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!'.

From Russia with love?

No, it's not Skegness.

Postman Pat delivered this postcard this morning, from Belladonna.  It seems that her hot air balloon was not blown out of the sky over the Bay of Biscay by the French Air Force (*weeps uncontrollably at this news*), but she made it back to her homeland.  What a delightful little place Norilsk is, reminds me of Wales.  

Good riddance to Belladonna, that's what I say.  Let the Russians have her.

A reader asks: why did Belladonna have to go?

A reader emailed to ask precisely why I got rid of Belladonna.   Have you not been reading the blog, my dear?  Belladonna was a stark-raving lunatic.  And she was Russian!  If that's not enough, a few weeks ago before she was finally ejected from the premises and began living rough on the village green, Belladonna was politely told to clean the bathroom until she could see her great ugly face reflected in the glistening porcelain; I have impeccable cleaning standards and it's not an altogether unusual request, you might think, for a live-in maid to perform such a task.  Here are the pictures of Belladonna "cleaning the bathroom", just to prove to the world her lunacy.

It was at this point that Belladonna cast off her pink maid's pinafore, threw down her feather duster and completely snapped.  It was like a small bomb going off.

Finding the bathroom door locked, Belladonna decided to break it down, with an axe taken from the wood shed.

 

In no time at all, she had turned most of the bathroom door into matchsticks with the axe.  She then put her face through the gaping hole and shrieked like a banshee "Heeere's Bella!".

When one is powdering one's nose, it is the most inconvenient moment for an axe attack.

 

I dunno.... I do blame those high energy drinks, like Red Bull, that she's been consuming in vast quantities for her disturbed behaviour.


After I escaped from Belladonna's axe-wielding clutches through the bathroom window via a little game of kiss-chase through the hedge maze, I found that she'd been writing her autobiography on the old typewriter in her servants' quarters.  What a strange piece of writing it turned out to be.

That night, after barricading myself into my room for fear of further attacks from my mentally-deranged maid, I had the most terrifying nightmare of my life, in which Belladonna in her younger years appeared as twins holding hands. I woke up screaming the house down.

I hope, dear Reader, I've made it obvious why Belladonna the Maid had to go!  I am hoping to hire a new maid and I've placed an ad in Horse & Hound Magazine.  It would be wonderful to find a reliable girl, a shining example such as MitziClutterfromtheGutter's Carmen, who is, apparently, a domestic goddess.

Belladonna, unhinged.  Also known as The Mad-Axe Woman of Vladivostok.

Up, up and away

Enough's enough.  Today was the final camel that broke the straw's back:  former Russian champion shot-putter and failed household maid, Belladonna Zlatogrivov was seen cavorting naked outside the village pub with a stuffed parrot on her shoulder, singing filthy sailors' songs all afternoon at the top of her voice (she even makes Bjork sound vaguely musical).  Belladonna had to go, and had to go today.... but how?  How was I to get rid of this monstrous fly in the ointment?  I put my purple knitted thinking cap on and hatched a cunning plan: knowing Belladonna had a penchant for getting as drunk as a skunk and was also probably half-starved, I laid out a treasure trail of Russian vodka, creme eggs, chocolate eclairs, Wagon Wheels, packets of Tunnock's tea cakes, endless Bounty and Wispa chocolate bars, Twix and Snickers, lining the path all the way from Belladonna's Blowjob Tent on the village green to the spot where I wanted her.

After the trap was set, shockingly, I saw Belladonna on the ground like a pig sniffing after a truffle, as she gulped down Crunchies and creme eggs and glugged vodka like there was no tomorrow; she moved at alarming speed, leaving in her wake empty wrappers and a disarray of finished bottles.  The tranquility of that afternoon was broken by pestilential bouts of flatulence and belches as cacophonous as those of an Amazonian bullfrog.   With no small amount of glee, I found her some time later, at the end of the treasure trail, fast asleep in the little wicker basket attached to the hot air balloon, stolen that afternoon from a garden centre near Milton Keynes by none other than moi.  I lit the burners and tied a brick to the propane release cord, watching excitedly as the balloon inflated and the whole thing lifted into the air.  

