clingfilm each day would prevent body heat loss and therefore reduce my appetite. I have stuck with it for two weeks but it is so impractical that i wonder if you could suggest an alternative. Fair enough it doesn’t make eating easy, but changing the wrapping every time i need to remove my underpants is driving me up the wall, and carrying an industrial-sized roll of cling film around with me all the time has given me a bad back and a hernia.
People at work ignore me because of the constant rustling and the fact that i walk like some sort of manic obese mummy. My toilet routine has also taken over my day! I now have a separate mid section from naval to thigh that i can remove when i need to urinate but performing a number two is both uncomfortable and time consuming.
Eating my lunch at work is almost as tricky. Any biscuit crumbs, chips, pizza segments, or chocolate wrappers that i accidently drop become hopelessly wedged and impossible to retrieve until i cut off my extra 'skin' at bedtime. And still i don't lose any weight. I once trussed myself up too tight and within an hour later my extremeties were turning blue, and the other day i fell asleep in front of the fire only to be woken by the stench of melting plastic. My willy looked like a sad little burnt out candle and I'm still picking the hardened blobs off my testicles, which have now taken on the appearance of weird plastic walnuts. I am constantly depressed and I'd stick my head in the oven ,but i'm afraid i'd only look like some giant oven ready turkey.
Please advise.
Cecil B.de Mildew,Lower Tapend,Bath.

Dear Cecil.
My goodness, you do sound like a big boy. In a pop group eh? Sounds to me like you could go 'pop' at any minute carrying on as you are, gorging on all and sundry.
There are plenty of starving people in the world and this could be your time to give something back to society. Why not donate yourself to charity? Enter yourself as a raffle prize. You'd look great as a hog roast at a summer festival or in a giant cooking pot in the jungles of darkest Borneo.
I do think being spit roasted, covered in hot juice and giving everyone a nosh would appeal to your kinky side. Plus, a good stuffing never goes a miss either......
Anyway, I'll send you my leaflet -'big birds are truly grateful'
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
I've always had faith in our health service until I recently had treatment myself. Talk about a cock up!!
I'd taken Hurricane, my English bulldog to the vets to have him neutered.
That's the last thing I remember.
Still drowsy and stirring from a deep sleep I struggled to adjust to my surroundings.
A mixture of confusion, panic and extreme annoyance took a hold of me. Given that I pay monthly into a private health care plan I did not expect to wake up staring out from behind bars, tethered to a dog basket, my groin bandaged, with only a tin of chummy and a bowl of water to satisfy my appetite.
And to further add insult to injury I heard through the grapevine that Hurrricane was staying at St. Barts & Woosters and wouldn't be allowed home for another week.
Recovering from botox and a nose job in five star surroundings, sky tv and your own private nurse to pander to your every whim must be such a chore for a pet pooch.
Could you recommend anyone who does reconstructive surgery and do you know anyone who wants a dog who's up his own arse?
Yours,
Ignatious Tinkle.


