Writers Blog.

Phew!
After an action packed, fun filled, soaraway, nay mind-blowing weekend like this one that's just passed, I'd struggle to articulate it without losing a fair bit of the magic that made it so much more than the sum of its' parts.

But I'll have a stab!

The highlight, I thought, was the Euro Fair in the Dane John Gardens, Canterbury. How refreshing to attend an event where all the stops were pulled out to make it a day that would stick in people's minds.
Just about every quarter of Europe seemed to be represented, in market stall fashion, along the entire length of the gardens, offering a diverse mixture of foods, clothing and a myriad of other local produce.
The entertainment was astonishing!
I'd never seen anything quite like Hobo Jones and the Junkyard Dogs. An alternative skiffle band complete with tea-chest bass, washboard and kazoo and belting out their own rendition of songs like House of the Rising Sun, Led Zepellins' Rock and Roll, Bill Haileys' Shake Rattle and Roll and Jilted Johns' Gordon Is A Moron. I'd also never seen anyone play a guitar with a ladle, before. Jimmy Hendrix, eat your heart out!

It was everything that our own 'French market' almost completely fails to be!

I would've liked to have popped along on the sunday, too, had the Sharpees not been playing in the Horse and Groom.
Well, I'm hardly going to miss an afternoon of sitting in a pub, dribbling and imagining their guitarists' dextrous digits flying up and down my erogenous zones, like they do on his guitar, am I?
And, as they're playing at Churchills this weekend, I've a feeling I'm going to be making a proper pig of myself!

I wonder if he's partial to a couple of rashers of bacon?

Frantastic!

Looks like we have a new blogger on the block, in the shape of a shapely property negotiator.
I must say it's a bit of a relief and should take the heat off Little Weed and myself, in our roles as the sex queens of Thanet blogs.
So I'd like to offer a heartfelt welcome to our new sister and some advice about the community that she's entering.

Eastcliff Richard.
A lovely, affable fellow, GSOH, single, moneyed and stylish but does have some strange proclivities. He's the reason that I dress up as Miss Piggy. In an early attempt at wooing him, he told me that I was a lovely girl but that he preferred a bit of pork. I do hope I didn't get hold of the wrong end of the stick, there!

Dane Valley Ted.
Married but I'm sure he's up for it. Caught him with his hand up my blog a few times now.

Big Nose, Margate (Tony Flaig).
A bit opinionated but I'm sure he means well. Despite not being a motorcyclist himself, it has been reported that he's taken to wearing a crash helmet and full body armour of late.

Little Weed.
Possibly the nicest person that I know. A keen horticulturist and, I'm sure, an excellent mother.

Angina (Hobocop).
A fruity old bugger with one leg and an old fashioned attitude towards sex, ie. beat them over the head and drag them back to your cave.

Ramskateraider.
Sadly gone now, which is a bit of a shame because I think you're exactly what he was looking for, namely a female.

Dr Simon Moores (Biggles, James Bond, Teh Incredible Sulk, Gift To Thanet, Teh Flying Doctor, Teh Blue Barren, Mavis Beacon... etc).
Bless him, he tries. I get teh feeling that he was bullied a lot at school (sorry, scholl) so we should, perhaps, be sympathetic. On the other hand, knickers to that!

I hope this is of some help to you in integrating yourself into the Thanet blog society.
Us girls have to stick together you know.
And before all you lechers start, no, we don't have to be all soapy and wet to do so!

Periscopes Up!

While sitting in the pub last night, discussing local issues with some friends, the subject of the hideous fencing, that now seems to be spreading like some bizzarre form of cancer along the Eastern Esplanade, was broached.
It seems that the stuff isn't going to be removed in any hurry, despite numerous complaints from various sources, so methods were explored for incorporating it into the environment.

It's already been suggested that people use it to dry their laundry on.

Other ideas could include...

A line of homemade periscopes, easy enough to knock together, to restore the sea view. Albeit upside down.

Local artists getting together, with a roll of paper, to create the image of the top of a large block of flats obscuring the sea-view.

Chicken wire between the tops of the two fences to form an aviary dedicated to exotic English marine birdlife. Herring gulls, pidgeons and the such like.

A collection of posters bearing heartfelt messages to TDC.

Electrification of said fencing and the addition of UV lighting (though the bandstand lighting may be enough, on it's own) to control the fly population that sometimes swarms from the seaweed on the beach.

Solar panels to generate the electricity required to keep the lift running all year round.

