Unfortunately Marjorie Poopscoop was unavailable for today’s problem page. At short notice, we’ve enlisted the help of one of Oxford’s finest…..er ….. anyway…

Dear Inspector Morose,

I hope you don’t mind my demoting you.

I don’t feel I can cope anymore, without some help. I’ve been having some very dark thoughts, and increasingly my only source of solace is alcohol.

I lost my job recently, Christ knows where l left it, and my employer said I was a waste of space and not to be taken seriously anymore.

On hearing this my dog shot himself, with a spoon, and my wife left me.

My children refer to me now as ‘that sad wanker’, and it’s all becoming too much.

I started by drinking a glass of whiskey each evening, just to help me get to sleep. But lately I find sleep can go fuck itself, I just want to get hammered, arse.

My recycle bin is full of empty bottles of cheap whiskey, White Lightening, Carlsberg Special K and Buckfast monks. The binmen say that I’m going to have to apply for a second bin if I carry on drinking the way I am, before also calling me a sad wanker.

Please help.

Yours, in desperation

Steve, Oxford

Morose Replies.

Dear Steve, you sad wanker,

I understand what you’re going through and yes, you do need some help.

The Pipe Welders Armpits on Wellington Road has a happy hour every night 4pm – 7pm. Let’s meet up and get fucking slaughtered.

You’re buying by the way, mine’s a huge one.

Chief Fucking Inspector Morose, sort it.

Dear Inspector Morose,

I am thirty two years old, a keen cyclist a vegan and I don’t drink or smoke or do drugs and do yoga and spend all my money on animal charities and I have a safe job as a clench press molestor.

I can’t seem to get a boyfriend why not what is wrong with me.

Flamella Nagg, Nuneaton

Endof Replies

Dear Flamella

Get a fucking life you sad mare. I’ve got a load of Es to get through at The Sponge off Epstein Road later, come and join me, and stop whingeing. Moose.

Dear Trevor MacDonald,

My friends tell me that I’m confused.

Please can you “Fix it” for me to get my Crackerjack Pencil, by appearing in your show’s “Compost Corner”, last week. Aunt Sally is my favourite, except on Fridays with Brian the snail, Trumpton has never been the same since she left.

Nanu, Nanu!

Howard, “that place”

Endof Replies

Dear Howard,

I can’t seem to see the problem? Perhaps you can write again and explain exactly what your confusion is supposed to be?

I’ll be at The Duck’s Butt on Friday, you sound like a gullible twat to blag a pint off.

Dear dear dear…

I seem to have found myself in trouble with the filth.

I was recently in a hostelry, buying some crack cocaine. I was just about completing the deal when some very serious rozzers came in and explained to me that I was to have a rest and everything I said would be taken down. I said underwear, but the nice young WPC didn’t want to play, except with her truncheon.

When I woke up I was in a cell at I assume the local sty, with the truncheon conducting a colonoscopy of sorts.

I can’t work out how to order room service and my pillow needs fluffing up.

How can I let the pigs know that I want to go home, now?

Tony Adams (Mrs.), Crosby

Endof Replies

Dear Tony

You’re nicked, get used to it.

If you don’t quieten down, I’ll be sending Max round to conduct your autopsy.

To occupy your time, I suggest practicing saying ‘Gottle of Geer’, it’ll save time later.

If Desk Sergeant Jampton comes around you might consider offering him a bribe.

By the way, as you’re likely to be incarcerated for quite some time, have you left any booze anywhere.

Do the right thing and let me know.

Dear Mrs Poopscoop

Sorry about your bein’ dead an’ that.

I don’t think I can work with me boss anymore.

When he’s not being found in bed with me wife, he’s either smashing up police cars, vomiting on witnesses or blowing up large municipal buildings and eating donkeys.

An’ that

Please let me know how to speak to him man to man, and explain why I’m having such difficulties with him

Robert, next desk

Endof Replies

You’re fired.

Oh, and there’s an annual appraisal in the morning, after your appeal, young Robbie.