Tuesday, 7 October 2014

I am in love with The Pope

Yes, you heard me correctly.   And here's why....


HYPROCRITE.

And, yes! I have been away for three months... I'll tell you all about that in my next post in a blinding minute.  Toodle-pip.

Saturday, 21 June 2014

From Russia with love?

No, it's not Skegness.

Postman Pat delivered this postcard this morning, from Belladonna.  It seems that her hot air balloon was not blown out of the sky over the Bay of Biscay by the French Air Force (*weeps uncontrollably at this news*), but she made it back to her homeland.  What a delightful little place Norilsk is, reminds me of Wales.  

Good riddance to Belladonna, that's what I say.  Let the Russians have her.

Tuesday, 17 June 2014

A reader asks: why did Belladonna have to go?

A reader emailed to ask precisely why I got rid of Belladonna.   Have you not been reading the blog, my dear?  Belladonna was a stark-raving lunatic.  And she was Russian!  If that's not enough, a few weeks ago before she was finally ejected from the premises and began living rough on the village green, Belladonna was politely told to clean the bathroom until she could see her great ugly face reflected in the glistening porcelain; I have impeccable cleaning standards and it's not an altogether unusual request, you might think, for a live-in maid to perform such a task.  Here are the pictures of Belladonna "cleaning the bathroom", just to prove to the world her lunacy.


It was at this point that Belladonna cast off her pink maid's pinafore, threw down her feather duster and completely snapped.  It was like a small bomb going off.


Finding the bathroom door locked, Belladonna decided to break it down, with an axe taken from the wood shed.




 

In no time at all, she had turned most of the bathroom door into matchsticks with the axe.  She then put her face through the gaping hole and shrieked like a banshee "Heeere's Bella!".



When one is powdering one's nose, it is the most inconvenient moment for an axe attack.
 
I dunno.... I do blame those high energy drinks, like Red Bull, that she's been consuming in vast quantities for her disturbed behaviour.


After I escaped from Belladonna's axe-wielding clutches through the bathroom window via a little game of kiss-chase through the hedge maze, I found that she'd been writing her autobiography on the old typewriter in her servants' quarters.  What a strange piece of writing it turned out to be.




That night, after barricading myself into my room for fear of further attacks from my mentally-deranged maid, I had the most terrifying nightmare of my life, in which Belladonna in her younger years appeared as twins holding hands. I woke up screaming the house down.


I hope, dear Reader, I've made it obvious why Belladonna the Maid had to go!  I am hoping to hire a new maid and I've placed an ad in Horse & Hound Magazine.  It would be wonderful to find a reliable girl, a shining example such as MitziClutterfromtheGutter's Carmen, who is, apparently, a domestic goddess.


Belladonna, unhinged.  Also known as The Mad-Axe Woman of Vladivostok.

Friday, 13 June 2014

Up, up and away


Enough's enough.  Today was the final camel that broke the straw's back:  former Russian champion shot-putter and failed household maid, Belladonna Zlatogrivov was seen cavorting naked outside the village pub with a stuffed parrot on her shoulder, singing filthy sailors' songs all afternoon at the top of her voice (she even makes Bjork sound vaguely musical).  Belladonna had to go, and had to go today.... but how?  How was I to get rid of this monstrous fly in the ointment?  I put my purple knitted thinking cap on and hatched a cunning plan: knowing Belladonna had a penchant for getting as drunk as a skunk and was also probably half-starved, I laid out a treasure trail of Russian vodka, creme eggs, chocolate eclairs, Wagon Wheels, packets of Tunnock's tea cakes, endless Bounty and Wispa chocolate bars, Twix and Snickers, lining the path all the way from Belladonna's Blowjob Tent on the village green to the spot where I wanted her.



After the trap was set, shockingly, I saw Belladonna on the ground like a pig sniffing after a truffle, as she gulped down Crunchies and creme eggs and glugged vodka like there was no tomorrow; she moved at alarming speed, leaving in her wake empty wrappers and a disarray of finished bottles.  The tranquility of that afternoon was broken by pestilential bouts of flatulence and belches as cacophonous as those of an Amazonian bullfrog.   With no small amount of glee, I found her some time later, at the end of the treasure trail, fast asleep in the little wicker basket attached to the hot air balloon, stolen that afternoon from a garden centre near Milton Keynes by none other than moi.  I lit the burners and tied a brick to the propane release cord, watching excitedly as the balloon inflated and the whole thing lifted into the air.  

