Swimming at Chapman's Pool, Dorset

The English climate is the Bipolar Disorder of all climates - up and down, always at the extreme end with nothing in the middle, and prone to sudden change.  

Weeks of Satanic weather cleared on Sunday and it's been Caribbean weather since: Tuesday 24th July was the hottest day of the year, peaking at 31c, with flawless blue skies. 

Villagers here complained it was too hot, the tarmac was melting, they couldn't sleep or even think straight.  They forgot that 5 days ago, they were complaining it had rained for 40 days and 40 nights, their streets were flooded, mildew was forming between their ears and that they were ready to sell up and move to Ethiopia.  Now they're praying for rain again.  I don't think there is pleasing some people. 

I live in a rural North Buckinghamshire village and I don't suppose they're accustomed to high fashion.   I recently purchased this adorable set of designer flip-flops, for just £2,750.  A mere snip for such uber-chic footwear.  No doubt me being seen wearing these has put some locals' noses out of joint.

Apparently, fashionistas in New York and Milan are raving about these flipflops, all the catwalk models are seen in them.

In order to make the most of the weather, I rose at the crack of dawn and my butler, Juan, gave my green Jaguar XKE a fine-tune, ready for a day's drive to the coast; not to the kiss-me-quick, 'all-you-can-eat' and candyfloss tatt of Southend or brash Brighton but the peaceful beauty of the Dorset coastline. 

Wearing a peacock-patterned Hermes scarf around my head, and driving with the roof down, it took just three hours to reach Chapman's Pool, a small, isolated cove of fine shingle, to the west of Worth Matravers.

The magnificent cliffs, grazed by sheep and divided by thick hedges and scored with fox-ridden lanes, are rich in fossils and I believe the Jurassic Coast runs through here.  It's not easy to get to, but is very quiet, with not a single hotel, town or building anywhere close - that's the untouched quality of the Dorset coastline.  

I change into my peppermint-coloured, diamond-studded bathing costume and make my way down to the beach, my fish flip-flops attracting some admiring glances.  I spent the rest of the afternoon swimming in the English Channel.

The sea, here more of a lagoon, is perfectly still, and pale blue like old people's eyes.   

Tourists visiting London for the Olympics and reading this should make the effort to leave the capital and visit the Dorset coast.  It's a world away from the England that the metropolis represents, like comparing chalk with cheese.  When the sun is shining, its rare beauty rivals many more exotic countries that I've had the opportunity to visit. 

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).

Fanny goes Cottaging

Temperatures have been unseasonably warm around England.  Here in rural Wiltshire, I have been making the most of the sub-tropical weather (the thermometer hit 23c yesterday) by putting on a banana bikini and lying out on the lawn, sipping Pimms and lemonade, and then not bothering to change before going shopping in Marlborough high street.

Given the weather, I have decided to go on a trip to Dorset, one of my favourite counties after Wiltshire.  And I have decided also to go Cottaging whilst there.  I don't know if you know anything any Cottaging.

It is a wonderful past-time of the English.  They do it all the time, although cottages are understandably becoming more rare.  I believe the renowned George Michael has engaged in cottaging, as have Sir John Gielgud and Ron Davies.  It is encouraged in certain circles.

Here are some pictures which better illustrate what Cottaging is all about and the type of Cottaging I shall be undertaking whilst in Dorset.    I shall be Cottaging as much as I can when there and I shall let you know what transpires.