Isn't Art a joy?

As you know, Fanny is stimulated - titilated even - by high art.  My artistic sensibilities range from Picasso to the Tate Modern, from Gaudi to the lewd messages written on toilet walls (sometimes I even take a pen in with me when visiting those dripping, subterranean lavatories).  I've been an avid collector of objet d'art for many years, a compulsive viewer of the TV show Antiques Roadshow (I love all those brown country jackets and waxed moustaches of the presenters), and a loyal reader of Country Life's dogging and cottaging supplement, particularly their recent analysis of sado-masochistic tendencies during Van Gogh's rose period. 

What Fanny doesn't know about fine art, isn't worth knowing!  And I produce my own bespoke and highly sought after art, too!

Imagine my delight when I was asked to prepare a showcase of Art for the Brill and Highchurch May Bank Holiday Village Celebration.  My nipples were instantly erect! 

I've generously donated the following piece of art, entitled "Two Villagers Meet in The Grocers, A Typical Scene from the Village of Brill".  It is one of my own pieces of work, finished only recently, and I expect it to be a celebrated artwork.  I can already hear the heart-felt accolades from village dignitaries when it is unveiled before the assembled flock.  Rather than auction it at Sotheby's for millions, I thought the village deserved it better.  Pass the Pimm's, dear.

Two Villagers Meet in the Grocers - An Everyday Scene from the Village of Brill - Fine Art by Fanny Love

A new hat

Do you like my new hat?  I designed it myself!   I'm wearing it to a soirée in London's posh Kennington - whoops, I mean Kensington. Anyone who's anyone in the glamour world should be in attendance.  Donning this daring, never-before-seen design, I'll be the talk of the town.

I commissioned and designed this hat entirely myself.  It's actually more of a skullcap, as it fits tightly against the head.  It's my life's work, having taken almost 8 years from inception through to conception. I struck a deal with an Alaskan fishing company who will provide me a monthly shipment of dried puffer-fish.  

Watch out for my TV ad campaign, titled "Fanny Love says Hug a Pufferfish".   All the catwalk models will be wearing the Pufferfish Hat in 6 months time!  I'll be wearing it at numerous future events, such as Royal Ascot and Wimbledon.

Not stopping at hats, I'm going to be launching my own new fashion label: the news has spread like wildfire and caused discombobulation among the glamour world of Milanese fashionistas.  Move over Versace, Ugg, Jimmy Choo, George and Primark, Fanny J.E. Love is taking the market by storm with her high-end Pufferfish hats and outfits.

Mad as a March hare

Fanny went mad in March: I dressed as a rabbit, and hopped around the village.  

I spent most of the month popping Valium like they were Smarties, and drinking a pint of medicinal sherry for breakfast, just to calm my frayed nerves.  

I also lovingly made some Easter eggs, mixing together Marmite, Harold Shipman's fish paste and laxative chocolate (the Easter eggs were donated to the church out of the kindness of my heart).  I baked some Bovril-flavoured macaroons and created a Chocca Mocca Caramel Cake but inadvertently ran out of cocoa so just used some Oxo cubes as a substitute.   Following this, I made some rock cakes, although this seriously depleted the gravel from the drive.  I don't know what the church thought of this range of eclectic culinary delights as I didn't hang around.  No doubt their show of thanks to my remarkable generosity will be delivered in the usual form of a terse and smarmy platitude in the village newsletter, a publication inappropriately called Hermaphrodites edited by an effeminate, shrew-faced old man called Ernest Honeyball.

In addition, I turned my hand to making a 15-foot high marzipan tower-cake with 24 carat gold-leaf decorations; it took over 8 hours of slaving away in the kitchens to produce it, and this was also donated to the church.  Here is a photograph of all my hard work.  What do you think? 

I deliberately chose the plastic pig-with-wings cake decoration on top, as an artistic flourish! 

Oopsa Daisy - Fanny's Fashion Faux Pas

My little corner of Buckinghamshire has been hit by snow blizzards and temperatures so cold we had to chisel my little poodle, Mr P, off a lamp-post during his early morning walkies.

