Blowing Hot And Cold.

I happened to spot something right out of the blue this morning and it had me seeing red!
Right after 'feeding the fishes', I went to the bathroom sink to wash my hands and noticed, for the first time in my
twenty-odd-something-or-so years, that the tap on the left was marked red and the one on the right, blue.
Well ok, I had noticed THAT before, but not the significance of it!

Doesn't it work that way in politics too?

Dear God, if it's not enough that they want to brainwash us, they want to handwash us too?
After all these (relatively few) years that I've been trying to wash my hands of politics, only to realise that I've been doing that every time I purge myself, anyway!

Seems a little unfair on the Lib-Dems, though (those 80 or 90% of you that have never heard of them, please follow the link). So I suggest that we dedicate the mixer tap on the bidet to them.
Seems appropriate enough, a mixture of red and blue, lightly splashed with flotsam from one's undercarriage!

Anyway, enough of talking crap for the mo, I hear The Sharpees will be rockin' and bluesin' the New Year in at Churchills tonight. Well I'll definitely be along for that, some beer and yet another chance to try and get their gorgeous guitarist to rattle out a little number on my G-string.

Grope strings internal, as they say!

Rent-A-Ghost.

It's slowly dawned on me over the last year, as occasionally some things do, that a great deal of the mischievous behavior of my ethereal friends, North of the border between life and death, can be attributed to boredom. That is to say, on 'the other side' without substance or form, there's not a bloody lot to do other than bother those who have those things, namely us, on the grounds that they're more enlightened and can better appreciate having them now that they haven't any more.

A bit like benefit scroungers, really!

But where the difference lies is that some of these spectres would like to get out of that rut and change the hollow echoes that reflect their former lives.

Though, naturally, there would be a small charge for services rendered!

But the benefits to their clients could be enormous, as outlined in some of the special talents that are available, listed below...

Rod, former entertainer, can get just about anyone to start a fight, merely by inserting his spectral fist into their anus. He can be an astonishing nuisance to anyone attempting to fix their TV arial.

Fred is quite adept at hiding things around your house, in particular your children. Ideal for quietening the homestead for a day or two. He's looking forward to his wife Rose joining forces with him at some point and, I suppose, so are we!

Chris, despite a previous tendancy towards confusion over which goes on first, his underpants or his trousers, has quite an array of skills. These include making the Earth rotate backwards and reversing time, flirting with female reporters (though I'm quite sure he won't want to do that around these parts), and making horses fall over. He also claims to be rather good at saving the World, though as I understand it, he's done that so many times already that it's become a bit boring and he'd just as soon not bother any more.

These special ex-people are just a few of many that are expressing an interest in hiring out their skills. I'll add more as they come in.

If anyone is interested in procuring any of these very special services, please contact me on the email address at the top of this page to discuss terms.

ID IOT.

Did anyone else get one of those little notes, appearing to promote the use of ID cards on the Isle Of Thanet, under their windscreen wiper this morning?
There wasn't any detail included, just a somewhat cryptic promotion of sewing the seeds of a Big Brother State, right here on OUR Island.

I couldn't see any of these notes on the other cars in my road, including the one on the drive-way that I'd parked across, but assumed that everyone else had got up at a reasonable hour and removed them.

Was mine the only street that was targeted for this ridiculous campaign?

Honestly, this place gets more and more like Nazi Germany every day!

Keeping One's Hand In.

A friend of mine recently passed on this email to me. Though I don't normally publish this kind of thing, much preferring to slice you up with my own rapier wit instead, I felt this was plenty good enough to share!
Enjoy....

A young man Called Ron wanted to buy a Christmas present for his new girlfriend. They hadn't been seeing each other for very long and she lived a considerable distance away.
He consulted with his sister and decided after careful consideration, that a pair of good quality gloves would strike the right note, not too romantic and not too personal.
Off he went with his sister to Harrods and they selected a pair of good quality, fur lined leather gloves.
His sister bought a pair of knickers for herself at the same time.
Harrods had a free gift wrap offer, but the assistant mixed up the two items, so the sister got the gloves and Ron got the knickers!
Ron sent off his gift wrapped present in a parcel with the following letter:

Dear Sasha,

I chose these because I've noticed you are not wearing any when we go out in the evenings. If it had not been for my sister, I would have chosen the long ones with buttons, but she wears shorter ones (which are easier to take off).
These are a very delicate shade but the lady I bought them from showed me the pair she had been wearing for the past three weeks and they were hardly soiled at all. I had her try yours on for me, and she looked really smart in them, even though they were a little bit tight on her.
She also said that they rub against her ring, which keeps it clean. In fact she hasn't needed to wash it since she began wearing them.
I wish I was there to put them on for you the first time, as no doubt many other hands will touch them before I have a chance to see you again. When you take them off, remember to blow into them, because they will be naturally a little damp from wearing. Just imagine how many times my lips will kiss them during the coming year.
I hope you will wear them for me on our next date.

Love ,

Ron

P.S I thought you might like to know that my mum likes to wear hers folded down with a little bit of fur showing.

Regards

Elf And Safety Curtain.

I'm not normally one for pantos but when my seven year old niece asked me to take her along to one at The Grandvile Theatre, how could I say no to the dear little creature (well she is related to me, poor sod).

Imagine my surprise when I got a butchers at the cast, though!

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

Doesn't he cut a dash!

Soapy, Leaky Cock.

At least, that's how it came out in Bon Apetite last night, when, head full of beer and quite obviously things other than food, I tried to order a cock-a-leekie soup.
"I'm afraid we don't have that on the menu." I was told.
Luckily, to save further embarrassment, when I replied "So I suppose a shag's out of the question, then?" it actually came out as "I'll just have egg and chips, then."

Phew!

And my date wanted to know what I'll be doing tonight!
Bonus! (unless he was wondering where not to go!)

In With A Chancer.

As the weather was so lovely last night, I thought I'd spend the evening on the seafront, in the Belgian Bar-ret (pronounced Beirut).
Who'd have thought that I'd find love in there?
Anyhow, I've procured a hot date for tonight and he's pledged to wine and dine me in the finest restaurant in Ramsgate!

Woohoo!

Then maybe pop next door for a couple of Leffe Brunes?

Thai'd Up In Nots.

I don't normally like to get involved in political debate (plenty enough blogs around for that!) but when the Thais get all upset and decide to kick off, it's quite something to behold.
For a number of years now, a small portion of their population, The Peoples' Alliance for Democracy (PAD), have been fuming about their government pouring some of the easily earned money from their tourist trade into poorer rural areas, in the form of grants for development, cheap health-care, etc. So they had a coup a couple of years ago, in which no shots were fired, to depose their then Prime Minister, Thaksin (Frank?) Shinawatra. He's since been replaced by a fella called Somchai Wongsawat, who PAD claim is just a puppet for their former PM.
So thousands of them have taken over their capital's airport and closed it down, again without the use of guns, and say they're staying put until Wongsawat rights a wrong and buggers off.
Their army leader, Anupong Paochinda, has told PAD and the PM they can both bugger off, before sloping off to make a cup of tea and settle in front of the telly for a bit.

Meanwhile, the 'mericans are taking it a bit personally by claiming that the Thais are doing this to strand a large number of their lardies in Thailand, ostricising them from their turkeys and ruining their thanksgiving!
Sky News has even gone to the extraordinary length of interviewing one lardy and this was the response...

>>Cheryl Turner, 63, of Scottsdale, Arizona, said she had asked neighbours to pull an 18lb turkey from her freezer to defrost for a traditional Thanksgiving dinner.

"My turkey is sitting in the sink at home," she said.<<

A phrase that, if slightly misconstrued, could cause a great deal of offence to a large number of Asians. You can read the whole article here.

So the match is ready to kick off with PAD (in the yellow shirts) holding the country's main airport, dug in and waiting for the UDD (poor people in red shirts, but tons more of them) to attack them with rocks, wooden sticks and a sea of menacing grins.

I'd love to give you a little more insight but unfortunately, due to the non-violent nature of their protest, I'm afraid they haven't left me with anyone to interview on the matter.

Mind you, it does give me an idea of how to deal with Infratil.

