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!