I Enjoy A Good Grind.

Wandering along the cafe front in Ramsgate yesterday afternoon, between showers, on my way to the Belgian Bar (cafe) for a spot of lunch and some Leffe Tovers, I was surprised to be confronted by a bunch of tents, offering almost everything a girl could need for a good afternoon out.

First hit was the curry tent, hosted by a right couple of MILLs (Mothers I'd Like to Lick), for a satisfyingly spicy experience, all washed down with some Gadds' No3 from the beer tent, served by the horniest looking MILL that I'd come across since the last time I bought a beer in their tent, in July. Strange how I wasn't attracted to her then.
And I loved the driftwood furniture that they'd decked the place out with.
It made me think of salty seamen. Ahh, good old days!

But the madman in the next tent, with his rendition of The Texas Chainsaw Art Massacre, was nothing short of astonishing!
I couldn't quite make out what he was trying to fashion from his lump of wood, but he seemed to be having a whale of a time hacking into it with his chainsaw and angle-grinder, while deafening everyone within fifty feet and spraying them with sawdust.
I had a little chat with him while he was standing back to consider which bit of his wood he was going to attack next, and was informed that his nine inch tool, while grinding, because of wear and tear and the awkward placement of one of his nuts right in the middle of it, could only penetrate to a depth of about four inches.

Useless info. to a woman of my interests, of course.

So what the Hell was that all about, and why weren't we told about it?
If anyone's interested, they'll be there again today, until 4pm.

French And Belgian People Smell....

....their food before they eat it, because it's often very nice.

Russian people suffer more with indigestion.

People from Hungary eat a lot.

Swiss people will look after your money for you. Really!

The Italian people report more incidences of UFO sightings.

The Spaniards don't, despite spending a lot of their time pacing backwards and forwards across their gardens.

People from Greece can be slippery customers.

While people from the UK spend an inordinate amount of time enquiring after eachothers' welfare.


For my part, I really couldn't care less about what people look like, or how they behave, because of their nationality. Though it does piss me off when people behave like arseholes, no matter where they originated.
So I'm an arseholist!

Sue me!

The Whiching Hour.

I've often been fascinated by a coven of scintillating witches who are scattered about the town, appearing fleetingly here and there, but always clustering and cackling together whenever they meet.
I expect they were up to all of that on Sunday, for the new Moon. Preparing for the wan Moon (thank God they didn't call the thing Ker, eh), which will brighten over the next fortnight and stimulate their pussies into familiarity, or something like that.
(If you, like I, believe that familiarity breeds contempt, then do look out for a fair few frustrated pussies in and around Ramsgate, over the next couple of weeks!)

Though I can only guess, as I spent my whole day in the bedroom/toilet dying from a vitamin C overdose.

Anyhow, as a born-again mingette, dedicated to the groove, as it were, that fascination has developed into something more fundamental.
Well, mental, at least, as a good deal of these broomstick jockeys are really quite attractive women.
So I've found myself vetting these witches (I'd love to hear a German say that) to determine which witch could be my bitch.
Come on now, a bunch of women who never mix business with men? If most of them aren't suffering with 'beaver fever', then I don't know who would be!

It's gotta be worth a go, just for the crack.

A Labia Of Love.

Shooting the breeze with Hellen last night, I thought I'd mention my new found lezzer tendencies, in the hope that she'd lend a sympathetic ear.
Well bless her cotton socks, she lent a little more than that!
In all the years that I've known her, she never once even hinted at the fact that she's bisexual.
Why would she, I suppose.

And then we kissed. Tentatively at first, gradually simmering to a full-blown passionate embrace, tongues entwined and frantically exploring.
Moments later, though it seemed like hours had passed, we were laying naked on my bed, gently caressing fingers making me gasp with anticipation and desire, her mouth melting into my neck and gradually descending, sub-cutaneously, the length of my body, before emerging from my burning center to linger lovingly until my explosive climax.

Though I must say that throughout the whole experience, I didn't feel entirely comfortable, as lovely as it was.
I must chat with my hypnotherapist about that today.
Though I'm not convinced she'll be that much help to me. When I thanked her last week, for helping me to realise a side of myself that I was previously unaware of, she just giggled and told me that I was welcome.
She can be a bit odd at times.

But please, if anyone feels that they need to go and 'bless' their own cotton sock as a consequence of my revelation, feel free to keep it to yourself!

An Apple A Day, Keeps The Doctor Away.

Utter bollocks!
I had, by my reckoning, the equivalent of a crate full of apples at the Cider Festival in Churchills, over the weekend, and I don't think I've ever felt quite so ill in my life.

Still, it was jolly good fun at the time.
And Hellen was off to London for the weekend, which only served to enhance the experience for everyone.

So in true local media style, here's a link to the official video of the bash.
Sharp eyed readers might pick up on the fact that that was, in fact, the 2007 beer festival, in Margate. Though it's run by the same people, so it's probably more accurate than calling Margate beach, Ramsgate beach.

Rubbin' Hood.

Rubbin' Hood, Rubbin' Hood, with his nude women,
Rubbin' Hood, Rubbin' Hood, fiddling with his pen, is
feared by their dad,
he tugged on his pud.
Rubbin' Hood, Rubbin' Hood, Rubbin' Hood.

Gosh, there's an old ditty that takes you right back, eh?
I couldn't quite remember the words exactly, but I did my best to fill in the gaps (unlike the subject of the song, though I'll bet he thinks about it a lot).

I used to love the TV series, with such colourful characters as Little Johnson (Rubbin's crutch and best friend), Triar Fuck (rare cameo appearances, often ending in disaster) and Made Marion (well she wasn't old enough to decide for herself).
Priceless!
And some of the scrapes that he used to get into, with the Sheriff of Knotty Ash and his Diddy Men, had me in stitches!

I'm sure we'll never see it's like again.
Though I'm told that the Winter Gardens hosts reenactments on a fairly regular basis.

For further details, please contact Mr Palmer, Winter Gardens, Margate.

Banter Clause.

After a recent spat of correspondence with Google about content on my blog, following a complaint from another local blogger, they've finally had to admit that, although a little risque, none of it is actually libelous.
Though they've asked me if I wouldn't mind toning it down a bit, as they are obliged to follow up these complaints, no matter how deranged, lunatic or lengthy they may be, and that this particular complainer ties up half of their staff with every rant that he spews upon them, simply to work out what the Hell he's on about.
I tried appealing to their sense of reason by pointing out that it could be worse and that they could be in the shoes of the police complaints department, receiving fifty such emails every single day about issues that date back to the way that Pontious Pilot dealt with that whole Jesus thing.

But apparently they don't have a sense of reason, just staffing problems.

Ah well, as there's sweet FA that they can do about it, I'm afraid I had to tell them to be a little more conscientious about getting staffed (or something like that).

So no, I rather feel that I may have to ramp it up a notch.
You never know, it may take the heat off the police for a while, freeing up a few officers to get out on the street and crack some crim skulls.

Mel 'n' Omar.

Far be it from me to mock the afflicted, but when you meet a couple who appear to be more wart and mole than actual skin, all kinds of thoughts manifest themselves, voluntarily or otherwise.
However, as they seemed to have invoked their own little exclusion zone in the pub, my heart went out to them, along with the offer of conversation.
I think that caught them by surprise every bit as much as their appearance did to me, but, after breaking the ice and sweeping introductions behind us, they actually turned out to be every bit as poxy as they looked!
I don't think I'd ever met quite as bitter and resentful a couple in my whole life.
But being the charitable and understanding soul that I am, I bit my tongue and forged ahead, as though none of us were hating every second of it. I got the distinct impression that chatting wasn't one of their more finely honed skills. That and liking the rest of the World. And when the conversation turned to problems that were encountered, and precautions that had to be taken, during the act of love, I'm afraid I had to take my leave and slope off to the loo to supress second helpings of my tea.
Luckily, after 20 minutes of grappling with the contents of my stomach, I returned to find them gone.

I should add, BTW, that those aren't actually their names up there, but psuedonyms to protect their real identity. Though if you ever came across them, they'd be quite easy to, er, spot.

It's Your Cock-up, My Arse.

Highlighting the all important use of hyphens and commas, there. Had Don written that title, we'd henceforth be thinking that he may well be a buggerist.

But no, it's actually concerning an underling at work who phoned me this morning to let me know that a customer had not recieved a rather important piece of documentation, which should have been with them by yesterday at the latest, to facilitate an order being dispatched by tomorrow (also at the latest).

She didn't much like what I said to her, but I figure it was gentler than the reception that I'm going to get tomorrow morning, at work!

