Dear Dreary.
I have a very unusual condition, which is basically going to land me a hefty jail term if I don't seek help immediately.
In my religion we worship Boris, the spider God, and every spider is sacred and must be stroked should we come across one.
Only yesterday I glimpsed one run underneath a policeman's hat. I was cautioned under the public indecency act with stroking a police officer gently under the rim of his helmet.
Whilst on holiday in Bridlington I thought I saw a spider nestling in the gusset of a ladies swimming costume. It soon became obvious that the owner of the costume was not best pleased that I had thrust my hand between her legs. Well, if she had kept 'on top' of her hairy purse in the first place the confusion wouldn't have arisen.
It all came to a head this morning whilst I was making beds at the local old folks home. I caught one scurrying under the quilt and proceeded with caution.
It wasn't the fact that I had nearly caused Miss Blissheart to choke on her kippers that got me the sack.
It was the operation to remove my wedding ring from her small intestine and the unlikely excuse that I had been 'hunting Boris' that practically got me sectioned.
I'm thinking of swapping over to the Beaver Cult instead to be on the safe side. Your thoughts?
Keith Loon,
Drummington-Cum-Seldom.


　
　
　
Dear Keith.
Whilst sympathising with your condition, i have to advise against any form of contact with The Beavers. They are a bristly bunch at best, and have been responsible for the early demise of many a fine young buck. At their demanding worst they will guide you in to an apparent heaven but then spit you out the moment they no longer need you, often turning to an imitation alternative. The answer for you lies in a more pragmatic direction. Your spider dilemma can be solved on the web. www.arachnaphonia.org will supply contact details for a local eradication expert, able to terminate the problem at source.
Simply ring your nearest contact and within hours the little hairy fuckers will be no more. I believe your eradicator is particularly loathsome, and with a doctorate to his name to prove it. Dr. Iolanthe Watson's nickname in the trade is the "manic street bleacher" which says it all really. He will simply wipe out anything in your house that moves. He is also available on a 24 hour helpline. Let me know how you get on.

The Twelve Dreary Days of Christmas.
On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me................
12 pints of lager
11 stoners rolling
10 bongs are blowin
9 lads are humpin'
8 ladies cummin'
7 re-possessions
6 giros cashin'
5 BAGS OF WHIZZ
4 broken teeth
3 in a bed
2 hand jobs
and a condom hung from a tree.................
merry xmas from all at Dear Dreary.x

Dear Dreary.
I am due to give birth to my first child in three weeks or so, and to be honest the whole thing has been a bit of a nightmare. I don't even remember how i got pregnant, and the probable father - a bearded scumbag joiner - buggered off months ago. Yet friends, family, and people everywhere, especially the local vicar, keep insisting that this will be some sort of memorable event and will even give people some sort of new belief. God knows they need that round here, it's a right dump. I'll probably end up giving birth in the friggin train shed surrounded by some of the local teenage animals.
They talk of a bright light and travellers from the east. That'll be the police helicopter tracking them gypos from Millwall.
Still, I'll not be refusing any cool presents they might bring. What am I, stupid or summat?
If I am desperate when my time comes I might creep into the train sheds and have it there. Be a proper Virgin birth.
Anyway Drears, I was wondering if you could suggest a few
names. For a boy I was thinking of Brian.
What do you think?
Love from Mary.


Dear Mary.
It's a pity that the father couldn't have given you a more stable relationship.
I have a friend who lives near your neck of the woods. He's done really well for himself. He runs a local rag called The Northern Star. They call him the Ink Keeper and he's made so much money that he now lives in this wonderful barn conversion on the outskirts of town. I'm sure he could put you up for a few weeks. You'd have to get a taxi, it's quite a way out. I'll give you the number for Ass cabs later.
He lives next door to the Kings. They're a lovely well to do family. You'll probably get some dead good presents off them for the little one.
Brian's not a bad name for a lad. Jesus, you could do a lot worse!
D.

Thanks Dreary, you're a star! Merry Brianmas.

