New Year's Resolutions

An anonymous, handwritten note had been pushed under my door this morning.  It read: "Perhaps, as a New Year's Resolution, you could try being a bit politer to your maid". 
 

I think not!  A New Year’s resolution is something that goes in one year and out the other.  Wait a minute.. have I got that right?!!? Isn't it '...in one ear and out the other'? I'm not sure!  Frankly speaking, New Year's Eve is the only night of the year that one can get away with wearing body glitter without being mistaken for a stripper.

To break the monotony of the final hours of 2014, I went in for clay pigeon shooting today, a thoroughly enjoyable country pursuit in the English shires, second only to dogging, and especially rambunctious good fun after imbibing a half-dozen, triple-strength G&Ts.  But to my great dismay, I was completely out of clay pigeons, the little round devices that get fired upwards; instead, I grabbed a basket of stale bread rolls from the kitchen and loaded these into the clay pigeon launcher, as a substitute, and waited impatiently as the bread rolls were propelled into the sky, before triumphantly blasting them to pieces with my rifle, showering Basil the maid (who was busy, on my instructions, trimming the grand lawn with a tiny pair of nail-scissors) with millions of breadcrumbs. 

I chased Basil into the hedge maze with the rifle, and I believe, the gum-chewing bint is still trying to find her way out, armed only with a pink feather duster.  It may take some time. That shall teach her for the insubordination of her anonymous New Year's request.

With Basil hopelessly lost in the hedge maze, I went indoors to wash, powder my nose, and change into my special new dress, a creation by some New York fashionista whose name I forget.  Do you like it?  It's made from rare, pink-dyed, ostrich feathers from Mozambique.  I'm headed for London tonight with Juan, my Brazilian chauffeur and toyboy to paint the town pink at an exclusive club where all the A-list glitterati are on the guest list (no.. not that pretentious dump, The Ivy, from which I have been barred for life for the indiscretion of headbutting a waitress because she had the audacity to serve warm champagne).

As for New Year's Resolutions, here's my list:

1. Travel more

2. Shop more

3. Lose an ounce in weight 

4. Learn to play the harp

5. If the maid misbehaves, pick her up by her ears

6. Pray for world peace

7. Buy more jewellery

8. Launch my own fragrance

9. Be on the front cover of Tatler and Vogue 

10. May the Lord banish Belladonna as far from me as possible, such as the Moon or Jupiter or Mars.

10. Dear God, my prayer for 2015 is a FAT bank account and a THIN body.  Please don't mix it up like you did this year.

What are yours? 

A Happy and Gin-soaked New Year to all my Readers!  May 2015 be the best year ever!   Pass my glass, dear! x

Attack of the Killer Sprouts

After glugging down five glasses of absinthe with all the grace and charm of a Cockney chimney-sweep, my newly appointed maid, Basil, was set to work peeling brussel sprouts on Christmas Day; not just a handful of sprouts, but millions of the green buggers.  Something must have gone to her head because Basil soon began to report the sprouts were 'alive', that they had little angry faces, and were running around the kitchen.  No doubt, Basil's been out in the grounds consuming hallucinogenic mushrooms again (one of Belladonna's old tricks), either that or gargling Cillit Bang's Black Mould Limescale Remover to freshen up her fishy breath.

"Hurry up, dear" I called joyfully down the stairs, "Dinner is served at 7 sharp.  Only 290,000 more sprouts to go!".

Sexy Santa

I was out on the rooftops on Christmas Eve to fit a gigantic condom over my chimney to prevent a repetition of last year's drunken Yuletide shenanigans when a local farmer, aged 93, and dressed as Father Christmas, tried to cum down my chimney, uninvited.  He'd eaten so many mince pies he got stuck half way down and had to be sucked out by an industrial drain-unblocker.  Out he popped like a cork.

This year, I erected a sign on the rooftop stating my "Christmas visitation requirements": all Santa Clauses must be no older than 26 years of age and have a Body Mass Index of under 25.

At the stroke of midnight, there was a ferocious knock at the door and this Santa arrived, all glistening, oiled muscle.  Latvian, I think.  Doesn't speak a word of English, but I'm not complaining this time.

Happy Christmas to all readers of my blog, near and far.  Or as they say on the other side of the Pond: Happy Holidays.  May this Christmas be the best Christmas ever for you and your loved ones.

Have a listen to this great song, which is one of my Christmas favourites.   Good ole Bob.. he can still produce great songs!

Never fly cattle-class

Flying cattle-class is a form of sado-masochism, arising from acts involving the infliction or reception of pain or humiliation whilst seated in a cramped, metal tube travelling at 500 miles per hour, ignored for the large part by surly, fake-tanned ex-models [known by some as 'Glorified Waitress in the Sky', and by others as 'Hostitute' and 'Trolly Dolly']. 

