Dear Dreary.
I'm head of GropingHam Area Health Authority and I'm having terrible trouble with my junior doctors. They're upsetting me so much I've turned to drink and my job hangs very much in the balance.
The times I have to shout at them for running up and down the corridors and hiding under patients beds.
Every time I do my rounds they stand there sniggering at the very mention of wees and poos and the first sign of blood they start being sick everywhere and crying.
In theatre they're often too short to peer over the operating table so rarely pay attention and resort to playing with the laughing gas and blowing up surgical gloves to bat around to each other.
Their hygiene leaves a lot to be desired often found picking their noses and wiping it on a passing matron.
They're late for work in the morning and find it hard to stay awake after three o'clock and have to go home for a jam butty and a glass of milk.
And if I catch one of them again with a stethoscope pressed up to the nurses changing room door I shan't be responsible for my actions!
Please help.
Dr Cornelius Prune.
Dear Doc.
Yet another example i'm afraid of severe cutbacks and the blatant misuse of the Work Experience project. My bus driver the other day couldn't have been a day over fourteen, and my current dentist is a twelve year old Malawian refugee called Ada. Our local MP is fitting in his duties around his GCSE's, and during a recent chat with my mortgage advisor he started playing with Lego. Where will it all end? My editor, bless her, is a sweet little thing, but she comes to me every Friday for advice on homework and anal sex. No wonder there's so much unemployment. Teachers are suddenly younger than pupils, taxi drivers need cushions, and policemen's helmets are covering their eyes. I am definitely NOT looking forward to annual MOT with my gynaecologist next week.
Take care. D.
Thursday 31 May 2012
Dear Dreary.
Can you dispel an urban myth for me please? Personally I am sure that this cannot be true, but several friends insist that if you focus your mind intensely it is possible to whistle through the end of your erect penis. I have tried hard myself many times, and cannot even manage to blow any air out of the thing let alone summon up random tunes. Am i doing it wrong? I hold my aroused chap gently in my palm and try to will any gas in my body towards my groin, whilst adjusting the tip and eye into the shape of puckered lips. I love nothing more than a carefree whistle, i do not have a problem maintaining the erection and i like to think i have a wide-ranging knowledge of popular songs, but alas, nothing. A work colleague, however, has shown me video footage he recorded in the shower of his member happily whistling ''raindrops keep falling on my head'', and my carer Julian has a clip on his phone of his todger chirping away to ''don't let the sun go down on me''. They have both also pointed me in the direction of the website http://www.thehappywhistler.com/, which has footage of variously coloured and sized willies performing such classics as ''I shot the sheriff'', ''If i'd known you were coming i'd a baked a cake'', ''Up up and away'', and even ''There is nothing like a dame''. My friend Alan can whistle ''I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts'' and ''A hard day's night'' and he has now asked me round to his place to show me his technique and his collection of Barry Manilow dvd's. Am i right to feel a little concerned that he'll expect me to perform ''Copacabana'' or something for him? I'm really not up for this.
Yours, Roger Whittaker, Durham.
Dear Roger.
If you're to make it as a willy whistler you're going to have to leave old Durham town and it might just get you down.
The golden rule is to not let anyone else play your willy for you unless of course you're that way inclined. Blowing us NOT the whistling way!!
There are several good books out there teaching the basics from how to hold it, warm up techniques, fingering exercises and improvisation.
Once you've mastered these you can progress to such delights as '101 hits for willy whistlers', ' blow your cock off 'and 'Andy Stewart plays his bagpipes' for the more senior players.
Please be aware that you should not, under any circumstances play it outside schools, whilst driving or at the zoo.
I have a friend, Pasqueflower, who's a grade eight and could certainly show you a thing or two.
Whistle while you work!
Dreary.
Actually, don't whistle at work, you might just get the 'sack'!
Can you dispel an urban myth for me please? Personally I am sure that this cannot be true, but several friends insist that if you focus your mind intensely it is possible to whistle through the end of your erect penis. I have tried hard myself many times, and cannot even manage to blow any air out of the thing let alone summon up random tunes. Am i doing it wrong? I hold my aroused chap gently in my palm and try to will any gas in my body towards my groin, whilst adjusting the tip and eye into the shape of puckered lips. I love nothing more than a carefree whistle, i do not have a problem maintaining the erection and i like to think i have a wide-ranging knowledge of popular songs, but alas, nothing. A work colleague, however, has shown me video footage he recorded in the shower of his member happily whistling ''raindrops keep falling on my head'', and my carer Julian has a clip on his phone of his todger chirping away to ''don't let the sun go down on me''. They have both also pointed me in the direction of the website http://www.thehappywhistler.com/, which has footage of variously coloured and sized willies performing such classics as ''I shot the sheriff'', ''If i'd known you were coming i'd a baked a cake'', ''Up up and away'', and even ''There is nothing like a dame''. My friend Alan can whistle ''I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts'' and ''A hard day's night'' and he has now asked me round to his place to show me his technique and his collection of Barry Manilow dvd's. Am i right to feel a little concerned that he'll expect me to perform ''Copacabana'' or something for him? I'm really not up for this.
Yours, Roger Whittaker, Durham.
Dear Roger.
If you're to make it as a willy whistler you're going to have to leave old Durham town and it might just get you down.
The golden rule is to not let anyone else play your willy for you unless of course you're that way inclined. Blowing us NOT the whistling way!!
There are several good books out there teaching the basics from how to hold it, warm up techniques, fingering exercises and improvisation.
Once you've mastered these you can progress to such delights as '101 hits for willy whistlers', ' blow your cock off 'and 'Andy Stewart plays his bagpipes' for the more senior players.
Please be aware that you should not, under any circumstances play it outside schools, whilst driving or at the zoo.
I have a friend, Pasqueflower, who's a grade eight and could certainly show you a thing or two.
Whistle while you work!
Dreary.
Actually, don't whistle at work, you might just get the 'sack'!
Wednesday 30 May 2012
Dear Dreary.
I'm married to a cannibal and although I love him very much he is making life very awkward and I'm quickly running out of friends to confide in.
I first met him on a safari trip in the darkest regions of the Limpoopoo undergrowth. He impressed me with his blowpipe and he was a dab hand with a meat cleaver and moving silently through the bush.
When I first took him to meet my parents they were gutted. Literally!
When I brought him home I got him a job in ArkWrights' Butchers.
