Dear Dreary.
Please help! I have been a self-employed tattoo artist for 30 years, but my thriving business is suddenly in grave danger of collapsing and i don't know what to do. I suddenly seem to have become dyslexic and the more i worry the worse it gets. I now dread a customer asking for written tattoo. Funny thing is, the rest of the time i don't have a problem. It all started a few weeks ago when a young lady asked me to tattoo the name Colin across the bottom of her back. To my horror, i realised afterwards that i'd written 'Colon'. She was very upset and refused to pay. A few days later a chap requested 'Sweetpea' on his forearm to celebrate his engagement. He was'nt too happy with 'Sweatpee'. A man then asked for 'Kim' above his buttocks but got 'Rim', and someone else wanted to celebrate the birth of his first daughter Hope. but did'nt feel like celebrating the addition of the words 'My Hole' across his chest. And just yesterday a young bloke came in and told me he was a free
spirit. He suggested some words across the top of his pubic region. What he got was 'Free Spirt'. The final straw came when an American gentleman wanted the word 'Mississippi'. I had to refuse. Please help . My professional reputation is in titters.
Phil la Penn, 'Tattoo You'.

My dear Phil.
To be honest I'm not really in the mood today. I'll probably phone in sick.
Saturday night was my hen night. Third time lucky!
Me and the boys booked a couple of rooms at The Nipple Tassle guest house down Labia Way in Blackpool. We all went in fancy dress.
I went as a woman in the RAF like that nice blonde piece who laddered her tights in the Battle of Britain. My new hubby is a fighter pilot, dashing, handsome and has an old black Labrador called Earl who always watches him take off and land.
Anyway, suffice to say we got terribly tippsy on shots of sherry and cherry b that the rest of the night was a blur. The last thing I remember was a blurred neon sign, Tat.......? and a feint buzzing sound, oh, and a small prick.
Anyway, the next morning I was lead in bed pleasuring myself with a copy of Reach For The Sky. It was only when I went into the bathroom to freshen up that I caught site of it directly above my Vegetable patch.
Cockpit ring any bells????
You bastard.
Love, Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
I'm arguably the best ever musician to play in our band, yet, for reasons beyond my control I've been asked to leave and for the life of me I can't think why.
So, I'm a bit of a loose cannon, temperamental, unreliable, dangerous, yet, I'm a musical genius. No one's as good, this band needs me for Christs' sake!
I play the triangle in our local Salvation Army band.
I got my first warning playing Miss Peebodys triangle at Christmas. I told them it was a simple mistake but DNA testing did make it difficult explaining how one of her pubes got lodged behind my left molar.
I was told by the lesbian first cornet that my fingering technique was unusual and shouldn't I be spending more time playing with the percussion section.
I appreciate that playing a rendition of 'my dingaling' with my willy draped over the font on Christmas eve may have been a little thoughtless, but I have to say that the blood of Christ was particularly potent especially when you can get three litres for £2.99 from Happy Shopper.
It's not my fault my mum and dad, Polystyrene and Keith were keen to let me follow in their footsteps.
Yours,
Harvey Moon.

Harvey Harvey Harvey.
A simple readjustment is all that’s required, a new direction for your talent. I have taken the liberty of arranging an audition for you with your local Boys Brigade (subject to the usual police check) where there is a vacancy at ninth piccollo. You need to supply an instrument of sufficient length (this will be measured by Petty Officer Julian Probes), and to have a proven blowing technique.
Finger action is tested once a week after band practice. Due to a lack of showering facilities, this takes place in Commodore Lockhart's weekend bolthole at Happy Mount caravan park. He promises a nice warm towel and muffins in front of the fire if you pass the test.
I am assured that once your instrument expertise is hardened up, you will be given the chance to progress to lead flute or maybe even front bassoon if you stick rigidly to Group Captain Haddock's personal development plan.
Have fun!
Dreary.x

Dear Dreary.
I don't trust my husband.
I've heard of men who join these military re enactment groups such as the English Civil War, Napolionic, WW II etc. Part of me can understand the way they indulge their silly little minds by chasing each other around a field with a stick but that's where my sympathies end.
My husband tells me he's joined a group re enacting the exploits of the 1970s milkman, window cleaner and plumbers mate.
He's started talking in a cheeky cockney accent and walking with an arrogant swagger, wolf whistling at every young girl he sees, making suggestive shapes with his arms and muttering 'phwoar' under his breath.
I've already caught him next door tinkering with Miss Sloboileds' pipes as she stood in the kitchen in only her knickers and only last week I heard he'd delivered an extra pint of creamy to No. 71.
I've found a bag of 1970 fanny wigs to add that touch of authenticity to his poor victims which he insists on making them wear. Trouble is when they step out of the bath just when he's ringing out his squeegee their bits look more like a sad Billy Conolly caught in a down pour.
If I don't get a confession out of him soon there's going to be a right old carry on!!
Yours
Hatti Hawtrey.