My fault, I suppose, as I should have checked up on the dippy bitch! As they say, if you want a job done properly, do it yourself.
Gawd almighty, what with that and the imminent arrival of Hellen on Wedsnesday, I think I may be pulling a sicky tomorrow.

Though I don't think it'll be unethical to do so, as I'll be out this afternoon making damned sure that I feel like death warmed up in the morning.

Today Is The First Day Of The Rest Of My Wife.

I must say that I feel like an enormous stone has been lifted from my 34C chest, now that I realise on which side my bread is buttered.
And such a relief to realise why I've always thought that men were a bunch of twats. Must've been wishful thinking, eh.
Though it's obviously come as a bit of a shock, as I've found myself doing some pretty odd things since my startling revelation.
For instance now, every time I sit on the loo, I fling myself onto the floor shouting "The Germans are coming, the Germans are coming, hande hoch!", I've shaved my eyebrows off, tea now tastes like coffee and visa versa.
So I've found myself peeing in a bucket, wearing a floppy hat and drinking Horlicks (how appropriate), during my period of adjustment.
I'm sure I'll settle down a bit when I get used to the idea that sex will, henceforth, be lasting for more than three minutes and that I'll never encounter a cock again.

I really don't think that I'm going to miss that. Though if I do at any point, I can always pop over to that Peter Chuckspilled's rubbish blog. I'm sure that'll get me back on track!

I really must congratulate my hypnotherapist when I see her next week. Perhaps I'll give her a little pat on the bottom and massage her breasts for her, by way of a thank you.

Although, as far as the smoking is concerned, I don't think that's working out as planned, as I seem to have developed a penchant for chain smoking cigars.
Ah well, I always though that hypnotism was a bunch of bollocks, anyway.

Still, it's all worth it, just to have met such an insightful woman and be pointed in the right direction.

For me now, the thigh's the limit!

Oh! I AM A Lesbian.

At least, that's what my hypnotherapist told me today, whilst attending a session with her to help me give up smoking.

Y'know, she might have a point. I'd never noticed it before but some women are quite attractive in a way that goes beyond mere admiration.

Clever woman for being able to see a side of me that I'd obviously suppressed.

I regret being so rude and cynical to her, during our first session, now!

The Credible Sulk.

I hear through the grapevine that Margate District Council (TDC) is prepared to do whatever it takes to help Ramsgate's new Parish Council bring the town back up onto it's knees.
And their first act of benevolence is to cut all event funding to the Ramsgate Town Partnership, offering that that would now be the responsibility of Ramsgate's Parish Council.

No surprise there, then, from a bunch of bullies that were told to fuck off in the voting booths.

Pardon me if I'm wrong, but they are still responsible for the whole district of Thanet, aren't they?
Even if a part of it has been given a voice of it's own.

Never mind. We can always visit those TDC bitches in Broadstairs, to watch the fireworks.
And they've been trying to hi-jack our own party in July for years. First of all by pissing the organisers of the power boat weekend off to the point where they've relocated to Sheppy, then hosting The European Water Skiing Championships last year, insisting that they handle all the advertising, before completely failing to do so, on the strength that they didn't have the budget for it.
Now this!

Still, at least they didn't spring it on us at the last minute, this time.
Maybe there's something we can do, yet?

The Four Donkey Riders Of The Ablogalypse.

As local blogging has been getting a bit tired of late, with the same old bickering and same old responses to the same old issues, I thought I'd go off in search of pastures new and see if I could find a blogging community to rival our very own, here in Thanet.

I've managed to get from Dover to Eastbourne, so far, with an awful lot of ground to cover before I can form a proper picture of the whole Country.

But from what I gather up to now, things aren't that far removed from here.
Except for a notable drop in the amount of complaints about corruption and/or incompetence in their councils and hardly any grumblings about noisy aircraft bending the tops of their ariels.
Though there were several alleged sightings of small and sporadic patches of blue rain over Brighton, which have been cause for concern for a number of years. Speculation as to their origin includes....

1. Over population by blue-rinsers with thinning hair, coupled with frequent, strong South Westerly gusting.

2. Little bits of the sky falling off.

3. Passenger jets cleaning their toilets through, when they've finally managed to get everyone to sit down and belt up, before beginning their descent to Gatwick.

4. Subliminal campaigning on behalf of the Conservative party.

5. Alien invasion craft echoes, left upon their departure from our dimension.


Tease me gently with a carrot, it was just like being back home!


Anyhow, getting back to the title of this post, and the point, who are these Burro Borne Bloggers of Blight, that seem to appear everywhere along the South East coastline of England?

According to my version of the Bible, which has had an awful lot of corrections made to it since I first got the thing as a Christening present, they would be....


Ware.
Not to be confused with 'aware', which means something almost completely the opposite, this sandpacker is obsessed with selling you something, be it the idea that they have even half a clue as to what they're babbling on about, a pair of used undies or simply a bunch of lies.


Petulence.
Yes, yes, probably me! Tch! The RSPCAtheist who doesn't give a crap about the donkey, so long as it gets you where you want to go. If it collapses on the way, not to worry, there's plenty more donkeys by the sea.
Still, truth comes out in what you say, not how you say it, surely!


Farming.
I'd say that almost half of the Ablogalypse follow this Manure Machine Messiah, each with their own little seed of an idea which they're hoping the farmer will grow to fruition for them, knowing full well, in their heart of hearts, that they'd never be able to do it for themselves.


Deaf.
Which would cover the 'almost other half', who refuse to hear anything that might upset the balance of the carefully fabricated Universe which they've created (or had created for them) to protect them from the real one.


Plus I'll bet that my copy is the only one with Jesus throwing a bucket of water over a dog orgy AND punching a nun in the tit, for getting one of her Sunday school children stoned!

Cock O' The North.

I'd suppose that now the dust is settling between the Confederacy and the Union, in Thanet, this would be a good time to investigate how it all started in the first place, in the vain hope that it might be prevented from kicking off again, in the future!

With that in mind, I'd propose some kind of poll to establish exactly who is the biggest cock in Margate.
I would include Ramsgate in the running but, as we seems to be mostly women here, these days, there'll be no warmongers among us, so what'd be the point!

Now I'd host the poll myself, but as I have commenting disabled, I won't be able to do so.
Maybe one of our friends from oop North would like to do it?

Over to you, Mr Cockfeeler? Mr Bignose? Dr How? The Karate Skid?

Whore's Chestnuts.

According to my friend Sophie, last night, that'll be the moment when a gentleman romantically presents his paid girlfriend with a pearl necklace.
Quite how she got on to that, when everyone else was talking about Autumn, I'm not sure.
Well she was a wee bit tipsy.
Anyhow, it earned her the new nickname Sophie Titwank, which, as far as I'm concerned, is a vast improvement on her old nickname, Sophie Stickated, which she really isn't!

If any of you happen to come across a woman being referred to as 'Titwank', in the pub, do make sure to ask her about the origins of that. The poor thing suffers quite badly with shyness and a blush can be induced, simply by smiling at her.
That ought to make her light up like a Christmas tree!

I Am Just A Poor Boy And My Story's Seldom Told.

I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles, such are promises.
All lies and jest, when a man hears what he wants to hear
and disregards the rest, lie lie lie, lie lie lie, la lie la lie.


A lovely little ditty, penned by Paul Simon and his uncle Garth The Artist, called The Boxer.
Written in 1968 for a young, aspiring carpet salesman who liked to thump people.
He went on to become the most powerful man in Thanet who still, allegedly, likes to thump people.

Thanet truly is the rest home for the slebs, eh!

Author ASCII.

I think I'll make the most of this next fortnight to reflect on my life so far.
At best it'll give me stronger footing, being reassured of who I am and how I became that person, when Hellen arrives.
Believe me, she's testing!
At worst Columbo, Ironside and Ace Ventura will have a few extra leads to follow.

This happened immediately prior to the last time that Hellen visited, almost as if invoking her spirit.

Anyhow, getting back to the point, my first paying job was in computing...

#

...at a time when ASCII was a required language, if you wanted to communicate with these primitive machines.
It still is, but all of that's taken care of for you, by hard-wired software, these days. Which makes a bit of a nonsense of that silly poster up there, eh boys!

It was also the time that I discovered the internet.
Morse code was about to make way for Moore's code and, er, more code (but less visible).

A victim of my own success, I aided the development of algorithms that would negate my own employment.

Something that I've managed to do, with alarming regularity, ever since!

