Dear Dreary.
I was so excited about going on holiday the other week I nearly weed my self.
Imagine my disappointment when they refused to let me on a plane with the lame excuse that I needed to get a new passport as the picture of the one I had didn't 't look like me. 'I'm sorry
sir, but of coarse it's me'! Those dimples, those chubby little cheeks, that wry, innocent smile.
Even the fact that it was black and white and I'm in colour, I could still see a likeness.
I know it was thirty years ago but you can't mistake those big blue eyes and those cute curls!
I can't afford a new one. I want to go on holiday!!!!!
Dick Turpitz.
Thank you Dick, or should i call you 'anon'?
Sometimes i receive letters where,on the face of it, the problem appears trivial, like this one. It pays to look a little deeper here to find the REAL reason for contacting me. That will be why you mention that you nearly weed yourself and why the name you thought of was Dick. Incotinence is not the easiest topic to discuss, in fact it stinks. Sufferers often feel like the bottom has fallen out of their world ( or is that the other way round?) and soiling yourself in public can leave an indellible stain on your character as well as your pants. You will find that people will just take the piss if you pee yourself, and you will feel like you're just treading water all the time. So, you need to grasp the problem with both hands (especially in public), fit a new washer on that dripping tap, and never bend down suddenly. Fit a butt plug if the symptoms are severe but never for longer than 24 hours or you risk explosion. Oh and keep the window op
en. D.
Thursday 23 August 2012
Dear Dreary.
PLEASE SEND HELP!! I am sending this message by pigeon and simply hope that it reaches you quickly as I don't think I'll survive much longer. I was abducted by a militant order of nuns whilst visiting Salzburg to take part in the annual choir festival, and then sold as a slave to a well known Austrian politician named Von Krapp who has a secluded mansion high in the Austrian Alps. He keeps me against my will so that i can act as governess to his obnoxious children and teach them to sing well enough to take part in next year's festival. But how I now hate the sound of music. Would you believe, he even
employs guards kitted out in nazi uniforms to make sure I don't try to escape. The hills are alive with them. At night I am strapped to the bed and force-fed Von Krapp's smoked Austrian sausage. Apart from this, they just feed give me tea, a drink with jam and bread. I am forced to wear a tag if the children wish to play in the grounds and severley beaten and gang-raped by the guards if I step out of line. The oldest child, who is sixteen going on seventeen, even lets her postman boyfriend have a go. Now there's idle vice-talk of them letting me be abused by a lonely goatherd. My only chance of escape would be to climb every mountain between here and Germany, but I am so weak I know I would never make it. It's too far, a long long way to run. So long, farewell. I hope this reaches you in time.
Please come quick!
Maria, somewhere in Austria.
My dear Maria.
How do you solve this problem?
It's time to say so long ,farewell to these Von Krapps. You're going to have to disguise yourself as another musical film star. Have you got a motorbike? In The Great Escape The Musical, Steve The Queen slips one past Fritz with ease. In Von Ryans National Express The Musical you could disguise yourself as ol' blue eyes himself dressed like Henry Fonda in The Battle of Midway, The Musical, running after a bus. Can't afford a train in the budget, but don't let Harry Hun stop you dead in your tracks. Frank spoilt the whole film for me, missing that train, being such a pansy!
Your best bet would be to dress as a Zulu warrior woman out of Zulu, The Musical. You could dress up in just a skimpy loin cloth with a few beads hanging between your bazookas carrying a little spear. What would look nice would be to wear a jacket like Micheal Caine had with all the buttons undone so we can still see your jubblies. Then, borrow the vicars bike and ride like the wind to the nearest train station and get a one way ticket to Blackpool North.
You could get a job in Chuckle Brothers The Musical.
Thinking about it though, i'd stay where you are. Dressed as a nun, all that kinky German gear lying around? Phwoar!!!!!
Dreary. x
PLEASE SEND HELP!! I am sending this message by pigeon and simply hope that it reaches you quickly as I don't think I'll survive much longer. I was abducted by a militant order of nuns whilst visiting Salzburg to take part in the annual choir festival, and then sold as a slave to a well known Austrian politician named Von Krapp who has a secluded mansion high in the Austrian Alps. He keeps me against my will so that i can act as governess to his obnoxious children and teach them to sing well enough to take part in next year's festival. But how I now hate the sound of music. Would you believe, he even
employs guards kitted out in nazi uniforms to make sure I don't try to escape. The hills are alive with them. At night I am strapped to the bed and force-fed Von Krapp's smoked Austrian sausage. Apart from this, they just feed give me tea, a drink with jam and bread. I am forced to wear a tag if the children wish to play in the grounds and severley beaten and gang-raped by the guards if I step out of line. The oldest child, who is sixteen going on seventeen, even lets her postman boyfriend have a go. Now there's idle vice-talk of them letting me be abused by a lonely goatherd. My only chance of escape would be to climb every mountain between here and Germany, but I am so weak I know I would never make it. It's too far, a long long way to run. So long, farewell. I hope this reaches you in time.
Please come quick!
Maria, somewhere in Austria.
My dear Maria.
How do you solve this problem?
It's time to say so long ,farewell to these Von Krapps. You're going to have to disguise yourself as another musical film star. Have you got a motorbike? In The Great Escape The Musical, Steve The Queen slips one past Fritz with ease. In Von Ryans National Express The Musical you could disguise yourself as ol' blue eyes himself dressed like Henry Fonda in The Battle of Midway, The Musical, running after a bus. Can't afford a train in the budget, but don't let Harry Hun stop you dead in your tracks. Frank spoilt the whole film for me, missing that train, being such a pansy!
Your best bet would be to dress as a Zulu warrior woman out of Zulu, The Musical. You could dress up in just a skimpy loin cloth with a few beads hanging between your bazookas carrying a little spear. What would look nice would be to wear a jacket like Micheal Caine had with all the buttons undone so we can still see your jubblies. Then, borrow the vicars bike and ride like the wind to the nearest train station and get a one way ticket to Blackpool North.
