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After talking about it on another thread I thought it best for TAMB members to pose their problems here and the great Flora could answer us all with his life knowledge of sticky situations and mishaps. Here's my first......

Dear Flora, Recently I've noticed that when I'm coming home from the pub bladdered, I've been waking the wife up to get her to help me stand upright when pishing in the pan. Is there a way to remedy this and will my wife stop loving me as much if I don't get my act together?

Yours, Ormond.

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Dear Flora,
My wife and I have a good relationship with one another and we don't suffer from financial difficulty or anything like that. But recently when we retire to bed in the evenings our love making has become a little... shall we say complicated. My wife starts to undress fully but then insists on wearing a long black cloak and a Darth Vader mask before we make love. Now, I'd like to think of myself as an open lover and I'm willing to go a little to keep my wife happy. The thing I am struggling with though is that during penetration she refuses to be called anything other than "Darth Kickass" which I am struggling with. Any help or advice you could pass my way would be of great help Flora.

Yours, Ormond.

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Okay, Gentlemen.

Firstly, my apologies for delayed response - one was forced to service a young lady last eve.

Ormond - pap your moch.

Plinthy - Endell has a quality abode in Cathcart. If I were you, I'd hunt around there. I'm in Newlands just now, but not many flats about. Shawlands is now a shithole, so dinna bother there.

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Okay, Gentlemen.

Firstly, my apologies for delayed response - one was forced to service a young lady last eve.

Ormond - pap your moch.

Plinthy - Endell has a quality abode in Cathcart. If I were you, I'd hunt around there. I'm in Newlands just now, but not many flats about. Shawlands is now a shithole, so dinna bother there.

Shawlands isn't that bad!

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My flat has been up for sale in Shawlands since May (wife-to-be wants a hoose before we get married but that's now looking unlikely). I think the fact that there is plenty of competition for flats in Shawlands is making it difficult to sell because it's a nice flat on the main road. I certainly don't think it's struggling to sell because, "Shawlands is a shithole" though!

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Okay, Gentlemen.

Firstly, my apologies for delayed response - one was forced to service a young lady last eve.

Ormond - pap your moch.

Plinthy - Endell has a quality abode in Cathcart. If I were you, I'd hunt around there. I'm in Newlands just now, but not many flats about. Shawlands is now a shithole, so dinna bother there.

Ha ha that reminds me what do you think of Mount Florada?

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Ha ha that reminds me what do you think of Mount Florada?

Too close to Govanhill - stay south of the Cart over that way.

Muirend is decent - 15 minutes on the train into town, the oldest supermarket in Scotland (first opened as a Safeway in the early 60s, but is now a Sainsbury's) and it even has a pub now (although The Bank is pricey). The old Art Deco cinema was converted into flats some time back.

Waverley Gardens in Shawlands is very pleasant, or you could just buy Wolfie's flat - prime position opposite Cafe Georgic.

Edited by Charlie Endell
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Too close to Govanhill - stay south of the Cart over that way.

Muirend is decent - 15 minutes on the train into town, the oldest supermarket in Scotland (first opened as a Safeway in the early 60s, but is now a Sainsbury's) and it even has a pub now (although The Bank is pricey). The old Art Deco cinema was converted into flats some time back.

Waverley Gardens in Shawlands is very pleasant, or you could just buy Wolfie's flat - prime position opposite Cafe Georgic.

white-elephant.jpg

(only joking good luck selling).

Cheers Chas.

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In my naivety I got stung when I sold my flat in Shawlands (being the first time I'd ever sold a property) - when I phoned afterwards to complain the estate agent (a local one - not one of the biggies) said (regarding the price) - 'These things are hard to judge.' - eh, that's your job! He was obviously just after a quick sale and underpricing it was the way to go.

He's now an MP :wink2: .

Edited by Charlie Endell
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Getting the HR with a high-end valuation and then offering the old Irish discount works. People like to think they are getting a bargain. But maybe you tried that already.

Tried that. Dropped the price twice already too and now fixed price for £4K less than I paid for it in 2007. Now considering changing estate agents because the current one is full of bluster and gives false hope but the penalty for doing so is pretty high.

