Tuesday, 18 February 2014

Dear Lady Violet,

Dear Lady Violet,

I've been trying online dating, you know, on the internet an' all, and I've heard about these people called 'catfish' who put up fake online dating profiles and send pictures which aren't them at all.
I've been sending cute little txts with modern expressions like OMG and LOL, whatever those mean, to this nice sounding young man, and now he's sent me a photo.

Do you think he's a catfish?


Hermione Cadwallader (83)
Chipping Sodbury

Lady V:
My Dear Miss Cadwallader,
You will excuse my presuming that you are a well-bred unmarried lady, but I believe that we may have been introduced years ago at the Chipping Sodbury Hunt Ball. I was the one in pink chiffon, escorted by a Captain in the Lifeguards who turned out to be spectacularly well hung. As I remember, you were the thin, pale, outstandingly unattractive gel in the company of what appeared to be a corpse.
Whilst I'm pleased to see that you have reached a goodly age, I despair at your lasting innocence. Of course your correspondent is a catfish. These creatures are known to prey on silly old fools, insinuating themselves into their affections so that they may tickle the victim with their long, damp whiskers. This usually happens at night at a full moon. The swiftest cure is to drink a half-bottle of cheap brandy upon retiring.

Dear Lady Violet,

I've recently shown my boyfriend, Eric (91), how to open a Facebook account. He doesn't use it properly, and so far he hasn't liked any of my pictures of cats, or of my dinner, or of me being blind drunk and puking into a plant container outside ASDA. This makes everyone think I'm a sad git with a boyfriend who doesn't care about me. All he does is sit there with a tartan blanket over his knees and watch telly.


Josie Headwhacker (38)
Eastrington, Goole.

Lady V:
Dear Ms Headwhacker,
I have in fact been to Goole. The Bentley was struck by a careless pedestrian in the main street there, leaving a nasty stain on the nearside front wing and I was delayed for a good ten minutes waiting for the stupid man to regain his senses and be encouraged by my driver, O'Hell, to wipe it off.
I had been shooting with the Crome-Frobishers up at Grubbocks, and O'Hell took a short cut through Goole so as to shorten the journey back to the road south and blessed civilisation. I have to say that the whole area struck me as one shot through with inbreeding and native idiocy. Your boyfriend would seem typical of the average male Goolie (as they like to be called, apparently), and if I were you, I'd drop him asap. I mean, he's 91 and will, more than likely, fall off the perch pdq, leaving you with absolutely no reason to upchuck on supermarket premises.
No, my dear lady, urgently dump Eric and look for someone nearer your age, and just as drink dependent. Let's face it, according to the photographs you enclosed, at 38 you're no spring chicken, and on the outstandingly plain side to boot.

Dear Lady Violet,

My mum won't let me mend my motorbike. This is serious, because it's getting dangerous what with bits falling off an' all. She says it's because all the oil and gunk will stain the sheepskin rug in the dining room - which is the only place I could do it.

How can I get her to stop being so stubborn?


Darren Wossname
Scratchy Bottom

Lady V:
Dear Mr Wossname,
You will note that I invest you with the grown-up title, "Mr" although I sense from your letter that you are anything but.

Mending your motorbike on the sheepskin rug is a perfect example of adolescent thoughtlessness. Whilst this may not be your fault - you are probably the result of a kneetrembler when your poor mother was young and foolish - you absolutely must try to mend your motorbike somewhere else. If you do not, I have provided your mother with the contact details of a freelance persuasion agency (called Clint) who will be only too pleased to help.

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