Dear Dreary.
I feel utterly redundant as a human being and helpless to go anywhere or do anything.
You have to be 16 to ride a moped and 17 to drive a car.
You have to be 14 to see a AA and 18 to see an X.
16 to join the armed forces and 17 to become an au pair. You have to be 18 to vote and 16 to fly an aeroplane solo.
I'm 47.
Why do teenagers have all the fun?
PS Apparently there are no age restrictions in becoming an astronaut!
Lester Grebe.
Upper FluteBarrow. Ipswich.
Get a grip Lester. Half your life is still ahead of you! Take heart from the example of Sir Hilary Bangs, intrepid East Anglian turkey farmer and Antarctic Explorer. He had never left his native Stiffam before the age of 50, but went on to sail singlehanded to South Georgia accompanied by only 2 dozen hybrid Norfolk Blacks in a daring attempt to establish the turkey in the South Americas. All this despite being a cross-dresser and having only one leg since birth and a bit of a sore throat on the day he sailed from Lowestoft. What courage! What determination! What an entrepreneur! A shining light for us all to follow. There is nothing you can't achieve if you set your mind to it!
Love,Dreary.
PS : Hilary's courage never left him, even though the farm failed as it transpired that male turkey's testicles drop off at temperatures of minus twenty, and Hilary lost his other leg when his favourite gingham frock became trapped in the wheels of a passing combine harvester. He ended his days lonely but proud of his efforts, comforted by the sound of mating whales and the occassional penguin fritter.
Wednesday 19 September 2012
Dear Dreary.
I'm chief inspector of the local village police force and our local council is playing merry hell with the way we do things around here.
They've taken the panda car, two bicycles and the Morris mini van that we use to throw villains in and sometimes to transport tables and chairs from the church hall to the village green for the annual fete.
In return, they've given us a selection of old council vehicles to cut costs on tax and fuel.
PC Windsock has been given a milk float, PC Nuts has been given an old bin wagon to put the robbers in and we've even been booted out of the police station and moved into Thowd Truncheon & Trumpet, the local Inn.
We've become a laughing stock. We're hard pushed to catch a blind man with a stick and our new jail is overcrowded as everyone wants a lock in in the Truncheon & Trumpet. The vicar's been arrested three times this week already. Once for preaching naked in his pulpit, once for drinking all of the blood of Christ and pissing in the font at a christening. Talk about wetting the babies head! And once, last night, for playing his pipe organ in full view of Miss Down, the flower arranger.
Please help. I feel they've taken the pea out of my whistle.
DCI Dick Barton.
Dear DCI 'Dead-Eye'.
Local authority cuts are biting hard these days, all you can do is put your case forward to central government. My local council have been reduced to sweeping the streets with the scalps of illegal immigrants, and are now staffing care homes with vagrants and gypsies. Kills two birds, you see. Rubbish collections are now monthly, but if you have a family you can arrange for the council to give you a fox, which will rifle you bins for the smelliest scraps and deposit them elsewhere. All public lavatories have been locked up. Each now has an adapted oildrum outside where the desperate can squat. A drive-in version is sometimes available for wheelchair users. Council tips have closed, so a list of addresses is displayed where rubbish can be deposited. Coincidentally, these are the homes of local sex offenders.
Good luck Dick!
I'm chief inspector of the local village police force and our local council is playing merry hell with the way we do things around here.
They've taken the panda car, two bicycles and the Morris mini van that we use to throw villains in and sometimes to transport tables and chairs from the church hall to the village green for the annual fete.
In return, they've given us a selection of old council vehicles to cut costs on tax and fuel.
PC Windsock has been given a milk float, PC Nuts has been given an old bin wagon to put the robbers in and we've even been booted out of the police station and moved into Thowd Truncheon & Trumpet, the local Inn.
We've become a laughing stock. We're hard pushed to catch a blind man with a stick and our new jail is overcrowded as everyone wants a lock in in the Truncheon & Trumpet. The vicar's been arrested three times this week already. Once for preaching naked in his pulpit, once for drinking all of the blood of Christ and pissing in the font at a christening. Talk about wetting the babies head! And once, last night, for playing his pipe organ in full view of Miss Down, the flower arranger.
Please help. I feel they've taken the pea out of my whistle.
DCI Dick Barton.
Dear DCI 'Dead-Eye'.