Loo Sir?

Leafing through some holiday snaps that a friend of mine brought round recently (well you have to grit your teeth and smile politely, don't you), I came across this little gem that he'd taken in a pub toilet, while in Brighton.



It never ceases to amaze me how you fellas can get yourselves in such a state!

Mind you, I suppose I'd do the same myself, on occasion, but luckily the ladies aren't equipped with that type of pottery.

Hands Free Upgrade.

Hurrah!
My days of walking half a mile from my car to the shops are almost over, after recieving a letter from my insurers yesterday, informing me that they're upgrading my policy to 'disabled' status.
Lord knows why they've done this as there's bugger all wrong with me but, not being one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I'll be sending a copy of it off with my application for a disabled badge, forthwith.
My new status doesn't actually take effect until the 1st of December, when, as the letter states, my insurance will become invalid, but that's less than a week away!

With a bit of luck I'll get my disabled badge in time for my Christmas shopping at Westwood Cross.

Ghost Town!

After getting that feeling in my water that last night would be the night that I finally met my Prince, and spending two hours getting ready to plunge towards my destiny, I was having trouble containing my disappointment at how quiet the pubs were!
With a band playing at Churchill's called Karaoke Groove or something, I thought I'd have the pick of the pokes, but no, alas, there were about twenty people there, 60% women, 40% mingers ('cept for the huge body-builder fella with the flappy hairdo who normally sits at the end of the bar, but I'm not sure I want him rolling all over me and squashing my tits!).

Everyone must be in the Artillery, I thought.

Nope, all to be found there was a bunch of octogenarians and a barman playing chess with one of the locals.

Far too exciting for me!

Ah well, maybe I got my dates mixed up and today's the day that I'll find my one true love (...or a shag, at least)?
Counterfeit Notes are playing in Churchill's at 5-30 and they always pull in a good crowd.

Let's see if I can do the same, eh?

Leap Christmas.

And while we're on the subject of Christmas, it's interesting to note (for those of us that are bemused by the idiosyncrasies of leap years) that this year, New Years Day will be officially counted as being in the same year as Christmas Day!

Well I never!

399 Shopping Days Until Next Christmas.

I know I should probably focus on getting this Christmas out of the way, before worrying about the next one, but I do like to plan ahead.
And Christmas IS my favourite time of year, despite finding out the bitter truth about Santa, a couple of years ago.
So what if he's gay! I was never interested in persuing THAT kind of relationship with him, anyway.

So then, I'd best be away to write out some cards. And reviewing the amount of new friends I've aquired over the last year, I've a feeling that I may have to open the 'super value economy' box of a dozen cards which I bought in 1987.

Cycler Hex 'n' All.

For those of you that are a little concerned about contamination of our water supply, I've been poking about in the Ether, looking for some answers there (because the dead don't half know some stuff) and was rather surprised to find that our entire water table has been cursed by a somewhat surly, Victorian alchemist after he fell off his penny farthing into it, pockets full of lead, following a particularly futile attempt to turn dog poo (something that Thanet has always had in great supply) into gold!
So not only is our water supply cursed, it's also contaminated by a shockingly poisonous heavy metal that formerly resided in a dog's arse!

That's it for me. I'm sticking to beer from now on!!!

Astral Fireworks.

My poor old dog, Eli, is still shaking after all those bangs and flashes from a few days ago.
I had to confess my surprise at this, bearing in mind that he is, in fact, the most recent incarnation of one of Sir Guy Fawkes's best friends and co-conspiritors. Though after a reasonably thorough celestial probing, it turns out that he crapped himself on the big night too, even though the bomb didn't go off.
It didn't help matters at all when one of my cats (formerly Queen Elizabeth I) came flying in through the cat-flap with a lit banger tied to her tail.

Cats can be so cruel, can't they!

History Lesson.

Living in the modern World, as we do, things can sometimes seem perplexing, nay incomprehensible. So it's important, I think, to be retrospective from time to time and to review how our society came to be what it is today.
If you have 12 minutes to spare (not a great deal of time in the grand scheme of things), the following video should answer all of your questions......

A Merry Con President.

I see those intrepid, galaxy hopping West-ponders (of whom only about 10% hold passports, oddly enough) have launched themselves into hype-space again, with their latest idea of how to seem like they're saving their bloated and ailing nation.
Electing a black prez is a master-stroke, isn't it?
With all the kerfuffle and spin that will result from that, they could probably nuke something strategic in their own Country without anyone noticing at all.
Don't get me wrong, I've nothing against the idea of it in principle, it's the timing of it that makes me raise an eyebrow. Big recession, black socialist steps in to sort it all out, white bigot steps in to sort him out, blame for the whole thing gets buried with ex-prez.
Still, at least he was elected this time, rather than being inaugurated by the courts. Much more democratic in appearance!

Or perhaps I'm being cynical?

Concert Tina, Unfolding.

Is there any truth in the rumour that Tina Charles has been booked to sing at The Winter Gardens, next Easter? What a fantastic way to celebrate ressurection day!

Wow! She was my absolute favourite diva when I was a, er, child in the 70's!

Well I'll certainly be at the front of the queue for tickets, if that's true!

Bah Rain!

Which would be appropriate for our little Island I suppose, as, literally translated, Bahrain means Kingdom of the two seas (English Channel and North Sea, for the less geographically self aware among us).
I do wish it would bloodywell stop raining at some point though, as I'm starting to develop a complex about the fact that every time I spend half a weeks wages on a hairdo, it rains non-stop for about a week afterwards!

Maybe my barnet is some kind of Rain God?

Owl Hollows Eve`.

A rather important date in the calender of us 'spiritual' types, today. It's a bit like our Christmas!
Though I will admit that I find some of the rituals rather perplexing.
Quite why we have to hollow out an owl (or a pumpkin for the squeamish), I won't even pretend to understand.
Still, tradition is tradition so I'll be off to the woods today with my cosh and a spoon, and hope that I don't run into the RSPB again. They're a surly bunch that seem to have a bit of an adversity to witchcraft.
I've also never quite got my head around why we have to do this at the end of October. Surely, if one is going to run around naked, bashing owls on the head, the middle of Summer would be more appropriate!

Ours is not to reason why, I suppose.

Things That Go Bump In The Night.

You would think, wouldn't you, that with my ability to communicate with the dead 'n' all, I wouldn't get scared about the odd creepy noise or two, in the middle of the night.
Well I do live in King Street, and I, like most people, have the hardest time trying to communicate with the undead that skulk around these parts!
So you can imagine, perhaps, the mixture of fear and anger that I experienced upon peeping over my duvet and seeing one of these skulking forms going through my bedroom drawers.
Unluckily for my intruder, I have lightning fast reactions and was out of bed, clubbing him over the head with the large ceramic ashtray on my bedside cabinet, before I even had chance to realise that I have neither a bedside cabinet nor a large ceramic ashtray!

OOPS!

Once I'd managed to stem the bleeding and stop the poor fella from crying and shaking, I thought it prudent to just apologise and go home.

I really ought to cut down on my drinking, but have arranged to meet some friends in the Artillery Arms this afternoon.
Maybe something to look at tomorrow?

Miss Steak.

I wonder if Churchills have considered running a Miss Steak competition to augment their already popular steak night.
I could be in the running for that title, as it's already a popular nick-name for me, bestowed upon me by my parents at a very early age.
As I recall, I was often introduced to people as 'our little Miss Steak'.

And if I could be the first one to congratulate myself, in the event that said competition is held, by saying "Bloody well done, Medium!"

Plane Jane Takes Flight.

I see our vigilante reporter of all things bad for Thanet has gone off in a huff, yet again! Blaming it, also yet again, on miscreants posting their opinions (how dare they!) on his blog.
Well honestly, some people just don't know when they've got it good!!!
So, go right ahead and bury your head under the Tower of London. Had you continued your tirade against TDC, they probably would have done that for you, sooner or later, anyhow!
In the meantime, let's play couple of little tribute songs, in an attempt to fill the hole that he's left in the Thanet blogosphere and hope for his speedy return, once he's finished taking it out on his bedsit tenants in our Nation's great capital.