Dear Hurricane. .
Good boy! As a dog lover myself i applaud your cunning and spectacular victory over your stupid owner. My advice is to live it up all you can at St.Bart (at his expense), and when Mr.Ignoramous Tinkle (says it all!) finally gets home with what’s left of his tail between his legs, then is your opportunity to take over the house.
As a humiliated neutered male ,he won't have it in him to retaliate! Kick him out into the yard, sleep with his wife, drink his beer, and try on his velcro leopardskin undies.
To really wind him up, let him lie in front of the fire every now and then ,but then make him watch as you lick your balls and get his missus to tickle your tummy, and when you take him out for a walk, let him pick his own up!
This could be the start of an Orwellian rebellion!
Good luck
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
Please excuse the shaky handwriting, but i am somewhat perplexed. My parish is located in a northern coastal town with a long tradition of fishing. My congregation is largely made up of generations of local fishing families, people who have experienced hardship and tragedy aplenty.
Many a time i have prayed for a family or an individual to find better times or to be spared hardship or maybe even complete destitution. For many years even i began to despair that my calls to our saviour were going unanswered, but suddenly, during harvest festival week, gifts began to appear in the vicarage doorway. Food gifts to be precise, loaves and fishes. 3 loaves, to start with, and 5 fishes.
At first i could'nt believe our luck. I distributed the food amongst the needy in the community and everyone was welcoming and grateful, and Lo! our spirits were lifted. The church was full every sunday and we felt blessed indeed. But gradually events spiralled out of control and so much food was now appearing that i could no longer cope. Where was it all coming from? It was like all our prayers were being answered but were now stuck in an everlasting loop. God's wonders are truly bountiful and gracious, but this particular miracle is getting beyond a joke.
Every night i sit up in vain watching for a secret delivery, yet each morning there it is again! Now i'm fast disappearing under a mountain of rotten, stinking fish, and my shed is crammed with loaves at various stages of decay. The parishioners refuse to eat any more and won't come near the church because of the smell. He is setting me an almighty test of faith! What can i do to stop the miracle happening?
I refuse to slander my lord, but Jesus Christ!! Any suggestions you may have will be respected and appreciated my child.
Rev. Mathew Warburton- Codsniff, Plankton-On-Sea.
PS : do you know anyone who would be interested in a shit load of minging cod and a fuck off vanfull of mouldy bread?

Dear Rev Warburton- Codsniff.
It doesn't take a miracle to understand that living behind Tesco might be the root cause of your problem.
Simply move somewhere else. You'll still be able to shop on line for all your Godly groceries.
They do great deals on hot cross buns and Easter eggs this time of year. You can vary your bread and fishes theme too; fish finger butties one day, crab paste finger rolls the next. They do a lovely sheperds pie and the blood of Christ is on offer at the moment, three for a tenner. I recommend the merlot.
All your Christmas needs are catered for and gone are the days of asking the poor kids to bring a tin of meat balls in at harvest festival.
Miracle grow's on offer too at the moment but I'll talk to you in private about that later.
Heavens above,
Dreary. x

Bless you my child. Your common sense is indeed manna from heaven. And good mannas is everything. Rev W-C.

Dear Readers.
Thankyou all so very much for taking a peek at my column. Since you've been looking it's grown steadily and pleasured me enormously!
Just a note to let you know that the boys who look after the security have been a tad too stringent with their IT strategy and havn't been letting readers leave their comments unless they fill certain criteria.
Well, i've had a word with that nice young man and after a quite word in his ear I got him to drop his standards.
Suffice to say I'm now open to your advances but I do get to read each comment in turn before I allow our dirty washing to be aired in public.
Be gentle with me, I am after all, a lady!
Chin, chin.
Dreary. xx

