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


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

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


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

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

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

Does she wear a peaked cap?

Fez, smokes a pipe!

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


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

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


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

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

Dear Sharon.

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

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

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

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

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