Dear Dreary.
I’ve recently received some lottery funding and have now been able to make my dream come true and opened a gift shop at H.M. Prison Grizzly.
Aside from the usual prison guide, car stickers and badges there’s a wealth of souvenir treats on hand for that ‘hard to buy for’ maximum security risk inmate or indeed the ex-con back home who has everything.
For the kids there’s sawn off shotguns, knuckle dusters, and a knife and dagger play set plus a selection of ‘do it yourself’ tattoo starter kits.
There’s also a range of concrete shoes available in most sizes and a choice of lead, cement or brushed steel effect finish.
There’s handcuff pencil sharpeners, syringe candy dispensers and a patio garden set including spade, chloroform, gaffer tape and disposable overalls.
To set those taste buds racing we have our delicious cake shop where customers can choose from a lavish Victoria sponge with a delicious galvanised metal file filling or why not try our sumptuous black forest gateaux with a hint of hand grenade and hand gun surprise.
The problem is that I keep getting robbed. Last week I was held up by my own water pistol and rubber truncheon set!
It’s high time we, as a society stopped glamorising the life of the criminal mind and come down like a tonne of bricks on those that fail to tow the line. Which reminds me, we have a sale on our house brick range. £3 per brick or five for £50! It’s daylight robbery!
Your thoughts on this matter would be very much appreciated.
Yours,
Myra Porridge.
H.M. Prison Grizzly
My dear Myra.
The "glamorising", as you term it, of what most people would want to see as an institute of correction, is sadly typical of recent government policy. "Commerciality" they call it. Every department has to be seen to be contributing to the central budget. Only last week, a contact I have in Whitehall was spilling the beans to me regarding a Foreign Office initiative to raise funds. At weekends, they plan to run an origami class for Lesbian Muslim Fundamentalists. Appropriately enough for the Shi'ites, the class will take part in the toilet block.
Elsewhere, in order to help keep finance local police stations and to relieve pressure on overnight cells, Lancashire Constabulary are hoping to house "customers" in Premier Inns. The recently-formed Offenders Union, however, has lodged a complaint. They are not too keen on the continental breakfast on offer and the rather basic room amenities. The police response was to threaten the offenders with a stay in a cell with Lenny Henry, which, to be honest, would be enough to convince to take the hotel offer.
So HM Prison Grizzly is not alone. This appears to be the future of government departments. What comes next? Brothels in NHS surgeries? Car washing in fire stations? Who knows.
By the way, a friend of mine manufactures a range of speciality lubrication products. I have taken this opportunity to send you a catalogue. The range is called "Sure Shag Redemption".
Happy shopping!
Dreary.
Thursday, 4 June 2015
Shag
Dear Dreary.
Over the last few months i have kept myself busy in the production and cultivation of a new rug. I was extremely proud of my creation, extending and manicuring it with care and dedication. It is deep but yielding to the touch,but with defined edges and is an alluring shade of crimson. I keep it in what has been something of a void between the front and back. My partner Monty however, on his recent return from a tour of duty in Afghanistan, declared it to be opld fashioned and slightly musty. He says he now prefers a minimalistic appearance. What should I do?
Regards,
Davina McFlurry, Axminster.
My dear Davina.
It's always a wise move to have some form of rug down in your passage between front and back. It's bound to take a bit of a beating too what with a constant southerly wind blowing in from the back coupled with a persistent drizzle from your leaking vestibule.
I'd certainly be looking to have it insured. The chances of a stubborn stain upon your pile is quite high also. And if 'friends' insist on traipsing around the back then your shag shall be dulled very quickly indeed.
If Monty is unhappy with the way that you present your hallway then pull the rug from under his feet and send him packing!
Dreary.
Over the last few months i have kept myself busy in the production and cultivation of a new rug. I was extremely proud of my creation, extending and manicuring it with care and dedication. It is deep but yielding to the touch,but with defined edges and is an alluring shade of crimson. I keep it in what has been something of a void between the front and back. My partner Monty however, on his recent return from a tour of duty in Afghanistan, declared it to be opld fashioned and slightly musty. He says he now prefers a minimalistic appearance. What should I do?
Regards,
Davina McFlurry, Axminster.
My dear Davina.
It's always a wise move to have some form of rug down in your passage between front and back. It's bound to take a bit of a beating too what with a constant southerly wind blowing in from the back coupled with a persistent drizzle from your leaking vestibule.
I'd certainly be looking to have it insured. The chances of a stubborn stain upon your pile is quite high also. And if 'friends' insist on traipsing around the back then your shag shall be dulled very quickly indeed.
If Monty is unhappy with the way that you present your hallway then pull the rug from under his feet and send him packing!
