Early Christmas lunacy

One of my waiting-staff was picked up by her ears, pushed into the dumb-waiter elevator (normally only used for serving food) and then  thrown from the third floor sitting-room window after I discovered this monstrosity:

This was the dining-room in my south annexe, not the main banquet hall, but still an important place where I was planning on hosting a meal for local dignitaries.  

I had left detailed instructions on how to put the tree up, how it was to be decorated.  Imagine my horror to discover, Gretel, one of my waiting staff, fast asleep under the dining table, having drunk two bottles of rum, and the Christmas tree hanging upside down, affixed to the ceiling, like a scene from Alice in Wonderland.  Quite why some members of my staff feel the need to play these ridiculous pranks is beyond me!  She has been dealt with in the most appropriate way, that is to say, ejected from the third floor window.

It was at that point that my personal assistant announced that my guests had arrived at the gatehouse and would be in the building any minute.

I rushed downstairs to check Cook's progress and see how the turkey was cooking (she has stuffed the bird with oysters and laced with creme de menthe), as the door-bell rang.

It's one of Cook's favourite dishes: a whole turkey crown, stuffed with raw, shucked oysters and laced with creme de menthe.  Delicious.

I won't go into too much detail about the dignitaries, only to say that they came with a gift - a Brill village Christmas Advent Calendar 2012.

Bravo! What an attractive gift and a wonderful photographic composition: this high-quality, no-expenses-spared Christmas Advent calendar, celebrating Brill's beautiful and iconic windmill has almost sold out in shops up and down the country.  If you ignore the strange greenish tinge to the photograph and the clapped-out ice-cream van, it is a remarkably beautiful shot.

Just as I was going upstairs to join the assembled party, painfully aware that they would all be talking about the Christmas tree hanging upside down from the ceiling, I opened up one of the little doors on the Advent Calendar, to see what wonderful treat it contained.

It contained a lovely little chocolate in it.  How delicious, I thought, as I bit into it before realising that something didn't taste quite right.  Almost gagging, this is what I spat out in absolute revulsion, the hidden filling:

Late-night Frogging on Hampstead Heath

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Worried about the bees

You probably weren't aware that I'm an avid bee-keeper.  Since the summer, I've kept several hives on my Estate.  I so love the beeswax, honey and Royal Jelly that can be harvested, and I find the constant, gentle drone coming from the hives a calming influence.

Bee-keeping, of course, is an art and I recently had this bespoke hive made.  What do you think of it?

I've managed to produce a dozen jars of honey over the summer months; it's a bit of a messy job though.   As I don't like to get stung, I usually insert the vacuum cleaner pipe into the hive through a hole, switch on the machine and suck all the bees safely into the vacuum cleaner bag, before giving their hive a good clean and extracting the honey.   When I'm finished, I switch the vacuum cleaner on reverse mode, and the bees are shot at high speed back into their freshly-spruced hive.

 A vaccum cleaner Hoover bag fat with bees

 
I've been a bit worried about the bees during this cold weather.  I took this old gramophone out and placed it next to their hive, and played them some Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. 

 

In the end, I was just too worried about them, so I've placed their hive in the airing cupboard, on the second floor of the house, where they'll be nice and warm.

That reminds me: a few years ago, a French design-house sent me this bee-inspired cotton dress.  I might wear it soon.

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.

You can't teach an old dog new tricks

Many readers have been in touch to ask about the gorgeous poodle I adopted back in the Spring.  As you will recall, when I moved to my new country estate in rural northwest Buckinghamshire, I vowed to open my house to animals, whom I love with a passion.

Below is a picture of Mr P, back in June.  His full name is  
Mr. Puffywuffycutesweetgummywummygumdrop.  He's an adorable boy; he gives me licks and cuddles and loves it when I tickle his belly.

He can be a little destructive, however:  I recently found him fast asleep on a heavily-scratched, 18th century, walnut-wood dining table, lying amidst the skeletal remnants of a large, roast pheasant, which Cook had spent all afternoon preparing for my dinner, lacing it with cream and brandy, in her idiosyncratic style (using the whole bottle of brandy, when only two tablespoons of liquor were really required).  

