Ask Cuddis: Friendly advice from the agony aunt you know you can trust

And some people have the gall to say he just makes this stuff up...’s unashamedly partisan agony aunt—taking sides since 1958. The following letters first appeared in ‘Dry yer Eyes, Mate’, Citizen Cuddis’ daily non-PC blog in the Online Journal of Political Whining

Star Letter

Dear Cuddis,

I’ve made so many U-turns of late, my head’s spinning faster than a barber’s pole. This is making it difficult to focus on the task at hand which, if memory serves, has something to do with making me likeable (good luck with that I told my spin doctors!)

You can zig, baby. I'm gonna zag.
You can zig, baby. I’m gonna zag.

My problem is, I regularly zig when I should zag. And it’s putting people off. Even my deputy’s at it. He’s only gone and decided that we’re against Tory austerity measures after all (I am similarly challenged by the Hokey Cokey—is my left leg in or is it out? I am never quite sure.)

Anyway, my remaining friends tell me that kissing the Queen’s ring might help my popularity. Perhaps. However, I ran out of excuses for not showing up at Betty’s Privy—I had already used ‘washing my hair’, ‘getting my nails did’ and ‘staying in to watch the recent live Coronation Street special’.

My most recent wheeze was to run away to the Scottish Highlands, a-chasing the deer. This allowed me to claim that I couldn’t make it to Betty’s place on time because it took me three days with a claw hammer to prise the ticks out of the bum-fluff on my chin.

The point is, if I back down, pucker up, and just do it, I’ll need to wash my mouth out with soap (for reasons of political consistency, professional integrity and personal hygiene). Given the choice, do you think I should I opt for Dove or Pears?

J.C. (Name and address supplied. Voting intentions on Trident renewal, withheld. But likely to be for or against. Or both.)

Dear J.C

Let’s face it. You have indeed made more about-turns than a squaddie at the tail end of a dawn to dusk stint of square-bashing. I suggest carbolic soap as a mouthwash. For an early win, buy a razor while you’re at it. Given that your beard’s mankier than a soup-kitchen doormat, dry-shaving with a roof slate is likely to bring about an immediate step-change in charisma. 

Oh, and for your information, vagabond chic has not replaced Rimmel’s London Look as the mode du jour. Do us all a favour – when the time comes, large up the U-turn and vote SNP/SNP.


Not quite the Star Letter

Dear Cuddis

There are some astonishingly bad people out there brazenly taking advantage of the elderly and the vulnerable. In one disturbing case of SNPBAD a person bought something from somebody and then sold that thing on again for more money than they paid for it (my emphasis). Leaving her victims £30,000 better off.

We're all independent in Scottish Labour, doncha know?
We’re all independent in Scottish Labour, doncha know?

Here’s my point: Nicla has been in power since the Highland clearances, yet 7 out of 5 Scottish schoolchildren cannot neither grammer, spel nor fract. When will the Scottish government start to use the generous powers they already have to implement Labour policies?

Kez D. (Name and address supplied)

Dear Kez D.

Thank you for your letter. Unlike the Curate’s Egg it is shite all the way through. The first paragraph is a political hatchet job; the second comprises a non sequitur. The only fraction with which you should be concerned is your plummeting share of the Scottish vote.


Useless filler letter

Dear Cuddis,

Bad people in the SNP are calling me Willie o’ the Wisp because they say I have become as insubstantial as a puff of marsh gas; that the smirk on the coupon of the Cheshire Cat has more solidity. It’s a worry.

See me, I'm dead hard me. No' as hard as ma big mate in Orkney & Shetland obs. He's a real tough guy, yeh.
See me, I’m dead hard me. No’ as hard as ma big mate in Orkney & Shetland obs. He’s a real tough guy, yeh.

I hardly see me on television these days. When I do, my voice is fainter than a dormouse fart. Even when squeaking about the police in my second language—SNP BAD—I no longer seem to command anyone’s attention.

I recently visited my local surgery to have my gravitas assessed. On the test scale, Olivier’s performance as Henry V represents gravitas max—a perfect 10. I registered 0.7, placing me mid-way between Dusty Bin and Dick Whittington’s cat.

What am I to do?

‘Wee’ Willie

Dear ‘Wee’,

Thank you for your extended whine. It has left me more depressed than the fortnight I once spent at Butlins Mordor.

Regarding your less-than-commanding delivery, I suggest that you download and study the seminal text for the art of gratuitous shouting (‘The Oratorical Master Works of Brian Blessed—Roaring for Fun and Profit.) Combine your natural caterwauling with your these shouting skills. You’ll still be talking pish of course, but it’ll be pish with panache. It’s a start.


The characters in this column bear no relation to reality. But you knew that already…