I guess variety is the spice of life, huh!
Either that, or I'm a lazy moo that likes to take a month or so off, every year, looking for another job.

Y'know, I might look into one of those countdown thingies, for my sidebar, ticking away the seconds until Hellen touches down.
Of course, I'll add another hour on, to compensate for the airport time difference.


Disclaimer: When I say that I discovered the internet, I mean that I discovered a computing network, already existing, that had been created, previously, by other people who were not me.
Though, I may have had a hand in starting the chat-room phenomenon known as lofting (keyboard to keyboard sex), which died out very quickly after the introduction of the webcam!
One rumour boldly states that the internet, as we know it today, originated in front of Arlington House, on a cold, damp afternoon, as an idea for moving photography (and everything else) indoors.

Gosh, that last site was a little slow and untidy, wasn't it?
Must be under-construction.

Hellen Back Again.

Saints preserve us, I just received word from my friend Hellen, on the opposite side of the globe, in New York, that she's popping over for a visit in a couple of weeks!
And I use the terms 'popping' and 'visit' very loosely, as she's threatening to stay for a month, being the amount of time that she figures it will take to give our 'quaint little village called England' a proper once over!

OMG!

She'll be arriving on the 14th of October, which, by my calculations, will get her here in time for the cider festival in Churchill's on the 16th and 17th.

OMG²!

I may not tell her about that, and hope she doesn't notice!

Only Just Just.

Just like shooting a horse because it has a broken leg.
Just, because it's a kindness to the horse, or, you could say, just because it's a kindness to the horse.

But just how did it's leg get broken, in the first place?

It just so happens that that crosses my mind, just now, and just about every time that someone tries to justify themselves to me.
And when I say 'someone', it's usually just men.
Often just-been boyfriends.

My latest just-been boyfriend forgot my birthday. Not a capital offence, in just that. I'm just not awfully bothered about being constantly reminded that I'm a year older(albeit, only just). But to just turn up two days later, smiling and saying "Happy birthday", and just pretending to be confused when I tell him that he'd just missed it by two days, just isn't right!

Just go, I said!

That only just happened, just now!


p.s. No, his name wasn't Justin!

Fair's Fare.

Let's hope the weather keeps up for the weekend, where a trip to the Canterbury Eurofair could well be on the cards.
I've been going along for the last three years, and had a thoroughly good time, each time, despite it lashing down with rain the first time I went.

The venue, The Dane John Gardens, is beautiful. With it's memorial mound thrusting skywards behind Canterbury's million year old city wall, and fronted by the well kept gardens, with ornate bandstand and fountain embellishing the vista, it's a great backdrop for a food, drink and music orgy.

For those among you who may be, like myself, celebrating their twenties for the second time, perhaps you'll recall it being the venue for the Kent beer festival, before the council got fed up with people being sick on the shrubberies and forced it to move into a cow shed, outside of town.
The beer festival, that is. Not the vomit.
Though I believe that followed along, on it's own.

I'm particularly looking forward to sampling the 'wine beer' that they're advertising on their website. Sounds crazy, huh?

As usual, my apologies in advance to Connex for the journey home!

I Think 'X' Therefore I Am 'Y'!

Having run out of wool and wicker, finished all of my puzzle books and drummed my fingers trying to think of something else to do, other than drink more cocoa, I came up with using one of those random generation thingys (Like the 1960's? ed) to mix up eight bloggers with eight different states of mind (including definitions), to see if they could be paired correctly.

I'm buggered if I can do it, so here's the randomised list for anyone who might like to have a crack at it themselves....



Apathy: I don't even care if anyone cares, or not.


Sympathy: I feel for me, on your behalf.


Loneliness: I feel for me, on my behalf.


Empathy: I feel for you, on my behalf.


Antipathy: I feel, on my behalf, for yourself, contrarily.


Ignorance: I hear my voice in your head.


Telepathy: I hear your voice in my head.


Paranoid schizophrenia: I hear other voices in a different head.

Wearing The Inside Out.

It's one thing to declare yourself a naturist, abandoning your clothes and throwing your caution (or whatever you'd like to call it) to the wind.
I firmly believe that every bean-eating greeny should do it, to embellish their wholesome and, in some cases, meat free lifestyles.

Though I experience a mild distaste at someone shoving their head so far up their own arse, that they turn inside-out.
Isn't that taking things a bit too far?

Anyhow, enough of all that, as I'd suppose that congratulations are in order for the author of Thanet's newest, and currently most popular blog, The Margate Music Man, mmm!

Hmm!

And if, like me, you believe that Jerry Lewis was the greatest slapstick comedian who ever lived, then you've hit the jackpot!

Beautifully crafted, albeit a little long winded, so I didn't exactly read all of it, it's attracted a great swathe of some of the most uncontrived adoration that I've seen on blogger, to date.
Hey, when you have that many people all saying "I agree with everything you say" you just know that you're getting it right!
Anyone who is in a bit of a hurry can skip the big bit before the comments and just read the first one, to get the gist of what all the others say. So simple, it's unbelievable!

Just what the fella needed at a time when it seemed like the whole World (Ramsgate) was poking it's tongue out at him and calling him rude names.

Well done Peter! And not one of those comments made anonymously, to boot. I thought I'd spotted one, but was cruelly foiled at the end of it, when the commenter supplied his full name, address, postcode, telephone number and drivers license details.

You must be very pleased with yourself, and deservedly so!

Keep up the good work!

I'll certainly be adding a link to my sidebar!

Sheer(mad)ness.

Having never been to Sheerness, (and being curious about the rumours of 'two headed' people that are heralded, by some, to reside there) when a friend of mine suggested we go there for a shopping spree, I figured it might make a refreshing change.

But how refreshed do you want to be?

After reading up on the Town's history, on a placard near the clock tower, I discovered that you could, in fact, be refreshed to death, under the right circumstances!

Quite matter-of-factly, it stated.....

In 1944 the United States cargo ship SS Richard Montgomery ran aground and sank 1 mile (1.6 km) off the coast of Sheerness, with 3,172 tonnes of explosives on board. Due to the inherent danger and projected expense, the ship and its cargo have never been salvaged. If the wreck were to explode, it would be one of the largest non-nuclear explosions of all time.
A 2004 report published in New Scientist warned that an explosion could occur if sea water penetrated the bombs.

Er, yikes!

It went on to say that Whitstable would, for a while, become one of the outermost suburbs of this new Atlantis, and that most of the bridges across the Thames would get a well deserved wash.
Sheerness itself, along with everything and everyone in it, would be proper fucked, the notice gently advised!

Quite enough info. to have me fumbling about in my purse for my train ticket!

And I never did get to see any of those fabled two headed people.

Ah well, I can always pop to Margate if the need becomes too great. I'm sure that two-faced people would suffice!

Our Aura, Boris Artist. (An Ode)

Out with the old, in with the new.
The needs of the many? The needs of the few!
A natural order to all things.
No compromise, nor any strings.
Built myself a stairway to another brick in the mud.
Gimme a gun and I'd look like Elmer Fudd.

Looking back though, I'd have no complaints.
And none of my peers were ever real Saints.

Except my adoptive Mum, of course.

Best wishes to her and her next needy cause!





Polite notice: Anyone who didn't understand that, probably wasn't required to.

Rag Week!

One of the more irritating things about being genetically superior to men is the mild depression that's experienced, once a month, upon discovering that you're not pregnant, even if the idea of having kids is totally repulsive to you.

It's a feeling that can't really be explained to, or understood by a man, or at least by any that I've ever met, but though I'm armed with that knowledge, I'll be damned if I'm going to stop trying, all the same!

So if anyone has anything to say that they think I might find annoying, now would be the time for a best reaction!

Grab A Grandson Night.

Shuffling off to the Jazz Rooms, after an evening in the pub (that shall not be named) last night, to try my hand at a little 'grandson grabbing', I was bitterly disappointed to find the place not only shut, but with a big sold sign on it!

Fortunately, a good Samaritan passer-by pointed out that I was trying to gain access to the Old Customs House, and that the Jazz Rooms were a bit further along.

Hmmm, I must be drunker than I thought, I thought, er, I think.
So I decided to walk (such as it was) along the beach and go home.

UNfortunately, I turned Leffe when I should've turned right and fell into the Belgian Bar, straight into the arms of a really tasty and bubbly blonde!
It was that good, I toyed with the idea of taking the bottle home and leaving the foil on it!

Though I'm sure my head wouldn't be hurting this much, if I hadn't decided to make it a threesome.

Who's Going To Win These Wars?