He was dismissed after Mrs Arkwright spotted her husbands' pocket watch hanging off the rack of ribs in the shop window for three shillings, tuppence apeny. Further, Mrs Arkwright went on to say that her late husband wasn't a fan of oranges which at least went some way to explaining the look of surprise on the butchers face as he gazed blankly in to the high street atop his silver platter.
On a positive note he did get his picture in the paper showing off his collection of shrunken heads. On the downside he's presently helping police with their enquires thumbing through the missing persons register.
Do you think I should mention to the plump desk sergeant not to look my husband in the eye?
Yours,
Joy Tickle.
Peel em Under Shaft.
Dear Joy,
I sense an opportunity here. Perhaps your husband's peculiar 'talents' could actually be beneficial and also save him from the inevitable arrest .I do hope be enjoys a range of world cuisines, as they are all readily available here. Mexican, Indian, Chinese, African, Middle-Eastern, the list is endless, and the fact that they are illegal immigrants would, i imagine, only add to the culinary experience. How about a sweet and sour Chinky scrounger, or maybe a curried Indian illegal, or even a pan-fried spicy Mexican dosser? He could eat out (or even order in) every night of the week and be doing the nation a great favour by reducing the number of sponging bastards we keep in benefits. He's hardly in a position to refuse is he?
Think it over. D.
I'm married to a cannibal and although I love him very much he is making life very awkward and I'm quickly running out of friends to confide in.
I first met him on a safari trip in the darkest regions of the Limpoopoo undergrowth. He impressed me with his blowpipe and he was a dab hand with a meat cleaver and moving silently through the bush.
When I first took him to meet my parents they were gutted. Literally!
When I brought him home I got him a job in ArkWrights' Butchers.
He was dismissed after Mrs Arkwright spotted her husbands' pocket watch hanging off the rack of ribs in the shop window for three shillings, tuppence apeny. Further, Mrs Arkwright went on to say that her late husband wasn't a fan of oranges which at least went some way to explaining the look of surprise on the butchers face as he gazed blankly in to the high street atop his silver platter.
On a positive note he did get his picture in the paper showing off his collection of shrunken heads. On the downside he's presently helping police with their enquires thumbing through the missing persons register.
Do you think I should mention to the plump desk sergeant not to look my husband in the eye?
Yours,
Joy Tickle.
Peel em Under Shaft.
Dear Joy,
I sense an opportunity here. Perhaps your husband's peculiar 'talents' could actually be beneficial and also save him from the inevitable arrest .I do hope be enjoys a range of world cuisines, as they are all readily available here. Mexican, Indian, Chinese, African, Middle-Eastern, the list is endless, and the fact that they are illegal immigrants would, i imagine, only add to the culinary experience. How about a sweet and sour Chinky scrounger, or maybe a curried Indian illegal, or even a pan-fried spicy Mexican dosser? He could eat out (or even order in) every night of the week and be doing the nation a great favour by reducing the number of sponging bastards we keep in benefits. He's hardly in a position to refuse is he?
Think it over. D.
Dear Dreary.
With the recent fine weather, and in my capacity as the local crime prevention officer, can i take this opportunity to raise your readers' awareness about the advantages of leaving doors and windows open. It's the perfect way of inviting all and sundry to enter your premises, a virtual plea to come in and ransack and rummage your private areas and assets. What pleasure there is to be had in leaving the back door ever so slghtly ajar whilst lying in wait for any intruders, spread-eagled naked on the bed. What lovely weather for oiling yourself up like a basted plump turkey then letting the succulent breasts sizzle under a hot sun before applying hot moist stuffing in the conservatory. What a fantastic time to make yourself and your house more appealing to voyeurs, peepers, and downright nosey bastards. Imagine if you can, what it would be like to be startled by some fine young masked buck of an intruder, tool in hand, hell-bent on breaking and entering. Or possibly you could attract the attention of the local cat burglar by opening your cat flaps to let in the breeze and allowing him to rifle ypussy. And why miss out on any possibility of being molested by some passing pervert just by closing a downstairs opening? Can you afford to be turning down such opportunities? The chance of being
pinned to the shagpile by a swarthy, sweaty stranger surely shouldn't be rejected? The chance of having your complete insides ravished, your whole being on fire and begging for mercy, bodily fluids mixing on the axminster, the screams of ecstacy floating up through the living room flue. So throw those doors and curtains wide.
And watch out! There's a perv about!
Regards, Inspector Fanny Fettler of the Yard, Dock Green C.I.D.
Oh for fuck sake Inspector Fanny, tell someone who gives a shit! I've got my own agenda at present.
I've not 'oiled the rag' as it were for nearly three months, I'm sure I'm on the turn. I'm delirious with sun stroke after the week end weather and what's more my mother was 'burgled' by the vicar last night after he drunkenly fell through her French windows. My great Aunt Cissy who was staying over watched the whole thing unfold in front if her as she gently 'teased the old bean'!
So, yes inspector TWAT, I'm acutely aware of what happens if you leave your flaps open!
CID???? What about IVF??
piss off!
Love Dreary. x
With the recent fine weather, and in my capacity as the local crime prevention officer, can i take this opportunity to raise your readers' awareness about the advantages of leaving doors and windows open. It's the perfect way of inviting all and sundry to enter your premises, a virtual plea to come in and ransack and rummage your private areas and assets. What pleasure there is to be had in leaving the back door ever so slghtly ajar whilst lying in wait for any intruders, spread-eagled naked on the bed. What lovely weather for oiling yourself up like a basted plump turkey then letting the succulent breasts sizzle under a hot sun before applying hot moist stuffing in the conservatory. What a fantastic time to make yourself and your house more appealing to voyeurs, peepers, and downright nosey bastards. Imagine if you can, what it would be like to be startled by some fine young masked buck of an intruder, tool in hand, hell-bent on breaking and entering. Or possibly you could attract the attention of the local cat burglar by opening your cat flaps to let in the breeze and allowing him to rifle ypussy. And why miss out on any possibility of being molested by some passing pervert just by closing a downstairs opening? Can you afford to be turning down such opportunities? The chance of being
pinned to the shagpile by a swarthy, sweaty stranger surely shouldn't be rejected? The chance of having your complete insides ravished, your whole being on fire and begging for mercy, bodily fluids mixing on the axminster, the screams of ecstacy floating up through the living room flue. So throw those doors and curtains wide.
