Dear Dreary.
I have a very unusual condition, which is basically going to land me a hefty jail term if I don't seek help immediately.
In my religion we worship Boris, the spider God, and every spider is sacred and must be stroked should we come across one.
Only yesterday I glimpsed one run underneath a policeman's hat. I was cautioned under the public indecency act with stroking a police officer gently under the rim of his helmet.
Whilst on holiday in Bridlington I thought I saw a spider nestling in the gusset of a ladies swimming costume. It soon became obvious that the owner of the costume was not best pleased that I had thrust my hand between her legs. Well, if she had kept 'on top' of her hairy purse in the first place the confusion wouldn't have arisen.
It all came to a head this morning whilst I was making beds at the local old folks home. I caught one scurrying under the quilt and proceeded with caution.
It wasn't the fact that I had nearly caused Miss Blissheart to choke on her kippers that got me the sack.
It was the operation to remove my wedding ring from her small intestine and the unlikely excuse that I had been 'hunting Boris' that practically got me sectioned.
I'm thinking of swapping over to the Beaver Cult instead to be on the safe side. Your thoughts?
Keith Loon,
Drummington-Cum-Seldom.


　
　
　
Dear Keith.
Whilst sympathising with your condition, i have to advise against any form of contact with The Beavers. They are a bristly bunch at best, and have been responsible for the early demise of many a fine young buck. At their demanding worst they will guide you in to an apparent heaven but then spit you out the moment they no longer need you, often turning to an imitation alternative. The answer for you lies in a more pragmatic direction. Your spider dilemma can be solved on the web. www.arachnaphonia.org will supply contact details for a local eradication expert, able to terminate the problem at source.
Simply ring your nearest contact and within hours the little hairy fuckers will be no more. I believe your eradicator is particularly loathsome, and with a doctorate to his name to prove it. Dr. Iolanthe Watson's nickname in the trade is the "manic street bleacher" which says it all really. He will simply wipe out anything in your house that moves. He is also available on a 24 hour helpline. Let me know how you get on.

The Twelve Dreary Days of Christmas.
On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me................
12 pints of lager
11 stoners rolling
10 bongs are blowin
9 lads are humpin'
8 ladies cummin'
7 re-possessions
6 giros cashin'
5 BAGS OF WHIZZ
4 broken teeth
3 in a bed
2 hand jobs
and a condom hung from a tree.................
merry xmas from all at Dear Dreary.x

Dear Dreary.
I am due to give birth to my first child in three weeks or so, and to be honest the whole thing has been a bit of a nightmare. I don't even remember how i got pregnant, and the probable father - a bearded scumbag joiner - buggered off months ago. Yet friends, family, and people everywhere, especially the local vicar, keep insisting that this will be some sort of memorable event and will even give people some sort of new belief. God knows they need that round here, it's a right dump. I'll probably end up giving birth in the friggin train shed surrounded by some of the local teenage animals.
They talk of a bright light and travellers from the east. That'll be the police helicopter tracking them gypos from Millwall.
Still, I'll not be refusing any cool presents they might bring. What am I, stupid or summat?
If I am desperate when my time comes I might creep into the train sheds and have it there. Be a proper Virgin birth.
Anyway Drears, I was wondering if you could suggest a few
names. For a boy I was thinking of Brian.
What do you think?
Love from Mary.


Dear Mary.
It's a pity that the father couldn't have given you a more stable relationship.
I have a friend who lives near your neck of the woods. He's done really well for himself. He runs a local rag called The Northern Star. They call him the Ink Keeper and he's made so much money that he now lives in this wonderful barn conversion on the outskirts of town. I'm sure he could put you up for a few weeks. You'd have to get a taxi, it's quite a way out. I'll give you the number for Ass cabs later.
He lives next door to the Kings. They're a lovely well to do family. You'll probably get some dead good presents off them for the little one.
Brian's not a bad name for a lad. Jesus, you could do a lot worse!
D.

