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In
this series we invite you to challenge our resident genius, Dr Slim
Paul, with those perplexing questions that keep you up and tossing
all night.
If
you have a question that you want to put to Dr Buncle send it to
us here
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A
plea from, errrm, Monster 'hhhooommmm hhhooommmm korma korma'
Slippers:
Dear Dr Buncle, please help us, how can we stop our overly
hairy flatmate from playing Marilyn Manson songs very loudly
at all hours of the day and/or night? We have already tried
to teach her a lesson with the help of Wham, Sealion Dion,
and of course Belinda Carbuncle, but to no avail. Is there
help out there or should we kill ourselves now before the
crazy crazy lyrics force us to mutilate some puppies? Thankyou
very much.
The Doctor is genuinely concerned:
An overly hairy girly?? I know a certain slim guitarist who'd
love to pop round and help her, ahem, mutilate some puppies.
Is she freckly too?
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Young
Claire from dampest Nottingham asks:
Dear Dr Buncle,
What is your opinion on the magnificent and beautiful Kenny
Branagh? And why do you have your hands up the bums of two
squirrels?
Dr
Buncle humbly replies:
Who am I to judge the merits of mighty thespians? I prefer
to let Mr Branagh speak for himself. As for those squirrels,
my solicitor has advised me to say nothing, but the truth
is it was all above board and in a good cause, they were teaching
children not to drop litter, honest. Anyway, they told me
to do it.
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Slim
Steve puts two and two together:
Oi,
Dr Buncle! Are you still alive? How come your words of wisdom
on the 'Ask Dr Buncle' problem page ceased at the same time
as Dr Shipman went down for a stretch at Her Majesty's pleasure?
If we don't see a problem solved soon, I'm afraid we'll have
to conclude that you and the evil Shipman are one and the
same. You bastard.
Dr Buncle defends himself stoutly:
Nope, not a Shipman I, nor never shall be. Gentle Chaucer
had him sussed - "Of nyce conscience took he no keep".
Indeed. Me, I'm more your Doctour of Phisyk, or at worst your
Clerk of Oxenford, or at best your foul-mouthed Roger the
Cook.
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Mafro's
mind turns once again to nether matters:
Out of all the letters in the alphabet, why on earth did
they decide to put the letter "Y" on the front of pants?
Yours in anticipation of an answer, Mafro
Before
Dr Buncle can utter a word, Lovestick blurts out:
My pants normally have P all over the front!
Slick Nick
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Uh
oh, Laura's in a state:
dear
dr buncle, how on earth am i s'posed to get my Name Studies
project done when your links are so crap?
P.S. stop pretending you haven't... the rest of the world
knows you've joined the establishment, face up to it mate.
Dr Buncle sez:
Shhhhhh!!! Dear Lord, can't a chap keep a secret round here??
Anyway, my links are spot on - that Todd Landers got what
was coming to him I say. A van. To be honest I'm just trying
to keep a low profile while Slim Steve and Slick Nick sort
out their musical differences. Besides, the establishment
doesn't want me any more, I'm out on my ear in a month. There
was a man on the radio today who said "A true intellectual
is someone who, if left alone in a room with a tea-cosy, will
not attempt to try it on". I like that, that means I'm
saved from crusty academia after all. I'll have one with a
pom-pom on please.
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Our
one and only fan, mad Amy, who is mad, has a question for
Dr Buncle:
hello old chap,
im stuck in college pissing around and i was wondering, is
it at all possible to create a guilt drug, and what would
i need to make it?? not that i would (uhum)
amy
(drunken and scottish)
The
worldly-wise Doc smiles knowingly, with perhaps just a glimmer
of remorse in his ageing eye:
A guilt drug eh? I've always found the following ingredients
work rather well:
1. Sugar
2. Spice
3. All things nice
4. Pub
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Slim
Steve, former guitarist with world-famous pop outfit Belinda
Carbuncle, writes:
Dear Dr Buncle, I recently received a brown envelope through
the post, containing a glorious picture of Carol (Up The Arris)
Vorderman wearing a Belinda Carbuncle World Tour T-shirt™.