And watch out! There's a perv about!
Regards, Inspector Fanny Fettler of the Yard, Dock Green C.I.D.
Oh for fuck sake Inspector Fanny, tell someone who gives a shit! I've got my own agenda at present.
I've not 'oiled the rag' as it were for nearly three months, I'm sure I'm on the turn. I'm delirious with sun stroke after the week end weather and what's more my mother was 'burgled' by the vicar last night after he drunkenly fell through her French windows. My great Aunt Cissy who was staying over watched the whole thing unfold in front if her as she gently 'teased the old bean'!
So, yes inspector TWAT, I'm acutely aware of what happens if you leave your flaps open!
CID???? What about IVF??
piss off!
Love Dreary. x
Thursday 24 May 2012
Dear Dreary.
I need a new getaway driver for my gang of hardened jewel thieves
The ones we've had in the past have been rubbish.
The last bloke we had was having his merc serviced so he had a courtesy car with 'Uphill Motors, we're right behind you' emblazoned along the side. Coppers had him in no time.
Albert, before that, was getting on in years and loved his classic cars. He loved to turn up to a heist in his Austin 7 or Morris Minor even his Hillman Imp. Trouble was he'd have such a crowd of enthusiasts gathered that the gang couldn't get near the bloody thing and often ended up walking home or catching the bus.
I'd love someone like that Jason Statham chap out of those Transporter films. He's such a dish. I'd pull away on a getaway with him any day of the week.
Please help.
Yours
Reggie Queer.
Dear Reg.
My third husband Derek is up for it, has all the necessary qualifications ,and is crying out for a little excitement. He has 63 years driving experience and
never a blemish on his license. He can supply his own top of the range vehicle, and there is no need to supply petrol as long as any thieving takes place between the hours of 11.30 and 1.30. He drives a small van, but the interior is deceptively spacious and will be fully-stocked with ready made hot dinners. He only asks that nobody touches Mrs. Timmins' dumplings as he's hell bent on getting in her (plastic) pants. His role would be completely voluntary though he does insist on being tied and gagged. No change there then.
Dreary. x
I need a new getaway driver for my gang of hardened jewel thieves
The ones we've had in the past have been rubbish.
The last bloke we had was having his merc serviced so he had a courtesy car with 'Uphill Motors, we're right behind you' emblazoned along the side. Coppers had him in no time.
Albert, before that, was getting on in years and loved his classic cars. He loved to turn up to a heist in his Austin 7 or Morris Minor even his Hillman Imp. Trouble was he'd have such a crowd of enthusiasts gathered that the gang couldn't get near the bloody thing and often ended up walking home or catching the bus.
I'd love someone like that Jason Statham chap out of those Transporter films. He's such a dish. I'd pull away on a getaway with him any day of the week.
Please help.
Yours
Reggie Queer.
Dear Reg.
My third husband Derek is up for it, has all the necessary qualifications ,and is crying out for a little excitement. He has 63 years driving experience and
never a blemish on his license. He can supply his own top of the range vehicle, and there is no need to supply petrol as long as any thieving takes place between the hours of 11.30 and 1.30. He drives a small van, but the interior is deceptively spacious and will be fully-stocked with ready made hot dinners. He only asks that nobody touches Mrs. Timmins' dumplings as he's hell bent on getting in her (plastic) pants. His role would be completely voluntary though he does insist on being tied and gagged. No change there then.
Dreary. x
Dear Dreary.
I've just taken my first flight with a new gay German air line called PuftHanssa and as a queen myself I thoroughly enjoyed it and wished to share the experience with your readers.
Passengers can expect full thrust in the captains cock pit upon take off. Take off usually means your pants!
As a matter of course passengers are asked to travel with their head between the knees of the person next to them, to get to know each other a little better.
In the unlikely event that the aircraft has to attempt a crash landing every one is supplied with a pink hi viz jacket, a whistle and a glow stick. The oxygen masks that fall from the cabin ceiling give a concentrated blast of amyl nitrite so in effect your arse has already gone before the plane falls from the sky.
Everyone was secretly wanting such a calamity so we could try on the outfits and party one last time.
Should you survive the flight there's plenty of time to spend in customs having your baggage handled by some hot security guys!
Up, up and away I say!
Yours,
Basil Branston.
Thanks for that Basil.
I have to say my recent experiences of flying are somewhat mixed. I conducted a survey on behalf of the company on a recent Virgin flight to Lesbos. They were surprised--and i was gutted--to discover that there wasn't a single virgin on the flight. Though i must admit to comforting a young Thai girl during a spell of turbulence. She was damp with fear.
On the other hand, I only out found recently that Dutch airline KLM is owned by Kurt Van Winkle, famed Euro entrepreneur and gayboy. Apparently you are entitled to free onboard cocktails if, on entry, you announce 'Kurt Licks Men'. My favourite way to fly, though, has to be with Easypet. The cabin staff take the art of petting to new heights, especially since the introduction of their wrap-around wank-blanket. It's very snug under there and they perform a great inflight service! Their motto is 'We Always Come On Time' and i've yet to hear any passenger complaints regarding time of arrival. Happy flying!
Dreary. x
I've just taken my first flight with a new gay German air line called PuftHanssa and as a queen myself I thoroughly enjoyed it and wished to share the experience with your readers.
Passengers can expect full thrust in the captains cock pit upon take off. Take off usually means your pants!
As a matter of course passengers are asked to travel with their head between the knees of the person next to them, to get to know each other a little better.
In the unlikely event that the aircraft has to attempt a crash landing every one is supplied with a pink hi viz jacket, a whistle and a glow stick. The oxygen masks that fall from the cabin ceiling give a concentrated blast of amyl nitrite so in effect your arse has already gone before the plane falls from the sky.
Everyone was secretly wanting such a calamity so we could try on the outfits and party one last time.
Should you survive the flight there's plenty of time to spend in customs having your baggage handled by some hot security guys!
Up, up and away I say!
Yours,
Basil Branston.
Thanks for that Basil.
I have to say my recent experiences of flying are somewhat mixed. I conducted a survey on behalf of the company on a recent Virgin flight to Lesbos. They were surprised--and i was gutted--to discover that there wasn't a single virgin on the flight. Though i must admit to comforting a young Thai girl during a spell of turbulence. She was damp with fear.