You could get a job in Chuckle Brothers The Musical.
Thinking about it though, i'd stay where you are. Dressed as a nun, all that kinky German gear lying around? Phwoar!!!!!
Dreary. x
Wednesday 22 August 2012
Dear Dreary.
I don't actually have a problem. My life is perfect and I am completely without fault. It strikes me however that it's you who has the problem you nosy, prying busy body!
It's disgusting the way you finger your way through other people's misery. Why don't you
finger yourself for a change?!
My giraffe, Darren, killed himself because of you. He wrote in once telling you he wanted to be a hen but you just laughed in his face and told him that it's a stupid name for a hen and that if he did lay an egg from that height he could potentially kill someone.
How do you sleep at night?
On your own I bet!
Johnny Morris,
Leamington.
Johnny. Was i right or was i right? Giraffe? Hen? And i thought you called yourself an expert? It's no good trying to blame ME for your mental state, i was just offering a little advice. I see now that my softly softly approach to your problem has not helped as much as i had intended, but it is always difficult to gauge somebody's true mental state without meeting them in the flesh. I won't make that mistake again. So, fruitbat, still talking to the animals? Still making up those ridiculous animal accents you worthless piece of elephant dung? How is the new tv series going? That's right Johnny, there's been no new series for thirty wasted years, has there, loser? Your imaginary alter-ego Dolittle has turned out to be strangely appropriate, as you've been doing VERY frigging little now for decades. If someone told me you had actually died ages ago i honestly could not say i had missed you. And i should imagine the animals feel the same way. Why would they want to be looked after by som
e looney tune, overtly gay paedo keeper with voices in his head? Bet you even bought the hat in Whipsnade souvenir shop didn't you ,shit-shoveller? You are the ultimate example of a washed-up,pointless, has-been. Go stick your bonce up a hippo's arse. And stay up wind of me please. Dreary. ps : Dear friend, if you find this service has helped you, please be kind enough to post a comment on my feedback wall, available at www.ilovedreary.co.uk.
I don't actually have a problem. My life is perfect and I am completely without fault. It strikes me however that it's you who has the problem you nosy, prying busy body!
It's disgusting the way you finger your way through other people's misery. Why don't you
finger yourself for a change?!
My giraffe, Darren, killed himself because of you. He wrote in once telling you he wanted to be a hen but you just laughed in his face and told him that it's a stupid name for a hen and that if he did lay an egg from that height he could potentially kill someone.
How do you sleep at night?
On your own I bet!
Johnny Morris,
Leamington.
Johnny. Was i right or was i right? Giraffe? Hen? And i thought you called yourself an expert? It's no good trying to blame ME for your mental state, i was just offering a little advice. I see now that my softly softly approach to your problem has not helped as much as i had intended, but it is always difficult to gauge somebody's true mental state without meeting them in the flesh. I won't make that mistake again. So, fruitbat, still talking to the animals? Still making up those ridiculous animal accents you worthless piece of elephant dung? How is the new tv series going? That's right Johnny, there's been no new series for thirty wasted years, has there, loser? Your imaginary alter-ego Dolittle has turned out to be strangely appropriate, as you've been doing VERY frigging little now for decades. If someone told me you had actually died ages ago i honestly could not say i had missed you. And i should imagine the animals feel the same way. Why would they want to be looked after by som
e looney tune, overtly gay paedo keeper with voices in his head? Bet you even bought the hat in Whipsnade souvenir shop didn't you ,shit-shoveller? You are the ultimate example of a washed-up,pointless, has-been. Go stick your bonce up a hippo's arse. And stay up wind of me please. Dreary. ps : Dear friend, if you find this service has helped you, please be kind enough to post a comment on my feedback wall, available at www.ilovedreary.co.uk.
Dear Dreary.
The job market is certainly at it's worst for many decades and I'm feeling the pinch like the rest of us.
I can't find a job for love nor money and hope you can help.
I used to be the bloke who played the drum in all the old war films especially when the Germans were about. They used to employ blokes in the war to follow the soldiers about giving that, de de de de de, wherever they went. Gerry liked it as it gave a cool, menacing ambiance to proceedings.
Before getting a job in the film industry after the war, I was employed by Adolf himself as his own personal drummer. I'd be on a battlement one minute, back of a tank the next
before finding myself leaping out of a Dornier into resistance infested France whilst all the time banging my little drum....de,de,de,de,de......de,de,de,de,de.....
He sacked me after I got a little tipsy one night and started banging my drum, de,de,de,de,de, outside his bedroom door as he was trying to get it on with Eva. Apparently there was a time and a place.
Anyway, my talents were spotted by a young Spike Milligan at a party after the fall of Tobruk. He thought I'd sound great on the big screen and the royalties I could rake in could be enormous as I'd written it all myself, de,de,de,de,de.....
Eagles Dare, Great Escape, Colditz, I was loaded. But, as the war film started losing favour and my hands were tired what with all that drumming I ended up with nothing.
Please help me knock one out, one last time.
Buddy Reich.
Dear Buddy. Much as i admire your spunk, i really cannot advocate you continuing to work in today's climate. How old must you be? It's time for you to stand down and give today's generation of unemployable scumbags a chance. Maybe a new Keith Moon or Ringo can be discovered. What i can do is pass on contact details for Drumbeat, a self-help group that rallies round elderly folk who are in need of a new pastime or hobby. You certainly fit the bill for their marching band which often plays at garden fetes and festivals. Secretary Louis 'Snatchmo' Armstrong tells me that members bring in their instruments, but all are sufficiently experienced to then swap around. That way you have the chance to say experience having a fiddle with Mrs. Smith's maraccas or even have a blow on old Mr Johnson's french horn. I'm sure your snare and cymbals will be of interest to the ladies, and i am told that miss Tibbs loves nothing more than having a gentleman finger her piccolo. Sounds like this will keep
you out of mischief for a while and should also help to keep your pecker up. Enjoy. D. ps : did i mention that they play totally in the nude?