She looked great - but so would anybody in a Belinda Carbuncle
World Tour T-shirt™. Then I saw the same Carol (Up The Arris)
Vorderman on TV telling me I could consolidate all my existing
loans into one manageable monthly repayment. Now, a feature
which I admire in any lady is a nose (such as worn by our
vixen of the vowels when pictured in our t-shirt). However,
when viewing our Carol on telly as she sorted out Mr & Mrs
Dett-Ridden's finances, she appeared to have no nose, and
I couldn't help wondering... how does she smell? Yours in
consonant wonder, Slim Brother Buncle
Dr
Buncle wearily responds:
Dear Slim Steve, I fear you are confusing the omniscient Carol
("I'll have four on top and one from the bottom")
Vorderman with her assistant Richard ("What a cunt I
am, chortle chortle") Whiteley. Look closely at the picture,
and you'll see that Carol smells delectable.
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Slim
Steve's tapping at the window again:
Dear Dr Buncle,
Now that it appears inevitable that I shall be homeless at
the end of May, I was wondering which option you would recommend
when begging:
(a) The "Look, I've got a dog on a piece of string" approach.
(b) The "I'm not homeless, I'm just 50p short of my bus fare"
scenario.
(c) The 'hang around cash-points being Scottish' caper.
My only alternative seems to be to move into Slick Nick's
house when he's not looking... Please help!
Your destitute brother.
Dr
Buncle looks away pretending he's seen something really interesting
in a shop window.
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A
disorientated Slim Paul pleads:
Dearest Dr Buncle, where the fuck am I???
His
wiser and smugger alter-ego is ready with
an answer:
Dear shitforbrains, look out the window.
Twat.
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Ages
and ages ago, poor newly-toothless friend-to-the-stars
Davee Wild of Shitting-yet-rokkin-bourne
asked something about that silly red
mowy (as illustrated), but, errrrm,
Dr Buncle has carelessly lost the missive
in question. Sorry. It went something
like:
Dear wise and noble Dr B.,
That silly red mowy, what was all that
about then?
Yours in utter admiration, Davee
Dr Buncle attempts to hide his blushes
and mumbles:
Dear Dave, it's like this. There I was,
eating chips and contemplating the flock
wallpaper, when all of a sudden in burst
the Old Bill and snapped this incriminating
picture of Gordon's Locked Cupboard
in situ. We think he kept painters and
decorators in there. Thankfully Slick
Nick got his revenge with motor oil,
thus manfully losing everyone's deposits
and enabling Gordon to buy a new hoover.
I hope this helps, yours truly Dr B.
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Our
long-lost chum Ex-Teacher-Now-Something-Dull-And-Computery
Dave muses:
Having been away from East Kent for
a couple of years now, I'm missing
the taste of a Whitstable Oyster.
Dr Buncle, the last time you lapped
at a Whitstable Oyster, did they still
taste fresh? Apparently older ones
taste more salty!?! Please Doctor
help me!!!!
Teacher Dave
After a moment's experimentation,
the learned Dr B. quietly eructs:
Ughh. 'Orrid spunky things.
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Dear
old Janner Dave blurts out:
How can a man feel like a woman?
Dr Buncle pauses for a moment, coughs
discretely, resettles those stylish
spectacles upon the bridge of his distinguished
and considerable nose, and expounds
with confidence:
Too much thrumming. |
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Our
humble servant Mafro poses a tricky problem:
When wanking in the bath, cum always floats
on the top of the water, and sticks to the
hairs on your legs. It is then extremely
difficult to remove from the hairs because
of the stickiness of the semen. What is
the best thing to use to remove sticky semen
from the hairs on my legs?
Matt The Afro Selfe.
Slick
Nick pipes up:
I've always wondered this too!
And the good Doctor swiftly advises:
Shave.
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Young
Amy is all in a tiz:
dearest dr paul
im at a loss!! my dearest mother has gone
away this week, marvellous i hear u say
internet, digital and booze supply but my
friend she has also left me with 2 dogs
one of which we have recently adopted to
prevent him getting put down!
anyway these 2 dogs DONT get on and the
stress of college and work is getting to
me how can i make these dogs friends so
i dont have to kill myself so i dont kill
them!!! please help!
amy (the mad scottish one)
Dr Buncle rattles the old choke chain:
Ridicule them, belittle them, show each
dog how pathetic he really is. Once their
self-esteem is destroyed they will be putty
in your hands. Ha ha ha! HA HA HA HA HA
HA! HAA HAAA HAAAA kha pfff urgh hic NURRRRRRRSE!?!
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A
certain learned gentleman, whose anonymity
we have agreed to preserve, opens his
heart and mouth:
Dear Dr Buncle, I'm worried about my
drink-related Tourettes, it's getting
out of hand, can you FISTFUCK help me?