On the other hand, I only out found recently that Dutch airline KLM is owned by Kurt Van Winkle, famed Euro entrepreneur and gayboy. Apparently you are entitled to free onboard cocktails if, on entry, you announce 'Kurt Licks Men'. My favourite way to fly, though, has to be with Easypet. The cabin staff take the art of petting to new heights, especially since the introduction of their wrap-around wank-blanket. It's very snug under there and they perform a great inflight service! Their motto is 'We Always Come On Time' and i've yet to hear any passenger complaints regarding time of arrival. Happy flying!
Dreary. x
Tuesday 22 May 2012
Dear Dreary.
These athletes that fail drug tests. How? How can you fail a drugs test especially when they're supposedly so fit and on top of their game? I don't think they take em between me and you. Even a fat, lazy bastard doesn't fail a drug test if he's off his face enough and a copper asks him to blow in some bag. In fact, he passes with flying colours!
I mean, you give Mr. Bolt say 2 e's, a bag of Billy, four lines of smack, a spliff and ten pints of lager and you're telling me he'd fail? Bollocks!
That's exactly what I had when the rozzers did me for drink driving. I didn't fail on that test, did I fuck!
The only reason they stopped me was because they thought it unusual to find a parked car in Tescos' front window display.
Anyway, me point is that these athletes for all the hype are all pretty shit all things considered. If they can't pass a simple test when they're off their tits!
You should have me and me mates competing if you want some gold medals this summer, we're all proper fucked mate, off our trolleys.
We won't let you down.
Any chance?
Love,
Tony, Chantelle, Chelsea, Damon and Graham.
Dear all.
These athletes that fail drug tests. How? How can you fail a drugs test especially when they're supposedly so fit and on top of their game? I don't think they take em between me and you. Even a fat, lazy bastard doesn't fail a drug test if he's off his face enough and a copper asks him to blow in some bag. In fact, he passes with flying colours!
I mean, you give Mr. Bolt say 2 e's, a bag of Billy, four lines of smack, a spliff and ten pints of lager and you're telling me he'd fail? Bollocks!
That's exactly what I had when the rozzers did me for drink driving. I didn't fail on that test, did I fuck!
The only reason they stopped me was because they thought it unusual to find a parked car in Tescos' front window display.
Anyway, me point is that these athletes for all the hype are all pretty shit all things considered. If they can't pass a simple test when they're off their tits!
You should have me and me mates competing if you want some gold medals this summer, we're all proper fucked mate, off our trolleys.
We won't let you down.
Any chance?
Love,
Tony, Chantelle, Chelsea, Damon and Graham.
Dear all.
Here's your chance to do the nation proud! I am sending you details of how to enter a team into the Chavlympix,the alternative games for scumbags. You can decide between you who enters whch event. There's the Kicking In The Bus Shelter (karate style) event, Burning Down Tesco's (AKA Chavlympix Torching event),the Council Estate Half Mile ( first to run to their mate's flat whilst having both hands down the front of theIr trackie bottoms), Wind up Your Staffie Jump ( running your pet up and down shop escalators whilst carrying 6 cartons of knocked-off fags),and the Scooter Slalem (through the bollards in the precinct being chased by the cops). You have a lot to live up to: GB are current world champions,but unfortunately the existing record holders are all away on an extended 'holiday'.
Good luck!
Dreary. x
Monday 14 May 2012
Dear Dreary.
I don't know if your legal team can help me but I seam to have got myself into a bit of a tight spot owing to a terrible misunderstanding. I was arrested and bailed to appear at the local magistrates court charged with bodysnatching.
If I might explain, I was taking my early morning constitutional
when, walking past the old cemetery I happened upon a grave of an old lady. It simply said, 'Here lies Elsie Trimmings, fell asleep..........etc,etc.
FELL ASLEEP!!!
Shit, I was frantic, the poor old bird had dropped off for an afternoon nap and some twisted lunatic took it upon themselves to bury her six feet under in a box!! She'd catch her death!!
I pulled at the earth with my bare hands, digging, deeper and deeper, clawing at the soil till I reached the coffin lid. Without wishing to wake her in case she panicked I asked a passing policeman if he had a screwdriver.
The back of the van was cold and windowless.
It struck me that both the desk sergeant and the psychiatrist weren't taking me seriously. Time's running out for our Elsie.
If any of your readers are missing elderly relatives then I urge them to hurry down to plot 32b, next to the water tap, with a shovel, a blanket, and a mug of cocoa.
Yours,
Terence Stamp.
Dear Terence.
You have my sympathy. There's nothing quite as sad as the pathetic demise of a once loved celeb down on his luck. I recall your work of the seventies with great affection + i admit to having your face above my bed as a teenager, but is this how low you've sunk? My colleague from our entertainment dept, adrian spunk, had already warned me that your latest Sledgehammer horror would bomb horribly, but i never thought that either you or your agent Delia Pudding would resort to such a tacky publicity stunt. And as for '' A Grave Affair - Elsie Lives'' who in the hell thought that one up? Its all quite tawdry Tel boy. Why not get back in touch and we'll try to bring the good times back. I am currently unattached how about you? Forgive my brazen approach but i feel that i can give you a future.
You are one stamp i would love to lick. X
I don't know if your legal team can help me but I seam to have got myself into a bit of a tight spot owing to a terrible misunderstanding. I was arrested and bailed to appear at the local magistrates court charged with bodysnatching.
If I might explain, I was taking my early morning constitutional
when, walking past the old cemetery I happened upon a grave of an old lady. It simply said, 'Here lies Elsie Trimmings, fell asleep..........etc,etc.
FELL ASLEEP!!!
Shit, I was frantic, the poor old bird had dropped off for an afternoon nap and some twisted lunatic took it upon themselves to bury her six feet under in a box!! She'd catch her death!!
I pulled at the earth with my bare hands, digging, deeper and deeper, clawing at the soil till I reached the coffin lid. Without wishing to wake her in case she panicked I asked a passing policeman if he had a screwdriver.
The back of the van was cold and windowless.
It struck me that both the desk sergeant and the psychiatrist weren't taking me seriously. Time's running out for our Elsie.
If any of your readers are missing elderly relatives then I urge them to hurry down to plot 32b, next to the water tap, with a shovel, a blanket, and a mug of cocoa.
Yours,
Terence Stamp.
Dear Terence.