Dear Dreary.
Can you please help, I am in need of some support. As I am long term unemployed I decided recently to go into business by myself. I have started a cleaning agency called "Mr Muscle". The novelty is, as i am a rather well endowed chap, i do all the cleaning naked apart from a leopard skin posing pouch.
Business is currently booming, but one problem keeps reoccurring. I like to maintain a tight ship when it comes to my equipment, and I realise where my assets lie. But with all the bending and stretching involved, the old chap and his two chums keep popping out at the most inappropriate moments. Is there a method of restraint that would control the netherlands area without restricting my movements or being unsightly?
I do not want to kill the air of intrigue or ruin the obvious female fascination with my mop and squeegies, but i could do with a discreet helping hand. I am getting a little tired of being asked to climb stepladders in order to stretch over to a high corner to dispose of a non existant cobweb. I've been told that I'm very adept in reaching all their little nooks and crannies, but some of these women seem to think what’s mine is theirs and have no interest at all in the actual cleaning getting done. And some of them have very cold hands.
Please advise.
Mr. Willie Sheen.
Cleans umpteen things clean.　
　
　
　
Dear Mr Sheen.
What a quandary!
May I point you in the direction of a company called Dial A Decoy. They are excellent in supplying the discerning customer with a diversion in an emergency.
Fitted with your own emergency pull chord you can choose from a wide selection of diversions to suit you.
So when your undercarriage is next under attack you can call upon anything from a phonecall/ doorbell diversion to distract the old Doris.
For the more difficult ones we can start a small fire at the front door or perhaps a letter bomb. This will certainly allow you to finish your work in peace without constant harassment.
As a last resort they offer their exclusive embassy package. On your whistle the old granny flat you are trying to clean can be stormed by an elite SAS unit who will mow the old bird down who is clearly putting you off your stroke and therefore completing the job in no time.
Failing all that, why not go and try something completely different you frigid bastard!
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
I popped around my next door neighbors last night as she was having trouble with her plumbing.
I removed the underlay and furry rug. It was very hard as she hadn't had it up for years.
Pushing the cobwebs aside I peered deep inside her crevice and the smell was appalling!
I could clearly see her leaking appendage and, caught up in the moment I thrust my ratchet deep 'under her stairs' and tweaked it until she moaned with satisfaction at a job well done.
She's now asked me if I want 'paying in kind' and asked me if I'd like the electric blanket putting on for twenty minutes.
Do electric blankets breach health and safety regulations? She's 87 and I wouldn't want to give her a nasty shock!
Yours,
B. Hill.

Dear Mr Hill.
20 minutes is fine either side, though you must remember to turn her regularly to ensure that she doesn’t dry out and crisp up. Hearty basting would be my suggestion, a dry virgin olive oil based composite mixed with peppercorns and tarragon. I can recommend a hand whisked meaty stuffing made out of fatty sausage and mature cheese. Your own would be fine I’m sure. Get the stuffing deep inside the old bird, far enough for the scraggly neck flesh to wobble and the eyes to bulge slightly. Roast evenly to taste, condiments optional.
Remember, the older the bird the greater the cooking time, but beware, as soon as the pinkness has disappeared , withdraw from the heat let the bird rest, poking occasionally to reinvigorate. Have either of you considered our will-writing service? Bon appetito!
Dreary. x
　
　
　

Dear Dreary.I am worried about my son. After being raised on a consistent diet of cakes takeaways & biscuits, my lad is suddenly buying fruit like there's no tomorrow. He constantly trawls all the supermarkets for kiwi, pomegranates, jelly fruit, you name it. But i am becoming suspicious. He has not had a girlfriend for some time, and the other day i noticed a dozen melons in his fridge along with six or seven paw paw. I think he might be using these as a form of release, but where's the pleasure in shouting at a cumquat? I found a pair of under-ripe mangos under his pillow and noticed him eating several prickly pear and then scratching himself all the time. I came across a discarded avocado in the shed that appeared to have a hole drilled in it. Can you suggest a fruit substitute? I can't see my fridge magnets for fruit flies, & we're going through seven bog rolls a day.
Emily Bogtrotter, Staines
　
　
　
　
　
　
Dear Miss Bogtrotter.
Have you not been reading the papers recently? It's been front-page news all week.
Staines Zoo has had to close it's doors as a precaution so as not to traumatise the visiting children.
A somewhat overfed lump of a child has been spotted in the bear enclosure doing all sorts of untold things with his jaffas!
One keeper has gone on long term sick after witnessing him playing with his cream horn and Dudley, the other little bear has moved in with the seals as the site of Bunters plum surprise has put him off his stroke.
Please return Baloo at once before your beastly child gets his party ring out!
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary,
To cut to the chase, I’m a foetus and I’m bloody well annoyed to say the least. Conditions in here are appalling quite frankly. It’s cramped and very dark. There’s not enough room to swing a cat in here.
Food’s appalling and the only visitor I get is a big, horrible pink thing with one mean looking eye! He’s fucking weird.
He comes in, then he goes out again. Comes in, then goes out again. This carries on for some time, each time he pops his head round the door a little faster. And without so much as a by your leave he spits at me then buggers off! Now that’s not normal. What sort of example is that to set a child?
I have a brown friend that pops in every now and then. He’s quite funny. He’s really big and fat with a big, round pink head. Mind you, he’s just as rude as the other one.
Do you think I should say something?
Yours,
Timothy Eggspunk.
　
　
　
　
　
Dear Timmy.
You surprise me. You don’t know how lucky you are in there. Safe and warm, cosseted from reality. And don’t worry about the food, it will get better.
And as for your visitors, it would appear that you are being walked the streets at night so you cant deny that you are getting plenty of fresh air.
Gradually you will change your position on life and before too long you will begin to see a little light at the end of the tunnel.
Until then, stop being such a little baby and just grow up.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary
I'm very itchy down below and wonder if you could help me. I've tried everything but alas nothing seems to alleviate the problem.
I've tried shaving and wearing loose fit clothing but still the irritation persists.
The stench is unbearable if I'm completely honest and it's very embarrassing when I have visitors 'below decks' so to speak.
I'm constantly dripping wet and am forced to mop up the excess with my hanky.
It's the dirt and greasy deposits in the bowels that's getting to me.
I think some fresh air will do me good.
Thanking you in anticipation of your speedy reply.
Yours,
Able seaman Wiggins,
Chief Engineer,
HMS Repellent.


