Wednesday, 28 May 2014

Spring trip to Sardinia

Last week, on a whim, I jumped on a flight to Sardinia; it's an island I hardly knew anything about beforehand.  It's nothing to do with sardines, either.  No, Sardinia is the second largest island in the Mediterranean and has a wealth of ancient history, good beaches, fine food and beautiful men.  It also doesn't seem to be particularly on the radar of most English tourists, which is a great shame.

After such a Satanic English winter, a week's trip turned out to be just the antidote I needed - after just a two-and-a-half-hour direct flight to Cagliari, I was on a different planet.  I spent four days of the trip, just on this gorgeous beach.

Chia beach has thirty-metre high white dunes, sand so fine and bleached it is like talcum powder, and a dense cloak of juniper trees; the beach is remote, accessible by rutted lanes and has a necklace of even more isolated beaches nearby.  A swim here is breathtaking, as the ocean, even this early in the season, is bath-warm, shallow and stained a dazzling jade-blue.  The locals say dolphins can be seen off-shore, although I didn't see any.



The roasted sea bass I enjoyed at mid-day at the nearby restaurant was irresistible, rich and melt-in-the-mouth; shallots, large zesty lemon halves, pungent locally-gathered herbs and ever-so-juicy plum tomatoes.




After a day spent under startling blue skies and with salt drying on my sunburnt skin, we stopped en route back to the hotel to look at a simple market stall in a village selling lemons.  It is a pleasure to see such produce for sale in such stark contrast to the fruit we normally find withering in the supermarkets in Britain.  Juan, keen to treat me to something authentically Italian, soon put a few lemons in the hotel's only blender and presented me with a delightfully chilled, refreshing glass of just-this-minute-made lemonade.

Tuesday, 27 May 2014

Incandescent with rage over TV Licensing



I was just noisily gobbling down some larks' tongues on toast for breakfast, followed by a pewter flute of Dom Perignon White Gold Jeroboam champagne when Postman Pat came and popped an ominous brown envelope through my slot.  I was expecting more fan mail and immediately flew into a violent rage and tore open the envelope to reveal the above letter, from someone called TV Licensing - the sheer cheek of it!  I spat a mouthful of lark tongue onto the carpet and rushed to the typewriter, to immediately bash out the following response to these people:


How dare they interrupt my breakfast!  I've heard tales of people being harassed by this institution.  Do you think my letter will get them off my back?
 

Friday, 23 May 2014

Lost in Translation


A few years ago when I was doing a glamour modelling photoshoot for The Wombles Christmas Calendar in Beijing, China, my limousine passed the city's main hospital which displayed this unusual sign.  It seems something was lost in translation...

Tuesday, 20 May 2014

Playing with my pussy


Often heard muttered by the rich and famous, the old English expression, "Dogs are a transvestite's best friend" is very true, but, I must declare my equal love for cats.  There's nothing more exciting than staying indoors and gently caressing one's pussy.  My cat's name is Doris and she's a white Persian puss-cat. 

One of my favourite books!
 
I remember the day clearly when my ex-maid Belladonna coughed up a hairball the size of a haystack, presumably as a consequence of being in close contact with the cat's voluminous bush.  It was such an event, I photographed the moment and it sits, lovingly, in a frame on my window, to remind me of the happy time.


Anyway, last night, as I was enjoying my 32nd glass of gin n' tonic and around the time I started to see pink elephants dancing in front of my eyes, I thought it was high time Doris the cat had a makeover and at the same time I decided to create some bespoke 'animal' art using an assortment of aerosol paint-sprays, something that would surely leave heart-throb art critic, Brian Sewell, speechless.  Here is the result of my cat-grooming-cum-animal-artwork.


Isn't it rainbowlicious?  Doris the cat is the talk of the village!

Friday, 9 May 2014

Filthy wig found in a bin

In the lovely Spring weather today, I went out onto the village green to play hopskotch and it was there that I saw the monstrous apparition of Belladonna, surrounded by a hundred empty vodka bottles and a filthy old mattress.  She's been living out rough on the village green, behind the bins and I saw her traipsing down the high street today wearing this wig.

Thursday, 8 May 2014

I just love Countdown

Whilst the holidaying hordes enjoyed the sub-tropical 10°c heatwave over the long Easter bank holiday, I stayed indoors with the fire crackling and on Sunday afternoon, finally sat down to watch my third favourite TV programme of all time, Countdown.  It's presented by doyenne of daytime TV and former Miss East of England beauty pageant winner, Carol Vorderman.

With a cup full of strong Darjeeling tea in my right hand, and a plate of Digestives ready to be dunked resting on the arm of the Ottoman, I watched avidly, until this moment in the TV show came up.


Contestant Gwen Turpin, retired coal-miner, 92, from Caerphilly, South Wales, came up with the word "minge".  Is that a word?  It's not in my lexicon of US English.  What does it mean?  Can anyone enlighten me?

I do enjoy British television and I'm just sitting down to watch 1980s children's programme, Button Moon.  I haven't got a TV licence, of course, and have never had one, as TV licence evasion is a national past-time here in the Home Counties.  Here is my favourite episode of Button Moon.  I often sing along to the theme tune:-

video