Tuesday, 31 December 2013

Round the bend with Belladonna Bitchhole

As you can see, my maid, Belladonna Bitchhole, has gone completely mad this New Year's Eve.   She stands on the grand staircase, dressed as a blancmange.  Yes, that's right, dear Reader, it's not a typo or a drunken rant on my part.  She was literally wearing a wobbling dress made from extra-strength pink blancmange, itself a sort of trifle or after-dinner pudding appreciated in French circles.  She'd also dyed her hair green.  I love the way her pudgy little arms poke out the sides, like ham bones.  

Really, that varmint would try the patience of an oyster.  I must get rid of her.

Fanny Love now on Twitter

Roll up, roll up.  Fanny Love has signed up to Twitter.  Follow me on https://twitter.com/FannyLoveTV

What is Twitter?, I hear you ask.

According to techno-queen, Fanny Love, Twitter is:

1. A social network allowing anyone exactly 0.547893 seconds of fame

2. A social network allowing anyone to post what they ate for breakfast, the conversation they had with a stranger on the bus, the last bowel movement they had, or any other profoundly irrelevant information. 

3. A comment posted on Twitter is called a Tweet.  And a Twitter user is called a Twat.

4. Twitter has over 230 million users.  Almost three quarters are resident in some form of Secure Psychiatric Unit.

5. If you have an obsession about under-sink plumbing, Viennese piano-tuning, 1970s Uruguyan three-wheeler motor vehicles, or Esquimo Lesbianism, Twitter is the place to post - you're sure to find an audience, no matter how strange your interest.

6. Twitter typos can be disastrous to your career - when gorgeous Scottish beauty Susan Boyle promoted her new music collection Standing Ovation: The Greatest Songs from the Stage, her Twitter hash-tag was accidentally susanalbumparty.   It can be read both ways: "Susan Album Party" or "Sus Anal Bum Party".  It depends if you have a filthy mind.   Naughty SuBo!

7. Twitter has been going since the 1950s.  Its logo is a white dove evacuating its bowels against a blue sky, representing the release of pertinent information.

8. Twitter is not suited for the verbose; if you suffer grandiosity or a need to go into excessive detail, Twitter is restricted to 160 characters.  You could, of course, get a blog instead.  Or just go to a public toilet with a felt tip pen and record your thoughts on the toilet wall.

9. My favourite 'must-read' Tweet was by a 1980s pop star who Tweeted about a rather unpleasant experience he had with an Angel Delight Trifle in the Gents loo at the top of the Taipei 101 Tower.  Delightful!

10. Many famous people appear on Twitter, and their philosophical posts are celebrated by the world's media.  It made front page headlines when one of the Wombles - I think it was Uncle Bulgaria - posted that he made marmalade out of ear-wig droppings.  Gripping.

11. Fanny Love's first Tweet was "Twitter is so exciting, I decided to put my head in the oven".

 Fanny, bored, home alone, and with her head in the oven, after after just 2 seconds on Twitter

So if you're not already on Twatter, 2014 is the year to sign up and to regale the world with intimate and riveting descriptions of kitchen-sink life.   Toodle-pipsqueak!

Wednesday, 25 December 2013

Christmas tantrums from Belladonna

In a moment of sheer vodka-induced boredom, Fanny created this lovely, Belladonna-themed snow-globe.  A little plasticine model of Belladonna, horrifyingly realistic, was placed inside the globe, itself a forgotten Christmas present from 1981.  I've emailed Toys R Us to see if they're interested in the design.  

Meanwhile, Belladonna has been whining like a spoilt brat today, demanding her Christmas gifts.  I found her standing on top of my Louis Quatorze piano, stamping her feet on the lid in a little rage.   As my least favourite member of staff, I've tried countless times to terminate her from my household, with little success.   Knowing that I'd be shackled with her over the Christmas period, I spent Christmas Eve wrapping up a few 'special', unforgettable gifts for her, especially hand-picked, to show her just who is boss.

My first gift to my lovely, very beautiful maid was a set of Sea Urchin Earrings.  She looked a little miffed when she tore open the Christmas wrapping paper like a rabid dog.  She just sat there, expressionless. Ungrateful wench!

The second present I thrust into her grubby little hands was this.

That's right.  It's an electric eel.  A thoughtful and heartfelt gift to a much-loved maid.  I even wrapped it in a sheet of tinfoil.  She's in a sulk now.  I can't think why!

Tuesday, 24 December 2013

Cook and her Yorkshire Pudding fetish

Oh dear Lord!  Cook has gone round the bend again for the sixty-seventh time this year.  I discovered she drunk the Gin Cabinet completely dry - all 182 bottles drained!