Dear Hatti. A middle aged man re-living his lost youth? Let him get on with it and play him at his own game I say! Think of the fun you could have. Tell him you're off to London to join a topless student protest march. See how he reacts when you tell him you have burnt your bra and are now something big in the Women's Popular Front. You can put flowers in your hair and frolic naked in the Trafalgar Square fountains, or set up a lesbian encampment outside a nuclear power plant and get to know your fellow protesters inside and out. Get your tartan mini skirt on,wave your tartan scarf outside the home of the Rollers' singer Les McEwans,break in using your tartan comb, and flash him your tartan brush. Watch a naked musical, watch the sun come up at Stonehenge, fuck the milkman, blow the plumber's mate, shag Sid James........OOPS! Sorry! Does that help?
Thankyou Dreary.
I'm going to start by putting the bins out just in my slippers.
I'm just a bit worried about tripping over me tits as I'm 87.

Dear Dreary.
As founder and secretary of the North Lancs Fetish Society I thought i'd seen it all, but recent events have amazed even me, so i thought i'd share some experiences and maybe bring a little hope to some of your more unfortunate readers. We meet every thursday evening in Knott End village hall, and anything goes!
The location is convenient as on our many 'themed' nights we often take advantage of other local venues such as farmer Green's milking parlour, the strap room at the Olde Smithy, the old stocks in the village square, and the medieval 'bumming' chair in the vestry at St.Cecilia's. Basically, the entire village closes down on a thursday evening and in no time at all it's knee deep in lube and discarded johnnies. Even the old folks join in!
We have a disabled / wheelchair-friendly swingers session in the Stephen Hawking Suite at the Bayview Hotel. It's very popular and some of the stuff they've been getting up to in there recently is mind-boggling. Spina Bifida victim Anita Short likes to greet everyone at the door with her speciality body exploration before we all settle down to our individual pleasures. Her toes are simply magical. Old Don Campbell brings along his racing wheelchair that he sometimes uses in marathons. He launches himself from the wheelchair ramp on the first floor, down the main staircase, takes a sharp right, and screeches into the suite, straight into the waiting arms and expectant crotch of dear old Mrs. Peabody, strapped waiting in ankle stirrups in the 'welcome' position.
Our popular limbless couple, Bob and Pat McGroin, have heroic and noisy sex for all to see! He lies on his back as his nurse prepares his middle - and only - leg, whilst Pat's carers swing her over him on a hoist before releasing her onto his waiting column. It's a bit like a weird game of hoopla. Blind Jack Pugh plays 'Guess Who' by standing naked on a chair and asking everyone in the room to take a lick, then he has to guess who each participent was.
He has only ever been wrong once, the week Mr.Noakes brought his sheepdog Jake in with him. Young Andy Legge is recently back from Afghanistan, minus lower limbs unfortunately. After a couple of weeks with us,he met yoga instructor and ex-circus performer Fiona 'Flexible' Friend. They were made for each other and are already head over stumps in love. So my message to the physically impaired of you out there is don't give up on having a satisfying sex life. I'm sure you'd agree Dreary? Regards, Colonel Gimp Stiffe, Hardiman's Slit, Pillage-Le-Fylde.

