A Look Back at 2012 - The Year That Was

Fanny Love, wearing a black wig and Maximillion-style wedding dress with ruched trim, visiting her Estate Agent, with a loaded antique Wallonian hunting rifle

All text in bold grey are clickable links; just click to be taken to the smut!

Dear Reader.  I hope your year has been good.  2013 is just around the corner. I hope it's a wonderful year for you and all your dreams come true.  My 2012 was a truly tumultuous year, with many challenges, much laughter but also much sadness.  But it was a year ending in chaotic resolve.  I relocated from Wiltshire to Buckinghamshire, and finally saw my dream come true in the conception and filming of my life-time work of art, The Hampstead Heath Chainsaw Massacre.  I'd like to thank the wonderful Mitzi and the wonderful Miss MJ for a lot of funny moments, as well as my good friend, Truelove and my charming and hunky butler/chauffeur/toyboy, Juan for keeping me warm, Brazilian-style, during the seemingly-endless wet British summer.

 During this year, I also came across many lovely young men, who, in tribute to their charms, I am documenting in this last breathe of 2012. 

So.... here's a quick recap of 2012 in the life of Fanny Love:

In February, I accidentally on purpose managed to insult local dignitaries by reading poetry about S&M whilst wearing a provocative outfit. 

Mr February.

In March, I was stalked by a furniture collector.    During that same fair month, I was also put on anti-depressants after a disastrous trip to Port Talbot. 

Wales seemed not to be able to let me out of its grip, for I was back there again, invited to give an operatic performance and shortly after the disaster of all disasters happened, which is best not spoken about in polite circles but involves the burning-down of a caravan.

At my Spring Fête, I wore a rabbit-head dress, that was celebrated in all the fashion magazines.

Mr and Mr March

April saw me losing my flower-girl innocence on a "cottaging" trip to Dorset with Gloria Girdle.  

 Mr April

June saw me jumping into a Wiltshire river and re-enacting Ophelia as a statement on the beauty of death.   July saw me engaged in a running battle with villagers who objected to the topiary in my garden.   Later that same month, I witnessed the extraordinary Welsh fetish of bog-snorkelling.

Mr June

August was the month that I moved to Raffles, a remote country estate in northwest Buckinghamshire.  My patience wore thin and Cook was first taken away to a psychiatric unit, after her culinary perversions concluding in the Exploding Pudding incident. 

Film crews descended on London's Hampstead Heath for the filming of my multi-million pound Victorian Gothic lesbian thriller, the Hampstead Heath Chainsaw Massacre.

Mr August

I holidayed in the beautiful Scottish islands, before going on a wild shoplifting spree in Glasgow at the start of September.

Mr September

October was the month my Press Secretary went to a star-studded event, pretending to be me, completely drunk after vodka was poured into her water-cooler.  She was dressed as a Dalek.

Mr October

November was a quiet month, spent mostly baking gingerbread cookies and visiting New York City, Helsinki, Prague, Brussels, Paris, Barcelona and Lisbon (my favourite!).

Mr November

December saw some of my staff thrown from a third floor window after a meteoric fall from grace, plus an advent calendar containing chocolate-coated Sprouts.  Later that month, I turned my hand to bee-keeping.   And one of my most iconic TV performances of the decade was Cook Along With Fanny.   Just a shame about the ending.  It taught me a lesson, and that lesson is that the combination of triple-strength gin and tonics, Valium, 12-inch stilettos, and cooking oil spilt onto marble floors, just doesn't mix well!

Mr December

 
So it's time to look to 2013.  In the New Year, in addition to the continuance of this blog, I'll be launching a brand new blog called Travelling Transvestite - Around the World in 180 Days.  You'll be able to read about my adventures as I travel on vacation from England to Europe to Latin America to Australasia, Asia, and Africa, a vacation of epic proportions spread over 180 days.

Thanks for reading my blog this year and myself and Juan would like to wish you a Happy and Prosperous 2013.

Love
Fanny xxx  

Let me tell you about Brill

Set on a high hill looking down its snout at every other village for miles around, Brill, my nearest village, is an über-exclusive enclave: at any given hour of the day, the casual observer will see a steady flow of Bentleys and Jaguars (pronounced 'Jag-waaarrr') swishing along red-brick Church Street or Windmill Street, and then down steep, country lanes past remote houses (pronounced 'hices'), home to the rich and famous.  The countryside around Brill is some of the loveliest in all of England and the author J R R Tolkien is said to have based one of the Hobbit's villages on Brill.