The job market is certainly at it's worst for many decades and I'm feeling the pinch like the rest of us.
I can't find a job for love nor money and hope you can help.
I used to be the bloke who played the drum in all the old war films especially when the Germans were about. They used to employ blokes in the war to follow the soldiers about giving that, de de de de de, wherever they went. Gerry liked it as it gave a cool, menacing ambiance to proceedings.
Before getting a job in the film industry after the war, I was employed by Adolf himself as his own personal drummer. I'd be on a battlement one minute, back of a tank the next
before finding myself leaping out of a Dornier into resistance infested France whilst all the time banging my little drum....de,de,de,de,de......de,de,de,de,de.....
He sacked me after I got a little tipsy one night and started banging my drum, de,de,de,de,de, outside his bedroom door as he was trying to get it on with Eva. Apparently there was a time and a place.
Anyway, my talents were spotted by a young Spike Milligan at a party after the fall of Tobruk. He thought I'd sound great on the big screen and the royalties I could rake in could be enormous as I'd written it all myself, de,de,de,de,de.....
Eagles Dare, Great Escape, Colditz, I was loaded. But, as the war film started losing favour and my hands were tired what with all that drumming I ended up with nothing.
Please help me knock one out, one last time.
Buddy Reich.
Dear Buddy. Much as i admire your spunk, i really cannot advocate you continuing to work in today's climate. How old must you be? It's time for you to stand down and give today's generation of unemployable scumbags a chance. Maybe a new Keith Moon or Ringo can be discovered. What i can do is pass on contact details for Drumbeat, a self-help group that rallies round elderly folk who are in need of a new pastime or hobby. You certainly fit the bill for their marching band which often plays at garden fetes and festivals. Secretary Louis 'Snatchmo' Armstrong tells me that members bring in their instruments, but all are sufficiently experienced to then swap around. That way you have the chance to say experience having a fiddle with Mrs. Smith's maraccas or even have a blow on old Mr Johnson's french horn. I'm sure your snare and cymbals will be of interest to the ladies, and i am told that miss Tibbs loves nothing more than having a gentleman finger her piccolo. Sounds like this will keep
you out of mischief for a while and should also help to keep your pecker up. Enjoy. D. ps : did i mention that they play totally in the nude?
Tuesday 14 August 2012
Dear Dreary.
Have you ever wondered why we sometimes use the word 'bird' as slang when describing a woman? This expression,a vivid if somewhat lazy comparison, has its roots as far back as the Roman occupation and its not difficult to see why. At first glance one might see the likeness between human and flying,feathery friend as one of beauty. Both are often beguiling, captivating,appealing,even entertaining. There are endless colours and varieties, and either is capable of making one's heart soar at any given moment, enough to make one instantly dedicate one's life to
their wellbeing and longevity. But they also, of course, have a dark side. Both can be over protective of their young, violently territorial, and capable of mood swings that go off the scale. My own little bird of paradise was especially guilty of this. She was a gorgeous, enthralling specimen, a joy to observe. The countless happy hours i spent, secretly studying her every move in her caged,unclothed splendour,her so frustrated that i had clipped her wings. She'd agree to anything for a few scraps of food, and, i must admit, i abused her trust and accessed my pleasure more than once before i granted her release into the garden. She's just to the left of the apple tree, under the azaleas. I miss her terribly and often just stare at her remains. Do you think there's another as beautiful out there for me?
Yours,
Prof. Albert Ross, Sea-bird Behaviourist by Royal Appointment to Her Majesty,
Fraggle Rock.
Dear Prof. Ross.
I am to assume that your little bird of paradise was tiny. Following on from this deduction, if, as you say, you had carnal pleasure with this bird, then I am further to assume that you have an unusually small tinky. Therefore, I would suggest that your little slice of paradise died laughing.
I bet it's not the first time you've been laughed out of the bedroom is it Professor? Where have you hidden their remains eh? Under the lupins? In the vegetable patch perhaps?
The next bird of paradise you'll see is called Ethel. She's my mate and lives around the corner from you. She's just won gold at the Olympics for the shot put. By the time she's finished with you you'll be able to join her ex husband and enter the cocks less pairs Olympic rowing event. You might even come first. But what's new?
Dreary. x
Have you ever wondered why we sometimes use the word 'bird' as slang when describing a woman? This expression,a vivid if somewhat lazy comparison, has its roots as far back as the Roman occupation and its not difficult to see why. At first glance one might see the likeness between human and flying,feathery friend as one of beauty. Both are often beguiling, captivating,appealing,even entertaining. There are endless colours and varieties, and either is capable of making one's heart soar at any given moment, enough to make one instantly dedicate one's life to
their wellbeing and longevity. But they also, of course, have a dark side. Both can be over protective of their young, violently territorial, and capable of mood swings that go off the scale. My own little bird of paradise was especially guilty of this. She was a gorgeous, enthralling specimen, a joy to observe. The countless happy hours i spent, secretly studying her every move in her caged,unclothed splendour,her so frustrated that i had clipped her wings. She'd agree to anything for a few scraps of food, and, i must admit, i abused her trust and accessed my pleasure more than once before i granted her release into the garden. She's just to the left of the apple tree, under the azaleas. I miss her terribly and often just stare at her remains. Do you think there's another as beautiful out there for me?
Yours,
Prof. Albert Ross, Sea-bird Behaviourist by Royal Appointment to Her Majesty,
Fraggle Rock.
Dear Prof. Ross.
I am to assume that your little bird of paradise was tiny. Following on from this deduction, if, as you say, you had carnal pleasure with this bird, then I am further to assume that you have an unusually small tinky. Therefore, I would suggest that your little slice of paradise died laughing.
I bet it's not the first time you've been laughed out of the bedroom is it Professor? Where have you hidden their remains eh? Under the lupins? In the vegetable patch perhaps?
The next bird of paradise you'll see is called Ethel. She's my mate and lives around the corner from you. She's just won gold at the Olympics for the shot put. By the time she's finished with you you'll be able to join her ex husband and enter the cocks less pairs Olympic rowing event. You might even come first. But what's new?