Dear Colonel Gimp.
Your story is an inspiration to us all. Against all odds you lot are getting a lot more with a lot less and your creativity knows no bounds!
I havn't had wild sexual gratification like that since I was in the TA on a ramble up gaping gash. The dirtiest it ever gets these days is when Arthur keeps his socks on that he's worn for a week and wipes his knob on the curtains afterwards.
We've tried role play too which sadly lacked the pazzaz I was hoping for.
Being chained to the bed whilst your over fed balding husband leaps off the wardrobe at you dressed as Fred West didn't really dampen my gusset.
I think I'd sooner chop me leg off and come over and join you guys.
Fetch the stirrups!!
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
You may have heard of me. I am a writer and tv producer, and last xmas my controversial new version of Snow White was shown on BBC4. As part of my contract I was allowed to keep the dwarves for my own use. As I got to know and love the little buggers, I decided to re-name them as they proved to be very useful around the house. Young Doofer is kept under the front room coffee table and changes channel on the tv whenever i kick him. Chesty's job is to follow me around the house permanently holding an ashtray. Stumpy spends most of his time outdoors. The kids play cricket with him. He's the wicket. Mongo sits naked and cross-legged on the front door step, scaring away unwanted guests and animals with his glow in the dark knob end. Little Rod is positioned next to the garden pond, pretending to catch fish but sneakily rubbing his tiny appendage in order to deter storks with his perfect aim. Gizmo's role is to maintain and test my extensive range of sex toys and bondage gear. The tiny chap is very bow-legged, bless him. Gecko is, it always seems, just the right height to utilise his delightfully-probing lizard-like tongue. And as for Horse......what can i say? He's a big lad for his size!! He lives in the coal bunker during the week, but i hose him down every friday teatime then strap him to the bed for the weekend. He's always so grateful to get out, and very eager to please. You should see him go. My own pocket-sized human- dynamo strap-on! As you may have already worked out, I even have
an extra one! ( he was the understudy! ). That way i always have a spare. I am concerned though that they all have a little too much spare time on their grubby little hands,and that they may not always earn their keep. Can you or your readers suggest any other uses for my miniature captive helpers?
Love, Ms. Barbara-Taylor Ilkley, Bradford.

Dear Babs.
There's always going to be alarm bells ringing where dwarves are concerned. Like puppies, a dwarf should be for life and not simply a 'must have' accessory that people soon tire of and cast aside. Sadly, dwarves are tossed off quite often and many end up on the street, forced into crime, drugs and even prostitution.
Luckily there are several dwarf rescue schemes in force that take in these neglected little fellows and often succeed in rehabilitating them to rebuild there lives. Some return to the stage and screen. Take little 'Fucker' for example. He's making a fortune as a porn star in an adult remake of The Little Whore House On The Prarie.
'Ginger' has got a leading role in the sex musical F'Annie whilst 'Nasty' and 'Bastard' scare little children at the 'Dungeon' under the Tower at Blackpool.
So Babs, be warned, keep them occupied and don't tire of them. Terrible things can happen tossing a dwarf off.
Have a gang bang once a week to keep things fun and when you tire of their advances simply kick them off the bed and smile to yourself as you watch them trying unsuccessfully to climb back on.
Hi Ho,
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
I'm head of gynaecology studies at Rimmington Hospital College.
I'm concerned about one of my pupils and don't know how best to tackle the situation.
Charlie is a very keen little chap, a chimney sweep by trade, and herein lies the problem.
He keeps bringing his old job skills into his new one and is really upsetting some patients and becoming a danger to others.
When Mrs Winston - Pettigrew popped in for a smear she didn't take to kindly to Charlie referring to the procedure as 'scraping your grate out'!
Another time I caught Charlie lighting a small fire between Dorothy Cummings legs using her pubic hair as kindling. In his defence he was convinced there was a magpie nesting up Mrs Cummings flu and was determined to smoke the begger out.
He's been caught plugging Miss Beavers back side to avoid seappage and choking Milly Muffet with his stiff brush.
To top it all he's just had a disciplinary at work for being caught with his trousers down trying to fuck a fireplace in my parlour at a recent dinner party I was throwing.
Any tips for exam success?
Prof. Patricia Pending.

Dear Professor.
Don't be too hard on the poor lad. Just show a little sympathy. To get a job these days you need to diversify so you can't blame him for wanting to keep his hand in. It's an opportunity for him to keep a few fingers in a few pies so why not? Thankfully the days of sending small children up chimneys are long gone. He just requires guiding gently into the right area and i'm sure he'll emerge eventually covered in glory. Reminds me of a gardener i once had. He had previously worked as a de-forestation expert for the forestry commission. He cut my front lawn that short i felt every slash of his scythe, and my sweet honeysuckle bush was singed into submission. Once i calmed him down he put his rugged hands to much better use. He stayed on for many years before his bck went.
Take care. Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
I've just been released from prison and wish to make a name for myself in the world of professional golf.
I've been knocked back by several clubs so far but I'm determined to succeed!
Whilst doing time I gained a considerable amount of experience honing my golfing skills.
I would often get a hole in one whilst tee ing off in the shower for example. 18 holes in an afternoon wasn't unusual and stretching back with with my shaft in hand to get my balls out of the rough and stubborn undergrowth was a daily occurrence.
My boyfriend, Farmer Parr, was a constant source of support. If I wasn't over Parr one minute then I'd certainly be under Parr the next.
At parties I was always in charge of 'putting on the green', a fancy way of saying I put the pot in the space cakes.
I've done my birdie!
Help me taste hapenis at the 19th?
Roger Ramjet.

Dear Rog.