Apart from a few clean bones, there was nothing left of the dish at all.  The small, innocent poodle with the doleful eyes had devoured the lot, gnawing a hole in my tablecloth hand-made by Cistercian monks, wolfing down a bowl of fruit, and knocking the Christmas tree on its side and eating all the chocolate oranges and sweets. 

I don't mind the damage to my antiques nor the consumption of roast dinners.  I also found he'd completely chewed the leg off my 1863 Henri Fourneaux piano; a set of green velvet curtains had been torn down; and he'd jumped mercifully unscathed through a plate-glass window to chase a fox across the walled garden area.

I spoke to my vet, Jacqueline Pimblott, a transvestite dog psychiatrist, who has a weakness for pink gin.  

"He needs a companion" she barked, before coming out with some rubbish about not being able to teach an old dog new tricks, and ingrained canine behaviours being irreversible.  Really?

Jacqueline Pimblott, transvestite dog psychiatrist. Lives in Bracknell.
Sometimes she gets so bladdered on pink gin, she takes the dog pill by mistake
instead of her Valium. Should you see Jacqueline, wandering around the streets of Bracknell, 
please call the council's stray dog hotline as a matter of urgency.

I'm pleased to say that Jacqueline Pimblott is not exactly on my Christmas card list; however, it did get me thinking.  Maybe Mr P does need a companion?

48 hours later, having considered it at length, I purchased a beautiful female Doberman Pinscher from a rescue centre.  I also bought a nice bling collar studded with 24 diamonds, and some other footwear accessories for her.  

I don't like common dog's names, so I have decided to call her Brenda.  Here is a photo of Brenda, wearing a pair of specially-adapted red canine high heels I also picked up online.

My new Doberman, Brenda, wearing specially-made-for-dogs blood-red high heels
and a bling collar.

She is beautiful, isn't she?  And Mr P is much calmer and very welcoming of his new companion!   

Well, Jacqueline, you might not be able to teach an old dog new tricks, but that doesn't excuse you from trolling all the bars in Bracknell trying to pick up 21 year old boy-next-door types! 

Dinosaurs in Borehamwood

I've made an interesting discovery: dinosaurs are still alive and roaming in certain parts of southern England!

To my mild surprise, I saw a real, live dinosaur, on the outskirts of the town of Borehamwood, Hertfordshire.   (Or I think I did?)

Juan was driving me down the A1 on Monday.  The A1 has absolutely nothing to do with the top-ranking A1 socio-economic group which I belong to;  in this instance, 'A1' is simply a name for the longest numbered road in the UK; at 410 miles, connecting London with Edinburgh, it has the misfortune of passing through many instantly-forgettable towns such as Peterborough and Doncaster.    


As we were heading south, passing by Borehamwood, I noticed a Tyrannosaurus Rex grazing off to the left of the dual carriageway.  Here is a shot I got on my mobile phone:

I hope that this endangered, rare, yet beautiful animal will be allowed to be reintroduced to England.

Quite what this one was doing beside the A1, I haven't the slightest idea, but a sighting is surely the only reason one would visit Whorehamwood.

Pass the sherry, please.

Gingerbread cookies

Most of my kitchen staff are taking time off, so, unusually, I spent some time baking today, and came up with this delightful 'take' on gingerbread cookies. One of my hidden talents is intricate icing: the secret, really, is to add salad cream and fish paste to the icing agent to stop it running (my preferred brand of the latter is called Harold Shipman's Fish Paste).

Armed with my trusty piping bag, it took less than 20 minutes to ice these; although to bring out my true, artistic bent, I first wheeled in the gramophone player and put on some Beethoven, whilst necking straight from the bottle a generous glug of 120-year old sloe gin, a present sent down from Scotland by a Baroness.

I thought about taking these gingerbread cookies down to a Bible Reading being held at the church; I don't attend such events normally as I find the whole set-up prudish and the tone fanatical, but I'm sure the congregation would love a nibble!

Keep Calm and Love Fanny!

This bespoke poster arrived from a hardcore fan.  I am so touched I've instructed my Public Relations team to reproduce this poster and have them put up on prominent billboards in both metropolitan and rural areas.  

Aren't they wonderful?  Look out for these discreet posters, appearing at many laybys, wooded areas and 'known haunts' up and down the country!