My dear darling ding dong Dreary.
Can you come up with any suggestions for my girlfiends christmas present?
My Fenella always insists that i buy her something sexy but this year i am struggling to think of anything after what happened last year. We spent last xmas at her mothers and there was an unfortunate incident in the afternoon. Fenella slipped upstairs to try out her new remote controlled vibrator.
Unfortunately the handset from her mother's new tv got accidently switched with the one supplied with the Mammoth Moaner. As mother frantically trawled the channels as the queen appeared on the screen, Fenella's screams of ecstacy could be heard in the next street.
The previous year i got her a full body heavy duty rubber dominatrix suit, complete with wartime gas mask. She tied me to the banister rail xmas night but while i waited for the action to start the sprouts got the better of her. A strangely satisfied smile lingered momentarily on her lips as she obviously broke wind with great gusto.
After a few minutes of this her smile turned to a grimace as she realised that her wind power was inflating the suit. She finally managed to remove it the day after boxing day and she emerged from it a wrinkly, stinking, dishevelled mess. Previously i have bought her peep-hole plastic panties (the friction burns were horrendous), a matching purple dildo/cock ring set (i spent 72 hours in hospital with my ringpiece in an ice bucket ),she's also had a ''Gaggin 4 It'' gimp mask ( i bought the wrong size and she damn near throttled herself), the ann summers Monopoly game ( she inserted the little dog and built brothels on Mayfair ),the double-ended dildo that she lent to her mother and never got back because she broke it, and the board game Confessions, during which she admitted to being born a man.
Surely this year must be better? What can you suggest?
Compliments of the season,
Thomas Chaucer,
Canterbury.


Dear Thomas.
Your good lady certainly has an appetite for the sensual pleasures in life.
Why not try something a little different this Christmas?
There are a fine selection of board games out this year. Why not treat her to Tiddlywanks or TrouserSnakes & Ladders? There's always Subbuteo Table Snooker. Simply bend her over the dining room table and decide whether you want to go for the pink or the brown!
There's a load of new perfumes on the market too. Try 'Just Cum' or 'On The Rag'.
Have you been to the new SexToysRUs store?
Ken has actual got a knob with real hair and gripping hands. You can build a Lego dildo guaranteed to shag your ring to pieces and 'FuckaRoo' is a twist on a classic kids game involving a kangaroo and a steady hand!
Hope my tips helped!
I'll send you my leaflet 'The more holes the better, how to butter a crumpet'.
Merry Christmas! xx

Dear Dreary.
I met my girlfriend on the set of 'Two Randy Mules For Sister Sarah''. It's a moving story about an animal-loving nun. I was the sound engineer, sticking my boom into various sticky situations, she was a ''fluffer'', that is to say whenever an action scene was about to be filmed it was her job to bring the man's part to the fore. She's had all sorts in her hands, white, black, asian, persian, african, chinese, vietnamese, straight, gay, bendy, circumcised, hooded, equine,you name it she's wanked it.
This has presented me with a couple of issues. Firstly, when we try to have sex i just don't measure up compared to what she comes across every working day. She says ''why eat a gherkin when you've tasted marrow?''. It's very upsetting + a massive turn-off, and her home grunts are nothing like her work grunts. Secondly, on the rare instances she can be bothered to arouse me she just leaves me hanging on, as tho she thinks she's still at work.
She never finishes anything she starts, it's very frustrating, then she calls me a dirty boy when i have to resort to spanking the little fella myself while she reads her latest ''Horse and Rider Illustrated''.
Work has also become a nightmare. Everyone is laughing behind my back,+ to make matters worse she has put her name down for overtime. She is now stand-in for the leading lady, Patti Pantmoor,and has volunteered to do all the anal footage and cum scenes in ''Torn Apart 2''.
She is taking on too much, the poor thing's buggered every day, though at least the climax shots are good for her complexion.
She is also becoming involved with leading man Phil McAvitty + is being stretched this way and that and does'nt know which way to turn next.
When she was filming ''My Sister Wants To Be Whipped '' it was like she was being pushed from pillar to post.
I am beginning to wish i'd never left my job on the gay scouting channel ''It's Nob-A-Job Week.''
Can you see any way forward for us?
Regards,
Alan A'Dale,Notts.



