Pub Chain Collapses.

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

Yummy!

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

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

Perspective.

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





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

Perhaps we need a theme park?

Brittany's Peers In The Arrondissement of Quimper.

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

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

Sunday Morning Work-Out.

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





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

Journey To The Surface Of The Earth.

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

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

Man's Tone.

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

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





Anyhow, must dash.
Time to sign-on!

Bride's Bed Revisited.

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

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

Burns With Passion!

To A Mouse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Whacks And Wayne.

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

It certainly wasn't for him!

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

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

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

Flip-side Of The Coin.

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

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

Perhaps resistance IS futile?

Femme Fatarse.

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

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

Aren't some people touchy?

Jimmy Riddle / Frank Question.

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

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



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

Dish Of Fish.

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

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

Bearded Fruitcake.

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

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

Go Nad.

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

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

The Week Link.

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

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

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

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

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New Years Revolution.

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

Anyone up for that?

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

Sex Bomb.

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

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

Some girls have all the luck, eh?

The Test Of Thyme.

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

Beggar's Belief.

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

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

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

Cheque In The Post.

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

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

Festival Season.

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

Thrombosis Man, c*nt.

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

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

So then,

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Thrombosis Man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Milk Of Amnesia.

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

Men!

Analgram Man.

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

By Request.

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


So here it is....


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

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

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

Hell, I Copped A Pad!

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

A Brush With The Lore.

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

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

I Am NOT A Lesbian!

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

That ought to do it!

Flat Truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Night Off The Tiles.

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

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

Carbine Footprint.

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

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

Great Tits.

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

The Land That TDC Forgot.

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

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

Barrett Holmes.

There certainly seems to be no 'putting one over' on that razor-sharp, retro stylised, Catweasel impersonating proprietor of the new and improved Belgian Bar (see photo).



Upon returning from the not-so-fashionable Western Spiral Arm of Ramsgate, last night, with a bunch of friends, we decided to pop in for a quick Leffe and a laugh. Having noticed, of late, that The Crowman's nemesis seems to be emptying the till every half-hour, presumably to satisfy his newly aquired 'money monitors' that the takings are now being filed correctly and that they will be getting their leccy money back (with a small donation going into the toilet restoration fund, which I'm led to believe now stands at £18-73), we thought it would be quite funny to hide the thing.
Being sure that noone spotted us, it took him less than a minute to find it.
We were all a little astonished, and suitably impressed, having hidden it in a place that we were quite sure that he never visited!

Still, on the bright side, at least he's aware of the appaling state of his toilets, now!

The Lull Between The Storms.

Now that I'm working for a Government that prefers to keep it's identity secret (the Australians are funny like that), I find myself, for the first time in my life, having to be careful what I say.
So I'll confine myself to recounting my experiences during my (very little) time off.
I managed to have the whole weekend off, just passed, and spent most of my waking hours hanging around the ale tent, supping some wonderful beers, at the Power Boat Extravaganja, taking brief periods out to eat or be spun around by mechanical devices until I was almost sick. Great fun!
Unlike ECR, though, I wasn't quite brave enough to have a go on the elasticated tossing machine. That and the fact that it cost £15 a go and, not being a millionaire, I thought the money would be better spent on getting lashed-up.
Wasn't the weather lovely!
The only thing that I found a little disappointing was that the crowd appeared to be about 99% absolutely minging (though full of bonhomie, despite their dire circumstances)! But the beer, eventually, put paid to that and I found myself 'getting off' with one of the bar tenders, though, for the life of me, I can't recall which one it was, now. Still, I'm sure that he'll remember, particularly since, in my inebriated state, I managed to drag him to the floor a few times on the way home.
Living in a seaside town, it did beg the question "why can't something like this be organised on a more regular basis, throughout the summer?". Still, it looks like the Pleasurama site is going to keep it's fun-fair until the construction of executive rabbit hutches starts, later in the year, so let's make the most of that, eh?
Anyhow, now that the shaking is finally starting to abate, I suppose I'd better get on with some work while I wait for the memories to start creeping up on me, causing the odd spontanious blush, like they often do!

What's All This, Grommit?

