A lovely day for a drive

Here I am, enjoying the mid-February sunshine. It's lovely to take a tour of the countryside, isn't it?  We stopped at a lovely picnic site and went looking for badgers... (a little bit like this)

 

The maid and the cream egg

A staple of the British breakfast since the early 1800s, the Cadbury's cream egg is 100% fat with zero vitamins and minerals.  Imagine the horror to find your maid lying on her back, in the scullery, gobbling down these chocolate eggs like a pig snuffling truffles.  The wretched maid had molten chocolate all over her whiskers and pinafore.  And this at 8.10am.  I got Juan to load her into the wheelbarrow and take her out into the gardens, for fear that she would explode all over my newly-installed Vestril-Virgin-with-Angels ceiling mosaic.  Next she tells me she's undertaking the Ferrero Rocher 2-minute challenge, in a bid to get in the Guinness Book of Records. 

I had only just bought the maid a new uniform.  She wasn't wearing it during her recent chocolate-binge.  Needless to say, I'm dreading Easter when she goes all wide-eyed and pushes her nose up against the chocolatier's window and starts slavering for what lies displayed within. She has threatened to issue a Press Release to the paparazzi and tell all to The Sun and The Daily Mail (extraneous wrapping paper used in the United Kingdom to wrap up fried fish/chips and never actually read).  By doing so would bring eternal Hell and social disrepute upon my household.  The maid must be hushed before her sordid little tale gets told!

Signs of doom?

My chauffeur pulled up outside a certain London hang-out of high society.  No sooner had I trotted out onto the pavement in my 12-inch heels and stared up at the neon sign, then something struck me as being very wrong.  All thoughts of what I'd imagined to be a lavish occasion disintegrated like a puff of smoke.  Oh jeopardy lay within, my waters kept telling me. 

Deeply superstitious of dark forces at work, I got back in the Rolls and ordered Juan to pootle round the block and find somewhere more suitable for a lady of my standing, before the evening was well and truly scuppered.  He suggested the Angus Steak House.

But judging by the all-telling neon, all was not well here either. 

In the end, after 2 hours of prevarication, we drove to the only suitable place we could find -  McDonalds in East Barnet - where we had a 79p McFlurry sandwich and a pint of Coke, before ending up in this lounge, somewhere off gay Old Compton Street (no surprises there, given the name of the establishment and its location).  This time, I'm not complaining!

But, of course, it happened a fourth time, these dastardly subliminal messages being sent to me by ordinary neon signs! As we stopped for petrol just off the M40.... this apparition of things to come:  

On second thoughts, we were at the M40 services just outside Beaconsfield, which has, in certain quarters, been described as a mini-Hell on the edge of the Chiltern Hills.

Make-your- own Pearl Necklace

It all started with my Pearl Necklace: a 16th century, Parisian heirloom, with pearls plucked from oyster shells at La Rochelle,  sconced in 68-carat gold and set in lapis lazuli, once worn by Madam Bovary and Russell Harty, and bearing the almost invisible inscription "Made in Taiwan".  The Tragedy of the Pearls - as it would later be known - manifested itself during a heavy S&M session with Juan (him dressed as a Spanish conquistador; me dressed as poor white trash; he ruthlessly hung me from the banquet-room chandelier by my Pearl Necklace and systematically abused me with his pet anaconda), but once the reverie of the act had died (and the swelling had gone down) I found my precious little antique necklace snapped into forty different pieces, lying on my boudoir floor, as much cop as a nun in a whorehouse.  Anyone for a game of marbles?

 
With an impending high-society soirée at some gaff called The Ritz, what was I do to?  It would be social shame of the highest order to be seen out-of-doors without my famous pearls.

Here's my solution:

Send the maid to 99p Store and get the bitch to buy some white polished stones for your fish-tank, get her to polish them to a high shine, and then Super-glue them all together on a piece of shoelace sprayed with silver glitter.  Voila!  You now have a pearl necklace. Can't find any white polished stones from 99p Store?  Use White Chocolate Maltesers instead!  They don't last as long, but still look good.