Edited by thewolf_1980
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Great big tenements just along from moray pl facing the railway line at maxwell park.pricey though. Unbelievabley I made 30000 on my 1 bedroom flat in Allison st 10 years ago. Changed days now.

I ended up crashing in one of them after a night out - very nice - I woke up in the morning and had no idea whereabouts in Glasgow I was - on departing I soon got my bearings and was delighted to find I was just down the road from Shawlands (I'd just moved there).

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Dear Flora

Our dog died recently and my wife evidently resents the fact I have not succumbed to Princess Diane levels of mourning. Understandably, she was very fond of the mutt as she cherry picked all the good jobs. I, on the other hand, was left to the 6.30am walks, the increasingly frequent dog arse hair grooming due to it's losing battle with continence and picking jobby out of the rug if I'd been tardy with the clippers so our relationship, at best, was tepid.

Don't misjudge me as a cold man but our relationship hit a hurdle that I could never fully recover from a few years back. I always wanted the dog to sleep downstairs but the first night he whimpered for all of 20 seconds and my wife folded like a pack of cards so he was allowed upstairs. Having a dog in the bedroom does nowt for the mood but so long as he was asleep everything was fine. One night though I was getting my freak fully on with Mrs Whistle, lights on and everything, when I caught him out of the corner of my eye fixated on something about half way down the bed. It broke my concentration off of Katrina from Accounts because I was now trying to work out what he was mesmerized by. Then his head moved ever so slightly; then a couple of times more quickly; then a very pronounced up and down; then I knew he was staring at my arse.

I carried on servicing the wife and somehow got from A to B but all the time in my peripheral vision it was like the Duke boys had taken out insurance with Churchill and stuck the nodding dog in the back of General Lee. It was as if they'd nipped to pick up Daisy, hit about half a mile of speed bumps through Hazard High Street, a couple of traffic calming chicanes, a random stretch of cobbled road with a couple of pot holes, jumped Rosco P. Coltrane's police car, jumped Boss Hogg's car, juddered on the shot to shit suspension for a couple of seconds before smashing in to a tree. From then on I vowed only to sort my wife out when the dog was almost comatose.

Three weeks later the dog is snoring, Match of the Day has got to the crap games and Mrs Whistle hasn't said 'No' within the last three hours so I'm on it. I'm having a great time when I suddenly hear a fart. The first second I thought it was the mrs, and we've been together long enough for me to call her a skank without risk of intercourse ceasing, but straight after there is a bark so the dog has woke itself up with it's own backside emissions. He stretches and sits at his favourite spot so he can observe my arse in action. The only way this could be better for him is if someone gave him his balls back to lick at the same time.

I'm not having it though and I chuck a pillow at him whereby he disappears to the other end of the room. After about 30 seconds the voice in my head is no longer Katrina demanding me to bang her on the copier and send email copies of her backside to her boss but my own enquiring as to where the f*** that dog is. Just as I'm about to look down the bed I feel the cold wet nose nuzzle between my buttocks and before I can smack him round the head he has sniffed so hard I can hear his lungs strain. For three months I did not have sex afterwards.

Even when she stops wearing black and returns to normality sex is ruined for me anyway. The moment our baby was born my first thought was how wonderful life was and that nothing would be beyond me for this angel; my second thought was 'look at that big square head!!!' My wife carries a donor card and god forbid something ever happening to her but she doesn't drink or smoke so lots of useful organs there plus now someone in the burns unit could get a new set of ears out of her vulva. We were on the beach on our summer holiday and I was trying to find where the panpipe music was coming from but it was due to the breeze blowing between her bikini bottoms as we walked.

As such, could you recommend a dog with a bald arse, short snout and propensity for minding it's own business and any tips for a man with a family saloon but a double garage to park it in please?

Cheers TW

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Dear Flora

Our dog died recently and my wife evidently resents the fact I have not succumbed to Princess Diane levels of mourning. Understandably, she was very fond of the mutt as she cherry picked all the good jobs. I, on the other hand, was left to the 6.30am walks, the increasingly frequent dog arse hair grooming due to it's losing battle with continence and picking jobby out of the rug if I'd been tardy with the clippers so our relationship, at best, was tepid.