Dear Dreary.
My name is not Colonel can you can Harry can i have a dreadful can dreadful affliction that can means i can not Llewellyn can not finish a finish a finish a affliction that means means i jumble jumble up all my afflictions since my my time up the falklands jumbley jumbley afflict can sentence my brain affliction up the argie bargie electrodes jumbled my fucking brains faggots scrambled up the english arsenal boom! headache in port fuck stanley holloway can you limp help me limp end up cock got stuck finish affliction my cannot help myself finish a incoming! jumbley cant finish a help me deirdre my affliction is


Goodness me man!
I don't think I've seen a case as bad as this in my entire life.
You masturbate too much young fellow. As you're on the verge of climaxing all the time you end up talking non sensical
jibberish.
So, I'm afraid the cover up story of a Falklands veteran simply doesn't wash. Shell shock my hat!!!
You need to find another hobby. Why not actually join the army instead of playing at pocket soldiers.
As it stands presently your hand grenade is likely to go off in your hand at any moment causing untold trouser carnage. I'm sure your bayonet skills are adequate, 'they don't like it up 'em' as corporal Jones used to say, although in your case I'm not so sure.
It's the rifle range for you soldier. No more firing blanks willy nilly! It's time to distinguish between your privates and the officers mess!



You Deidre fuck this problem real jumble is genuine and i wank cant both shot arms off during the fuckin bitch you war are

Put it away immediately! At least join the RAF, you can play in your cockpit all day long!Screw you.can you keep a secret. I am captain harry ''h'' llewelyn,falklands war hero.previously thought dead. I faked my death in order to get away from a nagging wife. Please don't publish. I am willing to pay for your silence. H, Buenas Aries


Not 'Harry the horse' Llewelyn? The Stanley Stallion? Those poor sheep! No wonder you're in hiding!!! It's disgusting!
Did you never wonder why the argentinian mutton industry is now the world leader?

Dear Dreary.
I'm a donkey and have been struggling to find work over Christmas. You may think this odd and that I should be inundated with work at this time of year but sadly not.
I recently auditioned for a production of Little Donkey at The Dreary Lane Theatre but I was knocked back on account of being hung like a horse.
They said I might upset the children.
Things have not always been this dire.
Back in the late seventies I was the inspiration behind 'Beast of Burden' by The Rolling Stones'. Back in the day, before they could afford a van they used to throw all their gear on me and I used to hump them up and down the country. That 's me on the cover of 'Get Yer Ya Yas Out. Charlies' wife never found out. You can see how happy we were back then.
My first big break came when I landed the lead role in 'Two Mules For Sister Sarah'. No one ever found out what happened to the other mule. Shirley McLaine couldn't keep her hands off me, Clint never got a look in.
With the fame came the wealth, the drugs, the girls and the inevitable downward spiral.
I lost everything. I got bits of work here and there most notably as a stunt donkey on 'Animal Farm'.
I've applied for a job at Blackpool giving donkey rides in the hope that I may become a gay icon but it's all up in the air at the moment!
Could you recommend a decent grooming parlour?
Your's
Dick the Donkey.

Dear Dick.
With unemployment come many things. Depression, inertion, self-loathing, and even, in some instances ,some type of self-harm. From what you tell me of your circumstances i can detect classic symptoms of Gallagher's syndrome. This was originated by a Mancunian expert who championed the mind over matter theory, where the mind accepts that efforts need to be made to get back to work but the body simply refuses and seeks a more pleasurable substitute. There is also a more sinister side to the theory, an area of the mind that becomes totally delusional. The Stones' tour? The connection with Charlie's wife? Classic Gallaher's. You'll be telling me next that a globally famous cartoon has been made about your life with your voice dubbed by a famous black American comedian. The remedy, my equine friend, is simple. GET YOUR LAZY FAT MULE ARSE TO THE NEAREST JOB CENTRE AND SORT YOUR SAD FUCKIN LIFE OUT YOU SCUMBAG ASS -ARSE.
Merry Christmas.