Dreary. x
Dear Dreary.
PLEASE SEND HELP!! I am sending this message by pigeon and simply hope that it reaches you quickly as I don't think I'll survive much longer. I was abducted by a militant order of nuns whilst visiting Salzburg to take part in the annual choir festival, and then sold as a slave to a well known Austrian politician named Von Krapp who has a secluded mansion high in the Austrian Alps. He keeps me against my will so that i can act as governess to his obnoxious children and teach them to sing well enough to take part in next year's festival. But how I now hate the sound of music. Would you believe, he even
employs guards kitted out in nazi uniforms to make sure I don't try to escape. The hills are alive with them. At night I am strapped to the bed and force-fed Von Krapp's smoked Austrian sausage. Apart from this, they just feed give me tea,a drink with jam and bread. I am forced to wear a tag if the children wish to play in the grounds and severely beaten and gang-raped by the guards if I step out of line. The oldest child, who is sixteen going on seventeen, even lets her postman boyfriend have a go. Now there's idle vice-talk of them letting me be abused by a lonely goatherd. My only chance of escape would be to climb every mountain between here and Germany, but I am so weak I know I would never make it. It's too far, a long long way to run.
So long, farewell. I hope this reaches you in time. Please come quick!
Maria, somewhere in Austria.
My dear Maria.
How do you solve this problem?
It's time to say so long, farewell to these Von Krapps. You're going to have to disguise yourself as another musical film star. Have you got a motorbike? In The Great Escape The Musical, Steve The Queen slips one past Fritz with ease. In Von Ryans National Express The Musical you could disguise yourself as ol' blue eyes himself dressed like Henry Fonda in The Battle of Midway, The Musical, running after a bus. Can't afford a train in the budget, but don't let Harry Hun stop you dead in your tracks. Frank spoilt the whole film for me, missing that train, being such a pansy!
Your best bet would be to dress as a Zulu warrior woman out of Zulu, The Musical. You could dress up in just a skimpy loin cloth with a few beads hanging between your bazookas carrying a little spear. What would look nice would be to wear a jacket like Micheal Caine had with all the buttons undone so we can still see your jubblies. Then, borrow the vicars bike and ride like the wind to the nearest train station and get a one way ticket to Blackpool North.
You could get a job in Chuckle Brothers The Musical.
Thinking about it though, i'd stay where you are. Dressed as a nun, all that kinky German gear lying around? Phwoar!!!!!
Dreary. x
PLEASE SEND HELP!! I am sending this message by pigeon and simply hope that it reaches you quickly as I don't think I'll survive much longer. I was abducted by a militant order of nuns whilst visiting Salzburg to take part in the annual choir festival, and then sold as a slave to a well known Austrian politician named Von Krapp who has a secluded mansion high in the Austrian Alps. He keeps me against my will so that i can act as governess to his obnoxious children and teach them to sing well enough to take part in next year's festival. But how I now hate the sound of music. Would you believe, he even
employs guards kitted out in nazi uniforms to make sure I don't try to escape. The hills are alive with them. At night I am strapped to the bed and force-fed Von Krapp's smoked Austrian sausage. Apart from this, they just feed give me tea,a drink with jam and bread. I am forced to wear a tag if the children wish to play in the grounds and severely beaten and gang-raped by the guards if I step out of line. The oldest child, who is sixteen going on seventeen, even lets her postman boyfriend have a go. Now there's idle vice-talk of them letting me be abused by a lonely goatherd. My only chance of escape would be to climb every mountain between here and Germany, but I am so weak I know I would never make it. It's too far, a long long way to run.
So long, farewell. I hope this reaches you in time. Please come quick!
Maria, somewhere in Austria.
My dear Maria.
How do you solve this problem?
It's time to say so long, farewell to these Von Krapps. You're going to have to disguise yourself as another musical film star. Have you got a motorbike? In The Great Escape The Musical, Steve The Queen slips one past Fritz with ease. In Von Ryans National Express The Musical you could disguise yourself as ol' blue eyes himself dressed like Henry Fonda in The Battle of Midway, The Musical, running after a bus. Can't afford a train in the budget, but don't let Harry Hun stop you dead in your tracks. Frank spoilt the whole film for me, missing that train, being such a pansy!
Your best bet would be to dress as a Zulu warrior woman out of Zulu, The Musical. You could dress up in just a skimpy loin cloth with a few beads hanging between your bazookas carrying a little spear. What would look nice would be to wear a jacket like Micheal Caine had with all the buttons undone so we can still see your jubblies. Then, borrow the vicars bike and ride like the wind to the nearest train station and get a one way ticket to Blackpool North.
You could get a job in Chuckle Brothers The Musical.
Thinking about it though, i'd stay where you are. Dressed as a nun, all that kinky German gear lying around? Phwoar!!!!!
Dreary. x
Sunday 12 August 2012
Dear Dreary.
My wife often smells of fish when she comes home at night. But she's a lovely lass and she's always eager to please. Only last night she rinsed my cockles under the tap in the
kitchen before rubbing my hard muscles with her gentle hands.
Our Tracy caught crabs last weekend, which certainly gave people a talking point in the village.
My wife's battered ring has been popular with the lads of the rugby union 11 for years now but time has begun to take it's toll.
Any of your readers want to buy a chippy?
Cap'n. Cod.
Fleetwood.
Good luck with that Cap'n.
Funny you mentioning Fleetwood. I was up there recently for the funeral of a distant cousin. Used to visit on day trips during holidays in Blackpool, going up there on the old trams. Plenty of fresh air but not much fun, I remember.
My cousins used to sell their botties to perverts under the pier. It was sordid and nasty, much like the place is now. I would sit on the beach and stare at the beauty of the Cumbrian fells across the bay, listening to the childrens' giggles and the paedos' groans going on around me.
Even then I tried to give them advice on safe sex , but a salty trawlerman tried to give me his fisherman's friend and I ran off to mummy.