 

As the sun began to set over Brill, the hot air balloon rose high into the sky and drifted on the strong wind in the general direction of France.  Quite a difficult job painting farewell messages on the both sides of the balloon, but well worth the effect!

Goodbye, Belladonna.  Farewell and good luck to all who sail in her. 

Update on Belladonna

Since leaving my employ (forcibly, by the ejector seat), Belladonna my ex-maid, is still living out rough on the village green.  She's also now making the headlines, thanks to a bit of naughtiness on my part (I bribed a newspaper editor).

Meanwhile, I have been plaguing the local council with phone calls and letters, re-citing the common byelaw that any dog seen without its owner on public land is deemed a stray, and that Belladonna should be rounded up by the dog warden, for her own protection.  But they have, to date, failed to act, no doubt due to the fact they haven't got a van big enough to transport her in.   

"I dunno, Fanny", I chortle to myself over a soothing cuppa of basking-shark tea, "Reliable live-in staff are as rare as hens' teeth, aren't they?".  

"Yes, they are, Fanny" I reply, solemnly, putting the cup down.

Terrifying nightmare

Just woke up screaming the house down after having a nightmare about my Russian ex-maid, Belladonna, who is living rough on the village green.  I dreamt she was stuck inside an old television and then, as the nightmare unfolded, she slithered out of the tv, like a scene from The Ring, and tried to eat me alive.

 

The turning of the shrew

My pooches - Brenda, the stiletto-loving Doberman Pinscher and Mr Puffywuffycutesweetgummywummygumdrop, the dyed poodle - love watching television, and they're in awe when Superstar Dogs comes on.  In case you live in a remote part of Britain which hasn't yet been connected to the television network (such as Peterborough), Superstar Dogs is presented by the ever-so-dishy John Barrowman, in which dogs jump through hoops, dive into pools and are cannonballed across a football pitch.  Fanny heard on the showbiz grapevine that Cheryl Cole was asked to present the programme, but it didn't prove popular as viewers couldn't tell the difference between the presenter and the contestants!

As you can see from this photo, as Superstar Dogs reached its climax, both dogs began barking at fever pitch.  I couldn't understand what was wrong (Mr P tends to start licking the tv screen at the very sight of John Barrowman, as indeed do I).   As Brenda jumped up on the table and began growling, my blood froze.    Outside in the garden, staring hungrily in through the window was a ghastly spectre dressed in her usual slovenly attire of a 1980s Wonderwoman outfit.... it was, of course, Belladonna, my dangerously psychotic, Russian ex-maid, who, since her expulsion from my employ, has been living rough behind the bins on the village green.

I reached for an Uzi sawn-off shotgun (which I keep stashed in my bedsit cabinet, in case of opportunistic burglaries or visits from the Jehovah's Witnesses) and chased Belladonna out of the grounds back to where she was sleeping rough, firing a few rounds randomly into the air.  I discovered that the once-respectable village green has been turned into a rubbish tip.  Just look at the state of the place: 

*click to enlarge*: Belladonna is living in a yellow skip, and around it, a disgusting paraphernalia of half-eaten pizza, empty beer cans, a gargantuan pile of Quality Street wrappers (I read on Belladonna's previous employment report she once tried to commit suicide by consuming three tins of Quality Street in one sitting), as well as a filthy, stained mattress, five inflatable sex dolls, four tubes of KY jelly and Vaseline, three dildoes (one was 20 inches in length and double-pronged) and a foot-pump. 

To my horror, Belladonna was also holding this handwritten sign, visible to all passing traffic.

In a terrible flap, I screamed at the top of my voice, ran home, poured myself a triple strength gin-n-tonic, gobbled down some Xanax, Prozac, Lithium and Valium, snorted some Poppers, and then grabbed and began necking a bottle of whiskey.  My social standing amongst the villagers was now in tatters, thanks to Belladonna.   What was I to do?

Arson aboard the 23.52 service to London

Down in the kitchens, I was just about to stuff a turkey with a Terry's Chocolate Orange when the news came on the television.   Normally I don't watch TV whilst cooking, but it does make a nice background noise.   I froze in horror at the images being shown on screen ... all on live television, screened to millions across the nation!    (*Turn your volume up*)

Just watch this news report: 
 

Who'd have thought it?  Belladonna, the fire-starter!  

