New Years Revolution.

Having been accosted on several occasions, by souls full of dissent, while standing out in the bloody cold, my cigarette being the only thing to keep me warm (and also the reason that I'm there), I'm starting to get the feeling that some kind of revolution may be in order.
It was bad enough when, a few years ago, they banned people from having sex on pub pool tables, but this is just outrageous!
I'd suggest that there would need to be a group of at least a dozen of us (we could be the dirty dozen, eh?), to go around Ramsgate pubs, masking the rather unsavoury whiffs of human beings that seems to be accumulating in them, these days.

Anyone up for that?

Please be advised that if I don't get any support and have to do this on my own, I may end up blogging a lot more as a result of being banned from our local hostelries.

Sex Bomb.

On a girly night out, last night, in Deal, I met this strapping, handsome squaddie in The Bohemian. Not normally one for our camouflaged, gun toting heroes, I do enjoy one from time to time (much like a KFC) and this one WAS a looker!
Unfortunately, during our conversation, he did confess to being the victim of a home-made bomb, while doing his stint in Northern Ireland. He was working in motorcycle dispatch (rather inappropriately) at the time, and the bomb had been placed under his saddle. It was only a small device, about big enough to launch a sausage a few feet into the air, but plenty big enough to spoil my evening.
"Don't worry," he assured me, "I've become quite handy with my 9mm Browning since then, and you won't go away unsatisfied!"

Unconvinced that, in the heat of the moment, he'd be able to withdraw before shooting, I decided to remain curious about the whole thing.

Some girls have all the luck, eh?

The Test Of Thyme.

Believe it or not, one of my favourite things to do is cook (being the domestic Goddess that I am), so you can imagine how passionately I feel about Christmas lunch. Though, in my experience, no matter how carefully a meal is planned, there's always a hicup that forces you towards the type of innovation that can make or break hours of preparation.
With this in mind, it's worth noting, for those of you that like to make your own ice-cream, that if you're out of fresh mint, thyme does NOT make a satisfactory substitute!
Still, the starters (caramelised pilchard) and the main course (roast pidgeon foo yung, well I had a lot of eggs) went down very well.
As that fat, greasy haired Meatloaf fella will happily gurgle at you, two out of three ain't bad!

Beggar's Belief.

Not normally the type to dish out my hard earned cash to someone who's effort to sustain themselves extends only as far as holding their hand out, Christmas brought out the charitable side of me, this year, and I found myself flipping a pound coin into the hat of a hapless looking soul, outside Woolies, on Christmas day.
Feeling like I'd saved a life and exonerated my charitable spirit for another year, hapless, hand-out Herbert went on to point out that it was Christmas Day and, traditionally, people were paid double time for working it.
There was a minor scuffle when I reached down to take my unwanted pound back, but thankfully it didn't really amount to any more than that.

Unlike my pound, which, on closer inspection, turned out to be a pair of pounds.

These people really ought to be careful what they wish for!

Cheque In The Post.

Something that never fails to boggle my mind is that unfathomable question of why, in this day and age, do we still have to wait five working days for a cheque to clear?
What is it that takes so long?
Surely any correspondence between banks is done electronically now, allegedly at the speed of light.
Having popped into the bank last Friday to deposit a cheque, I was informed that the money will be available to spend sometime next year, at the very earliest. I could, however, speed things up by one day (wow!), by bunging the bank twenty quid. Of course, it's not actually possible to take the twenty quid from the balance of the cheque, as it hasn't been cleared yet. And to add insult to injury, the cheque was issued from another account at my bank!

Do any of you have banking tendancies, and may be able to answer this question?
I'd dearly like to know!

Festival Season.

I heard, this afternoon, that Ramsgate Football Club is holding a beer festival at the social club by their stadium, tonight and tomorrow.
I think I may pop along there this evening, in the hope that it is actually open to the public, as noone outside of their fraternity seems to have been invited!
Had a jolly good time there last year, with a lovely selection of beer and some very dodgy looking, but tasty, sausages.

Thrombosis Man, c*nt.

Having deliberated further over this anti-hero idea, I can see how it may be applied to our fair island, uncovering the truth about how Thanet society really works.
So I've compiled a list of our very own anti-heroes, in the hope that they could be used in the making of a mega-blockbuster movie, which would put Thanet on the map and, hopefully, persuade the rest of the World that autonomy would really be the way forward for us!

If it works, I'd like to choose the colours for our flag. And it would be nice to finally see something flapping from our restored flagpole by the Eastcliff Lift, other than a herring gull.

So then,

1. Team Subterfuge. Full of South Eastern promise, this squad of miscreants operates under the guise of councillors for the people, but would probably be better off opening a zoo, if only we could get them to admit to having collected enough monkeys (in brown envelopes), over the years.

