The day of the fox

Fanny was enjoying quail egg soup this afternoon in the drawing room when there was a deafening, almighty crash.  The west window completely shattered inwards and a gingery-red flash of some animal leapt into the room.  Before I could scream in horror, in hot pursuit of the animal were Brenda, my Doberman Pinscher, and Lady Bossity, a boisterous, mad Springer Spaniel bitch from across the village.

For my own safety, I jumped on top of the table and from up there caught sight of a 5-ft long fox jumping over the silver service and just missing my Ormolu clock.

Both dogs had gone mad: the fox wasted no time in mounting the Louis Quatorze dresser, knocking over and smashing into a thousand pieces a Ming vase, before leaping onto the piano, leaving deep scratches.

Ten seconds later, after a blinding flash of red fur, followed by Brenda's slavering lips and Lady Bossity's high-pitched growl, there was another almighty crash as all three animals jumped straight through the east window and disappeared into the grounds.

It was sometime later that I 'came round' (I usually revive myself not with smelling salts, but a good snort from a bottle of Poppers) to find Lady Bossity, the mad Springer Spaniel, lording it up on my once pure-white carpet (it originally cost over £55,000).   What had become of the fox or Brenda the Doberman, I did not know. 

However, the Spaniel was covered from head to tail in fox shit (I recall one of my grounds-men telling me that all dogs love to roll around in the stuff, as they think it a very expensive and pleasurable perfume) and my beautiful carpet was now more  a shade of chocolate surprise than truffle-white.

Tip-toeing in horror towards the door, I was on the cusp of escaping, but for the harrowing creak of a floorboard.  At that moment, the filthy Spaniel startled from her reverie, saw me and made a running jump into my arms.

Unveiled: new artwork by Fanny Love

Critically-acclaimed transvestite artist, Fanny Love, has unveiled her stunning new masterpiece - entitled "Lesbo-hippo-pot-o-saurus" - at the Zate Modern in Scunthorpe.

"Even though it's a third-world part of the country, I'm delighted my new picture is being hung for all to see at the Zate Modern in Scunthorpe" explains Fanny, "For me, my latest artwork relates to the difficult subject of body image and particularly, the need for compulsory liposuction, something Fanny has been campaigning for.   

I tried to create a sensitive piece of work, something which was enormously difficult when dealing with potentially upsetting subject matter, such as when one has grown so morbidly obese one is the same size as a small house".

Where did Fanny get her inspiration for such an unusual piece of work?

"Since arriving on these grit-grey shores, I've studied people, in exquisite detail, and probed the dark underbelly to produce artwork that is original.  My inspiration truly came after a 90-second visit to the town of Scunthorpe, a town whose streets groaned under the impossible weight of resident fatties.

  Apparently the locals refer to the town as "scunny".  

Personally, I would just drop the "s" of "Scunthorpe" and call the place "Cunt-thorpe"

Driving into the town, the place looked so horrendous that I only spent 90 seconds there, during which I just had enough time to wind down the window, throw a chicken drumstick at a very fat woman and demand to know the direction back to the motorway.

Several auction-houses of London have taken a keen interest in my work.  Apparently an Arab sheik wants to buy the whole collection - well, those A-rabs do like their women big!". 

Lesbo-hippo-pot-o-saurus is on display at the Zate Modern in Scunthorpe until 1 October 2013.

A day I'll never forget at the beauty salon

Rather than use it as a door-stop, Fanny has been rifling through the Yellow Pages this morning in order to find a beauty salon nearby.  One or two of my quiffs have lost their bounce, my nails are chipped and maybe a Brazilian bikini wax, too.

Imagine my surprise when I found the most prestigiously-named establishment: Olga's L.A. Hair and Beauty Bar, based in the beautiful oasis of Milton Keynes.

L.A = Los Angeles!  Why, anything with that in the title must be a classy establishment, so I rang them, and without any further a-do, I booked a full day's beauty session and got Juan to drive me straight there in a jiffy.  

