Miss April Advises: Warning, not suitable for unsuitable readers: Hans A. Whey

Dear Miss April,

I have three things to say that are remotely connected but establish a pattern of inconsistency in the area of governence and moral governence on our behalf. Could you examine these articles and hopefully console me for I think that in the light of these observations my radical liberalism ( moral optimism) has been subsumed by hysterical liberal [voters]?

See three things below.

1.Artist works seized for illustrataing a sexualized Justin Beiber [ surely the beib’s publicist should have been the perp for premeditation BTW this content was shown under Mr Doyles watch with no mention of dripping cocks on Bourke street in the papers]
2.Blonde St Kilda footballer with respectable penis blackmailed by unnamed teenager[surely if your blackmailing you should be named no matter what your age or if not, your parents might need to explain how your child got to be there to take those pictures]
3.Bill Henson celebrates youth through beauty but is vilified [no one notices the beauty part except liberal Turnbull who owns one]

Liberal salutations.

Hans A. Whey

Dear Hans A. Whey

I’ve been quite oblivious to the current furore as I have other urgent matters at hand such as catching up with my cross-stitching and waiting furiously for the cinematic release of Behind the Candelabra.

However, after perusing recent newspaper articles at the local library I thought, golly, the powers that be really want to stoically protect our fragile minds from the corrupting scourge of collage. I then noted the key words – penis, child, degenerate, Justin Bieber, paedophilia –tax-payer funding – gasp! Dirty, dirty, words.

I am confident you are referring to the artwork of a young Mr Paul Yore. Unless I am mistaken and there is another hysterical bout of hypocritical self-serving Machiavellian manipulation Civic Duty afoot. He has been quite the hot ticket of late, in the city, along the hip-strip, amongst the leafy establishment, and now then down in the former-seedy-area-now-well-and-truly-gentrified St Kilda. Gosh, simply everywhere, so imagine my surprise that we all come so lately to the conclusion it is no longer suitable for the sensitive eyes of gallery hopping siblings and sensitive Councilors.

Look, to be perfectly honest with you Hans, I’m a bit of an old prude myself. I do not take kindly to nudity. I especially find male genitalia most distasteful when displayed both in flaccid and extreme performance mode even if it is plastic; combine this with the images of Justin Bieber children and you have just described to me the very things that I despise about the selfish putridity of adult humans. In my humble opinion, the only male grotesquery wont to be seen in the fine visual arts is the sacred penis of Baby Jesus, front and centre, so close to the picture plane it almost pokes one’s eye out whilst gazing in trembling holy rapture.

Correggio, Madonna of the Basket, c 1524, held in the National Gallery of London.

Correggio, Madonna of the Basket, c 1524, held in the National Gallery of London.

Needless to say, I was ready with softened nib pencil to underline the compelling arguments against Mr Yore’s work, justifying the necessity to ensure that I had no opportunity whatsoever to assess for myself the level to which I objected to the work. I was not disappointed. The complainant articulates: “The Pope is f—d, Everything is f—-d, the police are f—-d, Pigs with guns…The police would have loved that one…And when you go into the grotto, it looked like teenage boys with erections, with stickers over them…Degenerate…It’s not the right time to do any of that stuff at the moment anyway, you know what I mean with all the stuff with the Roman Catholic Church.”

Touché.

However, that being said so eloquently, I am but one among many and I have enough experience to realise that everyone has a right to tell their story, and to suffocate those who try to do so is a most heinous moral crime.

So what of it Mr Yore, are you trying to outdo the Pope with your sequined dresses and garish aesthetics? Is that it? You, a formidable man of a long 25 years, who looks around you to see the magnificent institution ruled by the Holy Seed See so vulnerable now that you choose to kick it while it’s down? What with all of the terrible truth coming out and such, and those thousands of victims who survived the stuff of nightmares persecute the sacred institution? Or perhaps you see those victims who did not survive.

All I can find from Mr Yore: “We live in a time that is very important for artists and musicians and writers to express themselves and a lot of people are confused about society and see the world as a dark place”. Ha! Well thoughts like that will get you arrested in these times sir, so is it worth it? Well, actually I suspect probably now more than ever. But I hear the City of Port Philip could just save themselves around $100,000 a year, and as long as it makes good economic sense it’s a win-win, right?

