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.

 
 Belladonna!

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....


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.