Dear Alan.
It's the classic case of not bringing your work home with you. I've seen it so many times before and it breaks families apart sadly.
There was the case of that policeman not too long ago. Lovely fella on the job. You knew the streets were safe when he was pounding his beat. At home, never paid his bills, kicked the cat and even burgled his own house.
Then there was the doctor. Never had an Elastoplast in the house. Family died of pneumonia.
The fireman that was arrested for arson, the headmaster who had his children taken off him because they were thick and the builder who froze to death in his tent.
There was the postman who never received a Christmas card, evening paper or betterware catalogue and the nun who ran a brothel from her 'two up two down'.
Why not try and get your wife a job in church or something. A nice job doing nice, clean things. Then, when she comes home she'll be like a rat up a drain pipe!!!!

Thanks D,appreciate your help. There is a vacancy at the local sausage factory she could go for. She would be shaping sausage meat into their skins then pulling them into metre lengths.
Hmmmm.........i think i'll have to think that out again!

Dear Dreary.
I put mine up two weeks before Christmas. It hadn't been up long when it started to droop and make a mess of the carpet. My baubles were very fragile so I wrapped them up in cotten wool to protect them if they got knocked or anything.
My beautiful angel slid off the tip and landed in the dog basket.
My friend said that he's keeping his up until New Year. Mind you, he's sprayed his to keep it firm and upright and it does last a lot longer.
I'm wondering Dreary, do you think it makes a difference what you stick it in? Are these sprays really that effective?
Yours,
Big John Holmes,
Hollywood.

　
　
　

Dear john.
There is nothing to match the beauty + majesty of a natural one standing proud and erect in the comfort of your own home. It blitzes the senses with its unique feel,smell,and -yes!-taste. how satisfying!
It has to be said however that there comes a time when maybe the best all-round option is to consider going artificial.This erdicates the growing pressure of uncertainty of how it will perform each time it is required. Quality guaranteed with each and erection!
A whole range of sizes and colours is available,you can even have a different size in each room. It is even possible to have one that automatically lights up when you slip it out of the box.
Your life could be transformed!
Try a bright pink one and the Hollywood gay community will love you forever.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
I hope this message in a bottle thing works.
I'm stranded on a desert island. Alone? Sadly not.
There's another bloke called Robinson and he's really getting on my tits!
The film crew have been here again for the past four weeks filming for the latest series. I did suggest on several occasions that we might just leave with them and be home in time for Z cars, but he just won't listen.
'we're stranded' he says, 'we'll never see civilization again ' he says. 'Doomed!' to die on this cursed isle!
He's got his own trailer you know. With it's own trouser press and teasmaid. Yet he still insists in living under banana leaves and eating crabs. There's a staff canteen up the beach called Crusoes!
What really gets me is he insists on bumming me in the blue lagoon every f in night! I wouldn't mind but his wife keeps shouting at him to come back to the marital tent and sort his pole out.
Please send a submarine.
Yours desperately,
Man Friday.

Dear Friday.
The Time Team budget must have gone through the roof!
Tiny Tony Robinson and his collection of scruffy oddballs are taking the piss here surely? And how come his missus has pitched up there? They'd pull any sort of stunt for a free jolly and a chance to rummage in a hole for a few days.
Where do they disappear to every night? They must get very hot in their wax jackets, multi-coloured hand-knitted tanktops, and turned-down wellies, and it cannot be easy digging a sandy hole with a trowel (reminds me of a spanish holiday with my fiancee. Sand got everywere, even chaffed his helmet).
The fools must be under the impression that there's treasure buried somewhere. Little do they know that the Grand Designs team beat them to it when they built Stuart Hall's holiday retreat. Apparently he required somewhere secluded with no windows. Anyway, they disappeared sharpish with a large chest and Stuart's collection of holiday reading, "Famous Five", "Bunty", that sort of thing.
I believe Mr. Hall will shortly be moving into a different type of holiday accommodation.
I would advise you to man-up Friday.
Next time they pack up their shovels for the day, pluck up the courage and ask for a lift.
Dreary.x

Dear Dreary.
What with all this Vagassle and all,making your fanny look like one of Garry Glitters stage costumes, my husband actually bought me a Vagacket for Christmas.
He tells me it was very expensive and made from the pubes of a thousand south pacific island virgins.
This is all very well but to be honest it's like wearing a beaver. It's far too prickly and smells of prawns.
Two things really : -
1. Would any of your readers be interested in buying this from me?
2. Why do beavers eat prawns?

Yours in anticipation,
Camilla Parker Bowles.