You have my sympathy. There's nothing quite as sad as the pathetic demise of a once loved celeb down on his luck. I recall your work of the seventies with great affection + i admit to having your face above my bed as a teenager, but is this how low you've sunk? My colleague from our entertainment dept, adrian spunk, had already warned me that your latest Sledgehammer horror would bomb horribly, but i never thought that either you or your agent Delia Pudding would resort to such a tacky publicity stunt. And as for '' A Grave Affair - Elsie Lives'' who in the hell thought that one up? Its all quite tawdry Tel boy. Why not get back in touch and we'll try to bring the good times back. I am currently unattached how about you? Forgive my brazen approach but i feel that i can give you a future.
You are one stamp i would love to lick. X
Dear Dreary.
I visited the local annual beer festival at the weekend. I had a great time but something is now troubling me. I had arranged to meet a friend but she didnt appear, so i must admit to becoming a little too enthusiastic about the various beers on offer. I started off with a quite innocent Double Top, a tasty, milky stout from the valleys that was well worth a nibble. This really perked me up, there was no stopping me, and I had a sudden hankering for a Wobbly Nob. This was on the fruity side with a salty aroma that reminded me of potted mussels and had a distinctive, clotted aftertaste. (I did have to spit a little away). Next i fancied a Careless Finger. This turned out to be a cheeky, surprising bitter from the famous Wookey Hole brewery of Upper Ticklington. I then sampled a Navel Command (quite watery), a lovely Caribbean offering called Bermuda Triangle (black body, pinkish head), next was a sensitive, shy little number named Lady's Tip (despite several attempts on my part it failed to fully reveal its true self),before i finally slipped into a Fiery Bush, an Aussie chilli beer that promised much relief but only served to make me overheat. I dashed to the loo, and in the nick of time-to a relieved, triumphal groan, the session finally climaxed with a sticky, sweet honey-tasting barley wine called Angel's Purse. After all this excitement i was exhausted and took myself off to bed. A few days later i began to develop an irritating itch down below + a hastily-arranged trip to the local clinic revealed a somewhat embarassing infection. The doc assumed someone had taken advantage of me in my drunken state but he was also concerned about the markings on my ''lady lips''. I did'nt tell him that this had probably been caused by my party trick, which i demonstrated several times at the beer festival. Do you think i could be causing myself long-term damage?
Yours, Screw-top Suzy, Cockerham.
Dear Screw - Top.
As long as you pucker up your lips, flesh them out a bit and practice your fingerings, I see no reason why you shouldn't continue to enjoy pleasuring your lady trumpet. Quiffing or Queefing as it is sometimes known is becoming very popular amongst girls of all ages. Historically, once an embarrassment for a lady to emit a toot from her brass section it is now something to embrace and be proud of, fleshing out those cheeks sending the airwaves dizzy with your involuntary emissions.
It is important to drink plenty of liquids to keep things moist. There are however certain drinks to be avoided in order to preserve the quality of your queef.
Goblins Nosher is certainly one to be avoided as is the Pink Python from the Spit & Swallow Brewery.
Aladdins Cave from The Genies Lamp brewery is another must, however, be careful what you wish for. Too much rubbing can induce unnecessary
dribbling.
Dreary. x
Thanks D. I'm having a quaffle this morning as it happens, just to get over the shock of my favourite singer's sad demise. It has a lovely chocolate texture and called Wrinkly Whitney. It is infused with ganja then brewed in the bath.
I visited the local annual beer festival at the weekend. I had a great time but something is now troubling me. I had arranged to meet a friend but she didnt appear, so i must admit to becoming a little too enthusiastic about the various beers on offer. I started off with a quite innocent Double Top, a tasty, milky stout from the valleys that was well worth a nibble. This really perked me up, there was no stopping me, and I had a sudden hankering for a Wobbly Nob. This was on the fruity side with a salty aroma that reminded me of potted mussels and had a distinctive, clotted aftertaste. (I did have to spit a little away). Next i fancied a Careless Finger. This turned out to be a cheeky, surprising bitter from the famous Wookey Hole brewery of Upper Ticklington. I then sampled a Navel Command (quite watery), a lovely Caribbean offering called Bermuda Triangle (black body, pinkish head), next was a sensitive, shy little number named Lady's Tip (despite several attempts on my part it failed to fully reveal its true self),before i finally slipped into a Fiery Bush, an Aussie chilli beer that promised much relief but only served to make me overheat. I dashed to the loo, and in the nick of time-to a relieved, triumphal groan, the session finally climaxed with a sticky, sweet honey-tasting barley wine called Angel's Purse. After all this excitement i was exhausted and took myself off to bed. A few days later i began to develop an irritating itch down below + a hastily-arranged trip to the local clinic revealed a somewhat embarassing infection. The doc assumed someone had taken advantage of me in my drunken state but he was also concerned about the markings on my ''lady lips''. I did'nt tell him that this had probably been caused by my party trick, which i demonstrated several times at the beer festival. Do you think i could be causing myself long-term damage?
Yours, Screw-top Suzy, Cockerham.
Dear Screw - Top.
As long as you pucker up your lips, flesh them out a bit and practice your fingerings, I see no reason why you shouldn't continue to enjoy pleasuring your lady trumpet. Quiffing or Queefing as it is sometimes known is becoming very popular amongst girls of all ages. Historically, once an embarrassment for a lady to emit a toot from her brass section it is now something to embrace and be proud of, fleshing out those cheeks sending the airwaves dizzy with your involuntary emissions.
It is important to drink plenty of liquids to keep things moist. There are however certain drinks to be avoided in order to preserve the quality of your queef.
Goblins Nosher is certainly one to be avoided as is the Pink Python from the Spit & Swallow Brewery.
Aladdins Cave from The Genies Lamp brewery is another must, however, be careful what you wish for. Too much rubbing can induce unnecessary
dribbling.
Dreary. x
Thanks D. I'm having a quaffle this morning as it happens, just to get over the shock of my favourite singer's sad demise. It has a lovely chocolate texture and called Wrinkly Whitney. It is infused with ganja then brewed in the bath.
Saturday 12 May 2012
Dear Dreary.
