Water Shit Down.

Blimey, I see what they mean by not awarding Viking Bay a blue flag!
Though it would be well deserving of a poo flag.

Finishing work early yesterday, as I'm so efficient at my job that I'd left myself crap all to do in the afternoon, I thought I'd slip into my 'kini and dip myself in the briney.
It's only a short hop from the Eastcliff over to Bonfire Beach, so I thought I'd treat myself to a change of venue. And since Ramsgate beach looked like I might have to go to the top deck to find a seat, it seemed like a wise choice.

Though Viking Bay was considerably busier than I would have expected, bearing in mind the stench! Makes me wonder if the people who were there all live around Pfizer's effluent plant.
I didn't even get my shorts and halter off.
And I wouldn't have dipped my enemy's fishing net in that sea, let alone my sweet butt!

I'm glad that I found a free parking spot, otherwise I'd have been writing to the council asking for a refund, rather than writing this.

Just what IS the matter with them!?

Barring My Sole.

For those of you who were a little confused by my behaviour in the Belgian Bar on Friday night, I should point out that it was...
a) The anniversary of my dear dog Syndrome's death.
b)A very powerful Full Moon.
c)The Belgian Bar.
d)After an awful lot to drink!

But to clarify for those who were wondering why I was dragging my handbag around and saying "come on boy, heel", his ashes were in my bag and that's something I could never get him to do while he was alive (heel, that is, not incinerate and then climb into my bag).
He'd always be jumping up at people, too. And I'd get the queerest looks from them when I yelled "Down Syndrome!" at him.
But, as they say, you can't teach and old dog new tricks, and that appears to apply to dead ones too (again, dogs, not tricks)!

And for those who were puzzled as to why I was talking to my shoe, and I must confess that that could've looked like I was pretending it was a phone, I was merely comforting my sole, which, yet again, I'd managed to get plastered with shit!

Does that all really seem so odd now?

That's All Folk.

Most refreshing to be entertained by a couple of hippies with acoustic guitars in Churchill's, last night.
Just for once, I didn't have to stand at the far end of the pub to prevent the froth being blasted off the top of my beer.
Of course there's always a downside, and in this instance it was being able to hear the conversation of the couple standing next to me.
I really didn't need to know what he was going to do with her arse, a jar of honey and a badminton racquet, when they got home.

I think, as well as football, some people take tennis a bit too seriously, too!

The Tears Of McLoon.

It is with deep regret that I announce the sad loss of Hugh McLoon, Philadelphia booze bandit (but not as cheesy as you might think), on the 9th of August, 1928.
Prohibition, rather fortunately, has never graced our fair Isle, but had it; many more pisstriots would have died the same noble death to preserve their lifestyle!
There was a tricky moment, during WWII, when out of necessity, beer reverted to it's roots and contained just enough alcohol to kill any germs (shame it didn't work on germans too! ed.), but it was never prohibited.

I shall toast him tonight!

Little Missed Ache.

One would suppose that public distaste towards homosexuality is responsible, in part, for the aggressive manner in which some gays deploy themselves upon potential partners.
That not-with-standing, it still annoys the pants off me (or not, as the case may be) when I'm sitting with a fella, in a pub, and a member of the 'temporary false beard brigade' tries to snatch me out from under his nose, to get me under theirs!

It happens with such alarming frequency, that I'm starting to wonder if I'm not giving off some kind of gay pheromone.

Or maybe it's because I'm every woman's wet dream?
I'd rather think that to be honest, even though, thanks to therapy, I no longer feel the urge to reciprocate.

Still, I did notice a little twinkle of hope in the eyes of my date, last night, when this happened.
So I guess that'll be the end of him, then!

Little Miss Take.

One of my least favourite things is the almost constant barrage of ponces who accost you in the street, trying to bum a fag. Attempt that in public, in America, and you'd be arrested for sure!
It's normally kids and, more often than not, while traversing Parasite Alley (King Street).
It's not that I'm not a benevolent or generous person, because generally I am.
No, it's because a good deal of people just expect to be given whatever they want, and do nothing, other than hold out their hand, to aquire it.
Personally, I think that they can fuck right off!!

But, being the level headed and fair handed person that I am, I'll always offer a swap. The 'spare fag' for a small amount of their (considerable) 'spare time', as my windows need cleaning.
A note of caution, one fella did start following me home after that, so I eventually gave him a cigarette to go away.
Well he did go away, so I guess he earned it.

But generally it's blank looks, with mouth hanging open, which are roughly level pegging with being told "Fuck off you slag", to date.

Gotta Get My Fix.

I've decided to take the afternoon off, so I can ensconce myself in the pub to watch England beat Slovenia 5-0.
I've been studying form, forming patterns of play and have concluded that England will make the miracle come-back that they need, to finally demonstrate that the whole bloody thing is fixed!
There is a bit of a clue to this, in the billions of pounds that are involved.
They need to be collected by investors, and it's very unlikely that that would be left to chance.

Still, on the bright side, it'll cheer the true English patriots (football supporters) up a bit!

Update.
Of course, a more cynical person would have gone for a 1-0 victory, ensuring that the tension of suspense doesn't waver for a second!
Maybe we'll meet Germany before the final, as well as init?

Updated update.
Seems that the Germans are keen to get on and mix it with the English.
A pity this isn't war, as I think we'd stand a better chance!
Looking forward to Sunday.

Comma, Comedian;

Irregular reader, Eddie, writes....

Dear Lucy.

