Tuesday, 20 January 2015

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?

Thursday, 15 January 2015

My world of gesticolare

Today, I appointed a new member of staff.  His name is Davidoff.  He arrived at the front gate to the sound of bugles, trumpets and fireworks.  He is from Brazil and his main duty is shovelling coal onto my fire.  He answered an advert I placed in the Situations Vacant section of MILF magazine.  Here he is in all his brazen Brazilian bodaciousness:
 
He has a special outfit he must wear at all times: a tiny blue and black Spandex posing pouch with a gold star, a black tie and a matching cap.  He is shirt-less and trouser-less at all times (it's Health & Safety, y'er know: if a spark from the fire touched any unnecessarily-worn fabrics, he could go up in flames!).  He is summoned by hand-bell.


Davidoff speaks absolutely no English.  And that's just the way I like my men (Juan, my butler/chauffeur is the same).  It means there is no answering back!  My mother always said I was good at languages but I cannot be bothered learning the language they speak in Brazil, which I believe is Welsh.  Therefore, in the absence of the national language of Brazil, we communicate in a kind of sign-language, using either gestures or everyday objects as props.  Because the Italians cannot be bothered learning their own language, they have their gesticolare or gesticulations, which are a substitute to language.  Therefore, what's good for the goose is also good for the gander.   For those who only ever came away from secondary school with a GCSE in Animal Husbandry, I'll enlighten you now that gesturing is a form of non-verbal communication in which visible bodily actions communicate particular messages; they may include the use of hands, face, mouth, or other body parts, or the use of clothes or food.  Below are some of the gesticulations I use on a daily basis with Davidoff and Juan.


*** 
For example, this means "go down the long, narrow corridor into my coal-house and refill the coal scuttle".

 ***

And this means "I've got a bit of Yorkshire pudding stuck in my throat.  I might choke to death in a second or two. Can you give me the Heimlich Manoeuvre?  But is it okay if I strip naked first, before you do that?"

***

This gesture means "pass the fruit bowl, dear, I feel like noshing another banana.  I simply cannot be bothered to get off my bone-idle lazy ass and move half an inch to get it myself".

***

And yes, you guessed it, this 'tongue-slowly-touches-tooth-and-licks-glossy-lips-with-intent' gesture means "I'm as parched as an Arab's armpit.  Can you get me something cold to drink, like a triple-strength gin n' tonic?  Oh my word, I slipped on a glacé cherry and all my clothing has accidentally-on-purpose dropped off".
 ***


My nail put sideways into my mouth means "Will you fetch my Moulin Rouge Vermillion Slut's Lipstick from my Powder Room?"


 ***
And this gesture means "It's really that long?  Wow!  Just wait until my friend Rodney from L.A. hears about it: there'll be an open door to the film-world for you!"

***
This means "I've got terribly restless fingers.  I'd love some traditional Greek worry-beads to shake.  Or failing that some Brazilian nuts to put in my gob.".   A reader contacted me to say the hand gesture may also be used in some quarters to mean: "Would you like a hand-job?".   Hmmm... whatever that is!

***
And this gesture means "Come to mummy!"

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And finally, when I'm feeling particularly lonesome, this hand gesture shows the index finger and forefinger held apart to form a 'C'.  And that, my dear reader, stands for cock!

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Are there any gestures that you use that you wish to share with Fanny?  Write to me x

Sunday, 11 January 2015

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?

Thursday, 8 January 2015

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!

video
 "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"

Wednesday, 31 December 2014

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

Friday, 26 December 2014

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!".

Thursday, 25 December 2014

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!


Monday, 22 December 2014

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.

Sunday, 21 December 2014

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.

Friday, 19 December 2014

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.

Thursday, 18 December 2014

Do you Squirt?

Dogging, cruising and cottaging: a trio of proud English past-times, celebrated by all on this privileged island.   I usually go all twitchy when I'm driven past a remote picnic site in the English countryside; I've been known to stop for a few hours and 'enjoy the wildlife'.   In idle moments of rapture, I go on the internet and visit Cottaging.co.uk and SwingingHeaven.com which contain helpful information.  However, one of the worst websites Fanny has had the misfortune to connect with is Squirt.org,  brazenly promising 'hot and horny hookups' and claiming it contains a list of 'thousands of local cruising spots'.


