The end of Basil

It's been all over the newspapers: Basil, my maid, has been handed a 6-month jail sentence for trying to defraud the lottery, following my instructions for her to sellotape two tickets together and go and collect the £33m winnings.

Upon reading this desperately sad news, I sat in my Sewing Room and momentarily shed a tear in her memory.   The tear had not even rolled down my cheek before I was out the door like a whippet and off to Tesco Express to buy six bottles of champagne.   I got completely twatted.   

A letter arrived - postmarked Wormwood Scrubbs - from Basil, asking me desperately to get her a lawyer to get her off the charges.

Basil writes that her first week in prison has been very tough, she has had to eat mouse-droppings for breakfast, wear a scratchy blue prison outfit, and has been asked to pick the soap off the shower floor on a number of occasions by a big lesbian calling herself Billy-Jo.  I might've known that Basil would write to me with her tail between her legs.

In such an inebriated state, I gave Basil the necessary compassion she deserves and tossed her letter on the fire without so much as another thought.  Now, it was necessary to think about my dire domestic situation.   It's a bone of contention that one cannot ignore: a lady cannot be a lady without a maid.  So I went online and hired the first live-in maid I could find.  Couldn't find much quality, but did manage to hire a general dogsbody.  Still nursing a hangover, I was in bed sipping some sherry, when the new maid started.  I heard Juan welcome her into the house.   The maid's name is Trixie.  Hopefully she's a lot better than my past maids, Belladonna and Basil.  I haven't got my spectacles on at the moment but here is her photo:

How Basil won £33m on the lottery

A bizarre premonition/hallucination came into my head this morning : my no-good maid, Basil, with her... er.... winning lottery ticket.

The English tabloids have pounced on the story of tragic, gran-of-four Susanne Hinte, from Worcester, whose £2 lottery ticket accidentally went through a complete washing machine cycle, only for her to later discover that the ticket matched all 6 numbers and she was the probable winner of £33 million.   Unfortunately, the ticket came out from the wash less than shipshape fashion and her claim is being fiercely debated in many circles.  As I was eating fish 'n' chips the other night, I read about Susanne Hinte's sorry story beneath the leftover cod bones and vinegary newspaper wrappings in my lap.  Police have warned that people attempting to defraud the lottery will be arrested and jailed.   Basil, my maid, has been transfixed to the TV news since, and keeps asking how she can possibly win the lottery and she then listed the 101 things she would do with the money (Number 1: Buy a House in Basildon, Number 2: Get the World's Biggest Boob Job).

Susanne Hinte's lottery ticket (above) went through a boil wash

but she claims she is still entitled to £33 million.

Fanny, as you may have read on a toilet wall, loves to play the lottery and has a thing about coloured balls.   Yes, my latest collection of multi-coloured sponge anal beads is actually numbered 1 to 59 and these small, comfortable balls have been known to pop out of their resting places at the most inopportune moments.  The surfacing of an anal bead - or even two at the same moment - even during a dinner date or an evening of fine opera, is a great way to pick lottery numbers!  Although it does give me a bout of indigestion.

Lovely squidgy anal beads, all carefully numbered.  When they randomly pop out from my crack it makes for a great way to chose lottery numbers.

 



Guess what? 

I just won £33 million.  What an amazing coincidence!  How did my numbers come up?  Well, it's a little trick I learnt as a child in the boring 1980s, watching Blue Peter.  

You're going to need some scissors, some sticky-back plastic (in other words, sellotape) and a little bit of patience.  Carefully, note down the six winning lottery numbers, and then, retain your old lottery ticket which didn't win jack-shit.  Then, go out and buy a new lottery ticket, using last night's six winning numbers.  Back at home, using the scissors, cut off the bottom half of the new lottery ticket, showing all six winning lottery numbers, and using the sticky-back plastic/sellotape, carefully sellotape the old ticket's date and time on top of the new ticket, making one new ticket.  There you are!  You now have a winning ticket.  As Blue Peter used to say, "here's one I made earlier".

As it turns out, I sent my maid of work, Basil, out to Lottery Headquarters with the (*sniggers out loud, uncontrollably*) winning ticket.  It was the least I could do in exchange for the lovely runny boiled egg breakfast she served me this morning, which, in other words, was a recipe of salmonella.  Basil's pudgy, unmanicured fingers snatched the sellotaped lottery ticket from my hand like a half-starved peasant and she was off at the speed of a greyhound after a hare.

"I can taste it now, Fanny" she chortled as she went out the door, "all that lovely fizzy champagne they give you when you win gushing down my throat.  I'm going to buy a Ferrari.  Thank you so much for allowing me to go and collect the money on your behalf".

Basil's transformation

My heartfelt apologies to all my readers for my protracted absence from the blogosphere: the reason, in all its shocking detail, is as follows.

Firstly, my LA agent phoned me, offering me the lead role in a new blockbuster.  She was very mysterious about the details, but being the fame-whore that I am, I accepted without knowing any more.  More fool me!