Yeah, no, not the 'big news millionaire blog wars', such as they are, but real wars, with real people killing other real people and those other real people dying as a consequence, in roughly equal numbers.

Such as that one going on in Afghanistan, for instance.

But according to news reports, it's not as 50/50 as you might think.

While one side is having all of it's courageous, level headed, family man heroes systematically annihilated, or, the better half of the population, if you like, all the other side seems to be losing is it's cowards, fools and family man villians. Presumably the worst half of theirs!

I'm no mathematician, but....

Meanwhile, on one of the other sides of the World, Chinese World leaders (in over-population) are put under the macro-scope to uncover the secret of their wisdom in crowd control.

If the crowds get big and angry enough, TAZERs just don't cut it!

Confucius? You won't be after next week's episode of Slippery Slope!

Southeastenders.

I must confess to liking Margate's Monochromatic Maestro of the Mammary's (Tit, for short) idea of creating a little collage that tells a story, so I though it would be fun to have a stab, myself.

Impolite Notice: Anyone who thinks they may not be able to help themselves from feeling emotionally, spiritually or intellectually raped, affronted or even slightly bruised, should piss off now before scrolling down any further!

But if you're just here for a laugh, please be my guest!







As battle rages, high in a clifftop mansion, between one man and the miscreants that live in his computer......






Simon shows off his latest pet, a checked fieldmouse/doormouse hybrid. "I think I'm going to call him Baldy Petey-poos, after one of my favourite hobbies, to keep it simple." Simon says.






Swimming isn't nearly as much fun without my North Isle chums, thinks one blogger, mistakenly. Simultaneously proving the absolute uselessness of swimming trunks and the truth in the saying 'be careful what you wish for'!







Though one blogger, visiting Margate nightclubs in search of the high life, seems to have struck pay-dirt!







Broadstairs, on the other hand, seem to have found their first 'sure-fire' way of encouraging people to stay.







More pet crises in one Margate-working-man-of-the-people-blogger's homestead and, as per usual, no-one knows quite who to blame. As Eastcliff Richard has yet to be spotted, it'll be a rocky road to pinning that one on him!







Though heading skywards with the Sun, the father of Thanet blogging likes to get off to an early start in one of the highest, paid jobs in the Country.







Meanwhile, back on the party side of the Island, our intrepid Ramsgate blogger decides, involuntarily, to have a bit of a lie-in on Monday morning.







Later on that day, one kindly Margate blogger offers to help his Westgate friend with a reasonably complex civil engineering job. Unfortunately they both have doubts as to whether there's actually two O's in SHCOL and think they may have to redo the last three letters.







While another Margate blogger receives a postcard from his uncle in Texas, which completely ruins one of his favourite hobbies for him, and makes him want to buy a bigger car.







One of the Island's more physically active bloggers likes nothing better than beating himself on the chest for half an hour, with a weighted metal bar, and then kicking someone in the head while trying to pull his own off, before settling down to a nice, relaxing puzzle.







And when he's done with correcting every single folly of the last Century, perhaps he'd like to tackle this tricky little number, which, as far as I know, still remains unresolved after more than 500 years?

Moore Information Required.

Now I don't have the Hollywood contacts that some Thanet bloggers do, but I get the occasional snippet, all the same. So when rumour (oh fuck off tosspot 'mirkin spell checker, I spelled rumour right!) reached me, earlier today, that Demi Moore has recently employed Dan Acroyd, Harold Ramis and Bill Murray for a job, the details of which are yet to be disclosed, it does make you wonder if there may be a new blockbuster in the offing.

Does anyone know any Moore?

Chinese Puzzle.

Imagine my horror, whilst munching through my Chinese meal last night, at finding an almost perfect effigy of the face of one of our more irritating bloggers in, rather appropriately, a sweet and sour king prawn ball!





Well I'm afraid I couldn't eat it. There are some things that you just can't swallow!
I couldn't even give it to my cat, as the thought of that face buried deep inside my pussy was way too hideous to contemplate!
I toyed, momentarily, with the idea of keeping it for display purposes, and calling it The Shrek of Man Lin (being the name of the take-away where it was purchased), but figured that before too long, just like it's likeness, it would start getting up my nose.

So I threw it in the bin, much to the disgust of my cat, who, it seems, isn't quite the swooning, faint hearted, sensitive soul that I am.

Dishing The Dirt.

No, not another go at bashing onymous Margate bloggers. I think they've already proved that they're thick enough to make that particular pursuit a waste of time.

So let's concentrate on those bloggers that could be saved from a lifetime stuck in front of their computers, and regain the confidence to leave the house from time to time.

I hope this helps!

Tasty And Succulent Breasts.

Warm thighs, moist and juicy lips, slippery fingers that beg to be licked, and a nice greasy box to stick your bone in, for your parting shot!

That's how a friend of mine romanticised his meal from KFC, last night.

Personally, I think he may be eating too much of the stuff, but I was reluctant to suggest alternatives such as Burger King or Pizza Express, for fear that his soliloquy could take a turn for the worse.

Though I did suggest, hinting that I be kept right out of the picture, that it may be time for him to find a girlfriend!

His consequent belch, followed by a dismissive shrug, said it all really.

Rubbish Ethics.

Walking past the bin-men this morning, I heard a woman shout out "Excuse me!" about 50 yards back up the road.
Looking round, there was a rather buxom lady in her dressing gown, standing on her doorstep, holding two bags of rubbish, obviously having just missed the collection.
"Stuff that!" I heard one of the bin-men say to his mate.
Presumably thinking along the same lines, his mate said "It's just a couple of bags." and went back to fetch them.
I couldn't agree more, as, had it been a fella standing on the step with his jim-jams on, those couple of bags (that govern the average male's behaviour) would, most likely, have prompted him to go with his mate's original recommendation.

Double standards couldn't be more fitting, huh?

The First Two Dimensions.

One of the downsides to a really early night is that it can lead to waking up at 1am, feeling refreshed and ready to start your day, albeit six hours early!

Hey-ho.

Resigned to the fact that sleeping was over for the night, I made myself a nice, strong cup of coffee and set about the grand task of trawling the Thanet blogs.
I would have preferred to hoover but there's the neighbours to think of, y'know!

First stop was Bare Yourself To The World Man, where he's compiled a lovely collage of tits and fannies, interspersed with bollocks and a cock!
I do wonder if, when he's finished peeling off all those layers, he's going to be bare, or just air?
Mind you, if you look really, really closely, there's a clever little twist at the end, where he says "...and maybe even other parts of Thanet will benefit from Margate's good fortune!" and posts a picture of Ramsgate!
Good one Petey! I was eating cereal when I read that and you made milk come out of my nose.

While I was in Margate, I thought I'd take a look at their other blog, to catch up on the latest, breaking news.
Not much news there but Donal Macintyre / Deputy Dawg has popped in some waffle about the Beatles, presumably just to give his readers a moment's respite from the tirade of paranoia over a Ramsgate blogger who he's definitely not going to name, even though the Ramsgate blogger thinks he will, but only because Big Nose said he would in the first place and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah...

I'd had enough after that! Ground to a stand-still at the start of my quest! Didn't even make it to Westgate!

I knew I should've left those two until last!

Toilet Humour.

All this current chat about public loos reminds me of one of my favourite old jokes.


A vicar, new to his parish, finds himself on the other side of his village, busting to use the lavvy.
Deciding that he's not going to make it home, he knocked on the nearest door and asked for directions to a public toilet.
"I really don't know," he was told "but you'd be welcome to use mine, vicar."
"Oh no, I really couldn't," he replied "you see, I suffer from salts."
So he went to the next house, and the next, with the same result each time.
Finally he reached the last house in the road, by which time he was almost at the point of bursting, and knocked on the door. The little old lady who answered, told him that she'd lived in the village for all of her life and that they'd never had a public loo.
"But you'd be more than welcome to use mine." She added.
"I would," said the vicar "but I suffer from salts!"
"Oh I shouldn't worry about that. When you've got to go, you've got to go." She offered.
Deciding that it was that, or fill his pants, he accepted her offer and headed up the stairs toward her loo.
"I'll make us a nice cup of tea, vicar, and see you in a bit."
After about ten minutes, the vicar returned, thanked the old lady for her kindness and sat down to drink his tea.
"While you're drinking your tea, I need to pop off and use the toilet myself." The old lady chipped in.

Upon entering the bathroom, she was astonished to find poo all over the place. It was splattered on the walls, deposited in the sink, bath and on top of the cistern.

When she returned to the kitchen, she asked "what was it that you said you suffered from vicar, salts?"