Thanks Dreary, you're a star! Merry Brianmas.

Dear Dreary.
My name is not Colonel can you can Harry can i have a dreadful can dreadful affliction that can means i can not Llewellyn can not finish a finish a finish a affliction that means means i jumble jumble up all my afflictions since my my time up the falklands jumbley jumbley afflict can sentence my brain affliction up the argie bargie electrodes jumbled my fucking brains faggots scrambled up the english arsenal boom! headache in port fuck stanley holloway can you limp help me limp end up cock got stuck finish affliction my cannot help myself finish a incoming! jumbley cant finish a help me deirdre my affliction is


Goodness me man!
I don't think I've seen a case as bad as this in my entire life.
You masturbate too much young fellow. As you're on the verge of climaxing all the time you end up talking non sensical
jibberish.
So, I'm afraid the cover up story of a Falklands veteran simply doesn't wash. Shell shock my hat!!!
You need to find another hobby. Why not actually join the army instead of playing at pocket soldiers.
As it stands presently your hand grenade is likely to go off in your hand at any moment causing untold trouser carnage. I'm sure your bayonet skills are adequate, 'they don't like it up 'em' as corporal Jones used to say, although in your case I'm not so sure.
It's the rifle range for you soldier. No more firing blanks willy nilly! It's time to distinguish between your privates and the officers mess!



You Deidre fuck this problem real jumble is genuine and i wank cant both shot arms off during the fuckin bitch you war are

Put it away immediately! At least join the RAF, you can play in your cockpit all day long!Screw you.can you keep a secret. I am captain harry ''h'' llewelyn,falklands war hero.previously thought dead. I faked my death in order to get away from a nagging wife. Please don't publish. I am willing to pay for your silence. H, Buenas Aries


Not 'Harry the horse' Llewelyn? The Stanley Stallion? Those poor sheep! No wonder you're in hiding!!! It's disgusting!
Did you never wonder why the argentinian mutton industry is now the world leader?

Dear Dreary.
I'm a donkey and have been struggling to find work over Christmas. You may think this odd and that I should be inundated with work at this time of year but sadly not.
I recently auditioned for a production of Little Donkey at The Dreary Lane Theatre but I was knocked back on account of being hung like a horse.
They said I might upset the children.
Things have not always been this dire.
Back in the late seventies I was the inspiration behind 'Beast of Burden' by The Rolling Stones'. Back in the day, before they could afford a van they used to throw all their gear on me and I used to hump them up and down the country. That 's me on the cover of 'Get Yer Ya Yas Out. Charlies' wife never found out. You can see how happy we were back then.
My first big break came when I landed the lead role in 'Two Mules For Sister Sarah'. No one ever found out what happened to the other mule. Shirley McLaine couldn't keep her hands off me, Clint never got a look in.
With the fame came the wealth, the drugs, the girls and the inevitable downward spiral.
I lost everything. I got bits of work here and there most notably as a stunt donkey on 'Animal Farm'.
I've applied for a job at Blackpool giving donkey rides in the hope that I may become a gay icon but it's all up in the air at the moment!
Could you recommend a decent grooming parlour?
Your's
Dick the Donkey.

Dear Dick.
With unemployment come many things. Depression, inertion, self-loathing, and even, in some instances ,some type of self-harm. From what you tell me of your circumstances i can detect classic symptoms of Gallagher's syndrome. This was originated by a Mancunian expert who championed the mind over matter theory, where the mind accepts that efforts need to be made to get back to work but the body simply refuses and seeks a more pleasurable substitute. There is also a more sinister side to the theory, an area of the mind that becomes totally delusional. The Stones' tour? The connection with Charlie's wife? Classic Gallaher's. You'll be telling me next that a globally famous cartoon has been made about your life with your voice dubbed by a famous black American comedian. The remedy, my equine friend, is simple. GET YOUR LAZY FAT MULE ARSE TO THE NEAREST JOB CENTRE AND SORT YOUR SAD FUCKIN LIFE OUT YOU SCUMBAG ASS -ARSE.
Merry Christmas.