Brill's second most iconic attraction is its windmill (the first being Raffles, my country estate).  The windmill is situated on Brill common and was allegedly built in around 1680.    Liver-spotted old shrew, Gloria Girdle once walked too close to the turning sails of the windmill whilst wearing a voluminous evening gown, and ended up doing a few circuits.  All I could see of her, as she went up and over, was her plump body hidden by her heavily-soiled underskirts, and her bare legs looking like ham bones.

Someone took a Polaroid of the terrifying accident and emailed it to every single newspaper, much to the humiliation of Gloria when the story appeared a day later and her career was irrevocably over from all the negative publicity.   Poor Gloria - who could have done such a wicked act?

On a separate subject, I have recently commissioned a re-branding of the village sign.  It's high time it was brought up to date.

Here is the sign that has been in place since the 1980s, located at all entrances to Brill:

Unimaginative, isn't it? A 5-year old could do better.

The council don't yet know but I've replaced all the village signs with my new creation:

  Fond of exploring my artistic side, this is the design I had specially made and put up to replace the old sign.  Much better!

 

An interesting oddity is that for such a small village Brill has its own radio station, Radio Brill FM, which, to me, is more of a flagrant waste of air-waves since they endlessly play Max Bygraves' records on what sounds like a hand-crank gramophone with a worn-out needle, run at the wrong speed, the harsh, discordant mixture of sounds coming out of my radio sounding not unlike the anguished wails of a cat on a hot tin roof.  I mailed Radio Brill a CD of Fanny Love Sings the Blues but have never heard any of my songs played, nor an acknowledgement; I expect they cannot afford my Royalties.

Naturally, I am by far the wealthiest and most talked-about A-list celebrity transvestite in this bucolic corner of Buckinghamshire and a rare public appearance in the village generally draws hundreds of fans out in force, and plenty of idle tongues wagging.  

Fanny's Canary-yellow Dodge Charger.  

At Raffles, I have a whole stable of luxury cars, 

a collection so valuable you could buy a small country with it.

I usually swish through the village in my pea-green Daimler, or when the mood takes my fancy, my bubble-gum pink Bentley or my Canary-yellow Dodge Charger.    Juan, my Brazilian butler/chauffeur is at the wheel, looking both insatiably fuck-able and resplendent in his pink leather trousers and tiny muscle-top, quite at odds with our conservative, rural surroundings. 

Juan speaks very little English, but he's not there for conversation, rather he's there to look good on my arm.  Luckily I am fluent in Portuguese (my mother always said I was a cunnilingus.  Sorry, I mean she always said I was a cunning linguist).

Juan, my butler/chauffeur/personal toy boy, photographed last year on the
beach in Brazil.  I've spent many an evening eating Russian Beluga caviar off his six pack.

I've been studying the hand-waves of the Queen and trying to perfect the gesture; it is a gentle, anti-clockwise, circular movement of the hand, held rather stiff and claw-like, as if one is suffering from rickets. Definitely not a full, boisterous wave, but a restrained movement.  I'm actually looking forward to April 2013 when I've been invited to a garden party with Her Royal Righteousness herself where I can ask her in person how to wave like an old queen; I believe the reason I was invited was because the Queen is a great fan and one of the most avid followers of my blog!  She apparently studies my blog to keep up to date with trends in fashion and social etiquette!

I usually wave at fans as we drive slowly past, although on some occasions, when I'm not feeling up to it or I've imbibed too many Sidecar or Whiskey Sour cocktails (I adore the 1930s, you know, my dear), I just extend both legs out of the window and wave a toe instead.

 Waving at fans with my legs, whilst twatted on 1930s cocktails

Today, in the run-up to the New Years' celebrations, Juan and I went to dinner in Oxford at one of my favourite French restaurants, L'Auberge des Grenouilles (I usually order mascarpone mousse with white chocolate and black pepper in a tropical fruit soup).  En route to the restaurant, as we were passing through posh Brill, I spotted in horror this handwritten sign, sellotaped to a noticeboard:

A lost dildo?  In posh Brill?  Triple-headed?   What is the world coming to?  I shrunk back in my seat in horror at this disgusting abomination.   Previously, I had envisaged that I was living among dignified, civilised people. Apparently not if they go about losing their triple-headed Black Mamba vibrators and expect them returned! Disgusting, I say again.

Penis tourism in Europe

From the above chart recently sent to me from a dear friend, you'll now understand why I so enjoy travel to France (oh-la-la) and Hungary (how big??!?); Ireland, no thanks.

I'd like to teach the world to cook...

"Too many cooks spoil the broth!" says Texan-born transvestite, Fanny Love, "I simply adore British cookery, especially the modern shit.  My greatest inspiration was Fanny Cradock, who brought glamour to the kitchen.  Cradock championed the ambitious housewife with dinner-party delights in the dowdy post-war years before being crowned the doyenne of televised cookery.  She sadly passed away on 27 December 1994, 18 years ago to this very day.  In memory of Fanny Cradock, tune in to see me, Fanny Love, present Cook Along With Fanny, an exotic orgy of food, shot live from my English mansion".