...and there's nothing gay about these fellas, either!



Seeing our Jimmy there, reminds me of a previous video that's been posted. It's so good, I thought it worth another airing!




Missing you already, sweetie!

Cold Off The Press.

Being a bit of a cider fan (you can't beat a Magners with half a bucket of ice in it), I thought I'd better haul ass to the cider festival at Churchills, at the weekend.
My word, that stuff they were serving does for your legs!!!
When it was all over, it took me about ten minutes to get up the stairs to the bar, where they had a band playing. I don't remember too much about what they were playing but found myself unable to stop dancing to it, every time I tried to move around the place.

I'm starting to gain an idea of why it's so heavily rumoured that incest is rife in the Westcountry. It's going to be a bit difficult to go out and extend your gene pool if you can't walk more than three or four steps without going arse over tit, isn't it!

What Goes Up....

Not that I'm normally one for paying too much credence to pub conversations, I did hear something quite disturbing last night.
Apparently, and contrary to what I've always believed, it is actually possible to catch Down's Syndrome, under certain circumstances, from the age of about thirty, onwards!
Being one of those people who's lives are ruled by 'certain circumstances', I was worried enough to research the matter as soon as I got home.
The fact that I couldn't find any reference to this, anywhere on YouTube, just smacks of a big cover-up and has deepend my concerns exponentially.

In fact, all I could find was this video and, to be quite honest, apart from being no help at all, I also found it a quite offensive!





Is there a doctor in the house who can clear this up?

Pin The Tail On The Donkey.

Yummy!
This donkey and trimmings gig at Churchill's is fast becoming a weekly sojourn for me.
How do they do it for the price?
I mean come on! Steak, chips and trimmings for £3. I can't buy the ingredients for that monét! And it's always tasty and well presented, to boot.
Though I did have a spot of bother with mine going off on a ten minute tour of the pub, before it got to me. Not the sort of thing you'd expect on their manager's (Tazmanian Pete's) night off!!!
Still, I'm not one to scoff at cheap scoff in the old Van Gogh, so hats off to all involved in this 'scam' to get bums on seats, and, er, see you next Tuesday!

An Open Letter To TDC.

On the strength of everything that they've done for us, over the years, I've decided to send TDC an open letter, reflecting my own (and possibly quite a few others) feelings about their level of care regarding our community.



Ideal present, if they think it's about time they put a lid on their current practices!

I may also have to send one to EDF, inviting them to go back home. But, of course, theirs would have to be a French letter with 'come' in it!

Let's Heat The Field Up!

Nope, not a call to arms, so calm down all you survivalists out there.
While I was tracking down the not-so-elusive Three Foot on U-Bend, I also found a firm old favourite that I'd not heard for decades.

A cheery song to lift the spirits with the approach of Winter (weren't we supposed to have Summer first?), and take the chill off our souls.
Still, with a bit of luck we'll have a mild Winter and it'll be Summer again before anyone realises that the seasons changed.

Beer Dead Woman.

Much as I love a good pint or three, I've encountered a sharp uprise, of late, in the amount of people around town that bang on about it to the exclusion of all else!

Well I've had about a gut-full of it!

So when I was approached by a middle-aged woman in the pub, last night, who cheerily anounced that the pint I was drinking used a hint of blah-blah hops, delicately balanced with lightly roasted something-or-other, I'm afraid I told her to fuck *ff!
She looked a bit taken aback at first, but, the true bore coming out in her, she plodded on as if I'd said "Really? How interesting! Do tell me more."

Still, pub bores are easily combatted these days, by simply buggering off outside for a smoke. Except the smoking bores, of course, but oddly enough that particular type of bore is quite thin on the ground.
I've found that changing the subject to 'anal sex' works quite well, too!

Legs 111

As I gave the fella a mention recently, I thought I'd see if I could track him down on YouTube.
Is there anything you can't find there?

Riding Along On The Christ Of A Wave.

I see those boffins in the World of sport have come up with a new recreational pass-time. By simply removing the wheels from a skateboard, it's now possible to glide across the surface of the sea, as though you are the Saviour, Himself!

Goodness knows where this will lead. They'll probably be tugging themselves along with boats, launching themselves down the sides of mountains and sticking sails on the things, before you know it!


Here's a picture of one, if anyone is interested....





Though you'll notice from the picture that they're only experimenting with them, using convicts, at the mo.

A Large Hadron Colida, Please. Stirred But Not Shaken (Hopefully).

Well I don't know about you lot, but I'm getting pretty fed up with all the hype surrounding Mankinds' latest, greatest, potential achievement.
Another typical boy thing, is all it is. Trying to find out how something works by smashing it to bits!
What with the uneducated fearing for their lives and the over-educated, with their usual social ineptitude, trying to assure the uneducated that they're completely thick and should stick to worrying about plot twists in Eastenders, which is about as complex a problem as they could possibly hope to handle, it was all starting to get a tad tiresome.
Until I overheard a conversation in the pub, the other night, that raised concerns that I've not heard anyone address so far, that is.
This fella was suggesting that, though CERN claims to be conducting this experiment to simulate conditions during the Big Bang, it all falls on it's arse a bit when you consider that one of the fundamental conditions of said event would be that all matter would be travelling away from where it started, and none of it would be crashing head-on into any other bit of it, what-so-ever!
In short, any collisions would be at sub-light speeds.
These boffins at CERN though, are intending to collide solid matter, head-on, at speeds approaching light speed, effectively creating an impact speed just short of twice the speed of light.
Something that has possibly never occured naturally, due to the constantly expanding nature of the Universe, ever before.
Without brushing up on my physics, or my understanding of time dilation or the subtleties of near-infinite mass smacking head-first into near-infinte mass at a theoretically impossible speed, I don't think it would be appropriate to comment further.

In fact, my poor girlie brain, which can't even conceptualise three dimensions in reverse (so I'm assured), is quite at a loss as to how the device on the far right of this picture is going to help, if it all goes tits-up, at all!

The Word On The Street.

Just like most people, I like to 'get away from it all' from time to time. And just like most people, I suspect, the 'all' that I'd wanted to get away from is occasionally where I'd much rather be, when I got there.
Well I'd never been to Manchester before!
Still, you live and learn, eh?
Despite the desolate grimness of the vast majority of it, I did manage to glean a little enjoyment from the trip, when I went to see a comic 'artiste' by the name of John Cooper Clark. In fact, I enjoyed the show so much that, in an unprecedented fit of charity, I bought his CD.
Though I did get the feeling from his rather cynical lyrics that Mr Clark, throughout his life so far, has been beaten up and mugged quite a lot.

I'll play this little snippet at you, as it so reminded me of the road that my hotel was in. Apologies in advance for those of you who find the Mancunian accent a little harsh, but personally I think it's really, really grate.

Without A Clu.

Well I thought I'd left it long enough to chance my arm at venturing back into the San Clu (Comfort Inn, in decimal currency), after all that nonsense with my friend Hellen, the damned collonial.
After all, it wasn't me that was sick in their fridge!
And I think I would've got away with it if it wasn't for my big mouth!
I'd managed to drink half of my pint of Seasider and was just about to order some food, when, rather stupidly, I checked with the big, burly bar manager to make sure that there weren't any Americans staying in the hotel at the mo.
He gave me a quizzical look, then a little light of recognition flickered across his face and he asked me, quite politely, to bugger off.

Much as I like Hellen, I do hope she doesn't decide to visit me again. I can get into my own little pickles, ta very much!

It All Comes Out In The Wash.

Burned At The Steak II.

And before anyone asks what happened to 'Burned At The Steak 2 through to 10', I suggest you get yourself a grammar education, like what I did, so you know what Roman numerals are all about. It's never too late to learn, even at the age of LIX or so (such a shame that that's 59, rather than 69).

Anyway, it's that time of the week again. The donkeys have been slaughtered and butchered and all that remains is to throw a few chips at them, before we try to break them down with alcohol in our guts.
After having had such a marvelous time, in Churchill's, last week, and all joking aside, it was good food and beer, I think I'll be off there again tonight, for another L Bobsworth.

Lucky old L Bobsworth, eh?