I had important meetings yesterday with my bank manager, lawyer and accountant, so I dressed in my best pin-stripe suit, ready to be chauffeured into town.  Do you like my outfit?  I'd opted for the primly sedate look, rather than the 'playgirl' look that most fans know me by.

As I was applying my electric-crimson mascara, I started to feel the sting of chapped lips, due to the bitter weather.  In order to protect Fanny's lips - in the short walk between the door of my mansion and the limousine - I decided to give them some much-needed protection; after all, there's nothing more painful than cracked, chapped lips!  So I waltzed upstairs to my West Wing bathroom and swung open the medicine cabinet to reach for the lip balm.

 I don't know who the Hell was responsible for replenishing my medicine cabinet, but this was the last thing I expected to find in it --- Marmite-flavoured lip balm, what an abomination!   Normally, I use the Regular flavour of Salveline, which, as you will see, was personally endorsed by none other than moi, and contains soothing Mongolian iguana fat:

                            

I was in such a hurry I couldn't be bothered hunting around so I smeared a good greasy dollop (about the size of an apple) of Marmite-flavoured lip balm all over my Marilyn Monroe-shaped pouting lips and noisily sucked them into the shape of a rose-bud to ensure a liberal application.  Juan was honking the car's horn outside.  I sharn't be licking my lips for a good few hours and I'm restricted to air-kissing.  C'est la vie!  Did I tell you that I had both my lips insured in case of accident to the sum of £50 million?

Just as I was heading for the door, I caught a glimpse of one of my freshly baked cakes, smothered in several jars of hundreds-and-thousands and couldn't resist taking a gigantic bite out of it.  

 
And off I set.

Upon arriving at my lawyer's, I couldn't understand the sniggers from the receptionist or the bemused look on my lawyer's face.  Throughout the hour-long meeting, he failed to reveal the source of his amusement.  This incensed me, especially as I was about to sign a multi-million pound deal.  As I left his office, disgusted, I heard debauched, hysterical laughter coming from the back office, sounding like the whole office.

It was only when I got back into the car that I took a look in my compact mirror, and realised the source of their amusement, with a tiny, whimper of shocked disbelief:

A visit to the Photo Booth

I'm due to depart on my 'Around the World in 180 Days' tour soon, and it dawned on me with growing panic that my passport had expired.   A bundle of nerves with butterflies dancing in my stomach, I gulped down a triple-strength gin 'n' tonic, followed by an Alkaseltzer, followed by a vodka martini, and got Juan to drive me to a department store in Milton Keynes where there was a photo booth, hidden away at the back of the store next to Women's Lingerie; it was aptly called the Glamour Puss Photo Booth.  Not the most salubrious department store - the sort of place frequented by blue-rinsed old spinsters milling around excitedly like hyenas - but it was a dire emergency.  If I didn't get my passport application back today, I'd be done for!

I found the photo booth and inserted a couple of coins, went inside, pulled the privacy curtain across and waited.  I pouted at the camera the way I was taught to on the cat-walk.

Here's the first photos... impressive, aren't they?  You can really tell it was me.  Half a head.  That will really get me a passport renewal.   The photo booth contraption went off too soon, before I'd adjusted the height of the seat.  In a black mood, I kicked the machine hard with my stiletto, uttered a string of profanities at the top of my voice, and reached inside my gold lamé purse to retrieve some more coins.

The photo machine made a noise like a blocked drain, there was a whirring of cogs, a tremendous flash and a smell of acrid smoke... and then nothing.  Alarmed, I stood up at the exact moment the camera bulb flickered weakly, followed by a noise like fingernails down a chalkboard and these beautiful and highly-appropriate passport photographs popped out of the slot:-

By now, I was boiling over with rage at this wretched contraption which kept swallowing my money and surprising me by taking the photos at exactly the wrong moment, such as when I was scratching my vagina or looking poe-faced.  

