What do we need men for?

Dear Holly,

I need advice on a question to which I have been pondering for some time. Independent women like me swear like miners, drink pints of Boddingtons AND wear a hot pink bikini all at the same time, so what do we need men for?

Melanie Sykes


Dear Melanie,

My granny says that a long long time ago, when dinosaurs walked the earth and Michael Jackson was still alive, it was men who were in charge of everything. Women had to ask permission just to go to the toilet and the only jobs they were allowed to do was flower arranger or dance instructor. Then a visionary called Margaret Thatcher came along who changed everything. She put the men to work underground in the mines and empowered women to start wearing jumpsuits with shoulder pads and ridiculous perms. They reclaimed the word ‘bitch’ and spent many years standing on men’s backs with their shiny red stilettos and matching red lipstick. But then the anti-feminist Edwina Currie came to power and convinced the women that their ovaries were riddled with salmonella, which made them freak out and agree to take all their clothes off and do suggestive dances at the behest of their greatest enemy, Robin Thicke.

Hope that helps!


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Rich banned from digging tunnels to escape miserable lives

KENSINGTON and Chelsea council is to stop billionaire residents from digging escape tunnels that allow them to live like normal people.

Planning applications for subterranean garages, swimming pools and torture dungeons were a front for creating a network of tunnels allowing the super-rich to enjoy ordinary life.

Trophy wife Susan Traherne said: “A trick bookshelf in the underground library leads to a hidden trapdoor in the changing room of H&M, where I work.

“Every day I sneak out from my prison of opulence to man the till, eat lacklustre sandwiches from M&S, and to feel things like tiredness and camaraderie.

“It’s deliciously mundane. I’m saving up my wages to buy a 2002 Fiat Punto with 70,000 miles on the clock, instead of always having to scrape my bum along the road in that bloody Lamborghini.”

Bond broker Julian Cook said: “My tunnel leads into the sewers, where I keep a hi-vis jacket and hard hat.

“I pop up from a manhole, my face all grimy, and go to talk about football with ordinary people in a pub.”