Addington Street Victorian Jumble Sale.

I guess that's it then!
With the Grot Street Anal Fair looming, that'll be the end of summer for another year.
I imagine that I'll do the usual trudge up there and then hide in The Queen Charlotte.
But, perhaps, I could do it differently this year with an ankle-length pencil skirt and a pile of bling, I could masquerade as Victorian Beckham.
I may have to catch the bus up there, though.

Hads Off.

Re-reading yesterday's missive, in particular the last line, I was reminded of a poser that popped up in an English lesson at school.
The teacher wrote a sentence on the blackboard and asked us to punctuate it.
It went :-

John where Mary had had had had had had had had had and had had a mistake

I wish, now, that I'd gone to school in Margate where I may have been, instead, merely given the task of spelling 'had'.

Anyone care for a stab at it?

Going Away, Present.

Up until these last few days, I would have considered that to be an oxymoron, after all, how can you be present while you're going away?
Hellen, wretched woman, has demonstrated otherwise by going home and remaining present in the form of her stinking cold (I'd have to rely on somebody elses' input to tell me if it does, in fact, stink).
Like most things American, though, it's a big cold but hopeless in battle, as I appear to be making a speedy recovery and am just left with ruddy eyes and a blogged ub dose.
Good job too, as I'm almost out of whisky!
No time like the present to present the present present that's present, with a present of my own, I thought!

All's Quiet On The Eastern Front.

Now that I'm no longer cementing trans-Atlantic relations, I can relax a little and enjoy a gentle drink.
Where to go, that's the thing?
I think I may pop down to The Montefiore Arms and deliberate the matter over a pint and then probably head west, stopping for a gentle drink in every pub on the way.
Apologies in advance to the patrons of The Artillery and Churchills!

Hellen Back.

The deed is done and the bird has left the nest, well, airport, at least.
I didn't think it was ever going to.
Security at Heathrow is beyond belief at the moment. Why the Hell I had to be searched beats me! But, apparently, it had to be done and my shirt pockets were like clowns' pockets when the security guy had finished rummaging around in them.
I knew that I should've worn a blonde wig and borrowed some kids for the day.

Anyway, a nice shower and an ale is perhaps in order.

Flight At The End Of The Tunnel.

Praise be!
Hellen flies back home tomorrow.
As much fun as she is, she's a bloody liability. I've yet to discover whether I'll still be welcomed at the Welcome Inn. Should be ok, after all, it wasn't me that was sick in their fridge!
It's a bit of a shame that I couldn't get her to blog but, as she says, it's not her thing and as she described it in the pub, the other night, "It's a right load of bloggocks!"
At least she seems to be learning English.
So then, another jaunt around the M25 to look forward to. I'll try not to moan about it so much, this time.

You Load 16 Pints And What Do You Get?

Pissed, obviously, but Hellen seems to turn into some overly tactile, ranting lunatic from hell, to boot.
I've always admired her for that but have, however, found myself taking her into pubs that I don't normally use, as she seems to be usurping my 'bad girl' image, somewhat.
Last night found us imbibing in The Falstaff, Addington Street, where I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the new management consisted of, none other than, my old mucker, Scary Angie.
Now she IS a piece of work. 5'2" and 100lbs of raging fury (when you cheese her off) and just mildly alarming when you don't!
I tried to warn Hellen of this, and the fact that the punters aren't exactly 'run-of-the-mill' either, being largely bred from the same, under-varied gene pool but would she take heed?
She's been chucked out of almost as many pubs as she's been in but last night brought her a whole new experience, that of being forced to stay when she really, really wanted to leave.
Good old Angie, I believe, at one point, that Hellen actually feared for her life.
I'm sure we can laugh about it today.
Well, I certainly will, anyhow!

EEK, A1.

