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 and which contain helpful information.  However, one of the worst websites Fanny has had the misfortune to connect with is,  brazenly promising 'hot and horny hookups' and claiming it contains a list of 'thousands of local cruising spots'.

Fanny took a peek inside, 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'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...

Monday, 1 December 2014

Restless fingers and thumbs

Cross-stitch, basket-weaving, knitting, looming, embroidery and sewing... Fanny loves to busy her restless little fingers with Arts and Crafts.    With the arrival of winter, I dusted off my needlework kit and got all creative today, sewing sequins onto a pair of peach swimming trunks and glitter onto the side of vacuum cleaner bags, secreting itching powder berries (plucked from the garden) into lilac pillowcases, and sewing some glacé cherries onto a pair of worn-out slippers to sell for £100.   

The Womens' Institution - a sort of secret society who blow things up with explosives in the village hall - are having a Charity Fundraiser over the weekend, so I busied myself creating some bespoke handcrafted embroidery and sewn pieces to donate for their Winter Bring N' Buy Sale.  Here's one of my creations.  I'm dearly hoping it will grace some elderly ladies' living room wall.

  And here is another.  No! it's not a one-fingered glove.
Known as an "Old Compton Street-inspired 'cock warmer'".  Ideal for winter mornings, particularly if your name is Bob and you drive a milk-float.  I lovingly sewed some itching powder berries - or rosehips - into the end.
My poodle, Mr P, is moulting fur so badly, I've swept the floor and gathered up enough dog-hair to knit a cardigan.   Did you know I spent three of my formative years studying at the Doberman School of Fine Art in Düsseldorf?

Just as I was about to begin feather-stitching a French lace doily with glacé cherries, the doorbell rang and I flung the door open to find a furniture delivery man with a clipboard.  "Oh yes, that's right, I'd forgot" I murmured, "the new furniture... bring it all in".  On a whimsy, I had ordered a new collection of furniture from a daring Parisian designer.  My plans were to invite the Womens' Institution in for tea and rock-cakes and impress them with my taste in furnishings.   It took a while to assemble all the new furniture, but I do think it looks rather wonderful, don't you.  I hope they'll be impressed by it, seeing how they're all asexual.

The S&M Range - classy, simple, unique.  Ideal for showing off to prudes like the W.I.

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!"