Dreary.
Biggles
Dear Dreary,
I am well known in these parts as an avid aeromodeller, but I am becoming somewhat distressed with a specific localised problem.
It's never an issue getting the thing up, but I have recently been suffering from "cutting out", and on several occasions this has culminated in disastrous results, even once having to perform a crash landing. My wife reckons this is being caused by my arial size, and while personally I think it's a wiring issue, she is perhaps right to point out that a little more length might help.The two local hills sometimes make me unsighted when manoeuvring for the landing strip, which itself can be overgrown and potholed. At my age I am very wary about simply blaming my equipment, so I have been wondering if maybe its time to fly elsewhere.
This is keeping me awake at night. Have you any advice?
Regards,
Louis Blearyeyes,
Biggleswade.
My dear Louis.
Performing aerial acrobatics at your age is bound to be frustrating especially when it’s damp and blowing a Southerly wind.
There are certain things that you can do to prevent any unnecessary turbulence, giving you a fuller thrust capability and enhancing performance.
I’d suggest that you have your undercarriage looked at. A good lube and some fresh rubber should give you a smoother feel yet firmer grip when both entering and leaving the runway.
You mention the overgrown and potholed landing strip. This is never a good thing. It’s the responsibility of the owner to maintain a smooth, inviting area for your approach. It should have good drainage and free from any sewage pipes. A leak from one and any sudden friction from the other could have disastrous consequences.
Have your cockpit checked over by a reputable cocksmith to ensure all nuts are tightened correctly and that you can easily grip your joystick with both hands.
If you adhere to my advice I don’t think that it will be necessary to open your bomb doors elsewhere.
So tally ho, chocks away and flaps down for a heavenly upwards assent!
Dreary. X
I am well known in these parts as an avid aeromodeller, but I am becoming somewhat distressed with a specific localised problem.
It's never an issue getting the thing up, but I have recently been suffering from "cutting out", and on several occasions this has culminated in disastrous results, even once having to perform a crash landing. My wife reckons this is being caused by my arial size, and while personally I think it's a wiring issue, she is perhaps right to point out that a little more length might help.The two local hills sometimes make me unsighted when manoeuvring for the landing strip, which itself can be overgrown and potholed. At my age I am very wary about simply blaming my equipment, so I have been wondering if maybe its time to fly elsewhere.
This is keeping me awake at night. Have you any advice?
Regards,
Louis Blearyeyes,
Biggleswade.
My dear Louis.
Performing aerial acrobatics at your age is bound to be frustrating especially when it’s damp and blowing a Southerly wind.
There are certain things that you can do to prevent any unnecessary turbulence, giving you a fuller thrust capability and enhancing performance.
I’d suggest that you have your undercarriage looked at. A good lube and some fresh rubber should give you a smoother feel yet firmer grip when both entering and leaving the runway.
You mention the overgrown and potholed landing strip. This is never a good thing. It’s the responsibility of the owner to maintain a smooth, inviting area for your approach. It should have good drainage and free from any sewage pipes. A leak from one and any sudden friction from the other could have disastrous consequences.
Have your cockpit checked over by a reputable cocksmith to ensure all nuts are tightened correctly and that you can easily grip your joystick with both hands.
If you adhere to my advice I don’t think that it will be necessary to open your bomb doors elsewhere.
So tally ho, chocks away and flaps down for a heavenly upwards assent!
Dreary. X
Nobolongo
Dear Dreary,
A childhood family holiday on safari to the Nakanaka national park in Kenya had a profound effect on me.
I grew up with a fascination of everything African. Not just the animals, but the whole raft of differing cultures and customs. I was mesmerised by it all, even to the point where my private life suffered.
I learnt how many tribes would wear ornate jewellery in order to flaunt their wealth, often extending body-parts such as necks and earlobes in the process.
Having recently reached the age of thirty and never having had a girlfriend, let alone any sort of sexual experience, I began to wonder what I could do to emphasise my rather inadequate appendage, and so attract the opposite sex.
My mind wandered back to an encounter I had with the chief of the Nobolongo tribe, deep in the bush. He was elected chief as he had managed to stretch his black leathery dinky with a series of weights. He assured me at the time that it was well worth the pain.
As a result, I hit upon what I thought to be a fool-proof idea. Under a local anaesthetic, a plastic surgeon friend of mine sewed a series of small metal discs around the inside of my foreskin. Yes, it hurt like hell for a few days, but I soon mastered the art of peeing without discomfort and I moved on to the next part of my plan.
I installed the strongest industrial magnets I could buy in the insides of my left shoe. Then, over the course of the next few weeks, I gradually used a series of straps, sticking plasters, and duck tape to extend my willy down towards my foot. I became accustomed to the initial throbbing, and, after a while, even began to enjoy it.