Oh, and both toilets will be out of order for the entire 6-hour flight.  Most people pay for the privilege of travelling in this manner, although the sum paid is not very much, usually the cost of a second class postage stamp.  The purpose of such behaviour is usually to travel to a foreign destination, usually the underbelly of European resorts (Kavos!  Faliraki!  Sunny Beach!  Ayia Napa!  Canvey Island!).  

Once arrived, they lounge around on the beach all day with no sun lotion on, rapidly contract skin cancer, gorge daily on three cooked English breakfasts, drink copious amounts of vodka, gin, beer, rum and Red Bull (not separately, but mixed together) administered through a funnel-and-pipe known as a Headfucker, and proceed to pass out in one's own vomit, after having shagged a random bird/bloke/blow-up doll/pillowcase. 

I would never get caught out flying cattle-class.  And I would never holiday in the fleshpots of Europe.  No, I have a reputation to keep and I travel to quality destinations where I can enjoy exclusive, high-brow pursuits such as cultural tours, archaeology, wine tasting, fine dining, cock-sucking, visiting sex clubs and naturist beaches, looking for sex in the sand-dunes, cruising laybys and rampant dogging and cottaging. I'm at it like a rabbit!  (Edit: Whoops, maybe best delete that last lot.)

 

Thus, I have this little rubber-stamp which I put on all my travel documentation, to remind cabin crew that I have a sensitive disposition and am only medically allowed to travel in Superior Class and dine off fine bone china with silvery cutlery, despite only having purchased a cattle-class ticket for tuppence. I also like there to be a red carpet awaiting me at the arrival airport, and have been known to threaten airlines with legal action for breach of contract if this has not been forthcoming.

My stall at the W.I.

Being asked to hold a stall selling items at the Womens' Institute Winter Fair was a bit of a conundrum for me.  I couldn't be bothered spending hours making pickled gherkins or country jams or green tea or any of that malarkey.  Instead, I thought it was time to clean the attic out of things I had grown out of, and so here's how my stall looked.

West wing flooded

Here I am this morning, looking for the TV remote control.  Unfortunately, Basil, my new maid, had left a tap running and flooded the entire West wing.  I had to dive five metres underwater, holding my breathe, just to wind the Ormolu clock on the mantelpiece.

The woman has the brain of a cockroach.  Here she is, hours earlier, standing around singing and waving what appears to be a Lady Gaga toilet brush around in the air, unaware of the calamity she is about to cause.

Do you Squirt?

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How did I rid myself of Belladonna?

Revenge is a dish best served cold, some say.  In this little vignette of villainy, I prefer to serve it hot, which explains precisely why I purchased a first class Banana Airlines flight for Belladonna to travel from London to sunny Sydney, Australia.

  Banana Airlines, the Queen's favourite airline.  Flies daily to 19 different destinations via Lagos, Nigeria.

No, she's not joined the Australian Mile High Club, nor has Belladonna asked that her brain be donated to medical science to further research into the causes of hypo-manic schizophrenia, no.  She has instead been lured into thinking she's going on a well-deserved luxury 28-day holiday, staying in a room with an ocean view, with all the creature comforts.   Before she left, she packed a bikini the same size as the fabric of a hot air balloon.

Can you imagine Belladonna's shock when the sedative wore off and she awoke to find herself here?   A perspex tube full of stale seawater.  Well, it almost has an ocean view... and as for creature comforts...... well.... those critters can be friendly.   All I've got to say is 'farewell, Belladonna, enjoy Sydney!'.

A new maid

This is my new maid, the long-awaited replacement for Belladonna.  Her name is Basil.  No, that's not a typo, you heard me correctly: Basil.  Basil Wiggleswade.  She dresses like that all the time.

She speaks like a Cockney chimney-sweep.  I appointed her as cleaner and general dogsbody.  She hasn't got a clue, I think her brain has come unglued.  Yesterday, she tried to clean the toilet with the vacuum cleaner.

The bloody wench caused a mini-explosion.  I could throttle the woman, and it's only her first day.  When asked to do a simple task like make my morning cup of tea, she retorted that she didn't know how to.  Where did the agency get this woman from?  Mars?

 She's currently on her probation period and living in the luxury staff quarters, which is befitting of her role.

Basil's wages are 20 drachma a week, based on a 90 hour week.

Culinary extravaganza

In preparation for the Womens' Institute Bring N' Buy Winter Sale at the village hall, I've been cooking all day, rushing in and out of the scullery.  As a celebrated food authoress and award-winning cook, I'm always happiest in the kitchen, singing as I work "Nellie the Elephant Packed Her Trunk and Said Goodbye to the Circus..." at the top of my voice, gin bottle in hand.