By all means follow your instincts with your plan. let's face it,with a 50 % re-offending rate in the UK,what the fuck other options do you have? My colleague in our sports department,Will Eager,tells me that a living can be made on the celebrity pro-am circuit,especially if you can promote yourself as representative of gay/lesbian golfers, i.e. wear garish,brightly-coloured clothing,spike up your hair,get sponsored by Nivea For Men etc etc. There are snatchplay tournaments, mixed threesomes, an annual round Robin competition organised by the Gibb brothers, and many four-ball events for the freakish and disabled. One tip from Will : if up end up in a deep trap be careful not to end up with sand on your balls as this may cost you an extra stroke.

Fore!! D.

ps: are you by any chance related to the great texan lady golfer Fanny Blinkers-Ramjet,the first Indo-Chinese lady pro?

Dear Dreary.
I have been suffering from a heavy cold recently and my girlfriend realised yesterday morning that she had a tampon missing. I remember sniffing up a lot the previous evening whilst performing oral sex on her. Could this cause any lasting damage to me? I have coughed up a little blood since. Could this be from the tampon? By the way, this is not the first time that my flared nostrils
have created problems for me. A fly once flew up there and i swallowed it. I don't know why i swallowed the fly,but a small bird followed it and before i knew what the hell was going on i swallowed a cat to catch the bird and then a dog to catch the cat that caught the bird that ate the fly that then wriggled and tickled inside me. I am now thinking of taking advantage of these strange events by marketing this idea as the latest fad diet. It's kinda like the Atkins in that it's mostly protein, but it is made up entirely of small livestock. It kills your appetite as it takes so long to digest, and I've been spitting feathers (and bones!) ever since. My breath smells something rotten, I am horrendously constipated, my teeth are falling out, and i've started sneaking out at night to bring presents back for my wife such as live mice and insects. I've lost half a stone in two weeks. Do you think it might catch on? i'm also thinking of writing a song about it.
Burl Ives, Dallas.

My dear Burl.
It sounds alot more sensible than some if the diets I've read about that are out there.
In Australia one woman ate a crocodile that ate an aborigine that ate skippy that ate a banana out of the aborigines' tucker box down by the billabong.
In the USA Godzilla ate king kong who ate that bird he was fiddling with up the tower who ate a dodgy curry that soiled king kongs finger which made him really cross.
Then of course in Blackpool there was Darren who ate Simon who ate Rubin who ate Tarquin who ate Barry who ate Sacha and Julian, oh they lapped it up.
Your's is quite boring in comparison.
Yawn, NEXT!!!
Dreary. x
Sorry if i've bored you. You have tho reminded me of an old Abo i bumped into once in the sixties, on a lonely dirt track just outside Gundaguy in the Northern Territories. He taught me this poem:
'It was'nt that the track was wet,or that my throat was dry. But my dog shat in my tuckerbox,on the road to Gundaguy.'

Dear Dreary.
Can you help? I am desperate. My hair growth is totally out of control. I have had all sorts of tests and visited dozens of experts and clinics, but, if anything, it seems to be growing faster than ever. I am now trimming twice a day every day, and frankly it's all getting me down. It's forced me to take early retirement as i no longer feel confident in public. People point at me in the street and shout things. I locked myself away for a week to see if the growth would slow down if i stopped cutting. By the fifth morning my ear and nasal hair were tied together in a knot, and by the end of the week my short and curlies were long and platted. Do you know that the longest human body hairs are those in and around the anal area? Mine now run up and down each leg and up my back before disappearing up the hairy hole of Calcutta, no doubt tiying my innards in knots as i speak. I was once visiting London zoo when a member of the public mistakenly took me to be an escaped bear and sent the whole place into a panic. Underarm, i have to use my specially designed mini-strim before there's any chance of applying deodorant. T-shirts are a definite no-no as they give the impression that Sherwood Forest is attempting to break out from the sleeves. There must be something i can do. When i unzip my flies its like stuffing falling out of a cushion and locating my willy requires a either an extensive rumage or a machete. I can only imagine what might be living down there. Maybe Bear Grylls, who knows? My doctor told me that native Africans don't have as much body hair as their skin adapted to the sun and the lack of clothes. Surely relocating to Kenya as a naturist can't be the only solution?
Dave Lee travis, Bushey.