Children and artists, they make from what they see. Point in hand I move on to your second article, St Kilda Teen. You say she blackmailed someone? I do not recall, I was under the distinct impression the young lass was rather generously democratic with her photography. She too shared with us the visual outpouring of the world around her, it just happened to be a vast array of footballer penii*.

Should her name have been published? I thought St Kilda Teen was her name. Are her parents responsible? Well, responsible enough to send her to school. The visiting footballers successfully seemed to take over at that point.

Or did they? A most unusual event occurred, the girl did not go away. How utterly incredulous and confusing this is for young gods such as these – desire begets undesirable consequences?? How were they to foresee that this 17-year old girl would expect they admired her and wanted to be with her just because they graced her with their penetrative presence? They, along with other naked penises needed protection, stat; and that’s where multi-million dollar businesses can truly be rather helpful.

And so it came to be. The child was a child no more, she had transformed into the Femme Fatale. Vulnerable, abused, at risk? No, monsieur, no, you have it all askew. She is a liar, a temptress, a young lady that uses her sexuality to corrupt the heroes – and, how you say, does not shut up when men tell her to. This is the perfect French film script, non?

Quelle Horreur ! The underage Femme Fatale is, in popular media, somewhat akin to the most frightening of all underage seductresses, the man-hating, satan-worshipping, teenage lesbian murderess – terrifying to powerful heterosexual men, however completely fictional to all other social groups.

So in real life when a child has quite literally been debased what do powerful people do? Why, the send in an experienced, respected, compassionate family man. Unfortunately, it was reported he might have been accompanied by a bottle of wine, illicit substances, and alas, his penis. Heroes fall quickly when we see the world through the eyes of another. And the child eventually disappears.

Mr Bill Henson is a master of beauty, a Renaissance spirit, a painter’s photographer. There is no denying the true art of his magnificent works – you know, there’s no icky bits, nor ugly truths. Chiaroscuro. Allow me to repeat, Chiii-rrrra-scurr-o. You can’t argue with that.

And let us be quite frank with each other, once there is the sound argument of ‘but he’s famous internationally; he’s in all the national collections; it’s beautiful; important; investment’ – why, debate closed! Alas, herein lies our most despicable of lost opportunities. Debate never happened; not even a delicate vapour of conversation. What we got was:

Degenerate
Ignoramus
Paedophile
Wowser
You are
Am not

Not quite what one hopes for to invigorate important public discourse and insight. It does make one wonder the role of art in the first place, yes? But Sir, it would be grotesquely remiss of me to neglect to state indefatigably and publicly: therein lies in Mr Henson’s work a potent sexuality that one would need to have their eyes poked out with hot skewers to be unable to recognise. I would like to clarify, as I am merely a lay-person more interested in sneering at neighbours through my curtained windows , I do not believe they are in the slightest way pornographic. However, I find it incredulous that anyone could look at these images and not recognise their own selves at a time in the world where adults did not exist, where emotions ran deep and strong… and unfathomable.

Dearie-me, perhaps that is why the viewer can be so drawn in, but so uncomfortable. It is a world that we are perhaps not meant to observe, a burgeoning sexuality that needs to be protected from adults, from our gaze and interpretations. So much more difficult to do with photography – n’est pas? – we feel our presence, the subject’s, the photographer’s, it becomes so literal that we almost place ourselves in the role of intruder, destroyer, adult. What a lively conversation that would have made.

It is a rather interesting albeit shameful parody that we are at a point so vigilant to protect our children that we must whitewash, victimise, shame, objectify, and arrest them to do so. Alas, there is an ill wind my dear; a very ill wind indeed, and I suspect we won’t amble too much further along this path before we all turn to one another in a moment of horrific clarity and agree with Mr Yore. Everything is fucked.

Yours most sincerely, Miss April

* Penii – noun, plural. Anatomy, Zoology . the male organ of copulation and, in mammals, of urinary excretion. Miss April’s preferred pluralising of the singular form as the term penises can sometimes be a mouthful, although it can at times have a pleasing rhythm when strategically placed.

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Miss April Advises: Rhet Oracle – Heidegger Artistential Crisis.

Hello Miss April,

Ive been reading Heidegger again. Some say a waste of time. I say [ via Heidegger] Time is not a thing, thus nothing which is, and yet it remains constant in its passing away without being something temporal like the beings in time. So there.
But then I disovered this statement .

