Naked roller-skating round the banquet hall to Ryan Star

Such a warm heart: this heartfelt Post-It note was left on the
bathroom scales by someone in my household after my recent shock discovery.

After two rambunctious weeks of Christmas over-indulgence and over-imbibance, I jumped on the bathroom scales to find that I'd put on a hell of a lot of weight.  Much to my horror, an ounce in weight!  One ounce!  

It must have been the slice of Ryvita smothered with raw oysters that did it.  Or was it the extra chipolata I stole from the fridge at 3am?

 One of Fanny's favourite snacks: Ryvita with raw oysters.  

But was it this deadly snack that caused me to gain so much weight?

That's the fundamental flaw in Christmas isn't it... one over-indulges and ends up putting on so much weight, it's necessary to be carted around in a wheel-barrow for the months of January and February.

You will know that I'm soon to depart on my Grand 180-Days Around The World vacation, so it's imperative I have a bikini body to show off to all the paparazzi.

Rather than go to a bikini boot-camp in this treacherous weather, I placed an advert in the post office window in Brill:

 
The door-bell has been ringing non-stop since the advert went up. I've interviewed about ten different applicants: one was a 69-year old farmer with no experience whatsoever; another was a psychiatric patient on the run who kept asking when his UFO would be landing to take him to Uranus.    In the end, after much interviewing, I've decided to appoint a 23-year old fitness coach called Josh.  He's from Buckingham.  Here is his picture:

A sight for sore eyes and bruised thighs: Josh, my personal trainer, all oiled up with Sainsbury's Italian Olive Oil during my recent 6-hour interview with him.

 

Today, Josh has started me on a programme of intensive physical exercise, called the F Plan, including a diet of boiled cauliflower for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  He's also forbade me from drinking any alcohol what so ever - so no Stoli, no Creme de menthe frappé and definitely no Long Slow Comfortable Screws Up Against The Wall!  

I've taken up ballet and roller-skating instead of supping cocktails.   I'm practicing ballet manoeuvres and rollerskating around the banquet hall completely stark naked.  The original 1930s parquet flooring is ideal for skating on.  Here's a pic:

 

I've also gone to the added expense of having a state-of-the-art entertainment system installed so I can listen to music absolutely anywhere in the house whilst I'm working out.   

I've just heard Breathe by Ryan Star whilst reaching speeds of over 25 miles per hour on my Santa Barbara V290 skates.  I think I wrote about Ryan Star before: he's one of my favourite male vocalists ever, a true New Yorker and a hunk too.  No-one has heard of him here in Europe.  If you're in England, Ryan, call me!

Have a listen to one of his best songs:
 

Ryan Star - Breathe (from the Rachel Ray Show)
 

What are YOU listening to right now?  And how is your Weight Loss regime going?   Tell Fanny your favourite songs using the Comments box below, and I'll give them a whirl at my next workout.  I might even do a feature about them... just no Lady Gaga, please as I don't want to have my hearing damaged by the sound of caterwauling! x

Kinky wrapping paper

Imagine my delight on Christmas morning when I sprang out of bed at 3am, rushed downstairs like a little girl and found that Father Christmas had come down the chimney and left a plethora of presents under the tree.  I was so mesmerised by this extraordinarily-good gift wrapping paper - showing scenes of debauched, sadomasochistic revelry - for a moment I was reluctant to open the gifts.

Happy Christmas!

Fanny xxx

Deck the halls with boughs of holly....

This is the scene this morning inside my banquet hall at Raffles, my country retreat set deep in the Buckinghamshire countryside.  We're preparing for an unforgettable Christmas party, consisting of a divine menu served by staff dressed as Oompa Loompas.  I'll post more shortly...

Gifts left during the Summer Fête

A splendid time was had by all attending my Summer Fête on Saturday: at one point, guests were swinging from the chandelier in the main Hall, as shown above.

A short preview of my upcoming film was broadcast on a 40 metre-long cinema screen erected in the grounds, details of which I will be announcing via this blog shortly.  