"Yes," he replied "summer-salts!"

Cock O' The North.

Much as I like the idea of running a poll to establish exactly who's most deserving of that accolade, I'm fairly certain that I can't be arsed.
Shall we just assume that anyone silly enough to live North of Westwood Cross is equally entitled, and leave it at that? Or does that seem a bit broad and sweeping?

Please though, for anyone who thinks that they can answer the above questions, look up the word 'rhetorical' first!

Assiduity Indigestion.

Nice to see the virtual dust finally settling after the latest vent of virtual vitriol and v-signs, from the daddies of blog, right up there on the top of the heap.
Bit of a shame to see that Tony Bignose and Richard Wedge haven't kissed and made up yet. One preferring to to put up a burger blogade and the other making modifications to his last will and testament.
But on the other hand, one blogger in Margate, who seemed to be involved in all this for the sole purpose of self-promotion of a blog which is really more about self-gratification, has also had a hissy fit and cut all communication with anyone not producing a passport or birth certificate. So it's not all bad news! Not being a lezzer or having the right equipment to shake at his blog, it was never of much use to me anyway.
And the doctor got into a bit of a spin, too. But then he always does, doesn't he!
Then right at the bottom of the heap, Rock Card and Don' Understand have been doing their bit to perpetuate it all by trawling out some of their best works of incomprehensible and self-contradictory shite, to date.

So now we can all get on with what we're supposed to be doing, with renewed vim and vigour, eh?

Though it does beg the question, what am I 'supposed' to be doing?
I'm afraid I still don't quite have a handle on that!

Confused? You Won't Be After This Week's Episode Of Dope!

>>Personally I'm far more interested in what a person says & does than what their title is & where they got it from.<<

A line gleaned from a comment by someone called Peter Checkmate, or something, on Michael Child's blog.

Do make your effing mind up, doof!

Darling, no-one cares who you are or what you say. They just like to bash one out over pictures of women that they'd stand a reasonable chance of shagging in real life, albeit that they'd probably need a few beers first!

Scat-at-a-dah-doo-de-day-chi-poo.

Much as I hate jazz (maybe I'm destined to meet a guy called Johnny, and why does that make me think of fish?), I think I'll wiggle along to the Jazz festival this afternoon, on the lawns opposite Churchill's, for a mingle with all the other jazz haters, enjoying a garden party in the Sun.
And I'm led to understand that, at some point, they'll be holding a scat workshop.
I do hope they don't mean that awful German version of scat, where people poo all over eachother!
Of course, it could be the Somerset College of Arts and Technology, teaching people to paint with a soldering iron?

Who can say. Guess I'll just have to go and find out for myself!

Congratulations, You've Won The Chance To Win A Prize!

Being an escaped Readers Digest non-subscriber, on the run for over a decade now, you can imagine how twitchy it made me feel when I received that, er, promise, from my mobile phone network.

Why on Earth would they do that? To make me feel happy? To give me hope?

Probably not. Even with my newly restored hope and cheer, probably not!

Most likely when I reply, free of charge, my name, number and God knows what personal details will go on the 'SUCKER' list, which then gets sold from pillar to post, among marketing companies.

The very reason that I changed my name to Lucy Mail, moved, opened new bank accounts, framed my family and got them all sent to prison and had my pets put down, to finally escape the clutches of R.D., more than ten years ago!

So no! I'm already overflowing with joy and hope and I don't want your mystery prize, which is, in all likelihood, to try and take that away from me!

Anonym Arse!

Due to the fact that a new precedent has been set, allowing slandered tosspots to glean information about their online antagonists from Google, coupled with the fact that the subject of this post really seems to hate this kind of thing, he shall remain nameless!
How arrogant are people, when they consider their identity to be more important than any point they're trying to make, or any argument that they're trying to present?

Well, I think there's a big clue in the title of this post!

For instance, subject of this post, if you were looking at pictures of naked ladies, would you want to know their surname and social background? No! You'd want to look at their tits and twat, and maybe, if you have it in you, burp your worm.

So why, when considering someone's missive, would you need to know who they are?
Isn't that missing the point, somewhat?
Unless, of course, your plan is to deride them on a personal level, in your complete and utter failure to argue the point that's being made!

I would say that anonymity is one of the keys to the enormous success of Eastcliff Richard's blog. That and his sharp wit and keen insight (albeit often a bit lefty for my tastes, but that's just my anonymous opinion). And I believe that it makes people stick to the point being made. You can't slate someone or dish up the dirt that is often required to send an argument, that you're quite clearly losing, off on a tangent, can you!

It also seems to me that those who do post under their real identities, spend so much time worrying about possible repercussions, personal vanity and how to sell something, that often their posts come across as so much wishy, washy bullshit!

Say it how you see it! Respond to it honestly!
Without identities, rudeness and slander become meaningless!

Unless you're someone of great prominence in society, and I don't mean attention seeking, minor celebrity (shouldn't that be 'cerebrally'? Ed) bellboys, no-one gives a flying fuck who you are!
So, I'd suggest that you stop banging on about that very, very unimportant issue of who you are and make a bloody point for a change!!!

And hey, we all know who you are! ;-)

Mud Slinging, With The Nappies Still Attached.

Would it be cynical of me to propose that the latest rattle slinging match, between two of Thanet's most prominent, pouting, thumb sucking, political babies, may be contrived?
Haven't we seen these smoke-screens before, when a whole other issue needs to be ignored by the 'stender benders (that large slice of the voting public, who like a bit of scandal)?
Seems to me that certain people may be labouring to be conservative with the truth, here!

No doubt it'll all come out in the back-wash.

Ronny Bigs Up Margate.

Great to hear that Margate is about to be promoted by a convicted criminal.
How appropriate!
And encouraging to note that he'll be performing this feat by demonstrating how to drink lager.
Rumour has it that he'll also be partaking of a stick of rock, though, presumably, it'll be someone else's, as at 80 years of age, it's unlikely to be his own!

Gracious me, I wonder how much HIS soiled bedsheets will be worth, after this extravaganza?

I also wonder if he'll be going home with the standard Margate gift pack? A crutch full of sand, a box of matches, a dodgy carpet deal and a much heightened appreciation of just about anywhere else in the Country!

I'd be interested to know how Tony Bignose (Flob, to his friend) feels about all this, as the work that he does just encourages this type of criminal behaviour!

Don't Mess With The Yakult.

A recommendation that my mother made to me, while I was playing with my new ouija board, some ten years before the stuff actually made it to the shelves in this country!
Normally I would scoff at such an off-handed statement, but bearing in mind that, at the time, noone had even heard of probiotics, I took it seriously and avoided it.
Though, on reflection, a warning about playing with ouija boards would have been more useful, as I'm now having the hardest time trying to convince my doctor that the voice I keep hearing, of some dead guy called Reg O'Neal, isn't a figment of my imagination.
The quack seems under the impression that it's all down to a dietry imbalance (even though I tend to drink dark and light beers in roughly equal measure), and that I should disregard my mother's advice, in favour of someone's who can't even decide which branch of medicine to specialise in!
When I told him that half the population believed that GP stood for Grand Prix (emphasising the X, of course), he really got quite upset.

Dyke Van Dick.

Chatting to a male friend, in the pub last night, he informed me that there's currently some fella called Dick, with a really dodgy Cockney accent, doing the rounds with a couple of, er, vegetarian ladies putting on a show in the back of his van, called Lose The Lolly. That'll be the show's name, not the van's, BTW.
And if rumours are to be believed, he's not losing lolly at all!

Another case for Trading Standards?

Still, it's nice to see some entertainment coming back to town, albeit only appealing to three quarters of the population!

Paper-View.

Contrary to popular belief, this concept was NOT created by Sky broadcasting, but was, in fact, belched from the minge of The Daily Mail editing department.

Quite how Trading Standards allow them to proffer themselves as a 'news' paper, is beyond me!

Ludicrous!

It's quite enough, in my opinion, to be stuck on a two hour train journey. But to be surrounded by goggle eyed rag puppets, all cooing and feigning horror at the ridiculous nonsense that some poor tree has had to die to convey to them, makes me positively seeth!

Though on the other hand, a good deal of the great unwashed do seem to lap it up!

Maybe I could boost my own ratings with sensationalist headlines like...

Black Child Killer Roams Our Streets! (story about car tyres)

Scientists Solve Age Old Chinese Mystery. (they've finally managed to make a cup of tea without the aid of someone who isn't a scientist)

Or perhaps I won't.
I'm not sure I really want that type lurking around here!

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Everyone Has 15 (Hundredths Of A) Minutes Of Fame.