My wife has recently left me so i would appreciate your thoughts on whether i should ask her to come back. I was apparently heard whispering sweet nothings to my new love in the greenhouse. I tried to explain but she was having none of it and has gone to her mother's. I think i want her back, but i cannot hide my passion for my latest flame. The warm, damp air of the greenhouse, and the earthy smell of frisky, immature tomatoes never fails to make my marrow bulge. The muggy atmosphere and the hint of a warm breeze through the open skylight makes me want to slip my monogrammed m+s briefs over my wellies and rub lovely fresh peat all over my juicy cucumbers and throbbing sprouts. A sunny location is vital for achieving maximum length, allied to just sufficient nourishment and encouragement. That's what got me into trouble. A nosy neighbour overheard my earthy words of
love to my ripening lovelies and was obviously under the impression that i had a woman in there. As if! Once i've closed the blinds, the greenhouse is MY territory, and nobody else shall ever enter. It's my own little world. My
pleasure. My perversion. I need to be alone to choose the moment that i cast my seed into the waiting, fertilised earth. Nature's seed mixed with my own is a gloriously fruitfull combination that has germinated many prize-
winning exhibits. My marrows boast a legendary girth, my carrots are straight and eager, and the beef tomatoes are juicy and inviting. My courgettes have really come on this year. They perk up no end when tenderley kissed and stroked. I talk dirty to them and promise them an evening in their favourite dark, warm place. They take it in turns, and once they're in there you can even feel them twitching into life. They all bring me such pleasure. There have been many times in my private glass pleasure dome when i've screamed out in ecstacy, my whole being aroused by the smell and feel of nature. The plants seem to be stimulated by my rough, soiled gardening gloves, never washed in ten years loyal service. I love the feel of them against my skin. My wife doesn't understand. Do you think i should ask her back?
Alan Titsmarsh,
Much Mulching.
Dear Alan.
Do you not recall that hoo ha in the village when Miss Hardsheath, the school headmistress was suspected of fiddling with Godfrey the gardener on the hearsay of Old Mrs Jessop eavesdropping by the pantry window?
Caused a right old stink!
The transcript of what old Jessop heard ran as follows:-
Let's just grab a handful and slap it on the kitchen side. I need something hard, rigid and firm to clasp with both hands.
Always use fingers and thumbs and warm those tight balls in your silky palms.
Spread evenly, rolling gently back and forth, aargh that feels good.
I'm ready for your filling now, all if it! Coming dear!
Now, lick your fingers and yes, you may run your tongue around the rim.
Now slam it in, hot for twenty minutes, I want to see it rise up in front of me.
Both hands now, there, done. Cigarette?
All that scandal over a hot jam rolly polly!
Yes, take her back, show her your ripened marrow and fertilisation technique. What girl could refuse!
Let me know how it goes!
Dreary. x
My wife has recently left me so i would appreciate your thoughts on whether i should ask her to come back. I was apparently heard whispering sweet nothings to my new love in the greenhouse. I tried to explain but she was having none of it and has gone to her mother's. I think i want her back, but i cannot hide my passion for my latest flame. The warm, damp air of the greenhouse, and the earthy smell of frisky, immature tomatoes never fails to make my marrow bulge. The muggy atmosphere and the hint of a warm breeze through the open skylight makes me want to slip my monogrammed m+s briefs over my wellies and rub lovely fresh peat all over my juicy cucumbers and throbbing sprouts. A sunny location is vital for achieving maximum length, allied to just sufficient nourishment and encouragement. That's what got me into trouble. A nosy neighbour overheard my earthy words of
love to my ripening lovelies and was obviously under the impression that i had a woman in there. As if! Once i've closed the blinds, the greenhouse is MY territory, and nobody else shall ever enter. It's my own little world. My
pleasure. My perversion. I need to be alone to choose the moment that i cast my seed into the waiting, fertilised earth. Nature's seed mixed with my own is a gloriously fruitfull combination that has germinated many prize-
winning exhibits. My marrows boast a legendary girth, my carrots are straight and eager, and the beef tomatoes are juicy and inviting. My courgettes have really come on this year. They perk up no end when tenderley kissed and stroked. I talk dirty to them and promise them an evening in their favourite dark, warm place. They take it in turns, and once they're in there you can even feel them twitching into life. They all bring me such pleasure. There have been many times in my private glass pleasure dome when i've screamed out in ecstacy, my whole being aroused by the smell and feel of nature. The plants seem to be stimulated by my rough, soiled gardening gloves, never washed in ten years loyal service. I love the feel of them against my skin. My wife doesn't understand. Do you think i should ask her back?
Alan Titsmarsh,
Much Mulching.
Dear Alan.
Do you not recall that hoo ha in the village when Miss Hardsheath, the school headmistress was suspected of fiddling with Godfrey the gardener on the hearsay of Old Mrs Jessop eavesdropping by the pantry window?
Caused a right old stink!
The transcript of what old Jessop heard ran as follows:-
Let's just grab a handful and slap it on the kitchen side. I need something hard, rigid and firm to clasp with both hands.
Always use fingers and thumbs and warm those tight balls in your silky palms.
Spread evenly, rolling gently back and forth, aargh that feels good.
I'm ready for your filling now, all if it! Coming dear!
Now, lick your fingers and yes, you may run your tongue around the rim.
Now slam it in, hot for twenty minutes, I want to see it rise up in front of me.
Both hands now, there, done. Cigarette?
All that scandal over a hot jam rolly polly!
Yes, take her back, show her your ripened marrow and fertilisation technique. What girl could refuse!
Let me know how it goes!
Dreary. x
Dear Dreary.
I work for The Lands End To John O Groats Company. I'm just turned 17 and you could call me the 'tea boy'. Problem is I'm on my third written warning on account of my punctuality and it's only my third day on the job.
I reported to the Lands End office on Monday morning and was told that Hamish up in John O Groats needed some extra souvenir comedy ginger wigs to flesh out his shop a bit and could I deliver them.
It's 960 miles and takes about nine days by bicycle. It'll take me another week to get there and I've already been summoned back to Lands End for a bollocking for being late.I don't know if I'm coming or going.
What should I do Dreary?
Augustus Windsock.
Sodding Chipbury.
PS sorry for the shit problem. xx
Angus. You're not really helping yourself here are you? jobs are scarce these days so you really neem to be making a bIt more effort. I am sending you a catalogue of cycling accessories that will help you pedal faster. These include a pot of Ferrari red poster paint that you can use to paint 'go faster' stripes down your legs, special edition Sir Chris Foy 'tuck me under' underpants to reduce wind resistance, a slightly larger back wheel that gives the impression that you are permanently cycling downhill, and a 'spaedo' rear view mirror that makes you think that you are being followed by Gary Glitter. These should solve the problem.