My dear Dave, or should I call you Daisy?
It's not uncommon for a lady to have a little more testosterone than other girls and therefore, perhaps one has to tend to her 'garden' and 'shrubberies' a tad more attentively than others.
Your's, however, does appear to be a very extreme case. But, let's get some 'girl power' going here shall we. Be proud! Underneath you are a princess and finding a frog to kiss you is the least of your worries.
Get in front of that mirror, sing along to king if the swingers whilst you're getting ready and paint the town red.
Don't bother if one if your bollocks is hanging out of your knickers or you look like a scaffolder in fancy dress. You're gorgeous. You'll get a shag at the end of the night, everyone does. Mind you, I think a family ticket at Wipsnade might be cheaper.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
Me and my mate, Long John Black Crack, have set up a pirate radio station and it's not been without it's teething troubles.
For one thing I'm sea sick so we've had to borrow my mates barge on the canal and if I'm completely honest I'm not convinced we're far enough away from the long arm of the law. I don't think that being moored on the canal next to the 'running pump' public house is classed as international waters.
Anyway, it seems that the only pirates we're appealing to are from Somalia and phone ins for quizzes and requests are quite frankly a nightmare.
Our playlist is minimal with Friggin' In The Riggin', the theme tune to Captain Pugwash and We Are Sailing basically being it.
We've tried poaching listeners from Desert Island Disks but to no avail.
On the up turn we do have the Tom Robinson Crusoe Band coming on Friday playing a rendition of message in a bottle.
Is it still politically correct to ejaculate over a man servant performing a cover version of a popular known hit?
Yours,
Peg Leg Willy.

My dear P-L.
I can't help but think you're very close to a brilliant idea here. Your obviously gay love boat set up would be a sensation with a bit of tweaking. Sail the barge to Manchester. Mooring charges are dirt cheap on the back end of Canal street where you can set yourselves up as Blackbeard's Gay Cruises and party up + down the city's dark satanic passageways and damp tunnels, making a fortune as you go. Just add a man-o-war and a black pearl to your crew and you'lI have them queing up to mince the plank. I would also imagine that having a glass bottom could add another dimension to the experience, and that a Jolly Rogering could be had by all.
Bon Voyage!
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
I am a very worried and confused 30 year old male. Two years ago I was diagnosed with a rare neurological illness called Anal Anaglyptic Shock. My sphincter muscle goes out of control each time i hear decorating mentioned. It can easily lead to very messy incidents. I was once driving past an advertising hoarding that displayed a massive photo of Laurence Llewellyn-Thingy. I violently messed myself and collided with a number 2 bus coming the other way. The smell lingered for weeks. I eventually discovered hardened remains in the grooves of the driver's floor mat. Watching ITV is out of the question with all those adverts for B&Q and Homebase, and any time i smell paint i get that old familiar warm trickle down the leg. I was once bent over in my doctor's surgery, having my annual pile inspection, when he happened to mention the words plumb and line in the same sentence. He copped the full projectile evacuation right in the face bless him. Springtime is particularly difficult.
I usually take a few weeks off work as everyone discusses changes to the house or decking or new colour schemes. Somebody was once talking at lunchtime about doing a car boot and mentioned pasting tables. I have been banned from the canteen ever since. I think the problem goes back to the time i watched the wife paint the kitchen ceiling. As she stretched to reach a corner, the ladders gave way, and she belly-flopped onto the paint tray. I was covered, and subsequently found out that i was allergic to the colour Creeping Beige. It's so serious that whenever the missus wants to decorate I have to go on holiday somewhere. Please help. I've tried nappies but nothing on the market is big enough to contain the problem. Why is it that fear smells so bad?
Dai 0'Rea, Rimington-On-The-Bog, Norfolk.
　
Dear Dai.
My ex husband had similar reactions to many things during our two month relationship.
The thought of having sex with me often caused him to soil the sheets so he had to sleep in the spare room with our Swedish au pair girl.
Shopping, washing up, ironing all resulted in Rupert touching cloth.
Poor thing, I blame myself. By the end of our relationship the very sight of me made him pebble dash his shorts.
Steer clear of that paint brush and why not treat yourself to bleaching your bum hole.
Dreary. X

Dear Dreary.
I've got a Jeanie who lives in a lamp. He's been in the family since my great gran bought him from a sex stall on the market.
As a hormonal teenager nan would rub his lamp until he burst from his spout all red, sweaty and unnecessary.
He would pleasure both her and her friends at regular sleep over parties in her private chambers.
As he's been past down from generation to generation he's got older, fatter and and has lost his sexual appetite altogether. I can rub him all day long and not a sausage.
I've taken him out on bike rides and walks to encourage exercise but this often fails to stimulate him.
I always leave him on my bedside cabinet so he can watch me undressing in the hope that I might catch a glimpse of his watery eye at the end of his spout, but, alas not.
It can't be healthy for him stuck in that old tea pot. For all I know he could have dropped dead.
Any ideas? I'm desperate for three wishes!
Yours,
Tammy Millett.