Dear Wiggins.
Am I correct in assuming that most of your time is spent surrounded by seamen? Fresh air WOULD do you good i'm sure, but what is required here is a fresh approach. Forget the poop deck for a while and allow the ballast tanks time to flush themselves out.
Avoid all possible contact with submariners and restrict your movements to above the water line and given time all should right itself and become ship-shape.
Maybe apply for a transfer to HMS Resolute.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
A few months ago I caused an accident. It was a lovely sunny day and i was happily driving through the town centre, arm out of the window, when i spotted my old pal Alan walking along. I automatically waved and shouted to him, but in doing so i lost control of the car and knocked an old man off his bike. He is still in hospital with multiple fractures and will be there for some time.
My problem is this. I am now suffering from flashbacks of the accident and struggling to sleep, but worst of all, I have developed a nervous tick. This occurs when i least expect it and is very embarrassing. My right arm shoots straight up in the style of the nazi salute. I just can't control it and this is now causing me all sorts of problems.
Recently, whenever this has happened, i have also started to shout '' Hi Al!' . This happened yesterday as i was walking past the synagogue and somebody called me a nazi and rang the police. My friend Karl who works in the Polish deli, and his friend Justin have also stopped talking to me.
Can you suggest anything?
Please help.
Herman Slurring, Frankfurt.


Dear Herman.
Although unusual, records do exist of patients who have suffered from similar afflictions over the years.
Jethro Bleating had a rowing boat accident in 1962 and nearly drowned. He thought he was Nelson and would parade up and down the high street whilst looking through his spying glass with his erect winky sticking out of his trousers shouting kiss my hardy!
It's a little known fact that more aircraft were lost at sea during the second world war than any where else. This was down to the antics of Geoffrey Poole who was responsible for guiding the planes back on to the carrier with his brightly coloured table tennis bats.
Unfortunately a theatre accident years ago made him think he was Charlie Chaplain. The pilots would be coming into land, see our Geoffrey doing his silly walk, twirling his cane about and crash straight into the sea, tears of laughter streaming down their cheeks.
You're not alone.
I'll send you a leaflet.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
I have a really unusual skin condition which is both baffling and embarrassing.
Aside from being in the early stages of dementia I suffer from brown, flakey skin deposits on my hands which don't cause me any pain as such, they just smell a bit funny.
To make matters worse I work as a dinner lady at the local comprehensive so my hands are very much on display.
One pupil questioned why I'd sprinkled chocolate on top of his coffee as he didn't order a cappuccino whilst Mr Lovespank, the biology teacher commented that he would have prefered a dusting of sugar on top of his corn flakes as opposed to a more than generous helping of grated nutmeg.
Is there any specialist treatment you could recommend?
Sorry, I'll have to go, I've got an itchy bum again.
Yours,
Gladys Whipp.