The Early Berk Catches The Work.

Off to start a new job this morning, which requires a six o'clock start.
Yay!
My duties, so I'm told, will be to assemble the legs onto Barbie dolls.
I did tell the fella who interviewed me that I had next to no experience when it came to putting legs together, but he seemed quite pleased with that and said I'd be perfect for the job. Not sure that I liked the little glint in his eye when he said that, but hey ho, the guy has worked in a factory for some time and he's probably gone a bit ga-ga.

On the bright side, I'll be finished in time for the lunch-time session in the pub, where I can get to work on disassembling my own legs!

Now Is The Winter Of Our Disco Tent.

Saints preserve us! Much as I enjoy a good old knees-up in the Marquee on the harbour, for Ramsgate week, that was quite a scary experience with all that wind, yesterday.
At one point among all the straining and groaning (I knew I shouldn't have eaten that steak on Tuesday), it felt as if the whole thing was going to take off and go smother a fire in Margate.
Still, hats off to the erectors (and anyone walking along the seafront), it stood it's ground.

Pity it didn't take off, really. I'd've loved to have chased it through town, yelling "Disco, disco duck."

Burned At The Steak.

Always on the lookout for a cheap meal deal, I trundled off to The Churchill Tavern last night in an effort to clog my bowel for £2-50. Well for goodness sake, £2-50 for steak, chips and trimmings! Even if it wasn't very good, it'd still be excellent value for money. As luck would have it, it was rather tasty indeed.
The downside though, which I didn't notice until I tried to walk home, was a really scrummy beer called Drop Dead Extra, or something. I only had a few pints of it but blimey, it had me weaving all over the place.
I found out later that it was almost 6%.

Still, I may have to pencil that in as a weekly treat, though I'll be reading the small print on the beers from now on!

Downtime Blues.

How I hate it when my computer goes tits-up! It's like losing a limb!
Never mind, though. Getting it fixed was marginally cheaper than buying a prosthesis, and I haven't got to learn how to walk again, or start writing with my left hand, so things aren't so bad, I suppose.

The guy at the computer mending shop seemed a bit perplexed about what had gone wrong with the thing, but assured me that by replacing everything inside the boxy bit, I shouldn't have any more problems.
Well so far, so good.
Though I did get a bit of an odd error message earlier, that had me scratching my head (although that could have been my pesky cat and it's fleas).
Anyone care to enlighten me as to what it means?

You Shall Have A Fissure On Your Little Kisser, You Shall Have A Fissure, When The Boot Comes In!

Much as I love little seaside shanties, I can't help but think that some of our Ramsgate anthems lack romance.
That was one song, inspired by a moonlit walk through King Street, but I'll bet there are plenty more! How about "Oh I do Like to vandalise the beach slide" or "Is a life by the Ocean grave?"
Perhaps they could be incorporated into next years carnival?

Ghost Raita.

After being asked out on a date last night, for the first time in months, I was reluctant to poo-poo my suitors choice of venue, The Ramsgate Tandoori (the reviews speak for themselves), for fear of giving offence. The poor lad seemed to think that it was curry heaven in Ramsgate and I haven't eaten there in years, so, I thought, let's give it a go!

Oh dear!

From the 'wet lettuce' handshake from the owner, on arrival, to the 'wet lattice' array of food, the whole experience was horrid!
Still, I managed to have a bit of fun with the waiter by making a big fuss about one of the dips being haunted.
Well it was!! I know ectoplasm when I see it!
He still wasn't convinced, even when the thing levitated and ended up, upside down on the bar. Though to be honest, I did have to help it a little with lift-off.

My date didn't seem too impressed and was reluctant to continue with the rest of the evening's festivities.

How's that supposed to make a gal feel, eh, playing second fiddle to a place like that?!

A Chip (On The Shoulder?) Off The Old Blog.

Well I've had one of those afternoons where my imagination has been at such a low ebb that I've been perusing all of the Thanet blogs.
As bad as it may seem, there was only one blog (not counting Michael's or my own) that I just couldn't finish reading even one of the many posts that had been vomited onto it. Y'know, that bloke that spells his name with a silent 'P' and has an IQ that peaks at 146, though I strongly suspect that it averages at about 30.

And he has comment moderation turned on!!!!
Who the Hell is ever going to want to get drawn into that World of insane paranoia by passing comment? Ok, I think I answered my own question there. It's going to be nutters, isn't it!

I've a sneaking suspicion that the whole thing may be driven by some kind of head trauma, sustained during his formative years!

E Bay Glum.

With my new-found wealth, I thought I'd do what us gals do best and indulge in a little shopping.
Credit card in hand, I couldn't resist going for this little number on e-Bay, as I am a bit of a one for time/labour saving devices...





So you can imagine my disappointment, after winning it for a snip at 50p, when the seller tried to back out of the deal, claiming it to be a joke!
Rubbish! I think he was just after more money!

I've already complained to e-Bay but have found them to be most unhelpful. The woman that I finally managed to talk to even laughed at me and called me an idiot, for goodness sake!

Surely there's someone else that I can complain to, but so far this 'organisation' seems to be a rule unto itself!

I shall never shop there again!!!

Up In The Dumps.

Ha!
So much for The A.R.S.E. (Australian Reconnaissance Service Elite, for those that can't work out how to read previous posts) no longer requiring my specialist services!
I received a rather paniky phone call from them, three weeks ago, after the main sewer in their London office 'backed up', flooding their entire ground and first floor.
The Council (obviously not ours) made a swift job of rectifying the problem with the sewer, but they were left with the rather large job of removing all the, er, jobs that had suddenly made a break for freedom in their offices.
Not really my line of business these days, the messiest thing that I get to deal with, of late, being ectoplasm, I agreed to do it on the grounds that they needed someone with clearance to deal with some of their more 'sensitive issues' and that they were offering an awful lot of money!
I must say that I was quite astonished at what the Human body can do to a barbequed lobster, but nothing that couldn't be sorted out with the deployment of a pair of Marigolds, a peg, a mop and a bucket.
Anyhow, now that their offices are shining like a new pin again, and I can now afford to book that long deserved holiday, where should I go?
Though I think I may have to spend a few days in Margate to gently re-acclimatise myself to the sea air. The freshness of it, here on the South of the Island, is making me feel a little giddy!

German Joggers?

Whilst loitering on the steps of Chuchill's last night, enjoying the sea breeze that I was filtering through a smouldering tube of tobacco, I couldn't help but notice an alarming rise in the amount of joggers going around the bend, most of whom were panting away in German.
Could these be our illustrious watersporters?
If so, is jogging really an appropriate exercise for water-skiers (unless you happen to be Jesus, that is)?
I would have thought that skateboarding or roller-blading would be a much more useful exercise, particularly with the amount of rain we've had of late!

Not that it really matters how fit and well practised they are, if no bugger has been invited along to watch them, mind you.

Dead In The Water!

I must say I wasn't too surprised when, sitting outside Mile's Bar last night, trying to find a decent bottle of wine for under £30-00, a huge convoy of fun-fair rides trundled past, on their way to the over-publicised Mammoth Water Skiing Gala, due to take place over the coming week.
And it wasn't until then that I noticed the tiny banner, on the railings over the road, that mentioned the immenence of the whole affair in 10 point font across the bottom of it.
Is it me that's always the last to know about these things? Did I miss something in the local rags or on the radio, advising us to dig out our skimpies, wax our lines and pucker up our drinking equipment?
Well I checked through all my back-issues of KRN litter tray liners and lo, not a sausage!
Unfortunately I've made other plans for the weekend and it's a bit bloody late to change them now!

Our wonderful council certainly knows how to lay on a party, as has been proven around this time for several years, now.
It's just a bit of a shame that noone's been invited to it!

High Spirits.

One of the more interesting revelations about death after life is the complete lack of drugs and alcohol, due to difficult growing conditions in the absense of soil. That and the fact that noone seems to have any glasses, matches or paraphernalia of any kind.
Though I'm assured by all souls that it's ok by them, as escapism is somewhat tricky when you're 'all knowing and all seeing', anyway.