As for her warped state of mind, her planned menu for tomorrow's Grand Christmas lunch consisted of:
  •  marshmallow in Minestrone soup;
  • followed by a latte with shredded tuna; 
  • liver and squid casserole; an oyster milkshake;
  • flambéed octopus served in a waffle,

and other, quite frankly disgusting culinary perversions.

Worst of all, she had made a Yorkshire Pudding Tower, almost 40-feet tall, containing over 1000 Yorkshire puddings. 

I'm going to have to get rid of her.  Immediately.   I asked her to come up to the fourth floor and take a seat in the ejector seat.   I felt a jolt of joy as I pressed the red button and watched the hatch in the ceiling open and shoot Cook at high speed out into the night air, in the general direction of Long Crendon, some 5 miles away.

You might remember that last Christmas, I appeared on live television for my I'd Like to Teach the World to Cook series (click the link, bitches!).

Meanwhile, Belladonna, my maid, is masturbating furiously over the sight of the 40-foot tall Yorkshire Pudding Tower.

Monday, 23 December 2013

Silence is golden

This is my maid.   Her name is Belladonna Zlatogrivov.  She has a fetish for Wonder Woman-themed garments, mostly lycra that is obscenely revealing of her tree-trunk sized thighs.  She chews liquorice.  She eats brussel sprout sandwiches.  Her favourite hobbies are doing the shot-put and naked oil wrestling.  Her training at the Vladvistok School of Domesticity didn't even get as far as "how to make a cup of tea".  

She is utterly without point.  No matter how many times I've tried to get rid of the woman, she keeps coming back to me.   She is a literal white elephant, costing me a fortune in her fees yet being completely useless and incompetent of even the simplest task.

Last night, after imbibing too much absinthe, I had the most lurid nightmare about Belladonna:

Yes, that's right, in a kaleidoscope of colour and song, Belladonna Zlatogrivov appeared to be walking along the Yellow Brick Road with Dorothy and others towards the Emerald City.  It was most disturbing.   I feel quite nauseous, woke in a terrible start, and have just consumed a whole packet of Xanax and Prozac.

This morning, as if by some queer design, Belladonna came into the sitting room with my breakfast which she had "murdered": some rock-hard boiled eggs; a greasy flute of champagne; some smoked-salmon garnished with a sprig of lavender.   Yes, that's right smoked salmon and lavender go together like lesbians and kittens.   Anyway, at that point, she accidentally (on purpose) tripped on the rug and threw the whole breakfast tray into my lap.

Outraged at her insubordination, it dawned on me that there was one way - and one way only - of discipling this unruly waif.

That's right: silence is golden... duct tape is silver.  And Fanny is very nifty with a pair of scissors.  Here's the result:

All trussed up with no-where to go: Belladonna hasn't let out a squeak.  An unnatural silence has descended on the house.

Sunday, 22 December 2013

A quick suck

I enjoy gobbling down caviar.   Don't you?   I'm not talking about the cheap crap that Lidl are currently peddling for £1.69!   For me, it's Beluga, always.  Little black balls of love, I call them, presented in a dark-blue tin with gold emboss all the way from Russia, usually costing around £2,500 per tin - a rare, decadent delicacy, as scintillating as sex. 

When I entered the larder this morning, I screamed "Quelle horreur" in anguish at the realisation that the caviar was all gone - not a pot anywhere in the house, and so none for breakfast.   What was I to do?

I grabbed a pair of binoculars and spied my neighbour's well-stocked fishing lake.  Lady Battenburg-Windsor-Rump-Python-Coningsby is her name, and I cannot be bothered socialising with her or even remembering her ridiculous penta-barrelled name, as she is merely cheap, nouveau riche trash.

Ten minutes later, if anybody had been looking, they might have seen me wearing this racy swimsuit beside her fishing lake with a net in my mouth.  

In the blink of an eye, I plunged into the freezing water and spotted a huge adult sturgeon fish lurking at the murky bottom.  The thing put up a lot of fight, but I snagged the fish in the net, climbed out of the lake, made a run for it, somersaulting over the hedge across my extensive grounds to the kitchens with the slippery fish in tow.

The picture below best describes what I did next, aided by a plastic drinking straw which I was momentarily able to allow to leave my glass of gin n tonic:

Fish preparation techniques from world renowned gastronome, Fanny Love: Removing caviar the simple way.  Just grab any old sturgeon fish from your neighbour's pond, shove a drinking straw up its orifice and suck for England!  You will soon be rewarded with caviar.

Whilst startled at the striking resemblance of the sturgeon fish to my maid, Belladonna (they both have the same bottom-feeder physical qualities), I sucked away with the drinking straw trying to extract some caviar from the damned thing.  All the fish did was wriggle around.