After hours of toil and the clatter of utensils, I've just made: Christmas Swiss Roll; Fanny's Surprise Pasta Bowl; Reindeer Tomato Soup; Wild Truffle and Quail Egg Pizza; Traditional Winter Fruit Compote, Christmas Toffee Cake and Victoria Beckham Sponge Cake, among others.   Here are my culinary creations.  Aren't they the tastiest-looking creations fit for a king's feast?  All expertly made with love, care and tenderness. I conceived an affection to the ladies of the WI that would see me crowned the hostess with the mostest, a chatter of tongues and suddenly, I'm the most talked about cook extraordinaire for years, a legend in the making.  I can imagine the headlines of the Brill Gazette...  (*holds breathe and waits*)

 

 Swiss Roll

Wild Truffle and Quail Egg Pizza

Fanny's Surprise Pasta Bowl (in the making).   Glug... my word, that's a lethal whiskey chaser.  Alcohol.. a chef's best friend.

Tomato Soup

Victoria Beckham Sponge Cake (with a vanilla essence Bird's Eye Topping finish)

The recipe did say "bake on a high temperature".

Do you think the Winter Fruits compote is done yet?

 

The Christmas Toffee Cake didn't turn out quite right.

Would you mind asking the Womens' Institute to stick their head in the oven and lick the contents off the oven floor?  I can't seem to get the cake in one piece.  Shame!  Sure they won't mind! 

 

 Just a small selection of Fanny's exotic culinary creations

I hope Delia Schmidt, Gordon Rumsay, Hugh Fernleaf-Shittingstool, Dick Stein and James Boliver are reading this.  I followed your recipes exactingly.  This vodka-on-the-rocks is going down a treat...

Restless fingers and thumbs

Cross-stitch, basket-weaving, knitting, looming, embroidery and sewing... Fanny loves to busy her restless little fingers with Arts and Crafts.    With the arrival of winter, I dusted off my needlework kit and got all creative today, sewing sequins onto a pair of peach swimming trunks and glitter onto the side of vacuum cleaner bags, secreting itching powder berries (plucked from the garden) into lilac pillowcases, and sewing some glacé cherries onto a pair of worn-out slippers to sell for £100.   

The Womens' Institution - a sort of secret society who blow things up with explosives in the village hall - are having a Charity Fundraiser over the weekend, so I busied myself creating some bespoke handcrafted embroidery and sewn pieces to donate for their Winter Bring N' Buy Sale.  Here's one of my creations.  I'm dearly hoping it will grace some elderly ladies' living room wall.

  And here is another.  No! it's not a one-fingered glove.

Known as an "Old Compton Street-inspired 'cock warmer'".  Ideal for winter mornings, particularly if your name is Bob and you drive a milk-float.  I lovingly sewed some itching powder berries - or rosehips - into the end.

  
My poodle, Mr P, is moulting fur so badly, I've swept the floor and gathered up enough dog-hair to knit a cardigan.   Did you know I spent three of my formative years studying at the Doberman School of Fine Art in Düsseldorf?

Just as I was about to begin feather-stitching a French lace doily with glacé cherries, the doorbell rang and I flung the door open to find a furniture delivery man with a clipboard.  "Oh yes, that's right, I'd forgot" I murmured, "the new furniture... bring it all in".  On a whimsy, I had ordered a new collection of furniture from a daring Parisian designer.  My plans were to invite the Womens' Institution in for tea and rock-cakes and impress them with my taste in furnishings.   It took a while to assemble all the new furniture, but I do think it looks rather wonderful, don't you.  I hope they'll be impressed by it, seeing how they're all asexual.

The S&M Range - classy, simple, unique.  Ideal for showing off to prudes like the W.I.

Keep calm and carry on Trannying

How wonderful to see Austrian transvestite and Eurovision-winner, Conchita Wurst appear at the United Nations and boldly declare that sexuality doesn't matter and that we can all be happy, whether we're gay, transgendered or straight.   Both Juan and I adore Conchita --- she's a transgendered style icon and we love that she is paving the way to stamp out homophobia and transphobia, so we may all live in a more tolerant, happier world.

I have created some nice Keep Calm posters as a special salute to Conchita.  What do you think of my designs?

 

Feel free to download and print out any of these designs and stick them prominently on the noticeboard of your local Womens' Institute Hall, Jehovah's Witness headquarters, or Working Men's Club.

Halloween heatwave

So yesterday was the hottest Halloween in England since records began.  The mercury soared to 21.5c in some parts and the nation stripped down to bikinis and budgie-smugglers and headed for the nearest green space to soak up the balmy sun.  We were reminded by such high-class periodicals - like The Sun and the Daily Mail - that Britain was officially hotter than Athens, Istanbul and Rome.