2. Robbing Hood Boy. Looking much like any other member of his tribe, Robbing Hood is the master of pulling the wool over his own eyes. Able to go anywhere, incognito, and do as he pleases, without thought for anyone, including himself, this one really makes a mockery of big brother (not the popular TV programme. That takes care of itself in that respect).

3. Free Coffee Drinking, Fat Bobby. Often found lurking in Harbour Street, offering the great public service of thwarting the plans of any criminal desperate enough to try and drive into the pedestrianised precinct during the hours of 9 to 5, his only weakness being his inability to give hot pursuit if anyone moves away from him at any speed that exceeds walking pace.

4. The Dog Trainer. Seen around and about town, attempting to teach the dog to do backward summersaults by yanking as hard as possible on it's lead. Other tricks include getting it to fall over sideways by kicking it, making kindling wood for the old folk by clamping it's mouth to a tree branch while beating it with a stick and, of course, providing employment for Council road sweepers.

5. Cycle Path Boy. Being those helpful young souls that like to park their bikes on their sides, across shop doorways. Presumably they get some kick out of having their wheels bent, when you have to walk across their spokes to gain access to said shops.

6. Spare Fag Person. Though in truth, this one will attempt to ponce anything it thinks it needs, being entirely unaware of the existence of money or how to procure it. The reply "I'm sorry, I don't have a spare anything" simply falls upon deaf ears and is often responded to with "have you got a spare rizla, then?" or some such thing. There's not much use in trying to enlighten them by pointing out the proper procedure for these things, getting a job, earning money etc. as this would be way, way beyond their purview.


I won't pretend for a moment that this is the definitive list, rather just a handful of our local anti-heroes. If anyone would care to add to it, please feel free.

Thrombosis Man.

While watching 'Heroes', America's latest attempt at instilling hope into it's masses by making them believe that around one in five of them will develop the ability to fly telepathically through walls in a changeable future-scape and save the World from anything non- American, I noticed a rather disturbing ommision.
Where are all the anti-heroes?
I've spotted one, so far, who has the enviable ability to lop the tops off the heads of 'the good guys'.
Whoopie-doo!
So the following list, if they feel they can be honest enough about life to make use of it, is of a few additions to the cast, in order to redress this equipoisal inconsistency.

1. Thrombosis Man. Bestowed with the power to cause blood to spontaneously clot his victims legs, this character could reduce the fear of flying in many people by offering them the option of 'copping it' whether they fly or not.

2. Chlamydia Boy. With the ability to render people 'diseased' without them even realising it, this anti-hero could actually reduce the queues in doctors' waiting rooms through the power of ignorance, alone. Not so fictional, this one, as I've actually met him in three different guises, on four different occasions.

3. Correct Change Woman. Most likely in the form of a 'little old lady', this one could wreak havoc with the bus system, causing all the busses on a single route to bunch up into a long line, and also negate any need for Thrombosis Man to visit supermarkets.

4. Sexually Inadequate Milkman. Blessed with the knack for dispelling folklore and myth, which have existed for many years, surrounding the sexual prowess of our Ernies, this fella could cause bitter disappointment for housewives up and down the Country.

Or, on the other hand, do we neccesarily look to our tellies for truth and enlightenment?
Probably not, otherwise Eastenders wouldn't be nearly as popular as it is, I suppose.
Personally, if I want the wool pulled over my eyes and to be fed confusing nonsense, I'll visit Thanet Life. Thankfully that doesn't happen unless I'm feeling paticularly depressed.

Milk Of Amnesia.

I bumped into Milkey Mike last night and it seemed to me like the wedding plans might be off!
Poor soul made the mistake of trying to ignore me, presumably in the hope that I would reciprocate.
In so far as I have any, that isn't my style!
Still, now that most of the clientele of Churchill's are aware of his erection problems, propensity for wearing female underware and possesion of an inflatable sheep, he'll maybe think twice about being rude in the future.

Men!

Analgram Man.

Had an interesting chat with this fella in The Artillery Arms last night, who seemed quite proud of the fact that he used to be a rent-boy.
Never having met, to my knowledge, that camped-up Justin chappie from Birchington (where is he, by the way?), he did leave me wondering if he might not be one and the same.
I'm sure he wouldn't have recognised me though, as both of my breasts were well ensconsed in a roll neck, multi-colour, chunky knit tank-top.

By Request.

After an avalanche of requests (well two, and they were from the same person) to see a picture of my little box, I've decided to relent and reveal all.


So here it is....


Though it beats me why the bloody milkman won't use it!

I'm A Celebrity, Get Everyone Else Out Of Here!

Is Eastcliff Richard really upset about having to constantly delete comments from some 'nutter' , or is turning 'comments' off a disguised attempt to beat the track record for 'fewest comments on a blog', currently held by the alternative alternative newspaper, blue tint Thanet Blog?
Only possible because, a while back, I commented on it myself, before recoiling in horror as I realised that I'd just broken it's hymen, so to speak.
There should be some kind of notice up, warning people!
Anyhow, now the damage is done, if people started commenting all over it, I wonder if Richard would turn his back on?

