'I see what your problem is there'@SimonLock

Dear Agony Uncle,

Last summer I leant across to the woman sitting next to me on a flight to Australia and attempted to break the awkward silence when I saw she was reading 'Fifty Shades of Grey', and leaned over with a conspiratorial wink and the line 'ah, I see you share my interest in sadomasochistic pornography.' The awkwardness of the ensuing 24 hours still haunts every living and sleeping second of my existence. Please help me find a way out of this torment.

Dear painter/decorator,

I share a similar enthusiasm for Farrow & Ball’s grey paint catalogue. F & B’s neutrals are far from impartial; they have character, working well as colour schemes in their own right, but also able to serve as a muted foundation for almost any palette of colours. I am particularly drawn by ‘Mole’s breath’ (ref. no. 276) though by the sounds of it you prefer experimenting with ‘Railings’ (ref. no. 31) or ‘Down Pipe’ (ref. no. 26). I can understand your excitement therefore when you noticed that your neighbour was reading the hallowed catalogue. However, your good taste in paint does not excuse your venereal outburst- it is right that you should feel torment (for a short while at least). May I suggest that you repaint every room in your house in F & B’s delightful ‘Purbeck Stone’ (ref. no. 275)- I’m sure you will find this hue most soothing and therapeutically effective.

 Yours in ‘Wevet’ (ref. no. 273),

 Agony Uncle

Dear Agony Uncle, 

I was thinking of bringing my vintage stamp collection to university. It brings me great zen when I'm stressed. I don't know whether this is a socially acceptable thing to do/ if there are many other stamp enthusiasts out there who will want to steal my prized collection once they lay their greedy eyes upon it.

Dear Postman Pat,

Philately is a beautiful and erudite hobby. Forsooth, you and I are the last of a dying breed of collectors. There’s no point bringing your collection to university if you’re going to be paranoid about it or persecuted on its account. Besides, there are other things that can ‘bring you great zen’. I have recently got into Tantric Tibetan deity yoga: the aim of the game is to inhabit the being of a god by deep meditation. As His Holiness the Dalai Lama says, "the body of a Buddha is attained through meditating on it". Personally, I have most enjoyed inhabiting the being of Yamantaka The Wrathful, whose name means ‘the terminator of death’. We have a lot of things in common.

Praise to the jewel in the lotus*,

Agony Uncle

*Mantra attributed to his holiness Tenzin Gyatso, 14th Dalai Lama of Tibet.

Dear Agony Aunt/Uncle,

I have a brother who I fear has gone completely mad. He has grown a questionable beard and pretends to be a Scottish pirate who is a master at the art of reeling. Yet he has no connections with Scotland! 'O Flower of Scotland' has become unbearable in the mornings. I complained last week and he, today, deluded in his mind, bought some bagpipes. What should I do?

Dear David Miliband,

Well, what did you expect? After the Labour party’s election debacle no wonder your brother Ed has jumped ship. He’s always wanted to be Prime Minister and in the current situation running for the SNP is more likely to get him there than being with Labour. The only thing in the way of Edward becoming leader of the SNP is that he’s not very Scottish: hence his strange behaviour. He’s desperately trying to appear Scottish to the members of his constituency in Doncaster North. So, he’s learned to reel, he’s learned the words to Flower of Scotland (making a point of shouting BASTARDS at the top of his voice) and he’s grown a beard in an attempt to look like William Wallace. I’m sure you will get used to the pipes very quickly.

A ‘yes’ vote is a yes for Scotland,

Agony Uncle

'Oh, do shut up'@JackBenda

Dear Agony Aunt,

Since coming to Cambridge my already lefty liberal mind has been filled with liberation discourse and all manner of progressive views. As great as this is, it makes it very difficult for me to read my newsfeed without exploding in anger at the views of my unenlightened acquaintances from 'back home'. How do I shoot down their neoliberal cis-heteropatriarchal views without sounding pompous, self-righteous and up myself?

Yours in solidarity,

A dear comrade 

My Dear Comrade,

Indeed, the inanities we have to face from the living remnants of our philistine adolescence can be a hard cross to bear. I would suggest you cull them from your social media accounts for now. When the time comes that you absolutely must return to your intellectual cesspit of a home – and, if I were you, I’d avoid this eventuality at all costs - schedule yourself a decompression period first, as they do in the British Army. The army go to Cyprus so that they can get used to a slower pace of life before returning to their families. You, too, might find that upon returning to your slow-witted ‘friends’ and family, things will be less shockingly hard to bear if you have first been stupefied by the sun, sea and sand.

Solidarity always,

A fellow comrade.

Dear Agony Aunt,

I'm a profligate homosexual, and notoriously excellent at it, too, but I think I might have started fancying women. How can I try one out when everyone knows that I'm gay? PS I'm a bit of a BNOC so it's not like I can just walk around town without being identified.

Dear ‘bit of a BNOC’,

I am glad to hear you require my services beyond my pen. I would be happy to relieve you of your confusion – if, that is, you are who I think you are. Meet me on the Bridge of Sighs (or, Bridge of Thighs if you will) at Midnight this Friday and I’ll see what I can do for you. Don’t worry, it shall be the definition of discretion.

Until then,

Agony Aunt

Dear Agony Aunt,

After sex I have a penis-cleaning routine, in which a valet (or occasionally an under-footman) comes in to give my old chap a wipe-down with one of those lemon scented hot towels from Indian restaurants. For the true authentic effect, these can only be procured by the restaurants themselves - but all the Indian restaurants in a 50 mile radius of my country pile are tired of being asked for hot towels for private use - even though they're paid handsomely. My servants have tried to create the same effect by heating towels, dipping them in water and dripping lemon juice on them, but the acidic effect of the latter caused the most horrific burning sensation on my member. I cannot contemplate any other routine. What do I do?

Dear whoever you are,

Oh, do shut up.

Yours ever,

Agony Aunt

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