“The most thought-provoking thing in our thought-provoking time is that we are still not thinking.”, which is vexing is its new relevance especially when you consider the people who chose to be in government. I think Gertrude Stein might have had a hand in this one except for their polar politics and temporal disconnect.

Do you think philosphy is a dead art, or do we need to recallibate for twitter, like a micro hiaku?
Is it better to concrete or esoteric?

Regards

Rhet Oracle

Dear Rhet Oracle

“Three dangers threaten thinking.
the good and thus wholesome
danger is the nighness of the singing poet.
The evil and thus keenest danger is
thinking itself. It must think against
itself, which it can only seldom do.
The bad and thus muddled danger
is philosophising.” –

The most profound promise I can make to you in this day is – Follow me – I follow back!

And it works. So we wander about in rather small patterns of circles. Looking busy and going nowhere.

When I was a young lass we used to spend our evenings in a candlelit parlour, knitting, writing, reading; a rather brash young suitor of mine used to read the most extraordinary verses from lands afar. My father greatly disapproved, but considering that figure of authority was a figment of my imagination I guess I shouldn’t have been too shackled by his remonstrations. Alas, strangely, I was. We philosophised, but it was called scripture and blasphemy. The combination of both made each more important and powerful. You know, the funny thing is, the devil can not exist unless our god does first.

As the Lord of Thespians the world over wrote “A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool.” Are we looking at the end of time? Considering time is what we created for ourselves, perhaps we are. When we keep handing our power to the fools we create shorter and shorter futures for ourselves.

Yours faithfully, Miss April

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Miss April Advises: Charity Case – a moral conundrum.

Dear Miss April,

I had an unusual altercation on my post prandial stroll that has left me asserting some fresh beliefs and questioning the character of my neighbours. I saw a woman with a chair on her head walking causally and chatting to her
acquaintance taking in the cool of the night. I knowingly enquired as to the provenance of her multipurpose hat. She said she “found it outside the salvation army , no one needed it and decided to take it home”.

This got my hackles up. I announced that she was stealing from charity. Probably not the best opening line. Needless to say the conversation was cut short as she scurried off with her ill gotten goods, leaving her accomplice making knowing eyes that begged forgiveness. It was not mine to give. I’m not in the business of charity.

I see this collision this way. Someone left the chair having been fortunate enough to acquire a new one to replace it. It was left as a donation. The salvation army should have been given the opportunity to brush it down and sell it. That’s the giving to charity part, no? Assuming it wasn’t broken and was to become part of the $4million the salvos pay/ year to dispose of broken stuff left for them by kind and generous citizens. If she was nicking it, i guess it was the former.

I’m also assuming that the chair made from renewable materials, designed for disassembly, no child labour was used in its manufacture , royalties where paid to the designers and it’s original packing was disposed of responsibly. We can assume by the fact it was “donated” at the salvos that it was no classic work designed for longevity and stylistic durability and that the aspirational individual offloading it had considered all of this issues prior to selecting their replacement item. If not the donor also requires some stern finger waggling.

I’m off track. Was I correct in my assertion that the chair liberator was also a perpetrator of a complicated and misunderstood crime?

Yours

Charity Case

Dear Charity Case

Yes.

When one commences the slippery slope of consciously dissecting moral responsibility it rapidly becomes a most complex matrix of sin recognition. You were wise to put an end to that finger wagging of yours, because once begun it is quite difficult to cease.

In short, I do agree with everything you have written. You are a beacon to us all. You have reinvigorated my faith in the common good, and I feel so safe I might once again partake in my midnight stroll alongside the tinkling aria of Dights Falls.

Once a donation has been deposited at the doors of the Salvation Army charity shops, office, or in (and around) their bins, it has become the property of the Salvation Army. The Salvation Army distributes usable objects (such as this very worthy chair) to families in need. If not required by said family, they would place it in their charity shop to sell in order to obtain monies to help feed, house and clothe our less fortunate of brothers and sisters. These are desparate times for some, and whilst the taking of a cathedra from a sidewalk might seem a light misdemeanour, in essence the thief has wandered into another time and space, the temporary shelter of a homeless mother and her children and she has taken that moment of seating, that gesture of charity, that feeling of neighbourly kindness.