One thing the place does have of course is a reputation for good fish and chips, and your missus seems to be able to land a catch or two, so why not add to the nation's black economy by starting up your own kind of fish farm in the spare bedroom above the chippy.
Tell her to get her fishnets on and put a sign in the window advertising her services. It would have to be easy for the locals to understand,something like
''Fleetwood Fish Special. £20.
Crunchy Ocean Pie £25. Fish Fingers £5. Ask for Stacey.'' Perhaps you could invite me up for old times sake. D.
My wife often smells of fish when she comes home at night. But she's a lovely lass and she's always eager to please. Only last night she rinsed my cockles under the tap in the
kitchen before rubbing my hard muscles with her gentle hands.
Our Tracy caught crabs last weekend, which certainly gave people a talking point in the village.
My wife's battered ring has been popular with the lads of the rugby union 11 for years now but time has begun to take it's toll.
Any of your readers want to buy a chippy?
Cap'n. Cod.
Fleetwood.
Good luck with that Cap'n.
Funny you mentioning Fleetwood. I was up there recently for the funeral of a distant cousin. Used to visit on day trips during holidays in Blackpool, going up there on the old trams. Plenty of fresh air but not much fun, I remember.
My cousins used to sell their botties to perverts under the pier. It was sordid and nasty, much like the place is now. I would sit on the beach and stare at the beauty of the Cumbrian fells across the bay, listening to the childrens' giggles and the paedos' groans going on around me.
Even then I tried to give them advice on safe sex , but a salty trawlerman tried to give me his fisherman's friend and I ran off to mummy.
One thing the place does have of course is a reputation for good fish and chips, and your missus seems to be able to land a catch or two, so why not add to the nation's black economy by starting up your own kind of fish farm in the spare bedroom above the chippy.
Tell her to get her fishnets on and put a sign in the window advertising her services. It would have to be easy for the locals to understand,something like
''Fleetwood Fish Special. £20.
Crunchy Ocean Pie £25. Fish Fingers £5. Ask for Stacey.'' Perhaps you could invite me up for old times sake. D.
Thursday 9 August 2012
Dear Dreary.
Bear with me on this one. My Alpaca Timothy seems to have a problem. Take him to a vet I hear you say; well i don't think it's as simple as that Dreary. Let me explain. It all started on the day I had decided to go fishing. I was sat on the riverbank, my rod dangling in the reedbeds, when i noticed Timothy doing exactly the same thing from the opposite bank. Then the other day i was merrily minding my own business, taking a dump in the corner of the lower field, when Timmy trundled over and did exactly the same thing. I assumed at first that this was merely a coincidence, but then the following day i was
sunbathing under the old beech tree in the paddock when he also came over, lay back, legs akimbo, luxuriating like myself in the splendour of having the warm sun on his tackle. What surprised me was his ability to masturbate. At least i have hands! But why would he want to copy my actions all the time? Is he just lonely? Can animals have mental health issues? Soon after, i allowed my two favourite ewes, Kylie and Brittany, into the field to graze. Well, to cut a long and messy story short, boys will be boys Dreary! There's no excuse i know, but just let me know if you'd be interested in seeing the photos. I have even discovered that becoming so close to Timothy has inspired me to speak Alpacan and that he and I can hold a conversation! It's brilliant to be able to discuss the previous night's telly with him or what he wants to do at the weekend. By the way, regarding the matter i wrote to you about a while back, you'll no doubt be pleased to know that i am now down to 10 pints of Old Rosie a day, and the doc reckons that the illusions should soon become less frequent and that i may yet avoid the stigma of the psychie ward. What do you think?
Yours, Dr.Doodoodoodedadada-Little, Funny Farm, Pratts Bottom.
Dr Do.
To be honest you're better off sticking to Old Rosie and passing the time of day with your farm yard friends. It beats living in the real world.
When I lived out in India as a child, back in the days of the Raj, I often remember taking granddads 'firewater' down the bottom of the garden where he lived with a family of antelope. I'd spend hours watching them chase each other, talking about the periodic table and hiding from space men.
Then I'd return to the house to go upstairs onto the roof to pass old granny her sour mash bourbon and watch her fly with the vultures discussing amongst other things, crop rotation and the invention of the spinning Jenny.
Beats writing this shit for a living.
Dreary. x
Thanks dear, i was coming to that cmclusion anymay to be honest. Never knew they had antelope in India though. Interesting. Are you sure they were'nt Bombay Onyx?
Bear with me on this one. My Alpaca Timothy seems to have a problem. Take him to a vet I hear you say; well i don't think it's as simple as that Dreary. Let me explain. It all started on the day I had decided to go fishing. I was sat on the riverbank, my rod dangling in the reedbeds, when i noticed Timothy doing exactly the same thing from the opposite bank. Then the other day i was merrily minding my own business, taking a dump in the corner of the lower field, when Timmy trundled over and did exactly the same thing. I assumed at first that this was merely a coincidence, but then the following day i was
sunbathing under the old beech tree in the paddock when he also came over, lay back, legs akimbo, luxuriating like myself in the splendour of having the warm sun on his tackle. What surprised me was his ability to masturbate. At least i have hands! But why would he want to copy my actions all the time? Is he just lonely? Can animals have mental health issues? Soon after, i allowed my two favourite ewes, Kylie and Brittany, into the field to graze. Well, to cut a long and messy story short, boys will be boys Dreary! There's no excuse i know, but just let me know if you'd be interested in seeing the photos. I have even discovered that becoming so close to Timothy has inspired me to speak Alpacan and that he and I can hold a conversation! It's brilliant to be able to discuss the previous night's telly with him or what he wants to do at the weekend. By the way, regarding the matter i wrote to you about a while back, you'll no doubt be pleased to know that i am now down to 10 pints of Old Rosie a day, and the doc reckons that the illusions should soon become less frequent and that i may yet avoid the stigma of the psychie ward. What do you think?
Yours, Dr.Doodoodoodedadada-Little, Funny Farm, Pratts Bottom.
Dr Do.
