God-awful bin raider Gus The Fox answers agony letters exclusively on ShortList.com, every Friday.
Last weekend, I was looking after my nephew for the day and while he was feeding the ducks, a swan bit his hand. He was upset but the swan showed no remorse. I’m personally finding the situation pretty hard to move on from. What should I do?
Everyone thinks swans are hard but they’re not, they just had a lot of good PR in the 1980’s. They can’t break your arm with their neck. They can’t even open a jar of pickled onions. They’re a bunch of big white pussies who go around beating up little kids. You’ve seen it for yourself Tom. If I were you I’d go back to the duck pond under cover of darkness, find the swan who did it and give him a Chelsea smile. No one would blame you.
My girlfriend keeps “treating” me to a series of home-cooked dinners. She seems to think she’s a bit good in the kitchen but she’s absolutely awful. I’m really bad at pretending to enjoy something when I really hate it and I’m worried that she’s starting to guess. Have you got any tips mate?
Even though it can be nice to, sometimes, avoid hurting people’s feelings, it’s usually better to get this sort of thing nipped in the bud before you end up ruining your entire life. Imagine having to eat the vile slop which spews out from your dreadful girlfriend’s cooker morning, noon and night. Every day forcing the rancid, grey, slurry down your throat with a pained smile on your face whilst resisting the temptation to lob it into her face and call her a useless c**t. Not ideal. Point is we all have different taste buds. The other day I went for dinner at Martin Clunes and Emma Bunton’s flat. Being a polite guest, I brought a bottle filled with p*ss and a Crunch Corner covered in wasps. Clunes did his best to force it down but I could tell he wasn’t really enjoying it. He’d have saved himself a lot of bother if he’d have just told me it wasn’t his cup of tea and I wouldn’t have really given a sh*t. Just tell your girlfriend that she’s b*llocks at cooking and fire up the kettle for a Bombay Bad Boy.
I have an on-going problem with dry skin. Do you know of any home remedies?
My mate Sexy Chris has terrible dandruff for an owl. Sometimes when he flies away it looks like it’s snowing. It’s quite magical. He reckons dry skin can be cured by listening to five or ten minutes of bongo music every day, but he also reckons that he found a cure for cancer by mixing TCP and Lucozade, so he probably isn’t really worth listening to. He’s a f*cking idiot.
She left me bro. She left me. What do I do, dawg?
Never easy is it Ryan S? We’ve all been there though lad. Not so long ago I was sort of going out with Emma Watson (The fit wizard from the Potter films). We’d used to wander up the canal together kicking seven shades of sh*t out of all the swans and that, but after a while it wasn’t enough for her. One morning I woke up in her caravan and she’d dyed me pink. She thought it was pretty funny but I was f*cking livid. I told her I didn’t want her dyeing me ever again and stormed out. Whilst I was walking home a hedgehog called me a fat b*nder which just added insult to injury. After a few hours I calmed down and went back to apologise for over reacting but it was too late, she’d already replaced me with a bichon frisé called Darcy. She dumped me right there and then and the pain has never really gone away. I suppose you could try doing yourself in, Ryan. That’s about all I’ve got mate.