by AA Gill
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 and tells me not to worry. But most of the time I’m bent over with an angry diamond cutter. I’m horribly horny and wanking like a choirboy. This has gone on for a year now. But I think 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 th
e 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 family is that they have a strong set of values. Make a list of everyone you wouldn’t sit down at dinner with out of principle. If it’s shorter than the list of your friends or if there’s no one on it at all, you need to do a lot of thinking, a lot of manning up, a lot of big-girl’s-blouse work before you get married.
Sir,
My girlfriend has a really angry vagina. The rest of her is kind and gentle and really into me. From the waist up she couldn’t be more loving. But her front bottom hates me. Sometimes I catch it scowling, giving me the evils. Have you noticed they follow you round the room with a death stare? I’ve mentioned it to the girlfriend. She just laughs and says why don’t we kiss and make up? I did but it just lay there without even making an effort. And then it whispered to me that I was a twat-hating prick and it was going to suffocate me in the night. So I said, “Did you hear that?” And the girlfriend just gave me a weird smile and said I was so funny. So now I’ve noticed things are going missing. A cuff link. Some malaria pills. A chess set. And I know it’s that lippy minge.
Steve, by email
You’re right. So few men really look at vaginas. They’ve all got their own personalities. The good, the bad and the ugly. You need to be very careful. Never turn your back on a psycho clunge. When good beaver goes bad it’s usually because they’ve been abused in the past, let down, laughed at. Lots of vaginas just nag. What time do you call this? You’re drunk again. What do you think I am, a hotel? Clean up after yourself! You need to show the little lady hole you can be trusted. You’re not like all the others.
Dear Mr Gill,
I don’t read your magazine. I’m writing to you because I found it in my son’s room. And I thought, rather desperately, that you might have some insight into the state of mind of your customers. Frankly I’m at the end of my tether. My boy Percival is a complete stranger to me. He doesn’t appear to share a single one of my or his mother’s values. It is as if our whole lives were a weathervane for him to set his face against. I feel like the anti-life. I can’t understand how we can have had him in our care for 16 years yet so completely failed to inculcate a single civilised cultural or humane value in him. Percival regards us with an unveiled contempt. Barely utters a polite sentence. He would rather sit alone in the rain than share a meal with his mother and me. I sound angry, and I suppose I am. But really, I’m sad. He was such a beautiful little boy, such a joy for both of us. I had so many hopes and dreams for him. We were going to accomplish so much together. I miss him.
William, Gloucestershire
William.
Come closer. Closer! Put your ear to the page. Hear that? That’s the Esquire pity orchestra playing 100 sobbing violins. You bring up children and everything is for them: the house, the holidays. You put in the time and the money, you worry and you work, you stand on the touchline and you keep your fingers crossed, all for them. And then suddenly they hit puberty and it’s all about you. Oh, the lack of gratitude, the undeserved contempt, the smelly ugliness of it all. It’s as if you’d lovingly spent a decade and a half building an Airfix model of yourself only to find the picture on the box was a lie. Really, it was Sid Vicious. The point here is he’s right and you’re wrong. When he shouts that he didn’t ask to be born, and you shout back that he didn’t ask to finish the milk or take the car or throw a party or call his mother a cunt either, then he’s right and you’re petty. What you really mind and fear is that he’s passing you by. Everything you think and stand for and believe will fade away. Everything he thinks and believes and stands for will grow brighter and louder until it takes over your world. What you choose to do now is going to set the tone and the consequences of the rest of his life. You can go on like you are and he may turn up for the odd Christmas and your funeral. Or you can seriously and humbly try to find out what it is he wants. What he aspires to. What he hopes for. And if you can do that without sneering or knowing better or saying, “That’s not music. Whatever happened to melody?” Or, “Why don’t any of you pull your trousers up?” Or, “If she were my daughter, I’d die of shame,” then you could still do stuff together. Share things. But they need to be his things. His dreams, not yours. Yours are fading to black. You remember a beautiful boy. He remembers a smiling, proud dad. Who kicked a ball. And was pleased to see him. And didn’t say, “Don’t talk like that in front of your mother.” The Librarian of Hull said that parents fuck you up. Of course, being childless himself he didn’t go on to point out that it was nothing like as much as kids fuck up their parents.