　
Dear Tammy.
Perhaps your are expecting too much of the old man ,or maybe you're just rubbing him up the wrong way. You need to reassure him every now and then at his age, don't put him under any undue pressure. Give him the occasional treat and he may just respond. Let him watch the
football, pour him a malt, buy him this month's Railway Modeller, let him caress his Vera Lynn photo, rest him on your bosom. It works for my old fella, bless him. In no time he'll perk up and remember his vibrant youth. Stroke him gently first thing in the morning then lie back and dream of genie.
Dreary.x

Dear Dreary.
I'm 57 yrs old and consider myself a bit of an expert when it comes to the old rock and roll and have been to quite a number of concerts in my time. Suffice to say I've collected some very rare memorabilia and wonder if your readers are up for bidding for a slice of rock n roll history.
I've got a bus ticket that I got when I got the bus to see The Bay City Rollers in 1973. Les McEwan caught a bus once, so I'd say that's a pretty rare ticket.
I've also got a rare 1967 Fleetwood Chronicle which was published when The Beatles were still going.
Lot three is a drum stick which the drummer of the support band threw into the audience at The Jaggy Jiggy the week before U2 played there.
My most treasured piece of pop treasure is a photo of the transit van Slade used on their first tour of the midlands in an early edition of auto trader. My uncle actually bought it for scrap and the steering wheel ended up on our kids go cart.
Serious offers only. No time wasters.
Yours,
Sturgeon Pencil-Tree.


Ah Sturgeon,
you've finally resurfaced. My initial reaction to this blatant and pathetic attempt at self-publicity was to dismiss it out of hand. How dare you abuse the nation's favourite column with your petty, squalid collection of dross. Did you contact Dalton's Weekly when you required advice on your 'habits' all those years ago? No,of course you did'nt. You came to me,in a desperate effort to distance yourself from the snivelling group of privileged MP's who were to become known as the Tory Whip Boys. Thatcher's bumspiders, more like.
So it is my pleasure to alert the public,to let the nation know that this dangerous, shameless grovelling, upper class dog scrote is back in society. The public servant who based his election campaign in a teenage brothel next door to the home of an infamous Marseille paedo. The sponging, alcoholic, perverted smack-head who abused his position once too often.
My only advice to you,dog, would be to lay low. One thing i never got to the bottom of perv.
Did Maggie squeal as the cattle prod parted her lips?
Pentonville's gain is our loss,readers.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
I'm under attack by terrorists cleverly disguised as clowns.
I've been looking forward to the circus for weeks now ever since mummy and daddy bought some tickets for me and my little brother.
What started as an innocent family show soon stared down the barrel of Armageddon and right up the arse of Satan himself.
An elderly lady in front of us was offered a flower to smell on the lapel of clown#1. As she did her face was covered in what must have been battery acid or sumfick.
Next, the people directly in front were peppered with custard pie bombs. There were paper plates everywhere.
They're sadistic bastards, smiling inanely as they kill.
I fear that if any one of them presses a red nose we're all dead!
PS if any of them bastards tries to board a plane, check their shoes first!
Can I get a refund?
Charlie Carrolie,
Bpool.


Hello Chazie,
i was hoping you'd get in touch. The Norman Barrett clinic had already warned me that you had absconded again. They heard your car collapse and the horn sound as you made your getaway. You've obviously not been taking your meds so that nice Dr.Mooky has asked me to remind you not to go anywhere near little boys + girls,or to invite them to play in your ring. Try to find a friendly Mr.Plod, tell him you are lost, and that he needs to telephone the
number written on your braces. When you get home they've promised that you can suck on Mr.Jolly's little stick of Blackpool rock ,and take a hot bath with your team of performing budgies. You're not to let them go where you did last time though. As a special treat Nellie will do her favourite trick and undress you with her trunk and then soap you all over before spraying you down. Get home and get well soon.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
You slag!
I never want to see you ever again you slapper, you two timing, lettuce licking, carpet munching trollop!
I know about you and 'Linda bloody Chutney-Fawcett' or whatever her bloody name is. Staying late at the office updating your pie chart? The only pie you've been up dating is hers.
What about that picture of you staggering out of 'her' flat at all hours of the morning. 'Went to borrow a cup of sugar' my hat!!
I'm quite sure it had something to do with a cup but that's by the by. Plus that skimpy mini dress you had on was so short you could still see your strap on ! I bought you that! We had our first threesome on that with Nigel Havers' accountant.
Anyway, plenty more fish, and I'm not talking about your girlfriend!
I've taken the ferret and gone to stay at mothers house.
Don't try to contact me else I'll blow this whole, sorry affair wide open.
Yours (was),
Fanny Haddock.
　This is an automated message. Auntie Val of The Daily Blurb Group of Newspapers is currently out of office until Tuesday January 3rd 2012. Your message has been automatically forwarded and re-addressed to our sister paper and will be considered in due course by their expert, Deirdre. We can assure you that any material within your message will be dealt with in a confidential, professional, and sympathetic manner and will certainly not be open to gossip or ridicule or will not be sold on to other publications. 
　

