Your Problems Solved, With Holly Harper
Last weekend I was on a night out with the girls to celebrate my 36th birthday. Clad arse to tit in neon lycra, I must have cast a highly alluring shadow across the dancefloor as I limboed to Britney Spears, because next thing I knew, I was on all fours behind a skip being pummelled vigorously from behind by some random teenage drunkard. Hardly noticing that I was kneeling in a spilt cocktail of urine and vomit, I panted like a spaniel with heatstroke as he shot his load across my back and staggered away. The problem is that since this brief encounter, I've developed a rather embarrassing condition whereby my clacker is itchier than a vagrant's arsehole. Can you suggest why this might be?
Hasn't your mummy ever warned you that boys are dirty and you should stay well away from them? They are made of frogs and snails and puppy dog tails. Once, an older boy from my school picked up a big dry piece of dog poo with a stick and threw it at me, and it got caught in my hair – my new princess clip was ruined! I was forced to get my revenge by telling my mummy that he trapped me in the art cupboard and put the end of his willy in my mouth. Guess what? He got taken away from school the next day and mummy says he's gone to a place where he can't hurt little girls anymore. I feel a little bit naughty for fibbing, but I bet he rues the day he flung a jobby at me.
Hope that helps!