Basil the maid enjoyed her visit to 99p Stores, Hemel Hempstead branch.  She enjoyed the sights of the 1960s high street, so typical of the New Towns:   alcoholics, violent beggars, Nigerians selling scam lottery tickets and psychopathic elderly citizens with umbrellas used as weapons.  Basil the maid tells me she was followed down an alley-way and offered a "five-fingered shuffle" from a 19-year old chav wearing a filthy tracksuit and drinking Stella straight from the can.

White Maltesers, wear them round your neck.  And if you get peckish,

even after the main course,

you can eat your own necklace.

And so, with pearls a-jiggling around my neck, I was chauffeured off into the night.... bound for The Ritz.

Romance from Morrissons?

It was whilst reading the blog of my gorgeous friend, MitziclutterfromtheGutter, that I came up with the idea of placing a lonely heart's ad on the community noticeboard at Morrisons.

Despite retaining my fastidious loathing of the working classes, I felt it was high time to get what on the scene is known as some "rough trade".  I vowed to boldly go where no upper-class lady has gone before.  I meekly presented my typewritten personal ad to Customer Services, having waded through a sea of blue-rinsed, comb-over wildebeests.

I then scuttled off home and got Cook to make me breakfast.  Pondering what I had done, I sat slurping my Egg Nog and Bacon (spirits such as brandy or rum or bourbon are often added; can't choose which?  Do as I do, and add all three!), whilst waiting nervously for the first love-letter to come through my letterbox.

 

Hats off to Soho drag queens

"Isn't it time you bought a new hat?" whispered 1950s drag-queen-cum-benefit-fraudster Penelope Hardpotts (pictured above) into my ear, all too loudly, as I was enjoying a Friday night-out in Soho.  Some time later, I staggered round the back of Madame Jojo's for a quick tinkle behind a skip, whilst waiting for Juan to pick me up in the Rolls, a virtually impossible feat in 9-inch heels.

As I was about to leave something caught my eye, lying abandoned in the skip.  It looked like an old filthy cushion but was in fact.... a hat.  What a coincidence.  I whipped it out and stuffed it in my handbag.  Upon arriving back home, I ordered my maid to put the hat into the washing machine.   Tonight, I'm going out to a high society social event at a place in London called The Ritz and I want to look my best.  Rather than spend a small fortune at a London milliners, I'm rather pleased with my find from last night.  Here I am wearing my new hat.  If this is the quality of hat anyone can find abandoned in a skip in a back-alley in Soho, then the drag queens that frequent the district have more money than sense!

Maid gone AWOL

Pffft... so much for 'hired help'.  The maid has gone AWOL, the servants-quarters are deserted and there's no-one to fetch the papers, toast my crumpets, fill my bath, or warm my slippers.  My respectability in social circles is crumbling!  If a maid is worth her salt, then she's loyal, caring and dependable.

As you can see from the picture, I even had to reload the dishwasher myself.  What is the world coming to?

My world of gesticolare

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One of my favourite reads

This is a great read; my copy of this book is very well-thumbed, with some pages stuck together: in the comfort of your own home, you too can make a dildo from an empty packet of Smarties, a can of baked beans, or an old washing-up liquid bottle, using only sticky-back plastic. 

The ladies at the Womens' Institute in Brill will enjoy this book, too.  I donated twenty copies from my library.

Meanwhile, here's a picture of a DIY dildo I just made with sticky-back plastic.  Isn't it wonderful?  No more Ann Summers!

My DIY dildo.  Isn't it magnificent?

Asifa Lahore

This Asian beauty is Asifa Lahore, the United Kingdom's first Muslim drag queen.   My lunatic maid, Basil, was screwing around with the television remote control yesterday, flicking the channel over from The Wombles to Judge Judy and back to Sun, Sea and Pissed-Up Brits.  I thwacked her around the head with a rolled-up newspaper, and that must have dislodged some dust and mothballs from her tiny grey brain, because Basil the maid quietly turned the channel back to BBC1 before sitting heavily down with all the grace of an East End builder onto an antique Windsor Carver chair, crushing the thing to matchsticks. 