Blimey!
I've just got home from a beer-braced, breath of fresh air in the pub, all the smokers going on about how horrible it is there, now and all the non-smokers going on about how horrible the smokers' goings on were, now, to find that previous entry on MY blog!
Noone knows my password, I'm sure! After all, who would think that anyone would be stupid enough to use their username as their password?
No, it must've been that dog, as everything else is dead (though I have heard a scratching sound, behind the sofa).

But that's just absurd! I may not know an awful lot about dogs but I do know that they can't type.

Umm.. can they copy and paste?

Wind-In The Willows.

Dunedin will host a test match for the first time in a decade when New Zealand and Bangladesh play at University Oval early in January.
New Zealand have not played a test in Dunedin since the second test against Sri Lanka in March 1997 - a match won by an innings and 36 runs to preserve the Black Caps' unbeaten record there over 10 tests stretching back to 1955.Those tests were all played at Carisbrook, which has fallen out of favour as an international cricket and rugby venue.The second of the two tests against Bangladesh will be played at Wellington's Basin Reserve.NZ Cricket chief executive Justin Vaughan said he was looking forward to test cricket returning to the southern outpost."Otago Cricket and the Dunedin City Council are working very hard to prepare the University Oval to international standards and we are looking forward to it holding its first test match."NZC has formalised a busy domestic calendar for the Black Caps, dovetailed between a tour of South Africa in November; the annual Chappell-Hadlee Trophy series in Australia and a tour of England in May-June.Bangladesh will also play three one-day internationals here.England arrive on January 28 for a two-month tour comprising three tests, five ODIs, two Twenty20 matches and games against Canterbury and Otago.Wellington hosts the second England test. Hamilton's Seddon Park is the venue of the series opener while McLean Park in Napier has been awarded the third rubber.Jade Stadium and Eden Park have been overlooked as test venues though they will host Twenty20 and ODIs while being redeveloped for the 2011 Rugby World Cup.
Queenstown again has the traditional New Year's Eve match - this time involving Bangladesh.

RIP Tiddles.

Of course, I'm not so heartless that I'd let Tiddle's death be in vain!

Eli Pepsi.

I must confess that I'm a little bit upset about the demise of poor old Crouching Tiddles. I should also confess that I feel, in some small way, partly responsible for said dispatch, by buggering off for months on end and leaving him locked in the house. Mind you, had he had his wits about him, he might have eaten the goldfish or hamster before they too expired of, er, natural causes.
Never mind though. After fighting my way through a crowd of belligerent smokers, into the pub tonight, I met a rather interesting and gorgeous looking chap who seemed hell-bent on re-homing his pet dog, a rather cute looking Yorkshire Terrier called Eli Pepsi. Somewhat curious about the name, I was informed that the little fella is a Michael Jackson fan and refuses to drink Coca Cola, prefering, instead, to drink Pepsi and go 'woof'!
Sounds like my kinda dog!
Well let's see how that pans out, eh?
I'll get a picture of him posted as soon as I can find the charger for my camera.

Pigs Do Fly.

After an exhausting 28 hours of flying, I've decided to take the plane next time I go abroad.
I'd love to tell you where I've been but, were I to do so, I could end up losing my job at The Australian Embassy, as they like us to keep hush-hush about that sort of thing. I've only been there for a few months, so I think I'll toe the line.
And the first thing that I do when I get home from my training, after admiring my new tan in the hallway mirror from the top of a mountain of letters and free papers, clearing up the remains of my cat (oops), and popping ten bob in the leccy meter? Have a nose on blogger, of course!
Nice to see people banging on about aeroplanes after spending more than a day couped up in one of those flying coffins (see photo).
If you want peace, quiet and clean, fresh air, go hide in a pub, I'd say!

I don't suppose, for a moment, that I'm going to get a wink of sleep tonight.
Maybe a nice, hot bath and a candle (for mood lighting, honestly!) would be the answer?

Look At All This Dust!

Filling In The Trench?

Walking along King Street, last night, as I do whenever I'm felling a little brave or drunk, I noticed that they've erected scaffolding all over the place.
What's going on there, then?
Is the road about to be refurbished (with luxury apartments) or are they going to take it all down (so they can build luxury apartments)?

Anyone in the know, because I certainly haven't recieved any information from my personal Oracle (The Isle Of Thanet Gazzette)?

Parse Dover.