Imagine my horror when the limousine wouldn't fit down the little alley where the salon was located, so Juan dropped me off, and I made my way across cobbles (in 12" stilettos) only to find this rundown dive!  To my dismay, this was Olga's LA Hair and Beauty Bar.

I was incandescent with rage: glowing furiously in the pallid Milton Keynes sunlight like a hot-bulb about to explode.

I was just about to turn the other way and report them to Trading Standards for be-smirching the good name of the city of Los Angeles (where everything is glamorous and beautiful), when the door opened, and a huge, very butch Jamaican woman the size of a small house came out and forcefully shepherded me inside.

 

I'm sad to say the interior was just as awful as the exterior: drab-green plastic linoleum with such a hideous pattern that it almost induced in me a psychotic episode; rows of sweaty, brown plastic treatment chairs; and equipment that must have been salvaged from the 1950s.

 Electroconvulsive shock therapy or a hair-curler? -
we'll never know!

The beauty assistant - whose name was Olga, and who didn't seem to speak a word of English - placed a welcoming cup of tea down in front of me.

This was it.

It looked as if some small animal had died in that cup.  There's no way my Marilyn Monroe-replica, £1 million-insured lips are going anywhere near that revolting receptacle.  Filthy.  Disgusting.  It was time to leave.  I stood up, knocking the cup and its thick, grey contents over and said out loud "just popping to the ladies room" with the intention of climbing out the toilet window and running off into the street.

 Sadly, I had never anticipated that the ladies would have iron bars on the windows.  So with a tiny whimper, I meekly slid back into the treatment room, and was forced to sit down and blindly, I chose the first thing on the menu: Hawaiian Surprise followed by Hawaiian Sunset.

The treatment consisted of being stripped naked, massaged with mashed rotting grapes and peaches, rubbed with a scouring pad, before being showered down with ice-cold water, smeared with English mustard, and then covered in iced lemon juice, before being wrapped in tin-foil and left for an hour and a half under a heat-lamp whilst being served a ten-shot pint served through a funnel appropriately called the Head Fucker.  

What a stunning experience it was.  Physically and emotionally brutalised, I staggered, on one leg, out at the end of the 4-hour session, £185 poorer, and foaming, in horror, at the mouth.    Not even the finale, the spray-tan - nick-named Hawaiian Sunset - was a success.  The ridiculously horrid treatment has left me with skin the colour of a tangerine.

 

Nothing like a slice of cake

Mmmhhh... how delightful... to survive this summer heat, Fanny is sitting down to a lovely slice of asparagus cake.  It really is one of my favourites and I serve it to all and sundry who visit me.  It goes well with vinegar tea and Bovril scones!  So English.

Isn't Art a joy?

As you know, Fanny is stimulated - titilated even - by high art.  My artistic sensibilities range from Picasso to the Tate Modern, from Gaudi to the lewd messages written on toilet walls (sometimes I even take a pen in with me when visiting those dripping, subterranean lavatories).  I've been an avid collector of objet d'art for many years, a compulsive viewer of the TV show Antiques Roadshow (I love all those brown country jackets and waxed moustaches of the presenters), and a loyal reader of Country Life's dogging and cottaging supplement, particularly their recent analysis of sado-masochistic tendencies during Van Gogh's rose period. 

What Fanny doesn't know about fine art, isn't worth knowing!  And I produce my own bespoke and highly sought after art, too!

Imagine my delight when I was asked to prepare a showcase of Art for the Brill and Highchurch May Bank Holiday Village Celebration.  My nipples were instantly erect! 

I've generously donated the following piece of art, entitled "Two Villagers Meet in The Grocers, A Typical Scene from the Village of Brill".  It is one of my own pieces of work, finished only recently, and I expect it to be a celebrated artwork.  I can already hear the heart-felt accolades from village dignitaries when it is unveiled before the assembled flock.  Rather than auction it at Sotheby's for millions, I thought the village deserved it better.  Pass the Pimm's, dear.

