The Bull's Hit.

After planning to spend the weekend by the sea in Ramsgate, and then feeling like I'd spent the weekend in it, it would be so easy to blame the council. But of course, they don't control the weather (or much else, unless it suits them)!
They did, however, decide to move Ramsgate's big event from it's slot during the first weekend of July, when, as I recall, the weather was splendid this year, to a fortnight before the August bank holiday!?!?
So I guess I'll just have to content myself with grumbling about that!

But not being the sort to dwell upon past mistakes, preferring to look forward to future successes, a few friends and I popped over to Margate last night to attempt to glean a little insight into their forthcoming jamboree, this weekend.
The newly opened Lifeboat pub seemed to offer a good view (and some decent beer) of the old market square, where arrangements were being made to entertain the heaving masses who will attend.
Though I'm not so sure about the pub on the opposite corner, The Bull's Head, which has the reputation, and certainly the look, of being a good place to get thumped in the head, lied through the teeth to, or both. Hence it's nick-name as the title to this post.

Still, you can't keep an old sow down, so I'll be poking my head in there at the weekend if the Magic Carpet Theatre Company isn't up to much!

Monster Jizz Up Date.

I'm so glad that my unwitting informants didn't put two and two together, after my little slip of the tongue about Supertramp guesting at this weekend's festival and discover my true identity, thus closing their lips whenever I'm in earshot.

In all probability they don't read my blog.
Time and time again I've said that that will be peoples' downfall and I guess that I'm right, because there they were again last night, in Churchill's, gobbing off about features that haven't yet been advertised.
Mind you, looking at the itinerary, and bearing in mind that TDC is handling all of the organising and advertising, that would cover pretty much most of what's going on!

Anyhow, for those who are intending to pop along and pretend not to be bored shitless by the sheer pretentiousness of jazz, the word on the street is that Brenda Blethyn is going to open the event with her own rendition of We'll Meet Again.
Dame Vera was asked if she wouldn't mind doing it but, apparently, refused on the grounds that she's been singing that for the last hundred years and it still hasn't happened yet, so she'd just as soon not bother.

Hey, you read it here first!

The Strugle Of Life.

I saw a charming picture in one of our local not-quite-so-fast food outlets, last Saturday night.
I think it may have been a photograph in an early stage of it's life, but it had been tinkered with right the way through tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man and halfway through poor man, so it was quite hard to tell for sure.
Any road up, it was a picture of a statue of oxen and cart, stuck in mud, with a huge muscular guy hunched over one of the cart's wheels, trying to make it turn.
His broad shoulders and thick arms tugging (or should I say 'tuging'?) with all of their might, his lean but powerful waist and pelvis pushing and straining against the rim, and a cute, rounded though tight bum as your first point of reference for depth of field, made me a little moist I can tell you!
However, from the title printed across the top of it, the title of this post, I feel that the following picture would've been more appropriately deserving of such an accolade!




Lovely food, as always!
Though you do have to penetrate deeper than the writing on the lids, to work out which dish is which.

More Of That Jazz.

Chatting to a couple of the local jazz elite in Churchill's last night, and being put straight on the fact that the up and coming Monster Bass Festival is NOT about a great big fish, one of them, who was a little squiffy (not to mention squinty), let slip that a somewhat famous band would be making a guest appearance on Saturday 14th.
Not being the type to go blabbing my mouth off and having been asked to keep it under my hat, I really should keep quiet about who it will be.

I'd hate to spoil the surprise!

And besides, quite apart from the fact that I don't wear hats, I've never seen Supertramp live before and I am a bit of a fan.

I do hope that I didn't misunderstand that, and they're not going to be dragging the evening crowd of down-and-outs along from the soup kitchen in Belmont Road!

Hope the weather holds up!

Load Of Cock In Little V.

Perhaps I'm just getting a bit long in the tooth for all this modern pop music stuff, but after attending the Mini V festival at the Old Monkey Torture Sanctuary last night, I left less than impressed. Though it did seem appropriate that most of the bands sounded like very poorly treated simians.

I would be interested to hear from anyone who went along and thoroughly enjoyed it, as it's put me right in the mood to rip the piss out of the next idiot to post a comment here!

Hols. And Factions.

Foreword.
Readers from Margate, don't panic!
If you read the title again, using your finger this time, you'll realise that this isn't a post about mathematics at all. It's about drunkenness and violence, so you're safe to read on.

Well that's it for another year then!
My anal holiday spent lazing on a Mediterranean beach during the day and howling down a Mediterranean toilet during the wee small hours, with all the usual malarky between.

Though I may have to rethink the concept of visiting Lloret-De-Mar during their 'donkey derby' week, as they don't appear to have quite the same level of respect for the poor creatures as us Brits!
But it was educational too, as I hadn't previously realised that donkeys could run backwards or jump so high into the air.
I think I may have found that almost as bemusing as the donkeys did!

