Dear Aunty Permelia

Last weekend when I was out on the lash in Cardiff, I pulled a heavy-duty old munter as she was tucking into a kebab outside Poundland. I’d had a fair bit to drink, but even from the other side of the road I could see that she had a face that could make an onion cry as it looked as though she’d been set on fire and put out with a golf shoe.  I don’t normally go for old birds, but we got to talking and it was clear that she’d had more hands up her than Sooty and seen more Japs eyes than an oriental optician. Still, a shag’s a shag and after she’d licked the last of the chilli sauce off her gnarly old woman’s fingers and had a piss in the doorway of Poundland, we jumped into a taxi to her gaff.  

When we got to her house, she opened the front door and the stench of damp, cat piss and boiled cabbage almost knocked me off my feet. She put the light on and I recoiled in horror at the filthy green carpet in her hallway. I followed her up to her bedroom where she hitched up her skirt and slid down her baggy old BHS knickers. Her sodden Tena Lady Max pad dropped to the floor and she kicked it under the bed.  Immediately I could see that she had a fanny like a yawing donkey and a pair of flaps like a gutted trout.  Still, I thought, I’m here now so in for a penny, in for a pound. The act itself was far from satisfactory as it was like throwing a chipolata up an alleyway. She wanted me to stay the night but I made my excuses, booked an Uber and got the hell out of there. 

Two days later, I discovered that I had a nasty itch, rash and discharge in my nether regions.  This is the least of my worries as I am sure I can take a couple of paracetamol to clear this up, but what I cannot so easily clear is the memory of her face and her small, black, cold beady hawk-like eyes staring at me from her bedroom window as I made my escape. Can you please tell me what I should do to stop the nightmares?*

Yours in hope, 

David

*Letter has been shortened for editorial purposes for reader sensitivity due to graphic and disturbing content, and to remove the old Welsh slag Jo’s full name.

Dear David

You would be surprised the number of letters I receive each week from men who pick up old munters when they are in a state of inebriation.  You really should know better than to be riding bareback at your age and I would have thought that a man of 81 would not be out picking up slappers off the street.  Still, we have been living in difficult times and we all need to let off steam after the year we’ve all had.  

From what you tell me in your letter, I would say that this dirty whore you picked up preferred the BBC in the past but is now looking to snare herself a white man as the BBC is no longer available.  When she told you that she regularly takes the knee, surely you must have known the BBC was the driving force in her tragic life? If not then why the fuck did you step over her filthy threshold after you saw the astro turf carpet? That alone should have been your cue to make your excuses and leave. 

Nevertheless, you are where you are and I would suggest that you contact the nearest clap clinic immediately as you definitely have the clap as well as crabs, warts and herpes.  For your PTSD, I would recommend you see Dr Pearl Opoku in Charles Street, Cardiff city centre.  Mention my name and I will get a referral fee

Best regards,

Aunty P