Uncle Dysfunctional. AA Gill

petty. What you really mind and fear is that he’s passing you by. Everything you think and stand for and believe will fade away. Everything he thinks and believes and stands for will grow brighter and louder until it takes over your world. What you choose to do now is going to set the tone and the consequences of the rest of his life. You can go on like you are and he may turn up for the odd Christmas and your funeral. Or you can seriously and humbly try to find out what it is he wants. What he aspires to. What he hopes for. And if you can do that without sneering or knowing better or saying, “That’s not music. Whatever happened to melody?” Or, “Why don’t any of you pull your trousers up?” Or, “If she were my daughter, I’d die of shame,” then you could still do stuff together. Share things. But they need to be his things. His dreams, not yours. Yours are fading to black. You remember a beautiful boy. He remembers a smiling, proud dad. Who kicked a ball. And was pleased to see him. And didn’t say, “Don’t talk like that in front of your mother.” The Librarian of Hull said that parents fuck you up. Of course, being childless himself he didn’t go on to point out that it was nothing like as much as kids fuck up their parents.

       Dear Uncle Dysfunctional,

       I’ve got an itchy arse. Really itchy. Sometimes it’s like an ant’s Olympics up there. Should I do something about it?

       Julian, New York

      You bet. Get an aardvark digit up there and do the starfish samba. Surf that itch. Here’s the thing with the arse itch. It can have any number of causes. But they’re unimportant. What matters is that the itch that dare not speak its name is one of the greatest pleasures in life. An effervescent ring is the fundamental joy of being a man. It is the back door to endorphins, a secret cave of shuddering relief. Few simple pleasures are as blissfully rewarding as getting down and dirty with the little boy’s itch. Followed by that intense guilty stab of pain. And then the long moments of reverie, secretly smelling your fingernail. That’s the good stuff, man. You get your haemorrhoids frozen, or the dhobi itch cortizoned, what are you left with? A sewage outlet. Where’s the fun in that? The Emma Freuds are one of the few diseases where the cure is worse than the condition.

       Mr AA,

       I keep having this weird dream that I’m giving my boss a blowjob. It’s really graphic. I wake up with a massive hard-on. In real life we get on fine. I admire him. We play squash in our lunch hour. But nothing pervy. Do you think that I’m subconsciously gay, or just ambitious? Should I be worried?

       Geoff, Manchester

      I don’t know, Geoff. Should you be? If your boss were a woman and you had a dream about going down on her, would it be a problem? Would you still be ambitious? Would you have written a letter asking if you should be worried? Why is the possibility you might be gay any more disturbing than the possibility you might be straight? When you bought this magazine, did your hand just slip off Vogue? The simplest way to find out if you’re gay is to get stuck in. Have a go. Ask your boss if he fancies a gobble after squash. And if you do it more than twice, chances are you’re both gay. Congratulations. Life’s looking up. You just got regular sex, a better wardrobe, and probably the key to the executive washroom.

       Sir,

       What’s with guy nipples? Like, what’s the point?

       Yusuf, by email