If I had to choose a favourite beer festival, I think, perhaps, that The Whitecliff Festival Of Winter Ales would have to be it!
Held in Dover Town Hall, Maison Dieu, a beautiful building that's absolutely steeped in history, they offer some wonderfully crafted ales, all at £2-00 a pint and nothing under 5%. If, like so many people, you have the desire to annihilate as many brain cells as possible while savouring your tipple, then this is the festival to attend, albeit only in a physical sense towards the end of it!
In addition, it also offers the opportunity to meet some of the most boring, unimaginative and bizzare people that CAMRA has to offer. As an example, one rather portly and ruddy jowled gentleman that I met, suddenly launched into a story, with great vehemence, about the time that the police came to his house and he declared to them, for some inexplicable reason, that if anyone were ever to hurt either of his nieces, they'd better get to the person responsible before he did! I can imagine that the poor officers concerned were just as surprised with that outburst as I was.
But hey, apart from the beer, there was also a full moon to compliment the proceedings!
And, of course, there were also all the usual shenanigans that accompany the arse-end of the session, namely the odd, prone carcass to impede your journey to the loo and bar staff that were so pissed, they were having trouble adding up the single token that you'd just given them for your beer.
In a break with tradition, though, the usual Battle of Britain re-enactment with paper planes was replaced with something more akin to War of the Worlds, this year, with flying saucers in the shape of beer mats, taking to the skies. Nice to see the proceedings being brought up to date without negating the possibility of losing an eye and also refreshing to note that it was, indeed, possible to make use of at least one of the naff tombola prizes!

Huzzah!

I think I may pop along there again, today!

Cobb Lures.

I see that those nice (I assume) people who are putting on a beer festival in Margate (yes, well, wherever) at Easter are going to have a stab at cobbling together an old Margate brew. Remembering only too well what Cobbs' beers were like (I'm not as young as I look), I sincerely hope that they're going to do a better job of it than Cobb and Co. ever managed!
I'd better get an extra couple of loo rolls in, just in case.
Sounds like fun, though!

28 Days Later.

Well, more like five weeks since my last blog!
Doesn't seem like that long but Mikey has been keeping me quite busy. Time flies when you're having fun and all that!.
Anyway, that 'real life' thing is ok in small doses but sooner or later a girl is going to want to get back to the more malleable and manipulative World of blog, isn't she?
I do hope, sincerely, that unlike the popular film of that title, I haven't awoken to a World turned zombie in my absense! Though looking around me, I think I'm going to need a little more convincing to the contrary.
On the bright side, however, the Zombie King (Mr Baldy, I Love Myself, Dress Sense Of A Five Year Old Miami Vice Fan, Pissy Pants, Doofer), seems to have retreated to his faecal lined lair, so perhaps things aren't as hopeless as they, at first, seem!
I notice that he did pop out recently for a ten mile walk (part of which was taken by bus), so that should stand him in good stead for his six day trek to The Maasai this month (as long as the busses are running)!

Musn't forget, also, to purchase a copy of The Tin Drummer, as, after printing this, ....

Jeremy Jacobs' blog is a fascinating mix of presenting, media, politics and humour. He writes with verve, irony and a dry wit. His presenting posts are always interesting to those of us who know absolutely nothing about it, but all of his posts are engaging and well worth a read.

.... I'm pretty sure it'll come in useful in the kitchen, should I be unfortunate enough to have a chip-pan fire.

Honestly, what a wanker!

And that REALLY will be the last I have to say on the matter.

...er, for the moment.

Hapless Goon!

Now that the love-a-thon has finally eased up a little, Milky Mikey has popped down to the dairy to see if he still has a job, I've the chance to turn my eye to the blogging scene for a moment and have to ask, what gives here?
We seem to have a boring, dim-witted pillock of someone else's community in our midst, in the shape of Jermy Crackers.
I don't know about you lot but, whenever I have a bout of thrush, I'll use Canesten to get rid of it.
But I think that this irritating twat is going to take a little something more to shift!
I'm not normally one to go to these measures but enough is enough!

So I propose a vote.

Yays, Jermy stays or No's, Jermy goes.
And let's hope that he's man enough to concede, whichever way it goes.

Honestly, I ask you, what kind of deranged nob posts a picture of himself just after he's peed his knickers?

http://www.flickr.com/photos/jeremycj/325429935/

Shagged Out.