Chalk-boards for graffiti 'artists' to scribble on and local wags to air their humour, though I think they'd struggle to come up with a joke that rivals that which the fencing, itself, represents!


Any other ideas on a postcard to this address, please.

Flobbing A Dead Horse.

I think I may well have overdone it, again, at the weekend!
When I woke up this morning I could barely talk and was chock-a-block with snot. The noises coming from my bathroom must've been alarming, indeed.
Serves me right for mixing my ales, I suppose, but what can you do when Ramsgate Footie Club is flogging off it's beer at a pound a pint?
Best 20 quid that I've spent in a long time, not including the fabulous purchace that I made in Pillow Talk a few weeks ago. They have things in there that would, literally, make your eye pop out!
So it's glasses of Lemsip and daytime telly for me today.
Looking forward to the usual barrage of "Welcome back Lucy Tuesday." at work tomorrow!

Ail Festival Scores Own Goal.

Upon hearing a rumour that there was an ale festival going on at Ramsgate Football Club, I sauntered up there yesterday with a few chums to investigate.
Well there it was, boasting a fine selection of 24 ales.
How did they manage to sneak that one under the Gazzette's radar?
Can't help thinking that the atmos. would've been greatly enhanced, had they invited people along.
Never mind.
I'm sorely tempted to pop along there today and see if they need any help clearing up all the leftover beer.

So There Are Some People That Dig Birchington.

I almost forgot to mention.
Tracey (my friend in Poncey Pilot Land) turned up at my place around midnight last night with her boyfriend (the, um, urologartist), complaining about workers outside her flat digging the road up.
Well that's certainly not the way they do it here in Ramsgate.
You'd be lucky to catch them at it during the day!
"It's been going on for hours" she complained "and I just had to get away before I went out there and cut one of them a new builders bum with his bloody Slazenger !"
I presumed she was talking about the thing that was making all the racket.

I get the feeling that the experience really unsettled them. I could hear them tossing, turning and moaning for most of the night.

Cock-a-doodle-don't!

Is having a wee really so boring for men that they have to entertain themselves by drawing pictures on my bathroom floor while they do it?
It does beg the question of how the population keeps rising, when it seems imposible for the average male to hit a target the size of a toilet bowl!
And there seems to be no remorse about it, either.
After marching the offender to my bathroom and demanding to know what the hell that puddle on the floor is all about, I was told that it was meant to be a shamrock but, running out halfway through, he'd decided to do an ear.

Well that's it! I'm only inviting women back from now on and to hell with my ever growing reputation of being a bit of a lesbianist!

Yea, Though I Walk Through The Shadow Of The Valley Of The Jolly Green Giro.

I'd like to say a big thank you to The Thanet Police Elite Force for kicking even more crap into King Street in the shape of all the spitty, spotty spassies that used to hang around Trove Court and Kennedy House.

Is that the best you can do with them?

And it's no good saying "Well, if you think you can do any better...", because we're not bloody allowed to!

Blessed Are The Micks, For They Shall Inherit La Pomme De Terre.

Saints preserve us, what IS the matter with people these days, or should I say 'sheep'!?
I seemed to be surrounded by Magners (quick genuflect) drinkers last night, stinking the place up with Irish apples (do the Irish grow apples, then?) and sounding like Santa in full flight with all that ice jingling in their glasses.

I thought that potatoes were the Irish thing!

Perhaps it's about time they considered treating us to a nice Irish vodka, not some incipid, 4.5%, fizzy apple juice, watered down with ice! Some things are best left to those nice people at Biddindens, I think.

Market forces, eh?

Tch!

Isle Of Write.

How encouraging to see so many blogs springing up all over the Isle De Thanét. The Thanet Blog List now boasts 38 of them but I'm sure they won't have found them all and would, personally, estimate the figure to be closer to 5000. That's almost 2 blogs for every working person in Thanét!

Amazing!!!

I would like to be the first, and hopefully not the last, to say a heartfelt well done to all those that have poured themselves into journalising their lives, homes and experiences and extend warm thanks to the blogging élite, namely...

Dr Fokker for offering an alternative to news, wit, opinion and lifestyle.
Eastcliff Richard for offering an alternative to that alternative.
Man Being Sick On Pizza for supporting Margate, despite it being a lost cause.
Angina for confirming every myth about old people as truth.
Little Weed for being such a wholesome, nice person that I wished she were my mum.
Dane Valley Ted for constantly making passes at me, despite having been married for the last 60 years.
And finally, myself, for oozing sexuality and charisma.

We ought to have a title really, something like Isle Of Thanét Authors.
Yes, I like that, IOTA.
Has a nice ring to it.

