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
Monday, 13 May 2013
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.
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