Guess I'll have to rethink my previous notion about the patrons of The Artillery Arms and Churchills, as it seems they may well be alive after all!

Small Medium At Large.

Ok, maybe normal service won't be resumed in a few days, after all.
Still, it's all for the greater good, as now, after a month of very intense training, I'm a fully fledged member of the SS (Sixth Sense) movement.
Being the kinda gal that gets bored very easily, and what with spending five months 'scumming it up' on the dole, I thought it about time that I launched myself off on a career of some sort.
As it turns out, I'm one of those people (and they are mostly women) that has a natural ability to communicate with the spirit World, which, to my great relief, explains away some alarming facets of my life such as, the voices in my head, the constant feeling that I'm being watched and my predisposition towards consuming large amounts of vodka.
Thank goodness for that! I thought I was going mad!

It's also a great relief to me (though possibly not to those of you that have deeply disappointed deceased relatives) that I won't have to write my blog on my own any more.

Though I must say it's starting to feel a bit cramped in my flat, these days!

Saturn Uranus, Going Round In Relentless Circles!

Just fresh back from Eastcliff Richard's blog, the only one that I really visit these days, I find myself flabbergasted at the commentary (occasionally including the author's), which applies the same tired old arguments to the same tired old topics, with the only variety being which argument is appended to which topic. And, of course, there's that Universal constant of 'nothing ever comes of it'!

Still, whatever keeps people thinking they're putting the World to right, without actually doing anything, eh?

God, I hate it when my period coincides with a full Moon!

Apologies to those that came here for a bit of deranged titillation. I'm sure that 'normal service' will be resumed in a few days, once the bloodshed is over.

Socks And Dregs And Sausage Rolls.

So that's it then!
I have finally, once-and-for-all, completely had it with men!
What is up with you creatures, eh?
It's really not good enough to just tart yourselves up when you go out, in the hope of luring some poor, innocent damsel (er me, sorta) back to your squalid plague pit!
It's also completely unfair to take advantage of the fact that said damsel is drunk enough that she won't notice until the morning, by which time you'll have had your wicked way.
I shouldn't have been surprised, I suppose, when I wriggled under the sheets to give this gunge monster a good morning kiss and ended up with a gob full of sausage roll. What the Hell was it doing there? Who takes a sausage roll to bed with them?
Jeez!
I'm now the proud owner of a pair of tea-stained knickers that I had to fish out of one of the many half empty cups littered about the place, and a skirt that smells of foot cheese.

I feel like I need a holiday!

Mastic And Spongaloid.

My God, how I hate having to call the builders in, particularly since I've lived in Ramsgate, as the place seems to have tradesmen entirely in a class of their own!
Still, when you've got water coming in through your lounge window, even when it's not raining, it's something you just have to bite the bullet and get on with.
I'm not sure how it works with everyone else, but I'm yet to find a builder who's proficient enough to invite back for a second job, so, yet again, I find myself with new faces on the doorstep, whistling through their teeth while making disapproving noises and scratching their wallets.
That's not to say that you can't have a bit of fun with them, and these two seemed just a tad dippier than the usual stock. After spending about 15 minutes trying to decide between themselves which would be the best course of remedial action (seemed more like two hours), I thought I'd chip in, to help things along, by suggesting that the application of a couple of spoons of mastic and spongaloid might be the answer, followed by "would you like a cup of tea?".
"Don't worry love", I was told, "we know how to fix this. Two sugars please."

I wonder how long they'll be trying research 'spongaloid', before the penny drops?

My guess would be that neither is likely to happen!

Mad Cow.

I was sent this video clip at the weekend, by a friend, with a little footnote that said 'Lucy, I thought you'd like this, it really reminds me of you.'





Well with friends like that, who needs enemies!

Still No Sign Of My Willy!

I'm getting more than a little concerned now, as my mole-rat, Willy, seems to have disappeared without a trace.
I've even gone to the lengths of researching the little fella's habits in the wild, in the hope of gaining some insight into where he may be hiding. All I could come up with is that he likes to nest in warm, soft moss, he only needs a minimal amount of water and can survive for about three months without food.
Not much help there, then!
I've looked around the flat, but all the moss that had gathered while I was away, seems to have perished since I've had the central heating back on.

I'm getting a little frantic now, as seems to be echoed in my level of anxiety. That gnawing feeling is getting quite a bit stronger and starting to have an impact on my ability to pee.

Are there professionals out there that can help?

Loose Willy.

Holy rickety door clasps, Batman, my Willy has only done a runner from his little cage by my bed.

I've looked everywhere but there's no sign of him at all.

I didn't think it would be possible to become so attached to a creature in such a short period of time, but the stress and anxiety of it all is causing quite a tingly, gnawing sensation in my lower abdomen.

Is it too early to call the police?

Naked Mole-Rat.

Feeling down-in-the-dumps and a bit lonely without a boyfriend at the mo, I went out looking for a new pet yesterday, in the hope that I might find something to fill the hole.

Well, after much searching, I eventually found this little fella in one of those pet shops in Cliftonville.





He's a naked mole-rat, from Africa apparently, and isn't he the cutest thing you've ever seen?
Though he is a bit of a handful!

I think I'm going to call him Willy.

Folk Law?

One thing (of many) that really gets on my nerves in these 'enlightened times' that we live in, is this current trend of focusing so hard on the letter of the law, that the point of it is entirely missed.
Surely the law is there to protect us from harm by those that want to balk against society's rules and I don't see how a society, rendered vitually arseless by litigation, is really getting that protection.
Come on, is this modern trend of leeching unearned money out out of people really much better than just kicking their front door down, marching in and helping yourself to it?

Doesn't make me feel 'proud to be a mirkin', or part of any other 'Bush' ideal, for that matter!

R.T.F.M.

Something that I never, ever do, unless I really can't work it out for myself, is Read The Fuckin' Manual that comes with any new electrical device.
And I don't think I'm alone on that one.
So, as it turns out, my new rabbit isn't some kind odd looking e-pet for drawing out your sympathy by seemingly having an epileptic fit on your living-room rug.
I did wonder why it only had one ear and that wasn't floppy.
No, it's purpose is entirely for sexual gratification!
Why the Hell call it a rabbit, then? Isn't that a little perverse, encouraging people to have sex with animals?
Honestly, what is the World coming to?

I've a good mind to phone the R.S.P.C.A.

Dragon Night.

Forget all that stuff about some fella killing a dragon. It's most likely some fable, dreamt up by a bloke that was a bit testeronically challenged.
I do, however, know for a fact that fire breathing dragons exist and I'm off for a curry and a few pints tonight to demonstrate and celebrate that fact!

Best of British to anyone I'm likely to meet on my travels!

Run Rabbit, Run.

Following the enormous amount of success that I've had with men over the last year (not), and really being not too sure that things would improve, were I to become a lesbianist, I thought I'd invest in one of these clever little devices.

And though I've found it to be quite amusing, watching the little fella bumping and shuddering it's way across my living-room/kitchen floor, I couldn't honestly say that I've found it to be quite as satisfying as a man (unless you like them coming home paralytic, that is, which I don't).

All told, I'd say that the only way it really compares with a man is that it's a complete waste of time and money!

Beer Today, Scone Tomorrow.

I'm always up for useful tips, particularly involving the relief of discomfort, so when someone told me, on Sunday, that the best thing to relieve a hang-over was to scoff a couple of scones with butter and jam on them, I thought I'd give it a go.
I must confess that they were pretty hard to get down and that they came back up a hell of a lot easier, but when all was said and done, I did feel quite a bit better!

And I think I may have inadvertently stumbled upon a great new way of dieting, to boot!

Nice one!

Stalkless Stalker.