　
　

Dear Cammie, i have passed your contact details on to a newspaper editor friend who is always interested in the beaver bushness. Hope this is ok with you. I had a beaver once. Fussy little bugger,buggered off cause i warsnt giving it enough attention. Needed petting on a regular basis. It seemed to love a good under-ripe nana,and not your common or garden european type,but giant firm west indian buggers. Also any shape/size cucumber/marrow/courgette/prickly pear (apparently the goodness is in the pricks),or basically anything that slips easily down the throat. Throw in the occassional juicy nut or two + you'll have one happy beaver. Sadly,i failed to sustain mine. Once i had decided it was never coming back i got my hands on a Tasmanian Ridgeback + have never looked back.

What about the prawns Dreary? Did yours stink?

Not at all seasonal, but.......................

Dear Dreary.
Last christmas i gave her my heart but the very next day she threw it away. Driving home for christmas, i had a call. She said i was ''a scumbag, a faggot, with a dick like a maggot''. I shouted back '' did i catch you kissing santa claus? Did you ride upon his sleigh?''. She disappeared, saying she intended building something in a meadow with some vicar. Months later, out of the blue, i received a text. It read as follows : ''It'll be lonely this christmas without you to hold, it'll be lonely this christmas, lonely and cold. And the wind blows right through you its no place for the old. It'll be cold so cold without you to hold, this christmas.'' Do you think there's still hope that she still wants a wonderful life together in our winter wonderland or will i once again be home alone? All the best. R. Rumpapumpum.


Dear Rumpapumpum.
Are you hanging up your noose above the tree?
Taken pills and left a note for all to see?
Does your bed lay cold and empty, where your girlfriend used to lie?
Don't forget to leave a sherry and mince pie!
So here it is, Merry Christmas why not jump off Beachy Head?
Leave all your presents now, they're no good when your deaeaeaead!
Only kidding!
Merry Christmas!! x
　
some fuckin saint you are Nic. Fuck you

Dear Dreary.
Can you put my mind at rest please? A friend has been telling me about this problem with horses eating burgers made out of human flesh.
Apparently, the subsequent manure hosts a bug which is then distributed into the population by unsuspecting stable boys. Irritable Jockey's Syndrome, as it has become known, results in victims suffering from severe and rapid height and weight loss, and only subsides when the patient is small enough to limbo under a toilet cubicle door whilst holding a whip and wearing goggles and a brightly coloured jacket.
Some papers reckon this is the work of the National Dwarfism Party, who, they claim, intend to fight the government on a variety of small issues, including the rather vexing question of why are all primary school children required to be little, and why are midgets held in such low esteem.
This could be just the start of it. Standards, as well as inside leg measurements, could drop permanently. How low might these little buggers stoop?
I am concerned.
Yours,
Jolly Green Giant,
Cornwall.