Two Villagers Meet in the Grocers - An Everyday Scene from the Village of Brill - Fine Art by Fanny Love

A new hat

Do you like my new hat?  I designed it myself!   I'm wearing it to a soirée in London's posh Kennington - whoops, I mean Kensington. Anyone who's anyone in the glamour world should be in attendance.  Donning this daring, never-before-seen design, I'll be the talk of the town.

I commissioned and designed this hat entirely myself.  It's actually more of a skullcap, as it fits tightly against the head.  It's my life's work, having taken almost 8 years from inception through to conception. I struck a deal with an Alaskan fishing company who will provide me a monthly shipment of dried puffer-fish.  

Watch out for my TV ad campaign, titled "Fanny Love says Hug a Pufferfish".   All the catwalk models will be wearing the Pufferfish Hat in 6 months time!  I'll be wearing it at numerous future events, such as Royal Ascot and Wimbledon.

Not stopping at hats, I'm going to be launching my own new fashion label: the news has spread like wildfire and caused discombobulation among the glamour world of Milanese fashionistas.  Move over Versace, Ugg, Jimmy Choo, George and Primark, Fanny J.E. Love is taking the market by storm with her high-end Pufferfish hats and outfits.

Mad as a March hare

Fanny went mad in March: I dressed as a rabbit, and hopped around the village.  

I spent most of the month popping Valium like they were Smarties, and drinking a pint of medicinal sherry for breakfast, just to calm my frayed nerves.  

I also lovingly made some Easter eggs, mixing together Marmite, Harold Shipman's fish paste and laxative chocolate (the Easter eggs were donated to the church out of the kindness of my heart).  I baked some Bovril-flavoured macaroons and created a Chocca Mocca Caramel Cake but inadvertently ran out of cocoa so just used some Oxo cubes as a substitute.   Following this, I made some rock cakes, although this seriously depleted the gravel from the drive.  I don't know what the church thought of this range of eclectic culinary delights as I didn't hang around.  No doubt their show of thanks to my remarkable generosity will be delivered in the usual form of a terse and smarmy platitude in the village newsletter, a publication inappropriately called Hermaphrodites edited by an effeminate, shrew-faced old man called Ernest Honeyball.

In addition, I turned my hand to making a 15-foot high marzipan tower-cake with 24 carat gold-leaf decorations; it took over 8 hours of slaving away in the kitchens to produce it, and this was also donated to the church.  Here is a photograph of all my hard work.  What do you think? 

I deliberately chose the plastic pig-with-wings cake decoration on top, as an artistic flourish! 

Oopsa Daisy - Fanny's Fashion Faux Pas

My little corner of Buckinghamshire has been hit by snow blizzards and temperatures so cold we had to chisel my little poodle, Mr P, off a lamp-post during his early morning walkies.

I had important meetings yesterday with my bank manager, lawyer and accountant, so I dressed in my best pin-stripe suit, ready to be chauffeured into town.  Do you like my outfit?  I'd opted for the primly sedate look, rather than the 'playgirl' look that most fans know me by.

As I was applying my electric-crimson mascara, I started to feel the sting of chapped lips, due to the bitter weather.  In order to protect Fanny's lips - in the short walk between the door of my mansion and the limousine - I decided to give them some much-needed protection; after all, there's nothing more painful than cracked, chapped lips!  So I waltzed upstairs to my West Wing bathroom and swung open the medicine cabinet to reach for the lip balm.

 I don't know who the Hell was responsible for replenishing my medicine cabinet, but this was the last thing I expected to find in it --- Marmite-flavoured lip balm, what an abomination!   Normally, I use the Regular flavour of Salveline, which, as you will see, was personally endorsed by none other than moi, and contains soothing Mongolian iguana fat:

                            

I was in such a hurry I couldn't be bothered hunting around so I smeared a good greasy dollop (about the size of an apple) of Marmite-flavoured lip balm all over my Marilyn Monroe-shaped pouting lips and noisily sucked them into the shape of a rose-bud to ensure a liberal application.  Juan was honking the car's horn outside.  I sharn't be licking my lips for a good few hours and I'm restricted to air-kissing.  C'est la vie!  Did I tell you that I had both my lips insured in case of accident to the sum of £50 million?