 


As the sun began to set over Brill, the hot air balloon rose high into the sky and drifted on the strong wind in the general direction of France.  Quite a difficult job painting farewell messages on the both sides of the balloon, but well worth the effect!

Goodbye, Belladonna.  Farewell and good luck to all who sail in her. 

Thursday, 12 June 2014

Middle finger to Russia


Juan got all excited in the trouser department this morning when Eurovision winner Conchita Wurst appeared on TV singing Rise Like a Phoenix (no! that's not a mayonnaise stain on the collar of my dress).   I adore Conchita: not only is she beautiful, but she can sing, she has an amazing wardrobe and she's proudly trans.  Imagine my boiling disgust to learn that Russia, a little-known country east of the Balkans, made disgusting and shameful comments about Conchita: "there is no limit to our outrage, this is the end of Europe.  There are no men or women in Europe, just it".   It?   Referring to a goddess like Conchita as it?  Boo hiss boo!


So, without further a-do, let's take a quick look at Russia's offering in the Eurovision Song Contest.  The ballad "Do You Think I'm Sexy?" was performed by sultry lounge singer, Mikel Gorbachev,  who twerked his way onto stage wearing a sickle-print cocktail dress.  Isn't he sexy?  I love that beetroot stain on his forehead. 


Tripe dressed as mutton

Sadly, revenge is a salad best served with arsenic, for the musical ears of Europe awarded Russia's Eurovision entry nil point (that's zero to those who don't speak Welsh).  Poor Russia!   I once considered a holiday in Russia, to their version of the Costa del Sol, known as Norilsk, in Siberia.  Here are some photos, to tempt you.



Sadly, the Russian Embassy refused my visa.  Moved to tears by the missed opportunity to visit Norilsk's stunning coastline, I stood outside the Russian Embassy in Central London singing at the top of my voice Sweet Transvestite by the Rocky Horror Picture Show.




You may remember that my ex-maid, Belladonna, comes from Russia.  Another reason the place should be bombed to smithereens.   Anyway, let's forget about silly little places like Russia and just enjoy the extraordinary talent that is Conchita Wurst:-



Tuesday, 10 June 2014

The curse of the traffic warden


Traffic wardens - like a plague of locusts - are one of this nation's most vilified sub-species.   They're generally monosyllabic or completely mute, walk with a shuffle, spit in three directions and have all the charm of a face-to-face encounter with Gollum.  As if by chance, it was just four weeks ago, whilst I was out dogging in the little but very popular layby that runs at the back of the A34 just north of Oxford, that one of their kind slapped a yellow-and-black ticket on my Daimler.   Who would have known that 30 minutes of fun in the bushes and over the picnic tables could have cost me a £40 Fixed Penalty Charge?

Since that time, I have issued my chauffeur with written instructions (they are sellotaped to the steering wheel) to show them no mercy and run them over, as a matter of cause (Juan loves a game of ten-pin bowling).   And my tactic for evading the clutches of the traffic warden whilst out dogging?   I invented this little game to keep their tiny little brains occupied....

Sunday, 8 June 2014

Update on Belladonna

A terrible thing has reared its ugly head in my life: my Russian maid, Belladonna Zlatogrivov - formerly a pupil at the School of Domestic Education for Overweight Monkeys in Vladivostok, and violently ejected from my household for the gross act of insubordination for refusing to clean the house's 27 bathrooms with just a toothbrush and a bottle of Ajax - has been performing some sort of deranged sex show on the green in Brill, in the heart of my once-respectable village.  And not only that, but news of its has reached London.   As a consequence, my nerves are like shredded tuna; I've been popping Valium all day like they're Smarties.

A little sparrow on the grapevine told me that Belladonna had set up a new business, presumably to earn money for her 20-a-day vodka habit.  Here are the photos - those that are easily offended should not proceed any further.  You have been warned.  Be prepared for a shock-fest:



This monstrous apparition is Belladonna's very own Blowjob Tent, a 10-foot high teepee, which she has erected on the village green, amidst the growing rubbish tip that she is slowly transforming this once beautiful area into.  She is selling all 18-stone of herself for the princely sum of 50p; obviously, she would go down a treat in some Victorian circus alongside the Bearded Lady and the Elephant Man.