Local authority cuts are biting hard these days, all you can do is put your case forward to central government. My local council have been reduced to sweeping the streets with the scalps of illegal immigrants, and are now staffing care homes with vagrants and gypsies. Kills two birds, you see. Rubbish collections are now monthly, but if you have a family you can arrange for the council to give you a fox, which will rifle you bins for the smelliest scraps and deposit them elsewhere. All public lavatories have been locked up. Each now has an adapted oildrum outside where the desperate can squat. A drive-in version is sometimes available for wheelchair users. Council tips have closed, so a list of addresses is displayed where rubbish can be deposited. Coincidentally, these are the homes of local sex offenders.
Good luck Dick!
Dear Dreary.
I cannot live with this any longer. It has eaten away at me for decades now, but the recent 'perormance' by my nemesis at the Olympics has simply left me shaking with rage. How this man could live with himself all this time, and reap fantastic rewards from my misery is almost beyond my comprehension. Let me say this name just the once. McCartney. There i've said it. Idolised and feted around the world, this worthless piece of shit has made my life a misery since 1966. He shamelessly used my name because it happened to fit that moronic, childish tune he wrote. Not only that, the words were totally
as well as idiotic. Surprise, surprise I did in fact NOT keep my face in a jar by the door, nor was i buried along with my name. I reckon the dirty old fucker was stalking me. I am still very much alive and about to make you pay you spineless, cringeworthy specmen who has the face of one of those twatting toads you unfortunately warbled about. Even though the local vic
ar is now a very close friend and a trusted confidante, I would not even consider wasting my life picking up rice in the churchyard after a fucking wedding. What do you take me for shitface? Forty years of hurt will soon be avenged. watch your back, twat. You can't buy MY love. You'll be wishing it was yesterday. Yours, Eleanor Rigby and Father McKenzie, Liverpool.
Dear Eleanor and Father McKenzie.
You're not the only ones wanting revenge over that smarmy, mop top twat.
Yesterday seemed very far away but it's very much today and his troubles are breathing down the back of his underpants.
Jude has finally got out of prison after forty years and is very much looking forward to fire bombing his house again.
The relatives of the sixty four year old terrorised on the Sgt Pepper hit are planning to release pictures of our bastard Beatle performing a sex act over the 64 yr old bus driver.
Recently, a rent boy back in the late sixties, came out to the national papers saying that back in the day Paul couldn't keep his hands off me and his favourite position was giving him a 'honey pie'! My bottoms not been the same since. He never saw any royalties from that song and is looking to sue the knob.
The list is endless.
It's going to be a long and winding road, hopefully leading to Beachy Head.
Dreary. x
I cannot live with this any longer. It has eaten away at me for decades now, but the recent 'perormance' by my nemesis at the Olympics has simply left me shaking with rage. How this man could live with himself all this time, and reap fantastic rewards from my misery is almost beyond my comprehension. Let me say this name just the once. McCartney. There i've said it. Idolised and feted around the world, this worthless piece of shit has made my life a misery since 1966. He shamelessly used my name because it happened to fit that moronic, childish tune he wrote. Not only that, the words were totally
as well as idiotic. Surprise, surprise I did in fact NOT keep my face in a jar by the door, nor was i buried along with my name. I reckon the dirty old fucker was stalking me. I am still very much alive and about to make you pay you spineless, cringeworthy specmen who has the face of one of those twatting toads you unfortunately warbled about. Even though the local vic
ar is now a very close friend and a trusted confidante, I would not even consider wasting my life picking up rice in the churchyard after a fucking wedding. What do you take me for shitface? Forty years of hurt will soon be avenged. watch your back, twat. You can't buy MY love. You'll be wishing it was yesterday. Yours, Eleanor Rigby and Father McKenzie, Liverpool.
Dear Eleanor and Father McKenzie.
You're not the only ones wanting revenge over that smarmy, mop top twat.
Yesterday seemed very far away but it's very much today and his troubles are breathing down the back of his underpants.
Jude has finally got out of prison after forty years and is very much looking forward to fire bombing his house again.
The relatives of the sixty four year old terrorised on the Sgt Pepper hit are planning to release pictures of our bastard Beatle performing a sex act over the 64 yr old bus driver.
Recently, a rent boy back in the late sixties, came out to the national papers saying that back in the day Paul couldn't keep his hands off me and his favourite position was giving him a 'honey pie'! My bottoms not been the same since. He never saw any royalties from that song and is looking to sue the knob.
The list is endless.
