At the Ghetto Hotel

Here is a vintage piece of art, depicting Bournemouth in the 1930s; the town still has that timeless sense of style.  The foyer of Ghetto has this picture on the wall.

Ghetto is an exclusive hotel, with very unique furnishings.  From my bathroom, I can hear the murmur of the sea.  

Here are some pictures.

 This is the Presidential suite.  I love the fabrics and the view.

I love the Paul Smith-inspired carpet; I must ensure no muddy doggy paw-prints!

Here I am in the bedroom, wearing a honey-blonde wig and an Egyptian blue, pure silk cocktail dress

 A selection of designer cocktails awaiting me in my suite.

and designer chocolates, dipped in white and black chocolate.

Avoiding Ear Icicles on the Costa Geriatrica

Being of good stock with a strong constitution, Fanny never gets ill.  But this week I suffered the most atrociously English of all afflictions: an ear icicle.  I was only outdoors for half an hour, when a 6-inch icicle formed on my left lobule.  A cold blast from Siberia was headed this way, winds that would flail the shell off a turtle.  Having grown up in arid Texas, I'm not used to these cold spells.

I spent the rest of the afternoon wrapped up in bed, de-frosting my ear lobes on a hot water bottle, with the help of a muscled, tattoed Latino porn actor called Ricardo.  Several hours of gentle ear massage later, I felt marginally recovered.

Given the Arctic front, I'm planning a short trip away.  This time, a luxury trip, not to a Third World Country like Wales or Essex, but to a very pretty and exclusive part of England: Dorset.

More precisely, Bournemouth.   Do you know Bournemouth?

Delightful Dorset, better known as the Costa Geriatrica.
It reminds me of classical Enid Blyton summer days
enjoying the delights of lashings of ginger beer and rampant cottaging.

Here are some facts: Bournemouth is on the south coast of England; it has a population of 168,000, a Mediterranean climate and 7 miles of sun-kissed beaches; and it is the capital city of a wonderful stretch of coastline called the Costa Geriatrica, known for its ancient heritage and fossils. Whilst the Home Counties shiver in sub-zero temperatures, Dorset gets the full effect of the Gulf Stream, meaning it's positively sub-tropical. 
 
What's so lovely about posh, pretty Dorset is that it doesn't have any of the depraved slums or trailer-trash tackiness of other southeastern English seaside resorts like Brighton or Wolverhampton with their kiss-me-quick-fuck-me-slow hats, sleazy bingo halls, ugly shingle beaches and rows of squalid housing converted into Bail Hostels.  

Troublemaking Scum: these Brighton 'chavs' are responsible for
a 78% increase in anti-social behaviour and drugs-related crime in the town

I've never understood the fascination with Brighton (or London-by-the-Sea as many fashionistas call it); to me, it's so passé and an unforgivably ugly town, full of faded drag queens and 'fame whore-wannabes' (Lady Vagina has a council house on the Whitehawk Estate).


Brighton was made so beastly because it was bombed heavily by a group of lesbians called the Lufftwaffle in the 1800s, and was then re-built in a hurry using brutalist architecture in the hope that life would go on as if nothing had happened.

Many parts of Brighton have all the charm of the inside of a cement-mixer; the residents have all the manners of a psychotic pit-bull terrier.  An unhealthy percentage of the population of the town are named Chantelle, Bianca, Britney or Chardonnay.  The regional cuisine consists of Fray Bentos pies. A good night out consists of a brawl on the seafront and then sleeping it off in a police cell in a pool of your own vomit.

Plenty of middle-class English people flock to seaside resorts such as Brighton or Wolverhampton, in the hope of a good time, clearly delusional of the merits of such a trip in the first place.

The Lufftwaffle (pictured above) were a bunch of German militant
Lesbians, part of the Nazis, who bombed many formerly beautiful English towns;  they have
much to answer today, such as why Brighton is still such a shit-hole
after 60 years of redevelopment.

Luckily, Bournemouth wasn't bombed, and is naturally lovely in a myriad of ways - there are no lesbians (so you don't need to bring your pepper spray), everyone drives a Rolls Royce, all the men have six-packs, there are no tattooed women, and the sun shines eternally.  It's also a hotbed for gay and transgendered tourism, and naturally I will be exploring all facets of this, like a fox down a badger-hole.

 
I'll be staying in an exclusive, luxury bolthole called Ghetto, in their Presidential Suite, with my own piano, water-bed, and butler on-call; the decor of the place is very glam-trash.  Just my cup of tea!  All the waiters are naked but for a bow tie and a thong.