To be honest you're better off sticking to Old Rosie and passing the time of day with your farm yard friends. It beats living in the real world.
When I lived out in India as a child, back in the days of the Raj, I often remember taking granddads 'firewater' down the bottom of the garden where he lived with a family of antelope. I'd spend hours watching them chase each other, talking about the periodic table and hiding from space men.
Then I'd return to the house to go upstairs onto the roof to pass old granny her sour mash bourbon and watch her fly with the vultures discussing amongst other things, crop rotation and the invention of the spinning Jenny.
Beats writing this shit for a living.
Dreary. x
Thanks dear, i was coming to that cmclusion anymay to be honest. Never knew they had antelope in India though. Interesting. Are you sure they were'nt Bombay Onyx?
Wednesday 8 August 2012
Dear Dreary.
I hope you don't mind me getting in touch. I am in London at the moment as an Olympic competitor. I am team captain of the Nigerian Onanism squad taking part in the games,and as such, expected to lead from the front and set an upstanding example at all times. I have fulfilled my duties without fail for many years. I am the current olympic champion in both the time trials and the freestyle lob, and i am recognised world-wide as a leading player in the elite members club. My nickname, ''Black Rod '', is, i am often told, well deserved, and i can hit a bullseye from ten paces. My sperm content has been
analysed as being of the highest calibre on several occasions. Suddenly, however, with the grand opening and the initial heats of synchronised jiz-off only a week away, there's a problem. I appear to have lost my mojo. I have not changed my warm up routine or my diet, and i am still getting a full eight hours sleep at night. I follow team instructions to the letter : go to bed thinking about bananas, straight from bed to competition venue (no hand contact en route), watch repeat of Nigella's Kitchen (chocolate cake episode), lie in darkened room and imagine a naked Bridgette Bardot singing ''Step Inside Love'' with the voice of Karen Carpenter, watch the film of the destruction of several factory chimneys in reverse, and finally, watch the episode of The Good Life when Felicity Kendall rolls around naked in mud then hoses herself down whilst easing a marrow into herself. But alas, nothing. No signs of life down there. Not a sausage. I have even got my girlfriend back home to whisper sweet nothings to me down the phone but again, the trigger is refusing to be pulled. Not a twitch. I face the prospect of returning home in shame,my career as a professional masturbator in tatters. I feel like i am completely losing my grip and that matters are being taken out of my hands. As a competitor, performance-enhancing drugs of any type are a no-no, but is there anything else you can suggest to get me lifting the quilt again quickly?
Money is not a problem.
Arthur J. Ranke, Olympic Village,Stratford,East London.
Dear Arthur.
I'm sure you love your old chap very much and would put 'him' first before yourself.
The stresses and strains of a modern Olympic athlete are obviously beginning to take their toll. I guess you've been training from a young age? Perhaps starting with the underwear section of the Freemans catalogue? Pumping hand over fist thinking about your friends mum in her platex girdle making jam sandwiches in the kitchen. And you will have been training six hours a day plus? In the queue at Tesco, at the pictures, on the bus on the way home and possibly at the dinner table.
Your little mate is going to feel used, neglected perhaps and I think it's about time you gave him a life. Treat him as an equal and give him time to himself.
Give him an education. I'm sure he's enjoyed looking at 'pictures' over the years but teach him to read and write. You never know, he could write a number one best seller one day.
Let him travel, see a little of the world by himself. He could write his first postcard to you! Imagine that. You'd be so proud.
You could take him to the theatre, send him to high school and even take his driving test.
Remember, if your winky had been a dog then it would be classed as mistreated. Strangling the poor beggar at every opportunity. I'm surprised if it let's you touch it now let alone anyone else!
Just sever all ties with him, let him go and spread his wings. It'll do him good and you might be not so cocky in the future.
Dreary. x
I hope you don't mind me getting in touch. I am in London at the moment as an Olympic competitor. I am team captain of the Nigerian Onanism squad taking part in the games,and as such, expected to lead from the front and set an upstanding example at all times. I have fulfilled my duties without fail for many years. I am the current olympic champion in both the time trials and the freestyle lob, and i am recognised world-wide as a leading player in the elite members club. My nickname, ''Black Rod '', is, i am often told, well deserved, and i can hit a bullseye from ten paces. My sperm content has been
analysed as being of the highest calibre on several occasions. Suddenly, however, with the grand opening and the initial heats of synchronised jiz-off only a week away, there's a problem. I appear to have lost my mojo. I have not changed my warm up routine or my diet, and i am still getting a full eight hours sleep at night. I follow team instructions to the letter : go to bed thinking about bananas, straight from bed to competition venue (no hand contact en route), watch repeat of Nigella's Kitchen (chocolate cake episode), lie in darkened room and imagine a naked Bridgette Bardot singing ''Step Inside Love'' with the voice of Karen Carpenter, watch the film of the destruction of several factory chimneys in reverse, and finally, watch the episode of The Good Life when Felicity Kendall rolls around naked in mud then hoses herself down whilst easing a marrow into herself. But alas, nothing. No signs of life down there. Not a sausage. I have even got my girlfriend back home to whisper sweet nothings to me down the phone but again, the trigger is refusing to be pulled. Not a twitch. I face the prospect of returning home in shame,my career as a professional masturbator in tatters. I feel like i am completely losing my grip and that matters are being taken out of my hands. As a competitor, performance-enhancing drugs of any type are a no-no, but is there anything else you can suggest to get me lifting the quilt again quickly?
Money is not a problem.
Arthur J. Ranke, Olympic Village,Stratford,East London.
Dear Arthur.
I'm sure you love your old chap very much and would put 'him' first before yourself.
The stresses and strains of a modern Olympic athlete are obviously beginning to take their toll. I guess you've been training from a young age? Perhaps starting with the underwear section of the Freemans catalogue? Pumping hand over fist thinking about your friends mum in her platex girdle making jam sandwiches in the kitchen. And you will have been training six hours a day plus? In the queue at Tesco, at the pictures, on the bus on the way home and possibly at the dinner table.
