Once in a while, you're presented with a Gordian Knot of a problem that just can't be unpicked even by my slender, delightfully proportioned and perfectly manicured fingers. Problems where Alexander's solution of taking an exceedingly sharp blade to all those concerned may be the best way forward. But I don't normally approve of beheadings so I wracked my brain for an alternative and "eureka"...

"What if I get the assorted saddos who read my column to answer the saddo letters."

Brilliant, hey!!! 

Maybe not as brilliant as Vanilla Ice's legendary Top of the Pops performance of 'Ice, Ice, Baby' on 6 December 1990 (when a certain young lady had some very wet panties indeed), but definitely more brilliant than MC Hammer's video for 'Can't Touch This' with its cunt soaking, tight lycra shorts and hareem pants. Olden days people go on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on about The Beatles and The Stones, but it's only 'cause they never experienced the bass thumping, pussy pumping, hormonal bliss that were Vanilla Ice and MC Hammer. 

*sighs*

*hums*

"Cunt touch bliss... Nice, rice baby... Cunt much kiss... Sugar, spice baby". 

So I seem to have a little bit of a plumbing problem; a leaky faucet methinks. I'm just going to go and attend to it whilst you have a read of the letters. Be right back. 

Dear Cum Thief

Thank you for arranging the publication of my poem 'The Ungrateful Valentine'. I can't help but notice that my name is notable by its absence. In fact, the only change I can identify from the version I sent to you is the appearance of your name in giant sparkly letters where my name should appear. I believe that you have crossed the Rubicon between good, honest, totally acceptable, everyday plagiarism and deceitful, criminally pursuable theft. No doubt you will do the same thing with this letter; publish it, claim it as yours, and pass it off as some form of creative brilliance. If my current situation didn't severely limit my opportunities I would ensure that you are exposed to the world for the fraud you are. Be warned.

Despite that, I find I am in need of your assistance once more. I had hoped that exposing my current circumstances via the poem, by emphasizing the continuous and unwarranted attentions I am still enduring from my ex-husband, might compel the authorities or some interfering busybody to bring an end to my suffering. I was also hopeful that once the commercial nonsense surrounding St Valentine's Day had passed I might be left to rest in peace. Wasn't that enough? The flowers, the chocolates, the teddy bear were bone sickeningly awful, but the hugging and kissing were just too weird for words.

Unfortunately, things have got worse and I really am at my wit's end as to know what to do about it. The day after Valentine's my ex turned up with a shovel and removed all the turf from atop my resting place leaving only exposed earth. Now that was bad enough as it has made my temporary home cold and drafty and given me a chill in my bones. But there is worse. Oh yes, much worse. He now comes to my graveside each and every night, removes all his clothing, lays face down above me, grinds his way into the earth and starts ... well I can only really describe it as hump fucking the soil above me.  Each night he burrows a little further down. I'm sure that last night I felt cum dripping onto my pelvic bone. I dread to think what another week of this behaviour will bring. I could spell it out, but I think we all can see where this is going. And he wasn't even a good fuck when I was alive, hence my multiple affairs.

I don't know what you can do, Cum, but please, I beg you, do something.

Fondant Hologoode (deceased) 

Dear Cum Bum

I was supping a pint of 'Old Peculiar' in The Claret Jug the other night when Bony Bill sidles up to me and tells me all about the malicious lies you've been saying about me having sexual relations with my dead wife's corpse. Now I have been visiting her grave as ours is a love that never dies; just like that between Zippy and George on Rainbow (look them up) or as brilliantly conveyed in 'The Princess Bride'. And, yes, I do strip off all my clothes and lay down atop the damp inviting ground but it's not what you think. 

When I bury my face in those clinging sods; nostrils pressed into the crumbling dirt, her aroma seeping between its granulations, invading me, filling me, her unique pungency consuming my mind, my cock inflamed, lustful and engorged beyond all sense and all reason. As the chilled night air caresses my lightly haired arse cheeks, trickling around my pulsing balls, my hips thrusting, pummelling, pistoning into the glorious nuzzling of clutching soil, as it hugs and slurps at my meaty length, gripping and tugging, cum bubbling, as frenzied and jerking in helpless desire I spurt my enduring love into the perfect muddy embrace. 

I can't help it, I really can't. That patch of toiled earth is the best fuck I've ever had. 

Hope you can find it within you to understand.

Hoxton Hologoode

Okay, back now, and let me tell you that the mental spit roasting I've just received from Hammering MC and Icy Baby was pretty fucking amazing so I'm feeling all squirmy and ditsy. 

Where were we? Oh yes... 

The Hologoodes, a tricksy problem I'm sure you'll all agree and I just know that there are many, many budding Agony Aunts out there just desperate to practice their skills.

So, are there any saddos out there with any advice for the Hologoodes?