Just as I was heading for the door, I caught a glimpse of one of my freshly baked cakes, smothered in several jars of hundreds-and-thousands and couldn't resist taking a gigantic bite out of it.  

 
And off I set.

Upon arriving at my lawyer's, I couldn't understand the sniggers from the receptionist or the bemused look on my lawyer's face.  Throughout the hour-long meeting, he failed to reveal the source of his amusement.  This incensed me, especially as I was about to sign a multi-million pound deal.  As I left his office, disgusted, I heard debauched, hysterical laughter coming from the back office, sounding like the whole office.

It was only when I got back into the car that I took a look in my compact mirror, and realised the source of their amusement, with a tiny, whimper of shocked disbelief:

A visit to the Photo Booth

I'm due to depart on my 'Around the World in 180 Days' tour soon, and it dawned on me with growing panic that my passport had expired.   A bundle of nerves with butterflies dancing in my stomach, I gulped down a triple-strength gin 'n' tonic, followed by an Alkaseltzer, followed by a vodka martini, and got Juan to drive me to a department store in Milton Keynes where there was a photo booth, hidden away at the back of the store next to Women's Lingerie; it was aptly called the Glamour Puss Photo Booth.  Not the most salubrious department store - the sort of place frequented by blue-rinsed old spinsters milling around excitedly like hyenas - but it was a dire emergency.  If I didn't get my passport application back today, I'd be done for!

I found the photo booth and inserted a couple of coins, went inside, pulled the privacy curtain across and waited.  I pouted at the camera the way I was taught to on the cat-walk.

Here's the first photos... impressive, aren't they?  You can really tell it was me.  Half a head.  That will really get me a passport renewal.   The photo booth contraption went off too soon, before I'd adjusted the height of the seat.  In a black mood, I kicked the machine hard with my stiletto, uttered a string of profanities at the top of my voice, and reached inside my gold lamé purse to retrieve some more coins.

The photo machine made a noise like a blocked drain, there was a whirring of cogs, a tremendous flash and a smell of acrid smoke... and then nothing.  Alarmed, I stood up at the exact moment the camera bulb flickered weakly, followed by a noise like fingernails down a chalkboard and these beautiful and highly-appropriate passport photographs popped out of the slot:-

By now, I was boiling over with rage at this wretched contraption which kept swallowing my money and surprising me by taking the photos at exactly the wrong moment, such as when I was scratching my vagina or looking poe-faced.  

I stepped outside the photo booth and inserted the end of my umbrella into the coin slot and rammed it home with such force that it broke the thing in two.  The lights flickered and the machine whirred back into life and four £1 coins fell sullenly out of the slot.  I jumped back inside the photo booth.  Third time lucky.  The photo machine seemed to be over-heating and it was getting very hot in there.

Here are the next lot of pictures:

It was very difficult stripping down to lingerie in such a tiny space, but I somehow managed it.  Not sure the above photos will be suitable for my passport though.  Will just have to wait and see.    By now, I do believe the triple-strength gin 'n' tonics were starting to take their toll, combined with the over-heating photo booth.  Here's the next set of inglorious photos, the culmination of badly-timed, involuntary actions, and a slightly dicky stomach:

Just as I was about to lurch out of the photo booth, my head swimming, I heard a strange noise outside, like someone shaking a box of raw liver up and down; I flung back the curtain only to be met by an alarming sight.   A cleaner standing looking in at me.  She was the size of a small house and as strong as a Russian Olympic shot-putter.  Her name badge clearly said 'Helga'.  I didn't like the way she was looking at me.

Helga licked her lips in a very menacing fashion (this was the source of the noise that sounded like someone shaking a box of raw liver), her hand reaching up to tweak her own enormous, trembling breast, roughly the size of a pumpkin, which itself was straining perilously through the tiny, jet-black PVC cleaner's outfit she had on.  Helga seemed very excited to see me, dressed as I was only in designer French silk lingerie, inside the photo booth, with a half-full glass of gin in my hand, the interior of the photo booth looking like a bomb had hit it.   "Shall I come in and join you?" she whispered seductively, a pearl of saliva glistening on her scarlet whore's lips.   

