Alain Whyte: Agony Uncle

In a dusty, musty archive in a forgotten corner of an old library, a battered envelope was found by a pretty, petty thief. The envelope bore strange stains, but on further examination, its contents were even stranger. It seemed that the inhabitants of a sleepy village somewhere in England, where Miss Marple would no doubt eagerly peer over the fence, had somehow - possibly though a combination of inbreeding and gin - come to the conclusion that Alain Whyte was an Agony Uncle. And so, for the first time, these letters are revealed to the public (and reminded that, surprising as it may seem, none of this actually happened. Ever).

Dear Alain,

Whilst enjoying a nice pot of Darjeeling and a plate of Bourbon Creams with my English friend, Edna Weasels, I was availed of a most intriguing cultural insight.

Mrs Weasels and I were perspiring gently over my treasured photographic scrapbook of handsomely endowed gentlemen in Farah slacks, when, little finger crooked in that elegant manner of hers, she squinted at me over the rim of her raised teacup and said "Get any heftily-hung Englishman drunk enough, and he'll pull his pocket linings inside-out, stick his todger through his zip and make elephant noises."

As an American myself, I should like to ask you, Alain, if Mrs Weasels' heartening assertion is indeed true and whether this behavioural trait is a peculiarly English one. If, indeed, you have not already treated your friends, family or minister of religion to the spectacle of a 'Whyte Elephant', might I enquire as to whether you have any plans to (as Edna so delicately phrased it as she sloshed more of my gin into her Darjeeling) 'pull a pachyderm on your no doubt delighted audience at a future time?

Yours sincerely, Ivy-Consuelo Jobsworth (Dr)

Dear Ivy-Consuelo (Dr),

I'm taken aback (about 10 feet, to be exact) by your letter as I hadn't thought of myself as an Agony Uncle for ex-pats. And I spose you're not in too much agony, unlike them girls that write to magazines about their boyfriends making unnatural demands upon them. Not that I read, or ever have read, magazines like that, of course.

But to your central point: I have to say that I'm not much of a Farah-wearer myself. I much prefer a pair of cuffed jeans, cos then I look like a 1950s rebel. However, I asked my mate Steve, who likes Farahs himself, and he said that this elephant business is quite true. In fact, I have a vague recollection of this happening in a motorway service station on tour once. Though I can't remember whose trunk I saw. To be honest, I've wiped that particular event from my poor, innocent mind. I can't say I have any plans to pull a 'Whyte Elephant' in the near future, but should this change, then you will of course be the first to know.

A further point, though - I'm a bit worried about you sticking gin in your tea. Not because drunkenness can be a bit dodgy, but because you'll spoil the flavour of your char. Can't be having that, can we?

Yours befuddedly,
Al
XXX

Dear Alain,

I don't normally write letters like this, but my American friend, Dr Ivy-Consuelo Jobsworth, insisted that you, with your lovely Farah slacks and your big, bright smile, were just the fellow in whom I should confide.

You see, Alain, I have for some time been experiencing dreams in which I, in the person of an Amazonian warrior, am carnally colonised to within an inch of my life by your comely acquaintance, Mr Boorer. Imagine, if you will, your roguishly handsome fellow artiste, resplendent in a Farah polyester-mix beige safari suit, his quiff tremulous with barely-leashed passion, stalking me though the untamed foliage of my secret jungle bower. Bracing stuff, I'm sure you'll agree, and not something I could easily share on the problem page of my regular read, The People's Friend.

Naturally, I sought first the advice of my local minister of religion, Father Smith, who fingered his dog-collar nervously, removed my hand from his knee and suggested I sublimate my fleshly desires into coughing up that tapestry prayer cushion I promised to knock off for him in 1987. I took the good man's advice, completing my task with no small amount of flair, only to be informed that a tapestry depiction of Amazon Edna being ravished in the back of a Land Rover, a white flag fluttering keenly from my best wooden leg, might tend to distract the unwary worshipper from the liturgy in hand. There is, alas, no pleasing some people.

Did I mention that, in my dreams, just as my dowager's hump impacts joyfully with the flatbed of Mr Boorer's off-road conveyance, a secondary zipper noise can sometimes be heard, followed by a voice, sounding not unlike your own, seemingly attempting to impersonate an elephant? When I mentioned this detail to Dr Jobsworth, I received a knowing smile and a muttered comment about premonition. As to the majority of the dream, my friend admits to being at a loss, for dear Ivy, being not the man she used to be, dreams only of the day her electrolysis will let her bin her Philishave for good. She did, however, suggest that you, as a kindly fellow who takes great care not to smile suddenly in the presence of epilepsy sufferers, might be able to advise me as to how best to deal with these most distracting nocturnal inflammatories.

Yours sincerely,

Edna Weasels (Mrs)

Dear Edna (Mrs),

Once more, I'm a bit surprised that I've been mistaken for Claire Raynor, but seeing as you've entrusted this to me, then I will do my best to help.

I wonder if you could tell your husband about this? One thing I've heard about for dealing with intrusive dreams like this is to enact it in real life. I could ask my mate Martin if he'd lend Mr Weasels his safari suit. Maybe that would help?

As to the rest of the dream, I have to say that I don't have any trips to the jungle pencilled in. Also, I think it might be best if I left the animal impressions to Johnny Morris.