Hell, I Copped A Pad!

Further to yesterday's grumble, as I was walking into town, along King Street, not half an hour after moaning about the market days litter, I trod on something soft.
Just as when you cut your finger and are reluctant to look at it, because you know it's going to be grim, I had the same reaction with what I believed to be a dog turd.
So you can imagine my relief and delight, when I finally looked, to discover that it was a used sanitary towel.
I'd love to meet the woman who changes her towels outside a florist. I should imagine that she's an interesting person, indeed!

A Brush With The Lore.

One of the things that I love about my Sunday afternoon trawl to the Westcliff, in search of a half decent pub, rather than the eighth decent ones we have on the Eastcliff, is when inclement weather drives me through town, instead of going along the seafront. Takes me back to my youth, when I used to play with the rough boys on the local tip, wading knee deep through rubbish, though I don't recall nearly as much polythene and food detritus.
You'd think that, after two days of crap vending at the market, TDC might have highlighted a need for some kind of SWAT team to limp (as most of their cleaning staff seem to) into action and save themselves the chore of chasing it all over town for the next week!
Not that I hold any truck with the myth that this used to happen. It never, to my recollection, has. Well, not the clearing up, that is. Though the police did used to send out SWAT individuals to redden the ears of potential litter bugs.
Good old days, eh.

And no, I didn't get my leg under, last night!

I Am NOT A Lesbian!

But it seems that a fair few of you, er, gentlemen would rather believe that than face up to the fact that you're just not being fancied!
Yet again, in the pub last night, I had to face that same, tired scenario of a failed, piss-poor chat-up turning into aspersions upon my sexuality.
Makes me quite angry!
I think it's time to get a tee-shirt made up that bears this title across the top of it, with the added note 'Though I'd still rather sleep with a fat hairy bean-flicker than a minger like you!'

That ought to do it!

Flat Truth.

I had the builder round yesterday, and what a helpful little soul he was, indeed!
After informing me that I had a felt roof, and there were never any tiles there in the first place (doh!), he went on to point out a few flaws that I did have.

1. My breasts were starting to slump and needed some extra support.

2. There's a nasty looking crack beneath them that could do with filling in.

3. My back passage is quite mouldy and starting to crumble.

He said that he could correct all these problems for £150 so I decided to take him up on his kind offer.

Well, with five weeks off work, I could do with the money!

A Night Off The Tiles.

Gracious me!
I've been looking forward to a spot of English weather for a while now, but this is, perhaps, taking it to an extreme.
What with all those strong winds, I thought it would be prudent to go and check the tiles on my roof, this morning. Imagine my surprise upon discovering that they are all gone. Every single one! Furthermore, there doesn't seem to be any sign of them, anywhere.
Must've been blowing a proper hooley in the wee, small hours!

Ah well, best call the builders in, I suppose.
Now where's that insurance policy?

Carbine Footprint.

Interesting to note, with Christmas fast approaching, that most of the blogs I visit are starting to lean towards the subject of popping caps in the asses of neighbouring Country-folk.
What with that, the usual frenzied assualt on Woolworth and the subsequent fall in donations to the RNLI, it does make one wonder if a message isn't being missed.

Being a casual observer myself, I do have to wonder if, when the shit hits the fan (and Christmas finally arrives), my alcohol consumption alone will be enough.
Just to be on the safe side, I think I'll drop in on my old aunt Edna, being my only family member that isn't 'off with the Canaries' at the moment, and nick some of her valium.

Great Tits.

Managed to catch up with Milky Mike this morning and boy, does he know his beans when it comes to delivering the white stuff!
Though if I had one criticism, it would be that the tits cop most of the cream. Quite unnecessary really as I do have a little box next to my back door that he can stick it in.
Never mind, eh? I'm sure he knows best.

The Land That TDC Forgot.

Finally, after months of intensive training, I'm now a fully trained member of The Australian Reconnaissance Service Elite. And it's ok, now that I have my final exam results and know what my placement will be, to talk about it.
Not that I really want to, mind you, but suffice it to say that the ARSE offices, henceforth, will shine like a new pin!
Anyhow, they've given me five weeks off to spend Christmas with my family, who, I found out yesterday, are all buggering off to Tenerife for the month. They did ask me if I wanted to tag along but, after spending the last six months running around in 30/40 degree heat, the last thing I wanted to do was visit a sub-tropical volcano.
No, it'll be cold, damp, drizzly Ramsgate for me for Christmas. The town that never changes.
Home!
It's taken me a few days to catch up on local news, as Eastcliff Richard seems to have become quite prolific of late, but it's all mind-bogglingly amusing stuff despite it's focus on (or maybe because of it's focus on) social, political and spiritual inertia.
Gosh, I've missed this place.

Though I'm quite confident that five weeks will put paid to that!