Dear Dreary.
The ink has run out of my pen!
Sebastian Biro.
Inklington.


Dear Sebastian.
This worries me slightly. The production of semen from the testes should continue well into old age to some degree. Though you fail to mention your age or any recent problems, to say you have simply dried up probably masks an underlying issue of some kind. Are you suffering from stress at work maybe, or under pressure to perform in the bedroom? Have you experienced a recent blow to the coconuts or are they mis-shaped or swollen? It's possible that supply lines may have become blocked or even that there has been a total tube strike. Or,more likely,your lifelong history as a serial masturbator has finally caught up with you. My advice? As the great Greek philosopher Coppernickers once said, '' If there's nowt left in't tank, find thee a fresh hobby and fill up lad''.
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
My knickers are very tight and i'm having trouble fastening my bra clasp. My tights rip constantly owing to the strain of my voluminous flesh and my Sunday frock keeps coming undone at the back revealing rather more than a girl would like.

I have trouble getting a gentleman friend though it's not from lack of trying.
Young boys run away when I approach them and I've appeared in several identity parades.
We all have needs Dreary. Next door won't let me look after little Harvey the dashund any more and Farmer Poole has an injunction out against me. Not allowed within a mile of his sheep.
Any of your male readers want a pen pal?
Geoff.

I think most of my readers would indeed rather have a pen as a pal to be honest Geoff. There is much to be said for it. A reliable constant companion who has no needs or mood swings, but one who is always there for you when you need them. No need for a computer here, just a trusted and loved partner to support you through life's dramas. I treasure my collection like they are husbands, and if one day their supply of fluid expires I tend for them in my breast pocket and pass on their duties to a hand-picked substitute. My favourite is my Parker Swivelhead, a long chunky model boasting dual action and either soft or hard nib. It never fails to satisfy! He even says ''Yes m'lady?'' every time i flick his little switch, and always sees me through to the end whenever my creative juices are flowing. I am caressing him as i write. Then,when I'm all done, i'll pop him somewhere snug and warm in case i need him during the night and then it's off to Bedfordshire for the two of us. You can rely on
a pen Geoff.
Dreary. xx

Dear Dreary.
Every time i lick a stamp to put on an envelope my wife has an orgasm.
It's not too bad when we're at home although Christmas can be quite challenging. Birthday cards, spot the ball coupons and the Freemans catalogue always end up in an accident on the breakfast room carpet.
It's obviously most embarrassing down at the post office. The whole area in front of the glass screens had to be evacuated last Tuesday when my wife lost control as we weighed a second class parcel bound for Australia. It took three cleaners armed with a Vileda and bucket to pronounce the area safe. I dread to think what she'd have been like had we sent it first class.
Have you any idea when a new communication system might be developed to spare my wife and I from this constant shaming?
Please be quick, the vicar's just popped round and I need to post my Blue Peter competition.
Harry Paddley,
Puddleton On The Piss

Dear Harry.
Good god man. 1). Go to living room cupboard. 2). Take out big yellow book that postie Pat brings once a year. 3). Under 'C', locate nearest branch of shop named Currys. 4). Drive to said shop 5).Purchase either item A. computer or B. laptop. 6). Join rest of planet on remarkable development named internet. 7). Forget letters and cards : fucking email people. Alternatively, do nothing and just enjoy the fringe benefits. Save all necessary stamp licking until the two of you are tucked up in bed and hey presto : a satisfying little quickie every time! Start a stamp collection and see how she responds to a penny black. Spoil her a little and make a fus of her every now and then. As all us women know, a little philately gets you everywhere!
Dreary.xx

Dear Dreary.
My best friend at work was recently made redundant and this has been affecting both my life in general and my performance in the office. I just can't get him out of my head and cannot seem to shake off my depression. Colleagues were sympathetic at first but i sense that their patience is running a little thin as it is now a couple of months since Kenneth left. If they only realised the full story. Kenneth had in fact told me that he loved me and would never leave me. We were extremely close and tended each other's vegetable patches every sunday morning. His onions are legendary in the local community.
At weekends he also sings in a band,playing the local pubs and clubs,and one night he sang a song he said he'd written about me,a touching number entitled ''Summer In The Fields''. From that moment on i knew he was the one for me,even though at first he found it difficult to return my feelings and I had to raise the difficult subject of halitosis and his somewhat trembly alto singing voice. Then it happened. It was after he had left that i emptied his drawers and found it. It was a letter from our colleague William,expressing his undying love and affection. I was devastated. That evening I confronted Kenneth with the letter. Unfortunately, when he admitted to the relationship, I lost my temper and in a stupid act of revenge that i now totally regret, i snapped his clarinet in two. He responded by pissing into my flat cap. Can you see any hope for us? I would still like us to keep in touch,and we actually have tickets for a Bucks Fizz concert next month,but he seems to making loads of new friends in his new job at the mortuary so i fear any offer of reconciliation would simply be snubbed. Will he willingly want wee Willie's winky like he once wanted mine? I can't bear this. The least he could do is give me back my '' I Love Peanut Butter'' y-fronts. Crunchy, of course. Yours brokenhearted, Charles Whoretree, Dungeon Ghyll.