Would You Like To Grab My Bags, Old Chap?

Winter seemed to have clutched The Westcliff very firmly by the bags this weekend, with porters popping up in both The Artillery and Churchills.
Firstly there was Dark Star Porter in both pubs and then, when it ran out in The Arty, it was replaced by Archers Porter.
Woohoo!
That Gadds' Dogbolter was a bit conspicuous by it's absense, though. A shame really as I think that would have slid down a treat, among the others.

Maybe next weekend?

Fields Of Gold!

Only a few days left to go before some lucky winner wins the win of the century on the European lottery!
A pound a go, to win all those Euros!
I do hope it doesn't get shared out among the paupers!
Imagine what a hole Sunday afternoons could be after that, then?

Daughter Of A Dog.

Upon being called a son-of-a-bitch in Churchills last night (some people just can't handle critisism well), I felt the need to correct the obvious error in the statement with something a little more feasable, i.e. daughter-of-a-dog. My protagonist stood and looked blankly at me for a long moment and then chipped in with "Actually, I like that better!".

Can't honestly say that I cut him to the quick, there.

Blast!

Something Fishy!

Feeling a little damaged this morning, so instead of telling you all about my night (because I really don't want to remember just at the mo), you could, if you like, entertain yourselves with this, instead!
Alternatively, you could either chill out or get angry with Jingle Jangle Jimmy (my fave).

No Sense, No Humour!

Oh dear, losing ones' eyebrows can be an eye opening experience. I do apologise for that little outburst of seriousness yesterday.
As they say, 'if you play with fire....' and all that.
Apart from never having my skin colour change from black to white (quite the opposite on sunday), possessing the ability to 'moonwalk' or, allegedly, interfering with young boys, I think I can empathise with 'flame haired' Michael Jackson.
Still, and much to Crouching Tiddles distress at aquiring a couple of new bald patches, I have my eyebrows back.
Just as well, as I'll be attending the social event of the year tonight at Churchills Tavern and I know that there will be at least one occasion during the bash where I'll need to be raising them!

I do hope that the Pritt Stik is going to hold when I start sweating!

Pasteurise, Up To Our Necks In It!

Had an interesting conversation last night about The Great Louis Pasteur and what a plonker he was, even though, in all probability, he had the best of intentions.
I had the misfortune to be drinking a bottle of 'dead beer' and you can call me an ale snob if you like but I don't like pasteurised beer. In fact, I don't much like pasteurised anything!
Should we hold him accountable for gross interference in the process of 'natural selection'?
He did, after all, discover a way to achieve longevity for a heck of a lot of people that otherwise wouldn't have survived. In the process, he managed to render an awful lot of our food products 'semi or completely dead'.

Zombie food!

Or was he a hero of the modern age?

Burning Passion.

I decided to treat those fireworks with a tad of caution but everything seemed to work ok, er, except the rockets, that is. I get the feeling that they were manufactured by the same people that make rockets for the U.S. Armed Forces/NASA.
Those that didn't explode on the launch pad, careered off in the most unexpected directions.
I now have to face the humiliation of going into Netto to replace two of next-doors' gnomes.
I may keep the old ones because, to be honest, they do look pretty cool with their heads blown off. Like victims of Viet-gnome.
Now, where did I put that eyebrow pencil and false lashes?

Blast From The Past.

After waking up stupidly early this morning, almost, in fact, just after I went to bed, I thought I'd have a little sort out in my loft. Since I've lived in this house, some four years now, I've only ever stuck my head up there for a quick sniff around but this morning, I decided to get in there and have a rummage.

Double bonus!!!

In among the cobwebs, I found an unopened box of Standard fireworks and a very cute painting of a small child sitting on a stool with a single tear rolling down his cheek.
I think I've got the perfect spot for that, just over my fireplace. The picture, that is, not the fireworks.
Bit of a shame that the box has rotted to the point where the instructions are now illegible but the fireworks look ok. I'll probably set those off while Tiddles is having his tea.

Men O' Pause.

One thing that really puckers my chuff box is people that drag out what they are trying to say by filling it with dramatic pauses.
I had the misfortune of being stuck next to a bloke, in the pub tonight, who is a bit of an expert at it. And it is mostly men that do it!
In the end, at the point where it became unbearable, I decided to stick an old chestnut into his pause that went....
Two bears walk into a pub and one of them says "Two pints of_______________lager please, barman."
The barman replies "Sure thing guys but why the big pause?"

It didn't work. He just gave me an indignant look and started the whole story over again.

