Uncle Dysfunctional. AA Gill

Anyway, in our heads we all sound just like you. Out loud we may be saying, “I say! Tally-ho!” In our heads it sounds like, “Eat cock snot, bitch.”

       Dear Uncle Dysfunctional,

       I’m short.

       Leon, by email

      Lie down.

       Dear AA,

       I had one girlfriend at uni. We were each other’s first loves, and inseparable. It was really intense. We went on to live together for a year. I thought we’d probably start a family, but out of the blue (or so it seemed to me) she left me for another woman, saying she’d always sort of known she was gay. I was utterly gutted and de-nutted and I had a bad couple of years. But I met someone else and we married and have a nice life together. I never completely lost touch with my old girlfriend; we’ve remained friends, though not close. She and her partner (the same one) want to start a family, and she’s asked me to be the donor. I can’t say I wasn’t surprised, but I’ve thought about it and I think I should: they’re in a stable relationship, there wouldn’t be any financial commitment from me and it would be a way of saying there’s no hard feelings and I’d like to help. My problem is: how do I tell my wife? We don’t have any children.

       Ahmed, Bushey

      No hard feelings, Ahmed? No hard feelings? This whole letter is written in the pale ink of hard feelings, on thin-skinned notepaper. The envelope is stuck down with bitter bile. It’s stamped with regret. To say there are no hard feelings, only shows that you have the sensitivity of an angle grinder. OK, you’re not over it. No one ever gets over being dumped. You learn to live with it. You grow a scab and then a tough lump that you stroke occasionally. You spend a couple of hundred words talking about your ex, you mention the wife in passing and the fact that she’s childless as a postscript. I’m assuming you haven’t bred because there’s a blockage. And it’s hers not yours. I’m assuming the honest reason you want to donate your tadpoles to the dyke bitch who broke your Bambi heart is because you want the revenge hump, even if it’s just with a syringe. So, leaving aside the obvious answer – which is “No!! Not conceivably, you dense fuckwit!!” – these are the options. One: don’t say anything to the wife, slip the ex her shot of man fat purchased from a stranger found in the waiting room of your local STD clinic, preferably a bloke who’s chromatically very different from you. This is the revenge option. It will give you an instant, huge sense of release, a lightness of being. You will feel like you have been given an extra lung and the steel band has been removed from around your head. It will last for half an hour. And then you will feel sad and guilty for the rest of your life. But guilty sadness might be easier than the fawning anger you’re weighed down with at the moment. Then there is the option of Solomon: you say yes to the ex but with conditions. You give her two shots, one for her, one for her partner. It’s a twofer deal. They both get pregnant. They keep one child. You and your wife adopt the other.

      Fun fact: there’s a lot of inventive thinking going on about human insemination at the moment. What you might call in-the-box thinking. One entrepreneur is opening an online sperm boutique. He’s looking to make attractive cocktails of shot juice for ladies who want children but not the whingeing demands of exhausting infants – so, no fathers. He’s putting together collegiate shots, collections of mixed jiz with a common theme. So you might get a football team’s spunk, the whole of Man U in an Actimel bottle, or, if you’re on a budget, Norwich. You could have the cast of West Side Story. Or, when the sprog asks who its dad is, you could say the faculty of the London School of Economics, or the Household Cavalry Sovereign’s Escort. He’s thinking of taking commissions for bespoke screws. The oddest request was from a professional Swedish lady who’s after the collective DNA of London’s zookeepers.

       Dear Uncle Dysfunctional,

       I’ve got a bent cock. Really bent. Like a right angle. What shall I do?

       Rupert, Oxford

      Go fuck yourself.

       Dear Adrian,

       I love my wife. We’ve been married 10 years, got two great kids, she’s a brilliant mum, makes our house a wonderful home, is funny, popular, and supportive. We share lots of interests. I can’t imagine my life without her. But she’s a minger. I don’t fancy her. Not at all. I’m not sure I ever did; you know, we were young, I was drunk. She’s an awkward shape and ugly – but only on the outside. It’s a terrible thing. I really can’t shag her. So I’ve been pretending I’ve got erectile dysfunction. Don’t laugh. Of course she’s really understanding and tells me not to worry. But most of the time I’m bent over with an angry diamond cutter. I’m horribly horny and wanking like a choirboy. This has gone on for a year now. But I think it’s coming to a head, and not in a good way. I’ve seen on the family computer that she’s ordered a load of Viagra. It’s my birthday in a month and I’m sure this is going to be my treat, along with the Victoria’s Secret thong, the chocolate lube and the Leona Lewis CD. What am I going to do? I’m desperate. Please don’t suggest makeovers, or surgery or party frocks. It would just make her look even more like Grayson Perry. I know this all sounds funny but I’m really sad. I love my wife with all my heart, and I could never ever countenance an affair.

       Graham, by email

      Graham, you’ve learnt a very useful and character-building lesson. All men occasionally wonder what it would be like to be a woman. Well, now you know. What you so touchingly describe is exactly how most married women feel about their husbands, though without the good-with-kids-good-around-the-house supportive bit. All women sooner or later end up married to an unshaggable bloke, and you don’t even pretend to make an effort. When was the last time you bought a new pair of pants? You think only Italians and ladyboys clip their nose hair. Take off your clothes, Graham. Get naked. Look in the mirror. See what your wife sees. Now get a stiffy. Most people marry into their league. Pretty people marry other pretty people. Munter meets munter. It’s your genes – they’re looking for a good fit. They want staying power, not a transient surprise result. Five doesn’t go into 10. The only couples who move from the Endsleigh League into the Championship are the very rich or deranged. So if your wife is an awkward shape, and ugly, chances are, so are you. But being a man you’ll imagine this doesn’t matter. Well, wake up and smell the bellend, Graham. You have choices. The Mr Rochester: a bit drastic, having to blind yourself. Try turning the lights out. Or just man up. Take a blue pill, do the business and be grateful. And when it comes round to her birthday, tell her you’ve got a surprise. Get her really drunk, slip her a roofie and have the naked bird of your fantasy choice tattooed on her back. When she comes round, tell her that you’d suggested a dolphin on her ankle but she insisted. It’s not ideal, but it should see you through till the annoying urges go away.

       Uncle,

      I’m going to spend the night with my first girlfriend. She’s given me a written list of what we’re going to do: takeaway pizza, bottle of cider, The X Factor, petting on the sofa, and up to bed for sex. She says she expects full reciprocal oral sex. I’ve been researching it on the internet, but I’m confused. It looks horrible. Can you help?

       Oliver, by email

      OK, get a pomegranate. Cut a v-shaped slice out of it. Put your hands behind your back and eat the seeds without using your teeth. For the full Sensurround effect, push a teaspoon of warm lard up each nostril.