I am outraged that the BBC News mistakenly put a photograph of an elderly woman wearing a Burqa to represent me.  My publicist would have sent them one of my glamour-modelling shots, but no they put up a picture of someone who is not even me.  No doubt done on purpose! They shall be hearing from my lawyer!

Belladonna Bitchhole has brought my household into unforgivable and serious disrepute.  I really must get rid of her now.   Apparently, she's been released on police bail.  I shall have to booby-trap the drive so she can't even get near the house...

Why I bought 12 truckloads of spray

 

I'm at my wit's end as to what to do about my maid, Belladonna (known by her pet-name, Belladonna Bitchhole).  This morning I went to Pets R Us - a shop run by poodles, for poodles - and purchased 12 truckloads of this delightful spray.  When I got home and found Belladonna, I sprayed a whole can in her face, the way police officers spray mace on Police Camera Action (my second favourite TV programme, after The Wombles).  She's now weeping in the coal-shed, much sub-dued.

Christmas tantrums from Belladonna

In a moment of sheer vodka-induced boredom, Fanny created this lovely, Belladonna-themed snow-globe.  A little plasticine model of Belladonna, horrifyingly realistic, was placed inside the globe, itself a forgotten Christmas present from 1981.  I've emailed Toys R Us to see if they're interested in the design.  

Meanwhile, Belladonna has been whining like a spoilt brat today, demanding her Christmas gifts.  I found her standing on top of my Louis Quatorze piano, stamping her feet on the lid in a little rage.   As my least favourite member of staff, I've tried countless times to terminate her from my household, with little success.   Knowing that I'd be shackled with her over the Christmas period, I spent Christmas Eve wrapping up a few 'special', unforgettable gifts for her, especially hand-picked, to show her just who is boss.

My first gift to my lovely, very beautiful maid was a set of Sea Urchin Earrings.  She looked a little miffed when she tore open the Christmas wrapping paper like a rabid dog.  She just sat there, expressionless. Ungrateful wench!

The second present I thrust into her grubby little hands was this.

That's right.  It's an electric eel.  A thoughtful and heartfelt gift to a much-loved maid.  I even wrapped it in a sheet of tinfoil.  She's in a sulk now.  I can't think why!

Silence is golden

This is my maid.   Her name is Belladonna Zlatogrivov.  She has a fetish for Wonder Woman-themed garments, mostly lycra that is obscenely revealing of her tree-trunk sized thighs.  She chews liquorice.  She eats brussel sprout sandwiches.  Her favourite hobbies are doing the shot-put and naked oil wrestling.  Her training at the Vladvistok School of Domesticity didn't even get as far as "how to make a cup of tea".  

She is utterly without point.  No matter how many times I've tried to get rid of the woman, she keeps coming back to me.   She is a literal white elephant, costing me a fortune in her fees yet being completely useless and incompetent of even the simplest task.

Last night, after imbibing too much absinthe, I had the most lurid nightmare about Belladonna:

Yes, that's right, in a kaleidoscope of colour and song, Belladonna Zlatogrivov appeared to be walking along the Yellow Brick Road with Dorothy and others towards the Emerald City.  It was most disturbing.   I feel quite nauseous, woke in a terrible start, and have just consumed a whole packet of Xanax and Prozac.

This morning, as if by some queer design, Belladonna came into the sitting room with my breakfast which she had "murdered": some rock-hard boiled eggs; a greasy flute of champagne; some smoked-salmon garnished with a sprig of lavender.   Yes, that's right smoked salmon and lavender go together like lesbians and kittens.   Anyway, at that point, she accidentally (on purpose) tripped on the rug and threw the whole breakfast tray into my lap.

Outraged at her insubordination, it dawned on me that there was one way - and one way only - of discipling this unruly waif.

That's right: silence is golden... duct tape is silver.  And Fanny is very nifty with a pair of scissors.  Here's the result:

All trussed up with no-where to go: Belladonna hasn't let out a squeak.  An unnatural silence has descended on the house.

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!