Tuesday, 4 November 2014

Keep calm and carry on Trannying

How wonderful to see Austrian transvestite and Eurovision-winner, Conchita Wurst appear at the United Nations and boldly declare that sexuality doesn't matter and that we can all be happy, whether we're gay, transgendered or straight.   Both Juan and I adore Conchita --- she's a transgendered style icon and we love that she is paving the way to stamp out homophobia and transphobia, so we may all live in a more tolerant, happier world.

I have created some nice Keep Calm posters as a special salute to Conchita.  What do you think of my designs?


Feel free to download and print out any of these designs and stick them prominently on the noticeboard of your local Womens' Institute Hall, Jehovah's Witness headquarters, or Working Men's Club.

Saturday, 1 November 2014

Halloween heatwave

So yesterday was the hottest Halloween in England since records began.  The mercury soared to 21.5c in some parts and the nation stripped down to bikinis and budgie-smugglers and headed for the nearest green space to soak up the balmy sun.  We were reminded by such high-class periodicals - like The Sun and the Daily Mail - that Britain was officially hotter than Athens, Istanbul and Rome.

Well, here's a stark warning against sunbathing in open spaces.   A resident of the nearby village of Brill learnt the lesson the hard way...

I spat coffee out of my nose

My morning coffee was going down a treat until my newly- appointed scullery-maid, Basil, accidentally on purpose left the packet of coffee on the table.  

The coffee cup was thrown against the wall and shattered into a thousand pieces.  A coffee called Minges?   "Since when have we been buying a coffee called Minges?" I bawled, "It's not right!  I'm not lesbian".
If you want some Minge in your cup, you can order it here.  Disgusting!  Be informed that the highly-authoritative Oxford English Dictionary defines Minge as a slang term for female genitalia, commonly used in the UK and Ireland.  It also states, a minge is:

1. "A particularly vulgar term for the haven that is sometimes shaven."; and 

2."All men come out of a minge on the first day of their Life and then they (nearly all) spend the rest of their lives trying to get back into one."

Friday, 31 October 2014

Trick or treat, bitch?

Happy Halloween to you!   Here I am trying to make a squid, brussel sprout and sweetcorn casserole, and just about to carve out my pumpkin into a ghoulish face, when someone rang the doorbell repeatedly, sounding like a naughty schoolboy trying to pull the bell off the wall.   I don't usually answer the door as I have a natural aversion to Jehovah's Witnesses and travelling double-glazing salesmen, but on this occasion, I was feeling more relaxed thanks to a doubleshot of absinthe.

Last year, trick-or-treaters spray-painted my car with graffiti; therefore, I went to the door armed with pumpkin-shaped white chocolates injected with powerful laxatives.  I flung open the door to see this terrifying vision.  "Oh my fucking God!  Belladonna! Have I gone mad?", I muttered.

"Trick or treat, bitch?" said the ghastly vision in front of me, every bit of it resembling Belladonna, my Russian ex-maid, in every excruciatingly hideous detail.  Months ago, she was last seen floating off into the summer sky on a hot air balloon.   "Get out, bitch!" I shouted and slammed the door ferociously in Belladonna's face and went to search for some silver and holy water.

Thursday, 30 October 2014

Summer in Portugal

Upon waking from a horrifying, alcohol-induced hallucino-nightmare - in which I had fallen down a rabbit-hole, bumped into a talking rabbit with a pocket-watch, had tea with a table full of hatchet-wielding freaks all with Belladonna's face and escaped from the clutches of the Red Queen - Juan, my handsome Brazilian butler, revived me by sticking his lollipop in my mouth and then explained to me that he had taken me on the private jet to Portugal for a few months' holiday.

Apparently, I had been unconscious for a few days and muttering in my sleep.  Oh well, I did drink the entire drinks cabinet dry!  My liver is now earning a good, long rest under the Portuguese sun.

So we spent gorgeous afternoons on this wonderfully-wild beach on the Troia Peninsula, one hour south of Lisbon, the capital city of Portugal.  It is as gorgeous as it looks: crunchy, white sands; shallow ocean; backed by sand dunes and pine forests, with not a building in sight.

