Gold Digger's Bone Digger.

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

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

The Endochronic Properties Of Resublimated Thiotimoline.

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

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

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

40's Swanks.

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

Well done, all the same!

The Butchered Arm.

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

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

Heart Throp.

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

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

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

Ramsgate rocks!!!

Dung Like A Honkey.

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

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

Poo shouldn't be white, surely?

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

Curry On Screaming.

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

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

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

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

Smack Heads Or Smack Tails?

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

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

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

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

Compost Mentis.

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

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

Large African Grey Cock.

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

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

HypnoTheRapist.

Giving up smoking is good for you?

My arse!

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

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

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

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

I Enjoy A Good Grind.

Wandering along the cafe front in Ramsgate yesterday afternoon, between showers, on my way to the Belgian Bar (cafe) for a spot of lunch and some Leffe Tovers, I was surprised to be confronted by a bunch of tents, offering almost everything a girl could need for a good afternoon out.

First hit was the curry tent, hosted by a right couple of MILLs (Mothers I'd Like to Lick), for a satisfyingly spicy experience, all washed down with some Gadds' No3 from the beer tent, served by the horniest looking MILL that I'd come across since the last time I bought a beer in their tent, in July. Strange how I wasn't attracted to her then.
And I loved the driftwood furniture that they'd decked the place out with.
It made me think of salty seamen. Ahh, good old days!

But the madman in the next tent, with his rendition of The Texas Chainsaw Art Massacre, was nothing short of astonishing!
I couldn't quite make out what he was trying to fashion from his lump of wood, but he seemed to be having a whale of a time hacking into it with his chainsaw and angle-grinder, while deafening everyone within fifty feet and spraying them with sawdust.
I had a little chat with him while he was standing back to consider which bit of his wood he was going to attack next, and was informed that his nine inch tool, while grinding, because of wear and tear and the awkward placement of one of his nuts right in the middle of it, could only penetrate to a depth of about four inches.

Useless info. to a woman of my interests, of course.

So what the Hell was that all about, and why weren't we told about it?
If anyone's interested, they'll be there again today, until 4pm.

French And Belgian People Smell....

....their food before they eat it, because it's often very nice.

Russian people suffer more with indigestion.

People from Hungary eat a lot.

Swiss people will look after your money for you. Really!

The Italian people report more incidences of UFO sightings.

The Spaniards don't, despite spending a lot of their time pacing backwards and forwards across their gardens.

People from Greece can be slippery customers.

While people from the UK spend an inordinate amount of time enquiring after eachothers' welfare.


For my part, I really couldn't care less about what people look like, or how they behave, because of their nationality. Though it does piss me off when people behave like arseholes, no matter where they originated.
So I'm an arseholist!

Sue me!

The Whiching Hour.

I've often been fascinated by a coven of scintillating witches who are scattered about the town, appearing fleetingly here and there, but always clustering and cackling together whenever they meet.
I expect they were up to all of that on Sunday, for the new Moon. Preparing for the wan Moon (thank God they didn't call the thing Ker, eh), which will brighten over the next fortnight and stimulate their pussies into familiarity, or something like that.
(If you, like I, believe that familiarity breeds contempt, then do look out for a fair few frustrated pussies in and around Ramsgate, over the next couple of weeks!)

Though I can only guess, as I spent my whole day in the bedroom/toilet dying from a vitamin C overdose.

Anyhow, as a born-again mingette, dedicated to the groove, as it were, that fascination has developed into something more fundamental.
Well, mental, at least, as a good deal of these broomstick jockeys are really quite attractive women.
So I've found myself vetting these witches (I'd love to hear a German say that) to determine which witch could be my bitch.
Come on now, a bunch of women who never mix business with men? If most of them aren't suffering with 'beaver fever', then I don't know who would be!

It's gotta be worth a go, just for the crack.

A Labia Of Love.

Shooting the breeze with Hellen last night, I thought I'd mention my new found lezzer tendencies, in the hope that she'd lend a sympathetic ear.
Well bless her cotton socks, she lent a little more than that!
In all the years that I've known her, she never once even hinted at the fact that she's bisexual.
Why would she, I suppose.

And then we kissed. Tentatively at first, gradually simmering to a full-blown passionate embrace, tongues entwined and frantically exploring.
Moments later, though it seemed like hours had passed, we were laying naked on my bed, gently caressing fingers making me gasp with anticipation and desire, her mouth melting into my neck and gradually descending, sub-cutaneously, the length of my body, before emerging from my burning center to linger lovingly until my explosive climax.

Though I must say that throughout the whole experience, I didn't feel entirely comfortable, as lovely as it was.
I must chat with my hypnotherapist about that today.
Though I'm not convinced she'll be that much help to me. When I thanked her last week, for helping me to realise a side of myself that I was previously unaware of, she just giggled and told me that I was welcome.
She can be a bit odd at times.