Alas, the whole plan backfired (quite literally) when the fish flicked its tail, gave me a look of utter disdain, and released its bowels all over my face.   

Saturday, 21 December 2013

Welshman gets toilet roll stuck up his back passage

As Fanny was eating her £5.98 fish 'n' chips last night, she caught sight of a very interesting news article amidst the oily wrappings (the newspapers in United States of England are so dire nobody actually reads them, instead they wrap greasy cooked fish meals in them).

The story was about Fanny's favourite little nation, Wales, where the earth is 90% covered in permafrost year-round and a bat is not a flying creature but a national delicacy.  Anyway, published in the Independent, this delightful Yuletide story - no doubt read out to scores of children as a bedtime story - goes like this:
"A Welshman was forced to call 999 after he got a toilet roll holder stuck up his bottom.  The un-named man, who appears to have been home at the time, was left unable to move, but luckily had his mobile phone close by.

Firemen who attended the scene were able to free him from the object successfully, but he did require on the spot medical treatment from paramedics
The firemen then provided the man, from Newport, South Wales, with “suitable advice” to avoid getting into a similar predicament again"

What a fame-whore this un-named Welshman is!  I wouldn't put it past my maid, Belladonna Zlatgrivov, to try a cheap publicity trick like that, although she's Russian!  

My question is rather simple: Is inserting a toilet roll holder into one's derrière a national past-time in Wales?  

The horrors of online dating

Juan, my live-in Brazilian fuck puppet, is currently vacationing in Outer Mongolia and so I'm home alone and quite bored out of my tiny little brain and completely sex-starved.  In my hour of need, I turned to online dating website, LatinoStuds.co.uk, which promised me there would probably be a Latino stud with a 6-pack and 9 inch cock in my local area.

My little silk knickers were moistening, so I accessed the site and set up my profile with all the necessary requirements I look for in a man: handsome, under 30, ripped body, smooth, possibly S&M tendencies, voracious sexual appetite, etc.

Some 5 minutes later, ping!, an email advised me of a profile that exactly matched my requirements.  Licking my lips hungrily, I logged in.

Here was the first match:

Bert, 92. A retired ballet dancer and part-time scaffolder. From Melksham, Wiltshire. He lists his hobbies as fisting, monster dildoes, and fly-fishing. Looking for love. Not fussed whether it's a man or woman.

Eeeeeeeekkkkkk!  I have just projectile-vomited out of the window, right across the formal lawn, showering the topiary hedge in cornflakes.  This is not what I asked for, and is about as welcome as a dose of herpes.

I grabbed a bottle of gin and didn't even bother mixing it with tonic, and glugged half-a-bottle's-worth to calm my raw nerves.

Ping!  The arrival of a new email, advising of a further match.  This time, I lovingly tweaked my own breast through my eiderdown antique smock.

That is until I almost passed out from a heart attack at the abomination in my Inbox:

Marigold, a 44-year old housewife from Bedford, and escapee from the town's Secure Unit,
making her debut appearance on dating website, LatinoStuds. "I have a bunny girl fetish" she helpfully adds to her profile.

And the final insult to injury came when this little 'gem' of a profile-match ping-ed its way into my email box:

What a winning profile: Alfred, 66, from Barnsley (which, incidentally, is about a million miles from my bucolic corner of England). Enjoys his beer, fags and pork scratching. Hobbies: playing with cucumbers, radishes, aubergines and egg-whisks.

I have never been so horrified in my life - imagine the shock, to be regaled, by electronic means, from a man who systematically abuses cucumbers.  I have concluded that online dating - all online dating - is a cirque du freak, only ideal if you enjoy having sex with cockroachesAnd if you don't speak Froglais, cirque du freak means a 'freak show'!.

Friday, 20 December 2013

I open a Christmas present early

Fanny had a large 7-foot tall by 4-foot wide brown package delivered to her rear, tradesmens' entrance this afternoon.  It bore the words "Don't open until Christmas day".  It was addressed to moi, postmarked Rio de Janeiro.  It was rather heavy and there was a strange scuffling noise coming from inside.  What could it be?

"Don't open until Christmas day" the words glared at me.    Fuck that!  I tore off the packaging in a frenzy.  At one point there was shredded brown cardboard, remnants of sellotape and other materials showering down like a snowstorm.

Imagine my surprise when all the packaging was removed to reveal this present:

It was very kind indeed of my great Aunt Prunella to send me this startled man, seemingly handpicked from the streets of Rio de Janeiro according to the greetings card.  He did, however, seem very pleased to see me.

I've set him about dusting the grand banquet room whilst wearing a lime-green posing pouch, and nothing else.

Answers on a postcard, please, as to what I should do with him...