My dear Gladys.
You poor thing, there is no need to worry. The government has ring-fenced finance to encourage dementia sufferers back into the workplace as part of their idea to replace the old carers system and to reduce the unemployment figures. This is how it works: instead of paying a full time carer to look after you at home, you go to work but have a locally-based helper you can text at short notice as and when required. The helpers will perform specific menial tasks - in your case, arse-wiping - and are usually students who are behind with their loan repayments or illegal immigrants.
They attend to your basic needs, so as a way of getting the most out of the situation (its also good fun to take the piss out of students!) the more basic the need the better. The scheme best-suited to your requirements is called ''Wipe It Out''. Call my incontinence helpline (option number 2 ) for details.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
I need advice regarding my claim for Incapacity Benefit. I am a self-employed window cleaner but recently suffered a nasty accident at work. The jobcentre won't entertain my claim as they say it was self-inflicted, but i am now desperate as i have no income. What do you think? You see all sorts in my line of work, and one of the major perks, i admit, is the chance to peek into peoples' bedrooms. A couple of weeks ago i was up my ladder at a house that belongs to a rather stunning young lady. I peered through the bedroom blinds and could clearly see her, naked, larking around with what looked like a plastic loofah. 'Those nobbles must be rough on your back in the bath' i remember thinking to myself. I gradually became aware that she had seen me, and that she was making sure that i got to see everything. After a few minutes I suddenly realised that i was now clinging to the ladder with one hand and pleasuring myself with the other, and my pants were now round my ankles. Then, with my nose pressing against the glass, horror upon horror!, the sash window dropped down, trapping my foreskin as it shut. As my screams startled the neighbourhood, i lost my footing and i descended to the bottom clinging on for dear life, my erect meat and swollen veg clattering against each rung as i fell. My condition is worrying to say the least. I have suffered severe phallic bruising, a double hernia, and multiple helmet dinting. My testicles have retreated so far inside me that the doc fears they may never reappear, and my genital area now resembles the blood-stained head of some sort of weird mutilated tortoise peeping out of its battered shell. I won't walk for weeks. Strangely, as i lay amongst the debris, my ravaged member would not subside, and as they carried me to the ambulance, the raised blanket gave the appearance of a tented stretcher. But its certainly gone down now and i shouldn’t imagine it'll ever raise its mangled head again. How can i convince them this was just an accident?
Regards, Fred Dibdab,Clittering By The Sea.
PS: the young lady, by the way, was ever so kind and visited me in hospital. She blames herself entirely and has promised to make it up to me.
The piece of foreskin i left behind was eaten by a passing blackbird.


Dear Fred.
It seams to me that it's every males fantasy to have a job that 'pays as you perv' so to speak. You're not the first and you most certainly won't be the last.
I had a friend who's husband trained to be a gynecologist for obvious reasons, spending his entire working life tinkering under a ladies bonnet.
However, he didn't take in to account Mrs Murray who was more of a bus than a mini.
It was two hours before the fire brigade finally cut him free. His rubber glove and necklace still show up on x-rays to this day.
My uncle worked as an attendant at the local swimming baths. He was caught spying in the female showers by two
lesbians. Put it this way, he rued the day he ever bent down to pick up the soap.
Hope you're soon back on the job.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
My problem is one of etiquette. I met my husband through our committment to the church. We are both church wardens at St.Saviours and so took a righteous approach to our relationship before marriage. The trouble is, my dear Christopher still refuses to share my bed, and we have now been wed 13 years and I am suddenly intrigued as to why. I also wonder about what i've been missing out on all these years. I have gradually come to notice that he no longer leaves the toilet seat up and once every four weeks he seems to become irritable and bad-tempered. He also suddenly seems to struggle to park the car, and he has recently replaced those disgusting y-fronts with some silkier numbers. But how do i approach him after all this time? I am not getting any younger and pleasuring myself once a year is apparently not the norm according to father Xavier. He has proved to be a godsend recently with his tea and sympathy and fascinating tales. He has explained about neanderthal men seeking the warmth and comfort of the nearest cave, and how the velocity of a steam train used
to be dependent on its size and angle of entry into a tunnel. i cannot help but feel i am missing the point, especially with regard to the story about piston engines and pussycats. Should i pursue the matter with my priest.? How do i begin to ask my husband to satisfy my curiosity?
Regards, Felicity Frump, Chalfont St Peterton