Phew!

Finally managed to get a moment to myself after discovering 'Natural Viagra Man' in the pub, a week or so ago. Since then, I've barely had time to grab a bite to eat (well, nothing of any great nutritional value, anyway), and I seem to constantly have bags under my eyes these days.
Well, he wears them quite high!
I must say, though, that this 'shag and sleep' diet is doing wonders for my figure.
Anyhow, I'm sure he won't be long in the shower and I'd better feed Tiddles while there's still something left of him to feed.

Ciao!

What Will They Sell When It's All Gone? Us, Down The Wantsum?

I'm not normally one to get too involved in politics but sometimes, something has to be said!
In reply to my grumble about The Motor Museum, I recieved....

Cllr David Green said...
You are all so harsh.Westcliff Hall is indeed "suplus to the Council's requirements" and is in a pretty bad state of repair.The Council would likely jump at any reasonable offer. THe Victoria Pavillion and Albion House are also up for disposal after the May elections. Hopefully one at least can be retained as a community facility.
5:03 PM


One?
Why can't we keep them all?
Who's requirements are they surplus too?
Why does the council think that it's an independent body to the community which ELECTED them to represent, govern, service and maintain it?

I'd bet my right tit (of which I'm quite proud, y'know) that the majority of people who elected OUR council don't think they're surplus to requirements at all! I'd also wager that they're pretty disappointed that OUR councils' management of funds is so poor that nothing can be done with these venues except sell them off to developers!

Honestly, voting for Thanet Council (whichever party) is like inviting a smack-head into your home. You wake up in the morning to find your telly, video and stereo have been sold off to fund an agenda which is entirely useless to yourself!!!

Still, who knows, maybe our new Ramsgate Parish Council may go some way towards saving Albion House, at least?
Watch this potential residential space, eh?

Another One Bites The Pillow.

Greetings and salutations to yet another new Thanet blogger!
Self confessed homosexualist, Justin Brown, has popped his head up, into what is becoming a rather diverse blogging scene, on the island.
Hailing from Birching Town (as, perhaps, it should be), I do hope and pray that he doesn't turn out to be that gorgeous waiter from Tandoori Nite!
Personally though, I do think a hatter would make a fine addition to Thanet blogging and look forward to enjoying your passage!

Noone Seems To Car!

Whilst adoring The Sharpees in Church, last night, I heard (for the fifth time yesterday) someone banging on about The Westcliff Theatre aka The Motor Museum aka Empty Building with bags of potential and building rubbish (but that isn't in bags).
I must confess that I was getting a bit irritated with the constant references to The Rolling Stones, who played there in 1965. That was 41 years ago, shouldn't we have gotten over that by now?
But the point remains!
There's a wonderful venue that should be being used, but isn't.
I'm curious as to what the council, when/if they stop doing nothing with it, will actually do?
I'll bet they're scratching their metaphorical bollocks and trying to work out how the hell they're going to sell that one to a 'luxury apartment developer', as I speak!

Writers Blog.

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

But I'll have a stab!

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

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

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

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

Frantastic!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Periscopes Up!

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

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

Other ideas could include...

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

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

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

A collection of posters bearing heartfelt messages to TDC.

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

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

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


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

Flobbing A Dead Horse.

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

Ail Festival Scores Own Goal.

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

So There Are Some People That Dig Birchington.

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

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

Cock-a-doodle-don't!

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

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

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

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

Is that the best you can do with them?

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

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

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

I thought that potatoes were the Irish thing!

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

Market forces, eh?

Tch!

Isle Of Write.

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

Amazing!!!

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

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

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

Would You Like To Grab My Bags, Old Chap?

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

Maybe next weekend?

Fields Of Gold!

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

Daughter Of A Dog.

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

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

Blast!

Something Fishy!

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

No Sense, No Humour!

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

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

Pasteurise, Up To Our Necks In It!

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

Zombie food!

Or was he a hero of the modern age?

Burning Passion.

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

Blast From The Past.

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

Double bonus!!!

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

Men O' Pause.

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

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

People like that outn't be allowed out!

I Really Need To Ketchup With Myself!

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

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

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

BareChingTong.

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

Christmas Evesdropping.

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

Hmmmm...

Cycle Path Or Psycho Path?