Dr Buncle, who understands all too
well the miraculous and medicinal effects
of booze, offers some practical advice:
Sorry chum, you'll just CUNT have to
drink less. |
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Our
most inquisitve visitor, Janner Dave the ex-Plymothian,
has been thinking:
Dear Buncle, I've been thinking, what's the
earliest age that a baby has ever learnt to
walk?
Dr Buncle hesitates before responding:
Sorry Dave, but I'd rather not answer that
one, just in case the sweet stupid folk of
Newport get the idea that I'm a paediatrician.
And, at the risk of sounding pedantic, I'd
like to add that I'm not a pedicurist either,
or a pedestrian, or a pedalo-operator, or
a pedigree alsation, or (thank fuck) Welsh.
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Regular
fretter Dave the Janner today puts before us a charmingly
simple query:
Dr B., my good fellow! Can you tell me what the
tongue is made of? Much obliged, chee'o!
The good Doctor replies with confidence:
Why, certainly Dave. The tongue is made of tongue.
It is, if you'll pardon my diction, a fleshy organ,
equally vital to mastication and the articulation
of free speech. Use it liberally!
Yours truly, Dr Buncle |
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In
today's postbag, two worried chaps ponder the niceties
of onanism. Our faithful friend Billy Spew wonders:
Which hand is it best to really masturbate with, or is
being ambidextrous the way to go?
And a tormented young academic asks:
Dr. Docktor,
It's 3pm and I'm at work writing lectures full of skank,
Should I relieve my boredom and ... have a wank?
lovingly, one of the other Docs around here
After careful consideration, here is Dr Buncle's first
and final word on the subject:
They're bringing Crossroads back next year, but apparently
it won't have Benny in it. |
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Dave
The Janner from Elburton, Bottom Left, has a toponymic puzzle
for the good doctor:
Aaareet 'andsome! Me again. There I was, travelling at speed
through beautiful Gloucestershire, when a signpost flashed past
which seemed to indicate Iron Action! Gosh, I thought, what's
all that about then? That Dr Buncle, he's sure to know. So go
on, tell us all, proper job. Yours eagerly, Janner Dave
Dr Buncle promptly spouts forth:
Dear Dave, thank you for the first of what I imagine will be
a flood of onomastic enquiries. It was Iron Acton that you saw,
a village whose name is recorded in the Domesday Book as Actune
(from Old English ac 'oak' + tun 'farmstead, estate'),
which we may interpret either as 'farmstead by the oak-trees'
or 'farmstead where oak timber is worked'. The name "Acton"
being relatively common, places so named are often distinguished
from each other, as here, by the addition of a qualifying affix.
The "Iron" element (Old English iren 'iron'), first noted
in 1248 in the form Irenactone, refers to old iron-workings
nearby. Yours dully, Dr Buncle |
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Our
distraught Swedish friend Ta veran frets terribly:
Doktor B. Jag har upplevt en konstig känsla om min syster,
hon befinner sig långt borta och jag saknar henne. Tänk om
hon trivs så bra där hon är att hon inte vill komma tillbaka!
Tänk om hon har blivit förälskad eller att hon hålls kvar
av någon galning som försöker få henne att stanna!! Hur ska
jag göra för att få tillbaka min syster och lugna min egen
oro???
Dr
Buncle offers a little reassurance:
Fear not, my good fellow! Your lovely sister is in safe hands,
as is her bottom. Yours contentedly, Dr B.
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Miss
X from a few roads away fights back the tears to ask:
Dearest Dr B. It's been three days now since my beloved pussy
cat mysteriously disappeared, and I'm having terrible trouble
coping with this awful feeling of loneliness. But today I
spotted the most delightful puppy dog for sale in our local
pet-shop, and the temptation to buy him is enormous. In my
heart of hearts I know that my poor little cat isn't coming
back... would it be so very wrong of me to seek to replace
one furry friend with another so soon?
Dr Buncle advises:
Yeah, whatever, why not. But remember, a dog is for life,
not just for beating senseless with a weighty piece of copper
tubing.
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Anne, the boss-eyed girl off Neighbours, shyly asks:
Dear Dr Buncle,
Do you think there's any chance I'll ever pull Slim Steve,
what with my boss-eyes and everything?