It's going to be a long and winding road, hopefully leading to Beachy Head.
Dreary. x
Dear Dreary.
It's happened again. I just can't help myself, what am I going to do? Some days i simply cannot pass anyone in the street without saying a cheery ''morning!'' or ''how are you?'', or smiling at a total stranger. I must stop it. People look at me as though I'm an alien or something. Women usually reply with ''pervert'' or ''weirdo'' and give me an evil stare. Older chaps tend to simply look away, and young lads usually cast some obscenity or other in my direction, not even bothering to stop fiddling about down their tracksuit bottoms. My condition has been christened by experts ' Compulsive Politeness Disorder' and is mainly suffered by people aged 50 and
above, many of whom find it impossible to shake off the habits of a lifetime. Elderly men can also by afflicted by an additional urge to doff their hat when approaching a woman, whilst women of a certain age may whisper a shy 'good day to you' before quickly looking away. My doctor prescribed the usual treatment, two weeks
' supply of strong cider, a month spent watching daytime tv, the very occasional visit to the jobcentre, constant participation on facebook and twitter, and a copy of the government sponsored leaflet 'The Chav's Guide To Modern Britain', but all to no avail. I've even bought the standard issue bull terrier and i can now spit in the street, but there's been no obvious improvement. I am beginning to think it's a genetic issue. Is there anything more i can do?
Yours, Major Laffe, Little Todgerington.
Dear Major.
Obviously a gentleman and schooled in the old ways, holding open doors, helping old ladies across the street and doing your home help badge in cubs.
Society, as you know, has no room for people like you anymore. You have to toughen up. I see you are trying but you need to try harder.
On no account use the words please and thankyou. Don't hold anything open for anyone unless it's your flies.
When you next pop round to see grandma DO NOT make tea and biscuits! Tie her up, hide her under the stairs and pinch her false teeth.
Next time you help an old dear over the road throw them under a bus instead.
Get the idea?
Dreary. X
I DO try, honestly, but i just find it so difficult to stop. I went to Tesco though yesterday, so I pulled out all the stops. At the checkout when the girl-between chews-managed to mumble ''would you like any help packin ?'' I scowled at her and growled '' Do I look like I know any pakis bitch?''. I'm proud to say I'm now barred. Thanks D.
It's happened again. I just can't help myself, what am I going to do? Some days i simply cannot pass anyone in the street without saying a cheery ''morning!'' or ''how are you?'', or smiling at a total stranger. I must stop it. People look at me as though I'm an alien or something. Women usually reply with ''pervert'' or ''weirdo'' and give me an evil stare. Older chaps tend to simply look away, and young lads usually cast some obscenity or other in my direction, not even bothering to stop fiddling about down their tracksuit bottoms. My condition has been christened by experts ' Compulsive Politeness Disorder' and is mainly suffered by people aged 50 and
above, many of whom find it impossible to shake off the habits of a lifetime. Elderly men can also by afflicted by an additional urge to doff their hat when approaching a woman, whilst women of a certain age may whisper a shy 'good day to you' before quickly looking away. My doctor prescribed the usual treatment, two weeks
' supply of strong cider, a month spent watching daytime tv, the very occasional visit to the jobcentre, constant participation on facebook and twitter, and a copy of the government sponsored leaflet 'The Chav's Guide To Modern Britain', but all to no avail. I've even bought the standard issue bull terrier and i can now spit in the street, but there's been no obvious improvement. I am beginning to think it's a genetic issue. Is there anything more i can do?
Yours, Major Laffe, Little Todgerington.
Dear Major.
Obviously a gentleman and schooled in the old ways, holding open doors, helping old ladies across the street and doing your home help badge in cubs.
Society, as you know, has no room for people like you anymore. You have to toughen up. I see you are trying but you need to try harder.
On no account use the words please and thankyou. Don't hold anything open for anyone unless it's your flies.
When you next pop round to see grandma DO NOT make tea and biscuits! Tie her up, hide her under the stairs and pinch her false teeth.
Next time you help an old dear over the road throw them under a bus instead.
Get the idea?
Dreary. X
I DO try, honestly, but i just find it so difficult to stop. I went to Tesco though yesterday, so I pulled out all the stops. At the checkout when the girl-between chews-managed to mumble ''would you like any help packin ?'' I scowled at her and growled '' Do I look like I know any pakis bitch?''. I'm proud to say I'm now barred. Thanks D.
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