I stepped outside the photo booth and inserted the end of my umbrella into the coin slot and rammed it home with such force that it broke the thing in two.  The lights flickered and the machine whirred back into life and four £1 coins fell sullenly out of the slot.  I jumped back inside the photo booth.  Third time lucky.  The photo machine seemed to be over-heating and it was getting very hot in there.

Here are the next lot of pictures:

It was very difficult stripping down to lingerie in such a tiny space, but I somehow managed it.  Not sure the above photos will be suitable for my passport though.  Will just have to wait and see.    By now, I do believe the triple-strength gin 'n' tonics were starting to take their toll, combined with the over-heating photo booth.  Here's the next set of inglorious photos, the culmination of badly-timed, involuntary actions, and a slightly dicky stomach:

Just as I was about to lurch out of the photo booth, my head swimming, I heard a strange noise outside, like someone shaking a box of raw liver up and down; I flung back the curtain only to be met by an alarming sight.   A cleaner standing looking in at me.  She was the size of a small house and as strong as a Russian Olympic shot-putter.  Her name badge clearly said 'Helga'.  I didn't like the way she was looking at me.

Helga licked her lips in a very menacing fashion (this was the source of the noise that sounded like someone shaking a box of raw liver), her hand reaching up to tweak her own enormous, trembling breast, roughly the size of a pumpkin, which itself was straining perilously through the tiny, jet-black PVC cleaner's outfit she had on.  Helga seemed very excited to see me, dressed as I was only in designer French silk lingerie, inside the photo booth, with a half-full glass of gin in my hand, the interior of the photo booth looking like a bomb had hit it.   "Shall I come in and join you?" she whispered seductively, a pearl of saliva glistening on her scarlet whore's lips.   

As she took one gigantic step towards the photo booth, she belched like a bullfrog. 

"I'm not sure there's room for you in here" I whimpered in a puny voice.  If she'd attempted to enter the photo booth with myself still inside, I would have been pulverised and the photo booth would have exploded into hundreds of shards of metal and fibre glass.

 I let out a terrible scream and made a run for it, across the department store, barefoot and in the scantiest set of lingerie, down three escalators and out into the street, into the muscular arms of Juan.  I don't know what happened after that, as I must have blacked out due to the sheer shock from the lesbian advances of Helga the cleaner and my terrible photo booth experience.  I've been popping Valium like Smarties and have been knocked up in bed ever since, reading Mills & Boon love stories whilst Juan brings me platters of shellfish, washed down with a Puligny Montrachet.  On the fourth day, I just about felt well enough to get up.

It was that same morning when an official-looking manilla packet arrived here at Raffles, addressed to me. I tore it open only to find it was my new passport, freshly issued by the US embassy in London.

I've never liked passport photos or the process of getting them taken in tiny, working-class photo booths in grubby department stores in sub-normal places like Milton Keynes.   It's the type of activity that leaves you vulnerable to attacks by sex-crazed lesbian store cleaners.   Oh well, at least I have a passport now.   I do think it's a rather good likeness, isn't it? x

Yeti Snow Beast spotted in North Bucks

TV News crews from all over the world have descended in a frenzy on the tiny village of Brill and this most rural part of North Bucks has become a hive of activity.

The reason?  These mysterious, gigantic footprints were found in the heavy snow, followed by numerous reports of villagers being molested by a 7ft, hairy, black, inconsolable monster.

The North Bucks Chronicle have also done a front-page story on it.  Have a read, it's the most astonishing bit of journalism I've ever read, quite simply the bees' knees. 

You may recall the incident that occurred on Sunday chez moi with Gladys Grove.  Accidentally on purpose, Gladys was sent blindly - and as drunk as a skunk - into my 2nd floor airing cupboard where I'm currently keeping several bee-hives, mistaking the room for the lavatory.  You might think it a very odd occurrence to be keeping bees in a 2nd floor airing cupboard, but my only defence is that it's very cold outside and the bees like it in there.

Gladys, a confirmed apiphobic, was last seen making a bee-line across fields in the general direction of the town of Haddenham, some 7 miles distant, covered from head to toe in bees.  She must have lost her sling-backs in a ditch somewhere, which explains her footprints in the snow (first picture, above).