Dear Charles.
You need to try and see where your relationship has gone wrong and why he fancies old Willy in the first place.
I bet Willy looks like you which may be of some comfort. Tall, rugged, a bit thick, bespectacled and away with the fairies.
It's a cry for help. Whilst your fella is taking one from the pavilion end from old Willy I bet he's secretly wishing it was you.
Think back how you have treated your loverboy and this may be where the answers lie.
Have you ever poked fun at his tubby tummy? Laughed at every song he's ever written? Taken the piss out if his love of disco music? Out dressed him in the office perhaps? So all the boys look at those military creases in your shirt and scoff at his tramp like appearance? I bet all he ever wanted was to be like you. An apprentice upon your milk float dripping head to foot in your gold top. Leaving you an extra pint perhaps?
This could be the last of the summer wine. Offer him a drink from the brim of your flat cap and perhaps get a couple of tickets for Saturday Night Fever.
That should do the trick!
Dreary. x
Thanx Drears. I can see that you may be correct. Underneath that skin of bravado and bluster, there is a sensitive, loving person. He just needs to take care of himself a bit more, cut out the daily pack of hobnobs and the creme de menthe breakfast. I'm not hoping for Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen, more an elegant Jim Bowen.

Dear Dreary.
Watya no bitch. I woud be intrested to know your thawts on the curant stait of our motherfucker edducatering sistern. Yeers of dumbling down have, I beleive, left a generashiun of motherfuckin kids under prepaid and, in sum cases, bearly illiterate. This is the resultium of concentriode puriode on exampliode passiode. We are contintinuing to let these mothers down with a softly softly heyhey i'm a monkee appwoach to dissiplin that leafs them confusiund and dishengreengaged.
Watyasay bitch? There are thymes i disrepair. The old school tie is long john, the progreshun to university no
longer anne achievement. Standrads have not just slipped,they have fallened over and re-fuse to pull themshelves back up. Even the roll of a proffessa has changed beeyond all recognishun. Wattle and daaube have todays' younglitude gotten to luck four wood too eye ear ewe say? Our next genderation of market garders
and shopcreepers,what will they a spire to? No motherfuckin barsted has any standawds or screwpulls.
Its all me me me ow are we gonna prowgress?

Prof.Green, Kings College Cambridge.

My dear Professor.
Thank goodness for great intellects such as yours.
The way they speak these days is an insult to the English language. Luckily us few remain what can speak proper innit and shall never be influenced by such shite as that.
I pride meself on me grammer nd the way av bin brought up nd that just like me mam, aunty Janice nd her mum before her.
I never ad sex before marriage. Probably why I'm still a virgin. I always brushed me teeth after a blowy though and never took it up the bum between meals.
It's what keeps Britain great people like you and me Cheesy.
PS yer rappin's well shit!
Dreary. x

Dear Dreary.
I feel utterly redundant as a human being and helpless to go anywhere or do anything.
You have to be 16 to ride a moped and 17 to drive a car.

You have to be 14 to see a AA and 18 to see an X.
16 to join the armed forces and 17 to become an au pair. You have to be 18 to vote and 16 to fly an aeroplane solo.
I'm 47.
Why do teenagers have all the fun?
PS Apparently there are no age restrictions in becoming an astronaut!
Lester Grebe.
Upper FluteBarrow. Ipswich.


Get a grip Lester. Half your life is still ahead of you! Take heart from the example of Sir Hilary Bangs, intrepid East Anglian turkey farmer and Antarctic Explorer. He had never left his native Stiffam before the age of 50, but went on to sail singlehanded to South Georgia accompanied by only 2 dozen hybrid Norfolk Blacks in a daring attempt to establish the turkey in the South Americas. All this despite being a cross-dresser and having only one leg since birth and a bit of a sore throat on the day he sailed from Lowestoft. What courage! What determination! What an entrepreneur! A shining light for us all to follow. There is nothing you can't achieve if you set your mind to it!
Love,Dreary.
PS : Hilary's courage never left him, even though the farm failed as it transpired that male turkey's testicles drop off at temperatures of minus twenty, and Hilary lost his other leg when his favourite gingham frock became trapped in the wheels of a passing combine harvester. He ended his days lonely but proud of his efforts, comforted by the sound of mating whales and the occassional penguin fritter.

Dear Dreary.
I'm chief inspector of the local village police force and our local council is playing merry hell with the way we do things around here.
They've taken the panda car, two bicycles and the Morris mini van that we use to throw villains in and sometimes to transport tables and chairs from the church hall to the village green for the annual fete.
In return, they've given us a selection of old council vehicles to cut costs on tax and fuel.
PC Windsock has been given a milk float, PC Nuts has been given an old bin wagon to put the robbers in and we've even been booted out of the police station and moved into Thowd Truncheon & Trumpet, the local Inn.

We've become a laughing stock. We're hard pushed to catch a blind man with a stick and our new jail is overcrowded as everyone wants a lock in in the Truncheon & Trumpet. The vicar's been arrested three times this week already. Once for preaching naked in his pulpit, once for drinking all of the blood of Christ and pissing in the font at a christening. Talk about wetting the babies head! And once, last night, for playing his pipe organ in full view of Miss Down, the flower arranger.
Please help. I feel they've taken the pea out of my whistle.
DCI Dick Barton.


Dear DCI 'Dead-Eye'.
Local authority cuts are biting hard these days, all you can do is put your case forward to central government. My local council have been reduced to sweeping the streets with the scalps of illegal immigrants, and are now staffing care homes with vagrants and gypsies. Kills two birds, you see. Rubbish collections are now monthly, but if you have a family you can arrange for the council to give you a fox, which will rifle you bins for the smelliest scraps and deposit them elsewhere. All public lavatories have been locked up. Each now has an adapted oildrum outside where the desperate can squat. A drive-in version is sometimes available for wheelchair users. Council tips have closed, so a list of addresses is displayed where rubbish can be deposited. Coincidentally, these are the homes of local sex offenders.
Good luck Dick!