These days, I find I can mange without the straps, and my eager member grows and swells all too willingly towards my foot. The beast, as I now call it, measures a good eighteen inches when stimulated, and I could have a different girl every night of the week.
And so, I hear you ask, where is the problem?
Well, there has been a strange development which seems to be related to magnetic fields. I now find that whenever I head in or face a southerly direction, I cannot become aroused however hard I try. Yet, the moment I turn to face north, the beast is proudly out in front of me like a rampant tent pole, and all attempts to discourage it are a complete waste of time. Not only that, the distress I suffer from the tension of a cheese-string at near breaking point is immense. Its like a taught violin string being repeatedly plucked.
Please help. I have looked everywhere for trousers with a front gusset, but without success. Please give me some hope to hang my hat on.
Yours in pain,
Dick Smart, Flagstick, Upper Tipperary.
Dear Dick.
What a predicament. I bet you don’t know if you’re coming or going.
You’re obviously the kind of bloke who knows what he wants and will go to any lengths (18 inches in your case) to get them. It shows a certain grit and determination, seldom seen since Sir Walter Raleigh invented the Chopper.
It would be a terrible waste if you were to let it all get on top of you and throw in the towel as it were.
Don’t take the easy route South. Turn around ‘Dick’ Whittington and ‘head’ North!
There are so many ways to promote your pecker to its’ full advantage.
You could help save lives by joining a mountain rescue team. A human compass! Simply point North and you’ll have saved every weary rambler that ever got stuck up a crag!
With the love of Africa so close to your heart you could always consider giving them something back as a thank you. You could act as a temporary pontoon bridge. Preside over limbo dancing competitions, ‘raising the bar’ at your own discretion. Perhaps even act as a security gate at a checkpoint somewhere with a little HALT sign draped over the old chap!
You see Dick, there’s more to it than meets the eye!
Carry On Dick and stiff upper......er, lip!
Dreary.
A childhood family holiday on safari to the Nakanaka national park in Kenya had a profound effect on me.
I grew up with a fascination of everything African. Not just the animals, but the whole raft of differing cultures and customs. I was mesmerised by it all, even to the point where my private life suffered.
I learnt how many tribes would wear ornate jewellery in order to flaunt their wealth, often extending body-parts such as necks and earlobes in the process.
Having recently reached the age of thirty and never having had a girlfriend, let alone any sort of sexual experience, I began to wonder what I could do to emphasise my rather inadequate appendage, and so attract the opposite sex.
My mind wandered back to an encounter I had with the chief of the Nobolongo tribe, deep in the bush. He was elected chief as he had managed to stretch his black leathery dinky with a series of weights. He assured me at the time that it was well worth the pain.
As a result, I hit upon what I thought to be a fool-proof idea. Under a local anaesthetic, a plastic surgeon friend of mine sewed a series of small metal discs around the inside of my foreskin. Yes, it hurt like hell for a few days, but I soon mastered the art of peeing without discomfort and I moved on to the next part of my plan.
I installed the strongest industrial magnets I could buy in the insides of my left shoe. Then, over the course of the next few weeks, I gradually used a series of straps, sticking plasters, and duck tape to extend my willy down towards my foot. I became accustomed to the initial throbbing, and, after a while, even began to enjoy it.
These days, I find I can mange without the straps, and my eager member grows and swells all too willingly towards my foot. The beast, as I now call it, measures a good eighteen inches when stimulated, and I could have a different girl every night of the week.
And so, I hear you ask, where is the problem?
Well, there has been a strange development which seems to be related to magnetic fields. I now find that whenever I head in or face a southerly direction, I cannot become aroused however hard I try. Yet, the moment I turn to face north, the beast is proudly out in front of me like a rampant tent pole, and all attempts to discourage it are a complete waste of time. Not only that, the distress I suffer from the tension of a cheese-string at near breaking point is immense. Its like a taught violin string being repeatedly plucked.
Please help. I have looked everywhere for trousers with a front gusset, but without success. Please give me some hope to hang my hat on.
Yours in pain,
Dick Smart, Flagstick, Upper Tipperary.
Dear Dick.
What a predicament. I bet you don’t know if you’re coming or going.
You’re obviously the kind of bloke who knows what he wants and will go to any lengths (18 inches in your case) to get them. It shows a certain grit and determination, seldom seen since Sir Walter Raleigh invented the Chopper.
It would be a terrible waste if you were to let it all get on top of you and throw in the towel as it were.
Don’t take the easy route South. Turn around ‘Dick’ Whittington and ‘head’ North!
There are so many ways to promote your pecker to its’ full advantage.