The downside, I suppose, of being an amazingly attractive woman, is the amount of unwanted attention that I get from men (and some women).
Though if I were honest, I don't get that much, really. I can only assume that the majority of guys think that I'm way out of their league.
But there is this one fella that's been dogging me for ages and really getting on my tits (or wanting to, at least).
Well it all came to a head (literally) last weekend, with my Siamese twin attached to my side wherever I went in Churchills, when I had a flash of inspiration and thought that the best way to get this guy off my back would be to get him on my front and scare him off with a little rough play. He's not too bad looking, just a pain in the arse!
I didn't even need to invite him back, as he just followed me when I left.
To cut a long story short (again, literally), when it came to the nitty gritty, it was all I could do to stifle a laugh, as I'd never seen such a tiny willy in all my life! And when I say all my life, I'm including being bathed with my little brother up until the age of four or five. I think a virgin could survive his onslaught, intact.
Which left me with a bit of a quandary. I may be forthright but I'm not a cruel person, so how do you abuse someone that Mother nature has already been more than unkind enough to, in the first place?
Sigh!
So I suppose I'm going to have to go through the same rigamarole this weekend, unless I can think of a kind way to let this fella (for want of a better word for him) down.
I don't particularly want to avoid Churchills, as Hard Road Blues are playing tonight and I rather like them.

Maybe Deed-poll is the answer?
Lucy Lezzie does have a kind of a ring to it, after all!

Pees And Queues.

It never ceases to astonish me as to how ignorant the simpler sex can be, at times.
Chatting with this fella in The Belligerence Bar, on the seafront last night, he popped the question as to why, wherever you go, there's often a queue for the ladies loo, but never for the blokes?
Quite simple really.
If one takes the time to ensure that one's wee-wee goes into the designated receptacle, instead of all over the floor, followed by the washing and drying of one's hands, it's going to take a bit longer, isn't it!

Not rocket science, really!

Cream Of The Crap.

Considering myself to be an intelligent, discerning and astonishingly beautiful woman, it does beg the question of why I constantly end up with such appalling men!
I'm seriously starting to wonder if there's a decent one among you!
The latest idiot to, er, come my way, started off like all the others. Handsome, caring and the perfect gentleman who couldn't do enough to please me. This is it, I thought. Finally, the man of my dreams!
Now call me naive if you like, but I thought I was about to be treated like a real Princess when he offered to take me back to his place (for the first time) for a golden shower.
Imaging a bejeweled bathroom, decked out with precious metal fittings, I was somewhat disappointed to discover a grubby little bog with a tiny, dirty bath, where he wanted me to sit while he pissed all over me!

Well there's another one that now only has a 50% chance of siring children!

Maybe I should consider 'chasing the bean' after all?

Going To Loddon To See Off The Spleen.

Now that Easter is out of the way and Summer lies just beneath our feet in the seemingly bottomless pit of seasons, all kinds of excursions seem to be presenting themselves to take our minds off the hum-drum of Thanet Life (no, not the one that was spewed out by our flying proctologist, but the real one).
And among them, one in particular caught my eye. A trip to the Loddon brewery to celebrate the opening of Heathrow's new terminal 5, with a bottled beer that was specifically designed for the task. Apparently, the bottle has been designed with a very narrow neck, making it all but impossible for anyone, except the most determined drinker, to get the beer back out of it. How appropriate! Rather boringly though, they've decided to call it Crown Rivers and it rolls in at a not-so-lofty 3.9% ABV. I'm sure that, in the light of their success at the new terminal, we could come up with a better name than that. Though the strength of it, oddly enough, does reflect, quite accurately, the amount of luggage that has been retrieved from their new automated system, so far.


If anyone is going to challenge my ability to suck, I'll be quite happy pick their glove up!

Toss Another Lobster On The Barby, Bruce!

Though, to be honest, after going to my first barbecue of the year on Sunday, I think 'lob another tosser on the barby, Bruce' would be more appropriate.
What is it with you men, when faced with sunshine as well as booze, that fills you with the urge to piss in fish ponds, climb trees, break childrens' toys and collapse on tables full of drink?
All you get from us girls, little church-mice that we are, is a bit of sick on the toilet floor. Easily rectifiable and no fish have to die!

I was, up until that point, thinking 'roll on Summer'.

Now I'm not so sure!

Draught Post.

After three weeks 'in the wagon', I appear to have been making a bit of a pig of myself with the booze over the last few days. Though I'm sure that some of it, at least, can be attributed to a pending court appearance on a charge of attempted homocide. That came as quite a shock, I can tell you, as I had no idea that Mikey was gay at all. Gosh, that guy has some secrets, doesn't he?

Unluckily, someone got a video of the end of the chase.
Luckily, I managed to, er, charm it off them.

If this ever got out, I feel it wouldn't bode well for leniency on my behalf at all!

Mike Hunt Ends With Three Week Stretch!

Unfortunate, really, that I happened to spot the git while I was driving my car. Also unfortunate, I suppose, that he'd failed to mention a history of heart problems. You certainly wouldn't have thought that he was afflicted so, the way he used to carry on in the bedroom! Had I known all this, I definitely wouldn't have tried to make him run at 20 MPH, but then hindsight is a wonderful thing isn't it?
And when you try to explain this to the police, you start to truly appreciate their complete lack of understanding and sympathy.

Never mind, when Mikey comes off his respirator and is able to talk again, he'll hopefully pick his words with a little more care.

Though I must confess that I'm a bit pissed off at missing the beer festival, especially as I've just been given a holiday from driving for a while.

What a waste!

A Case Of Murder.

They should not have left him there alone,
Alone that is except for the cat.
He was only nine, not old enough
To be left alone in a basement flat,
Alone, that is, except for the cat.
A dog would have been a different thing,
A big gruff dog with slashing jaws,
But a cat with round eyes mad as gold,
Plump as a cushion with tucked-in paws---
Better have left him with a fair-sized rat!
But what they did was leave him with a cat.
He hated that cat; he watched it sit,
A buzzing machine of soft black stuff,
He sat and watched and he hated it,
Snug in its fur, hot blood in a muff,
And its mad gold stare and the way it sat
Crooning dark warmth: he loathed all that.
So he took Daddy's stick and he hit the cat.
Then quick as a sudden crack in glass
It hissed, black flash, to a hiding place
In the dust and dark beneath the couch,
And he followed the grin on his new-made face,
A wide-eyed, frightened snarl of a grin,
And he took the stick and he thrust it in,
Hard and quick in the furry dark.
The black fur squealed and he felt his skin
Prickle with sparks of dry delight.
Then the cat again came into sight,
Shot for the door that wasn't quite shut,
But the boy, quick too, slammed fast the door:
The cat, half-through, was cracked like a nut
And the soft black thud was dumped on the floor.
Then the boy was suddenly terrified
And he bit his knuckles and cried and cried;
But he had to do something with the dead thing there.
His eyes squeezed beads of salty prayer
But the wound of fear gaped wide and raw;
He dared not touch the thing with his hands
So he fetched a spade and shovelled it
And dumped the load of heavy fur
In the spidery cupboard under the stair
Where it's been for years, and though it died
It's grown in that cupboard and its hot low purr
Grows slowly louder year by year:
There'll not be a corner for the boy to hide
When the cupboard swells and all sides split
And the huge black cat pads out of it.


Thanks to Vernon Scannell for that. Kinda brings to mind the Thanet blogging scene at the moment, doesn't it?
I wonder which one of our 'fat cat' bloggers went in the cupboard and which one is trying to hide?
I'm intrigued as to how this poem will play itself out!

Hmmmm.

Pansexual.

At least, that's how a friend of mine described herself this evening.
Thinking she'd gone a bit 'potty' and was getting turned on by kitchen appliances (should be the other way around, shouldn't it?), she went on to explain that, these days, she was being turned on by just about everyone!

In the light of recent rumours, I thought it advisable at that point to go and sit at another table.

Light At The End Of The Tunnel In Mike Hunt.

I still don't know where the git is, but I've had a tip off as to where he'll be on Saturday evening.

Will keep you posted!

Seaman Found In Mike Hunt.

Still no sign of that gobshite milkman, however, I did manage to track down his brother (didn't know he had one of those!), who's a petty officer on P&O ferries.
There's something about a man in uniform that gets my, er, creative juices flowing, and this guy is better looking than his brother by a mile.
Not one to squander an opportunity, I invited myself in and started going to work on the fella straight away, plonking myself next to him on the sofa, hand on his thigh, rubbing myself gently against his arm, blowing into his ear and, well, all that kind of stuff.
Unfortunately, just as I was moving in for the snog, his wife suggested that it was maybe time I left.