Last year it cost the Salvation Army 1.8 million dollars to cart off refuse kindly dumped donated by the benevolent Australian public. So, I too would be most vexed, most vexed indeed, to witness the taking of an item that could actually be of good use.

Thank you Charity Case, thank you for acting upon your conscience. Thank you for observing your moral obligation, and do not lament the corruption of our neighbourhood as you have proven it is still of solid character.

With the greatest of respect, Miss April

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Miss April Advises: Help Didit, Help Me!

Dear Miss April,

A childish prank has got slightly out of hand and left me in a bit of a pickle. Quite an embarrassing pickle as it happens. Due to a serious miscarriage of justice, I find myself residing permanently in the local lunatic asylum. Do not upset yourself over this. It is not such a bad life. The problem arose when I decided to bring some excitement and laughter into the very dull lives of my fellow inmates who do little more than rock back and forwards in their chairs all day long or scream at the invisible people in the asylum. I felt certain that having entered the asylum kitchen and laced the staff luncheon with a mixture of strychnine and strong laxatives, a good deal of amusement would be provided for the inmates. Strychnine as you may know causes severe convulsions and of course laxatives have a single purpose for which they are most effective. The two combined are guaranteed to cause a good deal of hilarity (except of course for the person who has ingested the mix). The problem arose when I decided to add something special to the event by setting fire to the mattress in my cell. The mattresses we use are quite old and tend to be stuffed with horse hair and goodness knows what else and create a thick black cloud of toxic fumes when burnt. I have accidentally pulled the door of my cell behind me and it has locked. I cannot attract the attention of the staff who are otherwise engaged after having enjoyed their luncheon. I cannot extinguish the mattress and a cloud of toxic fumes is spreading slowly toward me. Dear Miss April, what should I do? I would appreciate your wise advice at your earliest convenience. Yours hopefully, Alfred Didit.

Dear Mr Didit

Oh, alas, wellaway, Mr Didit, wellaway….

I am overcome with self-loathing as I must assume that sir, you have passed. It has been a good week gone now, and unlike those who have been born in a modern age, I do not visit the lights of my computer regularly. I am often sitting in the garden for days on end, waiting for a lover to run over the hilltop – poetry, flowers, sunshine, my life is an imagination taking place outdoors. It is my utter disgrace to have left you locked indoors amidst your fiery hellish doom.

Alas, you have passed. My dear sir, may you find peace.

However, for those who are reading and find some similarity in your circumstance let me help you thusly. For God’s sake, use the fire extinguisher. None about? Use the woolen blanket. Throw it over the flames to smother the oxygen, hence suffocating the red dancing demon. He is gloating you know.

Now let me address some more serious pathologies of lovely Mr Didit. Death is not entertainment except to the psychopaths. Psychopaths do not need advice, they do not accept advice, they do not deserve advice. Those of others who are in bedlam but are not psychopaths are not by default dull. Oh no, they are most likely very ill and just trying to survive.

From your enjoyment of the combination of poo and eccentricity you reveal yourself as an anglophile, or merely a British Royal. Bravo, sir. You have made it to the history books. If you did not run and jump, escaping through the closest window into the murky moat, or as suggested used that lovely woolen blanket as a saviour, then I bid you farewell Sir. Life has come, and life has passed, and perhaps we are all the safer for it.

Remember Didit, fire and sexual repression go hand in hand, so hands off,
yours, Miss April

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Miss April Advises: Hair Affair – snow-fro sex.

Dear Miss April,

I’m going out on a limb here, but I am thinking of dating a man with an sno-fro.

However, my issue lies not with the ‘fro’ itself but rather the silhouette of the afroe mentioned man when post-coitally wet. In polite and sometimes impolite company his often buoyant locks and joi de coiffure fill the room.

Should we unite as one of backs and cracks, and spend a dream loosened from the stream of lucidity, then shaken in the fur light of the morning as tulips wilt or weep, one can be taken to flee at the sight of a freshly showered poodle. What was once a throng of bubbling follicle froth is suddenly a limp moist tonsure tossed from the tub in lost hope.

Of course I hypothesise as the scene of my distress is still a play to be run but the problem lies in that the cast are ready to mount the stage and I can only see one act. What should I do?

Cordially yours

Hair Affair

Dear Hair Affair

Bravo to your cocksure wordsmithing! Continue to wax lyrical like Lord Byron and I might be out on a limb myself if I were so endowed.