I've got to commend the work of the artist who drew the impression of this Yeti Snow Beast, envisaged from the many sightings around the county.   It does seem like Gladys Grove has once again made the headlines, for all the wrong reasons.  Maybe it's time to come out of retirement, Gladys?  The world clearly craves you.

I must dash now, as I've got to go and get my photo done as it's time to re-new my passport, in readiness for my embarkation on my 180-days Around the World tour.  

Toodle-pip!

A bee in one's bonnet

Can you imagine my revulsion when the door-bell rings incessantly on this sleet-lashed Sunday afternoon, sounding like some naughty schoolboy is trying to pull my bell-ring off, and I meekly open the door in my pink French lace dressing-gown only to find Gladys Grove standing there, her blue eye-shadow running down her cheeks.  A grotesque spectre on such a Satanic afternoon.

Gladys Grove was a famous transvestite back in her hey-day - the 1980s - but has since faded into glorious obscurity owing to her unintentional drunken act of impaling herself onto a giant-sized aubergine on live children's television.  Never a friend of mine, more of a gossip-monger and hanger-on.  

Only Gladys Grove could turn an ordinary, inanimate
object -- such as this oversized aubergine -- into a sexual object.

As soon as I saw Gladys there, I had the temptation to violently slam the door in her face.  However, she'd placed the heel of her indestructible red leather boot over my threshold and I couldn't get the door closed quick enough.  I thought about setting the dogs on her, but Mr P, my poodle, was downstairs having an ear-massage, and Brenda, my Doberman Pinscher, was at the pooch grooming parlour in London's Mayfair.  As most of my compliment of staff were either serving time in Borstal or receiving psychiatric treatment, I was, on this rare occasion, home alone.

"You owe me, Fanny" she said, "can I stay over for the night, please?  My car broke down in the lane and my credit card stopped working".

So I felt obliged to allow her in, despite the litany of paper-thin excuses spoken by her forked tongue.  

She's been making demands all afternoon, ringing the servants' bell, first asking for lemon-scented bath-bombs, then a cup of tea, then a glass of my finest whiskey, followed by an endless list of wants, the most insulting of which was a request for some "posh grub, some of those funny fish balls you eat" (I believe she means caviar). 

I don't suffer fools or faded drag queens gladly, so I cooked up a fried egg for her.   I also found an old packet of Safeway Faggots that had inadvertently slipped down the back of the fridge-freezer.  Not sure how long they'd actually been lying there, in the dust and grime.  Couldn't make out the 'Eat By' date on the packet in the dim light.  I washed all the fluff, mould and rat droppings of the faggots and cooked some up for her personally.   Fried egg and faggots... surely food she'd understand.   I thought she'd be grateful.  

Haute cuisine for the glam-trash: I wouldn't feed this cheap, nasty shit even to my pet snails.  Therefore, it made an ideal hearty meal for unexpected visitor, motor-mouth Gladys Grove, who dropped by today.

Instead, the disgusting bint - all pale and pudgy after her hot bath and wearing an unsightly shade of lipstick that could only be described as pig-pink - stubbed out a half-smoked Menthol vapour ciggie in the fried egg I served her.  She gobbled down the faggots, though, in a split second, the strange-smelling, greenish-brown gravy oozing down her chin.


As you may well know, Fanny is well versed in dispatching hoi polloi in the harshest possible way.  Whilst it may not be de rigueur to ask such an uncouth guest to leave immediately by the tradesmen's entrance, Fanny often employs subtle techniques to reach the desired effect without a single word being spoken.

The weather has been cold recently, hasn't it, and I've been worried about my bees to the extent that I moved them indoors.  You didn't know I was a bee-keeper?  Oh, I love my bees!  I've had hives for years and I often take a gramophone player out into the garden and play all sorts of calming music to them to keep them happy - Shostakovich, Brahms, Debussy, Marilyn Manson, Cradle of Filth, etc.  I don't like to personally handle the bees though, so as the weather has been so bitter, I went out and inserted the vacuum cleaner pipe into the bee-hive, switched the machine on and sucked them all safely inside the dust-bag.