You could help save lives by joining a mountain rescue team. A human compass! Simply point North and you’ll have saved every weary rambler that ever got stuck up a crag!
With the love of Africa so close to your heart you could always consider giving them something back as a thank you. You could act as a temporary pontoon bridge. Preside over limbo dancing competitions, ‘raising the bar’ at your own discretion. Perhaps even act as a security gate at a checkpoint somewhere with a little HALT sign draped over the old chap!
You see Dick, there’s more to it than meets the eye!
Carry On Dick and stiff upper......er, lip!
Dreary.
Tuesday, 5 August 2014
Dear Dreary,
Me and the lads have recently been on a trip to Belgium and spent the week camping near a delightful little farm house at Waterloo. The weather hasn’t been great, it rained a lot of the time.
I’ve recently separated from my girlfriend. I know I might seem a little ungrateful but her constant demands to woo her in the boudoir drove me to distraction.’ Not tonight’, I’d say to her.
There’s a couple of Swedish birds in a caravan opposite i’ve got my eye on.
When we first split I went on an island holiday by myself, just for a bit of peace, but I soon grew tired of this and wanted to see the lads again.
Anyway, aside from the constant torrential downpour we’d all settled down quite nicely for our first night of our little camping jollies. The trouble began on the morning of the second day.
Some Scotsman woke us all up playing the bloody bagpipes as loud as you like. One of our artillery lads fired a gentle warning shot with his cannon to request that they keep it down a bit.
His volley went slightly off course landing through the roof of the farmhouse B&B where apparently some English blokes were staying over the weekend. Well, as you can imagine all hell broke loose!
They sent all their mates over, including them bloomin’ Scots lot ready for some fisty cuffs.
We were heavily outnumbered to be fair and they gave us a right good kicking. In desperation we shouted over to some Austrians and Prussians in the next field for help but they were neither use nor ornament.
The cock of the English blokes went by the name of Chris Plummer. His nick name was Wellington I think. Snotty bastard he was.
Anyway, they ruined our holiday and we left the following morning.
The Campaign and Camping Club are loathed to give us a refund and we wondered if you could offer any suggestions as to how we may bring someone to account for our inconvenience.
We’re certainly pressing charges against Wellingtons mob.
I’ve booked a long weekend in Malta next month.
Could you recommend anywhere nice to stay in Russia!
Yours,
Napoleon.
My dear Bony.
I aim to please whenever possible, but I fear I may have met my Waterloo with this one. You, the bravest, most sophisticated, and brainiest French leader of all time, go on holiday to Belgium, and then complain about the weather?!? Mon dieu mon petitie cuisses de grenouilles!
What did you expect? Corsica in friggin July??
And as for your girlfriend, I suspect that you will be somewhat better off without her. Such over enthusiasm in the bed room chamber oft suggests that the strumpet in question may only be "up for it" so regularly because she hides the real truth from her suitors. That is, that she is panting with lying eyes, a serial sponger, and, how do they say in France..........as barren as an Accrington brick. Withdraw form her arid regions and extend your bony part elsewhere.
How about a pretty little island to escape to instead? The luscious ladies of Elba are, I believe, most welcoming, if a little on the slow side. This time of year, when the figs hang heavy on the branch, they are glad of some foreign intervention, and their olive-oiled pussies are more than ready for a probing excursion from the intrepid traveller. Who knows, you may even feel relaxed enough to withdraw your deformed little hand from your waistcoat, and find a warmer home for it.
You should be able to explore at will. The peasant girls will do nothing to prevent close examination of the local promontories as they have very little experience. In fact, you could say they don't know they arse from their Elba!
Have fun on your travels!
L & K, Dreary.
Me and the lads have recently been on a trip to Belgium and spent the week camping near a delightful little farm house at Waterloo. The weather hasn’t been great, it rained a lot of the time.
I’ve recently separated from my girlfriend. I know I might seem a little ungrateful but her constant demands to woo her in the boudoir drove me to distraction.’ Not tonight’, I’d say to her.
There’s a couple of Swedish birds in a caravan opposite i’ve got my eye on.
When we first split I went on an island holiday by myself, just for a bit of peace, but I soon grew tired of this and wanted to see the lads again.
Anyway, aside from the constant torrential downpour we’d all settled down quite nicely for our first night of our little camping jollies. The trouble began on the morning of the second day.
Some Scotsman woke us all up playing the bloody bagpipes as loud as you like. One of our artillery lads fired a gentle warning shot with his cannon to request that they keep it down a bit.
His volley went slightly off course landing through the roof of the farmhouse B&B where apparently some English blokes were staying over the weekend. Well, as you can imagine all hell broke loose!