Dear Dreary.
This time of year always gives me palpitations when it reminds me of a yuletide incident a few years ago. It had been the office party the night before. I woke with strange recollections of dreams about a rather annoying, obese black santa being mysteriously thwarted in his attempts to deliver presents to our house whilst i knelt down in front of him, peeling carrots. I remember laying in bed trying to figure it all out and blaming the drink and the supper i obviously brought home (there was an interesting combination of ketchup and mayo on the pillow). Imagine my horror! As i came downstairs .i thought i had left the tv on as i could hear Lenny Henry rambling on about the fact that he'd much rather be staying at a bloody Premier Inn. Then i noticed that the voice was coming from the chimney. The bottom half of a black male torso was dangling above the grate, legs kicking in an angry manner in time with the incoherent rambling and cursing. It was naked apart from a pair of santa trousers and rudolph undies around the ankles and a pair of doc martins. In the fireplace were more of the same remnants of those in my bed, alongside a potato peeler, a jar of helmanns, my yellow marigolds, and a box of kleenex. There was no sign of any potatoes anywhere, but a pool of what appeared to be a congealed blood and flakes of black skin. Santas engorged, dangling appendage was red raw and in obvious need of a soothing touch. I applied a mixture of mayo and ice to the throbbing gristle, particularly to the area where the foreskin used to be. Santa shot out of the top of the chimney like a human cannonball, and his screams were heard across town, not helped by the fact that he landed arse first on next door's giant Norweigan pine. It was only at this stage that i vaguely remembered eating fresh kebab meat before going to bed. You can understand my subsequent unease with christmas and why i always now prefer Travelodge. Could you offer some advice to help me over my trauma? Seasons felicitations, Lionel Barrymore, Peeler's End.
　
　
Dear Lionel.
This is most peculiar.
Only last week I had a query from a Nat King Christmas who told me of an excruciating ordeal at the hands if his junior office boy after a fancy dress works do went horribly wrong.
He stated that everything was going well until Lionel came in the room dressed only in a mankini and started to try and interfere with Santas sack. At the point where Nat King Christmas started to tease Lionel about his 'chipalata' office boy went berserk and threatened to disfigure Nats Mambo for good.
It was only when Nat awoke astride the Norwegian Fir that his nightmares were realised.
If this is you 'Lionel' I shouldn't be too keen to return to work as Father Christmas has deemed you a very bad little boy.
He did say he'd let you sit on his knee though!!

Dear Dreary.
I never thought i would get over the loss of my precious fanny. Lost in a terrible accident twelve years ago, i was left bereft in early middle age, condemned to an existence without life's ultimate pleasure. No more the thrill of a quiet night in, losing myself in her various sensual charms.
No more early morning rampant delight, my hardness and stamina a shock to us both. Or so i thought! How she got there i cannot think, but when i moved the settee the other day to lay a new carpet there she was! Still looking pristine in her little pink box, all inviting yet somehow neglected, my pleasure treasure awaiting my attention.
The words "My Fanny" still sparkling like new in silver lettering around the ever-ready clitoris, the faint bitemarks still evident. I can't believe she's come back to me. Can you suggest somewhere i can take her for a romantic weekend? Thanks D. Benjamin Netanyahu, Cairo.


Dear Benjamin.
It begs the question, where are Fanny's other bits? Like her arms and legs, head, torso, green shield stamps?
Isn't it a bit embarrassing taking Fanny out to dinner? I take it she wears a thong at least? Do you take her to the bathroom?
Does she put her teeth in to eat?
Better take them out again before she swallows I suppose!!
What do your friends think? Can she speak?
Has she, could she, ever hold down a job? I'm sure she's filled many positions over the years, I'm just curious.
There's a twat in our office that could do to be replaced.
Should I send Fanny an application form?
I hope she's got her GCSE in English?
Dreary. X

Dear Dreary.
The woman across the street has dobbed me in to the rozzers. I never did nothing ,honest.
She should be so lucky! In her dreams. I was just looking at her, honest. Well, just looking at her as she undressed in her bedroom with a crack in the curtains. That’s her own fault isn't it?
Well ok, I may have been just looking at her whilst i was stood at my window lit only by a spotlight on my naked lower abdomen. Oh and yea ok, i may have been just looking at her whilst fiddling around downstairs and trying the wife's peephole bra and bright pink "Gargantua" dildo.
Was I also just looking at her whilst peeling my banana?
Possibly.
Oh and I may have been practicing my zumba moves and penile stretches and combing my plumed grenadier guards helmet whilst dipping my plums into a drip tray of Absinthe.
And it is remotely feasible that I was at that precise time delivering the dog's weekly anal disobedience punishment.
But what the hells it got to do with her?
Advise. Berndt Foreschkindler, Upper Kolon, West Failure.

