The First Two Dimensions.

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

Hey-ho.

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

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

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

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

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

Toilet Humour.

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


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

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

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

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

Cock O' The North.

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

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

Assiduity Indigestion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do make your effing mind up, doof!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anonym Arse!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mud Slinging, With The Nappies Still Attached.

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

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

Ronny Bigs Up Margate.

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

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

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

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

Don't Mess With The Yakult.

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

Dyke Van Dick.

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

Another case for Trading Standards?

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

Paper-View.

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

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

Ludicrous!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Thinking Outside The Box.

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

Or is it....

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

I think we should be told!

Farm Aceuticals.

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

Well really! Mushroom chocolate? What a ridiculous idea!

Or so I thought!

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

Again, so I thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moron that, later.

Up At The Crack Of Dawn.

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

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

Muff Diva.

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

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

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

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

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

Throng And Dance.

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

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

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

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

Campaign for Understanding Nuclear Technology.

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

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

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

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

Sand Paper.

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

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

Rock Around The Clock Tower.

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

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



See you on Saturday!

For Sale. One Monkey Named Tinkerbell, Hardly Used.

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

R.I.P. Michael.

X

Proper Gander.

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

Don't expect us to like it, though!

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

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

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

Does it really matter?

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

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

Bigoted Bikers.

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

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

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

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

The BNP Party, Be There Or Be Straight!

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

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

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

Deaf Before This Hohner.

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

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

Bob-a-Gob.

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

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

Breaking The Lore.

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

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




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

Boyle In The Bag.

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

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

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

Knob Of Butter.

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

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

Aldi Same.

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

What's their game, then?

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

Weirdos!

Rash Decision.

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

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

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

Steps Must Be Taken.

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

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

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

Journey Tale, ER.

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

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

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

'king Street!

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

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

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

Self Licking Pussy.

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

As if I don't have enough to do!

Onward Christian Soldiers.

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

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

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

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

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

Dopeless Healer.

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


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

Water Off A Duck's Back.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Can't miss that!

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

Life On Mars Confirmed By Netto!

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

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

Political Mass Debate.

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

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

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

Dog Day Afternoon.

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

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

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

A Walk On The Wild Side.

The last thing you'd expect, when you pop out for a quiet drink in the middle of the week, is to stumble across those ZZ Top bearded, pipe smoking, chunky knit jumper wearing CAMRA hoodlums holding one of their wild parties! And yes, one of them was smoking a pipe!
Unfortunately, due to my impulsive nature, it wasn't long before I got swept away on the moment and started gawping at my pint, swilling it around and sniffing at it.

Life doesn't get much racier than that!

Now I'm going to be late for work (again), but this time armed with a dialogue that will, at some point, have my boss begging me to "shut up, forget it and get on with my work"!

Hats off to you, Campaign For Repetitive Argument!

Re: Pug Nation.

What with work commitments, family issues (I got issued one but I've since sent it back!) and the growing reputation as a cyber-pig, I decided to hang my bonnet up for a while and become what I feel I'm destined to be..... a dog!

You may scoff, but, as a dog, I'm pretty sure I could scoff more.

Well, when I say dog, obviously I mean bitch, though I do wonder if that really needed pointing out!

I'd also like to introduce a new slant to my blog, in the shape of my latest friend and confidante, Pini Nakatua. She's a lovely lady, 5'1", 100lbs, perfect breasts and brought up in a small village on the foothills of Mount Fuji, and what she doesn't know about 35mm, medium and large format camera film, simply isn't worth knowing!

I feel I must point out that, though our relationship has developed into the picture of good friendship, I am NOT a lesbian!

Just thought I'd make that perfectly clear!

Blowing Hot And Cold.

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

Doesn't it work that way in politics too?

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

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

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

Grope strings internal, as they say!

Rent-A-Ghost.

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

A bit like benefit scroungers, really!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ID IOT.

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

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

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

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

Keeping One's Hand In.

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

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

Dear Sasha,

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

Love ,

Ron

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

Regards

Elf And Safety Curtain.

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

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

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

Doesn't he cut a dash!

Soapy, Leaky Cock.

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

Phew!

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

In With A Chancer.

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

Woohoo!

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

Thai'd Up In Nots.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loo Sir?

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



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

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

Hands Free Upgrade.

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

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

Ghost Town!

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

Everyone must be in the Artillery, I thought.

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

Far too exciting for me!

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

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

Leap Christmas.

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

Well I never!

399 Shopping Days Until Next Christmas.

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

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

Cycler Hex 'n' All.

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

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

Astral Fireworks.

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

Cats can be so cruel, can't they!

History Lesson.

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

A Merry Con President.

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

Or perhaps I'm being cynical?

Concert Tina, Unfolding.

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

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

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

Bah Rain!

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

Maybe my barnet is some kind of Rain God?

Owl Hollows Eve`.

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

Ours is not to reason why, I suppose.

Things That Go Bump In The Night.

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

OOPS!

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

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

Miss Steak.

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

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

Plane Jane Takes Flight.

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




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



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




Missing you already, sweetie!

Cold Off The Press.

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

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

What Goes Up....

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

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





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

Pin The Tail On The Donkey.

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

An Open Letter To TDC.

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



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

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

Let's Heat The Field Up!

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

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

Beer Dead Woman.

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

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

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

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

Legs 111

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

Riding Along On The Christ Of A Wave.

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

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


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





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

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

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

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

The Word On The Street.

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

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

Without A Clu.

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

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

It All Comes Out In The Wash.

Burned At The Steak II.

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

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

Lucky old L Bobsworth, eh?

The Early Berk Catches The Work.

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

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

Now Is The Winter Of Our Disco Tent.

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

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

Burned At The Steak.

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

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

Downtime Blues.

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

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

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

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

Ghost Raita.

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

Oh dear!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

E Bay Glum.

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





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

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

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

I shall never shop there again!!!

Up In The Dumps.

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

German Joggers?

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

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

Dead In The Water!

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

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

High Spirits.

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

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

Small Medium At Large.

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

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

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