They sent all their mates over, including them bloomin’ Scots lot ready for some fisty cuffs.
We were heavily outnumbered to be fair and they gave us a right good kicking. In desperation we shouted over to some Austrians and Prussians in the next field for help but they were neither use nor ornament.
The cock of the English blokes went by the name of Chris Plummer. His nick name was Wellington I think. Snotty bastard he was.
Anyway, they ruined our holiday and we left the following morning.
The Campaign and Camping Club are loathed to give us a refund and we wondered if you could offer any suggestions as to how we may bring someone to account for our inconvenience.
We’re certainly pressing charges against Wellingtons mob.
I’ve booked a long weekend in Malta next month.
Could you recommend anywhere nice to stay in Russia!
Yours,
Napoleon.
My dear Bony.
I aim to please whenever possible, but I fear I may have met my Waterloo with this one. You, the bravest, most sophisticated, and brainiest French leader of all time, go on holiday to Belgium, and then complain about the weather?!? Mon dieu mon petitie cuisses de grenouilles!
What did you expect? Corsica in friggin July??
And as for your girlfriend, I suspect that you will be somewhat better off without her. Such over enthusiasm in the bed room chamber oft suggests that the strumpet in question may only be "up for it" so regularly because she hides the real truth from her suitors. That is, that she is panting with lying eyes, a serial sponger, and, how do they say in France..........as barren as an Accrington brick. Withdraw form her arid regions and extend your bony part elsewhere.
How about a pretty little island to escape to instead? The luscious ladies of Elba are, I believe, most welcoming, if a little on the slow side. This time of year, when the figs hang heavy on the branch, they are glad of some foreign intervention, and their olive-oiled pussies are more than ready for a probing excursion from the intrepid traveller. Who knows, you may even feel relaxed enough to withdraw your deformed little hand from your waistcoat, and find a warmer home for it.
You should be able to explore at will. The peasant girls will do nothing to prevent close examination of the local promontories as they have very little experience. In fact, you could say they don't know they arse from their Elba!
Have fun on your travels!
L & K, Dreary.
Rug
Dear Dreary.
Over the last few months i have kept myself busy in the production and cultivation of a new rug.
I was extremely proud of my creation, extending and manicuring it with care and dedication.
It is deep but yielding to the touch,but with defined edges and is an alluring shade of crimson.
I keep it in what has been something of a void between the front and back.
My partner Monty however, on his recent return from a tour of duty in Afghanistan, declared it to be old fashioned and slightly musty. He says he now prefers a minimalistic appearance.
What should I do?
Regards, Davina McFlurry, Axminster.
My dear Davina.
It's always a wise move to have some form of rug down in your passage between front and back. It's bound to take a bit of a beating too what with a constant southerly wind blowing in from the back coupled with a persistent drizzle from your leaking vestibule. I'd certainly be looking to have it insured.
The chances of a stubborn stain upon your pile is quite high also.
And if 'friends' insist on traipsing around the back then your shag shall be dulled very quickly indeed.
If Monty is unhappy with the way that you present your hallway then pull the rug from under his feet and send him packing!
Dreary.
Over the last few months i have kept myself busy in the production and cultivation of a new rug.
I was extremely proud of my creation, extending and manicuring it with care and dedication.
It is deep but yielding to the touch,but with defined edges and is an alluring shade of crimson.
I keep it in what has been something of a void between the front and back.
My partner Monty however, on his recent return from a tour of duty in Afghanistan, declared it to be old fashioned and slightly musty. He says he now prefers a minimalistic appearance.
What should I do?
Regards, Davina McFlurry, Axminster.
My dear Davina.
It's always a wise move to have some form of rug down in your passage between front and back. It's bound to take a bit of a beating too what with a constant southerly wind blowing in from the back coupled with a persistent drizzle from your leaking vestibule. I'd certainly be looking to have it insured.
The chances of a stubborn stain upon your pile is quite high also.
And if 'friends' insist on traipsing around the back then your shag shall be dulled very quickly indeed.
If Monty is unhappy with the way that you present your hallway then pull the rug from under his feet and send him packing!
Dreary.
Thursday, 20 June 2013
Dear Dreary.
I would appreciate some career advice. My desire to make it as a actor has faced something of an uphill battle recently. For some reason, nobody seems to take me seriously. But I think I may have spotted an opportunity. With the sad passing of James Gandolfini, the producers are searching for the new Tony Soprano, and I believe I should get an audition. What do you think? I have the necessary lived-in,grizzled expression, a foul temper when roused, and -- my not so secret trademark -- a lethal weapon. I am trained and primed. The "family" would never be quite the same ever again. I am just not sure whether or not I should invest in a new wardrobe.