There is such familiar comfort for me in your combination of confidence and pessimism in the face of good fortune, it reminds one of….oh yes, you must be Jewish, Neurotic, Catholic, an over-analytical stuck-up aesthete.

You are contemplating dating a snow-fro gent; let us assume that he is willing to accept said scenario and we have two protagonists in this play of life. Surely your admiration of him runs deeper than the personification of his natural bouffant? But already you fear a limp, flaccid snow-fro will have the equivalent effect on your desire…for an encore.

The most important piece of advice I have for you here is that if post-coital meeting of the secret gardens you aren’t both sodden messes you clearly aren’t doing it right. To be sure, I would not underestimate the resilience of a genetically formed snow-fro, nonetheless if it does metamorphose it is your duty as a lover to allow uninhibited vulnerability. It is your duty to yourself to allow the same for you. Or else, where’s the fun?

My second piece of advice may have more lasting significance. I say this to you – enter stage one with the true intentions of a thoughtful Thespian. Introduce these characters to each other; get to know them, allow the inhibitions to dissipate along the journey, and leave the consummation for the finale, by which time even if the snow-fro turns into a bathmat it may do so without fear of repulsion, merely the sense of satisfaction for a job well done.

Break a leg Hair Affair, may pleasure be your applause,
Most affectionately, Miss April

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Miss April Advises: Cheer Leader – blind happy gesamtkunstwerk

Dear Miss April,

I think of myself as a positive person. I like to greet the world with objective optimism. Over the the holiday season I have begun to doubt the effect of my ebullience. Even on tiresome Xmas lunches I’ve chattered nattily. I tried engaging teenagers and techno toddlers. I even chucked the cheeks of grumpy uncles. Now the pudding is gone, I am getting feedback that I am “too blindly happy”. It seems my cheer is causing some chagrin and I am being viewed as witless for my mere wish to spread some joy and cheer up some pitiful stained lives.
Ever the optimist, I changed tack and decided to try empathy. I hit a hard crowd as my first target was that hot bed of apathy, teenagers. Ignored, I moved onto Gen Y’ers. It was plainly illustrated that was too ironic in my desire to elevate in a set of protracted text messages. It appears hopefulness can seep out my crevices to be detected by the entitled schadenfreud[ians] of the Y type.
Every where I turn my effusiveness is spurned. I feel backed into a grey rabbit felt corner. Can Beuys help? Or Gin perhaps?
Should I go for gold and join the scientologists or not worry and be happy?

Yours enthusiastically

Cheer leader

Dear Cheer Leader

In short – yes to Beuys, gin and happiness; no to Scientology and worry. However, if you have a spot of spare time come take my hand and let us inspect this further under the microscope…

I would like to begin by stating that I completely understand. The scenarios you mention are not uncommon to my personal observations, but they are rare. There are unique personalities who show ‘ebullience’ in social situations to people they are acquainted with or have just been introduced, about subjects they initiate, the music playing or not playing, participating wholeheartedly with motives pure but mistaken by others. Often it is an expression of enthusiasm that is unfamiliar to almost everyone there because it lies beyond the boundary of that which is socially expected and experienced. Unwittingly, your cheer unnerves them. What could be going through the minds of these average Joes and Jills? Goodness only knows, but I suspect they could possibly be thinking – is this odd character genuine? Is this bundle of joy ironically casting aspersions upon me? Is this spoken word actually English? Who is Beuys?

It is possible you are threatening them, Cheer. Most likely they would not even be able to articulate fully why this is so, hence accusations of being ‘witless’. Let us not blame them totally, as recent research shows it does take a certain amount of stupidity to be happy these days; deep thinking tends toward sadness. Gosh, we are within an era of anxious pessimism deeply entrenched in politically correctness and hip social engagement, so your enthused glee might not be de rigueur right at the moment.

I know it is very seductive to demonise those who reject us, but although you do succumb to this somewhat I find that you also display an admirable quality. You are self-aware enough to try again. Ys, grey bandits, babes, teens, all in the season of Christmas cheer must be family, friends, or a degree separated. You have a reason to try again, you want to connect with them so you try different approaches. Well done. Not many people can lay claim to this type of reflection, resilience and persistence. This displays a commitment to a most notable aspect of humanity, the need to be understood, and here you are attempting both – to be understood and to understand. Or are you? I have a niggle, Cheer, and only you can answer this. Is your ebullience a guard, a shield, a deflection to vulnerability? Perhaps your level of cheer creates an instinctive distrust in others because they have sense of a facade, and therefore they do not know the mystery underneath, is it innocent or malevolent?

