it’s coming to a head, and not in a good way. I’ve seen on the family computer that she’s ordered a load of Viagra. It’s my birthday in a month and I’m sure this is going to be my treat, along with the Victoria’s Secret thong, the chocolate lube and the Leona Lewis CD. What am I going to do? I’m desperate. Please don’t suggest makeovers, or surgery or party frocks. It would just make her look even more like Grayson Perry. I know this all sounds funny but I’m really sad. I love my wife with all my heart, and I could never ever countenance an affair.
Graham, by email
Graham, you’ve learnt a very useful and character-building lesson. All men occasionally wonder what it would be like to be a woman. Well, now you know. What you so touchingly describe is exactly how most married women feel about their husbands, though without the good-with-kids-good-around-the-house supportive bit. All women sooner or later end up married to an unshaggable bloke, and you don’t even pretend to make an effort. When was the last time you bought a new pair of pants? You think only Italians and ladyboys clip their nose hair. Take off your clothes, Graham. Get naked. Look in the mirror. See what your wife sees. Now get a stiffy. Most people marry into their league. Pretty people marry other pretty people. Munter meets munter. It’s your genes – they’re looking for a good fit. They want staying power, not a transient surprise result. Five doesn’t go into 10. The only couples who move from the Endsleigh League into the Championship are the very rich or deranged. So if your wife is an awkward shape, and ugly, chances are, so are you. But being a man you’ll imagine this doesn’t matter. Well, wake up and smell the bellend, Graham. You have choices. The Mr Rochester: a bit drastic, having to blind yourself. Try turning the lights out. Or just man up. Take a blue pill, do the business and be grateful. And when it comes round to her birthday, tell her you’ve got a surprise. Get her really drunk, slip her a roofie and have the naked bird of your fantasy choice tattooed on her back. When she comes round, tell her that you’d suggested a dolphin on her ankle but she insisted. It’s not ideal, but it should see you through till the annoying urges go away.
Uncle,
I’m going to spend the night with my first girlfriend. She’s given me a written list of what we’re going to do: takeaway pizza, bottle of cider, The X Factor, petting on the sofa, and up to bed for sex. She says she expects full reciprocal oral sex. I’ve been researching it on the internet, but I’m confused. It looks horrible. Can you help?
Oliver, by email
OK, get a pomegranate. Cut a v-shaped slice out of it. Put your hands behind your back and eat the seeds without using your teeth. For the full Sensurround effect, push a teaspoon of warm lard up each nostril.
Dear Uncle,
I’m 17 and beginning to show signs of male-pattern baldness. My mates call me Wills. I laugh it off and pretend I don’t care, but I do. It’s so unfair. It saps my confidence. I laugh at men with comb-overs, but I’m beginning to brush my hair forward and wear little hats. Please, please tell me something useful, and don’t mention Yul Brynner. My stepmum and all her friends always say, “Look at Yul Brynner!” I’ve no idea who he is.
Francis, by email
Yul Brynner, 1920–1985. Film actor who pretended to be a Mongol. Was in fact a Swiss-Russian gypsy, most famous for being bald. He is a terrible eggsample of a man whose life was defined by what he wasn’t: hairy. Baldness is a bugger, because it’s obvious and it’s obviously not that serious. It’s not going to kill you. It’s only follicle-deep. Loads of people are bald, and it’s what’s in your head that’s more important than what’s on it, etc., etc. But we all know it is important. I’ve just asked five girls under 30 if they minded bald men. Four of them said it was a deal-breaker. The fifth said she didn’t mind, but between you and me she’s a bit of a spoon-faced dog. So there you have it. Best to learn this lesson early. Everyone in the world would rather have lots of hair on themselves and their partners than none at all. And you’ll get no sympathy. Being bald isn’t like being ethnic or disabled. Everyone can and will make jokes about it and expect you to laugh good-naturedly, which you will. You will also buy all the lotions, drops, creams and patent cures that you know are humiliating rip-offs. You will spend years looking in mirrors, flicking your fingers through your spindly temples. You will try a ponytail on holiday. And finally you will have implants that look like a dollhouse’s Italian garden. You’ll marry a girl who pretends not to mind your pate because you pretend not to mind her facial warts. Toughen up. There’s still 40 years to go before the inescapable slip into Bruce Forsyth’s syrup. Oh, the other thing that Yul Brynner was famous for was having a humongous cock. His head looked like his bell-end, only smaller. I’m guessing this isn’t your compensation.
Mr Gill,
I’m marrying my long-term girlfriend next summer and already there’s a major family row. Sara comes from a Pakistani family. While she’s pretty much agnostic (no veil, bit of drink and blow, lots of sex, no pork), her family are quite old-fashioned and observant. They’ve always been very hospitable to me. I get on with her brothers, and her mum’s really nice because I don’t see mine much. In the house they’re traditional, which I like. I’m Irish. My parents are divorced. My mum lives in Australia. The thing is my dad is a transvestite called Petra. Sara and she get on really well. They talk about shoes and make-up, they go out for drinks and to see her Shirley Bassey karaoke. Sara’s family wants to have a dinner at their house for my family. It’s important to them. The thing is, men and women eat separately. They all know about my dad and say he’s welcome. She says she shouldn’t be welcome, she should sit in the room with the women and children, and that not being treated as a second-class woman is an infringement of her human rights, and discrimination. And anyway, she says, she’s already bought a burka. Sara says she’s got a point and if it’s that important to Dad, then her family should just accept it as being part of living in a Western godless society. On the other hand I think that Dad should stop being such a big girl’s blouse about it, man up and put on a suit for the evening, if only for my sake. Sara and I are having a running row. When I try to point out the irony of an Irish lapsed Catholic bloke defending a Muslim man, and a Pakistani lapsed Muslim sticking up for an old Paddy hod-carrier in a sparkly frock, she says this is serious, because it’s a test of my behaviour and fundamental understanding of women. What if our son wants to dress up as Britney Spears, like his granddad? Sort this out.
Dermot, London
First, good question. OK, here’s the answer. Tell your dad that of course she must come as Petra, but what they’d really like is if she could do her act, so why doesn’t she take a course in belly dancing and come and do the Dance of the Seven Veils for the men? They’ll love it (who wouldn’t?), Sara is placated because you’re encouraging your father’s transgender self-determination, her family will think that your lot are as mad as the Middle East with heatstroke – but then they think that anyway – and they’ll be touched at the cultural effort that Petra’s made. And of course you’ll probably be mortified with embarrassment, but then you’re used to that, aren’t you? And like you said, it’s only for one night. So that’s sorted. But Sara does have a point. What would you do if your son wanted to dress up like Alice in Alice in Wonderland? I sense that you’re not quite as culturally cool as you’d like us to think. You’re happiest when everyone agrees not to believe anything very much or very strongly. It’s nice when everything is relative and polite and disposable. I expect the thing you like most about Sara’s