Dreary. x
I work for The Lands End To John O Groats Company. I'm just turned 17 and you could call me the 'tea boy'. Problem is I'm on my third written warning on account of my punctuality and it's only my third day on the job.
I reported to the Lands End office on Monday morning and was told that Hamish up in John O Groats needed some extra souvenir comedy ginger wigs to flesh out his shop a bit and could I deliver them.
It's 960 miles and takes about nine days by bicycle. It'll take me another week to get there and I've already been summoned back to Lands End for a bollocking for being late.I don't know if I'm coming or going.
What should I do Dreary?
Augustus Windsock.
Sodding Chipbury.
PS sorry for the shit problem. xx
Angus. You're not really helping yourself here are you? jobs are scarce these days so you really neem to be making a bIt more effort. I am sending you a catalogue of cycling accessories that will help you pedal faster. These include a pot of Ferrari red poster paint that you can use to paint 'go faster' stripes down your legs, special edition Sir Chris Foy 'tuck me under' underpants to reduce wind resistance, a slightly larger back wheel that gives the impression that you are permanently cycling downhill, and a 'spaedo' rear view mirror that makes you think that you are being followed by Gary Glitter. These should solve the problem.
Dreary. x
Dear Dreary.
These athletes that fail drug tests. How? How can you fail a drugs test especially when they're supposedly so fit and on top of their game? I don't think they take em between me and you. Even a fat, lazy bastard doesn't fail a drug test if he's off his face enough and a copper asks him to blow in some bag. In fact, he passes with flying colours!
I mean, you give Mr. Bolt say 2 e's, a bag of Billy, four lines of smack, a spliff and ten pints of lager and you're telling me he'd fail? Bollocks!
That's exactly what I had when the rozzers did me for drink driving. I didn't fail on that test, did I fuck!
The only reason they stopped me was because they thought it unusual to find a parked car in Tescos' front window display.
Anyway, me point is that these athletes for all the hype are all pretty shit all things considered. If they can't pass a simple test when they're off their tits!
You should have me and me mates competing if you want some gold medals this summer, we're all proper fucked mate, off our trolleys.
We won't let you down.
Any chance?
Love,
Tony, Chantelle, Chelsea, Damon and Graham.
Dear all.
Here's your chance to do the nation proud! I am sending you details of how to enter a team into the Chavlympix, the alternative games for scumbags. You can decide between you who enters whch event. There's the Kicking In The Bus Shelter (karate style) event, Burning Down Tesco's (AKA Chavlympix Torching event),the Council Estate Half Mile ( first to run to their mate's flat whilst having both hands down the front of their trackie bottoms), Wind up Your Staffie Jump ( running your pet up and down shop escalators whilst carrying 6 cartons of knocked-off fags),and the Scooter Slalem (through the bollards in the precinct being chased by the cops). You have a lot to live up to: GB are current world champions, but unfortunately the existing record holders are all away on an extended 'holiday'. Good luck!
Dreary. x
These athletes that fail drug tests. How? How can you fail a drugs test especially when they're supposedly so fit and on top of their game? I don't think they take em between me and you. Even a fat, lazy bastard doesn't fail a drug test if he's off his face enough and a copper asks him to blow in some bag. In fact, he passes with flying colours!
I mean, you give Mr. Bolt say 2 e's, a bag of Billy, four lines of smack, a spliff and ten pints of lager and you're telling me he'd fail? Bollocks!
That's exactly what I had when the rozzers did me for drink driving. I didn't fail on that test, did I fuck!
The only reason they stopped me was because they thought it unusual to find a parked car in Tescos' front window display.
Anyway, me point is that these athletes for all the hype are all pretty shit all things considered. If they can't pass a simple test when they're off their tits!
You should have me and me mates competing if you want some gold medals this summer, we're all proper fucked mate, off our trolleys.
We won't let you down.
Any chance?
Love,
Tony, Chantelle, Chelsea, Damon and Graham.
Dear all.
Here's your chance to do the nation proud! I am sending you details of how to enter a team into the Chavlympix, the alternative games for scumbags. You can decide between you who enters whch event. There's the Kicking In The Bus Shelter (karate style) event, Burning Down Tesco's (AKA Chavlympix Torching event),the Council Estate Half Mile ( first to run to their mate's flat whilst having both hands down the front of their trackie bottoms), Wind up Your Staffie Jump ( running your pet up and down shop escalators whilst carrying 6 cartons of knocked-off fags),and the Scooter Slalem (through the bollards in the precinct being chased by the cops). You have a lot to live up to: GB are current world champions, but unfortunately the existing record holders are all away on an extended 'holiday'. Good luck!
Dreary. x
Dear Dreary.
Just a simple question: length or girth? As a woman of the world, would you prefer a long poker or a squat stretcher? Banana or avacado? Truncheon or rubber bullet? Stick of celery or half a cucumber? Stick of Blackpool rock or inflatable Blackpool tower? Snooker cue or snooker ball? Megatube of smarties or four-finger kitkat? ''Long John'' vibrator or ''Fat Fred'' butt plug? Twelve inch ruler or jumbo pritt stick? Stick of frozen rhubarb or butter nut squash? My preference? I always think what's the point of being able to measure your tool by plumbline if it's not capable of filling the crack? What do you think? regards, Lubie Lou, 1 Back Alley, Spunky Gorge.
Dear Lubie.
I have to ask, I'm a massive fan! Andy Pandy or Ted? You must have some stories to tell. What went on in that wicker basket after the show I can only imagine. A hot threesome tied up in your puppet strings with Ted at one end and Andy at the other. I bet you knew all the lads from Poguls Wood and Tales From The River Bank? I read that Ted did. Didn't Hammy hamster visit him a lot? 'Traveling by tube'?
Were Bill and Ben really doing Weed on the telly back then? What's the real story behind Muffin the Mule?
Is it true that the Clangers were always off their faces when filming and the Soup Dragon was arrested for supplying the cast and crew with, well, not soup?
So many questions, so little time. You must write a book.
Oh, in answer to your question I like anything especially up the arse.