I read your blog from time to time and thoroughly enjoy little of it.
If I had one criticism though it would be your over-use of commas.
I never use commas at all and firmly believe that it makes the reader concentrate harder on what I am trying to say as they struggle to make sense of it.
Were you to correct this glaring error I think it would enhance everyones' appreciation of your blog and encourage me to visit more than once a month.

Yours

Eddie.

Well thanks for the tip, Eddie. I've often wondered why I get so few comments here, and had always assumed that people were too intimidated (scared) to say anything, lest they have venom spat at them.
Had I realised that they were simply slipping into a comma, I'd have sold this site to the Tories, for campaigning purposes, long ago.
Still, it's not too late, except maybe for that Sandy Sneaky-as-Hell fella, so I'll be contacting our local 'Father of blogging', Dr Bodmin Moores, to see how much he'll offer me for it.

With a bit of luck, it may cover my fees for a proper education!

Mr Angry.

Continuing my 'Little Miss' series, I thought it only PC to include the odd, er, gentleman, here and there.

After a particularly stressful day at work yesterday, culminating in my early departure, before I said something that someone else would regret, I thought I'd pop into Churchill's for a nerve unjangling pint of ale.

One out of ten for my choice of calming venue!

There was a bunch of codgers in there who's total age must've come to about a thousand (four of them), one of whom seemed to have the idea that it was his quest to round upon everyone in the pub, and call them a cunt!

Nice!

I wonder (but not particularly hard) what his problem was?
I've seen the scruffy old git in there before, and I'm not entirely sure but I think he may have been the curator that smelled faintly of wee, from the IOTA gallery, before they got kicked out of the old monkey sanctuary.

Anyhow, luckily he didn't start on me, after the day that I'd had, otherwise I would've kicked him hard enough that he could've pointed at his own crutch and accused that of being a cunt, too!

Meanwhile, the staff were all cowering behind the bar, hopefully considering a career change for a job that they could actually cope with.

Must be something in the water, I suppose.

The Peoples' Front Of Korea.

I'd have to say, so far, that I'm glad I put two weeks wages on that rank outsider, rather than The Korean Peoples' Front, who's playing is so appalling that they'd probably struggle to beat England!
Still, it's early days yet, and I'm sure their method of 'replacing' players for the next match will wake the rest of them up a bit!

Come on you red and blues!

Little Miss Stake.

Well if you can't have a little flutter on the World Cup, without seeming to be like one of those losers who live to win money, then patriotism isn't what it used to be, I'd say!
So with that thought in mind, I popped into Ladbrokes yesterday and bunged fifty quid at North Korea.
With odds of 2000/1, if they win, I'll be pocketing £100,000. Woohoo! And I've already paid the tax. Hubba-hubba!
I know they have a pretty crappy team, but I'm banking on the notion that if they lose, the whole team will (possibly) be hung upside down and cut into tiny pieces with very sharp knives, and that will be a driving force that other teams lack!

So good luck guys, and make your Country proud!

Little Miss Steak.

While visiting a friend who lives in Moorgate, over the weekend, we decided to eat out on Saturday night, at a Korean restaurant which caught my eye a few months ago (during my, er, sexual entrenchment crisis, as I've come to think of it), called Young Bean.

Goodness only knows what I must have been thinking, there!

Being the culinary adventurer that my friend Susan (her real name is Alison, but I've changed it to protect her anonymity. You know how precious I am about that!) is, she was curious as to whether one of the dishes on their menu, Yukhoe, would taste as minging as it sounded, so decided to give it a try.

LOL, I'm glad I went for something from their traditional Chinese menu.

Come on now, I don't think that munching on an actual 'hoe' would be quite as 'yuk' as forcing raw, ground steak with a raw egg yolk on top, into my face!
It looked like a giant, bloodshot eye!

Still, hats off to her for trying to pretend that it was quite nice, once you'd stopped reaching, actually.

Thorely You Can't Be Theriouth.

After troweling my face on and donning a pair of heels that could put you in hospital if you fell off them, a few mates and I hit the cafe culture on the seafront, last night.
Has to be done about once a month, just to remind oneself that yuppies do still exist.
So imagine my surprise, upon toppling into The Queen's Head, at finding a Gadds' beer available at the bar.
OMG, Frank hasn't bought our local brewery, has he?
Is nothing sacred? (rhetorical question, God botherers)
And it was a beer that I hadn't come across before, commemorating Operation Dynamo (everyone's getting in on that, aren't they), called Sea Shore Shell Shock.
I thought the name was borderline inappropriate, myself, but it was a stonkingly good pint and after a few of them, I did notice a faint ringing in my ears.

I could probably bang on about that for a while longer, but I suddenly feel the need for a hurried evacuation.

The Boast Of Beth's World.

Out with my friend Beth, for a bank holiday Monday trawl of the local hostelries, as has become a solid tradition over the years, I couldn't help but notice a tendency in her, as she plied herself with alcohol, to become more and more carried away with her rendition of past events.
Bragging wouldn't quite do it justice.
Of course 'Beth' isn't her real name. I've called her that because a) it makes for that rather snappy title up there, b) to protect both of our identities, and c) mostly mine!
However, her claim that she once ate fifty pork pies in an hour, for charity, seemed a little incredible to me, whether they were buffet pork pies or not!
Though, unlike my dainty, little self, she looks like she may have done, I still find it rather hard to believe that anyone could manage that.

I may pop down to Miles's bar later, to further my research.
If anyone would know, it'd be that hideously fat monstrosity!