Thanks in advance Drears for any advice.
Yours,Timmy Mallett.
In my mind, there's no shortage of work for you, which is, sadly, something that can't be said for everyone at the moment.
Good news eh?
Scientists, for example, are always on the lookout for small rodents to perform experiments on!
The military are always short of live targets to fire at and HM Prison Service pay good money for rent boys to visit dangerous in mates.
Mike Tyson is looking for a new sparring partner and I've also heard that Charles Manson is a big fan of yours and wants to meet you. He's been quoted in several interviews as saying that he'd love to show you how to get the most out of that mallett of yours!
Put me down as a reference!
Dreary. xx
I would appreciate some career advice. My desire to make it as a actor has faced something of an uphill battle recently. For some reason, nobody seems to take me seriously. But I think I may have spotted an opportunity. With the sad passing of James Gandolfini, the producers are searching for the new Tony Soprano, and I believe I should get an audition. What do you think? I have the necessary lived-in,grizzled expression, a foul temper when roused, and -- my not so secret trademark -- a lethal weapon. I am trained and primed. The "family" would never be quite the same ever again. I am just not sure whether or not I should invest in a new wardrobe.
Thanks in advance Drears for any advice.
Yours,Timmy Mallett.
In my mind, there's no shortage of work for you, which is, sadly, something that can't be said for everyone at the moment.
Good news eh?
Scientists, for example, are always on the lookout for small rodents to perform experiments on!
The military are always short of live targets to fire at and HM Prison Service pay good money for rent boys to visit dangerous in mates.
Mike Tyson is looking for a new sparring partner and I've also heard that Charles Manson is a big fan of yours and wants to meet you. He's been quoted in several interviews as saying that he'd love to show you how to get the most out of that mallett of yours!
Put me down as a reference!
Dreary. xx
Friday, 31 May 2013
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
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
Monday, 27 May 2013
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!
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
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
Sunday, 19 May 2013
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
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
Monday, 13 May 2013
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?
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.
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
Thursday, 9 May 2013
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
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
Wednesday, 8 May 2013
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.
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
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
Thursday, 25 April 2013
Dear Dreary.
I've recently been made unemployed and finding another job has proven very difficult.
However, I have been fortunate to find a new job but it's not really what I expected.
I've got a job as a door supervisor. Why a door needs supervising is beyond me.
I watch it open. I watch it close. Sometimes things are posted through it. Most of the time it does nothing. Some have tried knocking on it. I saw this as deliberate and willful damage and quite rightly informed the appropriate authorities.
In winter months I have noticed that the wood swells and requires a more
concentrated 'push' to gain access, again which I see as a very aggressive act. I've offered to plain the wood but the way things are going I feel like knocking somebody's block off!
I'd prefer supervising a curtain in a ladies changing room.
Please help,
Gok Wank,
Stools.
Dearest Gok.
You talk of wanting to put an end to slamming swollen wood into various holes and your desire to be amongst women changing. This is bog standard, first year Uni social worker territory, the obvious and thinly-veiled wish to transform both your life and your gender, the hope to make things "plain" as you say.
Before rushing into things however, a couple of words if warning. I would advise you to complete the trans gender process as quickly as possible, otherwise you may find that you suffer from what are commonly termed "confused genes", what the experts call "Geneality Amendment and Synchrinicity Hormones" illness (GASH).
If the GASH is not correctly aligned, you will encounter a subsequent problem with the Core Lip and Internal Treatment (CLIT), that may result in a deformed Central Uterus Node Tract. I would also recommend that you read Professor Naggi Itchimufti's famous study paper "Testes : What Are The Signs? ", commonly known as the "TWATS guide".
Once you have completed the process my only advice would be to stand behind the curtains and pull yourself together.
Happy surgery! D.
I've recently been made unemployed and finding another job has proven very difficult.
However, I have been fortunate to find a new job but it's not really what I expected.
I've got a job as a door supervisor. Why a door needs supervising is beyond me.
I watch it open. I watch it close. Sometimes things are posted through it. Most of the time it does nothing. Some have tried knocking on it. I saw this as deliberate and willful damage and quite rightly informed the appropriate authorities.
In winter months I have noticed that the wood swells and requires a more
concentrated 'push' to gain access, again which I see as a very aggressive act. I've offered to plain the wood but the way things are going I feel like knocking somebody's block off!
I'd prefer supervising a curtain in a ladies changing room.
Please help,
Gok Wank,
Stools.
Dearest Gok.
You talk of wanting to put an end to slamming swollen wood into various holes and your desire to be amongst women changing. This is bog standard, first year Uni social worker territory, the obvious and thinly-veiled wish to transform both your life and your gender, the hope to make things "plain" as you say.