Dear Dreary.
I've just started a new job as a conductor on a bus and quite frankly it's not what I expected.
Non of the people who hop on the number 14 can play an instrument which I find extraordinary. I mean, what are they thinking? I've been conducting for some years now, I'm known locally, yet these heathens sit in front of me, staring like I'm some mad eccentric, in MY orchestra and can't even play a note.
Some oaf rings the bell occasionally but it's hardly Mahler.
I mean, perhaps I'm being too touchy! They all buy a ticket. Perhaps it's me they've come to see! I should go solo!
PS I've received a disciplinary letter from my employer. They said that if I continue waving my magic wand about I could be done for gbh under health and safety and sent back to the loony bin.
Well, I havn't got a 'baton' any more. Some thugish yob snapped it in two and disposed of it.
Could you recommend a reputable gynaecologist?
Yours,
Andre Botty-Jelly.



Dear Andre.
It’s a sad reflection of today's economic climate that over-qualified and gifted employees have to resort to menial jobs. I had a letter recently from Russell Grant who now drives a gritting lorry for Thames Valley Borough Council. He suffers from depression and terrible chaffing in the low temperatures. Les Dennis is working as on a conveyor belt at United Utilities, grading hard stools, and Fatboy Slim is once again obese and works three evenings a week as a ''before'' model for Slimmers World. You've just got to take what you can for now and hope things improve.
As for your baton problem, i will send you my self-extraction pack that i usually send to pregnant women preferring a home birth and butt plug extremists. It consists of three different sized plastic tongs, a floor-mounted mirror, a micro torch (wipe clean),and a free sample of Kirsty Young jelly.
By the way, his she related?
Dreary.x

Dear Readers.
Before I forget, here are the answers to my little easter pop quiz from the other day.
Happy easter.
Dreary.x

Answers to Music Quiz.
A1: Save all your pisses for me.
A2: Eaton trifles.A3: Wig wam lamb.A4: Rebel Pebble.A5: Here comes the bunA6: Bohemian Raspberry.A7: Honey for Nothing.A8: Come on feel the toys.A9: Pearl’s a swinger.A10: Great balls of friar.A11: Hive Talking.

Dear Dreary.
I hope you can help me settle a marital disagreement that has escalated into a serious business problem .
My family originates from Strasbourg and since 1664 has owned the most famous brewery in France, responsible for the production of a quality beer loved by the French and many others across Europe. My fellow countrymen are still able to enjoy our product at 5.5%, but, abroad we became victims of our own success and the stringent UK tax laws forced us to down-grade to 5%. Our product has nevertheless been a great success in Britain for decades and continues to be so, but I'm afraid that is not the end of the story.
During a fact-finding mission to Leuven in Belgium, I encountered Lady Stella Artois, a fascinating, beautiful Belgian heiress whose family were in the same business as my own. In no time at all I was hooked. Her compelling, exquisitely sweet taste drew me back time after time. She was always finely presented and easy on the eye, and I found her premium strength satisfied me like no other. Within months we were inseparable and I dreamed of the perfect union of of master brewers and the future generations of perfection we could create. We married in Paris and were blissfully happy for years.
Alas, the UK government has intervened again. I was all for maintaining our family's mark of quality and targeting the top end of the market, but the price increase forced on the business was too much for Stella's family and they opted to down-grade to a slightly weaker beer and aim for the mass market. We argued constantly and, I must admit, this has affected our marriage. We seem to be constantly at loggerheads, competing against each other. Thank god I've never sober enough to give her the children she's craved.
The only thing we still have in common is our joint hatred of those despicable, tacky supermarket own-barnded beers that the low-life scumbag British now lap up as they undercut us by slipping the government endless back-handers.
Can you suggest a way forward for us? I still want us to stay together, but I fear the our business differencies are going to drive us apart.
Yours,
Baron Von Kronenbourg, Alsace.