Dear Berndt.
Tell the dirty mare to keep her nose out!
What you do behind closed doors and open curtains is your business.
She should't be looking!
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
++ possibly to the tune of The
Floral Dance ++
I've got a boil in an awkard spot, it's deep and it seeps and it weeps a lot. Equally placed via front or back, equi-distant 'tween arse and crack.
The doctor said "you'll probably find this rules out activities of the sexual kind." The doc says the cause was a friction rash, from leathery straps and a dried out gash. I never know
when I've had enough, i've had it all up my flamin chuff. The Royal Marines Band, a boy scout group, Man United and the Riverdance troupe. A Samurai sword with serated edge, hand-picked salad, and assorted veg. So an agony aunt is my final hope, i've even tried antibiotic soap. All i need is a change of luck, a big black fella and an all night fuck. Can you help with some sound advice, my fannys feeling like its in a vice.
Yours, Philomena Minge, Cheddar Gorge.


My dear Philomena ++ to the tune of my favourite things ++
Vaginal warts and a discharge of mucous, turn some men on so are likely to puke less.
Give them a cock ring and soft Vaseline, your nook and your cranny's now spotlessly clean!
A selection, of erection's, what you plainly need.
The tramps in the shelter are desperate this year.
You're just what they all.........might need!
Dreary. x

Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright. On the promenade paedophiles queue, round young virgin wasted on glue. Sleep in heavenly peace.
Silent night, holy night, down the high street scumbags fight. Picasso faces, angry and pained, alcy in doorway trousers all stained. Sleep in heavenly peace.
Silent night, holy night, booze shop trading through the night. Xmas Eve is no time to shirk, one day off then straight back to work. Sleep in heavenly peace.
Silent night, holy night, I need dear Dreary's help tonight. Help to find me a bed for the night, baby will come by morning light. Sleep in heavenly peace.
Mary, Bethlehem Women’s Refuge,
Grange Park,
Blackpool.

Dear Mary?
I recognize that hand writing and school boy toilet humour.
Little Johnny Bamber I presume?
Some things never change. Still the same repulsive little prick I remember from junior school all those many moons ago.
Anyway, don't go trying to blackmail me now cause I'm famous. I only wanked you off 'round the back of the bike shed cause you had a swapsy my brother needed to complete his Star Wars collection of cards.
Now bugger off!
Dreary.

Dear Dreary.
My son has eyes in the back of his head. He's been tormented for this affliction since nursery school.
We've tried everything. Drawing eyes on his face where they should be, dressing him back to front, even shaving the back of his head so he can see properly. Whatever we try he still looks pretty silly.
He constantly lives his life looking over his shoulder. This is of course to see where he is
going.
He's not a very rational young chap either, often losing arguments as his reasoning is often flawed and people say that he hasn't got a leg to stand on.........which brings me onto his other affliction. I'm sick if pushing him around in a shopping trolley, my back's killing me.
Could you recommend a strong painkiller?
Lionel Pear.
Treal.

Dear Lionel.
Forget painkillers, what you need is an optician. The thing you have been calling your son all these years is actually a gonk. Originally thought to have become extinct in the seventies, the gonk gene has survived amongst the intellectually challenged, thriving on a lifestyle of filthy council estate air, chip fat, and weekly bingo sessions. Predominant in northern England, the gene has quietly established itself amongst low-life benefit cheats and scumbags too thick to know better. It was always going to be just a matter of time before the gonks emerged from their host families in order to meet up and breed, then re-establish themselves in vast communities across the country. You must therefore destroy your "son" before things get out of hand. Put a reversible blindfold on him, secure him in a large cardboard box, then wheel him to the council tip before placing in the skip marked "Danger! Gonks!". Then get back to your meaningless, squalid life. Glad to be a comfort.
Drears.

What a relief!
Could I not donate it to a local school?
They were always a symbol of good luck sat on your desk during examinations.