Wow!
The big time at last!
Spotting myself in this footage from Kent TV, while I was supping my way towards having to buy a new inner tent, not once, but twice, I was starting to think that the camera man may have been stalking me!
Pity he didn't actually confront me with his tool, as the following video could've turned out (on?) much differently!

You need to upgrade your Adobe Flash Player to version 9.0.28+

Thinking Outside The Box.

If I've heard that once, I've heard it a thousand times, of late!
What the Hell is it supposed to mean, this latest catchphrase of the pub savant?
I did suggest to one fella, who managed to splut it out three times in the space of a minute, that it could express a moment of self-doubt about one's sexual orientation, and took great delight in suggesting, when he didn't get what I was saying, that he should actually try 'thinking outside the box', instead of just banging on about it!

Or is it....

A point that Pandora missed?
A regret on one's death bed?
Dodging Daleks?
Houdini suffering stage fright?
A polite way of saying 'shit for brains' or 'you're thinking out of your arse'?

I think we should be told!

Farm Aceuticals.

Being the consummate adventurer that I am, I'll rarely turn down the opportunity to try something new. But, even though I'm a big chocolate fan (Must be messy on a hot day! ed.), I did have some doubts about trying the mushroom chocolate that was on sale, on one of the hippy stalls, at the Lounge On The Farm music festival, a couple of weeks ago.

Well really! Mushroom chocolate? What a ridiculous idea!

Or so I thought!

After being assured that the mushrooms were particularly good, which was why I was expected to shell out a fiver for a bar of the stuff, and my hankering for chocolate was peaking at around that point, I decided to take the plunge and hand over the cash.
It was nice chocolate, for sure, but hardly worth a fiver and the mushrooms didn't come through at all!

Again, so I thought.

Some kind of warning that the mushrooms were, in fact, of the genus psilocybin, would have been polite!

So, an hour or so later, I found myself in fits of giggles among a riot of colours and shapes, all culminating with me pulling the most gorgeous guy that I'd ever laid eyes on and spending the next few hours making my inner tent really, rather smelly, by the time that I finally fell asleep at around dawn!

Waking up just in time for a lunch that there was 'no way on Earth' I was even going to contemplate eating, my fuzzy head tried to deal, unsuccessfully, with the situation that presented itself to me.
The guy laying next to me was neither particularly good looking (hey, it happens!), nor, strictly speaking, a guy! Though she did have quite a hairy top lip, I hardly think that excuses my blunder.

Dear God, am I the ONLY one that thinks I'm not a lesbian?

On the bright side, I did get a free bar of chocolate from mushroom man, when I complained, which came with the very sensible instruction of just eating a square or two at a time, and the kind, but unwanted offer of accommodation in his camper van, next time I pulled.

Sheesh! I was quite looking forward, at that point, to the following weekend and the relative sanity of getting completely bolloxed for three days, at a beer festival!

Moron that, later.

Up At The Crack Of Dawn.

Possibly not scotching the lesbian rumours with that header, I have, in fact, been up since sunrise, gathering all my bits together for a weekend of music, booze and, er, farm yard fun.
And after rereading my little missive from a slightly inebriated Lucy, last night, I think a weekend away, chilling, might be long overdue!

So, love and kisses to some of you, piss right off to others and I'll see you next Tuesday, if you'll pardon the expression.

Muff Diva.

I think I've been called a lesbian, now, by just about everyone except those that have 'actually' been my sexual partners! Well, except one, but I think he was just angling to bring his wife along.
What does that say about me?
No prizes for working out what it says about sexually repressed types!

So, for the record, once again, I am not a lesbian!
But I know, in my heart, if I was, I'd love it as much as cock!

One Small Step For Man, One Giant Leap For Womankind!

The moment that half the population of the planet has been waiting for with baited breath, has finally arrived, according to boffins at Newcastle university, when they unveiled their latest creation, In-Vitro Derived sperm. That'll be sperm created without all the usual cock and balls that we've had to put up with since the dawn of man!
Scientists are speculating that, by the end of the year, women will be able to 'knock up' their own sperm in the kitchen, using everyday kitchen utensils.

I suppose we'll have to hang on to a few men, for a while, until we've managed to dispense with some of the grubbier duties that are required to maintain the population, but I suspect that phasing out the male of the species will eradicate most of those, by itself!

Throng And Dance.

Not to mention a wonderful selection of beer and food, plus all the thrills and spills of the pink-knuckle rides (well they weren't quite white-knuckle rides, were they) on the inner harbour wall.
This year's Ramsgate Rocks, as far as I can remember, was an absolute blast!
I even managed to hobble back for seconds on Sunday, on my aching and dance blistered feet, which is a first for me, as I usually spend Sunday on the toilet, cuddling a bottle of paracetamol.

Wouldn't it be great if they could manage to organise these gigs on a more regular basis, during the Summer months!

Not to worry, though. There's plenty going on over the next few weekends, albeit with a little travelling involved.
This weekend sees Merton Farm, Canterbury, hosting the Lounge On The Farm music festival, and then the following weekend brings us the Kent Beer Festival, at the same venue!
I may as well leave my tent up, in between the two events, and just concentrate on any other erections that, er, come my way!
The weekend after that sees the onslaught of the Whitstable Oyster Festival, which I shall probably attend on my hands and knees!

On the bright side, you probably won't hear much from me for the rest of the month (unless you happen to be at any of these events), so do make the most of it!

Campaign for Understanding Nuclear Technology.

For you night-owls, I'll spell it out in the morning, if I have time.

In the meantime (Greenwich?) an ostrich's lifespan isn't dependent on how long it spends with it's head in the sand!

I'll try to clarify when I've got the Artillery Arms's beer out of my system!

Update: Nope, sorry, after reading that little note that I left for myself in the morning, I still feel far too ill to make further comment. That and the worrying fact that I haven't quite worked out what I was on about, yet!
If I survive this hangover, I'll attempt to clarify or just make something up.

Sand Paper.

As I had the day off yesterday, and nothing planned, I figured I'd remove that effigy of Osama Bin Laden from my inner thighs, squeeze into my Wicked Weasel 'kini and wiggle off down to the beach to soak up some rays.
Did they hold a paper chase for the very near sighted there, recently?
I seemed to spend the whole day plucking bits of Adscene from various parts of my body.
Particularly distressing was copping a full spread of Sandy Ezekiel right across the tits!

Though, employing a modicum of deductive reasoning, it does go some way to explaining why the bloody thing never makes it to my letter box.

Rock Around The Clock Tower.

Though when I say clock tower, I actually mean the old maritime museum clock, but that just didn't have the same chime to it!
Live music, beer, funfair and French cheese! Combinations like that are not to be sniffed at, in my book.
And what with both the organising AND advertising being given back over to the Ramsgate town partnership this year, after the dreadful bollocks that TDC insisted on making of it last year, there may even be the crowds that we've enjoyed in previous years.
I also hear, through the grapevine, that some pretty exotic weather has been booked to compliment the whole affair.
Sadly, Michael Jackson's agent has informed the organisers, at the last minute, that he won't be available to open the event, but one quick thinking bod suggested grabbing an oik from outside McDonalds and announcing him as Bubbles. Confidence is fairly high that they might get away with that!

And I found this while trawling the muddy backwaters of blogger, as a small example of what to expect...



See you on Saturday!

For Sale. One Monkey Named Tinkerbell, Hardly Used.

Not entirely unexpected news, but sad all the same, of Michael Jackson's death at the age of fifty.
Though in that time, I suspect, he lived a life that would take most of us a thousand years to compete with.

R.I.P. Michael.

X

Proper Gander.

Or, if you like, have a girl's look!
With all the self-denied racism that's being bandied about at the mo, I figured that it couldn't hurt, or maybe even help, to introduce a little sexism to the pot.
It seems quite clear that the majority of these racist remarks are the cycloptic viewings (You work it out. I'm not talking about the eyes on either side of the nose.) of the chromosomically challenged half of the population.
Apart from reducing your life-span, making your hair fall out and causing you to constantly think about sex (though I've noticed that's as far as it goes with a good deal of you), that testosterone really seems to impair your judgement, doesn't it!
I'd suggest that it would be put to better use in 'hunting' wild boar, rather than 'being' one.
Still, do carry on. This techno-industrial age will come to an end, at some point, and you can get back to what you're good at. Making babies and huts and bashing eachother over the head with bones.
In the meantime, we'll suffer your inane twittering with the infinite patience that our more penetrative insight allows.

Don't expect us to like it, though!