Gave Hellen a bit of a run along the coast today, as a reward for not getting chucked out of anywhere for over 24 hours, now.
First on the list was Broadstairs Bootfair Week. Not a lot happening there, other than a quintillion people browsing stalls full of tut.
So I thought we might step it up a bit and pop along for prize giving at the Ramsgate Royal Harbour Templar Knights Yacht Club Week tent and was pleasantly surprised to find a Gadds' brew available which he'd knocked up just for them and rather imaginatively called it Royal Delight. Very nice it was, too!
Had a little browse of their program while I was there and lo, EK1 are gonna sex the place up on wedsnesday! Think I may have to amble along for that.
I dropped Hellen of at Churchills while I popped home to do my chores and now, I suppose, I really ought to get myself off up there and attempt to rescue the poor sod(s) that she would, no doubt, by now, have attached herself to.

Your Guest Is As Good As Mine.

Saints preserve us, I just recieved a phone call from Hellen (Highwater) and she informs me that the management of The San Clu has requested, politely but firmly, that she should leave at her earliest convenience.

I knew that she was going to be trouble!

After a bit of phoning around, I've managed to procure a room for her at The Foy Boat Hotel.
We'll just have to wait and see (probably not too long) about the wisdom of ensconcing her above a pub.
It's not one that I regularly frequent, so, hopefully, the repercussions won't be too severe for me!

Sigh!

Extra Special Bit Her.

My friend Hellen, from NY, does like a beer or three, and she seems to be developing a taste for the warm, sticky stuff that us Limeys go all gooey over.
But I think she met her match last night.
Introducing her to the phenomenon that is Churchills Tavern, I was pleased to see that they had Fullers' ESB on. An absolutely delightful brew!
Much as I tried to warn her about the strength of the stuff, 5.5%, and that one pint of it would be roughly equivalent to five pints of the wee wee that she drinks at home, she was necking it like there was no tomorrow.
Going by the state of her by the time I got her back to her hotel, I think that may very well turn out to be true!

Polite notice.
Anybody who has designs on dining in the San Clu (Comfort Inn) today may want to think twice. She disappeared while I was paying the taxi driver and we eventually found her, half an hour later, passed out in the kitchen with her head in the fridge. She looked like she'd been eating pizza but I'm not entirely convinced that's what it was.
So, erring on the side of caution....

Broadstairs Flock Night.

Went over to Broadstairs last night, mostly because EK1 were playing on the bandstand but partly to warm myself up for the oncoming Folk Week Festivities.
That Denny, fat ugly git that he is, moistens more than just my eye with his emotive singing and I found myself getting quite carried away on the moment.
I got the notion that I wasn't the only one that felt that way as it seemed like there was, perhaps, a million people there, getting carried away on the moment too.

Or maybe it was the lights that they'd pinched from our Marina Arches that tipped the balance?
They should've nicked our fireworks too. As good as theirs were, ours were better!

What IS The Point Of The M25?

I wonder how long it'll be before they start fining people for driving below the minimum speed limit on the M25? They could make an absolute fortune! Plenty enough to build sufficient roads to keep traffic moving at a steady pace.
And another plus, it wouldn't be long before regular M25 users amassed enough points to have them dropping off the road like flies.

I may very well write to the Queen about this, if she's not already keeping appraised by reading my blog!

Flight Delayed!

Why don't these silly people at the airport just add 60 minutes to each flight in the first place and be done with it?
Actually, coming to think of it, if they did that then they'd have to get new displays made up that incorporated the phrase 'Flight Early' for those rare occasions when the plane arrived less than an hour late.

Off To A Flying Tart.

I've taken the day off today to go and pick up an old friend who's arriving from New York at lunchtime.
She's a lovely 'lady', as nutty as they come and I'm really looking forward to seeing her again.
The last time she was here, she managed to get arrested for sexually assaulting a policeman, though she swears she was going for his gun, despite knowing full well that they don't have them here.
Who knows, I may even get her to blog it up a bit during her visit.

Should be a treat for everyone!

Dipstick On My Lipstick.

Upon returning from the loo in one of Ramsgate's 'classier' pubs last night, I found one of our local arguments for euthanasia rifling through my handbag.
"What the f*ck are you doing?" I gently probed, as if it wasn't painfully obvious.
"I was looking for a lighter." Came the rather lame response.
"Couldn't you just ask someone at one of these tables?" I enquired.
"None of them like me." I was hastily informed.

Well I'm not bloody surprised!

I should have called the police, really, but from previous experience I've found that they like to do exactly the same thing as him, albeit for a different reason, so I plumped for pushing him over backwards and requesting that he leave the premises immediately.