Dear Dreary.
In these hard times I, like so many other people, have had to take on a second job to help make ends meet. I'm finding it very difficult to strike a balance between my job as a judge at the crown court and 'Janice', a sex chat call girl working for 'Dial-A-Wank'.
The other day I had to adjourn proceedings to retire to my chambers to spank myself whilst moaning 'ooo Gerald, you're so big' to a client on my mobile phone.
I was a little embarrassed when, on my return to the courtroom, I was wolf whistled from the gallery by a member of the public when he spied my robes tucked into the back of my knickers.
That wasn't the worst of it!
Tuesday, I was just in the middle of passing sentence when my phone rang on loudspeaker.
Trying to explain to members of the jury, barristers, people in the public gallery etc what was meant by ' how much for a good fisting whilst you blow my shaft was challenging to say the least. However, explaining that it was a query on a very complex case whereby a fellow colleague was asking what the maximum sentence would be for GBH and subsequent wilful damage to his mining business, I think I got away with it.
To make matters worse I've now had to take on a third job at the local biscuit factory in charge of Party Rings and 'Fun Size' Fingers.
It can only get worse.
What would you do if you were me?
Judge Judy 'Two Fingers' McGimpy. QT. x


　
　
　
Judy.
Hard times indeed. Three jobs and you are struggling? This is what saddens and depresses me about our once respected community. Whilst your neighbors battle with redundancy and unemployment, you willingly wallow in a lifestyle that depends on the weaknesses of others on THREE different counts. What an oustanding pillar of the community! No wonder the country is on its knees. My advice is to concentrate on one role and be grateful. Most people who contact me are genuinely desperate and at their wits end, unlike yourself, your honour, a fatcat, sponging, selfish, scrotum of a human. You disgust me sphincter.
PS: can you let me have Janice's contact number.

Dear Dreary.
I've got myself in a right old pickle and urgently need your help.
I popped along to see my GP last week for a routine check-up. I know my Doctor very well, she's a lovely lady and we get on like a house on fire, or rather we did.
I was just popping my trousers over the back of the chair when she unashamedly asked me if I'd ever had a stroke! Tripping over my words I said that I hadn't but I would most certainly like one and promptly shoved my hand up her frock.
Her scream made me jump and I removed my hand far too quickly, catching a nail on her knicker elastic. Luckily I was in the right place and with a blob of germoline and an Elastoplast I was well on the mend.
Unfortunately Dr Goodbody is pressing charges and I am presently detained at Her Majesty's pleasure.
I've a big job on at the end of the month and wonder if you could bail me out?
Yours,
Santa.


Dear Santa. Funny how events at this time of year ,in your sorry case especially ,bring to mind fables and children’s stories. I am thinking in particular of the boy who cried wolf once too often. Do you not recall why you had reason to contact me just twelve short months ago? That poor child is still traumatized (i was forced to adopt him whilst his parents saw out their sentences for the fully justified assault upon your aroused personage).
And again the previous December, i advised you on that legal issue regarding your good lady Mary that resulted in the innocent verdict. For someone who manages to deliver billions of presents in a single evening how poor your memory appears to be.
I just hope you are still complying with the injunction and that the treatment has cured your penchant for hard seasonal veg.
So i'm afraid this year i find myself unable to help. Que sera sera. I have arranged an announcement on tonight’s news to warn all kiddies to stay in bed a little longer on Xmas morning as your little helpers are short-handed this year, and i have contacted Mary Quantas (queen of shops) to recruit a replacement for your position.
The ad highlights the need to be reliable and dependable.
Perhaps you should take heed of that during your imminent festive break in Pentonville.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
Every time i travel by public transport i develop a stiffy. Nothing to do with the movement or vibrations, its the conductresses. Ugly, fat, and unfriendly, they do things to me when they root around for change in their bumbags and struggle to tear off my ticket. I always make sure that i present a twenty pound note, just to see the sexy expression of annoyance on their flabby faces. I once got talking to a particularly bad looking specimin on the last tram one friday night. I asked her if she fancied a nightcap, but when she said that she had to guide the tram into its shed for the night i swear i very nearly creamed myself.
I am currently in Blackpool for the weekend for the annual tram drivers convention, and boy am i worn out! I never realised there were so many female tram drivers. I now realise i have been blind all these years. Why have i been messing around with the second in command when i could have been ogling the main girl? I now always sit right behind the driver and lick my travel pass suggestively as i watch her nimble fingers twiddle nobs and flick switches.
How i would love to be a tram! My life is coming off the rails somewhat with all the frustration. Whats the point? I've lived a very sheltered life, and need to get back on track. I am lacking some electricity in my life, and have now resorted to tramadol.
What can i do?
Yours, Dick Nerd, Starr Gate.