As she took one gigantic step towards the photo booth, she belched like a bullfrog. 

"I'm not sure there's room for you in here" I whimpered in a puny voice.  If she'd attempted to enter the photo booth with myself still inside, I would have been pulverised and the photo booth would have exploded into hundreds of shards of metal and fibre glass.

 I let out a terrible scream and made a run for it, across the department store, barefoot and in the scantiest set of lingerie, down three escalators and out into the street, into the muscular arms of Juan.  I don't know what happened after that, as I must have blacked out due to the sheer shock from the lesbian advances of Helga the cleaner and my terrible photo booth experience.  I've been popping Valium like Smarties and have been knocked up in bed ever since, reading Mills & Boon love stories whilst Juan brings me platters of shellfish, washed down with a Puligny Montrachet.  On the fourth day, I just about felt well enough to get up.

It was that same morning when an official-looking manilla packet arrived here at Raffles, addressed to me. I tore it open only to find it was my new passport, freshly issued by the US embassy in London.

I've never liked passport photos or the process of getting them taken in tiny, working-class photo booths in grubby department stores in sub-normal places like Milton Keynes.   It's the type of activity that leaves you vulnerable to attacks by sex-crazed lesbian store cleaners.   Oh well, at least I have a passport now.   I do think it's a rather good likeness, isn't it? x

Yeti Snow Beast spotted in North Bucks

TV News crews from all over the world have descended in a frenzy on the tiny village of Brill and this most rural part of North Bucks has become a hive of activity.

The reason?  These mysterious, gigantic footprints were found in the heavy snow, followed by numerous reports of villagers being molested by a 7ft, hairy, black, inconsolable monster.

The North Bucks Chronicle have also done a front-page story on it.  Have a read, it's the most astonishing bit of journalism I've ever read, quite simply the bees' knees. 

You may recall the incident that occurred on Sunday chez moi with Gladys Grove.  Accidentally on purpose, Gladys was sent blindly - and as drunk as a skunk - into my 2nd floor airing cupboard where I'm currently keeping several bee-hives, mistaking the room for the lavatory.  You might think it a very odd occurrence to be keeping bees in a 2nd floor airing cupboard, but my only defence is that it's very cold outside and the bees like it in there.

Gladys, a confirmed apiphobic, was last seen making a bee-line across fields in the general direction of the town of Haddenham, some 7 miles distant, covered from head to toe in bees.  She must have lost her sling-backs in a ditch somewhere, which explains her footprints in the snow (first picture, above).

I've got to commend the work of the artist who drew the impression of this Yeti Snow Beast, envisaged from the many sightings around the county.   It does seem like Gladys Grove has once again made the headlines, for all the wrong reasons.  Maybe it's time to come out of retirement, Gladys?  The world clearly craves you.

I must dash now, as I've got to go and get my photo done as it's time to re-new my passport, in readiness for my embarkation on my 180-days Around the World tour.  

Toodle-pip!

A bee in one's bonnet

Can you imagine my revulsion when the door-bell rings incessantly on this sleet-lashed Sunday afternoon, sounding like some naughty schoolboy is trying to pull my bell-ring off, and I meekly open the door in my pink French lace dressing-gown only to find Gladys Grove standing there, her blue eye-shadow running down her cheeks.  A grotesque spectre on such a Satanic afternoon.

Gladys Grove was a famous transvestite back in her hey-day - the 1980s - but has since faded into glorious obscurity owing to her unintentional drunken act of impaling herself onto a giant-sized aubergine on live children's television.  Never a friend of mine, more of a gossip-monger and hanger-on.  

Only Gladys Grove could turn an ordinary, inanimate
object -- such as this oversized aubergine -- into a sexual object.

