Uncle Dysfunctional. AA Gill

you in his sad little waggling insecurity. If he gets nicked on his own it’s six months on the nonce’s wing and a lifetime on the register. If he’s got you with him it’s a Benny Hill sketch, and the bobbies trying to keep a straight face while giving you a lift home in a blanket, with a verbal to lay off the Viagra and go on holiday to Sweden. But you’re right not to want to break up a perfectly dull marriage. It’s not that serious. It’s not as if he suggested bridge, or restoring classic caravans. The answer is, introduce him to your nearest art school as a model. He can be naked alone and observed. And you could take up sketching, and thus join in while remaining clothed. Indeed, you sound like someone who might take to bohemian headscarves, smocks, lumpy jewellery and cannabis. And you can’t be any worse at art than he is at being a pervert.

       Dear Mr Gill,

       My husband has a degenerative, incurable illness. We’re both young, under 30. We met at school and have been together since GCSE geography. Now he wants to die and he wants me to help him and assumes I will because we love each other. He says I won’t get into trouble with the police, and courts are sympathetic to spouses who assist in suicides – particularly after Terry Pratchett – and anyway I have no ulterior motive. He’s saying goodbye to all his friends and making arrangements for the big day: drugs, suffocation and Billie Holiday. He’s happier than he’s been for ages. The thing is, I do have an ulterior motive. I’m sleeping with his younger brother. And have been for years. In fact, I was on the point of leaving when he got diagnosed, but then I couldn’t. I’ve just discovered I’m pregnant and obviously it can’t be my husband’s. Oh, and there’s one other thing. It doesn’t really matter but my husband’s father has a title. If he dies it will pass to his brother. And he’ll inherit a great deal of land. I do think killing him is the best option. I have no problems either way, morally.

       Jocasta, London SW3

      Congratulations. Hats off. Respect. You can be in this business for years without getting a problem that impressively screwed up. Where did you all go to school? Webster’s Academy of Jacobean Tragedy? OK, here’s the thing: you’re completely fucked. No, really. Game over. There is just one teeny, forlorn chink of hope, an outside, 100–1 chance. So here is your mission, if you choose to accept it. First you’ve got to tell the husband that he’s going to be a father. Explain the immaculate conception by telling him you judiciously had some of the hereditary custard frozen, way back, just in case. And you’ve secretly been having IVF. You didn’t tell him because you didn’t want him to be disappointed if it didn’t work. So he has to stay alive to see his son. You have to square the brother, carrot and stick. First, keep shagging him, which shouldn’t be a hardship. But tell him if he says anything you’ll deny it and no one will believe him because he’s a younger son, and no one ever believes younger sons. So this way you keep everything, including someone else’s good name. But, and there is a but, the child will grow to be an amoral, manipulative, sensual monster. The two of you will be well-suited until you get old and the last thing you’ll see is his beautiful smile as he gently but firmly holds a pillow embroidered with the family crest over your face.

       Sir,

       I’ve just left uni and have got a lot of job interviews lined up. City, industry, etc. I’m really clever. My CV’s impressive. I’m sure I could do most jobs better than most people but I’m shit at interviews. When someone asks me what my chief fault is, I have an uncontrollable desire to say, “I smile when listening to idiots.” And then smile.

       Gareth, via Facebook

      OK, Gareth. First, remember this is all about the job. It’s not just about your job. It’s all to do with the jobs of the people who are interviewing you. Being on a recruitment panel represents a lot of stress and an opportunity for people in offices. They get to show off or get shown up. There will be one boss-person and then two underling suits, who will be trying to outdo each other. What they’re looking for is someone who makes them look good, and who won’t be a threat. So the trick to interviews is not the dos, but the three don’ts. Don’t flirt, don’t be too keen and don’t be too clever. Remember, the job will always go to the third best candidate. First and second best will be championed by the competing courtiers. The boss will say, “Is there anyone we can all agree on?” And that’ll be third best. Which is never going to be you, is it? Because the other thing is, you’re a twat. A proper, whiny, pompous, self-justifying twat. I hope The Big Issue thing works out for you.

       AA,

       My girlfriend’s just been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. It’s such a downer. Can I dump her?

       Chinua, by email

      Yeah, course you can. Hey, you didn’t sign up for a mentalist, did you? Don’t feel bad. No reason why you both should. She’ll probably be better off on her own. She can concentrate on lightening the fuck up. I wouldn’t risk a face-to-face. Might make her worse: the begging, the what-did-I-do-wrong sobbing, the suicide threats. Just text her. “Sorry, babe, not working out for me. Moving on. Cheer up. LOL.”

       Dear Uncle Dysfunctional,

       It’s our one-month anniversary and I’m taking my girlfriend to Paris for the weekend. I want to give her some nice underwear for the occasion. I don’t know where to start.

       Tom, Putney

      Jesus. She’s already wearing your bollocks as earrings. No man in the history of shagging has ever remembered or acknowledged a one-month anniversary. Look, Tom, these are the rules for lingerie: don’t. Simple as. Your job is getting it off, not adding to it. That’s all you’ve got to remember. Never, ever, give underwear. You don’t know her size. Her friends will lie about her size. She’ll lie about her size. Take an old bra into Agent Provocateur and the shop assistant will lie about her size. Just going, “Oh, about a handful”, isn’t enough. Men and women see completely different things when they look at bras and knickers. No woman who doesn’t keep tenners in her garter belt has ever worn red underwear. Men put on their Berlusconi heads when they step through the door of Victoria’s Secret. Women grow instantly frigid when presented with a bra and thong set. What they see is a whole night of humiliation and logistical and ergonomic problems. Any man who could choose aesthetic, sensual underwear in the correct size is not the sort of man they’d want to wear it for. Here’s what you need to know about erotic presents and Paris: give her a riding crop. Unless she’s got a horse. If she’s already got a horse it’s not an erotic present, it’s a cheap gift.

       Dear Adrian,

       I’m just starting at a Southern uni. No one from my family, school or estate in the North East has ever been to university. I can handle the work. I get on with the other students. I’m not teased or bullied. I’m popular and everyone likes my accent. It’s all cool except I really can’t handle the dressing up. Why are middle-class, privately educated Southern kids so childishly obsessed with fancy dress? Every Friday night the town and campus looks like a cross between a hen night and MGM’s backlot. The streets are littered with vomiting bunnies and discarded togas. Every event comes with some embarrassing instruction to dress up as your favourite sin or an animal with the first letter of your name. Or there are instructions on what to arrive as, and then find your blind date who’ll be dressed as Wilma to your Fred, or Courtney to your Kurt. I’ve just had another one from my tutor that says, “Dress: smart-casual”. What the fuck is “smart-casual”? Come as an oxymoron?