get one) as some sort of foreplay. This is disgusting and unnatural. Porn has to be solitary, singular, secret and, above all, embarrassing. Nothing ruins pornography like someone else cranking one out saying, “Can’t we fast forward through this bit? Oh, and the midget’s got a willy just like yours.”
Mr Gill,
I’ve got this boyfriend, and on the face of it he ticks every box, some of them more than once. He’s good-looking, solvent, with an indoor, sitting-down job. He’s got a car that’s insured, which is as rare as morris dancers round here. My family love him, and so do I. It’s all lush, until he opens his bleeding mouth. He’s got this accent. He sounds posh. Like off Downton Abbey, or some black and white film. Normally I can handle it because he’s polite and funny. It’s just in bed, his voice does me in. You really can’t talk dirty and sound sexy with a posh accent. It’s like being rogered by a comedy butler or a magistrate. I can’t take it seriously. Every time he says, “Here I come ready or not.” Or, “Good Lord, brill top bollocks, Miss.” Or, “Steady the bus!” (he says that quite a lot), I go off the whole thing. I’m writing to you because I assume you’re posh. How do any of you actually breed? How can you get a throb-on for some bird who sounds like Princess Anne saying stuff like, “Do you have a reservation?”
Cher, by instant message
Ah, Tracy. Do you mind if I call you Tracy? I know it’s not your name, but you’re all Tracys to us. Of course, you’re completely right. Received pronunciation, BBC English, or “posh”, is good for many things: ordering thousands of oiks to almost certain death; governing an empire with not much more than five drunken Scotsmen and a cricket bat. It’s brilliant for memorial services, patronising foreigners, children and horses and, bizarrely, poetry. But God in His wisdom gives and He takes away. Even though He obviously has the same accent as your boyfriend, He has deemed it the most preposterous voice when naked. When all is said and done, or done then said, it is the accent of understatement. And if engaged in the beast with 20 toes and a single desire, you really don’t want understatement, or to sound phlegmatically sophisticated. No one wants to hear, “Whenever you’re ready old girl” as a soundtrack to the vinegar strokes. My suggestion is to shove a pillow in his mouth. It will remind him of school. Or wear earphones playing Get Carter. Of course, if you’re serious about the chap then work up some ruse to get him fired, get one of your mates to nick his car and insist he moves in with you. In a couple of months he’ll sound like your bruvas. We are not born with this accent. We achieve it. It’s part of our training. Take away the perks and the position and we lose the accent. Anyway, in our heads we all sound just like you. Out loud we may be saying, “I say! Tally-ho!” In our heads it sounds like, “Eat cock snot, bitch.”
Dear Uncle Dysfunctional,
I’m short.
Leon, by email
Lie down.
Dear AA,
I had one girlfriend at uni. We were each other’s first loves, and inseparable. It was really intense. We went on to live together for a year. I thought we’d probably start a family, but out of the blue (or so it seemed to me) she left me for another woman, saying she’d always sort of known she was gay. I was utterly gutted and de-nutted and I had a bad couple of years. But I met someone else and we married and have a nice life together. I never completely lost touch with my old girlfriend; we’ve remained friends, though not close. She and her partner (the same one) want to start a family, and she’s asked me to be the donor. I can’t say I wasn’t surprised, but I’ve thought about it and I think I should: they’re in a stable relationship, there wouldn’t be any financial commitment from me and it would be a way of saying there’s no hard feelings and I’d like to help. My problem is: how do I tell my wife? We don’t have any children.
Ahmed, Bushey
No hard feelings, Ahmed? No hard feelings? This whole letter is written in the pale ink of hard feelings, on thin-skinned notepaper. The envelope is stuck down with bitter bile. It’s stamped with regret. To say there are no hard feelings, only shows that you have the sensitivity of an angle grinder. OK, you’re not over it. No one ever gets over being dumped. You learn to live with it. You grow a scab and then a tough lump that you stroke occasionally. You spend a couple of hundred words talking about your ex, you mention the wife in passing and the fact that she’s childless as a postscript. I’m assuming you haven’t bred because there’s a blockage. And it’s hers not yours. I’m assuming the honest reason you want to donate your tadpoles to the dyke bitch who broke your Bambi heart is because you want the revenge hump, even if it’s just with a syringe. So, leaving aside the obvious answer – which is “No!! Not conceivably, you dense fuckwit!!” – these are the options. One: don’t say anything to the wife, slip the ex her shot of man fat purchased from a stranger found in the waiting room of your local STD clinic, preferably a bloke who’s chromatically very different from you. This is the revenge option. It will give you an instant, huge sense of release, a lightness of being. You will feel like you have been given an extra lung and the steel band has been removed from around your head. It will last for half an hour. And then you will feel sad and guilty for the rest of your life. But guilty sadness might be easier than the fawning anger you’re weighed down with at the moment. Then there is the option of Solomon: you say yes to the ex but with conditions. You give her two shots, one for her, one for her partner. It’s a twofer deal. They both get pregnant. They keep one child. You and your wife adopt the other.
Fun fact: there’s a lot of inventive thinking going on about human insemination at the moment. What you might call in-the-box thinking. One entrepreneur is opening an online sperm boutique. He’s looking to make attractive cocktails of shot juice for ladies who want children but not the whingeing demands of exhausting infants – so, no fathers. He’s putting together collegiate shots, collections of mixed jiz with a common theme. So you might get a football team’s spunk, the whole of Man U in an Actimel bottle, or, if you’re on a budget, Norwich. You could have the cast of West Side Story. Or, when the sprog asks who its dad is, you could say the faculty of the London School of Economics, or the Household Cavalry Sovereign’s Escort. He’s thinking of taking commissions for bespoke screws. The oddest request was from a professional Swedish lady who’s after the collective DNA of London’s zookeepers.
Dear Uncle Dysfunctional,
I’ve got a bent cock. Really bent. Like a right angle. What shall I do?
Rupert, Oxford
Go fuck yourself.
Dear Adrian,
I love my wife. We’ve been married 10 years, got two great kids, she’s a brilliant mum, makes our house a wonderful home, is funny, popular, and supportive. We share lots of interests. I can’t imagine my life without her. But she’s a minger. I don’t fancy her. Not at all. I’m not sure I ever did; you know, we were young, I was drunk. She’s an awkward shape and ugly – but only on the outside. It’s a terrible thing. I really can’t shag her. So I’ve been pretending I’ve got erectile dysfunction. Don’t laugh. Of course she’s really understanding