In the meantime, I've been going through the Gift Tent with Juan, to see what my guests left as a present to me.  Gifting was compulsory.  My guest wishlist had previously been posted on my website: antiques, fine wines, classic cars and also an extensive entertainment wishlist from Amazon. 

Some of the presents were very nice, including a Ming vase; an Ormolu clock left by a Scottish baroness; various bits of artwork; however, some of the presents have left me with a taste of bile in my mouth:

When I published my extensive wishlist of Amazon.com music products , I never expected to be left this disgusting object. Apparently, a pufferfish from Brazil, it's been lovingly stuffed and was left on a silver platter in the Gift Tent.  What should I do with it?  Maybe I should attach a chain to it and wear it as an earring?

A case full of dentures? An outrageous and obscene donation. The person who left this should be flogged at dawn.

And a Greek Drachma note, completely worthless when Greece replaced it with the Euro currency in 1992. (And look where that got them.)

This is apparently a Hoover vacuum cleaner from the 1970s. Never used one or even seen this type of appliance. Wasn't on my Gift Wishlist so it's been thrown into the lake. Quite why anyone would leave such an item as a gift is beyond me.  I can honestly say two things: I've never used a vacuum cleaner in my life.  I've also never gotten on a bus before.  I don't even know what one is. 

This is a hedgehog hairbrush. Imitation, of course, but I still find it revolting as I love hedgehogs. Hedgehogs were not put on this earth to be made stiff and glued to a handle and spend the rest of their days combing people's hair!

 

The good news, however, is that everyone attending the event was asked to dig deeply for my collection of chosen charities, several HIV/AIDS organisations.  At the end of the event, we collected over £38,000 which will all go to great causes. 

The Devil is in the Detail

The proverb "the Devil is in the Detail" is my favourite.  In high social circles, one can be harshly judged on small, precise, trifling details. 
 
So much so, I've taken a keen interest in the arrangements for today's VIP Summer Fête on the lawns of my country estate, Raffles, casting my eye even on the smallest decisions, such as which brand of silverware to lay out ("Christofle, of course, darling"), which wines to serve ("Châteauneuf-du-Pape is for French peasants.  Bring on the 2002 Romanee-Conti [priced at a mere £12,250 per bottle], buy the whole wine cellar if you have to, you passive, bitchy, old fem").  


Much to my horror, I'd discovered early on that Cook had been abusing the liquour cabinet, literally drinking my cellar dry of gin.  How did I know?  She started wearing the following garment.

 And her reading material was a clear sign of her unbalanced mind:

She's not been the same since her trip to the Far East.  She spent three weeks on a secluded island in Thailand before flying to Vietnam and then mainland China.  It seems to have turned her mind.  For example, she'd been planning to serve up a decidedly experimental hors d'oeuvre:

It's called Century Egg.   A Chinese duck or quail egg, preserved in a mixture of clay, ash, salt, lime and rice straw for several months, until the yolk becomes a dark green, gelatinous form with an odour of sulphur and ammonia.

Revolting.  Something no doubt the French would adore.

She should have added pig trotters, blood soup, warm scorpion mousse, roasted bat and deep-fried locust, whilst she was at it with her deviant ideas.   

Had she been allowed to serve Century Egg or any of the other abominations, my guests would have prayed for merciful death and my reputation for being the hostess with the mostest would have been in tatters.

She also spent a small fortune ordering in a gigantic ostrich egg so big it needed a tractor to transport it.  Quite what she planned to do with it is beyond me, clearly she was planning to feed the whole of the Home Counties with it.  It took three men to move it.  It's been rolled out of the front gate and is now sitting on the village green.

Even with known and celebrated British menus, she's been known to corrupt the most fool-proof recipes and serve up a dish bearing no resemblance whatsoever to its origin.  Once she flew off the handle and served what she called "a little Surprise pudding".  It was a plum pudding so tall and wide it required eight people to carry it in.  She'd gone for the alternative interpretation and added onions, garlic, tuna and artichokes, and then she'd laced it with every conceivable liquor available, not just stopping at rum, but also tequila, sambuca and absinthe.  