Forget the smelling salts!  My trusty Brazilian butler, Juan, knows too well that
I can be revived from the darkest of depressions by sucking a lollipop.
  Must be the sugar.
During our trip to Portugal, we spent time visiting the local area, and one particular site that impressed us was the Romanticist Palácio Nacional da Pena on a hilltop; the palace has a profusion of architectual styles including Neo-Gothic, Neo-Manueline, Neo-Islamic and Neo-Renaissance. 

The eclectic, pastel- red, yellow, orange and ochre of the buildings reminded us of cake decorations, and was stunning in the intense light.  

Lisbon - the second oldest city in Europe, and spread across seven hillsides punctuated by numerous 'miradouros', or viewpoints - is a particularly fascinating city to visit.  The city lives in a Latin fairytale of time-worn manners and traditions, with wooden trams and iron funiculars thundering through its cobbled, almost-Dickensian streets.   Its old neighbourhoods are both gritty and glamorous.  You have the fashionable Baixa, the city's cheerfully decrepit 18th-century downtown, and Alfama, an eighth-century Moorish district and the home of fado, a lifting and haunting opera-style music sung by a lone diva in candle-lit restaurants.  Chiado is a fashion-lover's magnet, with plenty of top-brand clothing shops and great restaurants.

  Portugal’s pastel de nata is a melt-in-the-mouth buttery delight
And here's a shot of Juan, my gorgeous Brazilian butler taking a swim.
So the reason for my three-month absence from the blogosphere is our trip to beautiful Portugal.  I think I've fallen in love with Portugal.  It really is a perfect little country with everything you could want. 

Tuesday, 28 October 2014

Where have I been for three months?

After the Belladonna incident, I felt such inconsolable shame and a crippling social ruin that I turned to the medicine cabinet, also known as the drinks cabinet.  
What followed was a ferocious afternoon spent splurging on fishbowls of the most unimaginable and grotesque alcoholic mélanges until pink elephants danced in front of my eyes.   

  As much as I love Jasper, my pet goldfish, it was high time he gave up his goldfish bowl and moved to another one so Mummy could make a final fishbowl cocktail of vodka, gin and rum.

Cataplexic after downing a fishbowl of vodka, gin and rum, followed by five Velvet Devil Whiskey Cocktails, three Cherry Brandy Cocktails and fourteen Cuban Mojitos, I hobbled on one leg out into the garden, with a feather boa wrapped around my neck.  The world began to spin and I tripped forward and fell down a rabbit hole... Yes, quite literally, just like Alice!

Glad I hadn't yet soiled my underwear.

The world looked very strange from down there.

Inside the rabbithole it was quite warm and soft.  I edged forward and the earth gave way and I was suddenly falling, very fast, downards.  

When I next opened my eyes, I was lying in a beautiful garden with giant mushrooms for trees and a purple sky.  A white rabbit, the size of a human being, with a pocket watch, hopped by saying "I'm late".  Obviously, not England.

As I turned round, I saw a shocking sight.


I turned and ran and headed for a castle on the hill.  When I reached the entrance, I ran straight inside to beg for help.  As I collapsed into the banquet hall, an even more bizarre sight presented itself.

It was some bizarre tea party going on, with a green frog, a rabbit with a pocket watch, a talking cat, a mouse with a sword, and, most horrifyingly of all, four Belladonnas, dressed flamboyantly in Elizabethan clothing, sitting at the table.  The Belladonna in the middle, the fattest of them all, was about to pour tea.  The table was laid with the finest china cups and saucers and underfoot were Persian carpets.

And then behind me, there was a creaking noise as a wooden door swung open to reveal a grand hallway of red marble.   At the end, sat what looked like a Queen, with her feet resting on a live pig who was grunting softly.  But the Queen's face was unmistakably Belladonna's.

"Off with her head" shouted Belladonna, gesturing at me.  The walls seemed to close in on me and my last memory is screaming my head off.... 

Some time later, I woke with a stinking hangover.   

The first thing I saw was this.

 I suddenly realised that Juan, my Brazilian butler, was standing over me, completely naked.

"Where am I?  What happened?" I demanded, "Have I fallen through the centre of the Earth and ended up in Narnia?".

"We're on holiday, together" he responded, "in Portugal".

"What? The last I remember was that I was extremely drunk, went out in the garden and fell down a rabbit hole!" I screamed, "Belladonna was there, she was everywhere.  Mad Belladonna's Tea Party!"

Tuesday, 7 October 2014

I am in love with The Pope

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


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!