But please, if anyone feels that they need to go and 'bless' their own cotton sock as a consequence of my revelation, feel free to keep it to yourself!

An Apple A Day, Keeps The Doctor Away.

Utter bollocks!
I had, by my reckoning, the equivalent of a crate full of apples at the Cider Festival in Churchills, over the weekend, and I don't think I've ever felt quite so ill in my life.

Still, it was jolly good fun at the time.
And Hellen was off to London for the weekend, which only served to enhance the experience for everyone.

So in true local media style, here's a link to the official video of the bash.
Sharp eyed readers might pick up on the fact that that was, in fact, the 2007 beer festival, in Margate. Though it's run by the same people, so it's probably more accurate than calling Margate beach, Ramsgate beach.

Rubbin' Hood.

Rubbin' Hood, Rubbin' Hood, with his nude women,
Rubbin' Hood, Rubbin' Hood, fiddling with his pen, is
feared by their dad,
he tugged on his pud.
Rubbin' Hood, Rubbin' Hood, Rubbin' Hood.

Gosh, there's an old ditty that takes you right back, eh?
I couldn't quite remember the words exactly, but I did my best to fill in the gaps (unlike the subject of the song, though I'll bet he thinks about it a lot).

I used to love the TV series, with such colourful characters as Little Johnson (Rubbin's crutch and best friend), Triar Fuck (rare cameo appearances, often ending in disaster) and Made Marion (well she wasn't old enough to decide for herself).
Priceless!
And some of the scrapes that he used to get into, with the Sheriff of Knotty Ash and his Diddy Men, had me in stitches!

I'm sure we'll never see it's like again.
Though I'm told that the Winter Gardens hosts reenactments on a fairly regular basis.

For further details, please contact Mr Palmer, Winter Gardens, Margate.

Banter Clause.

After a recent spat of correspondence with Google about content on my blog, following a complaint from another local blogger, they've finally had to admit that, although a little risque, none of it is actually libelous.
Though they've asked me if I wouldn't mind toning it down a bit, as they are obliged to follow up these complaints, no matter how deranged, lunatic or lengthy they may be, and that this particular complainer ties up half of their staff with every rant that he spews upon them, simply to work out what the Hell he's on about.
I tried appealing to their sense of reason by pointing out that it could be worse and that they could be in the shoes of the police complaints department, receiving fifty such emails every single day about issues that date back to the way that Pontious Pilot dealt with that whole Jesus thing.

But apparently they don't have a sense of reason, just staffing problems.

Ah well, as there's sweet FA that they can do about it, I'm afraid I had to tell them to be a little more conscientious about getting staffed (or something like that).

So no, I rather feel that I may have to ramp it up a notch.
You never know, it may take the heat off the police for a while, freeing up a few officers to get out on the street and crack some crim skulls.

Mel 'n' Omar.

Far be it from me to mock the afflicted, but when you meet a couple who appear to be more wart and mole than actual skin, all kinds of thoughts manifest themselves, voluntarily or otherwise.
However, as they seemed to have invoked their own little exclusion zone in the pub, my heart went out to them, along with the offer of conversation.
I think that caught them by surprise every bit as much as their appearance did to me, but, after breaking the ice and sweeping introductions behind us, they actually turned out to be every bit as poxy as they looked!
I don't think I'd ever met quite as bitter and resentful a couple in my whole life.
But being the charitable and understanding soul that I am, I bit my tongue and forged ahead, as though none of us were hating every second of it. I got the distinct impression that chatting wasn't one of their more finely honed skills. That and liking the rest of the World. And when the conversation turned to problems that were encountered, and precautions that had to be taken, during the act of love, I'm afraid I had to take my leave and slope off to the loo to supress second helpings of my tea.
Luckily, after 20 minutes of grappling with the contents of my stomach, I returned to find them gone.

I should add, BTW, that those aren't actually their names up there, but psuedonyms to protect their real identity. Though if you ever came across them, they'd be quite easy to, er, spot.

It's Your Cock-up, My Arse.

Highlighting the all important use of hyphens and commas, there. Had Don written that title, we'd henceforth be thinking that he may well be a buggerist.

But no, it's actually concerning an underling at work who phoned me this morning to let me know that a customer had not recieved a rather important piece of documentation, which should have been with them by yesterday at the latest, to facilitate an order being dispatched by tomorrow (also at the latest).

She didn't much like what I said to her, but I figure it was gentler than the reception that I'm going to get tomorrow morning, at work!

My fault, I suppose, as I should have checked up on the dippy bitch! As they say, if you want a job done properly, do it yourself.
Gawd almighty, what with that and the imminent arrival of Hellen on Wedsnesday, I think I may be pulling a sicky tomorrow.

Though I don't think it'll be unethical to do so, as I'll be out this afternoon making damned sure that I feel like death warmed up in the morning.