Yours with a strange taste in his mouth,

Al.
xxx

Dear Alain,

You seem like a practical sort of a chap, so I was wondering if you had any expertise to lend to the task of unworking a somewhat lewd scene emblazoned in tapestry upon a prayer-cushion. The sooner I can erase the depiction of my parishioner, Mrs Weasels, copulating gleefully with a most attractive, safari-suited gentleman of sturdy conformation, the better for the hang of my Farah ecclesiastical-cut slacks.

I have so far managed to unpick a Land Rover and a most eccentric representation of an elephant. Alas, the speech bubble emanating from Mrs Weasels' coral-lipsticked mouth is proving a little more resilient, and whereas the utterance "God! God! Oh, God!" is not necessarily out of keeping as an embellishment upon an accessory to prayer, the accompanying outburst is not something I would have my congregation chance upon as they fumble beneath the pews in search of a hymnal. Even if my rather progressive young curate, Mr Butterfingers, insists that "Oh, you're the DADDY!" bears interpretation as a "wikkid new take on the Our Father, dude!"

It grieves me, Alain, to add that there are elements amongst my flock who might actually find such licentious material amusing. In particular, a fellow with a tattooed neck who tends to pass on the collection plate a little lighter than when he received it. The prospect of Sniggered Eucharist is not something I will abide in my church, even this side of Lent and Mrs Weasels' needlework must therefore be subjected to sterner measures forthwith.

If you could advise me how best I can obliterate the offending material, I would be forever grateful.

Yours sincerely,

Father S.P.M. Smith.

Dear Father Smith,

I think your enquiry might be best dealt with by the editorial team at Cross Stitch Monthly. I don't have any personal experience with decorative needlecraft, except for the time I did a nice sampler when I was bored on tour once. It had a fairly accurate depiction of a Gibson guitar in the centre.

As I recall from that brief flirtation with the thimble and canvas, unpicking is a heck of a job. You might have more luck sewing a design over the top. I suggest this doesn't involve in any way Farah slacks or elephants, especially if Mrs Weasels is the one who reworks it. May I suggest 5 dashing lads in kilts?

I spose Mr Butterfingers might be right with his interpretation of "you're the daddy", though I fear the worst for what was Mrs Weasels' original intention.

Yours blushingly,

Al
xxx

Dere Alen

I am a simpal lad, butt I wood liek to ave some Farah slax jist liek Farver Smiff. Althrou I ham makin a man of meselv bye boroughing sum summs ov munny from the colecxtyon plait in the chusch. I no this is norty ov me, and yu ar the unly persin I ave confyded in regerdin this matur. This is becos you ave a face like a sent so I no yu will forgif me efen thoe I no Farver Smiff wunt. I ham shaw yu no the ekspreshun "The Lord elps them wot elps themselfs." I ham therfur elping myselv yu cee.

I wus wondrin if yu wold liek to sea my tatuus? They ar verry nise. Sum ov them I druw on meselv wen I ham board. Sumtimes Farver Smiff maycs me dress liek a nun. I thinnk I ham a fery prity nun althrou sum mite posybley sey I ham a bitt too hery too be a nun!

I was halso wonderin if yu cold possyblie tell me hoe yu meyk yu're heyr soo luferlie. Yur's stannds up allot mor then meen doz. Doo yu use lard liek wot I doo? I halso wd liek too tayk this hoportoonidy too sey that yu sumtimez look liek Elfis. Elfis is very kule. Yez, I liek Elfis, and I ope yu doo an all. Yu ave verry nise teef too, Mr Alen, iv I mai bee as buld as to sey so.

Luve from Garry. XXXXX <=== thiz meens I fink yur lufferly.

Dear Garry,

Might I begin my reply by saying what lovely handwriting you have.

Well, I'm slightly embarrassed that you'd feel the need to confide in me about your life of crime. I think your interpretation of "the Lord helps them that helps themselves" isn't quite what the Apostles had in mind. Surely the contents of the collection plate are to fix the leaky church roof or feed the starving? It might be all well and good if you've got a nice new pair of Farah slacks, but just think about how cold and draughty that church'll get in winter! I'm sure you wouldn't want Mrs Weasels' rheumatism to flare up again.

So perhaps you should suggest to Father Smith that it'd be a wise move on his part if he gave you some of his Farahs that he's finished with. Perhaps you could ask him this before the next church Jumble Sale? Mrs Weasels has asked me to help at the White Elephant Stall, but I have to admit that I'm busy that day. However, asking Father Smith for his old trousers is the least he can do, especially if he makes you dress up as a nun.

Should I ever get the chance to visit the village, I'm sure I'd love to see your tattoos. A note on hair - lard might not be the best product to use. Its weight would drag your hair down, so you should maybe speak to your hairdresser about an alternative.

I'm flattered that you think I'm lovely. You are as well.

Yours in mild panic,

Al.

xxx

Man!

You got a spare Farah slacks catalogue, Al? Mine turned up in the vestry with a funky smell that isn't Lebanese Black, if you catch my drift.

Peace!

D. Butterfingers (Dude)

Dear Dude Butterfingers,

I'm sure Farahs have a website?

Kind regards,

Al.

xxx.

PS: Now you lot can bloody well leave me alone. I've had it with this Agony Uncle lark. I'm off for a cigarette.