But even more disturbing was a level of gang warfare that made King Street seem like an attractive place to return to!
Not a day went by without witnessing either some kind of clash of the clans, a tourist being mugged or, oddly, someone having their hair set on fire.

Hailing from where I do, I couldn't honestly say that I felt I was 'getting away from it all'!

I may go to Bournemouth next year.

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!

Gold Digger's Bone Digger.

I've seen all kinds of madness in that nameless pub, on the end of Royal Road, Ramsgate, Kent, England and so on, but it seems there's always room for more and varied insanity, yet.
Being descended upon by an archeologist from the planet Me, last night, would be a good example of that.
Where do they dig these people up from? (did you spot my little joke, there?)
He managed to work his way through the whole pub, telling people how rich he was and how little that money meant to him (well it wouldn't mean much if you didn't earn it, would it! Duh!), while his rather pretty and shapely wife stood demurely at the bar, engaging in polite conversation with people, waiting for someone to beat him to death, so she could claim what was rightly hers.
If they've been together for more than six months, then she's earned every penny of it!

I may try Churchill's tonight, having had quite enough excitement for one weekend!

The Endochronic Properties Of Resublimated Thiotimoline.

The title of a short story by the late, great Isaac Asimov.
Based on some very solid scientific fact, this thesis effectively demonstrates the possibility of a substance to react to certain stimuli, prior to said stimuli being applied.
Utterly convincing and almost impossible to fault, but complete bullshit all the same!

A recommended read before reading this blog, for a better idea of the model that I use when authoring it.

And I suppose that last would be an example of that!

40's Swanks.

Unfortunately, due to work commitments, I was unable to attend the 'little man in a boat' festivities, yesterday afternoon. Though I was able to get along for the good bit in the pub, afterward.
Not that I'm a great fan of Pratweasel's Belgian cafe, but that was where it was happening and I'd just been paid, so I was able to stay for more than just one drink.
Gosh, it was busy in there! Everyone was making merry, a good deal of them dressed up to the 40's, drinking, grazing and getting down and dirty with the retro band of the era.
It's a wonder that the crapped out drainage system in the loos was able to cope, but by some miracle, just for once, it seemed as capable of taking the piss as it's owner.
So, if Shaggy isn't able to afford a haircut, beard trim, and some decent clothes after that, we'll just have to assume that he likes looking like someone who tramps would shy away from.

Well done, all the same!

The Butchered Arm.

As a bit of a mid-week treat, a few friends and I have decided to pop along to The Butcher's Arms, Herne, tonight.
It's a smashing tiny, little, award winning, semi-country pub, that comfortably seats around two or three people before you have to hold your glass under your chin and drink through a straw.
There'll be about half a dozen of us, and we'll be bringing our own straws, as, since losing the use of one of his arms in a motorcycle accident, a few years ago, the landlord doesn't seem to be able to adequately clean his own.
He's a good fella though, and likes a laugh, though he wasn't all that impressed on the occasion that he found a pin sticking out of his less useful limb, just before we departed a particularly drunken session.
Though to his credit, he doesn't employ any staff, preferring to run the place single handed.

I thought it might be quite good fun to see if I could raise a large enough posse, by posting this, to give him a proper half-flap on.

Heart Throp.

I know Ramsgate is balls to the wall with slebs and their sleblings, but you rarely get to see them in action.
So I was more than pleasantly surprised, while enjoying The Electric Experience in Churchill's yesterday, when a former member of Supertramp, and local resident, Dave Winthrop, joined in and dangled his sax in front of us.

I don't think I've been quite so blown away by a jam since WWII!

Even his wife entertained us, by trying to climb over the balustrade in front of the band, pissed out of her bonce, to make him come home for his tea.

Ramsgate rocks!!!

Dung Like A Honkey.

Apologies, first of all, for the last couple of posts being a touch on the poo orientated side, but turtles do raise their ugly heads from time to time.

Strolling back from my latest shag pit this morning, enjoying the glorious sunshine and, thanks to a strict pelvic floor exercise regime, minimal leakage, I was astonished to note that a good proportion of the canine offerings that I had to chicane my way through, as if I'd been thrown into a Tracy Emin sculpture, were reminiscent of the 'poodle poo', so common in the seventies.

Poo shouldn't be white, surely?

I'd be curious to know if anyone has the answer to this colonundrum.

Curry On Screaming.

As much as I love my Friday night, girly night out with the lasses, it's rare that it doesn't result in one regret or another, the following day.
Last night's expedition took us far, far away, to the very edge of Ramsgate, to dine heartily in the exotic and wonderful St Lawrence Tandoori.
Vindaloo and fluffy naan were munched, amid tales of derring do (mostly stuff about work colleagues getting on peoples' tits), before trawling into Ramsgate proper for the obligatory bucket o' beer.