Bloody King Street!

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

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

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

Fanny Foliage Assures The World That...

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

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

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

I thought they'd killed all the Braves!

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

How!

It's A Chill Wind That Blows From Margate.

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

Where Does Poo Come From?

Now I know that a lot of people are going to have a stab at this poo query and, perhaps, say Birchington.
But you'd be wrong!
A friend of mine was asked this question the other day by her five year old daughter. She took great pains to describe the workings of the human digestive system in detail and was met with a rather disgusted "YUCK! So mummy, where does Tigger come from?"

100 Today!

Lorks A Lordy, just noticed that this'll be my hundredth post since I started spouting inane drivel via this media!!!

We ought to have a party!

That's it then, I'm definitely going to vote for our own parish council and massive council tax hikes be hanged.

There Were Errors!

This whole blog setup has been a right load of wank, just lately! Errors popping up left, right and center, the whole thing slowing down to a crawl for hours on end etc.
Now this!!!
Undeletable multiple posts.
Think I may ask for my money back. They seem to be in such a state of confusion at the moment, that I just may get it.

Kickin' In The Ghoulies.

Hats off to Bandrea at Churchills for picking yet another winner in the entertainment stakes.
That Delay Room, last night, were top-notch. An unusual style mixed with some firm old favourites that did it for me. Not sure that I'd be throwing my knickers at them, as was my urge at the Sharpees gig last week (I'm not a bottomless pit in the knicker department, you know), but damned fine all the same!
Chatted to their singer, Smurf (never did manage to work that one out), who has quite the voice and puts on a bit of a show, and was rewarded with a CD of theirs for my home perusal. How sweet! Also had a word with their drummer, Weird Mark (didn't have too much trouble puting my finger on that one), and haven't got a flipping clue what he was on about, at all. Sounded good though, whatever it was!

All a bit of a far cry from the 'closed shop karaoke' that we've been treated to in the past.

And the whole cake was nicely iced with a Hallowe'en fancy dress contest, though I strongly suspect that the poor sod who won was actually in civvies and making the most of the one day every year that they didn't look out of place!

Belgian Bar Beirut To Become New Turner Centre.

Had occasion to pop into the Belgian Bar Beirut last night (dammit, I promised myself that I wouldn't get that drunk again!) and was a little surprised to find an entourage from Gallery Iota hosting an exhibition for the hard-of-walking.
What a good idea! If the mountain won't come to Mohamed, and all that.
Unfortunately, as I only ever fall in there at the end of a long evening, I couldn't honestly say that I appreciated what they had to offer so perhaps i'll make a point of perusing it today over coffee and croissants.
Must remember to go to the toilet before I head in there, this time!!!

Labouring The Tory Point.

Saints preserve us, the great ECR mystery seems to be getting flogged to death over on 'Thanets' alternative, Biggles opinion only, newspaper'!
I, among others, have been accused of missing the point. A convenient, but transparent, way of not answering the bloody question. Nothing new there, then!
The best of it is, I don't think that there actually is a point other than some middle classed know-it-all getting a bit narky because somebody else is playing with 'his' toys, though I'm not quite sure where he gets off in thinking that they're his toys.
Well I don't want to play over there any more. Had quite enough of that at nursery school, when some spoilt kid would have a screaming tantrum every time you tried to play with Pooh that they thought was exclusively theirs.
Who cares who ECR is? More to the (sorry, another) point, why do they care? Identity isn't what blogging is about, is it? I'd say it was about observation, like-minded interest, humour and opinion and that there is, perhaps, nothing wrong with introducing a little fiction to get your point across. Hypothetical situations, if you like. It's a well established method, I believe.
And banging on and labouring the same old tired opinion as if that will make it true (lad, just out of shorts, juevenile, childish, relatively junior etc) is a bit infantile in itself.

Anyone fancy a game of Pooh sticks (so long as they're not going to cry if they don't win!)?

Fat Cat Hat.

Arriving home from the pub last night, which I found myself under great pressure to thoroughly review as Ramsgate's newly self-appointed pub/entertainment Guru(ess), I discovered a big, fat tom-cat skulking around in my kitchen.
Now I'm sure most people realise what a trial the bloody things can be to remove, once ensconsed. All that running around the walls in a mad, frenzied, skin puncturing panic. At one point, it managed to bounce off of the top of my head, much to the distress of my scalp!
But I got it out in the end.