Dear Mr Giant.
It's a very serious matter and you do well to bring the subject up.
There was that scandal a few weeks ago when that farmer was caught feeding his cows that cub scout pack from Clithero. One young heffer choked on a woggle, whilst another small calf went on to pass it's home help and knot tying badges.
There was of course that massive hoo ha when that sea cadet band went missing, presumed to have been made into dog biscuits. No one would have been any the wiser until Mrs Pringle caught her minature dashund, Winnie, playing the bass drum in it's kennel with Archie, the cairn terrier on bugle.
Small things amuse small minds Mr Giant. Perhaps if you stopped eating all that sweetcorn you wouldn't be so big, stupid and green and little people wouldn't bother you as much.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary
Some Wombles have just moved in next door to us on the estate and quite frankly me and the wife, my mam, me dad, our Chantelle, Beefy, little Ashley, Bastard the dog and the rest of the estate want them evicting.
Our back garden was always full of beer cans, nappies, pot noodles, dog shit, the rats loved it and it was always somewhere for the kids to play. We woke up one morning to find a beautiful landscaped lawn, a swing and slide, a water feature, sandpit, gas bbq, chiminere, deck chairs and a new bird table.
I went out one morning to the park with a bottle of three hammers under me arm and gazed up at the boarded up windows, a smile on me face, thinking about when our Janice threw us through it the week before. Well! Her mum came on to me, wasn't my fault she fell on me cock!
Anyhow, when I staggered home later I couldn't believe my eyes.
Some....... TW*T had fitted double glazing, to front and rear AND had the garden fence fixed and creosoted!
I was fumin'! We called the police. We had to 'knock on' and borrow the Wombles phone. They were very nice about it. The coppers came around and didn't do owt! One of em asked Wellington for a quote on extending his allotment!
We want our estate back Dreary!
We want these do gooders out!
Please help,
Yours,
Gaz 'what you looking at' McShifty.
The Estate.
Plumbe.
Dear Gaz.
How very upsetting all this must have been for your family. One, naturally, becomes accustomed to one's surroundings and cherished home comforts, and you would not expect to have to deal with such blatant abuse without good cause. I am not in a position to lay definite blame in a precise location, you understand, but i suspect you may be surprised who the culprits are.
The BBC are under increasing pressure to use the license fee wisely, and are now scraping the barrel somewhat in their relentless pursuit of mind-numbing reality tv. So much so that they have re-united Alan Tutcharse, Tommy the porky builder, and Charlie Mammories for one last moronic stab at quickfire ratings.
Their latest show is called "Renovate SOS (Save Our Scumbags)", where a team of mystery builders and no-mark busybodies turn up unannounced at your dingy dwelling and upgrade it before you have chance to get out of bed at teatime.
The theory is, it allows the audience an opportunity to peruse other scumbags' shit and then observe their bemused, horrified reactions when they finally awake from their pot-filled slumbers.
Just imagine. Its half four in the afternoon, and you stagger out of your back door, in your spiderman onesie, to fill the recycling bin with your morning empties, when Tutcharse and film crew pounce on you, demanding your response to their unwanted handywork.
What a nightmare. On the pilot show, apparently, Alan was floored by a single punch from some irate granny scummer. Can you imagine the ratings??
It will be the modern day equivalent of bear baiting.
And the BBC won't stop there. It will no doubt want to take advantage of its latest idea and add to its never ending supply of cookery programmes.
I can envisage " The Hairy Scroungers", "Masterchav", and even "Nigella Does Scrotes".
What a prospect.
You may need to invest in an extra Staffy.
Love, D.

Dear Dreary.
As the first wary shoots of springtime finally begin to emerge from winter's icy grip, it is only natural that a young man's fancy starts to turn to thoughts of straightening rhubarb, hardening red hot pokers, and random propogation. I was brought up a God fearing Catholic boy, raised on tales of self denial and biblical fables of low quality seed falling on barren ground, so as I recently passed my eighteenth birthday I found the shackles suddenly springing off and an overwhelming urge to demonstrate to God my newly discovered and wondrous ability to cast my seed all over his amazing, sprouting planet. I do wonder though if I may have been overdoing it. To
receive a life ban from Primark was unfortunate, as I spend many a happy hour rummaging through Budget Lingerie, but they rated my latest squirt as a health and safety risk when they discovered an accumulation dripping from a light fitting. And perhaps my sperm of the moment idea of how to lose a last gasp drop more weight before my weekly weigh in at Fatbastards Club was, with hindsight, somewhat ill-advised whilst sat amongst so much middle aged female cellulite.
I just feel the need sometimes. It has to be done and I have to cast my fruitfull and biblical seed to the wind. This was, i admit, something of a mistake at Beachy Head however, when it came right back and slapped me in the face.
But generally i spread far and wide and often.
My recent favourites include on the top deck of the number 14, in the sugar bowl at St. Wilfreds Mothers Union Easter Coffee Morning and Bring and Buy, amongst the white mice in the pic n mix at my local Odeon, in Greggs one busy lunchtime, adding a little flavour to a vanilla slice, and, only yesterday, in the back of my gran's car at the temporary lights on Inkerman Street.
She thought it had started to rain, bless her. Is this too much for my well-being, do you think? I confessed to Father Justin and he suggested he took a more hands-on role with what he calls my obsession.
Do you think this would help?
Thanks for your time. Just off to Tesco Express to sprinkle the doughnuts.
Regards, Dick Strayne,
Handsworth.

Dear Dick.
You are a busy bee. However, you appear to lack direction, muck spreading all willy nilly.
As they say, 'there's money in muck' and if you keep a tight grip on things you stand in good stead to make a tidy sum.
The sperm bank would be the obvious choice, watching your coffers swell right before your eyes!
You could set up a little business filling those snow shaker things. Should manage to knock a few of them out in a day.
Save many a brides father on her wedding day from spending money on confetti by hiding up a tree and showering the congregation with your own. Gives a whole new meaning to peeling the bells!
You don't perchance know our Cyril do you, only he's got a terrible case of dandruff!
Dreary. x