As soon as I saw Gladys there, I had the temptation to violently slam the door in her face.  However, she'd placed the heel of her indestructible red leather boot over my threshold and I couldn't get the door closed quick enough.  I thought about setting the dogs on her, but Mr P, my poodle, was downstairs having an ear-massage, and Brenda, my Doberman Pinscher, was at the pooch grooming parlour in London's Mayfair.  As most of my compliment of staff were either serving time in Borstal or receiving psychiatric treatment, I was, on this rare occasion, home alone.

"You owe me, Fanny" she said, "can I stay over for the night, please?  My car broke down in the lane and my credit card stopped working".

So I felt obliged to allow her in, despite the litany of paper-thin excuses spoken by her forked tongue.  

She's been making demands all afternoon, ringing the servants' bell, first asking for lemon-scented bath-bombs, then a cup of tea, then a glass of my finest whiskey, followed by an endless list of wants, the most insulting of which was a request for some "posh grub, some of those funny fish balls you eat" (I believe she means caviar). 

I don't suffer fools or faded drag queens gladly, so I cooked up a fried egg for her.   I also found an old packet of Safeway Faggots that had inadvertently slipped down the back of the fridge-freezer.  Not sure how long they'd actually been lying there, in the dust and grime.  Couldn't make out the 'Eat By' date on the packet in the dim light.  I washed all the fluff, mould and rat droppings of the faggots and cooked some up for her personally.   Fried egg and faggots... surely food she'd understand.   I thought she'd be grateful.  

Haute cuisine for the glam-trash: I wouldn't feed this cheap, nasty shit even to my pet snails.  Therefore, it made an ideal hearty meal for unexpected visitor, motor-mouth Gladys Grove, who dropped by today.

Instead, the disgusting bint - all pale and pudgy after her hot bath and wearing an unsightly shade of lipstick that could only be described as pig-pink - stubbed out a half-smoked Menthol vapour ciggie in the fried egg I served her.  She gobbled down the faggots, though, in a split second, the strange-smelling, greenish-brown gravy oozing down her chin.


As you may well know, Fanny is well versed in dispatching hoi polloi in the harshest possible way.  Whilst it may not be de rigueur to ask such an uncouth guest to leave immediately by the tradesmen's entrance, Fanny often employs subtle techniques to reach the desired effect without a single word being spoken.

The weather has been cold recently, hasn't it, and I've been worried about my bees to the extent that I moved them indoors.  You didn't know I was a bee-keeper?  Oh, I love my bees!  I've had hives for years and I often take a gramophone player out into the garden and play all sorts of calming music to them to keep them happy - Shostakovich, Brahms, Debussy, Marilyn Manson, Cradle of Filth, etc.  I don't like to personally handle the bees though, so as the weather has been so bitter, I went out and inserted the vacuum cleaner pipe into the bee-hive, switched the machine on and sucked them all safely inside the dust-bag.

I then moved the empty bee-hive inside the house up to the second-floor airing cupboard, a nice warm place for them.  I only had to switch the vacuum cleaner on reverse to spit all the bees at high speed out of the dust-bag into their hive and slam the airing-cupboard door.

Meanwhile, much to my annoyance, Gladys traipsed about the sitting room in her cheap, scratchy, polyester ballgown, with a huge tri-star brooch, looking like a proverbial scrap of mutton-dressed-as-lamb, putting her enormous feet on the antique Louis Quatorze table, and breaking into bouts of pestilential belching equal in resonance to an orchestra of Amazonian bullfrogs.  She demanded a plate of chips, saying "ta, mate" and then asked if I had any White Lightning Cider, a beverage I've never heard of.

 Disturbing: a photo taken from Gladys's website

"Where's the bogs?" she spluttered, "I need a piss".

Coughing back bile, I managed to utter "Oh you need the toilet, dear? Up the stairs, second door on the right, just walk straight in, do lift the lid before you tinkle".

Off she tottered, her elephantine bulk groaning up the stairs, right into the airing cupboard where the bees are currently being kept.

I think the following picture sums up what happened next.

  

Gladys Grove... last seen covered from head to toe in bees, screaming at the top of her lungs, running at high speed across the pitch-black Buckinghamshire countryside, making a bee-line for Long Crendon village.   Good night, Gladys!