Your problems solved, with Holly Harper

Dear Holly,
As I sit here, all alone in my grubby little bedsit, wearing the same pants as last Monday, surrounded by empty pizza boxes and beer cans, listlessly tossing myself off to the Gavin & Stacey Christmas special, I can’t help but think that things could be different next year if I made a few small changes. I’ve tried to sketch out a couple of New Year’s resolutions on the back of a packet of snouts, but I can’t seem to focus on anything other than James Corden’s jiggling tits. Can you give me some pointers on how to get out of this small rut in which I find myself?

Dear Mark,
Unfortunately, at some stage you’re going to have to accept that no matter what your good intentions may be, you’ll never ever break your Christmas routine, because these things are set in stone. Take my granny, for example. Every single year she buys me and my sister something cheap and highly inappropriate, such as a gollywog, shouts obscenities at the Queen until her teeth fall out, then promptly falls asleep in a chair for the next two days. Or my Uncle Steve, who always turns up halfway through dinner accompanied by a shaky alcoholic lady called something like Candice or Zillah whom no-one else has met before, causes my mummy and daddy to have lots of quiet arguments in the kitchen, then punctuates his departure early Boxing Day by either vomiting or urinating into the Christmas tree. I’m sure all of us would much rather spend our holidays doing stuff other than wafting the smell of geriatric bowels with a Radio Times or picking sick off the Quality Street, so I suggest you stop wallowing in self pity and thank the baby Jesus that you didn’t actually have to spend Christmas with James Corden.
Hope that helps!



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Tiny urn forced to return to shithole

A TINY terracotta urn was last night coming to terms with the appalling prospect of having to go back to England.

As the English cricket team sealed a convincing win over Australia in the fourth test, a single tear was spotted running down the polished surface of the inconsolable Ashes trophy.

A source close to the urn said: “He’s devastated. He’s always hated England, but every time he’s had to go there he knew it wouldn’t be for very long.

“With Australia somehow managing to become utterly dreadful at cricket, he’s started to talk about committing suicide.

“We’ve had to remove his tiny belt.”

The urn had been expecting to spend the rest of its life in Australia and had even put down a deposit on a very, very small flat in a prestigious development overlooking Sydney Harbour.

But last night the 128 year-old trophy had fixed itself to the coffee table in its Melbourne hotel room using a little rubber suction cup and was demanding to speak to Australian prime minister Julia Gillard.

The source added: “He wants to ask her for political asylum on the basis that England is shit.”

Team captain Andrew Strauss and selectors’ chairman Geoff Miller are scheduled to have a long talk with the urn later today before just having at it with a crowbar.

A spokesman for the ECB said: “We’ve come up with a deal whereby the urn will spend no more than six weeks in England, staying in really nice country house hotels with either Emma Watson or Carey Mulligan and will then spend the rest of the year in the Dordogne but will wear a tiny little t-shirt with a St George’s Cross on it.”

Meanwhile Australians are today facing up to the harsh reality that if they are no longer any good at sport they may be forced to develop some sort of culture.