Dear Dreary.
This time of year always gives me palpitations when it reminds me of a yuletide incident a few years ago. It had been the office party the night before. I woke with strange recollections of dreams about a rather annoying, obese black santa being mysteriously thwarted in his attempts to deliver presents to our house whilst i knelt down in front of him, peeling carrots. I remember laying in bed trying to figure it all out and blaming the drink and the supper i obviously brought home (there was an interesting combination of ketchup and mayo on the pillow). Imagine my horror! As i came downstairs .i thought i had left the tv on as i could hear Lenny Henry rambling on about the fact that he'd much rather be staying at a bloody Premier Inn. Then i noticed that the voice was coming from the chimney. The bottom half of a black male torso was dangling above the grate, legs kicking in an angry manner in time with the incoherent rambling and cursing. It was naked apart from a pair of santa trousers and rudolph undies around the ankles and a pair of doc martins. In the fireplace were more of the same remnants of those in my bed, alongside a potato peeler, a jar of helmanns, my yellow marigolds, and a box of kleenex. There was no sign of any potatoes anywhere, but a pool of what appeared to be a congealed blood and flakes of black skin. Santas engorged, dangling appendage was red raw and in obvious need of a soothing touch. I applied a mixture of mayo and ice to the throbbing gristle, particularly to the area where the foreskin used to be. Santa shot out of the top of the chimney like a human cannonball, and his screams were heard across town, not helped by the fact that he landed arse first on next door's giant Norweigan pine. It was only at this stage that i vaguely remembered eating fresh kebab meat before going to bed. You can understand my subsequent unease with christmas and why i always now prefer Travelodge. Could you offer some advice to help me over my trauma? Seasons felicitations, Lionel Barrymore, Peeler's End.
　
　
Dear Lionel.
This is most peculiar.
Only last week I had a query from a Nat King Christmas who told me of an excruciating ordeal at the hands if his junior office boy after a fancy dress works do went horribly wrong.
He stated that everything was going well until Lionel came in the room dressed only in a mankini and started to try and interfere with Santas sack. At the point where Nat King Christmas started to tease Lionel about his 'chipalata' office boy went berserk and threatened to disfigure Nats Mambo for good.
It was only when Nat awoke astride the Norwegian Fir that his nightmares were realised.
If this is you 'Lionel' I shouldn't be too keen to return to work as Father Christmas has deemed you a very bad little boy.
He did say he'd let you sit on his knee though!!

Dear Dreary.
I never thought i would get over the loss of my precious fanny. Lost in a terrible accident twelve years ago, i was left bereft in early middle age, condemned to an existence without life's ultimate pleasure. No more the thrill of a quiet night in, losing myself in her various sensual charms.
No more early morning rampant delight, my hardness and stamina a shock to us both. Or so i thought! How she got there i cannot think, but when i moved the settee the other day to lay a new carpet there she was! Still looking pristine in her little pink box, all inviting yet somehow neglected, my pleasure treasure awaiting my attention.
The words "My Fanny" still sparkling like new in silver lettering around the ever-ready clitoris, the faint bitemarks still evident. I can't believe she's come back to me. Can you suggest somewhere i can take her for a romantic weekend? Thanks D. Benjamin Netanyahu, Cairo.


Dear Benjamin.
It begs the question, where are Fanny's other bits? Like her arms and legs, head, torso, green shield stamps?
Isn't it a bit embarrassing taking Fanny out to dinner? I take it she wears a thong at least? Do you take her to the bathroom?
Does she put her teeth in to eat?
Better take them out again before she swallows I suppose!!
What do your friends think? Can she speak?
Has she, could she, ever hold down a job? I'm sure she's filled many positions over the years, I'm just curious.
There's a twat in our office that could do to be replaced.
Should I send Fanny an application form?
I hope she's got her GCSE in English?
Dreary. X