Dreary. x
Just a simple question: length or girth? As a woman of the world, would you prefer a long poker or a squat stretcher? Banana or avacado? Truncheon or rubber bullet? Stick of celery or half a cucumber? Stick of Blackpool rock or inflatable Blackpool tower? Snooker cue or snooker ball? Megatube of smarties or four-finger kitkat? ''Long John'' vibrator or ''Fat Fred'' butt plug? Twelve inch ruler or jumbo pritt stick? Stick of frozen rhubarb or butter nut squash? My preference? I always think what's the point of being able to measure your tool by plumbline if it's not capable of filling the crack? What do you think? regards, Lubie Lou, 1 Back Alley, Spunky Gorge.
Dear Lubie.
I have to ask, I'm a massive fan! Andy Pandy or Ted? You must have some stories to tell. What went on in that wicker basket after the show I can only imagine. A hot threesome tied up in your puppet strings with Ted at one end and Andy at the other. I bet you knew all the lads from Poguls Wood and Tales From The River Bank? I read that Ted did. Didn't Hammy hamster visit him a lot? 'Traveling by tube'?
Were Bill and Ben really doing Weed on the telly back then? What's the real story behind Muffin the Mule?
Is it true that the Clangers were always off their faces when filming and the Soup Dragon was arrested for supplying the cast and crew with, well, not soup?
So many questions, so little time. You must write a book.
Oh, in answer to your question I like anything especially up the arse.
Dreary. x
Monday 7 May 2012
Dear Dreary.
I wish to protest and express my concerns over advertising and trading standards with regard to food products and the damning psychological effects it's having on our children.
As the smoking ban has put cigarettes under the counter, so too should all food.
My son Matham is so traumatised from shopping trips that he spends every night in Holy Counselling with Father Geoffrey Bottoms. He's very thorough and sometimes stays over night in the vestry.
Anyway, it all started a couple of years ago now when our Math came back from the shop with a finger of fudge! Hell and damnation!! A finger of what?? Shield thine eyes oh vulnerable child of God!! Luckily, I managed to wrestle him to the ground and remove the offending finger.
I was forced to go around his friends parents the other month and gave them a gobful from St Trinians chapter 4 of the Holy book.
My beloved son was asked by his friends mother whether or not he preferred a hot sausage or a ham shank for tea. Then, for supper, she invited him for hot crumpet and fish fingers!
She needs locking up! Curse this diseased witch and never let her cold, poisoned breast enter the mouths of our babes.
The final straw came Friday week when our little scamp came home clutching a menu for school dinners the following week.
Having read the blasphemous rantings of Satan himself we beat ourselves with leather straps and pinched each other just under the arm until the pain made us forget what we had just read.
Starters was cock a leakie soup followed by ray knobs in a creamy sauce. Pudding was a cream horn followed by a blue veiny cheese and water biscuits. Oh Christ, Mary and Joseph!
Breakfast is banned in our house aside from a frugal bowl of Quakers.
Co - co pops are racist. Sugar puffs are homophobic and chrunchy nuts are just plain filth.
Anyway, got to go, Father Bottoms has just arrived to cleanse our Matham. He's brought a lovely, homemade cottaging pie and a puff pastry with squirty cream for afters.
Amen.
Jehovah Jones
Well Jehovah, it must be a relief to get all that off your chest! I was seriously tempted not to print this over-zealous nonsense,but in terms of balance it is important that readers are aware of exactly what extreme, moronic thoughts are out there and how we should react to them. Whilst normally a paragon of moderate views, i must admit you have touched a nerve here, and i may be feeling a tad hormonal today. I have therefore been in touch with a contact i have in secret government circles who leads a little-known department affectionaly named 'The Cleansing and Clearance Clan'. They normally remain low-key, but every now and then love to party.They can visit your home in the middle of the night to purge you and your loved ones of all evil thoughts. They travel on horseback and look distinctive in their white hoodies and dressing gowns, and they love nothing better than an old fashioned sing-song and roasting a few spuddies in a roaring fire. You'll find yourself amending your vi
ews in no time at all once you're living in a box behind Argos.
I wish to protest and express my concerns over advertising and trading standards with regard to food products and the damning psychological effects it's having on our children.
As the smoking ban has put cigarettes under the counter, so too should all food.
My son Matham is so traumatised from shopping trips that he spends every night in Holy Counselling with Father Geoffrey Bottoms. He's very thorough and sometimes stays over night in the vestry.
Anyway, it all started a couple of years ago now when our Math came back from the shop with a finger of fudge! Hell and damnation!! A finger of what?? Shield thine eyes oh vulnerable child of God!! Luckily, I managed to wrestle him to the ground and remove the offending finger.
I was forced to go around his friends parents the other month and gave them a gobful from St Trinians chapter 4 of the Holy book.
My beloved son was asked by his friends mother whether or not he preferred a hot sausage or a ham shank for tea. Then, for supper, she invited him for hot crumpet and fish fingers!
She needs locking up! Curse this diseased witch and never let her cold, poisoned breast enter the mouths of our babes.
The final straw came Friday week when our little scamp came home clutching a menu for school dinners the following week.
Having read the blasphemous rantings of Satan himself we beat ourselves with leather straps and pinched each other just under the arm until the pain made us forget what we had just read.
Starters was cock a leakie soup followed by ray knobs in a creamy sauce. Pudding was a cream horn followed by a blue veiny cheese and water biscuits. Oh Christ, Mary and Joseph!
Breakfast is banned in our house aside from a frugal bowl of Quakers.
Co - co pops are racist. Sugar puffs are homophobic and chrunchy nuts are just plain filth.
Anyway, got to go, Father Bottoms has just arrived to cleanse our Matham. He's brought a lovely, homemade cottaging pie and a puff pastry with squirty cream for afters.
Amen.
Jehovah Jones
Well Jehovah, it must be a relief to get all that off your chest! I was seriously tempted not to print this over-zealous nonsense,but in terms of balance it is important that readers are aware of exactly what extreme, moronic thoughts are out there and how we should react to them. Whilst normally a paragon of moderate views, i must admit you have touched a nerve here, and i may be feeling a tad hormonal today. I have therefore been in touch with a contact i have in secret government circles who leads a little-known department affectionaly named 'The Cleansing and Clearance Clan'. They normally remain low-key, but every now and then love to party.They can visit your home in the middle of the night to purge you and your loved ones of all evil thoughts. They travel on horseback and look distinctive in their white hoodies and dressing gowns, and they love nothing better than an old fashioned sing-song and roasting a few spuddies in a roaring fire. You'll find yourself amending your vi
ews in no time at all once you're living in a box behind Argos.
Good luck with the preaching.
Dreary.x
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