Dear Dick.
My auntie Betty is a tram driver. Proper brute she is, looks like a bloke who's had a sex change.
If you like, I could pass on your details to her and she could 'sh e-mail' you directly.
She could give you a tour around the back of the old tram sheds before punching your ticket.
She might give you a free ride before taking you off to the changing rooms to help her shave her back before she goes home.
Ok with you?
Fondest,
Dreary. x

Does she wear a peaked cap?

Fez, smokes a pipe!

Dear Dreary.
What do you think about this? I was out carol singing the other night when i noticed something going on, even though i had some of my favourite carols in my head. Drugs king Wes Les Ness went out with his nephew Stephen. They had a 12 inch Dominos, deep pan, crisp and even. Brightly shone the moon that night and the frost was cruel. When a poor man came in sight the bastards mugged the fool.
Two friends Holly and Ivy appeared, and both were fully-grown. They also stuck the boot in and the fucker did'nt half moan.
Three blokes then turned up singing : 'we three queens of funny girls are,one in a tutu one in a bra, one in a gimp suit sucking a grapefruit,following yonder tart. Thongs of wonder, thongs so bright, thongs up arseholes stained with shite, santas coming, for a bumming, emptying his sack all night.' Later, away in the hospice,no bench for a bed, the battered old wino lays down his bruised head. The scumbags are gloating, the homos awake, but the poor little hobo no movement he makes.
So help me dear Deirdre, I ask you to say, advise me forever and write me i pray.
Hark! The Evening Herald sings : 15 years for the old drugs king.
Glad tidings,Nic.


　
Dear Nic.
People do forget there is a dark, seedy side to this festive time and you have been witness to some terrible things.
On the estate where I live we have seen our fair share of Christmas calamity. Families feud constantly and no one is safe.
The other night whilst The Shepards washed their cocks whilst seated on the bed, Liz Angel from next door came around and promptly gave them head!
The three Kings brothers who live in a flat above Orient Spar are worse. One drives a tractor, the other a hearse. Killed a copper who came a cropper, he'd left it in reverse.
The Halls got blamed for this and were decked with a baseball bat and left for dead in a holly bush.
Our City is run by the notorious David Royal. Once, there stood a lonely drunk smack head. Got a mother and a baby, two pit bulls and off his head. Mary was the mother, wild she was but, Jesus Christ!!!! That wasn't his child.
Peace on earth, my arse.

Dear Dreary.
Tis the season to be jolly but not I'm afraid in our house.
We don't have a chimney. We live in a block of council flats and the truth is, Santa won't stand a chance if he tries to empty his sack round ours.
The only gobble anyone gets round here is round the back of the lift shaft.
Any reports if a stuffed bird on the table is generally some reference to some slapper who's been banged over the pool table in The Needle and Pram pub.
My auntie Mary's boy child isn't called Jesus, nor was he born in a barn on Christmas Day. He's called Leroy and was born in a nightclub on Saturday.
The three Kings appear quite frequently, usually on a poker night.
We do have a Joseph round the local area who, like his famous carpenter namesake, is handy with a piece of wood in his hand. Unfortunately in this case, it's more often than not a baseball bat.
The only reference to Bethlehem is some crude graffiti scrawled on a bench in the bus shelter which eloquently reads 'Beth/Liam shagged 'ere'.
And if people would only scrub their sprouts round 'ere it would at least reduce the queue at the Health Centre.
Please Dreary, don't let Santa stop here. The only light in the night sky folk around these parts follow is the police helicopter.
Yours,
Stella Artwat,
Crumbling Heights,
Mold.


　
　
Dear Stella.
What a sorry state of affairs. Santa does'nt see good or bad, or right or wrong. He just sees where a little hapiness needs to be srinkled, the places where he's most appreciated,where the kids happy smiling faces will light up the most. I suspect the reason for your letter may be a tad more down to earth than you are letting on. I saw your ravaged pockmarked visage on Crimewatch last month. The family business had an early morning visit then? Spared another stretch because there's nobody left to look after the kids? I now know where you're coming from with your desperate dispicable heartless plea to santa. Not nice when your assets are frozen in december. So your ploy will not work, you can tell little Chardonnay, Peaches, Britney, Beyonce, and baby Winston that santa WILL be calling after all. Get back to your day job, do some horizontal overtime, and get those punters sucked. Christmas is for families. If you would like to visit yours,ring HM Prisons to check seasonal opening times. All the best.