This awful poster has also gone up around the village:


And she's even making in-roads at Piccadilly Circus: a photo of her colossal bulk resting on a chaise-longue about to eat a grape has appeared at the Central London spot.


 I don't know how she's managed it... maybe she has Max Clifford as her agent?   I have to hatch a plan to get rid of her, once and for all!

Wednesday, 28 May 2014

Spring trip to Sardinia

Last week, on a whim, I jumped on a flight to Sardinia; it's an island I hardly knew anything about beforehand.  It's nothing to do with sardines, either.  No, Sardinia is the second largest island in the Mediterranean and has a wealth of ancient history, good beaches, fine food and beautiful men.  It also doesn't seem to be particularly on the radar of most English tourists, which is a great shame.

After such a Satanic English winter, a week's trip turned out to be just the antidote I needed - after just a two-and-a-half-hour direct flight to Cagliari, I was on a different planet.  I spent four days of the trip, just on this gorgeous beach.

Chia beach has thirty-metre high white dunes, sand so fine and bleached it is like talcum powder, and a dense cloak of juniper trees; the beach is remote, accessible by rutted lanes and has a necklace of even more isolated beaches nearby.  A swim here is breathtaking, as the ocean, even this early in the season, is bath-warm, shallow and stained a dazzling jade-blue.  The locals say dolphins can be seen off-shore, although I didn't see any.



The roasted sea bass I enjoyed at mid-day at the nearby restaurant was irresistible, rich and melt-in-the-mouth; shallots, large zesty lemon halves, pungent locally-gathered herbs and ever-so-juicy plum tomatoes.




After a day spent under startling blue skies and with salt drying on my sunburnt skin, we stopped en route back to the hotel to look at a simple market stall in a village selling lemons.  It is a pleasure to see such produce for sale in such stark contrast to the fruit we normally find withering in the supermarkets in Britain.  Juan, keen to treat me to something authentically Italian, soon put a few lemons in the hotel's only blender and presented me with a delightfully chilled, refreshing glass of just-this-minute-made lemonade.

Tuesday, 27 May 2014

Incandescent with rage over TV Licensing



I was just noisily gobbling down some larks' tongues on toast for breakfast, followed by a pewter flute of Dom Perignon White Gold Jeroboam champagne when Postman Pat came and popped an ominous brown envelope through my slot.  I was expecting more fan mail and immediately flew into a violent rage and tore open the envelope to reveal the above letter, from someone called TV Licensing - the sheer cheek of it!  I spat a mouthful of lark tongue onto the carpet and rushed to the typewriter, to immediately bash out the following response to these people:


How dare they interrupt my breakfast!  I've heard tales of people being harassed by this institution.  Do you think my letter will get them off my back?
 

Friday, 23 May 2014

Lost in Translation


A few years ago when I was doing a glamour modelling photoshoot for The Wombles Christmas Calendar in Beijing, China, my limousine passed the city's main hospital which displayed this unusual sign.  It seems something was lost in translation...

Tuesday, 20 May 2014

Playing with my pussy


Often heard muttered by the rich and famous, the old English expression, "Dogs are a transvestite's best friend" is very true, but, I must declare my equal love for cats.  There's nothing more exciting than staying indoors and gently caressing one's pussy.  My cat's name is Doris and she's a white Persian puss-cat. 

One of my favourite books!
 
I remember the day clearly when my ex-maid Belladonna coughed up a hairball the size of a haystack, presumably as a consequence of being in close contact with the cat's voluminous bush.  It was such an event, I photographed the moment and it sits, lovingly, in a frame on my window, to remind me of the happy time.


Anyway, last night, as I was enjoying my 32nd glass of gin n' tonic and around the time I started to see pink elephants dancing in front of my eyes, I thought it was high time Doris the cat had a makeover and at the same time I decided to create some bespoke 'animal' art using an assortment of aerosol paint-sprays, something that would surely leave heart-throb art critic, Brian Sewell, speechless.  Here is the result of my cat-grooming-cum-animal-artwork.


Isn't it rainbowlicious?  Doris the cat is the talk of the village!

Friday, 9 May 2014

Filthy wig found in a bin

In the lovely Spring weather today, I went out onto the village green to play hopskotch and it was there that I saw the monstrous apparition of Belladonna, surrounded by a hundred empty vodka bottles and a filthy old mattress.  She's been living out rough on the village green, behind the bins and I saw her traipsing down the high street today wearing this wig.