Well, here's a stark warning against sunbathing in open spaces.   A resident of the nearby village of Brill learnt the lesson the hard way...

I spat coffee out of my nose

My morning coffee was going down a treat until my newly- appointed scullery-maid, Basil, accidentally on purpose left the packet of coffee on the table.  

The coffee cup was thrown against the wall and shattered into a thousand pieces.  A coffee called Minges?   "Since when have we been buying a coffee called Minges?" I bawled, "It's not right!  I'm not lesbian".
 
If you want some Minge in your cup, you can order it here.  Disgusting!  Be informed that the highly-authoritative Oxford English Dictionary defines Minge as a slang term for female genitalia, commonly used in the UK and Ireland.  It also states, a minge is:

1. "A particularly vulgar term for the haven that is sometimes shaven."; and 

2."All men come out of a minge on the first day of their Life and then they (nearly all) spend the rest of their lives trying to get back into one."

Trick or treat, bitch?

Happy Halloween to you!   Here I am trying to make a squid, brussel sprout and sweetcorn casserole, and just about to carve out my pumpkin into a ghoulish face, when someone rang the doorbell repeatedly, sounding like a naughty schoolboy trying to pull the bell off the wall.   I don't usually answer the door as I have a natural aversion to Jehovah's Witnesses and travelling double-glazing salesmen, but on this occasion, I was feeling more relaxed thanks to a doubleshot of absinthe.

Last year, trick-or-treaters spray-painted my car with graffiti; therefore, I went to the door armed with pumpkin-shaped white chocolates injected with powerful laxatives.  I flung open the door to see this terrifying vision.  "Oh my fucking God!  Belladonna! Have I gone mad?", I muttered.

"Trick or treat, bitch?" said the ghastly vision in front of me, every bit of it resembling Belladonna, my Russian ex-maid, in every excruciatingly hideous detail.  Months ago, she was last seen floating off into the summer sky on a hot air balloon.   "Get out, bitch!" I shouted and slammed the door ferociously in Belladonna's face and went to search for some silver and holy water.

Summer in Portugal

Upon waking from a horrifying, alcohol-induced hallucino-nightmare - in which I had fallen down a rabbit-hole, bumped into a talking rabbit with a pocket-watch, had tea with a table full of hatchet-wielding freaks all with Belladonna's face and escaped from the clutches of the Red Queen - Juan, my handsome Brazilian butler, revived me by sticking his lollipop in my mouth and then explained to me that he had taken me on the private jet to Portugal for a few months' holiday.

Apparently, I had been unconscious for a few days and muttering in my sleep.  Oh well, I did drink the entire drinks cabinet dry!  My liver is now earning a good, long rest under the Portuguese sun.

So we spent gorgeous afternoons on this wonderfully-wild beach on the Troia Peninsula, one hour south of Lisbon, the capital city of Portugal.  It is as gorgeous as it looks: crunchy, white sands; shallow ocean; backed by sand dunes and pine forests, with not a building in sight.

Forget the smelling salts!  My trusty Brazilian butler, Juan, knows too well that
I can be revived from the darkest of depressions by sucking a lollipop.  Must be the sugar.

During our trip to Portugal, we spent time visiting the local area, and one particular site that impressed us was the Romanticist Palácio Nacional da Pena on a hilltop; the palace has a profusion of architectual styles including Neo-Gothic, Neo-Manueline, Neo-Islamic and Neo-Renaissance. 

The eclectic, pastel- red, yellow, orange and ochre of the buildings reminded us of cake decorations, and was stunning in the intense light.  

Lisbon - the second oldest city in Europe, and spread across seven hillsides punctuated by numerous 'miradouros', or viewpoints - is a particularly fascinating city to visit.  The city lives in a Latin fairytale of time-worn manners and traditions, with wooden trams and iron funiculars thundering through its cobbled, almost-Dickensian streets.   Its old neighbourhoods are both gritty and glamorous.  You have the fashionable Baixa, the city's cheerfully decrepit 18th-century downtown, and Alfama, an eighth-century Moorish district and the home of fado, a lifting and haunting opera-style music sung by a lone diva in candle-lit restaurants.  Chiado is a fashion-lover's magnet, with plenty of top-brand clothing shops and great restaurants.

  Portugal’s pastel de nata is a melt-in-the-mouth buttery delight

And here's a shot of Juan, my gorgeous Brazilian butler taking a swim.

So the reason for my three-month absence from the blogosphere is our trip to beautiful Portugal.  I think I've fallen in love with Portugal.  It really is a perfect little country with everything you could want.