Dear Dreary.
I went swimming the other day to get fit and promised myself that on the first day I would swim five lengths, which I did. Trouble is, I'm now stuck in the deep end of the swimming baths with no way of getting out as the changing rooms and exit from the baths are accessed from the shallow end. I know I should have geared myself up for six lengths but there you have it I suppose. Stranded.
I've gone all wrinkly and very chilly. The pool attendants have been most encouraging, one or two even suggesting that I swim to the other
end or climb up the ladder out of the pool and walk back around. Ah, the ignorance of youth!
I'm getting in the way of an aqua zumba class at the moment and people are accusing me of leaving floaters in the pool. Well, I have been stranded for over a week, what do they expect?
Save me!
Yours,
Sharon Crisp
Poolton

Dear Sharon.

A less appropriate surname would be hard to imagine,given your current predicament. I commend your patience and fortitude. I am very impressed. A couple of thoughts spring to mind : do they turn the lights off at night? You could pretend to be a Titanic survivor,clinging desperately to passing turds, or an Amity Island holidaymaker squinting through the darkness on the lookout for that solitary fin. Just a couple of ideas to help you get through those damp lonely evenings. I also wondered how much weight you had lost during your forced immersion. You could be onto something there. New diets are always popular, and there would be no easy opt-out with this method. Lack of willpower would not even be a consideration,especially if the participant were say padlocked to a heavy bouy or possibly chained to an anchor. Perhaps you could let me know at what point the skin begins to degenerate and flake off. Just so i can cover my back against possible future legal claims after i h
ave launched the diet. I was thinking of calling it The Swim Yourself Slim Diet. I'd be interested in what
you think. And lets face it,you have plenty of thinking time on your wrinkly hands. D.
I'm very sorry. I can't reply presently as my Basildon Bond keeps getting wet and my Parker pen won't work under water.

Dear Dreary.
I'm a dog, and have a loving owner who thinks the world of me. He's always had dogs, working dogs, show dogs, you name it. He's lived and breathed a dogs life, so much so  that I have grown very concerned for his recent behaviour and well being.
On Sunday I trotted into the kitchen as usual for my breakfast. I was horrified to find my owner with his nose buried in the  last of my chicken and rabbit from the dog bowl before rolling over on the kitchen floor and licking his balls.
That wasn't the worst of it.
We were out walking the other morning when
he stopped right outside the front gate of the vicarage, dropped his trousers and shit all over the pavement. I was mortified having to knock and ask the vicars house keeper for something to clean it up with. She was very kind and provided a set of silver tongues and a silk handkerchief. I walked down the garden path and out onto the pavement to clean up the mess to find my owner shagging the lolipop lady doggy style on the grass verge.
Anyway, someone called the dog warden and they've taken him away and locked him in a kennel.
I'm too embarrassed to go and collect him.
What should I do?
Yours,
Dil The Dog.

Deat Dil. I always knew this would happen. As soon as it became the norm for owners to clean up after their pets,it was inevitable that one day the tables would be turned and some dogs would take advantage. I mean, what a fantastic ego boost to be able to shit anywhere you want and have someone immediately pick it up for you and carry it home! Dogs are also eating a healthier diet than ever before,so are consequently more regular in the toilet department. Perfect! Even more for your down-trodden owner to pick up. No wonder dogs are living longer. No reliance these days on bonemeal to supplement the diet: when's the last time you saw white dogshit? Animal Farm is becoming reality! This may be the start of the revolution Dil, so i am honour bound to dob you in to the authorities before it gets out of hand. By the way, you type brilliantly! D.
Thankyou.
It was very wuff at our school, the headmaster wouldn't think twice about hitting you with his canine! I can also speak English sheepdog, French poodle and German shepherd.

The warden is on his way. And he won't be taking any shit from you. Ever been to Battersea?
Do you know, my Dography's terrierable!
Is it near Clacton?

No its near London zoo,which is rubbish by the way. Shit zoo.