A nice evening out, no fights, noone got arrested and nobody got so pissed that they shagged a minger. Hurrah!

But there's always a price to pay, and in my case, it was a rendition of that great Johnny Cash hit, Ring Of Fire, on the loo this morning!
Though it did spawn a first for me, as I've never blogged while standing up before. Laying down, plenty of times, but never standing up.
I can't honestly say that I'd want to do it again.

Any-old-road-up, I'll be popping into town now, to purchase a pot of natural yoghurt and a syringe.
My old mum's cure for everything, that!

Smack Heads Or Smack Tails?

I know I bang on a bit about standing outside that nameless pub on the corner of Royal and Westcliff Road, but it's like a convergence of alternate realities at times, and IMHO, worth a mention every now and again.
Though I don't find ALL of those realities particularly endearing, the most unsavoury of them all would have to be the smack-house, and all that dwell within, just along the road a little.
Whatever possesses people(?) to withdraw every aspect of themselves, except the ability to steal and spread disease, from this reality, escapes me completely.
Quite why these people(?), who's idea of helping themselves will never go any further than taking, but never giving back, are tolerated in society at all, escapes me also.

Yes, yes, I'm sure they've had an awful upbringing or some such thing, but is there anything that can be done, now, to change that?
I would say that the evidence points to the contrary.
If things are so bad that they have to hide from their past by hiding from the present and pretending that nothing matters, shouldn't we be helping them by relieving them of their burden on a more permanent basis, at the same time as relieving our own?

A simple injection, ironically, would suffice. Those who would like to enjoy a happy and fulfilling life would be one step closer to it, and those who don't would also have their wish granted.

Though I've little doubt that we'll be 'tossing' over this 'issue' for a good while to 'come'!

Compost Mentis.

It would be a lucky person indeed, in my neck of the woods (King Street), who doesn't have a neighbour that that hat fits!
Cheese arse swept, how are some people so oblivious to the fact that they live in a residential area, that they think it's perfectly acceptable to run a power cable out to their big white van, at 8pm, and set about a dustbin lid, inside it, with one of those air spanners that Quick-fit fitters use to rip the shit out of your wheel trims?
At least, that's what it sounded like.
When I'd finally had enough and went out to gently rap upon his back door, intending a polite rebuttal of his kind offering of 110 decibels of racket, he was emerging from his van, red, sweaty and panting.
"Do you mind." I asked him, "I can't hear the planes going over, while you're doing that!"
He looked at me, a little quizzically, and said, in broken English "Sorry, sorry, is finish now."
I'm still not sure what it was that he'd finished, and I'm fairly certain that I don't want to know, but if it happens again, he'll be using that spanner for the purpose that God intended it! Probably on all four wheels!

It'll most likely be weeks before our foxes come back from the Westcliff.

Large African Grey Cock.

I know, first hand, what a blight that the ban on smoking in public buildings has been for smokers, especially during this bitter Winter that we've just had, but on the bright side, it gets one out of the pub for a few minutes, here and there, to marvel at how 'non-pub-goers' relieve their own boredom.
So, while standing outside a local pub that shall remain nameless, on the corner of Royal and Westcliff road, a few days ago, I spotted a woman rounding the corner with a large African Grey cock in her hands.
Come on! Who takes their parrot out for walkies, I ask you!?
She was nattering away to the thing, though I couldn't quite make out what she was saying.

Perhaps it was TDC's latest hare-brained initiative, to combat the herring gull/bin bag problem, and these parrots are being trained to encourage fussier eating among the flying bags of shit?

HypnoTheRapist.

Giving up smoking is good for you?

My arse!

Well I'd suppose that depends on how you go about it really.
You could simply go 'cold turkey', which isn't pleasant at all.
Some kind of nicotine replacement therapy may ease the burden slightly.
Or, like myself, you could attempt to stop smoking by having someone convince your brain that you don't like smoking, which would seem to be the most painless option of them all.
Though you would be wise, if you elect for that latter method, to ensure that your hypnotherapist is not A) homosexual, B) the same sex as you, and/or C) deeply smitten by your exotic beauty!

It's taken months to correct what that evil, bean flicking, cock dodger did to me!
Even now, I can't listen to Suzi Quatro on Radio Two without moistening up a little.

And the irony that she'll probably be awarded a busman's holiday at Her Madge's pleasure, for what she did, really smarts!
I did suggest, for justice to be properly served, that she be sent to a male prison, but when is justice ever properly served in this country, these days? (That was a rhetorical question, Card, so put a sock in it!)

I've got an awful lot more that I'd like to say on this subject, but I think it's best if I just put it behind me now.
And besides, I need to pop out for a fag (cigarette)!