The indignity of it

Today, I was driven by chauffeur to London.  We only got half-way there.

I was wearing my most head-turning outfit.  I was dressed as a swan.   Do you like my dress?

As we drove off the M25, the limousine broke down.  It turned out one of the wheels had come loose, flew off and crashed through the front-room window of somebody's house.  I do hope the wheel hasn't been damaged by striking an occupant - that would be a very grave misfortune.

I telephoned Special Branch at Scotland Yard and demanded they fly the Royal Helichopper out to transport me to Central London, but they flatly refused, leaving me dejected by their querulous "who are you?".    Alone and vulnerable in an unknown part of London, I headed for the bright lights of....

Whoever named this suburb of North London with this
ridiculous cartoon name should be flogged at dawn. Let me guess, the Mayor of Cockfosters is Daffy Duck.

Can you imagine how miffed I was to find myself buying a ticket at Cockfosters - yes, it's a real place - Cockfosters tube station in North London and sitting on a train that groaned and wheezed like an old man, all its long, laborious way into Central London, with a thousand sets of grubby, working-class eyes roving hungrily up and down my body (no doubt jealous at the beauty of my swan dress), whilst having to endure the nausea of travelling in a train carriage slowly filling with the obnoxious mixture of cheap perfume, audible flatulence, pungent aromas of steak pie and the stink of cheap ale.

 
These smells were not coming from my personage, I should add, as I never eat steak pie or drink cheap ale, and I only ever smell of roses, even when I gently release what I term 'polite lady's flatulence', it smells delightfully of roses and lemons and is a pleasure to behold.  No... the offensive stench was coming from the other passengers cooped up in confines of a carriage that had all the comfort of a hen cage).

There is nothing more so offensive than releasing untold amounts of flatulence, especially of a working-class nature, in a confined space.  As for the public shame of eating a steak pie whilst on a Tube train, all I can do is repeat the words of the Count de Monet --- "the peasants are revolting!"

The Piccadilly Line from Cockfosters to London, also known as the Tube to Hell: this - erm - rather large female passenger - spent the entire duration looking on the floor for her glass eye which had fallen out.  Meanwhile, rather than spend the 40-minutes gazing at her morbidly obese derriere, I wandered, swan-like, the entire length of the train looking for the First Class compartment, sadly in vain.  I've never travelled on a train before in my entire life and don't think I shall do so ever again.  I feel a bout of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder coming on after the rigours of the London Underground.

 

The whole experience brought me out in hives and I took a quick sniff of the good 'ol Poppers to steady me as I ascended from the gloom of Holborn tube station, cursing the metropolis' shockingly antiquated and impoverished transport system, whilst checking my swan dress for any stains that might have transferred themselves from the train seat.

The only redeeming feature of my train trip was this very polite ticket inspector who asked to see my ticket at Holborn tube station.

Cockfosters, by the looks of it, is the type of place populated by women named Sharon, who have a big, blonde hairdo, wear white stilettos all year round, and guzzle Malibu in nightclubs while dreaming of one day opening the doors of their mock-Tudor mansion to Hello! magazine.

I have already written to John Betjeman, poet, to ask him to change his mind about his epic poem 'Come Friendly Bombs and Fall on Slough' and instead to re-verse it 'Come Friendly Bombs and Blow the Smithereens out of Cockfosters and take with it the Oopsa-Daisy Line or whatever it is called'. 

I shall also be writing a letter to Mayor of London, Boris Yeltsin, to protest he do something about the horrors of the tube and next time to make available his limousine for my private usage.  I sharn't be coming face to face with hoi polloi ever again on London's public transport failure.

Good day to you.

Do-it-yourself Botox

I'm sucking ice-cubes, non-stop.    I've just had Do-it-Yourself Botox to my lips.   J'adore Botox!   But today, I simply couldn't be bothered to visit the beauty salon for a couple of injections, so instead, I did it myself in the comfort of my own home.  

Here's how:  as you know, Fanny keeps bees at her country estate.  So I went outside to one of the beehives and plunged an empty tea-pot into the beehive and filled it with worker bees.  I then went back indoors and deliberately stung myself about a dozen times on the lips.  Of course, I had to knock back a few triple-strength paracetamols mixed with a few triple-strength gin n' tonics to soothe the pain, but I'm really over-the-moon with the result.  Don't my Marilyn Monroe lips look wonderful? And to think - I saved £500 by doing it myself! I'll dispense another beauty-saving tip soon x
 

 Now receiving rave reviews on the Money Saving Expert website: Fanny's Do-It-Yourself classic 'bee sting' lips are better and cheaper than Botox.   Instructions: If you live in a city, go for a drive into the country [somewhere nice like Buckinghamshire, not somewhere chavvy like Essex] and find yourself an old country hice, the sort of place that looks posh; break in to the grounds and find the beehives.  You can annoy the bees by kicking the hive and then opening the lid and plunge your face fully into the beehive and count to 90.  Result: beautiful, kissable, all-natural Marilyn Monroe lips that only cost the price of half a tank of petrol!