Dear Felicity.
I wish to point you towards the Sisters of the Neglected Church Wardens Refuge at Upper-Growler.
Here, you will be shown the ways of The Bad Habits, a notorious gang of nuns.
They'll show you how to pole dance to The Sound of Music. You'll be high on a hill with a lonely goat in no time.
They have a wide selection of adult pamphlets in their Pulpit Fiction library where you can learn such things as how to extinguish a candle and fire a ping pong ball from your Von Trap.
Once a month you get to visit Mother Superior who likes to play nuns on the run. Being chased through the vestry by an old krone with a strap on is the least of your worries!

Dreary. x
　
　
　
　

Dear Dreary.
I am looking after my 16yr old nephew, Harold whilst my sister's away on holiday.
My problem is he is rather well endowed and his hormones are running riot at present and i think he fancies his chances with me!
The other morning he was stood next to the kitchen sink, whistling a merry tune whilst gazing through the window into the distance. As I grabbed the teatowel I screamed at what literally stood before me. I told him in no uncertain terms that using his winky as a towel rail was NOT in the house rules.
The other afternoon I'd left him making pies in the kitchen. 'Have you seen the rolling pin auntie', came a shout from the kitchen. After explaining that it is unusual to find a rolling pin in your trousers and that a more likely place would have been the kitchen drawer, we silently moved on.
The final straw came late on Friday evening when Harold breezed into the living room proudly carrying a tray of hot dogs.
'Would you like one Auntie'? he said.

It's not the hospital visits that bother me particularly.
It's just that i did find it peculiar to find mayo on a hot dog and I most certainly did not ask for tomato sauce or mustard.
The doctor did say it was unusual to find a boil that big on the end of a 'gentlemans excuse me' and to ensure that I give him a bed bath every night for a month.
Should I give him one?
Jenny Lupin,
Hung Upon Milf.

My dear jenny.
Get real woman! This is a fantastic opportunity to fulfill every womans dream. Just ignore the fact that he is your nephew, think of the advantage, the time and money. you as a single working mum would save having such a useful implement in and around the house. Your days of stoking the fire are over, you will never need to buy another whirly gig clothes drier or a prop for the washing line.
With the simple addition of a strap-on brush, your ceilings can be emulsioned, s-bends cleared, chimneys swept. You can throw away that pole that opens the loft door, and in hot weather attach a couple of blades and hey presto, air conditioning!
Rotavate the back garden, wash the car, sweep the path, the possibilities are endless. If you can think of any other uses, please let me know.
Dreary. x
　
　
　
　