Your little mate is going to feel used, neglected perhaps and I think it's about time you gave him a life. Treat him as an equal and give him time to himself.
Give him an education. I'm sure he's enjoyed looking at 'pictures' over the years but teach him to read and write. You never know, he could write a number one best seller one day.
Let him travel, see a little of the world by himself. He could write his first postcard to you! Imagine that. You'd be so proud.
You could take him to the theatre, send him to high school and even take his driving test.
Remember, if your winky had been a dog then it would be classed as mistreated. Strangling the poor beggar at every opportunity. I'm surprised if it let's you touch it now let alone anyone else!
Just sever all ties with him, let him go and spread his wings. It'll do him good and you might be not so cocky in the future.
Dreary. x
Dear Dreary.
I'm a man who likes a firm crease. I love holding my balls and rubbing them up and down my thighs before going at it full pelt to give a good, hard delivery.
I especially like to oil my wood to keep it in tip top condition, holding it with both hands, impressing my wife by throwing it over my shoulder.
I'm looking for young boys to share my
passion and live out my fantasies.
I shall groom them to concentrate hard on their stroke and to hit my balls hard all the time, every time.
I'll be coming from the Pavilion end and I fully expect them to take everything I give them. Sometime it's going to hurt but that's the name of the game.
Any youngsters who don't know their googlies from their elbow should get in touch with the M.C.C and ask for Larry Hatchback.
Thanks for that Larry.
It's always heartwarming to hear of people willing to put something back into today's youngsters. My second husband Perry was the secretary of the under sixteens section of the West Cumbrian Highland Games, and spent hours with kids up in the fells and practising Cumbrian wrestling. The stories he used to bring home about introducing young Dickie Fiddles to Craggy End or guiding an inexperienced Patsy Squerm around Nether Crevice. He got on the news once when he single-handidly rescued half a dozen teenage boys lost on High Stack and assisted them hand in hand down to Black Rim where they huddled together in a disused drover's hut in Dante's Hole. He was a hero, and wrongly imprisoned in my view so don't let that put you off. These kids are lucky to have a helping hand as they find their way along life's rocky path. Just make sure they have their boxes fitted correctly. We wouldn't want the little darlings to be harmed, would we?
Regards, Dreary.
I'm a man who likes a firm crease. I love holding my balls and rubbing them up and down my thighs before going at it full pelt to give a good, hard delivery.
I especially like to oil my wood to keep it in tip top condition, holding it with both hands, impressing my wife by throwing it over my shoulder.
I'm looking for young boys to share my
passion and live out my fantasies.
I shall groom them to concentrate hard on their stroke and to hit my balls hard all the time, every time.
I'll be coming from the Pavilion end and I fully expect them to take everything I give them. Sometime it's going to hurt but that's the name of the game.
Any youngsters who don't know their googlies from their elbow should get in touch with the M.C.C and ask for Larry Hatchback.
Thanks for that Larry.
It's always heartwarming to hear of people willing to put something back into today's youngsters. My second husband Perry was the secretary of the under sixteens section of the West Cumbrian Highland Games, and spent hours with kids up in the fells and practising Cumbrian wrestling. The stories he used to bring home about introducing young Dickie Fiddles to Craggy End or guiding an inexperienced Patsy Squerm around Nether Crevice. He got on the news once when he single-handidly rescued half a dozen teenage boys lost on High Stack and assisted them hand in hand down to Black Rim where they huddled together in a disused drover's hut in Dante's Hole. He was a hero, and wrongly imprisoned in my view so don't let that put you off. These kids are lucky to have a helping hand as they find their way along life's rocky path. Just make sure they have their boxes fitted correctly. We wouldn't want the little darlings to be harmed, would we?
Regards, Dreary.
Monday 6 August 2012
Dear Dreary.
Were the Germans sexy in WWII?
Heinz Beenz.
Dear Heinz.
whilst the answer to your question is obviously ''yes'', i have to say i find Kaiser Bill's boys were even sexier. Those massive shiny helmets never fail to make my thoughts drift away to a different type of physical conflict, and those jack boot straps say to me extreme human bondage and multiple pleasure. Which is all rather odd in reality because Germany has both the highest quota of homos and the smallest average penis size in Europe.
Some make a conscious decision to dye their hair a dark colour, black their faces,and fling themselves headfirst out of the closet as a modern day anti-nazi protest. And the chaps are even worse!
The lederhosen industry is breaking all production records and giving itself a good old fashioned slap on the thigh as faggot Fritz demands newer and tighter styles. The population is falling by a staggering 5% a year as a direct result of groin and testicular injuries.
At the current rate the German race will have been completely wiped out by the year 2525. A kind of poetic justice,you could say Heinz.
Dreary. X
Were the Germans sexy in WWII?
Heinz Beenz.
Dear Heinz.
whilst the answer to your question is obviously ''yes'', i have to say i find Kaiser Bill's boys were even sexier. Those massive shiny helmets never fail to make my thoughts drift away to a different type of physical conflict, and those jack boot straps say to me extreme human bondage and multiple pleasure. Which is all rather odd in reality because Germany has both the highest quota of homos and the smallest average penis size in Europe.
Some make a conscious decision to dye their hair a dark colour, black their faces,and fling themselves headfirst out of the closet as a modern day anti-nazi protest. And the chaps are even worse!
The lederhosen industry is breaking all production records and giving itself a good old fashioned slap on the thigh as faggot Fritz demands newer and tighter styles. The population is falling by a staggering 5% a year as a direct result of groin and testicular injuries.
At the current rate the German race will have been completely wiped out by the year 2525. A kind of poetic justice,you could say Heinz.
Dreary. X
Dear Dreary.
Can you help me please?My problem is one of consistency. I can sometimes vary between rock hard and disappointingly soft. There seems to be nothing i can do to achieve a regular,satisfying standard, however much i practice. And the more i worry the worse it gets.
What i do find,however,is that when i'm left to my own devices i can maintain a healthy thickness,but the moment anyone tries to help me it goes all sloppy and i have to start all over again.