At that very moment - in stark contrast to Basil's strikingly humdrum resemblance to Thora Hird (minus the tattoos, of course) - the gorgeous Asifa Lahore appeared on the TV screen like a whirling dervish, and all thoughts of sadistically punishing the maid went out the window for a few moments as I was seduced by a world of burqa-clad, Bollywood hanky-panky.

Listen to this wonderful song: Punjabi Girl by Asifa... I was literally glued to the TV screen for the remaining few minutes..... put on your best glittery stilettos and get ready to boogie!

 "I'm a glamorous queen in Versace

Make me cook, make me clean

Asian men are so mean

You want me as your wife

And you play on the scene"

New Year's Resolutions

An anonymous, handwritten note had been pushed under my door this morning.  It read: "Perhaps, as a New Year's Resolution, you could try being a bit politer to your maid". 
 

I think not!  A New Year’s resolution is something that goes in one year and out the other.  Wait a minute.. have I got that right?!!? Isn't it '...in one ear and out the other'? I'm not sure!  Frankly speaking, New Year's Eve is the only night of the year that one can get away with wearing body glitter without being mistaken for a stripper.

To break the monotony of the final hours of 2014, I went in for clay pigeon shooting today, a thoroughly enjoyable country pursuit in the English shires, second only to dogging, and especially rambunctious good fun after imbibing a half-dozen, triple-strength G&Ts.  But to my great dismay, I was completely out of clay pigeons, the little round devices that get fired upwards; instead, I grabbed a basket of stale bread rolls from the kitchen and loaded these into the clay pigeon launcher, as a substitute, and waited impatiently as the bread rolls were propelled into the sky, before triumphantly blasting them to pieces with my rifle, showering Basil the maid (who was busy, on my instructions, trimming the grand lawn with a tiny pair of nail-scissors) with millions of breadcrumbs. 

I chased Basil into the hedge maze with the rifle, and I believe, the gum-chewing bint is still trying to find her way out, armed only with a pink feather duster.  It may take some time. That shall teach her for the insubordination of her anonymous New Year's request.

With Basil hopelessly lost in the hedge maze, I went indoors to wash, powder my nose, and change into my special new dress, a creation by some New York fashionista whose name I forget.  Do you like it?  It's made from rare, pink-dyed, ostrich feathers from Mozambique.  I'm headed for London tonight with Juan, my Brazilian chauffeur and toyboy to paint the town pink at an exclusive club where all the A-list glitterati are on the guest list (no.. not that pretentious dump, The Ivy, from which I have been barred for life for the indiscretion of headbutting a waitress because she had the audacity to serve warm champagne).

As for New Year's Resolutions, here's my list:

1. Travel more

2. Shop more

3. Lose an ounce in weight 

4. Learn to play the harp

5. If the maid misbehaves, pick her up by her ears

6. Pray for world peace

7. Buy more jewellery

8. Launch my own fragrance

9. Be on the front cover of Tatler and Vogue 

10. May the Lord banish Belladonna as far from me as possible, such as the Moon or Jupiter or Mars.

10. Dear God, my prayer for 2015 is a FAT bank account and a THIN body.  Please don't mix it up like you did this year.

What are yours? 

A Happy and Gin-soaked New Year to all my Readers!  May 2015 be the best year ever!   Pass my glass, dear! x

Attack of the Killer Sprouts

After glugging down five glasses of absinthe with all the grace and charm of a Cockney chimney-sweep, my newly appointed maid, Basil, was set to work peeling brussel sprouts on Christmas Day; not just a handful of sprouts, but millions of the green buggers.  Something must have gone to her head because Basil soon began to report the sprouts were 'alive', that they had little angry faces, and were running around the kitchen.  No doubt, Basil's been out in the grounds consuming hallucinogenic mushrooms again (one of Belladonna's old tricks), either that or gargling Cillit Bang's Black Mould Limescale Remover to freshen up her fishy breath.