Fanny Cradock:

She even had the same first name as me,

Like me, she loved the finer things in life, often wearing a ball-gown in the kitchen

Also like me, she had an aversion to the usage of Estuarine English and always strove to speak using Received Pronunciation

VOICEOVER: In a bid to outdo foul-mouthed Gordon Ramsay's Christmas Day Cookalong, Fanny Love presents a live TV cookery show, Cook Along With Fanny, a modern-day re-imagining of Texan-English cuisine, broadcast today at 11am on Channel 666.  Join an estimated worldwide audience of 900 billion.

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 In keeping with my idiosyncratic dress style (the paparazzi describe my dress sense as "like Alice in Wonderland on acid"), I've chosen to wear a 19th century pale-pink gown with delicate fretwork, pictured here. The 24-strong film crew are setting up in the kitchens. It's 6am. I've just gulped down an Alkaseltzer, a double gin and tonic, followed by a Valium to calm my frayed nerves.

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Lights. Camera. Action.

This morning I'll be showing the nation how to cook traditional British favourites.

For Toad in the Hole - a traditional main dish with a crust of Yorkshire pudding batter - you'll need flour, eggs, half a pint of milk, some Bisto gravy, and the main ingredient, a common garden toad, usually found in abudance in damp areas, such as a pond or on Hampstead Heath.

For the classical recipe, Toad in the Hole, always use a freshly-collected toad.
If you prefer, fricasséed toad can also be purchased in tins from posh delicatessens like Primark.

Secondly, I'll be making delicacies such as Spotted Dick surprise (a recipe for which I've been breeding snails), Bubble and Squeak with anchovy-flavoured ice cream, an orange cake with Branston Pickle icing, chocolate mixed with cod roe, parsnip brownies and plain pancakes with just a dash of liver, and chocolate spread sandwiches (with some taramosalata).

For gourmet lovers, I'll be showing you how to prepare:

Spam Birds - yum yum, one of Fanny's favourites before a night of wild sex.

 A banana and pineapple Candle Salad on a soft bed of lettuce

An emerald Jelo dessert flavoured with toffee and armistice; apparently Jelo was often consumed on the flight of Apollo 11, the first mission to land on the Moon.  Jelo is also a great remedy for chronic constipation!

A celebratory medley of doughnut-and-honey cake topped with a tower made from a strawberry and guinea fowl purée; 

fluffy cinnamon macaroons dyed red with cochineal food colouring; 

orange peel and Brussel sprout fondants; 

and Flamingo whipped butter and beetroot whirls.

A cucumber Jelo soufflé with blended asparagus and chick peas

"A Texan Tea Cake" also known as A Bird's Eye potato waffle,
garnished with sardines, olives and orange-flavoured toothpaste with a walnut and Béchamel sauce jus.

Spotted Dick, a British favourite

 
Finally, dear viewer, Christmas isn't Christmas without the traditional Roast Turkey.   This year, I'm going to be stuffing the butterball turkey with oysters and glazing with a thick Crème de menthe sauce.

 

This butterball turkey was purchased from a local farm, although they forgot to pluck the bird properly and I spent all night smearing the thing in Veet Hair Removal cream to get the hair off.

 A Godsend for hairy butterball turkeys that haven't been fucked properly.  

Sorry, it's the gin talking --- PLUCKED properly.

 
"FUCK ME ... (uttered on live air)... those gin and tonics are strong... who mixed them?"

Whilst stuffing the bird with oysters, I suddenly felt one of my diamond rings slip off, and then realised with a shock that it was lost deep inside the bird.  Pulling my hand out of the turkey's derrière in a panic, I accidentally knock over a bottle of cooking oil, which spreads all over the marble kitchen floor.  

"Ooops.. butter fingers!" I mouth to the camera.

 By now, the room is starting to spin, I suppose due to the mixture of triple-strength gin and tonic and Valium.  

One step backwards on the oily marble in my 12" stilettos and I'm flying headfirst towards the turkey.  Moments later, the whole world goes black and I have a nasty, all-encompassing smell of poultry in my nostrils, although I'm not sure where I am.  I seem to be in a very close, dark place.

The camera cuts to me sometime later, lying prone and as pissed as a coot on the gold-encrusted Ottoman chaise-longue.   Here is the final shot of me before the credits roll, streamed live to billions of people around the world.