Season of mists and mellow fruitiness

I absolutely adore this time of year: the spectacle of falling, golden leaves; icicles forming pretty patterns; the bleak cry of the raven;  the promise of darkness at 4pm and with it, the chance to partake in the curious English past-times of dogging, cruising and cottaging before going home to tea. 

It is titillating to throw off my mink coat and, without a care in the world, to skip through the deep carpets of autumn leaves wearing only Italian black silk lingerie, stay-up sheer nylon stockings and 12-inch black sluts' heels.   I stop to pick wild berries and collect mushrooms in a basket. 





Imagine my horror when I arrived at my favourite layby/woodland only to find this sign had been put up by the local constabulary.

What kill-joys!  How dare they spoil our fun.

 I rushed home and immediately pressed a few buttons on that Photoshop thing-a-majiggy and produced this wonderful poster.

Keep Calm and Cruise For Sex! by Fanny Love

Fanny vehemently supports with all her heart the practice of cruising, dogging and cottaging. Share the love!  Feel free to print off this poster and place it in a prominent position at your favourite local public toilet / park / woodland / layby. 

Meanwhile, sit back with your warm cup of cocoa and enjoy these photos of others out cruising, cottaging and dogging:

Dogging, cruising and cottaging:
a delightful, wholesome British past-time, celebrated and practiced by generations of Britons.

Along came Belladonna, the Maid

It has been a while since I wrote here, dear Reader. 

The dregs of summer finally fizzled out like too much cheap champagne; the highlight of that time was the ejection from a fourth floor window of my hand-servant, Maude, for the offence of insubordination - she refused to clean my gold-plated bathroom suite with a toothbrush.  Some people say that unruly servants should be 'sacked' or 'fired'; I say that a firing squad is too good for them and to instead throw them out of the top window, naked if possible, as the final act of showing them who is boss.  

I couldn't really be bothered with all the malarkey involved in hiring new staff, interviewing etc, so I left the job to my trusty personal assistant with the instructions to employ someone suitable, someone who knows how to make a cup of tea and clean the bogs, someone who can make beds with their eyes closed, and pour a half-decent dry martini or Crème de Menthe Frappé whilst doing the hoovering.

Needless to say I was incandescent with rage to discover that this ... this woman turned up for work this morning.  Her name, apparently, is Belladonna Zlatogrivov, a hoarse-voiced Russian with a huge beehive of jet-black hair and thighs like tree-trunks.  She has a penchant for wearing spectacles with chains and gold lamé boob-tubes.   She carries a can of fly-spray in her red fake Barbarella handbag, no doubt not understanding enough English to know that it's not deodorant.  That would explain the peculiar smell whenever she thuds into the room.

Putting on my pink, crystal lorgnette reading glasses (if you don't know what a lorgnette is, it is a pair of spectacles with a handle, used to hold them in place, rather than fitting over the ears) I look a quick squint at the woman's C.V. or curriculum vitae.  This is what I found:

Disgusting.  Quite how my personal assistant had hired a woman who lists her hobbies as "eating Fray Bentos pies", "doing the shot-put" and having an "amazing collection of Anal Beads" is beyond me.  And as for that Polaroid shot, well!  Hardly showing her 'best' side is she!   My personal assistant clearly must have had an acute psychotic episode to have entertained employing this cirque du freak.  Now this abomination of a woman was in my household and a member of staff!

The only personal item she arrived with, other than her suitcase, was an orange 1970s Space Hopper; no doubt, her only friend.

Belladonna apparently means in Latin 'beautiful woman'.  The woman is already breaching the Trade Misdescriptions Act by using that name.  She has all the charm of a drain-pipe.  She belches in a very manly way.

How to get rid of her?   

"Send that bitch out on this morning's hunt" I barked, "I don't want her near my ormolu clock.  She's not a maid.  I don't even want her in the house.  Give her sleeping quarters in the stable-block where she belongs with sawdust as a bed".


Some hours later, I was advised by the hunt-master that all the hunting dogs (mostly spaniels) had run off (no doubt scared off by Belladonna's arrival) but that Belladonna had single-handedly brought down several pheasants, chased a fox out of its hole and cornered, fought with, and brought down a vicious, wild boar.  Maybe she has a use for me after all!