Thursday, 8 May 2014

I just love Countdown

Whilst the holidaying hordes enjoyed the sub-tropical 10°c heatwave over the long Easter bank holiday, I stayed indoors with the fire crackling and on Sunday afternoon, finally sat down to watch my third favourite TV programme of all time, Countdown.  It's presented by doyenne of daytime TV and former Miss East of England beauty pageant winner, Carol Vorderman.

With a cup full of strong Darjeeling tea in my right hand, and a plate of Digestives ready to be dunked resting on the arm of the Ottoman, I watched avidly, until this moment in the TV show came up.


Contestant Gwen Turpin, retired coal-miner, 92, from Caerphilly, South Wales, came up with the word "minge".  Is that a word?  It's not in my lexicon of US English.  What does it mean?  Can anyone enlighten me?

I do enjoy British television and I'm just sitting down to watch 1980s children's programme, Button Moon.  I haven't got a TV licence, of course, and have never had one, as TV licence evasion is a national past-time here in the Home Counties.  Here is my favourite episode of Button Moon.  I often sing along to the theme tune:-

video


Friday, 4 April 2014

Update on Belladonna


Since leaving my employ (forcibly, by the ejector seat), Belladonna my ex-maid, is still living out rough on the village green.  She's also now making the headlines, thanks to a bit of naughtiness on my part (I bribed a newspaper editor).

Meanwhile, I have been plaguing the local council with phone calls and letters, re-citing the common byelaw that any dog seen without its owner on public land is deemed a stray, and that Belladonna should be rounded up by the dog warden, for her own protection.  But they have, to date, failed to act, no doubt due to the fact they haven't got a van big enough to transport her in.   

"I dunno, Fanny", I chortle to myself over a soothing cuppa of basking-shark tea, "Reliable live-in staff are as rare as hens' teeth, aren't they?".  

"Yes, they are, Fanny" I reply, solemnly, putting the cup down.


Wednesday, 5 March 2014

Terrifying nightmare

Just woke up screaming the house down after having a nightmare about my Russian ex-maid, Belladonna, who is living rough on the village green.  I dreamt she was stuck inside an old television and then, as the nightmare unfolded, she slithered out of the tv, like a scene from The Ring, and tried to eat me alive.

 

Saturday, 1 March 2014

The turning of the shrew

My pooches - Brenda, the stiletto-loving Doberman Pinscher and Mr Puffywuffycutesweetgummywummygumdrop, the dyed poodle - love watching television, and they're in awe when Superstar Dogs comes on.  In case you live in a remote part of Britain which hasn't yet been connected to the television network (such as Peterborough), Superstar Dogs is presented by the ever-so-dishy John Barrowman, in which dogs jump through hoops, dive into pools and are cannonballed across a football pitch.  Fanny heard on the showbiz grapevine that Cheryl Cole was asked to present the programme, but it didn't prove popular as viewers couldn't tell the difference between the presenter and the contestants!

As you can see from this photo, as Superstar Dogs reached its climax, both dogs began barking at fever pitch.  I couldn't understand what was wrong (Mr P tends to start licking the tv screen at the very sight of John Barrowman, as indeed do I).   As Brenda jumped up on the table and began growling, my blood froze.    Outside in the garden, staring hungrily in through the window was a ghastly spectre dressed in her usual slovenly attire of a 1980s Wonderwoman outfit.... it was, of course, Belladonna, my dangerously psychotic, Russian ex-maid, who, since her expulsion from my employ, has been living rough behind the bins on the village green.

I reached for an Uzi sawn-off shotgun (which I keep stashed in my bedsit cabinet, in case of opportunistic burglaries or visits from the Jehovah's Witnesses) and chased Belladonna out of the grounds back to where she was sleeping rough, firing a few rounds randomly into the air.  I discovered that the once-respectable village green has been turned into a rubbish tip.  Just look at the state of the place: 

*click to enlarge*: Belladonna is living in a yellow skip, and around it, a disgusting paraphernalia of half-eaten pizza, empty beer cans, a gargantuan pile of Quality Street wrappers (I read on Belladonna's previous employment report she once tried to commit suicide by consuming three tins of Quality Street in one sitting), as well as a filthy, stained mattress, five inflatable sex dolls, four tubes of KY jelly and Vaseline, three dildoes (one was 20 inches in length and double-pronged) and a foot-pump. 

To my horror, Belladonna was also holding this handwritten sign, visible to all passing traffic.