The following morning brought shame and the firm resolve to do my pub reviewing with a little less vigour as Crouching Tiddles is now no longer my firm and faithfull companion but instead, has taken to biting and hissing when I approach him.

I'm sure, after a few tins of tuna and bowls of full-cream milk, that he'll come round!

It's Good To Feel Loved.

As I have a few days off work this week, I thought I'd go through some of my junk in the loft. One box that I found contained a load of old love letters, photos and cards.I thought I'd share one of my old Valentine cards with you because, although it isn't exactly what you'd call romantic, it is pretty funny and the chap went to all the trouble of making it himself. If I remember correctly, that relationship didn't last much past February 15th.

The Dummy Is Out (Again).

The sound of air-raid claxons appear to be whining over on ECRs' blog yet again.
If this keeps up, I've a feeling we all may have to head on over to the community air-raid shelter.
We're a bit lucky in that respect on the Eastcliff as the Anderson shelter that they whacked onto the side of the San Clu (sorry, Come For Tin) has a bar in it, complete with ale pumps and easy access to a menu full of tinned food.
Should be very handy indeed if the situation goes nuclear!

Pumping The Burley Barstaff At Churchills.

This social scene reviewing malarky isn't anywhere near as simple as I thought it would be!
Thinking it'd be a good idea to cement a relationship with someone who has their finger on the pulse of Ramsgates' social life-blood, I asked Andrea at Churchills which bands they had playing this coming weekend.
"I strongly recommend that you pump the stocky chap behind the bar, over there!" She opined.
"Or, you could always look on the bloody chalk-board." She added, after a moments reflection.

Not quite the start I was hoping for but hey, this is a learning curve for me!

Anyhow, it seems that they have a local band called Delay Room putting on a show for our delictation on Saturday night. It further seems that said band put a new slant on rock (ideal for skiers and the like) and their drummer is completely loopy!

I think I'll be the judge of that!

Sharpees World Tour Of Ramsgate Continues.

Sauntered weavingly up to Churchills yesterday afternoon for a couple of pints which was cut short by the announcement that the Sharpees were due to play in The Horse and Groom (The Doom and Gloom to those that know the place).
All the encouragement that I needed to pop my groupie hat on and whizz down there at warp 9.7, the thought that I was on my way to a Shepherd Neame pub not entering my head for a moment but my first pint of (somewhat inaccurately named) Master Brew corrected that error almost immediately.
No matter cuz those guys are smokin' with a capital 'kin!
I think I would've been happy drinking horse piss and who knows, perhaps, in essence, I was.
Still, not having been to the Doom and Gloom for some time, I was quite pleasently surprised at how tidy the place is these days.
Some guy at the end of the bar kept staring at me in a bit of an odd way and I couldn't make out whether he wanted a fight or a shag, maybe both? Must've been one of the old regulars, I'd suppose.
Toyed with the idea of a quickie in Bernie Bubbles Whine Bar across the road, The Isle of Thanet Gazzettes' favourite Ramsgate venue, but thankfully it was shut. Phew! After a few hours of almost sublime blues, I'm not sure I was really in the mood for his badly crafted false laugh and almost ceasless torrent of bullshit!

Dire Sharpees.

Went along to Churchills last night to soak up some beer and live music and both were astonishingly good (as they often are)!
Those Sharpees are excellent. Quite obviously influenced by Dire Straits but, in my opinion, are a good deal better. Forget that tubby Denny from EK1, I'm now rather taken by The Sharpees vertically challenged lead singer/guitarist who is absolutely mustard.
Were I the type, I think I may well have swooned. And given the opportunity, I would most definitely have spooned!
Anyhow, enough about my loinal preferences, time to go review The Montefiore Arms as part of my new and self-appointed position of Ramsgate Pub Guru(ess).
It'll be a strain, constantly keeping a watchfull eye over events in local watering holes, but somebody has to do it, I think!

Just Another Ornery Night On The Town.

Winging my way through town last night, I had occasion to pass through 'king Street. Now really, what gives there?
Yet another pleasant evening slightly spoilt by the, if you'll pardon my French, branleurs that drift up and down its' length with nothing better to do than make a nuisance of themselves. I've taken to carrying a brolly and wearing wellies as protection against the green rain that puddles there.
The place gets more like Marredgate every day!

