I, like every right thinking UCD student, have been following your hilarious and thought-provoking column over the last year. I believe I speak unanimously when I say it has been the best sex column ever, particularly in issue two, when you actually talked about sex.
I guess my question is: how can I be more like you?
Good evening Jon,
This is probably the question I, unsurprisingly, get asked most often. The mystery of Fadora McSexypants is a riddle, wrapped in an enigma, basted with a paradox and served accompanied with a general feeling of unease. So, in order to clarify, the often-disputed events of my life, I’ve decided to tell you a little about myself.
I was born, as is customary, and quickly began making a name for myself across the playgrounds of Tijuana, Mexico. My mother, Consuela McSexypants, named me after the famous hat, because according to local legend, I was born wearing one.
I was educated in the arts of etiquette, social graces, and geography. I consumed new knowledge voraciously, and became an avid enthusiast in the fields of both lady-like comportment and coastal erosion.
These happy days were not to last however. During the height of WWII, I was sold to a small farm in California, where I’d live out the next decade as bar-wench, farm-wench, and occasional bench-wench. After years of serious, gritty wenching, I set off to wench my way across the country.
There were some pretty glorious adventures in the following years. In 1956, I attended Woodstock, but no one else arrived until many years afterwards. While on holiday in Texas in 1963, I was cleaning my rifle on a grassy knoll when it accidentally discharged. The noise wrecked my head.
I spent the rest of the decade in a VW van travelling around with a group of drug addicts solving mysteries. I sold my life story to Hannah Barbara, and with all my sweet Scooby Doo money, went on a bender until 2007.
After that, I decided it was time to get my life in order. Like anyone who’s angry at the world for no real reason, and is desperately seeking validation, and genuinely believes they’re cleverer than they are, I became a mature student in UCD. My college life has been nothing short of revolutionary – I was the one who changed the name of the Forum to the ‘Centre Bar’, I was the cause of that whole rumour about the toilets under Arts, and I invented Chris Wong.
In short, there is no easy way to be like me. All I can suggest is that you are true to yourself, to your heart, and to your trousers. Try and make women more ladylike, and men more gentlemanly. Insist your man wear suits at every occasion, and insist your lady throws out HJs like Haribo on Fresher’s Week. If you can do all this and really piss off a bunch of feminists, you’ll be doing alright.
Thank you to everyone who’s read my column over the past year, thank you to everyone who’s written in and sought my sexy wisdom, and always, always remember, don’t stop, never give up, hold your head high and reach the top – let the world see what you have got, bring it all back to you (bring it all back now).
Love and Cuddles,
BA, PhD, TTFN.
Next week, Fadora won’t be up to much.