Dear Baron.
To be honest we British couldn't give a rats whisker what you ponsy lot get up to over the stream. If I'm to be perfectly frank I can make a pint of me widdle taste better than that muck you churn out.
When our Theakston was born up in Masham times were tough, demanding a brew to be strong, robust and could take yer head off without so much as a by your leave.
Similarly, Charles Wells would certainly play the dandy but cross him and you'd be shitting through the eye of a needle.
And I suppose you think that a treck across our Lakeland fells is sustained by mint cake and mars bars? Wrong. Ten pints of Wainrights should just about see to that.
My cat, Owd Tom, shags rats for a laugh. In short, we're hard bastards over here and refuse to drop our standards let alone our strength.
If you persist in your incessant whining I shall send the Hobgoblins over, thrust a Fursty Ferrett down your trousers and give you a Skull Spliter you'll never forget.
PS do not incur the wrath of The Bishops Finger!
Sod off.
Dreary. x

Dear Readers.
I feel I owe you all an apology.
My last published article was last Saturday and I bet you've all been wondering where on earth I've got to? Ooo, vain cow!
Well, I was putting the bins out on Sunday night when this gentleman pulled right up my drive and began to ask me the directions to Dickies Meadow.
I was just bending down to adjust my tights when he grabbed me by my platex and bundled me into the back of the car.
Next thing I know i wake up in a strange bed, handcuffed to the chamber pot with two wild, staring eyes looking down upon my modesty.
Turns out it was one of my most avid fans, Sir Billy Hymalaya of the Nepalese Mounted Police, who just wanted to get to know me a little better.
I said that I was flattered but strapping my feet to a plank of wood and beating it with a lump hammer to the rhythm of 'friggin in the riggin' by the Sex Pistols was not best policy to win the heart of a ladies affections.
Suffice to say that I eventually talked him round to letting me go once I'd agreed that he could ride me around his paddock whilst feeding from a nose bag.
He's just dropped me back home not half an hour ago and I'm just running him a hot bath whilst I slip into something a little more........comfortable. Think I'm for the high jump later.
Anyway, normal service shall be resumed tomorrow and tonight I would like to leave you with a pop quiz with a twist. I'll provide the answers later on in the week.
Happy Easter, and may we all be at it like rabbits!
Dreary. x

A Very Dreary Music Quiz.

Q1: Brotherhood of mans songwriter had a weird hobby, collecting urine samples. This inspired him to create one of their biggest hits.
　
　
Q2: Which popular hit by the jam was inspired by young public school boys who gorged themselves from the sweet trolley?
　
Q3: Which Sweet hit was inspired by eating a minted Sunday roast in a teepee?
　
　
　
Q4: The seaside fairy tale of the pebbles on the beach has remained in the hearts of children for centuries, especially that very naughty one who didn’t do as the other pebbles did.
Which David Bowie hit was inspired by this classic tale?
　
　
　
Q5: Which 1968 George Harrison tune was actually the brainchild of his master baker father one morning as he greeted the arrival of the first newly baked barm cake of the day?



Q6: Once upon a time there was a family of small fruit. Daddy fruit worked in the local bank whilst mummy fruit looked after the day to day runnings of the house.
They had three children. Two grew up to be successful in their chosen careers, one a teacher, the other an accountant.
The third, an equally intelligent and loving little berry took a different path through life.
He dressed rather hip and cool and sometimes smoked weed. He travelled extensively, hung out with artistic, musical types, often sleeping rough along the way. He now runs a rescue centre for reject berries who are no use in ribena for example.
What Queen hit was inspired by this adorable, ancient little fable?

Q7: The local insect population of a small Northern fishing town were up in arms over the week-end. They were protesting over a government white paper that basically gives tax exemption on the pollination of all flowers by the local bee fraternity.
One local at the scene of todays rally said it was a disgrace. The bees are being given free reign to pollinate free of charge. It’s a licence to print money for those buzzy little bastards!
What Dire Straits hit has since become the anthem of revolt against those freeloading bumbles?
　
　
Q8: Noddy had a dark secret. He often visited the basement of Hoytie Toyties and changed in to his favourite uniform. He then invited his comrades to?
　
　
　
Q9: Elkie Brookes famously sang a song about her best mate who insisted on going to wife swapping parties. Name the tune.
　
　
　
Q10: Which song did Jerry Lee Lewis write about his admiration of Robins’ favourite clergyman’s swonnicles?
　
　
Q11: Mr Bumble the bee keeper was shocked when he noticed his bees refused to go back in their bee house. They said it was haunted and they kept hearing the house speak to them. Mr Bumble called in the exorcist.
What Bee Gees hit was inspired by this national news article?