is the natural state for all men. There is much to be frightened about and of. What’s more frightening is you don’t know the half of it. The measure of a man’s life is how he copes with the terrible wall of fear. The traditional manly remedies are: rigorous self-delusion (an absolute refusal to face anything remotely akin to reality or even open an envelope); drink; and mood-altering masturbation. And for this you need a really comprehensive wank bank.
Sir,
My husband said he had something important to tell me. I could see from the fear it was serious. I’d suspected for some time that he might have been wearing my clothes, so I was prepared for a bout of tearful trannie guilt. Which, frankly, I’d be OK with. We’re about the same size and I didn’t marry him for his dress sense, so I might as well stay married to him for mine. But then he blurted out that he was a nudist. I must say I was surprised. Calmly, I said I thought I might have noticed if he’d been playing volleyball in the garden starkers. He said he didn’t want to be a collective nudist – he was a singular, secret one. And he would like me to be a secret nudist with him. What, just round the house? No, he said. Outside, together. Well I wasn’t overcome with excitement, but compromise is everything in a relationship, and after 20 years of marriage I was amazed that there was anything new to discover about him. I’m going to draw a veil over our sojourn in Hampstead Heath. If only I’d had a veil about me at the time. Never again. He said the deeply humiliating cascade of events was my fault for not being quick enough. He is still sulking. And he says he doesn’t know if we can go on if I can’t join him on his journey. At the moment I don’t know if I can go on if I do. It does seem a very stupid reason to break up what is essentially a happy though dull life with a nice home, a successful business and a secure family.
Sophie, West Sussex
He is not a nudist. Nudists are plural. A singular nudist is a flasher. He wants to implicate you in his sad little waggling insecurity. If he gets nicked on his own it’s six months on the nonce’s wing and a lifetime on the register. If he’s got you with him it’s a Benny Hill sketch, and the bobbies trying to keep a straight face while giving you a lift home in a blanket, with a verbal to lay off the Viagra and go on holiday to Sweden. But you’re right not to want to break up a perfectly dull marriage. It’s not that serious. It’s not as if he suggested bridge, or restoring classic caravans. The answer is, introduce him to your nearest art school as a model. He can be naked alone and observed. And you could take up sketching, and thus join in while remaining clothed. Indeed, you sound like someone who might take to bohemian headscarves, smocks, lumpy jewellery and cannabis. And you can’t be any worse at art than he is at being a pervert.
Dear Mr Gill,
My husband has a degenerative, incurable illness. We’re both young, under 30. We met at school and have been together since GCSE geography. Now he wants to die and he wants me to help him and assumes I will because we love each other. He says I won’t get into trouble with the police, and courts are sympathetic to spouses who assist in suicides – particularly after Terry Pratchett – and anyway I have no ulterior motive. He’s saying goodbye to all his friends and making arrangements for the big day: drugs, suffocation and Billie Holiday. He’s happier than he’s been for ages. The thing is, I do have an ulterior motive. I’m sleeping with his younger brother. And have been for years. In fact, I was on the point of leaving when he got diagnosed, but then I couldn’t. I’ve just discovered I’m pregnant and obviously it can’t be my husband’s. Oh, and there’s one other thing. It doesn’t really matter but my husband’s father has a title. If he dies it will pass to his brother. And he’ll inherit a great deal of land. I do think killing him is the best option. I have no problems either way, morally.
Jocasta, London SW3
Congratulations. Hats off. Respect. You can be in this business for years without getting a problem that impressively screwed up. Where did you all go to school? Webster’s Academy of Jacobean Tragedy? OK, here’s the thing: you’re completely fucked. No, really. Game over. There is just one teeny, forlorn chink of hope, an outside, 100–1 chance. So here is your mission, if you choose to accept it. First you’ve got to tell the husband that he’s going to be a father. Explain the immaculate conception by telling him you judiciously had some of the hereditary custard frozen, way back, just in case. And you’ve secretly been having IVF. You didn’t tell him because you didn’t want him to be disappointed if it didn’t work. So he has to stay alive to see his son. You have to square the brother, carrot and stick. First, keep shagging him, which shouldn’t be a hardship. But tell him if he says anything you’ll deny it and no one will believe him because he’s a younger son, and no one ever believes younger sons. So this way you keep everything, including someone else’s good name. But, and there is a but, the child will grow to be an amoral, manipulative, sensual monster. The two of you will be well-suited until you get old and the last thing you’ll see is his beautiful smile as he gently but firmly holds a pillow embroidered with the family crest over your face.
Sir,
I’ve just left uni and have got a lot of job interviews lined up. City, industry, etc. I’m really clever. My CV’s impressive. I’m sure I could do most jobs better than most people but I’m shit at interviews. When someone asks me what my chief fault is, I have an uncontrollable desire to say, “I smile when listening to idiots.” And then smile.
Gareth, via Facebook
OK, Gareth. First, remember this is all about the job. It’s not just about your job. It’s all to do with the jobs of the people who are interviewing you. Being on a recruitment panel represents a lot of stress and an opportunity for people in offices. They get to show off or get shown up. There will be one boss-person and then two underling suits, who will be trying to outdo each other. What they’re looking for is someone who makes them look good, and who won’t be a threat. So the trick to interviews is not the dos, but the three don’ts. Don’t flirt, don’t be too keen and don’t be too clever. Remember, the job will always go to the third best candidate. First and second best will be championed by the competing courtiers. The boss will say, “Is there anyone we can all agree on?” And that’ll be third best. Which is never going to be you, is it? Because the other thing is, you’re a twat. A proper, whiny, pompous, self-justifying twat. I hope The Big Issue thing works out for you.
AA,
My girlfriend’s just been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. It’s such a downer. Can I dump her?
Chinua, by email
Yeah, course you can. Hey, you didn’t sign up for a mentalist, did you? Don’t feel bad. No reason why you both should. She’ll probably be better off on her own. She can concentrate on lightening the fuck up. I wouldn’t risk a face-to-face. Might make her worse: the begging, the what-did-I-do-wrong sobbing, the suicide threats. Just text her. “Sorry, babe, not working out for me. Moving on. Cheer up. LOL.”
Dear Uncle Dysfunctional,
It’s our one-month anniversary and I’m taking my girlfriend
