Dear Francis' knee,
When was the exact point you knew... you were a knee?
- Ryan

Dear Ryan,
I remember it well, so well that I can feel the mist appearing as I type. I've gone all wobbly; we must be going back in time. I was working as a petrol pump attendant somewhere in New South Wales with a funny name when, one day, a mysterious stranger rode in to town. The fact that he was on a frog didn't appear to me to be strange. It was more that he spoke fluent cream cheese that first intrigued me. We got chatting and it turned out that he was the long lost cousin of someone but we don't know who he or she was as they are lost, obviously. I took him home and gave him what little food I had. It was a set of miniature fruits given to me by my great Aunt Steven. He ate the lot. Before he left through the chimney, he turned to me and with a smile said, "Son, you have fed and watered me and it was rubbish. I hated every moment in your company. It was really terrible. It'll take years to get over it and you are a knee." Surprisingly, it was the happiest moment of my life. I knew I was different, even at school I didn't act like any of the other boys. My style was more Shakespearean compared to their neo-classical gritty realism. At last I knew what I must do in life. I was a crucial support for a man, not so much a shoulder to lean on, more a knee to balance on.
Thanks, Francis' Knee

Dear Francis' knee,
My wife is going through menopause, which as far as I can tell is derived from the latin "meno" - a man, and "pause" - to desist from. Now I've been copping a bit of the old menopause lately, so I'm gonna need your help.

The little lady tells me her problem is that she's low on hormones. I remember on Micallef Tonight you told a plum of a joke about making hormones, genetic engineering and how complicated the whole bizzo is.

Now, I'm not much for science, but I've gone and got myself one of them fancy home experiment kits from Dick Smith's and I reckon I can muddle along. So can you tell me, how DO you make a hormone? I figure I can slip 'em in her false teeth water and I'll be in.
-D. Oxirybonuclueic-Acid

Dear D. Oxirybonuclueic-Acid ,

How do you make a hormone? It sounds like the oldest joke in the book if you ask me. I looked in to it, and it was deep. I needed to change first. I turned to my cat but it was no use. He had no fashion sense what so ever. I mean come on - tortoise shell was so last season. Besides, the cat was scared of the giant 'giant' costume I was wearing and had hidden behind the tropical chimp tank.

I went to the local library to read up on the matter. All they had was books on shelves, not exactly what I wanted. I wanted books on Hormones. As chance would have it, as I made my way home I stopped off to buy a pasty. But it was no ordinary pasty. I had wandered off the beaten track and found myself outside the door of Australia's only Fortune Pasty shop. I bought one and lo and behold, what should I find inside but the answer to your question. Now that was a stroke of luck. To make a hormone all you have to do is simply tickle it under the chin and that seems to work.
Thank you,Francis' Knee

Dear Francis' knee,
If there are "pearls of wisdom", could there be a name for less sensible advice? "Fools' Gold of Idiocity", perhaps?
- Janelle K.

Dear Janelle K.,
Good question, I've been doing a little research on this matter and you'd be amazed at the results. There was only one.

Tin dust of uncertainty:
This term is thought to derive from an ancient landmass called Matalantis. Now, sadly for historians, Matalantis is completely submerged in custard.

The country itself championed the idea of cheap mass-consumerism through the use of a loyalty swipe card. Its pioneering ‘Chimps and Rats on a pole' points system, which the customer was encouraged to rather awkwardly present at the checkout, was way ahead of its time. The more chimps and rats attached to the customers pole, the bigger the discount. It makes sense. Unfortunately, no such card recognition system or swipe-able chimp and rat reader had been invented in Matalantis at that time. In 2000BC the ancient Gods deemed the whole idea, and I'm paragliding here, ‘quite the most rubbish thing ever'. By way of punishment the Council of the Gods summoned ‘Throndor and his Great Chariot of Assorted Puddings' to dish out his terrifying wrath. After a long period of deliberation it was decided that it would be best for everyone if Matalantis had hot custard poured all over it, sparing no one.