Perhaps my wrist action is particularly beneficial in attaining the best results,or maybe i have some sort of mental block when
someone else goes anythere near it and this affects my confidence and performance. It is very frustrating! I have a feeling that this may be a subconcious reaction to a bad experience i had with my uncle Nobby when i was ten. He loved to show me what to do and at what speed to do it,but whenever it was my turn he would always end up trying to do it for me and this put me right off.
He's got a lot to answer for! Is there anything you can suggest that might help me?
My job as a plasterer will be at risk if i am not able to get the correct consistency.
Regards, Phil McCrevice,
Sphincter's Wood,
Legoland.
Dear Phil.
It all reminds me if a friend I used to know in Lower Wiffy many moons ago.
He'd be sat for hours sometime straining like buggery trying to tease the problem out. It was as though his insides would fall out at times.
Other times it would be straight out without him breaking into a sweat. Blink and it was gone.
With the concentration and straining he was always wiping himself which often chaffed and brought him out in a terrible rash.
I used to say, oh, the life of a mathematician! How we laughed.
Don't over egg the pudding, give it a stiff whisk and don't lick the rim afterwards, it's dirty!!!
Dreary. xx
Can you help me please?My problem is one of consistency. I can sometimes vary between rock hard and disappointingly soft. There seems to be nothing i can do to achieve a regular,satisfying standard, however much i practice. And the more i worry the worse it gets.
What i do find,however,is that when i'm left to my own devices i can maintain a healthy thickness,but the moment anyone tries to help me it goes all sloppy and i have to start all over again.
Perhaps my wrist action is particularly beneficial in attaining the best results,or maybe i have some sort of mental block when
someone else goes anythere near it and this affects my confidence and performance. It is very frustrating! I have a feeling that this may be a subconcious reaction to a bad experience i had with my uncle Nobby when i was ten. He loved to show me what to do and at what speed to do it,but whenever it was my turn he would always end up trying to do it for me and this put me right off.
He's got a lot to answer for! Is there anything you can suggest that might help me?
My job as a plasterer will be at risk if i am not able to get the correct consistency.
Regards, Phil McCrevice,
Sphincter's Wood,
Legoland.
Dear Phil.
It all reminds me if a friend I used to know in Lower Wiffy many moons ago.
He'd be sat for hours sometime straining like buggery trying to tease the problem out. It was as though his insides would fall out at times.
Other times it would be straight out without him breaking into a sweat. Blink and it was gone.
With the concentration and straining he was always wiping himself which often chaffed and brought him out in a terrible rash.
I used to say, oh, the life of a mathematician! How we laughed.
Don't over egg the pudding, give it a stiff whisk and don't lick the rim afterwards, it's dirty!!!
Dreary. xx
Dear Dreary.
Forget that Bolt bloke who thinks he's the fastest man alive. My son, Randy's faster than him and not just at running either.
He can lift a packet of penguins off of Tesco shelf and be back in our kitchen in ten seconds flat just as am brewing the tea. If he calls Mr Timpani, the shop keeper turban chops he gets home three seconds faster as Mr T often sets his dog Vesta on him.
He never keeps a girlfriend down. Fastest shag on the estate our Randy. One dip Dick they call him.
He's been joyride champion six years running which we're very proud of. He's only nine.
Anyway, we're giving him the week end off for a party for him as we've just found out he's got his aunty up the spout.
Anyway, he's up for the 400m relay next week passing tellys out of Currys window.
Come and see a true Olimpik champ.
Heather Smalls,
Chertsey
Dear Heather.
Glad to hear little Randy's doing so well for himself.
You and Angelo must be so proud. Is he out yet by the way? You must've been so proud of him becoming the unofficial torchbearer of the London riots last summer. He became the iconic figurehead when he lit that flame and torched DFS, sparking a memorable couple of weeks. The sight of the sweeney doing the steeplechase after him around your estate will linger long in the memory, culminating, sadly, in him being for the high jump. Perhaps he could now focus on Rio 2016 and compete in the heptathlon. This will include such events as the slum marathon, the best grafitti on the jesus statue, the 100 metre beach slap-dash (slapping as many birds' arses as possible),the fastest brazilian waxing of a teenage whore, gang member stab relay, kayaking illegals onto the beach, and the famous 'last man standing' event (partying all night on hardcore drugs whilst injecting your opponent). It will do him good to have an ambition again.
Dreary.
Forget that Bolt bloke who thinks he's the fastest man alive. My son, Randy's faster than him and not just at running either.
He can lift a packet of penguins off of Tesco shelf and be back in our kitchen in ten seconds flat just as am brewing the tea. If he calls Mr Timpani, the shop keeper turban chops he gets home three seconds faster as Mr T often sets his dog Vesta on him.
He never keeps a girlfriend down. Fastest shag on the estate our Randy. One dip Dick they call him.
He's been joyride champion six years running which we're very proud of. He's only nine.
Anyway, we're giving him the week end off for a party for him as we've just found out he's got his aunty up the spout.
Anyway, he's up for the 400m relay next week passing tellys out of Currys window.
Come and see a true Olimpik champ.
Heather Smalls,
Chertsey
Dear Heather.
Glad to hear little Randy's doing so well for himself.
You and Angelo must be so proud. Is he out yet by the way? You must've been so proud of him becoming the unofficial torchbearer of the London riots last summer. He became the iconic figurehead when he lit that flame and torched DFS, sparking a memorable couple of weeks. The sight of the sweeney doing the steeplechase after him around your estate will linger long in the memory, culminating, sadly, in him being for the high jump. Perhaps he could now focus on Rio 2016 and compete in the heptathlon. This will include such events as the slum marathon, the best grafitti on the jesus statue, the 100 metre beach slap-dash (slapping as many birds' arses as possible),the fastest brazilian waxing of a teenage whore, gang member stab relay, kayaking illegals onto the beach, and the famous 'last man standing' event (partying all night on hardcore drugs whilst injecting your opponent). It will do him good to have an ambition again.
Dreary.
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