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.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder after 'Cottaging' in Dorset

Many readers of my blog have been writing to me over the past 2 weeks to enquire what came of my trip to Dorset, and my plans to go cottaging.

I can disclose to you now that I have been knocked up in bed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder as a direct result of that ill-fated trip; a disorder that I hitherto knew nothing about, but which I understand is best treated with copious amounts of gin and vodka.

You will recall that I had planned a week long trip to Bournemouth, via several Dorset country towns, with the sole purpose of going cottaging, as I had heard that it's all the rage at the moment - George Michael has been at it, as have several MPs.

I had expected to see this type of thing, when I went cottaging:

Bournemouth Tourist Information were very surprised to hear that I wanted to go cottaging in their town, and they refused to return my calls.  At the time, I wondered why.   

It was my Transvestite Friend, Glora Girdle, who convinced me to go cottaging, and it is her I blame for luring me into it, without knowing myself exactly what it was.

As it was, she accompanied me on the journey down and decided to blind-fold me and lead me by the hand to the first Dorset cottage.  Imagine my shock-horror, when I pulled off the blind-fold and saw not a Thomas Hardy thatched cottage, but this:-

That's right, readers, Fanny had not fallen down a rabbit-hole and ended up in some strange world of singing animals, nor had she taken the wrong turning.    She had instead been tricked by her lack of knowledge of British customs.   'Cottaging' has nothing to do with bucolic, thatched 18th century houses, covered in roses and honeysuckle, set in quiet lanes filled only with the hum of bees.

Cottaging is a little-known British gay slang term referring to anonymous sex between elderly men in a public lavatory; the term has its roots in that many self-contained toilet blocks resemble cottages in their appearance, rather than the more commonly-used meaning elsewhere in the world of a small, cosy countryside home.

As I stood in this particular Victorian toilet (located half-way between Dorchester and Bournemouth), amidst the stench of poppers and urine-rusted urinals, I heard the lewd whisperings of a dirty old man beckoning me through a gloryhole that had been carved through a cubicle wall.  All I could see was a learing mouth, clearly an elderly man's, framed by the gloryhole, and nothing more.  'It' had on jewel-glitter lipstick.  For a moment, it pouted at me, and then spoke: "I like to have sex in coffins" it whispered.

As a sophisticated young socialite, I can now see that I was simple and naive to have trusted this trashy queen, Gloria Girdle, and her proposed 'classical Dorset cottaging' tour.  From now on, I shall be a prodigy of information on British slang, and what it means exactly, rather than relying on what it should mean.  Thank you, Gloria, for your treacherous, premeditated cunning, in luring Fanny into such a terrible experience.  

Gloria Girdle, you are nothing but a failed, delusional lounge singer, who was boo'ed off stage and now works for the minimum wage in Hannibal's Bookshop (a London establishment itself that should have been burnt down years ago).