My advice to you is this: reflect on my suggestion, reject or accept as truthfully as you can and see where that leads you. Regardless, you obviously have a natural predilection for Wagnerian Gesamtkunstwerk which spills over into your everyday conversation techniques. What you might find is that your approach will eventually pay off. Persistence is key. Much like the joy a familiar musical score can bestow upon a crowd, the crux is familiarity. A few Christmases down the track you will find those who once disdained you look forward to your entertaining if somewhat perplexing interchange and you become a favourite of said soirees.

If, after time and effort, you find that still there is no success then yes, perhaps they are a bunch of simpletons, bastards and dullards, and by all means allow yourself the fecundity to not worry and be happy – Viva Gesamtkunstwerk! 

Keep cheering,
Yours, Miss April

Postscript: At no point, under no circumstance, in no world imaginary or real, could I possibly advise you to join an (alleged) expensive cult as a cure for woe or path to joy. I would happily discuss this further but really, that’s another most extensive post.

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Miss April Advises: E. Mission – a frightening tale of laundry

Dear Miss April,

Im very messy. A bit of a slob , actually, despite my attempts at appearing graceful and effortless. Inevitably at the end of the day I disrobe and discover I’ve been wearing something thats issued from within my body as well as some daily grime. Spit, sweat, semen, blood, you name it, I’ve ended up with these diaurnal emmisions somewhere on my person.
I enjoy laundry, which is fortunate, and have conquered most of these stains. One lingers however. How do you get blood out of a white shirt without rendering it a rag?

Regards

E. Mission

Dear E. Mission

I stand before you (self) accused of procrastination. The finger of God points down upon me, “It is she. She is the one who has neglected her flock. She is the one who shuns the needy. It is she.”

Oh dear, my Christmas holiday appears to have extended a little too long and I do confess that you are the victim of my irresponsibility. So let me start by humbly offering you my apology as your letter dated the 8th December 2012 might just mean that blood stain is a permanent fixture. But spit-spot no time for dreary maudlinism, let’s see what we can still accomplish.

At first I must say I was rather at a loss for words upon reading your predicament. Alas, I immediately assumed you were a man and quite possibly a serial killing psychopath, but I understand that’s sexist. You could very well be a lady of the night. If you are the latter I would like to also recommend a preventative measure – prophylactics and a lot of them (do they make complete body ones?). Considering the state of your dress, would you consider substituting your cotton fabrics for latex? One can then quickly clean with a damp soapy cloth.

If you are the former I’m afraid I’ll have to request you turn yourself in to the authorities without cleaning your shirt as this is vital evidence, good luck and may Justice herself prevail.

Of course you may very well be neither of these and be one of those creatures that exist beyond my sheltered domestic world. However, let it not be said that I have turned by back on offering good cleaning advice. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and it is my duty to offer you all I can in this regard because it sounds like you might be tipping in at second level demon.

Yes, it might be tempting to get violent with a washboard but you are quite right, it would quickly flay a delicate white shirt. You must be patient and use a step by step process beginning with a long soak overnight in cold water. Let the blood waft away as if a bad dream. The next day rinse, inspect, and soak further if needed. If it proves to be stubborn then you should ring it gently through a clothes ringer and allow to dry, rub lemon juice on the stain and place in the sun to dry. Rinse. Still the ghost of red? Then allow to dry again, then dab a bit of kerosene on the stain and gently rub. Obviously you will definitely have to rinse after this but I hope this solves the problem. If not a more harsher bleaching treatment might be required, in our day we used to put in (quite) a bit of urine in to the soaking water. Today of course one can just buy actual bleach in a bottle. I suspect you might be the kind of individual to try the urine method first. But for goodness sake please make sure you don’t eat asparagus beforehand. Other handy hints for spot bleaching is to use onion or even hog manure instead of lemon, but citrus perfume versus faecal stench? If you succeed in removing the stain you can freshen the whole shirt by adding a touch of blue dye to the rinsing water.

I do hope you enjoy your laundry.
Your fellow in lye soap,
Miss April

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