Yours girlishly,
Anne
(the boss-eyed girl off Neighbours)
Dr Buncle warmly vouchsafes an avuncular word:
Go for it, love! Don't be intimidated by young Steve's pop-star
status... there's a tender-hearted softy lurking behind that
beer-addled conk. One word of advice though - you're better
off out of them Philippa Flabby-Arms Forrester leather trousers.
No one likes a placcy thigh.
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We
all want to know:
Why are both Nick's legs shorter than the other?
Dr Buncle duly supposes:
Too much thrumming? |
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Dave
The Janner from Brighton (nee Plymouth)
can't help but wonder:
Aaareet Dr Buncle, morning 'andsome! Can you tell me roight,
an' drectly, is it that rhubarb is veg or fruit, there y'go,
proper job, yours in anticipation, our Dave, chee'o!
Dr Buncle rather unhelpfully replies:
Dearest Janner Dave, know what, I didn't have a clue just what
rhubarb was, so I looked it up in the thingummy and it said
"Any of various plants of the genus Rheum, especially
Rheum rhaponticum, producing long fleshy dark-red leaf-stalks
used cooked as food". So it's not a fruit and it's not
a vegetable, it's just a plant. Probably best not to eat it
at all then. Though I must concede that crumble is a better
dish in sum than its parts would suggest. Custard, on the other
hand, sadly lives up to expectations. But beer is nice. Yours
utterly, Dr B. |
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Pudding
the missing cat begs to know:
Can I come in now?
Dr Buncle sez:
Too late, mate. Damage is done.
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Slim
Steve Carbuncle from the once legendary swing-jazz trio Boxing
Codpiece pleads for assistance:
Where's Pudding the cat?? Vicky says I must've let her out the
front door when I sneaked out of the house this morning...
Dr Buncle thoughtfully replies:
Oooooh,
tricky one Sir! Chances are Pudding is out on the tiles enjoying
a taste of freedom. She's quite a looker, I recall. Of course,
if she's gone and got run over then that's the end of your sordid
fling with Vicky, cos girls really hate it when you kill their
cat. And in any case you'd better think twice about this playing
away from home nonsense, cos her other half's gonna mash you
when he reads this. Very fond of that cat, he was. |
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Young
David (The) Wild (Man Of Rock) from deepest Shittingbourne asks:
what do u use on your mohawk???????
Dr Buncle courteously replies:
Why,
only the purest moistness of Swedish girls, lovingly applied
strand by strand. Observe the marvellous bleaching quality when
exposed to sunlight!
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The
good Dr Diffident from our glorious murky capital ponders:
Dear
Dr Buncle,
Is Monet the root of all evil, or is that a false impression?
Yours in anticipation,
Dr Diffident
Dr Buncle wisely responds:
Arrr, he were a wrong'un alright. And a failed suicide to boot. As
my dear old grandmother used to say, "Radix malorum est stupiditas
(I Timothy vi.10)". Or was it "I think I've wet myself"? |
All-knowing
all-dancing Humphrey, gentleman of the Cap, kindly remarks:
Great evening lads, pity the other band didn't show up but who
cared. Elvis lives, apparently.
Dr Buncle wryly raises a single ridiculous eyebrow:
Aha! So you spotted him, eh? In a cunningly successful bid to
outwit the frenzied and frothing global media, our friend the
King made the brave decision to lose height - three and a bit
feet of it - before embarking on a grass-roots spit'n'sawdust
comeback tour of south-west Canterbury. Rong rive lock 'n' loll! |
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Ms
Eva Banana of Wigan writes:
Dear Dr. Buncle,
I recently stumbled across the name Ferdinand de Saussure whilst
researching Indo-European dialects. However I can't seem to
find out anything about him. Can you help?
Dr Buncle eruditely replies:
So, Ferdinand de Saussure (1857-1913), eh? Generally regarded
as the founder of present-day linguistics, he wrote very little
during his lifetime (but some of his pupils seem to have kept
their lecture notes). He distinguished between langage
(the total complex), langue (language as a system), and
parole (language as realisation); unhappily, in the published
form of his work (for which he was not responsible) the distinction
is not absolutely clear and consistent, and the attempts to
anglicise his terms have not been altogether successful. His
fundamental conception of language as an articulated system
of signs is probably what you'll be looking at. I hope this
helps. And remember the old saying, 'I used to be a linguist
but now I'm not Saussure!' |
I
don't like it down here, I want my mum |
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