People like that outn't be allowed out!

I Really Need To Ketchup With Myself!

After travelling the entire breadth of Thanet on friday night and returning, intact, from Birchington (mostly thanks to that bloody fussy waiter, git. So what if he was married, I'll bet he's allowed to conc more than one ubine at a time, anyway.), I found myself doing two nights worth of Ramsgate pubs on saturday.
Not feeling too bad on sunday, and foolishly thinking I'd got away with it, I sauntered up to Tesco for a bit of a shop and one of their Tesco Value Breakfasts.
Why do they have to keep changing things?
Still, after serving up my own breakfast (how long has that been going on? They used to have someone to throw the food at the plate for you!), I went off in search of condiments. Gah, all the sachets of ketchup were gone. Just as I'd noticed that, someone turned up with a bottle of the stuff and put it with the rest of condiments. Great, I thought, and grabbed it before getting all my other bits together.
Still no sachets of ketchup though, so I marched up to the woman who, by rights, should've served my breakfast and curtly pointed out that they'd run out and that I'd like to eat my breakfast before it started warming up, now that they have the heating on.

"What's that in your hand then?" she politely enquired (and I'll swear she muttered something like 'lush' at the end of it).

Dammit, I hate it when I have to just sit down and shut up!

BareChingTong.

My good friend Tracey, celebrating her 40th birthday, invited a few of us over to her home-town for a meal in one of their many (2) restaurants, last night. I can't tell you how pleased I was with the prospect of heading off to Birchington. Something not-quite-right about that place but I just can't put my finger on it.
Still, Tracey's a lovely girl and I wouldn't want to let her down.
Our plan was to have a meal in the Chinese restaurant in the High Street (which shall remain nameless) and then head off around town to 'whoop it up'.
Am I just speaking for myself when I say that walking into a completely empty restaurant at 7-30 on a friday night is not a good indication of its' popularity?
After taking stock for a moment, we decided to shuffle off to the Indian eatery across the way which was where the hungry masses were congregating.
Tandoori Nights, I hadn't been there for, perhaps, 10 years, at which time all of the staff were wearing Blue Peter Badges, awarded for offering to feed the rest of the World with their 'Flying Curry Service (10% discount if you collect)' operating out of Manston. I don't think they do that any more.
I must say that the food was excellent, the service was sharp and attentive and I fancied one of the waiters like mad!
Had a wonderful evening (despite completely failing to get off with the waiter, dammit!) and must make a point of going there again, if only for the street entertainment in the form of a plethora of swearing, spitting hoodies.

Christmas Evesdropping.

Accidently overheard a conversation in The Montefiore Arms last night (by really craning my neck and almost falling off my stool) about a Christmas Fayre in Addington Street.
The question that immediately sprang to mind was 'why?'.
But on further 'overhearing', I could begin to see the point of it. Addington Street was one of the most thriving and busy parts of Ramsgate in the not too distant past, meeting the servicing needs of a large part of the Westcliff. Now, in order to have those needs met (after a fashion and in nowhere near such a personal way) you'd have to hoof it off to Westwood Angry.
These nice chaps, who also organise the Addington Street 'End of Summer, Victorian Fayre', think it could be returned to it's former glory but it would take more than just ousting the pikeys!
There was also talk of an ale tent which, I think, was probably what started my neck stretching in the first place.

Hmmmm...

Cycle Path Or Psycho Path?

Bloody King Street!

Walking back from the pub last night, feeling a bit Dutched-up, when the next thing you know, it starts raining kids on bikes and I'm getting bumped around all over the show!

To be honest, I was managing that quite nicely on my own.

Sod it, I'm gonna take my stumbling elsewhere in future!

Fanny Foliage Assures The World That...

.... American troops are 'plenty smart'.

Must be very reassuring for them, coming from someone who thinks that grammer is the nice lady who keeps sending all the lovely presents (including the bottles of whisky, but don't tell dad!).

American troops are also, allegedly, 'plenty brave'.

I thought they'd killed all the Braves!

Still, nice to see that their language, at least, lives on!

How!

It's A Chill Wind That Blows From Margate.

Thought I'd go out in my new micro-mini (not a plastic pig or a Smart car but a tiny skirt!) this morning.
I ask you, what kind of doughnut buys a piddly little skirt at this time of year?
Well, it was cheap!
Anyhow, as I was shivering my way through town, I'm sure I could smell smoke.
I'd like to think it was the guy who was walking behind me that was overheating at the sight but, well, there is that northerly wind, I suppose.