On the bright side, yet another lovely evening was spent in the Eccentricity Arms (Arty), mixing it with actors, musicians, poets, welders, bores and more than its' fair share of artists (canvas, piss and otherwise).

Think I may just toodle off up there again tonight, er, perhaps via the seafront this time!

Oh, and if anyone is interested in the type of character you may find there, a little insight can be gained here.

Proxy Ciao!

Sounds like something my mother would prepare as a meal for my siblings and myself as children.
However, it's actually a request from Ram Skate Raider for me to say goodbye on his behalf as he's moving on to smaller and worse things.
Much as I'm loathe to admit it but the chap really used to get on my nerves at times, which I think is what he wanted (though Lord knows why?).
I wish him a fond farewell!

As if it isn't quiet enough around here of late, already.

What Do You Want, Jam On It?

Now here's a little ditty that I rather enjoyed, as would, perhaps, anyone who has had the misfortune to travel around London on their wonderful underground system.
Maybe an idea to send the kids to another room while you listen to it.

Hard On.

These computer thingies are wonderful, aren't they?
Until they go wrong, that is!
My old P60 has been a bit of a bugger this week, not wanting to boot up and all that. I now have a big hole in my hair from all the headscratching I've been doing.
Still, I got there in the end and it turns out that I'd completely filled my hard drive up.
So, after a bit of fiddling about in DOS (how quaint) I've finally managed to free up a bit of space and tally ho, away we go.
I really should look into upgrading my old 500mb drive in the near future.

Quite A Pealing.

If anyone has not already done so, I would suggest that they pop up to Gallery IOTA for a squizz at their latest exhibition. After attending the opening night, I went along over the weekend to see what the pictures looked like without little clumps of wine ponces standing in front of them and was very impressed!
Among my favourites was a marvelous picture called Timelines which also turned out to be the most expensive item on sale there. And, though I found it irritating to start with as the wine ponce's kids would not leave it alone, One Ton Bell struck a bit of a chord too. The thing has a bigger dong than John Holmes!
Well worth a look.

Clink, Clang, Splodge, Donk.

Off up to the IOTA Gallery tonight for the opening of their latest exhibition and I must say that it sounds quite promising!
It'll be featuring a couple of local artists, one of whom has a mechanical, nay engineering, bent and has previously come up with some quite astonishing and entertaining art, the other being a painter with a penchant for death, who has an uncanny knack for bringing that out in his work.

Really, rather looking forward to it!

How Many Elephants Can You Fit In A Mini?

I was amazed to see a woman in the pub last night who must have weighed at least 25 stone, wearing a mini-skirt, boob tube and ridiculously high heels.
Thinking she must have an extraordinary sense of humour, I thought I'd go and chat with her but 5 minutes into the conversation, I got the distinct impression that she'd escaped from the funny farm and was out on the pull. It further transpired that she wasn't out looking for a man!
It took me almost an hour and a half to finally get away!
What is it with people that keep mistaking me for a bean flicker?
I'm seriously starting to think that I may have to stop wearing dungarees and cropping my hair!

Money And Style Returns To Ramsgate.

I must say that it's nice to see Eastcliff Richard safely ensconsed upon our fair Isle, once more.
I certainly had the hardest time trying to write anything here without his inspirational presence.
I would like to scotch any rumours, before they even start, that the reason for my absence had anything at all to do with me spending the last month travelling across Europe with our illustrious local millionaire, taking in the sights and performing wild, drunken, sexual acts upon eachother (often quite depraved)!
I would also like to add that I have absolutely no idea, whatsoever, if said millionaire is hung like a horse and can keep it going all night.
Hope that clears things up before they get spilled!

October Vest.

Is this Winter?
I find myself still wearing my summer outfits and have to ask that question.
Not that I'm complaining, mind you!
Did anyone go along to the burning of the rubbish man at Margate, yesterday? I went along myself but only because, upon enquiring of one of my 'friends', I was told that they were going to burn Jimmy Godden.
Thought it was too good to be true.
Still, it was entertaining enough with large flaming lumps of rubbish cascading down onto the panic stricken and shrieking throng that attended.
Ought to make good telly, I should think!