Before rushing into things however, a couple of words if warning. I would advise you to complete the trans gender process as quickly as possible, otherwise you may find that you suffer from what are commonly termed "confused genes", what the experts call "Geneality Amendment and Synchrinicity Hormones" illness (GASH).
If the GASH is not correctly aligned, you will encounter a subsequent problem with the Core Lip and Internal Treatment (CLIT), that may result in a deformed Central Uterus Node Tract. I would also recommend that you read Professor Naggi Itchimufti's famous study paper "Testes : What Are The Signs? ", commonly known as the "TWATS guide".
Once you have completed the process my only advice would be to stand behind the curtains and pull yourself together.
Happy surgery! D.
Thursday, 11 April 2013
Dear Dreary.
I'm not sure if you are qualified to help, but any advice would be welcome as a procession of doctors appear to be baffled. Thing is, my Helmut keeps going a funny colour. He's been an excitable lad since his early teens, up for anything, anytime. Robust and upstanding, he has always been a fine healthy specimen, coping admirably with life's ups and downs, always coming up smelling of roses whatever nasty hole he gets himself into.
He has always handled himself correctly, and had always shown himself to be brimming over with good old fashioned spunk, especially first thing in the morning. Recently, however, i have been worried about his well-being and general demeanour.
Whenever he gets worked up he seems to turn a reddish-pinky shade, often building up to the point where his head becomes quite purple and looks like its about to explode. His veins bulge and he develops a strange twitch around his eye. Doctors just laugh when i describe the symptoms and suggest he counts his blessings.
I have no idea what they are referring to.
Can you possibly put your finger on it?.
Yours, P.Niss,
Dear P.
Helmut sounds a head strong character and shouldn't be rubbed up the wrong way.
If his head starts throbbing, open a window perhaps, let the air get to him.
If it can at all be avoided, never let him get into a tight spot or a sticky situation.
Talk to him. Encourage him to seek others of a similar vein. See what catches his eye.
He needs a firm hand and a stiff reserve. If he does take it the wrong way and buggers off then he may seek shelter at the YMCA.
It's a young man's game I'm afraid and he shouldn't take shit from just anybody!
Dreary. xx
I'm not sure if you are qualified to help, but any advice would be welcome as a procession of doctors appear to be baffled. Thing is, my Helmut keeps going a funny colour. He's been an excitable lad since his early teens, up for anything, anytime. Robust and upstanding, he has always been a fine healthy specimen, coping admirably with life's ups and downs, always coming up smelling of roses whatever nasty hole he gets himself into.
He has always handled himself correctly, and had always shown himself to be brimming over with good old fashioned spunk, especially first thing in the morning. Recently, however, i have been worried about his well-being and general demeanour.
Whenever he gets worked up he seems to turn a reddish-pinky shade, often building up to the point where his head becomes quite purple and looks like its about to explode. His veins bulge and he develops a strange twitch around his eye. Doctors just laugh when i describe the symptoms and suggest he counts his blessings.
I have no idea what they are referring to.
Can you possibly put your finger on it?.
Yours, P.Niss,
Dear P.
Helmut sounds a head strong character and shouldn't be rubbed up the wrong way.
If his head starts throbbing, open a window perhaps, let the air get to him.
If it can at all be avoided, never let him get into a tight spot or a sticky situation.
Talk to him. Encourage him to seek others of a similar vein. See what catches his eye.
He needs a firm hand and a stiff reserve. If he does take it the wrong way and buggers off then he may seek shelter at the YMCA.
It's a young man's game I'm afraid and he shouldn't take shit from just anybody!
Dreary. xx
Wednesday, 10 April 2013
Dear Dreary.
I live in the country, a little village called Bumming. I'm quite old fashioned and also an avid gardener. My back garden slopes down to the river which can make it awfully difficult when mowing the lawn etc, but it's a labour of love.
Smallbuoys, my sheepdog is a constant companion these days.
My Spanish pen pal Quan King has been staying with me until recently too.
All's been going swimmingly until a recent trip into the city gave me a bloody nose and a lynch mob after me.
I was having a drink in the local pub when I got chatting with a group of rugby players from Wales who were on tour. We were
having a nice chat until I'd finished telling them all about myself when one of them shouted nonce! and hit me with his stool.
I'd only said I was an up hill gardener who was particularly fond of Bumming, Quan King and Smallbuoys.
What's the matter with people these days? I blame Colour telly!
George Pennis
Much Bumming
Lube.
Dear George.
I know exactly where you're coming from. People seem to live on a knife edge these days, ready to kick off at the drop of a feather boa. My cousin Vinny got in a right pickle at the weekend just walking down the high street. He saw a friendly looking woman leaning against a lampost.