PS. For those of you that have ever wondered why we get the suffix 's' on the end of Mr, it stands for 'superior'!

The Who's Who Of What's What , Where, When And Why, On Blogger!

Before we all lose our identities completely, among all the speculation of who is saying this as who, and whether what is being said is a reflection of the beliefs of the person saying it, or merely a fabrication of beliefs, say a 'Devil's advocate' point of view, or even someone projecting their own beliefs (so they say) under their own (alleged) moniker, we should, perhaps, ask that all important question.

Does it really matter?

I know that some believe it does, as some believe it doesn't. An issue that I've noticed being touched upon many times since I've been using blogger, but with no clear resolution being reached.
Perhaps there isn't one?
For my money I'd say it's irrelevant, in a forum for relaying ideas and information, as to who the person actually is. It's the missive that's being offered which is of relevance.
Would it make a difference, if I declared myself as Minjita Dyke, to what I have to say? Apart from the humour, racist comments and sexual slurs that would result, I suspect not!
To those who say it would simply make one commenter definable from another, I would ask why you'd want to?
Posters always have an identity, false or otherwise, and commenters throw in their reactions to those posts, perhaps embellishing, perhaps deviating, perhaps spewing utter bollocks.
Surely knowing who they are will lend bias to your opinion, if you're able or willing to have one, of what they say?

The sooner we get this sorted out, the sooner we can get back to good old sex, drugs, rock and roll and pondering the deeper mysteries of the Universe!
I'll leave politics and religion to just about everyone else.

Bigoted Bikers.

I know I should be careful what I say about our bi-wheeled elite, after Tony Flaig got a right good kick in the blogger for airing his views, but I'm not him and I'd like to think that it was his complete inability to communicate an idea (his special power), rather than the criticism itself that landed him in trouble, so I'll give it a go.
Having noticed a sharp uprise in the amount of bikers greasing themselves in through the door of one of our local hostelries, along the road from Churchills, that shall remain nameless, of late, and also the influx of some extremely, er, right-wing ideals, I have to wonder if the two aren't related somehow.
Ne'er a visit goes by, these days, without some sort of grumble about immigration, foreign workers pinching OUR jobs or just the general decline in pinkness of skin pigmentation, being bandied about the bar.

Well that's not what I, and, I feel, many others go to the pub for!
A few drinkies, a bit of a laugh and a good taunting of anyone that looks like they've had a bad day, does it for me! Not all this racist crap from a bunch of people that, ironically, like to have themselves coloured in by someone with a rapidly reciprocating pricking device.

So I may have to start taking my trade elsewhere from now on.
Trouble is, where the Hell am I going to find a pub in Ramsgate that caters for kind, caring, self-effacing, warm, generous, fair handed, level headed, sexy people like myself?

I think I'm going to end up having to buy one for myself!
Are they expensive?

The BNP Party, Be There Or Be Straight!

I'm getting a little cheesed off, personally, about all this talk of BNP this, BNP that and BNP blah, blah, blah... so I've decided to throw a BNP party of my own.
My 'Brown, Not Pink' party will be held on Saturday July 4th, at a venue yet to be named, and the theme will be Homosexual Love.
Everyone is invited and, in case it hadn't occurred, you don't actually have to be a shirt lifter to attend. It'll be like any themed party, for instance a Rags and Riches party, where you just dress up as a tramp or a toff.
Of course, if you are gay then you won't have to dress up! Bone-arse, eh?

Should be a great crack, just like the good old gays, as I have a natural bent for this kind of thing!

I'll fill you in with the venue once I've sorted that out.

Deaf Before This Hohner.

One thing that I appreciate in a pub, apart from the beer and nonsense talking, is when someone pulls a guitar out and has a bit of a good strum, though it seems to happen so rarely these days.
So when this happened in the Artillery Arms at the weekend, I must confess that I got so excited that it made me a little moist.
But the poor guy, who I know to be a fairly accomplished guitarist, couldn't seem to do a thing with the crappy old Hohner that they had hidden in the basement!
After spending ten minutes tuning it, he managed to get about thirty seconds into his first number before it needed tuning again!
It does make one wonder about the generosity of the person who donated it.
The whole experience, which should have been nostalgia set to music, turned out to be pretty grim indeed!

If I ever see it come out again, I've a strong inkling that I may turn Jimmi Hendrix on their ass and smash the thing to bits!

Bob-a-Gob.

What with the recession biting us all very hard at the mo, I figured it's high time to look at new ways of generating the revenue to get this Country back on it's feet.
One idea that I've had is to take a serious look at fining people 5p (a shilling, in old money) every time they spit in the street.
Not a lot of money, you may say, but if you've ever chanced upon the crowd of kids that hang around outside McDungolds at the weekend, machine gunning spit onto the ground faster than they can part-form expletives, well that lot alone could pay for the regeneration of Margate!
I exaggerate, of course, as it would take a veritable sea of gob to make Margate look nice again, but you get my drift.
Though I do fully understand that you'd be as likely to actually get any money out of them as you would any sense, we could still off-set the national deficit in a matter of weeks, all the same.
And a little bonus for those bean eating, pasty faced bleeding hearts that claim 'we don't own the Earth, we borrow it from our children', is that you won't have to feel guilty any more. Well, not when you consider what they would be owing us!

Another idea would be to give them a bit of rag (I suggest Peacocks for that one) and get them to give people's shoes a buff up for 50p a throw, effectively cutting unemployment figures by around 70% and enabling them to pay their fines, whenever there isn't a shoe in the way.

Breaking The Lore.

Ok, after a particularly long and tiring rant over on ECR's blog, about anonymity, I've decided to bare my soul and reveal my true identity to anyone who actually cares to know, which I'm guessing won't be that many.

I am, in fact, Kate Mulgrew (Captain Katherine Janeway from Star Trek Voyager), and have been secretly living in Ramsgate since the last of the seasons ended.
A high accolade for Ramsgate, indeed, when you consider that I could have chosen just about anywhere in the Galaxy to live, in my retirement!




You won't recognise me on the street, of course, since taking on board a few hints and tips from a shape shifting Andorian friend of mine, I can mimic just about anyone.
Though it is nice to get home of an evening and relax into my own body.
Please feel free to go ahead and make your childish sexual references to that, if you wish!

Boyle In The Bag.

If it's not bad enough that half the population now survives on preparation free, instant meals, we now have to suffer 'celebrities' of the same ilk!
And such a shame that it seems to have cost 'virgin on the ridiculous' Susan Boyle what little sanity the poor thing possessed in the first place, to highlight that.

I suppose the next logical step would be a reality show where contestants fight to the death for the position of Prime Minister.

Actually, that one might have legs.
At least the new PM would be a strong and determined character, unafraid to fight for their beliefs.
Could make some of these Brussels debates quite interesting too!

Knob Of Butter.

Interesting to note, perhaps, that the phrase 'knob of butter' wasn't coined until as late as 1973, when, in The Last Tango In Paris, Marlon Brando had a chivalrous moment and applied said dairy product as a lubricant, before 'knobing' Maria Schneider up the wrong 'un.
Of course, as an actor, he was just going through the motions of intercourse, or, er, not, as the case may be.

I feel it will be a crying shame when the government finally gets it's way and culls the English pub culture to extinction, as I fear that these little gems of knowledge will almost certainly die with it!

Aldi Same.

To say that I don't approve of the way that Tesco try to deceive their customers into buying things that they don't really want, by constantly moving their stock around so people have to hunt for everything, would be an understatement. But that mind-fuck that they lay on you in Aldi makes Tesco look like rank amateurs.
I'd never noticed it before, having only shopped in the Aldi round the corner from me, in Ramsgate, but while visiting a friend yesterday, in Margate, I popped into their branch to grab a jar of coffee and had to walk straight back out again to re-affirm that I was still in Margate!
Everything in the whole shop, down to the tiniest detail, was exactly the same as Ramsgate. It even smelled the same!

What's their game, then?

Luckily I knew exactly where the coffee was and, thanks also to their highly efficient queueing policy, I was back out again before it had chance to really freak me out and make me buy everything in the shop, just to make the nightmare go away.

Weirdos!

Rash Decision.

Although my ankle is feeling much better now, and I can put my full (107lbs, 5'6", natural blonde) weight on it again, I have developed a rather itchy rash on it, which I think may be a result of standing in my bucket a few days ago.
ERing on the side of caution, I figured another trip to the hospital might be prudent.

