Hallo playmates it’s your old pal Uncle Moulder here. As it’s the one hundredth edition of the Harefield Scandal the editor Gavin Gaffertape has asked me to do another Problem Page for you lovely readers. Because nobody knew we were doing one I don’t have any real letters to answer so we’ve made them all up. Yes I know, even the ones that sound believable! So wish me luck my lovers and here goes……

Dear Uncle Moulder,

Lately I’ve been going out to the pub every night and getting completely plastered. My wife is a very understanding and lovely woman and she puts up with a lot from me but I fear I may have gone too far this time. Last night I stumbled in at three in the morning, knocked over the grandfather clock in the hall, threw up over the stair carpet, shat on the bathroom floor then staggered into the bedroom, woke my wife up for sex and when I was finished I urinated in her wardrobe. I then went downstairs to make a chip butty, caught the kitchen alight and burnt the house down. As the fire brigade arrived to my eternal shame I realised I was next door in the wrong house. Can you help me at all with my problem?

Concerned, round Ash Grove.

Dear Concerned,

Yes you are in a bit of a pickle. I’ve given this a lot of thought and I think there’s a quite simple solution to your problem that will prevent a recurrence. You need to get some of that luminous hi-viz paint and apply it to your front door so that next time you get pissed you won’t mistake your house for Mrs. Fudgecakes’s next door and burn your own house down instead of hers.

Hope this helps, love Uncle Moulder.

Dear Uncle Moulder,

I seem to have lost my dog. He’s a little shitzu poodle cross, is dark chocolate brown, wears a studded collar and answers to the name Fang. He was last seen having a dump on the common. I wonder if anyone has seen him? Do you have any ideas?

From Lisa Litterbin, Lacoste Lane.

Dear Lisa,

I’ve never known a village like this for losing dogs! Or for dogs crapping everywhere for that matter! Can’t you people put your dogs on leads so they don’t get lost? And pick up their turds? Jeez! If you go on the Facebook page Harefield Up Your Arse it’s full of lost and found dogs, perhaps someone on there knows where your little shitpoo is.

Hope you find him, love Uncle Moulder.

Dear Uncle Moulder,

I have a friend who displays strange behaviour from time to time, he walks backwards along Harvil Road. I don’t like to mention it to him but do you think he needs therapy?

Henry Headcase, Bottom Shops.

Dear Henry,

Someone once suggested to me that I needed psychotherapy for my persistent and habitual abuse of football referees but when I went to the appointment it said Psycho The Rapist on the door so I didn’t go in. Hope this helps,

Your pal Uncle Moulder.

Dear Uncle Moulder you cad,

Photos have emerged of you canoodling with my niece Lady Lucinda Moo in a Rickmansworth drinking establishment. She is a respectable married woman don’t you know? What do you have to say for yourself you scoundrel? I challenge you to a duel on the common. Dawn tomorrow, your choice of weapon.

Yours blah blah, Lord Dovedale.

My dear Lord Dovedale,

You’ve got this all wrong my friend. That is a photo of the Wealdstone Raider with your niece. For some reason the satirical author who writes this old bollocks uses his picture instead of mine. You can tell us apart because he’s got no fans whereas I have loads. He is a real character who shouts abuse at football matches whereas I am a figment of the writer’s imagination who shouts abuse at football matches.

Am I still alright for a lift to the game on Saturday? Love your old mate Moulder.

Dear Moulder,

Yes, I’ll pick you up at one. Don’t have too much to drink before, I don’t want to have to keep stopping every five minutes for you to have a piss.

Regards Lord D.

Dear Uncle Moulder,

I seem to have anger issues. Last week I ran over some HS2 protesters on my farm with my tractor. They weren’t really doing any harm, but they make me so bloody mad! What can I do to reach a zen like state and let these things go over my head? Much like my tractor did over theirs.

Farmer Giles Pyles, Cowpat Farm.

Dear Giles,

Why don’t you try smoking some of your crops instead of selling them all to old Mr. Foo King Ada from the Triad? Chill out man!

Peace bro’, Uncle Moulder.

Dear Uncle Moulder,

I have heard that the satirical author from the upmarket Dovedale Estate always said he would stop after the hundredth issue of the Harefield Scandal. Do you think this is true as I haven’t been in it yet and would dearly love to have even a cameo role in one of the stories?

Yours, Councillor Jane, the only good Tory.

Dear Jane,

Yes I’ve heard that this is the last one too. The Scandal just isn’t as funny as it used to be. It doesn’t seem fair to me that you’ve never featured when Councillor Pygmalion gets in and he does fuck all. Having said that, I know he’s been trying to work you into one of his stories but you’re just not funny. Everything you do is for the good of the community and impossible to satirise. Why don’t you do something outrageous like, ooh, I don’t know, have an affair with a well known agony uncle?

What about it eh? You know where to find me, lots of love, Uncle Moulder.

Well that’s it for this time mateys, I’m glad there were no football questions or people trying to goad me into saying my fucking useless catchphrase. Oops! There I go!

Until next time my lovers,

Your friend Uncle Moulder.