The actual phrase, ‘Tin dust of uncertainty', was named after a legend concerning the actions of a young Matalanian centipedesmith. Sylordon Peach busied himself shoeing centipede up at the old Jamison's farm. He had been found on a doorstep at the age of three months and later adopted by two Calves wearing nothing but an old beach towel. That's the Calves, not Sylordon, he was in rags and was clutching a ‘handful of tin'. (Incidentally, why the young bovines opted to share the same towel and not use separates is still a complete mystery). They watched the boy grow up in to a huge stuffed cat, a fish finger, an ill-fitting running shoe then eventually a man. Unwittingly, the calves, unable to speak Matalanian, kept Sylordon's, ‘Handful of tin' a secret. Which is a shame, because if they had told him about the ‘Handful of tin' he may have been able to throw the sacred tin dust in to the eyes of Throndor on his great chariot as he sat poised over the kingdom of Matalantis. Or, at the very least, make some sort of giant shelter for everyone to cower under which is what he was supposed to have done according to the prophesies of Mardlich-Thlord, the great ancient foreseer of the future. (Unlike his much uncalled for brother ‘Mardlich-Slum', foreseer of the past).

So it was that on that day up at the old Jamison's farm that Sylordon and 20,000 other Matalanians perished under a tidal wave of hot custard that covered the land forever. Some say, if you listen carefully, and if the wind is in the right direction making realistic human screaming noises, you can hear the people of Matalantis screaming. But they are mad and colour in works of great art in icing sugar.
Goodnight! - Francis' Knee

Dear Francis' knee,
I've recently been experiencing chaffing in my nether... sorry, wrong question. Recently, I was perusing the aisles of my local chain of consumer goods when I happened upon a bottle of cleaner titled 'Shout'. What does this imply I do? Scream when I clean? And, if so, what do I scream? The name of the cleaner or something relative like "scum"? I don't want to sound like I have tourettes, so pray tell, what does it all mean?
- Melaura Poppington

Dear Melaura Poppington ,
On Page 264 of Anderson Crumb's, ‘Dancing Bears with Fatigue (and or asthma)-A Spotters Guide', we sense for the first time the true nature of what it means to run full pelt at leg of mutton.

Anderson catapulted in to stardom during 1956 with the release of his first major work, ‘No, seriously, can I have my leg back now Mr. Lion'. He died almost immediately on leaving the earth's atmosphere and was the first modern philosopher to put margarine on the underside of his toast, complaining vigorously if, when dropped on the carpet, it landed dry-side-down. He wore tiny trousers.

Chapter 17 of ‘Dancing bears with fatigue…' deals predominately with the effects and consequences of shouting at cleansing products. There are three vital stages:

Stage one:
The wearing of sponges on your head is the tell tale, sure fire, sign that you may be inclined to voice more than a dreary opinion at a bottle of bleach. To begin with, one may start boring it to death with detailed weather reports and swapping caravan fables. (See Boolingworths famous books on Caravaning. In particular the 2 page epic, ‘The Legend of the Parked at a Slight Angle Caravan'. The dark western-war-romance-comedy, ‘The Bees in the Caravan are Hurting Now,' and part four of the trilogy, ‘Why park so near the cliff?')

To the untrained eye, it may just look like you are whispering the lethality of the bleach or muttering its ingredients to yourself under your breath. Of course, as Anderson once pointed out, “There's a lighthouse!”

To a Doctor however, the symptoms are characterised by the first signs of wearing sponges on your head. Then, after two or three days, the poor victims will undoubtedly be found at home taping sponges to their heads. Many choose to listen to the horrific and disturbing sound of ‘Cabbages in Flight', or any another relaxation cassette.

Stage two:
Building something out of Geese: A week or two down the line, the victim will suddenly start bursting into song. This lasts for a couple of days until the urge to sing leaves and is replaced by an eagerness to build things out of bits of a goose.

In the past, most cases have seen huge towers of swan, some at least 40 meters high in height. Some doctors have reported variations on the tower, including a 92 foot Smurf, a man polishing a horse and a colossal biscuit with exceptional detailing around the raisins.

Stage three:
Falling over into rhubarb: Tragically, it is impossible to describe what actually happens during the final stage of shouting at cleaning products. An attempt was made in 1903 Pewanda Chewy, the worlds first man in a mule. Chewy almost managed to describe what happens whilst falling into rhubarb but his efforts were cut short by The Mysterious Shoe, an omnipresent shoe who's job it is to protect the world from the horrors of rhubarb.

The closest anyone ever came was in 1929. The Mysterious Shoe threw Colin Tyndrin from his rabbit into the crowd during a Bin-bag festival in Peru just as he opened his mouth. Old people and clowns started to cry.

But what does it all mean? No idea, something to do with chalk and skiing really fast into a Highland village.
Take care, Francis's knee