Just my luck that I got the same twitchy, fidget intolerant doctor again.
And it turns out that he's a bit of a perv, to boot!
Having already had a good ogle at my bush, he asked me if I wouldn't mind putting the gown on the other way round this time, presumably so he could ogle my arse too.
He got a little shirty when I gave him an admonishing look and refused, but then back-tracked a little and tried to change the subject by going on about me crossing and uncrossing my legs again.

If this is a current NHS ploy to encourage people to take out private health care insurance, then it's on the verge of working with me!

Steps Must Be Taken.

Being unable to safely use the stairs at the mo, because of my almost broken ankle, I thought it prudent to dig around under my stairs for a bucket.
One flaw in this plan though, is that the only place I have to empty it is upstairs.
Damn!
A further mistake, which I've just discovered, is leaving it in front of the video recorder when you're not too stable on your feet!
I think some went into the DVD player, too.

Still, on the bright side, it shouldn't contrast too starkly with what broadcasters have to offer us, these days.

Right then, I'd better get back under the stairs to root out that bottle of shake-and-vac that I've been holding on to for when I finally get fed up with my olfactory senses.

Journey Tale, ER.

As usual, when the sunny weather starts breaking through, the adventurous side of me awakens, bringing with it the first (of many, usually) trips to QEQM's ER dept.
It turned out to be a sprained ankle, a result of clambering over the rocks at St. Margarets Bay, but it hurt like a badly split nail!
And I had to wear one of those silly gowns that don't do up properly at the front, affording a bird's nest view to all and sundry, and that ridiculously uncomfortable cut to the shoulders that make it feel like it's on back-to-front.

On the bright side, the doctor told me to keep my weight off it for a couple of days, (which I think I may be able to spin out for a week, as far as work is concerned), and that I should refrain from keep crossing and uncrossing my legs, at least until he'd finished his examination and left the room. I won't pretend to understand how that was going to help, but he was the doc. so I acquiesced.
Funnily enough, he did seem quite a bit calmer after that. Guess he just doesn't like fidgets.

Anyhow, to any well wishers wanting to send me flowers, could you please send them along to Eastcliff Richard, as his garden is looking truly awful since his gardener got extradited back to Paraguay!

'king Street!

Looks like someone left the chimpanzee cage door open in 'king Street again, last night.
I wouldn't describe myself as shy and retiring or the nervous type, but I don't walk along there after dark, if I can help it.
The problem with that, though, is I live there, which kinda makes it difficult to avoid!
I don't even understand the language that they use, and I've a sneaking suspicion that they don't either. As I walked past one knuckle dragger, his 13 year old girlfriend and their imp-chimp-mobile, all I could make out of what he was shouting into her ear was something that sounded like "woo arrgh gob went innit an' be wada fat cunt, uh".
What the Hell does that mean?
In the meantime, a particularly sunken eyed and slope foreheaded young gentleman decided to lay his bicycle across the path in front of me, presumably so that I didn't have to tread in all the little puddles of spit outside Bolockbuster, before disappearing into the place. I wonder if he'll manage to work out why his bike has suddenly developed a bit of a wobble, now that a good deal of his spokes are bent to buggery?
And then, of course, there's the York Arms smoking room (thanks to the government, now on the pavement in front of the pub), which is constantly full of some of 'king Street's finest. I don't recall, ever, walking past the place without some kind of lewd proposition being lent in my direction!

I suppose that'd be the road's only redeeming feature, really!

So glad to have got that off my chest (as was suggested that I do with my bra, outside the York Farm last night)!

Self Licking Pussy.

Alarmed upon finding my pussy feverishly hot and moist, yesterday morning, I thought a trip to the vet might be prudent.
After running a few tests (no CAT scan though, har de har har), the vet informed me that the poor little love had developed an allergy to animal fur!
On his recommendation, I now have to shave my pussy once every ten days!

As if I don't have enough to do!

Onward Christian Soldiers.

I'm one of those 'lucky' souls, and I'm sure there are a few others who can sympathise, that seems to attract all manner of loonies.
I only have to stick my head out of the door and there'll either be someone trying to chew their own nose off, someone 'driving' a suitcase along the road or a pack of God botherers lunging for my knocker!

I'll put up with it for most of the time, smiling politely and nodding my head in what seems to be the right places, but I do struggle to contain myself while in the pub with a gut full of beer.

So, sitting in the pub with a gut full of beer a couple of nights ago, I was accosted by 7th dan God-fu expert, enquiring after my religious status.
He seemed a little agitated and confused when I told him that I was a devout Christian in my previous incarnation but, this time round, and with a penchant for straining fruit preserves, I'd decided to become a Muslin.

"You'll burn in Hell!" I was told.

I think he may be mistaken about that, as I have no intention of going to Margate, what-so-ever!

Dopeless Healer.

Shane McUntishness of Betty Hill, Scotland, was reported to have stated, during a trial at his local Sheriff's court, that he had been high on marijuana because he was trying to cure his Aunt Floss McUntishness of her heroin addiction, and that he may well have been able to stop her dealer from supplying her, when he scored said marijuana.
The court, dealing with the divorce of Rupert and Myrtle Cockshaw, adjourned for twenty minutes while Shane and his Aunt Floss were taken into custody for further questioning, according to the World Weakly News, last Thursday.
Shane, after being let off with a caution and advised not to return to the court, unless told to do so, told reporters that he was just fed up with his Aunty constantly nicking his telly and selling it to feed her habit. And he sincerely hoped that his demonstration in court would be an inspiration to Society for generations to come, before going home to listen to the football on the radio.


I'll bet he ends up being sent to Margate!

Water Off A Duck's Back.

Being such a lovely day yesterday, I thought I'd stretch the elastic and bimble off to Kearsney Abbey to picnic on the lawn and feed the ducks with all the bits that I'd bought in Netto.
I was having a wonderfully relaxed time when, just as I was polishing of the last of my scotch egg, I spotted some fella standing on the bridge over the pond, pissing on a group of ducks!
Coming from Thanet as I do, I'm not easily surprised by odd human behaviour, but the very idea of what this guy was doing had me mildly outraged!
Consumed with anger and a little curiosity, I went and asked him what he thought he was up to.

"They looked cold" I was told, "and I was just trying to warm them up a bit!"

"Well, er, ok" I replied, "but what about all these children that are playing, around you?"

"None of them looked cold!" was his deadpan retort.


I think I'll just pop down to the beach, where there aren't any ducks, from now on!

It's Worse Than That, He's Dead Jim!

Moving away from the ridiculous fiction that is TDC for a moment, tonight sees the opening of some much more feasible fiction, in the form of the latest Star Trek movie at the Granville Theater in Ramsgate.
And it's going to be a themed event to boot, with Trekkie costumes, phazers and sound effects supplied by popcorn munchers in every second row.

Can't miss that!

So, to get us all in the mood, let's have a re-cap of the highlights of the last Star Trek movie...

Life On Mars Confirmed By Netto!

Reading one of my favourite weekly, er, newspapers earlier, I was instantly drawn to the plight of the Renshaw family, Ipswich, where their nine year old son, Alice (dad is a bit of a Cooper fan), was allegedly poisoned by some confectionary.
Netto has since confirmed that there was a problem with one batch of Mars bars at it's store, and has ditched the radical new idea of combating the current heat wave by storing them in the cheese chiller.

Alice's mother, Evelyn (37) was reported to have stated that "We may as well have fired the Mars bar through a really high powered microwave, into a pair of Alice's pants, for all the mess it would've saved us!" The underpants, ultimately, had to be destroyed.

Political Mass Debate.

Much as I love Eastcliff Richard's blog, some of the ninnies that comment whenever the subject is political in nature (as it often is, these days), just seem to go from weakness to weakness, it seems to me!
My God, they'll argue about the colour and consistency of a dog turd!

And reading all those speculative 'facts' that chop and change for the sole purpose of winning an argument, rather than uncovering some 'truth', is depleting my boredom gland at an alarming rate!
At this rate, the usual subjects in the pub, on a Saturday night, are going to seem quite captivating.
If I end up pregnant on the strength of this, I think my chums at the CSA and I are going to have to review, between Dickie and me, who actually is Ramsgate's new millionaire!

Still, each to his own, as they say.
I believe they also say that about wankers!

Dog Day Afternoon.

Wow, this weather is impressive, eh?
Yesterday saw me mowing the overgrowth from the verges on either side of my landing strip, donning my bikini and soaking up some rays on the beach.

Best make the most of it I thought, as today, being May 1st, I'm no longer allowed on the main beach unless I walk on my back legs, shave the rest of my fur off and resist the urge to growl at people!

It's that last one that always lets me down.