In the space of the last eighteen months my long-term relationship has ended, I've lost both parents to cancer, lost the use of my legs, been made redundant and been burgled several times. I have also discovered that I was adopted, and that my natural mother committed suicide just after my birth. In addition, I am over my head in debt, and I'm struggling to meet the rent on my flat. It's been such a truly wretched time for me, I feel like just ending it all. Can you help me? I'm at my wits' end.

THE DOG SAYS: Oh, that's terrible. By way of consolation, though, we can honestly say that we've all felt like that at some point in our lives, but we can assure you that, no matter how black things appear at the moment, your situation will improve, as long as you follow our advice. Here's what to do: pick a day when Newcastle United are playing at home, bool yourself along to the Vaults before the match, and watch that fucking helmet known as the Geordie Dancer pissing away his dignity on the stage beside the bar. For fuck's sake, mate, you think you've got problems? You want to see the state of this cunt. Ever watch the Elephant Man on telly? See the humiliation he had to endure in the name of public entertainment? Got nothing on this fat prick's debasement, believe us. One look at his sorry turn and you'll be out of there with your head held high, leaping like a salmon, we're telling you. Might even bring your folks back, too.

Frightened by my guilty little secret I have been happily married to a wonderful woman for many years, but lately I have become increasingly obsessed with watching other people have sex. I have no desire to be actively involved and to betray my wife, but the voyeuristic thrill is such a buzz. My problem is that I no longer feel safe in dark country lanes spying on people in their cars, and I'm worried that, should I be attacked, I would not be able to come up with a plausible explanation to give to my wife. Can you suggest anywhere to indulge my fantasies in a safe manner? THE DOG SAYS: Your "problem"? WE'LL tell you what your bloody problem is, you sad fucking deviant. Not got enough confidence in your own abilities, is that it? Going a bit limp in your old age? Or has your lass had so many pies you can't tell the difference between her and the settee? You make us want to puke, you really do. But just so there's no chance of our bumping into you on a night out and accidentally touching your sticky hands, here's what we suggest you do: get over to the Gateshead side of the water and find yourself a nice comfortable seat in Buffalo Joe's, a chair in the shadows with plenty of elbow room. We'll give you a little analogy to illustrate our point here: in our garden, in the first weeks of spring, when the frogs come out from hibernation and start looking to breed, you can see them splashing, pumping and writhing about in the throes of sexual ecstasy. With bellies swollen and eyes a-bulging, no puddle is too public, and no partner too ugly for these vile, lumpy little creatures. It's just rut, rut, rut until the break of day, regardless of whom or what may be able to witness it. And that, my friend, is exactly like Buffalo Joe's on a Friday night. Ankle deep in spilt Foster's, a frenzy of naked flesh and discarded clothing, and with heavy-handed security to boot, we're sure there'll be something there to feed your horrid, grubby cravings, you sick fuck.