Agony Al

Dear Agony Al,
This is pretty embarrassing, and I feel like such a slut, but I just have to confess to someone. You’ve all heard the rumours. It was me who had sex in Cindies. And it was with the bouncer with the ponytail and the floor-length leather coat.
Love, Nicola

Dear Nicola,
I don’t know what I expected really…
But well done for confessing. A load off your chest I’m sure.

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Dear Agony Al,
Last week I went for a top night at the Pitt Club with Cumming and the gang, and got chatting to this really top gal. We really hit it off, and when I took her back to my rooms to show her my equestrian paintings we ended up necking quite a bit. It really was swell, I had a cracking time. But then, the next day, I tracked her down on Facebook to give her the old add, and discovered to my horror, that she went to one of those “State Schools”. Imagine my despair when my frantic yet fruitless search for her in father’s ‘History of the Landed Aristocracy’ confirmed these desperate findings. I do believe she may be middle class, if not worse. I simply don’t know what to do. Mummy will not abide my interaction with any girl who has less than 40 acres of prime arable land to her name, but I am so awfully fond of her. What is more, I gave her my best Gant rugby shirt to walk home in and I am simply bereft without it. Should I continue this dalliance?
Freddie Fearnley-Huntingdon-Whiteley
(Trinity)

Dear Freddie,
Why don’t you hire her as your chamber maid? Then you could have one of those below-stairs love affairs that I’m sure your mother would really approve of.
Seriously though Freddie, love knows no (class) boundaries. I think you should man up, and stop being such a narrow-minded, class-obsessed twerp. That Gant shirt’s probably already been flogged on Ebay though…

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Dear Agony Al,
What is Mother Nature’s game?! Here I am, aged 19 and at the sexual peak of my youth, my hair is shiny and full, my teeth sparkle like freshly-fallen snow, but my chesticles are frankly concave. My best friend’s tatty-bojangles are the talk of the town, and I feel about as sexy as the chicken fillets I line my M&S teen bra with. Where oh where are those supple, bouncing wonders that adorn the chests of my compadres?
Love,
Katie (Homerton)

Dear Katie,
I yearn for you, I really do. And I’m afraid I can’t really tell you where your missing mammary glands might be. I can pretty much guarantee, however, that with pregnancy/the advent of the menopause/the end of your life as you know it, you’ll almost certainly enjoy a (entirely redundant) 6-point jump in bra-size. Unfortunately, by this point your nipples will probably be scraping along the ground, and your now billowing bosom will shrivel at the mere thought of sexual contact, particularly with your lazy, balding husband. You’re right, Mother Nature is a bitch.