I've recently started my own very posh marketing company - it's called TWUNT, which I'm sure you'll agree is an eye-catching, alluring name, redolent of class and style.
I had paid a fortune to produce all my publicity - letterhead, business cards, souvenir mugs, pens, and even a promotional calendar with pictures of golf clubs on it. Then - what do you know? There's been a rather disconcerting epidemic of Tubrous, Warty, Unsightly, Nasty Threadworms (or TWUNT for short) which has been widely publicised in the press, and I feel that this has had a detrimental effect on the image of my company.
What should I do with all that stationery and the souvenir mugs? Should I start up another company called SARS?
Lady V: Mr Wubbs,
Doubtless, you will note the omission of the customary “Dear”. This is because that appellation implies some small level of affection or respect. You will forgive my frankness, but I feel neither of these things for you. How could I?
What you have done is stupid in the extreme. First, you do not enlighten me as to what TWUNT stood for in the first place, and secondly, you can hardly blame the press for appropriating “TWUNT” as discreet shorthand for something utterly unspeakable.
Your only recourse might be to fiddle with the lettering on your stationary etc so that TWUNT becomes BOMP (British Overseas Military Police) and see if that organisation might take the lot off your singularly inept hands.
Dear Lady Violet,
I am somewhat inexperienced in matters of a fornicatory nature, and often struggle to find conversational topics which will interest the opposite sex. For example, I am unable to give what I believe is colloquially known as a 'toss' (whatever that may mean) about football, motorbikes or strong lager - all subjects on which I have heard the male of the species exchange views.
However, I was talking to two young men in the refectory of a College of Higher Education yesterday, and I mentioned that I have problems getting underwear which fits properly, my 'vital statistics' being 48-23-36, and had resorted to using cling film instead. I reflected that sometimes the cling film causes me to sweat, and I am obliged to remove it and find a particularly wet mud patch in which to roll, preferably in the company of like-minded females so that we can apply the slurry to each others' nude bodies. I commented that though my interest in sport was minimal, I found 'muff-diving' to be a diverting occupation.
Before the two young men departed, they made a comment that they'd need a 'cold shower' now. I feel my social ineptitude has really come to the fore here. Did the mention of all that mud make them want to cleanse themselves at the very thought of it? I fear I may have offended them.
Dear Lady Violet - please could you give me any conversational tips which would serve me well should I meet any more young men in the future? I would SO like to converse with one!
Beatrice Foxx-Bumbler, B.A. (Hons)
Lady V: Dear Ms Foxx-Bumbler,
The experiences you describe are still very common especially in parts of the country able to boast young women with impressive chests and a higher-than-average rainfall. Whilst modern substances like cling-film have supplanted cellophane these day, the essentials of muff-diving remain the same. I have to work on my instincts here, so I must ask – why on earth would you want to TALK to a young man when you could roll about in the mud with one, indulging in all manner of Ugandan practices? Count yourself lucky, my gel. Enjoy!