Dear Dreary.
I live next door to the Easter Bunny and am desperately concerned for his general well being.
I live in an exclusive area of Much- Munching-on-the-Flaps and have known the Easter Bunny since he moved here some twenty years ago now.
Back then things were good and every Easter you'd see him hopping around the village delivering yummy, choclatey eggs from his little wicker basket.
With the fame and fortune came the hangers on. The stress of trying to remember when Easter actually was began to take it's toll.
Late night parties became all day parties, a string of celebrity guests constantly tooing and frowing.
Hugh and the playboy bunnies were regular visitors as was Roger and Jessica Rabbit.
Roger was sent hopping mad when he caught Jessica sucking the filling out of the Easter Bunnies cream eggs and stormed off, reversing over EBs wicker egg basket in the process.
Since that lot from Watership Down have been going 'round things have gone from bad to worse. Snorting sherbet and injecting cocoa have become the norm.
He sees himself as a has been, what with on line shopping and all and no one wants to see a middle aged, bloated bunny rabbit staggering up their garden path trying to post chocolate through their letter box.
What can I do to help?
Yours,
James Armitage-Shanks.


Mr A-S.
I struggled with this for a wee while, but i became flushed with excitement when i finally recalled where i'd heard your name previously.
I have an ex-school friend who lives in your pretty (and very exclusive) Cotswold village. She is the well-known amateur sleuth and celebrated lesbian, Miss Jane Marbles. She has told me all about the strange goings-on down Shakespeare Close, and how two of the residents, Mr. B.Ogeyman and Mrs. T. Fairy, have mysteriously disappeared, their luxurious homes ending up in the hands of a London based plumbing magnate, owner of number 6.
Ring any bells? Go ahead with your dastardly plan to bring about the gradual demise of Mr. Bunny if you dare, but I warn you, half the profit from the subsequent re-sale of the three properties will be directed to my Swiss bank account or this finds its way onto my blog and your plans will go down the pan. I await your response.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
The nation's financial situation has recently become all too real for me. My employer, the BBC, has been cutting costs for some time, but only now has this hit home. I am contracted to them for several more series yet, before i finally retire, but they have pulled the carpet from under my feet and i find myself in need of some legal advice as i believe they are targetting me as a top earner. Can they get away with this? I am proud to say that my reputation goes before me + i am universally recognised as a leader in my field. Their orders are to save money by merging shows, so my own award-winning production team has been paired with BBC 4's The Sex Education Show, and, because of my previous experience in the animal field, I am to observe and commentate on the mating process. I was due to be filming the mating habits of Shackleton Emporer penguins in South Georia. Now,it seems, i will be doing the same in the company of Mr. and Mrs. Colin Hunt of Acacia Avenue Solihull. I am expected to make their drunken, unimaginative fumblings seem fascinating to the general public, to make them look attractive,and to give them, in short, the 'ahhh' factor. And believe me, the two of them are no Bradd and Angelina. This will be more like Mission Impossible. The two of them-both in their mid-forties- have now been married for fifteen child-free years.
Colin,at five feet four inches, is three stone overweight, has bad breath, and an unhealthy and somewhat lonely obsession with the local ladies rugby team. Coleen, slightly taller than her husband, is very much on the plump side, and could never be accused of being over-pretty. Think Miss Trunchbowl meets the Wicked Witch of The West. The mere thought of the two of them in bed together repulses me, but to have to watch and film their antics from a camouflage tent in the wardrobe whilst describing the precise ins and outs in a whispered tone, is surely a step too far for anyone. This will undoubtedly be the biggest challenge i've ever faced. Do you think i could have a case for constructive dismissal?
Yours, David Attenborough.


Dear Diddy.
Times are hard I'm afraid and you're just going to have to learn to adapt to your new surroundings.
Mind you, how the blazes you and your film crew are going to go unnoticed tramping around a two up two down is beyond me. I mean, what if someone catches you? What will you say?
You're sure to need a wide angle lens and be aware that if someone spots the boom mic it might need the hair dryer afterwards.
Are you to be filming any bathroom activity? It could be a tight squeeze for the camera man although a strange man dressed in rubber floating in your bath is bound to promote a feeling of
heightened sexual pleasure.
If you do get chased down the garden path by some irate husband don't get caught. If the authorities catch you 'Life' is what you'll probably get!
I'm having sex tonight by the way. I'll leave the front door key under the plant pot.
Dreary. x