Imagine my horror when I arrived on set, in downtown L.A., to discover the name of the film was "Lesbians who Lunch".  I was straight back on the flight to London with a swish of my skirts!

I've been knocked up in bed, diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and I have been popping prescription pills like Smarties.

Whilst recovering in my Buckinghamshire mansion, in an attempt to improve the appearance and deportment of my serving staff, I sent my maid, Basil, to a beauty clinic.  I'm tired of her belching like a Brazilian bullfrog in front of Lords and Ladies.  Basil was sent to He2She Transformations, of Watford.  Here are some Before and After photographs of her delicate transformation.

         BEFORE                                                                                   AFTER


It seems the Blueberry Face Mask caused an allergic reaction!
 

Never take your Maid on holiday!

This little chapter provides a stark warning why you should never take your maid on holiday with you.   No matter how much money you've spent lobotomizing the Maid, trying to tame her wild mood-swings by lacing her tea with Xanax or Valium, or teaching her deportment lessons, it's just an entirely fruitless exercise.

You see, I've been in sunny Portugal for the past three weeks and foolishly I brought Basil, the Maid, along for the trip. 

Basil dyed her hair blonde for the trip.  Basil likes the sun, she is one of those lucky British citizens who is as pale as a sheet of paper and because of this, she does not bother with suntan lotion, finds it insulting to her sensibilities to protect herself from the mega-watt sun and a painful death due to malignant melanoma.  Her lily-white skin instead turns an unearthly shade of lobster in just a few hours and she stares at herself in the mirror like some delusional Helen of Troy.  At the same moment, Basil enjoys drinking Red Bull.  Her fingers are so pudgy she cannot operate the mechanism for opening the drinks can, instead she just bites the metal off and spits it on the sand.  The other day I witnessed her opening an oyster by placing it between her legs and squeezing.   Clearly, she is a girl of multifarious talents.

 Basil, in her quick-dry St Tropez micro-bikini

To get to the point of this story, I was wallowing in the water off the beach near Troia and I realised something had inexplicably changed about the sea view.  I had never noticed islands off this coastline, yet there they were.   Two of them, about thirty metres away.

As I returned to the beach, I see Basil laughing, her whole bulk quivering like a mountain of lard in her gigantic red bathing suit.   

"I pooped in the sea" she bawled.

"You disgusting bitch!" I called back.

Tomorrow, I am planning revenge on her.    It will be short, painful and sweet.  Bringing her along on this trip has been like a re-enactment of The Taming of The Shrew.

Terrifying hallucination

After a night of whiskey chasers, fishbowls of rum punch and vodka slammers, I woke this morning, took a 2-hour bath in asses' milk and was just about to powder my nose in the ornate, gem-encrusted Louis Quatorze hand-mirror when I saw this terrifying vision.  Not my face reflected in the mirror, but the ugly face of my uncouth maid, Basil.  This was so disturbing I had to take an ice-bath and lay down in a darkened room for 3 hours.  The sound of my vomiting was like a lorryload of coal being delivered.  I've never had an hallucination in my life, before now, and I frequently pop Valium like they're a tube of Smarties, and follow it up by marijuana marmite on toast for breakfast.

Basil's new apron

Hello, good evening and welcome back.

My maid-of-no-work, Basil, has incensed me even further by appearing at a charity function wearing her new white apron.

Here she is.  Doesn't she look the clown?   I have already written to my local MP to ask that they reinstate the 1845 Lunacy Act and County Asylums Act, permitting electroconvulsive therapy and lobotomy.  They can use my maid as a guinea pig!   Once you realise your maid's role is court jester, you accept it... with a caveat... and that caveat is to use a cat o'nine tails to discipline the wench.

Asifa Lahore

This Asian beauty is Asifa Lahore, the United Kingdom's first Muslim drag queen.   My lunatic maid, Basil, was screwing around with the television remote control yesterday, flicking the channel over from The Wombles to Judge Judy and back to Sun, Sea and Pissed-Up Brits.  I thwacked her around the head with a rolled-up newspaper, and that must have dislodged some dust and mothballs from her tiny grey brain, because Basil the maid quietly turned the channel back to BBC1 before sitting heavily down with all the grace of an East End builder onto an antique Windsor Carver chair, crushing the thing to matchsticks. 

At that very moment - in stark contrast to Basil's strikingly humdrum resemblance to Thora Hird (minus the tattoos, of course) - the gorgeous Asifa Lahore appeared on the TV screen like a whirling dervish, and all thoughts of sadistically punishing the maid went out the window for a few moments as I was seduced by a world of burqa-clad, Bollywood hanky-panky.

Listen to this wonderful song: Punjabi Girl by Asifa... I was literally glued to the TV screen for the remaining few minutes..... put on your best glittery stilettos and get ready to boogie!

 "I'm a glamorous queen in Versace

Make me cook, make me clean

Asian men are so mean

You want me as your wife

And you play on the scene"

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!".

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.

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.