I then moved the empty bee-hive inside the house up to the second-floor airing cupboard, a nice warm place for them.  I only had to switch the vacuum cleaner on reverse to spit all the bees at high speed out of the dust-bag into their hive and slam the airing-cupboard door.

Meanwhile, much to my annoyance, Gladys traipsed about the sitting room in her cheap, scratchy, polyester ballgown, with a huge tri-star brooch, looking like a proverbial scrap of mutton-dressed-as-lamb, putting her enormous feet on the antique Louis Quatorze table, and breaking into bouts of pestilential belching equal in resonance to an orchestra of Amazonian bullfrogs.  She demanded a plate of chips, saying "ta, mate" and then asked if I had any White Lightning Cider, a beverage I've never heard of.

 Disturbing: a photo taken from Gladys's website

"Where's the bogs?" she spluttered, "I need a piss".

Coughing back bile, I managed to utter "Oh you need the toilet, dear? Up the stairs, second door on the right, just walk straight in, do lift the lid before you tinkle".

Off she tottered, her elephantine bulk groaning up the stairs, right into the airing cupboard where the bees are currently being kept.

I think the following picture sums up what happened next.

  

Gladys Grove... last seen covered from head to toe in bees, screaming at the top of her lungs, running at high speed across the pitch-black Buckinghamshire countryside, making a bee-line for Long Crendon village.   Good night, Gladys!  

Fanny Love and the Crack of Doom

I'm giving my singing career a rest (my 12 and a half octave voice has recently been strained because of performing too much oral sex) so in the interim, I've turned my hand to writing.  As many of you know, I published my first book, Fanny Love and the Crack of Doom, back in the 1990s.  

It was an immediate best-seller.

Well, it's been re-released by Penguin Poo Books and has just been voted "Number One Bodice-Ripper" by readers of the Daily Mail.   The Daily Mail is a type of comic which is used at fish n chip shops up and down this island to wrap fried fish in.


Nonetheless, I was literally titillated to get such a literary accolade from the University degree-educated readers of Britain's best newspaper/comic.  

What's my novel about?   Fanny Love and the Crack of Doom is a classic soft porn novel about a very famous and very beautiful transvestite who gets eaten by a transvestite-eating venus fly trap plant that escapes from London zoo and goes on the rampage.    It sold over 200 million billion trillion copies when it was first printed in the early 1990s.  Rumour has it that much of the vast de-forestation in the Amazonian rainforest was directly caused by the book publisher's incessant needs to source enough paper to print my book.   Demand for my book led to a severe global paper shortage, you see.

 Sadly, the entire Amazon Rainforest was almost completely stripped of trees, in order to provide enough paper to print all the required copies of my book, such was the huge demand.  Bah humbug.

Maybe this year I'll be knighted and accept the title of poet laureate?  I'm waiting with baited breasts for that one!  I've already bought a yellow ostrich feather hat in nervous anticipation for the occasion.

Here is an excerpt from the book, a particularly romantic section.  I hope you enjoy:

Sister Honey screamed out loud in pure ecstacy as the fat Bishop, his gargantuan butterball frame almost filling the alcove below the church's stained glass window, forced his humungous, engorged purple love-pole into her tiny, vermillion peep-hole and bellowed at the top of his voice 'take it like a bitch'.  Meanwhile, the assembled congregation in front of them broke out in verse, singing All Things Bright and Beautiful, whilst Sister Honey's moans of "please frig my twat harder" were only heard by the Bishop.

Rare and elusive Wombles can often be spotted late at night on London's Hampstead Heath.

Meanwhile, in another part of London, celebrated authoress Fanny Love - wearing a seal-skin dress, purple stilettos made from quartz that made a seductive clacking sound when she walked over marble - was waltzing across the marshy tract of Hampstead Heath looking for Uncle Vulgaria, one of her favourite Wombles of all time.  "Stop right there" shouted Fanny, her scarlet whore's mouth spitting out the words with venom, as she caught sight of a large, furry, brown object up ahead, bent over a log.  "Oh hello George Michael, I didn't realise it was you.  Have you seen Uncle Vulgaria?".