As a last considerate thought, she placed a couple of lit fireworks on the table beside it, just as she ignited the pudding. 

 

Damage caused to my banquet hall after Cook's diabolical Surprise Christmas Pudding, laced with enough alcohol to sink the Titanic and served with several lit fireworks. The whole thing exploded like a bomb going off, showering the Hall with millions of bits of molten suet and raisin, causing irrevocable structural damage - now you know why I moved to Buckinghamshire shortly afterwards. 

Sadly, Cook is now beginning psychiatric treatment at the nearest Secure Unit, and I've almost - thanks to Prozac and Xanax - moved on from her catastrophic culinary perversions.  The newly appointed Cook will be serving up classically English Beef Wellington: a square of filet steak coated with pâté de foie gras and duxelles, wrapped in puff pastry and baked, and served with truffles, mushrooms and Madeira wine.   And the only fireworks will be later in the evening, and set off outside.
 
I've had to hire new staff, since many of my original employees are still off sick with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder following the Exploding Pudding Incident.  

The new staff were handpicked by moi, with a particular theme in mind.  As it's a banquet, you might have expected to see very formally-dressed staff, which is common all over the country.  

However, I don't follow tradition.

The height of decadence: many high-class eateries and hotels in Britain dress their waiting staff in stiff, very formal costume, as pictured above. This 5-star eatery, in the heart of London's trendy Mayfair, is the hangout of many A-list celebs. Note the 'luxury hand wash' in the top right of this photo.

I'm not interested in the faded glamour of yesteryear waiters and maître d'hôtel; there won't be any tuxedos, bow ties or stiff upper lips.   My butlers and waiters will be wearing something simple, understated and unique, something that will be talked about for years to come:

 
That's right.  They'll just be wearing the above garment and nothing else.  Some of them don't speak a word of English, but they're not here to engage in conversation.  Here are 'the Boys':

 

Nothing beats the country life!

I'm going on a short bicycle ride around the countryside this afternoon.  It's all new to me, since I've only been living here for just under two months.  Here is a photograph taken of myself this morning, walking around my country house, Raffles.    

I purchased the Raffles Estate from my late, great Uncle Horatio some time ago.  It's a 17th century, grey-stoned manor, with an interesting past - it was once owned by Lady Pilkington-Jefferies, an outspoken artist, feared by many for her prickly ginger hair and outlandish dress style.  She adored the company of sailors and, legend has it, published many steamy stories of her voyages on the seven seas.  It is fitting that we share similiar interests.

Raffles has a walled garden and its own orchards, set on a hill just outside Brill, a farming village in northwest Buckinghamshire. 

Here is a view of the surrounding countryside.  It's the most idyllic and enchanting place, yet the sinful delights of London are only 50 minutes away by train.

A view across the pastoral landscape of rural Bucks, to a distant farm.

Internally, Raffles is full of grandfather clocks and grand staircases.  Most of all, I enjoy the library because it holds historic curios, glass cases full of preserved butterflies (Uncle Horatio was an interpid explorer and went deep into the Amazon with just a pith helmet and machete) and colonial artefacts.  On one of the walls is an original print, below, from the Elizabethan era.  

I find this picture particularly inspiring because it's exactly the way I like to cycle around the countryside.  Yes, that's right, if you're visiting northwest Buckinghamshire, you might glimpse Fanny on a vintage Penny-Farthing, usually just wearing lingerie, or sometimes, less than that!  It does help to break the ice when it comes to the rural English stiff upper-lip. 

I'm opening up my home to the village over the weekend, for a Summer Fête and also to celebrate the beginning of the production of my new film; here are some photographs of how the house and gardens have been decorated for the celebration.

 

The newly appointed staff are a damn sight better than the last ones in Wiltshire!  Look how well dusted this room is.

Where I do most of my writing in the day.

When I hold a celebration during the summer months, it's the height of decadence to string French, antique chandeliers from the trees; these are hanging everywhere around my garden, and will be perfectly complemented by a brass band I've organised.   It should be an unforgettable weekend.