Ask Uncle: August 2007

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the inaugural edition of Ask Uncle! Since we first advertised Uncle's services he has been inundated with cries of help from girls with eating disorders, young men with emotionally-retarded boyfriends, and lots of oldies having really bad oral sex. We've scoured this goldmine of discomfort and social awkwardness and chosen two letters which we feel best reflect the wide views of our readership. Enjoy!


Dear Uncle,

I am fond of wondrous words and winsome witticisms, and so thought you would be a good person to help me with my problem, viz.: I am addicted to 19th Century novels, and for the most part they seem to indicate that reason, fortitude, honour and all manner of calmness make for a good marriage. They all say one should control one’s passion. But, dear Uncle, I confess to liking Heathcliff a great deal. I should quite like to marry a Heathcliff. I am not fond of his tendency to dig up dead Catherines, but he seems to be the sort who wouldn’t have scruples about tearing off one’s bodice on the moors, and I rather like that. So my question is: can one marry a Heathcliff, and be happy?

Yours sincerely,
Afflicted.



Dear Afflicted,

I once read that Bronte book, back in the War. Ripping good yarn I thought, took the mind off the rats and bombs, so a good choice for husband-obsession.

That said, it's not going to work with Heathcliff dear. Sure he's good at the bodice ripping, but who's going to sew the buttons back on later? And maybe he'll ravage you on the moors, but will he have a pack of lace tissues ready for afterwards?

I can talk about this with confidence because I am a man of passion myself; the wifey and I have a bit of slap and tickle every Wednesday before bed, even after 62 years of marriage. It was VE Day that we tied the knot, under a beautiful summer sky. We ate bananas for the first time in seven years and they tasted like heaven. Of course kids nowadays don't know how to appreciate the little things in life, least of all food. They just eat and eat and eat the fat bastards. Bloody Americans most of them too. Fat AND stupid.

So Uncle's secret to a happy marriage? Taking out the garbage. Metaphorically of course; that's the wifey's job, every Wednesday night. You need a husband who'll roger you sideways for hours so you can't walk straight and then make you a cup of tea. Who'll multitask by bending you over the kitchen bench while you prepare dinner. Forget Heathcliff and focus on Byron, Rhett and Darcy. They may have seemed like nanny-boys but I bet Darcy liked a good poke. Filthy bugger.





Dear Uncle,

If you look closely at this pic of me on holiday - I have issues. Where the fuck do I start, and where do I end?

Anonymous



Dear Anonymous,

We had a lad like you in our unit back in the War. Nice chap, we called him Fatty-Where's-my-Cock or just Fatty for short. Started him off in the airforce but too much ballast y'see, bad for maneouvering against the Jerries. Tried the parachuting regiment, nearly lost him there. Eventually settled in the cadets, provided great cover for our boys against machine gun fire.

Point is, everyone has a place in this world, especially if they enter it armed with a dual purpose twat-cock. Don't listen to those bastards who tell you you look like sausage skin pulled over God's scrotum, they're just jealous. You just need to find your place.

To answer your question, you must "start" by regaining your self-respect. The quickest way to do this is to get the respect of others. Send a photo of your amazing twat-cock to www.genitallove.com and they'll give you a job straight away. This is the beginning. You'll know you have reached the "end" when you can look in the mirror and see a beautiful man looking back.