 
Move over Ernest Hemingball, Charles Dicket and Jeffrey Archer, celebrated author and poet Fanny Love is back with a writing vengeance! x

Look at these ugly bastards!

They're just so ugly, aren't they?  Italy, the home of ugly men.

Now, you know that Fanny sometimes doesn't keep her appointments at the Funny Farm.   

So you also know I'm joking don't you?  Yes, like Worzel Gummidge, I've got my Joking Head on this morning as my world slowly materialises around me through a thick gin-haze from last night's overindulgence (Juan and I drank the gin cabinet dry). 

Aren't they gorgeous, I mean really?  I love Italian men.  Look at the above examples of Italian manhood, modern day examples hand-sculpted by Michelangelo.  

And I have a fetish about football changing rooms.  They're full of that frisson of sexual tension: the pungent waft of musky testosterone, sweat-soaked white cotton underwear, carbolic soap and muscle-rub creams.  

Naked roller-skating round the banquet hall to Ryan Star

Such a warm heart: this heartfelt Post-It note was left on the
bathroom scales by someone in my household after my recent shock discovery.

After two rambunctious weeks of Christmas over-indulgence and over-imbibance, I jumped on the bathroom scales to find that I'd put on a hell of a lot of weight.  Much to my horror, an ounce in weight!  One ounce!  

It must have been the slice of Ryvita smothered with raw oysters that did it.  Or was it the extra chipolata I stole from the fridge at 3am?

 One of Fanny's favourite snacks: Ryvita with raw oysters.  

But was it this deadly snack that caused me to gain so much weight?

That's the fundamental flaw in Christmas isn't it... one over-indulges and ends up putting on so much weight, it's necessary to be carted around in a wheel-barrow for the months of January and February.

You will know that I'm soon to depart on my Grand 180-Days Around The World vacation, so it's imperative I have a bikini body to show off to all the paparazzi.

Rather than go to a bikini boot-camp in this treacherous weather, I placed an advert in the post office window in Brill:

 
The door-bell has been ringing non-stop since the advert went up. I've interviewed about ten different applicants: one was a 69-year old farmer with no experience whatsoever; another was a psychiatric patient on the run who kept asking when his UFO would be landing to take him to Uranus.    In the end, after much interviewing, I've decided to appoint a 23-year old fitness coach called Josh.  He's from Buckingham.  Here is his picture:

A sight for sore eyes and bruised thighs: Josh, my personal trainer, all oiled up with Sainsbury's Italian Olive Oil during my recent 6-hour interview with him.

 

Today, Josh has started me on a programme of intensive physical exercise, called the F Plan, including a diet of boiled cauliflower for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  He's also forbade me from drinking any alcohol what so ever - so no Stoli, no Creme de menthe frappé and definitely no Long Slow Comfortable Screws Up Against The Wall!  

I've taken up ballet and roller-skating instead of supping cocktails.   I'm practicing ballet manoeuvres and rollerskating around the banquet hall completely stark naked.  The original 1930s parquet flooring is ideal for skating on.  Here's a pic:

 

I've also gone to the added expense of having a state-of-the-art entertainment system installed so I can listen to music absolutely anywhere in the house whilst I'm working out.   

I've just heard Breathe by Ryan Star whilst reaching speeds of over 25 miles per hour on my Santa Barbara V290 skates.  I think I wrote about Ryan Star before: he's one of my favourite male vocalists ever, a true New Yorker and a hunk too.  No-one has heard of him here in Europe.  If you're in England, Ryan, call me!

Have a listen to one of his best songs:
 

Ryan Star - Breathe (from the Rachel Ray Show)
 

What are YOU listening to right now?  And how is your Weight Loss regime going?   Tell Fanny your favourite songs using the Comments box below, and I'll give them a whirl at my next workout.  I might even do a feature about them... just no Lady Gaga, please as I don't want to have my hearing damaged by the sound of caterwauling! x