In a terrible flap, I screamed at the top of my voice, ran home, poured myself a triple strength gin-n-tonic, gobbled down some Xanax, Prozac, Lithium and Valium, snorted some Poppers, and then grabbed and began necking a bottle of whiskey.  My social standing amongst the villagers was now in tatters, thanks to Belladonna.   What was I to do?

Monday, 24 February 2014

Spiker stilettos

Just popped out for a dog walk, wearing these new stilettos, whilst the other dog walkers I saw were wearing plain old Wellington Boots.

Aren't they a delight?

 

Quelle horreur!

A man tapped on the window of my limousine to ask if he could have my autograph.  "Where shall I sign?" I said, batting my eyelids in false modesty and hungrily licking my lips.  I'm such a fame-whore, I love all the attention!  I was waiting for him to hand me an autograph book, or better still, to expose a part of his body for me to sign with my gold fountain pen stolen from the stationery counter at Harrods.  I love it when a young man wants my signature on his thigh, or better still, his groin or even further south.  However, he just shrugged and handed me an empty packet of pork scratchings.  Imagine that!  It felt like a slap round the face to be asked to sign my autograph on an packet of pork scratchings.

The consumption of pork scratchings is a bizarre British trait which I've never fully understood or appreciated: in certain quarters, they're consumed in large quantities. They consist of hairy bits of pig-rind, slick with fat; sometimes they're hard and could crack your teeth.  Every corner shop and every pub sells them and they're loaded with nutrients (100,000 calories per bite).  I shudder at the thought of having to eat one.  The smell reminds me of Belladonna.

Friday, 21 February 2014

Butler replaced

My trusty, old-fashioned butler, Archibald - hard of hearing; heavy smoker's hacking cough; always wears Dame Edna Everage spectacles - is normally impeccably turned out in his 1920s black-and-white tuxedo.  He's a God-send.  He has been with me since 1981.  He's of the old school, you see, and knows his vintage of wine with exactitude, knows how to serve devilled kidneys with tiny French silver forks, knows about Rita Hayworth, and knows how to shake a creme de menthe frappé in no time.  But imagine when your once-respectable butler suddenly starts stripping off and waltzes across your formal lawn dressed in a dazzling-white, tiny posing pouch...

 That's not a banana.

It's not that I mind his rampant voyerism, it's just that it might upset the neighbours!   I do feel that Archibald might be better off retiring to a bungalow in Saltdean, not far from Brighton's gay beach.   With that thought in mind, after almost 35 years of service, I made the decision to offer Archibald retirement today.  He gets a £300,000 bungalow in Saltdean, paid by moi, and a pension of £30,000 per annum.  He did thank me enormously and invite me to visit him in Saltdean, which I might well do.

No sooner had he departed for the Costa Geriatrica, then I had appointed my new butler.  He doesn't know a thing about wine, art or etiquette, in fact he doesn't even know how to boil an egg and he doesn't speak a word of English, but I do think he makes an ideal replacement.


 Fanny is very much looking forward to licking caviar off that six-pack

A dog's day

Here at Raffles, I share my life with two dogs: Brenda, my Doberman Pinscher and Mr P, my boisterous poodle.  Brenda used to jump on the chaise-longue, roll on her back and piss in Belladonna the Maid's face and was rewarded for doing so with copious amounts of Bonio's.  Mr P is short for Mr Puffywuffycutesweetgummywummygumdrop (Fanny likes a mouthful!).  Mr P likes his cuddles and walks in the rain.  


In this photo taken yesterday, you can see that Mr P stands incredibly still sometimes, so still that it's possible to put down a wine glass and wine bottle for a while.  He doesn't mind a bit.  When I come back, not a drop of wine has been spilt!

Today, it dawned on me that it was high time I got Mr P taken to the dog grooming parlour - his tresses were unruly, he is long overdue for a haircut.

 Mr P was very unhappy about having to sit next to that bitch.

"What is it you'd like done for him?" said the dog grooming parlour assistant.  

"Surprise me!" I said, before leaving the parlour to head off to my favourite high-class department store, Poundland.

Imagine my orgasmic delight when I returned to the dog parlour two hours later to pick up Mr P and found a transformed pooch. 

Here he is, in all his glory....


I am so amazed by his transformation from a white fluff-ball to a work of art, I have walked him round the village (I, myself, was naked at the time, but for an umbrella) to show off his beautiful plumage.