Kinky wrapping paper

Imagine my delight on Christmas morning when I sprang out of bed at 3am, rushed downstairs like a little girl and found that Father Christmas had come down the chimney and left a plethora of presents under the tree.  I was so mesmerised by this extraordinarily-good gift wrapping paper - showing scenes of debauched, sadomasochistic revelry - for a moment I was reluctant to open the gifts.

Happy Christmas!

Fanny xxx

Weird and wonderful Christmas Advent Calendars

I confess I've neglected to check my fan mail since September. "Lots of fans have sent in Christmas Advent Calendars.. and plenty of musical cards too!" muttered my incoming postal clerk, Miss Beryl Favish, this morning as I entered the Sorting Room.

Like a child in a sweet shop, I adore Christmas Advent Calendars, ever since Blue Peter told you how to make your own with only sticky-back plastic (no glue to get high on in those days), Sellotape, bits of Ryvita and old margarine tubs.
 
Nothing more enticing than a different surprise treat behind a different cardboard door, every day in the run-up to Christmas Day. Simply titillating! As it's only 4 days until Christmas, I get to open the previously-missed 22 doors of each Advent Calendar and scoff 22 chocolates all in one sitting!

It was certainly eye-opening to delve into my post-bag. Here is a collection of weird, wonderful, and often horrifying Christmas advent calendars that have arrived here at Raffles this year as gifts, proving, beyond all doubt, that there really is no accounting for good taste:

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A good start: I shall enjoy eating the chocolates from this calendar. Which launderette is this? I wish I knew! Thank you, thank you! x I love this calendar! x

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Who in their right mind sends a Jim'll Fix It 2012 Christmas Advent Calendar? I dread to think what's inside. It's one of those musical Advent Calendars too, so it's playing the theme tune to Jim'll Fix It, something that's brought a rash out on my chest. I  had a horrifying panic attack at finding this disgusting object in the post-bag. I've dowsed it in petrol and chucked the whole thing straight on the fire!

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And what the Hell do you call this? A Christmas Advent Calendar showing two women engaging in a game of lesbian nipple-tweaking. Entitled 'Make Love Not War', it's been sent from the North Amersham Indoor Bowls Group. Really, that's what you get up to? You should be ashamed of yourself for bringing the game of bowls into disrepute!

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Oh yes, I simply ADORE this Advent Calendar.   Pictured here is my arch-enemy, Lady Vagina, not wearing make-up. In fact, she's on a Dress-Down Friday, pushing her bicycle through the streets of Soho. No, don't believe the spin pumped out by her literary agent, this is the REAL Lady Vagina. No glamour; no diamonds; just the way she was born (.. in the gutter). It's made my Christmas to receive this wonderful advent calendar. And in the mean-spirited way of Lady Vagina, all the little compartments contained absolutely nothing. This will take pride of place on my bedroom wall. Thank you to the beautiful fan who sent this in, I will marry you tomorrow and leave my entire estate to you in my Will.

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I hope this buffed, bronzed Santa Claus comes down my chimney! Loved the miniature set of handcuffs in window 1, and the chocolate fondant penis in window 17.

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Who ate all the Fray Bentos pies?  By the looks of it, this is a full-fat Christmas advent calendar.  I do hope that this Satan Claus - yes, it's not a typo, I did write SATAN Claus - does not cum anywhere near my chimney. In fact, the staff have placed a huge plastic condom over the chimney to prevent any accidental visits from this beer-swilling walrus.

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And here are some Christmas cards that I've received, most which didn't even see the light of day as they were thrown on the roaring log fire no sooner had they been removed from their envelopes:

What a disgusting invitation.

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Drag queen Mona Breezeblock sent me this.  I quite like it.  Thank you, Mona.

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Happy Christmas from Swansea, signed by "Geraint" - I cannot remember ever meeting a Geraint.  Clearly, "Geraint" works for Swansea's tourist board, as this wonderful, alternative Christmas card depicts a typical night out in the Welsh city.  Such a sophisticated city.  I cannot wait to return.

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Honesty really is the best policy!

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Thank you, Mrs Butterfield of Oldham, Lancashire, for this defecating reindeer Christmas card.

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Thank you for this card, Jeremy Lee, DSS claimant/wanabee pop singer, from Corby.

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And what of the Christmas Cards and Advent Calendars that Fanny sends out to her friends, fans and enemies?  

To all my beloved sisters in this world, I am sending this card:

and the inside the card:

 


To my enemies (Lady Vagina, my last estate agent, etc etc), I have not sent a Christmas card but instead I have posted an anonymous, home-made Christmas advent calendar with this bucolic scene of a snowy country cottage on the front.

Each of the 25 compartments, marking a day in the run-up to Christmas, contains a premium chocolate fondant hand-sculpted by Fanny's fair and delicate hands, using only the finest chocolate that money can buy: