mousehands : ask philip

Like your not-so-recent hair troubles, I would be surprised if your razor burn worries have not cleared up without help from myself.

Should you require removal of hair in the future, a painless but time-consuming method is to reason with each follicle: they are creatures prone to depression, and if made even more miserable by talks about the destruction of the environment or reality television, they will spontaneously die, leaving you with a spot that will never grow hair again.

While this technique is recommended for armpit and let hair, it should not be attempted on eyebrows without extreme care. Who knows what the fashion of brow-shape will be in the days and weeks to come, and who wants to sport a finely crafted pair when every hap cat in the street proudly proclaims their messy, unkempt forehead-underliners.

Oh, patient, I do believe it is.

You’re clearly suffering from the following conditions:

- Flappy hands
- Severed retina
- Helium fingers
- Jimmy nails
- Jacques Villeneuve’s Shame

My main concern is the complications resulting from an operating to remove Lemmy’s half pipe from your ankle.

I sure can!

But I’d rather not, out of respect for her family.

I don’t claim to be an expert in such matters, but this seems the most likely scenario: Boone is a secret government agent, and faked his own death in the smack-plane in order to lull the other lostees into a sense of their own failed mortality.

Freed from the shackles of being expected to be anywhere but buried somewhere in the forest, he quickly builds in the inside of the bunker and programs the computer system, inspired by the tales of cursed numbers and navigational mishaps. Everyone who dies on the island is part of his plot, which I can finally reveal to be a bit of a let down.

The power eventually goes to his head, and he eventually eats all the berries on the island, ignorant of the poisonous juices within. He then promptly dies himself, thus becoming his own conspiracy victim.

The remaining three survivors (Locke, Sayid and the Australian girl) board a specially built truck, bound for England, where they dance and sing and throw toilet paper around.

I have had my small army of anagram monkeys working on this matter for some time, and they finally came up with some options for you:

So, a runt yak watch?
Rush away, chant OK!
Our hacks want hay.
Scour what? A hanky.
Ah! Your snack, what?
Thaw your sack, Han.
Ha! Shat a wonky cur.

Ken Tucky and Bo W Ling-Green are two of the west’s great performance artists. Operating on the fringes of the avant-garde, Ken and Bo are frequently chastised in the tabloid press for their work. Never afraid to raise problematic subjects such as honey-theft or drive-by earwigs, they are attacked from all sides of the political spectrum.

In 1992, their first short film Lopsided Cankers was banned throughout Borneo for its portrayal of bendy ethics, and until this day remains unseen by any reigning Pope. But it was their 2004 work Let’s Sniff the Bugler that led them to be outcasts from all respectable platforms in the civilised world. The entire planet is under a court order banning mention of the details, but the living sculpture encompassed such livid themes as Eyebrow-rustling, arguments with a rasher of bacon, twelve-gallon hats and entropy.

They currently reside in Ipswich.

Being a bouffanted lady never stopped Jackie… Oh! from being a beloved member of the glam rock band Slade. Noddy Holder didn’t die alone (or indeed at all), suggesting of course that having a beard can lead to immortality, and the same can be argued about a less than stellar hair event.

It seems to me that the only ways to die alone are to be alone in life, and read the gubbins experience.

If Schrodinger had used pianos instead of kittens in his barbaric radioactive box demonstrations, the world would be full of musical instruments you can’t play and not kittens you can’t stroke. Petting a small feline is just as difficult as playing Moonlight Sonata when each is in a state of quantum flux.

The best method of acquiring such a piano is to visit the more disreputable physics laboratories in your local town or village and rummage through their skips and bins. You’ll often find so-called Schrodinger’s Detritus in red carrier bags tied up with unwanted scarves.

You’re quite forward, for someone who is risking dry, leathery, cancerous skin. While being fondled in the arm-stump area by a gnarled hand does have a certain wiry appeal, and is the least tender of the options available, I must politely decline.

It’s not the most offensive transgression ever to take its rightful place on the hallowed pages of Ask Philip, but at the same time, some from a waspish fellow such as yourself I can’t help but feel like Paul Burrell has just made off with some private letters.

Exactly how waspish, though? After this, probably many waspish.