Damn! Bitch!

All this is just making it worse for Mikey, when I eventually catch up with him!

Mike Hunt Widens Considerably!

Initial investigation indicates that Milkey Mikey may well have moved elsewhere in Thanet.
As 'they' say, you can run but you can't hide!
I'll catch up with the fool!

And after that, I may have a go at weeding out that ECR fella. I know that Dr Dead didn't have a lot of luck, even with the backbone of MI5's IT department at his disposal, but my methods are probably a lot more unethical, and have often brought back good results in the past.

Though, on the other hand, 'ECR Hunt' doesn't have the same ring to it, does it?

Maybe I'll go for 'Dick Hunt'.
I'm certainly no stranger to that!

The Plot Thickens In Mike Hunt.

After being told tonight, that Milkey Mikey has also claimed that I can hold my boobs under my arms, hunch forward and do an almost perfect tortoise impersonation, I'm starting to wonder if 'friends' aren't ragging me a little. But if he is saying these things, when I catch up with him, he's going to spend the next week looking like he's walking barefoot on hot cobbles!

I will get to the bottom of this thing.
In the immortal words (almost) of that heron like French crooner, Celine Dion, Mike hunt will go on!

Mike Hunt Is On!

I just heard yesterday, that that errant milkman, Milkey Mikey, has been telling people that I liked to call him Michelle when we were making love.
I think I'm going to have to track him down and have this out with him, as my reputation, in that respect, has suffered quite enough over the last year.
And for the record, yes, I did like to call him Michelle, but that wasn't any reflection on MY sexuality!

Blessed Are The Micks, For They Shall Inherit The Apple Of The Earth.

Not that I'm normally one for broad, sweeping generalisations, but every now and again I feel that one is necessary just to make someone go away and leave me alone.
So when I got stuck listening to this Irish fella pontificating in The Artillery Arms last night, banging on about how great Ireland is and what a pile of crap England is, it does beg that kind of behaviour!
It wasn't a long conversation (thank God!) and it culminated with the question of why he was living here and not in Ireland, if that were really the case.
He claimed that he was sent here to breathe on the vaginas of our women, and would I be interested in participating, for which he would give me the Princely sum of £20?
Momentarily confused, I asked him what his specific instructions had been.
"I was given a thousand pounds and told to blow up as many English twats as I could!" he replied.

Gracious me! What is the World coming to?

Microsoft.

It's always nice to do something a little different, when celebrating someone's birthday, so when it was her turn, a friend of mine came up with the idea that she'd like to spend her birthday getting drunk and ogling naked men.
Well you can't argue with that!
Not having been to a hen night for many years, I was really rather looking forward to it.
I must say though, these events aren't what they used to be!





Maybe it's best not to build these things up too much, before hand?

Sex Machine.

Second attempt at dispensing with all that 'bitch slapping, fight club' nonsense that appears to be underpinning the Thanet World of Blog at the moment...



A GUIDE TO SAFE INTERNET USE.






Hint 1. It's important to be able to tell just how much women differ from men.






Hint 2. Online relationships can only extend so far.






Hint 3. Some things seem quite colourful, but aren't really.






Hint 4. Some things actually are quite colourful.

Old Flame.

Right then, dispensing with all that 'bitch slapping, fight club' nonsense that appears to be underpinning the Thanet World of Blog at the moment, let's move on to far more serious and positive issues.
I bumped into an ex of mine yesterday, bringing back some very fond memories of being made to feel like a Princess, particularly between the sheets, and some regret that only a handful of very special men seem able to do this to a woman, when we got chatting about his current pursuits in life. Once we'd established that he's currently single and that he has no interest, what-so-ever, in coming back to mine for a nostalgia shag (maybe I should mention that he's also a clueless idiot, at this point), we got on to talking about The Thanet Easter Beer Festival at Margate's Winter Gardens over Easter, and his role in making that happen. We also discussed the blog that he'd created, in order to keep people informed of how things were coming together. He seemed a little disappointed at how few people were visiting it, at which point I suggested that he maybe should post more frequently than once a month and perhaps encourage a few others to add links to him (there's that clueless idiot thing again!).

Well, being the kind soul that I am (and still in the hope of that elusive shag), I offered to risk life, limb and recognition by adding a link myself. In fact, I just happen to have a spare link in the shape of ECR's now dead one, so I'll use that.

For those of you that find it too much effort to force your pointers all the way over to the sidebar, I'll put one here too.

I went along for this Festival last year and it was a real blast!
I'll certainly be there again this year!

Individual, Unselective Sanity.

Right, having got all that off my rather shapely and well proportioned chest, I shall purport to getting over myself and getting on with things. Actually, no, I will do those things, and in a timely, non-melodramatic way, in the hope that the drama queens who represent our left and right wing views here in blogging Thanet will follow suit!
You never know!
And now that, as rumour has it, they are operating as one unit, covering a very broad spectrum of political ideals, maybe we'll start getting some sense out of them?

Or is all this going to drag on until they have proof that their dwindling interestship has now been restored to it's former glory?

I do hope not!

Collective, Selective Insanity.

I've been telling myself for years that I'd be the only sane one left when the rest of the World went mad.

Think I may just pop my blog to bed and wait and see what Spring (not the one in my bed) has to offer.

G'night.

p.s. Happy V.D. celebrations to everyone that forgot to get me a card and I'm pretty sure I haven't left anyone out, there.

Blogs Away!

Call me suspicious if you like, though 'suspect' may be more appropriate, but when two of Thanet's most prolific and prominent bloggers disappear at the same time, one does have to wonder if said disappearances aren't related?!
What with that and the whisper that I heard last night, suggesting that there may be some kind of romantic twist to this strange saga, I really think that questions need to be answered! Just for a bit of a laugh, if nothing else.

They say that opposites attract and that there's no smoke without fire and there's plenty more fish in the sea and.... well, so on. But I'd like to hear what the pair of them (or should I say 'couple'?) have to say about it!

And if there is any truth in it, which one is the giver?

The Truth Will Out.

Having recently had my cover blown by the bleedin' Paparazzi, I've been forced to reveal my true identity....





See, I told you I was cute!

Gay And Full Of Spunk!

As everyone appeared to be off to The Monkey Sanctuary in Ramsgate's fashionable Westend, for another of those Boogaloo thingies last night, I thought I'd tag along to see what all the fuss is about.
Well I never, it turned out to be quite a party!
And I got to meet some pretty interesting people, to boot!

No sign of Cliffy though. Maybe he thought his time would be better spent crying into a pile of rubble. I honestly don't know what's gotten into the fella of late. Midlife crisis? New year's resolution?
He certainly doesn't seem to fit the title of this missive, these days.

I think I might have to wander down to that pile of rubble after lunch and pull him off!

Tern! Tern! Tern!

After copping one straight in my new hairdo from one of those bastard herring gulls yesterday, I'd like to dedicate the following song to them, in the hope that at least some retribution is meted out.





Cost me bloody fifty quid, that did, just to end up looking like an ice-cream cornet!

Lucky, my arse!

Pub Chain Collapses.

Though on the bright side, it is nice to have the landlords back in the Artillery Arms, where, perhaps, they belong!
And how lovely, having Ing (their Malaysian landlord, affectionately know as Cook Ing to his patrons) back in the saddle and preparing a veritable feast to celebrate the Chinese New Year, last night.

Yummy!

On the darker side, it's now, according to the Chinese calender, The Year Of The Rat.

I'll bet that TDC were celebrating quite hard last night, too!

Perspective.

As there doesn't appear to be anything on YouTube that can't be used to represent one opinion or another, forgive me for plonking this into my blog for a little perspective on 2007.





Maybe we're not as badly off, or given such cause for celebration, as the rest of the World, here on our tiny Isle.

Perhaps we need a theme park?

Brittany's Peers In The Arrondissement of Quimper.