Fanny took a peek inside Squirt.org, signing up for free, and was immediately bombarded with unsavoury messages from Reginald, a very hirsute man from Edgware who wanted to insert an aubergine into a very private place.  Or there was Archibald, a retired greengrocer from Bognor Regis who showed on his profile picture a wooden box full of raw liver.  There was a hole in the side of the box, with instructions on how to insert a body part.   And finally, my most hated enemy, faded 1960s drag-queen, Lady Vagina, seems to be 'holding court' on this website, posting scurrilous rumours about my good person on to the Hampstead Heath forum.

Given the above three examples, I truly believe that this site is nothing but a dating site for chimpanzees, gorillas and other primates of the lower order.  Therefore, with great haste, I have re-designed Squirt.org's website for them to more accurately reflect their clientele - compare it with the original, if you will!

How did I rid myself of Belladonna?

Revenge is a dish best served cold, some say.  In this little vignette of villainy, I prefer to serve it hot, which explains precisely why I purchased a first class Banana Airlines flight for Belladonna to travel from London to sunny Sydney, Australia.

  Banana Airlines, the Queen's favourite airline.  Flies daily to 19 different destinations via Lagos, Nigeria.

No, she's not joined the Australian Mile High Club, nor has Belladonna asked that her brain be donated to medical science to further research into the causes of hypo-manic schizophrenia, no.  She has instead been lured into thinking she's going on a well-deserved luxury 28-day holiday, staying in a room with an ocean view, with all the creature comforts.   Before she left, she packed a bikini the same size as the fabric of a hot air balloon.


Can you imagine Belladonna's shock when the sedative wore off and she awoke to find herself here?   A perspex tube full of stale seawater.  Well, it almost has an ocean view... and as for creature comforts...... well.... those critters can be friendly.   All I've got to say is 'farewell, Belladonna, enjoy Sydney!'.

Monday, 15 December 2014

A new maid

This is my new maid, the long-awaited replacement for Belladonna.  Her name is Basil.  No, that's not a typo, you heard me correctly: Basil.  Basil Wiggleswade.  She dresses like that all the time.

She speaks like a Cockney chimney-sweep.  I appointed her as cleaner and general dogsbody.  She hasn't got a clue, I think her brain has come unglued.  Yesterday, she tried to clean the toilet with the vacuum cleaner.
The bloody wench caused a mini-explosion.  I could throttle the woman, and it's only her first day.  When asked to do a simple task like make my morning cup of tea, she retorted that she didn't know how to.  Where did the agency get this woman from?  Mars?
 She's currently on her probation period and living in the luxury staff quarters, which is befitting of her role.

Basil's wages are 20 drachma a week, based on a 90 hour week.

Saturday, 6 December 2014

Culinary extravaganza


In preparation for the Womens' Institute Bring N' Buy Winter Sale at the village hall, I've been cooking all day, rushing in and out of the scullery.  As a celebrated food authoress and award-winning cook, I'm always happiest in the kitchen, singing as I work "Nellie the Elephant Packed Her Trunk and Said Goodbye to the Circus..." at the top of my voice, gin bottle in hand.

After hours of toil and the clatter of utensils, I've just made: Christmas Swiss Roll; Fanny's Surprise Pasta Bowl; Reindeer Tomato Soup; Wild Truffle and Quail Egg Pizza; Traditional Winter Fruit Compote, Christmas Toffee Cake and Victoria Beckham Sponge Cake, among others.   Here are my culinary creations.  Aren't they the tastiest-looking creations fit for a king's feast?  All expertly made with love, care and tenderness. I conceived an affection to the ladies of the WI that would see me crowned the hostess with the mostest, a chatter of tongues and suddenly, I'm the most talked about cook extraordinaire for years, a legend in the making.  I can imagine the headlines of the Brill Gazette...  (*holds breathe and waits*)

 

 Swiss Roll

Wild Truffle and Quail Egg Pizza

Fanny's Surprise Pasta Bowl (in the making).   Glug... my word, that's a lethal whiskey chaser.  Alcohol.. a chef's best friend.

Tomato Soup

Victoria Beckham Sponge Cake (with a vanilla essence Bird's Eye Topping finish)

The recipe did say "bake on a high temperature".
Do you think the Winter Fruits compote is done yet?
 
The Christmas Toffee Cake didn't turn out quite right.
Would you mind asking the Womens' Institute to stick their head in the oven and lick the contents off the oven floor?  I can't seem to get the cake in one piece.  Shame!  Sure they won't mind! 
 
 Just a small selection of Fanny's exotic culinary creations

I hope Delia Schmidt, Gordon Rumsay, Hugh Fernleaf-Shittingstool, Dick Stein and James Boliver are reading this.  I followed your recipes exactingly.  This vodka-on-the-rocks is going down a treat...