Don't misjudge me as a cold man but our relationship hit a hurdle that I could never fully recover from a few years back. I always wanted the dog to sleep downstairs but the first night he whimpered for all of 20 seconds and my wife folded like a pack of cards so he was allowed upstairs. Having a dog in the bedroom does nowt for the mood but so long as he was asleep everything was fine. One night though I was getting my freak fully on with Mrs Whistle, lights on and everything, when I caught him out of the corner of my eye fixated on something about half way down the bed. It broke my concentration off of Katrina from Accounts because I was now trying to work out what he was mesmerized by. Then his head moved ever so slightly; then a couple of times more quickly; then a very pronounced up and down; then I knew he was staring at my arse.

I carried on servicing the wife and somehow got from A to B but all the time in my peripheral vision it was like the Duke boys had taken out insurance with Churchill and stuck the nodding dog in the back of General Lee. It was as if they'd nipped to pick up Daisy, hit about half a mile of speed bumps through Hazard High Street, a couple of traffic calming chicanes, a random stretch of cobbled road with a couple of pot holes, jumped Rosco P. Coltrane's police car, jumped Boss Hogg's car, juddered on the shot to shit suspension for a couple of seconds before smashing in to a tree. From then on I vowed only to sort my wife out when the dog was almost comatose.

Three weeks later the dog is snoring, Match of the Day has got to the crap games and Mrs Whistle hasn't said 'No' within the last three hours so I'm on it. I'm having a great time when I suddenly hear a fart. The first second I thought it was the mrs, and we've been together long enough for me to call her a skank without risk of intercourse ceasing, but straight after there is a bark so the dog has woke itself up with it's own backside emissions. He stretches and sits at his favourite spot so he can observe my arse in action. The only way this could be better for him is if someone gave him his balls back to lick at the same time.

I'm not having it though and I chuck a pillow at him whereby he disappears to the other end of the room. After about 30 seconds the voice in my head is no longer Katrina demanding me to bang her on the copier and send email copies of her backside to her boss but my own enquiring as to where the f*** that dog is. Just as I'm about to look down the bed I feel the cold wet nose nuzzle between my buttocks and before I can smack him round the head he has sniffed so hard I can hear his lungs strain. For three months I did not have sex afterwards.

Even when she stops wearing black and returns to normality sex is ruined for me anyway. The moment our baby was born my first thought was how wonderful life was and that nothing would be beyond me for this angel; my second thought was 'look at that big square head!!!' My wife carries a donor card and god forbid something ever happening to her but she doesn't drink or smoke so lots of useful organs there plus now someone in the burns unit could get a new set of ears out of her vulva. We were on the beach on our summer holiday and I was trying to find where the panpipe music was coming from but it was due to the breeze blowing between her bikini bottoms as we walked.

As such, could you recommend a dog with a bald arse, short snout and propensity for minding it's own business and any tips for a man with a family saloon but a double garage to park it in please?

Cheers TW

My Dear, Mr. Whistle,

As much as I sympathise with your dreadful situation, I have to draw the line on commenting on your bedroom activities with Mrs Whistle and a hound.

An old friend of mine did dreadful things to his Labrador.

I wish you well.

Flora

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I'm honestly beginning to wonder if it's my face or something:

Innocently having a snout outside the Granary before Poland game, and 2 wee grannies came flying out the café nextdoor screaming. Then the wifie who runs the gaff says "can you help me?". I said, "Fit's up?", and she tells me a bird was in the ladies bogs.

Now, these bloody things terrify me, but standing there in a Diet Lilt, I felt obliged to be the Highland warrior.

So, I'm chasing this thing aboot the wee café shittin myself, the poor wee thing kept smacking its beak off the window. I clamber up to open said window, the Diet Lilt gets caught in the snib, and my haw-maws get aired to half of Shawlands, just in time for Shawlands Academy coming oot.

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