On it was a sign that read "Have You Seen My Pussy?". Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he lifted up the womans skirt and turned on his miner's helmet.
Well, you would, wouldn’t you? She poleaxed him with a swift, well-aimed kick to the unmentionables.
How was he supposed to know that a kitten had been lost in the vicinity? Now he's scared to leave the house and completely unable to play his favourite game, Erecting A Tent Under The Duvet.
All you can do George is keep smiling whilst you recover.
Bumming can wait.
Toodles!! D.
I live in the country, a little village called Bumming. I'm quite old fashioned and also an avid gardener. My back garden slopes down to the river which can make it awfully difficult when mowing the lawn etc, but it's a labour of love.
Smallbuoys, my sheepdog is a constant companion these days.
My Spanish pen pal Quan King has been staying with me until recently too.
All's been going swimmingly until a recent trip into the city gave me a bloody nose and a lynch mob after me.
I was having a drink in the local pub when I got chatting with a group of rugby players from Wales who were on tour. We were
having a nice chat until I'd finished telling them all about myself when one of them shouted nonce! and hit me with his stool.
I'd only said I was an up hill gardener who was particularly fond of Bumming, Quan King and Smallbuoys.
What's the matter with people these days? I blame Colour telly!
George Pennis
Much Bumming
Lube.
Dear George.
I know exactly where you're coming from. People seem to live on a knife edge these days, ready to kick off at the drop of a feather boa. My cousin Vinny got in a right pickle at the weekend just walking down the high street. He saw a friendly looking woman leaning against a lampost.
On it was a sign that read "Have You Seen My Pussy?". Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he lifted up the womans skirt and turned on his miner's helmet.
Well, you would, wouldn’t you? She poleaxed him with a swift, well-aimed kick to the unmentionables.
How was he supposed to know that a kitten had been lost in the vicinity? Now he's scared to leave the house and completely unable to play his favourite game, Erecting A Tent Under The Duvet.
All you can do George is keep smiling whilst you recover.
Bumming can wait.
Toodles!! D.
Dear Dreary.
I am a single woman of, lets say, certain years. I have been experiencing problems with my front bell for some time. It has been working only intermittently for years, but now seems to have stopped ringing altogether. I find that this has gradually resulted in fewer and fewer gentlemen callers, to the point where nobody comes to my front at all now.
Even the milkman has stopped deliveries. Is there an easy remedy, or should I, given my age, be considering viable alternatives? I could consider clearing out my back garden to make access possible from the rear, but have no previous experience in this area. Do you think it would be worth the trouble? I know a handyman who may be willing to help.
Yours, Miss Fanny Dust.
My dear Miss Dust.
Perhaps you might consider opening up your front, making it wider, more spacious and ultimately more appealing to any prospective callers.
You may also consider 'knocking through' front to back to create a bigger space. Somewhere to park that bike!
If your hanging baskets are doing what it says on the tin, so to speak, you may wish to perk them up with some baby bio and some thing to support your sagging bulbs.
Your trailing labilia is sadly a sign of your age, however, a stiff, hardy perennial should soon put a smile back on your face.
I do know there are plenty of gentlemen who would love to put an extension up around your back end. Once a stable erection is in place there would be no stopping a reputable handyman slapping a good trowels worth around your drain pipe and widening your options!
All the best, Dreary. x
I am a single woman of, lets say, certain years. I have been experiencing problems with my front bell for some time. It has been working only intermittently for years, but now seems to have stopped ringing altogether. I find that this has gradually resulted in fewer and fewer gentlemen callers, to the point where nobody comes to my front at all now.
Even the milkman has stopped deliveries. Is there an easy remedy, or should I, given my age, be considering viable alternatives? I could consider clearing out my back garden to make access possible from the rear, but have no previous experience in this area. Do you think it would be worth the trouble? I know a handyman who may be willing to help.
Yours, Miss Fanny Dust.
My dear Miss Dust.
Perhaps you might consider opening up your front, making it wider, more spacious and ultimately more appealing to any prospective callers.
You may also consider 'knocking through' front to back to create a bigger space. Somewhere to park that bike!
If your hanging baskets are doing what it says on the tin, so to speak, you may wish to perk them up with some baby bio and some thing to support your sagging bulbs.
Your trailing labilia is sadly a sign of your age, however, a stiff, hardy perennial should soon put a smile back on your face.
I do know there are plenty of gentlemen who would love to put an extension up around your back end. Once a stable erection is in place there would be no stopping a reputable handyman slapping a good trowels worth around your drain pipe and widening your options!
All the best, Dreary. x
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