Rue Max Jacob, Plonéis, Quimper, Brittany, to be precise. At least, that's where the lovely fella that I met in Churchill's this evening claimed to be from. I know it's far more popular, these days, to swap telephone numbers, rather than house addresses, but this guy didn't have a phone.
He'd decided to spend a couple of weeks in Ramsgate to see if he can work out why so many Brits have chosen to live in and around his village. His English has become quite fluent in the two years that their 'local shop' has been owned by a couple from Yorkshire. Not that he was complaining, mind you, merely curious. He went on to say how much he enjoyed the fresh influx of culture, and "by 'eck, some thumpin' good curries".
I think he found most of his answers while visiting Margate yesterday, since when, he no longer has a phone. "What a bleak and desolate place that is, chook" he opined. I suggested that if he goes there again, it's best to go to Frank's Nightclub first, to desensitise yourself a little.

Well, that'll be my summer holiday sorted then!

Sunday Morning Work-Out.

After a heavy weekend of sauce guzzling, I often find a good work-out with one of my exercise videos most restorative.
On special occasions though, after the White Cliffs Festival Of Winter Ales for instance, a much tougher regime is required. When the need arises, nothing less than Vera De Milo will do....





Good grief, she's ALL woman, isn't she?

Journey To The Surface Of The Earth.

Dear God! Is it really time for The Whitecliffs Festival Of Winter Ales again?
Where did that year go, then?
For those of you that have never been, or even heard of it, it's one of those speciality festivals that offers a range of winter beers from 5% ABV up to as stupidly strong as the brewers can manage to make them!
For more details, have a look here.

I'll be popping along there myself this afternoon/evening and, as practice for the career that I'm currently pursuing as a Medium (even though I'm only a size 10), I make the following prediction...

Man's Tone.

What with this current debacle over training flights at Manston, I thought, rather than just keep whinging about it, it would be nice to propose an alternative.

So, perhaps a better sight and most certainly a better sound, maybe this would be the way forward?





Anyhow, must dash.
Time to sign-on!

Bride's Bed Revisited.

One good thing about being 'shit on the shoe of the working public' is that irregular eating has allowed me back into some of my old garnments.
As these things tend to have a knock-on effect, I'm hoping that this re-aquired ability will enable me to lure the eligable, millionaire bachelor who will be the answer to all my financial problems.

Well, a girl can dream, can't she?

Burns With Passion!

To A Mouse

(On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough)

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!


Still, nothing that a few pints won't aid with the appreciation of (and dim the consequences of), in The Montefiore Arms tonight.
That and haggis, tatties and neeps.

For my part though, I'm really looking forward to the food. Times have been a bit lean since I became one of Maggie's millions.

Whacks And Wayne.

I'd like to think that I'm broad minded (yes, ok, enough with the lesbian jibes already!), and am up for most things in matters of love, being a self-confessed tri-sexual (anything sexual, I'll tri it), but I do draw the line at certain things.
Near the top of that list would be violence. There's a time and a place for that, and it most definitely isn't in the sack!
So, after meeting a lovely young fella called Wayne last night (I do enjoy my girly night out on Thursdays), and seeming like the perfect gentleman, I invited him back for coffee.
We chatted and laughed, my house alive with innuendo and sexual tension. Tactile responses turned to kissing and cuddling, clothes becoming loosened and then detached, the heat almost unbearable, when he started smacking me on the bum! Quite hard too, I might add!
My reflexes, already fairly quick and then finely honed by my recent ARSE experience, kicked-in with my immediate arse experience and I think I may have broken his nose.
Well I'm sorry but I don't think that the urge to hurt someone, while attempting to give them pleasure, is a very healthy attitude.

It certainly wasn't for him!

And he had the cheek to accuse ME of being aggressive!!!

When I informed him that I thought he'd arsed for it, he called me a 'dwad' and then left.

Something else to add to my (ever growing) list of vetting questions, I suppose!

Flip-side Of The Coin.

As I'm a bit skint of late, what with being 'dole scum' and all, I thought I'd have another stab at that new place in Harbour Street, The Sovereign, last night.
Lovely beer (if a bit cold) at a lovely price, but I do have some concerns about the staff. The last time I was there, I got the impression that they were all a bit robot-like. This time, both of the door staff had wires hanging out of the tops of their legs and suspiciously Borg-like looking implants on the sides of their heads.

Still, it made me behave myself, so I don't think I'll bother going there again!

Perhaps resistance IS futile?

Femme Fatarse.

Upon spotting a rather generous 'size 16' lady in Churchill's last night, who'd almost, but not quite, managed to squeeze into a pair of 'size 12' jeans, I thought I'd try to save her from the potential embarrassment of her situation by having a discreet word with her about her error in judgement.
Feeling my way gently around her predicament, I asked her if she'd missed that day at her comprehensive when they taught everyone fractions, pointing out that 16 into 12 is, in fact, a bottom-heavy fraction, whereas she was looking more 'top-heavy', with her arse being pushed halfway up her back, as it was.
Yet again, while trying to help someone, I was rewarded with a torrent of abuse!

It reminded me, a little, of the time that I suggested high-heels and a wig to a rather aggressive, 5'4" ginger fella.

Aren't some people touchy?

Jimmy Riddle / Frank Question.

Yet again I spent the evening in the pub having to listen to small-minded people bemoaning the two great icons of Thanet's daylife and nightlife, Jimmy Thorden and Frank Godley.
Why keep having a poke at these two, when their great crime is making this Island what it is?
Don't we choose to live here of our own free wills?
Have none of you spent the afternoon trying to yank Poohs out of a glass tank, with a feeble grip, and then off to Frank's Nightclub for more of the same?

Well I suggest that people give it a try before criticising!
Gracious me, the times that Jimmy has toasted our Island!
And who do we have to thank for that ultimate oxymoron, 'Plastic Glass'?



Now then, I wonder if they (I) have a hole that needs filling, in their (my) promotional departments?

Dish Of Fish.

I've found myself, of late, frequenting that new wet fish shop in King Street. Not for the fish mind you, as I absolutely detest the bloody things, but for the rather dishy owner of the place.
The trouble is, I was starting to run out of valid reasons for going in there, so have just recently gone out and bought a kitten.
Now I have a kitchen that reaks of fish (blegh!) and all my nets have been ripped to shreds!

I think I'm gonna have to ask him out soon (as a typical bloke, he doesn't seem to be getting the hint), before this all gets out of hand!

Bearded Fruitcake.

I've heard a few chat-up lines in my time, but last night's delivery has to rank among the top five for originality and surrealism.
While enjoying a quick Leffe in the Belgian Bar, on my way home, I was nattering with this fella that I'd spoken to a few times previously in the Artillery Arms, when he declared that he'd just taken stock of a fruited beer cake and would very much like to share it with me. Almost inclined to take him up on his kind offer, I decided not to on the strength that he had a little goatee beard. Having had experience of one of those before, and a rather itchy rash on my inner thigh as a result, I figured he'd be best left alone.

Shame about the beer cake, though. That sounded quite nice!

Go Nad.

Typical, isn't it, that just after losing your job, a rather expensive piece of electrical equipment goes pop! In this case, my stereo amplifier, an essential tool, along with alcohol, for drowning out the voices in my head.
Well, after careful consideration, budgeting and advice from the 'experts', I decided to replace the old Pye amplifier with a Nad valve amp. and good Lord, my collection of Gary Glitter albums has never sounded so good!
I wish I'd done this while I was working, because now I'm starting to think that I need to replace my old pair of salvaged Redifusion telly speakers and autoload turntable too. Though I may keep the latter, so I can still play my 78's.

I wonder if it would help if I put this in my CV?

The Week Link.

Thinking it prudent, after four weeks of guzzling proper beer instead of that pissy Fosters, to calm things down for my last week off, you can imagine my surprise upon opening a letter from the Australian Reconnaissance Service Elite, a week ago, informing me that they'd probably be able to manage without my expertise, henceforth.

Talk about having your World turned the right way up!
Not a pleasant feeling, being forced out of the A.R.S.E.

As a consequence, I now find myself without a job and the whole of last week missing in some hazy blur, though I've no doubt that there'll be a few helpful souls filling in my gaps for me, over the coming week. I'll most likely be bumping into most of them at the job centre, too!

Ah well, I could always see if I can get my old job back at the abattoir. The owner there was often complimenting me on the way I took care of his meat.