"Hurry up, dear" I called joyfully down the stairs, "Dinner is served at 7 sharp.  Only 290,000 more sprouts to go!".

Sexy Santa

I was out on the rooftops on Christmas Eve to fit a gigantic condom over my chimney to prevent a repetition of last year's drunken Yuletide shenanigans when a local farmer, aged 93, and dressed as Father Christmas, tried to cum down my chimney, uninvited.  He'd eaten so many mince pies he got stuck half way down and had to be sucked out by an industrial drain-unblocker.  Out he popped like a cork.

This year, I erected a sign on the rooftop stating my "Christmas visitation requirements": all Santa Clauses must be no older than 26 years of age and have a Body Mass Index of under 25.

At the stroke of midnight, there was a ferocious knock at the door and this Santa arrived, all glistening, oiled muscle.  Latvian, I think.  Doesn't speak a word of English, but I'm not complaining this time.

Happy Christmas to all readers of my blog, near and far.  Or as they say on the other side of the Pond: Happy Holidays.  May this Christmas be the best Christmas ever for you and your loved ones.

Have a listen to this great song, which is one of my Christmas favourites.   Good ole Bob.. he can still produce great songs!

Never fly cattle-class

Flying cattle-class is a form of sado-masochism, arising from acts involving the infliction or reception of pain or humiliation whilst seated in a cramped, metal tube travelling at 500 miles per hour, ignored for the large part by surly, fake-tanned ex-models [known by some as 'Glorified Waitress in the Sky', and by others as 'Hostitute' and 'Trolly Dolly']. 

Oh, and both toilets will be out of order for the entire 6-hour flight.  Most people pay for the privilege of travelling in this manner, although the sum paid is not very much, usually the cost of a second class postage stamp.  The purpose of such behaviour is usually to travel to a foreign destination, usually the underbelly of European resorts (Kavos!  Faliraki!  Sunny Beach!  Ayia Napa!  Canvey Island!).  

Once arrived, they lounge around on the beach all day with no sun lotion on, rapidly contract skin cancer, gorge daily on three cooked English breakfasts, drink copious amounts of vodka, gin, beer, rum and Red Bull (not separately, but mixed together) administered through a funnel-and-pipe known as a Headfucker, and proceed to pass out in one's own vomit, after having shagged a random bird/bloke/blow-up doll/pillowcase. 

I would never get caught out flying cattle-class.  And I would never holiday in the fleshpots of Europe.  No, I have a reputation to keep and I travel to quality destinations where I can enjoy exclusive, high-brow pursuits such as cultural tours, archaeology, wine tasting, fine dining, cock-sucking, visiting sex clubs and naturist beaches, looking for sex in the sand-dunes, cruising laybys and rampant dogging and cottaging. I'm at it like a rabbit!  (Edit: Whoops, maybe best delete that last lot.)

 

Thus, I have this little rubber-stamp which I put on all my travel documentation, to remind cabin crew that I have a sensitive disposition and am only medically allowed to travel in Superior Class and dine off fine bone china with silvery cutlery, despite only having purchased a cattle-class ticket for tuppence. I also like there to be a red carpet awaiting me at the arrival airport, and have been known to threaten airlines with legal action for breach of contract if this has not been forthcoming.

My stall at the W.I.

Being asked to hold a stall selling items at the Womens' Institute Winter Fair was a bit of a conundrum for me.  I couldn't be bothered spending hours making pickled gherkins or country jams or green tea or any of that malarkey.  Instead, I thought it was time to clean the attic out of things I had grown out of, and so here's how my stall looked.

West wing flooded

Here I am this morning, looking for the TV remote control.  Unfortunately, Basil, my new maid, had left a tap running and flooded the entire West wing.  I had to dive five metres underwater, holding my breathe, just to wind the Ormolu clock on the mantelpiece.

The woman has the brain of a cockroach.  Here she is, hours earlier, standing around singing and waving what appears to be a Lady Gaga toilet brush around in the air, unaware of the calamity she is about to cause.

Do you Squirt?

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