Judging by the reaction from the rest of the pub, I feel it safe to assume that at least half of what he told me was the truth.

Paddy or Prat?

Did Eastcliff Richard have a bit of a tantrum and throw his blog away?
Seems unlikely!
Another alternative, one would suppose, is that it's the work of one of those desperately clever, attention deprived, worthless twat, hackers.
It may come as a surprise to them that it's much easier to destroy something than to create it, which is, perhaps, the only reason that they're able to do it.
But every cloud has a silver lining and while they're doing that, the trees, shop windows and wing mirrors are getting a bit of a rest.
I must say that it was nice to see the sausage munching, spelling and punctuation wizard from Margate lending a few kind words of support, though!

But, of course, there's every possibility he's just having a bit of a giggle. You know what he's like!

Arty Weekend.

I seem to have spent the whole weekend, so far, bouncing between the Arty Arms (wonderful pub) and the Arty Tits (Gallery IOTA). So no surprise, I suppose, that I've spent a lot of time with arty legs (uncontrolable idiots of things that refuse to follow normal rules of behaviour)!
I think i'll persue a different course today.
Favourite at the moment would be the Montefoire Arms with their extraordinary, major cash prizes + meat raffle and, as rumour has it, Dorothy Goodbodies Golden Ale. All that and their infamous stool juggling act 'twixt punter and landlord, seems like too good a thing to miss!

Then again, I may just go back to bed. I'm sure that's the option that my employers would prefer in the light of getting good value for money out of me tomorrow.
Hmmmm... I'm sure they must be getting used to it by now!

Art Attack!

My word, that gallery IOTA seems to be pulling out all the stops of late and last night saw the opening of yet another exhibition!
Despite not being much of a one for art, I do make the effort, regardless of my personal feelings, and martyr myself for their cause. That and they usually have a cask of ale on as a freebie.
Very nice too!
Still, it was a good do and the art was quite enjoyable. I just wish that I could get someone to explain to me what 'post-modern impressionist' is supposed to mean. Perhaps it's one of those things, like an awful lot of art, that defies any kind of explanation?
Just to be sure, I think i'll pop up for another squint at the daubs this afternoon so that I feel i'm really doing my bit. And, of course, help them finish that ale off before it goes bad!
I wonder if the gruff, surly curator that smells faintly of wee will be there today?
Perhaps he can explain what post-modern impressionist means. I do hope it's nothing to do with Bobby Davro!

X-Men 3, XXX-Men.

I thought I'd heard it all until last night, when I was approached in the pub by a scruffy looking chap who wondered if I'd like to star in a movie that he was making called 'Dick Van Dyke'.
Apparently, I was perfect for the role of the lesbian that gets cured on a road trip, in a VW camper, on my way from Eastbourne to Skegness.
Just for once, I was a little lost for words!
Upon enquiring, it transpires that this fella was going to be the 'doctor' that cures me.
And, of course, my fee would be entirely royalties.

I doubt that his own doctor will be as confident about curing him when he pays a visit this morning.

BTW, does anyone want to buy a pair of size 20 denim dungarees?

Is Margate the new/old Ramsgate or is Ramsgate the new/old Margate?

I supposed that would depend on the orientation of your 'half glass'.
However, I found myself navigating the North of the Isle yesterday, pondering that poser, and thinking (as I have done in Ramsgate, not too many years ago) that the whole town is akin to a beautiful jewel with shit all over it.
As regenerative as Ramsgate and, perhaps, Broadstairs seem to be, it smacks of walking around in a pretty dress with dog poo stuck to the bottom of your shoe.
There are some lovely buildings in Margate with some wonderful history and, it seems to me, a handfull of people trying to drag it out of the hole that it's been pushed into over the last 30 years.
It's happening here, why not there?
It does seem easy enough to sit in Ramsgate and be smug but how does that help anything except our own egos?
I think, from now on, I may well stop disrespecting Margate as it does seem to have a latent beauty and bags of potential.
The collection of (to coin a couple of phrases) 'utterly contemptuous pricks' and 'steaming great twats' that have run it into the ground are, however, still fair game!