Tuesday, 26 May 2009


Yes, I am home.  And thank you very much; thank you very much indeed for the measly amount of endorsement I received during my Caribbean cavortings.  Talk about dwindling support! Who am I?  Margaret Moran?  Yeah, I have kept up with the news (expenses scandal, Speaker Martin, Jordan 'n Peter's divorce, summat about the Tamil Tigers) and the Honourable Member for Luton South has disappointed me in the cruelest way.  Dry rot in her boyfriend's Southampton house!  For Chrissakes!  Not glamorous.  Not glamorous at all.  I would have installed a magnificent cantilevered staircase, CAT6 cabling throughout, a staff suite, a 600-bottle temperature-controlled wine cellar, a trout lake, extensive views over Poole harbour and a garden backing onto the Thicket.  Dry rot!  Some people have no imagination.  And twenty-two grand is nothing!  How dare she ask for such a piffling amount.  And have you seen the boyfriend?  Fuck.  Get down to Old Compton Street, Margaret, and see what £22,000 buys you.  And you don't even have to sleep with them - just lovely shopping and someone to watch your coat at the eyebrow tinters.  Fabulous.  All I'm saying, Marg, is shop around.  Live a little.

Am I pleased to be home?  Darn tootin' I am.  I will be giving a full and fearless account in the days to come,  but may I just say I never want to hear the name of Peter de Savary ever again.   He is all over the Caribbean like some vile poultice.  He is the embodiment of everything you hope you won't find there, but do.  The uniform of Ralph Lauren Polo, khaki shorts, leathery old legs and Hoyo de Monterrey is enough to make an Englishwoman in her prime break down and cry, I tell you.  And no more Southern Baptists, purr-lease!  I spent some terrible time with a Mr and Mrs Rongings of Jackson, Mississippi and they showed me a photograph of their minister, preaching a doctrine of moral indignation and censorship, and he stands behind a great, thick bulletproof Plexigas sheet on all public occasions.  Wow! There's faith in action, as I live and drink.

Drink.  There's another thing.  I am cutting down bigstyle.  Numb addressed me one evening as Countess Drunkula (cruel).  I have kicked him into touch, you'll be glad to know.  What do I need with a convicted junk bond trader, anyway?  I am currently recruiting a replacement.  Previous applicants need not re-apply.



  1. I did try to warn you. Glad to have your sweet murmurings back where they belong. I'm still puzzled by Numb. Must have missed a post or two.

  2. Pleased your home. I have mailed you.

  3. *you're.... strewth, I don't improve with practice...

  4. Glad you're cutting down, Mrs P. Fruit juice and locusts will keep the reflexes razor sharp. Your next beau should be a karate teacher.

  5. Welcome home Mrs P .
    Mr Bananas I see Mrs P with someone Pale , interesting , a poetic soul and of course independently wealthy (standards must be maintained) , which would automatically lead one to crooner Mick Hucknel , but as one suspects he would clash horribly with Mrs P's decor (and would frighten the crows from your aunts garden as my old granny would put it) may I humbly suggest the likes of Eric Cantona , I understand his is the very devil with the macho couplet

  6. Welcome home Mrs P! We've missed you.

  7. This minister johnny, was he Episcopalian or from one of the dry states? You may be interested to know that in addition to all you've missed, the Kirk in have let in a soda-mite. Yes yes, a lube carrying bible bashing Calvanist who will be unable to rent a room in a highland guesthouse (well it's the sheets Morag)
    Peter De Savoury? I felt sure he was dead.

    To late to apply? Come on, I gave you back the money didn't I?

  8. Glad to hear you have arrived home relatively safe and sound. You might need a holiday on Thames just to recover your equilibrium. I would put my hat in the ring as a replacement beau. Unfortunately age and distance are against me. Further account of your trip is required.
    Grump x

  9. I've missed you and I am sorry to hear that you are wasting your time with that unappreciative scoundrel...if I were you I'd sashay down to spare cot where the lout is no doubt presently exiled and toss the contents of your nightcap on his person.

    Two Rongings do not make a right.

  10. I have no idea if my lustings before counted as an application? Am I still on?

  11. Mrs Boyo has pointed out that I am a fully-owned subsidiary of Mrs Boyo Enterprises (reg. Trans-Dniestria), so may I suggest my brother Steffan ap Morthwyl, instead?

    He has a van, a chainsaw, a doberman and a selection of self-crafted tattoos in no known language. He's resting between convictions at the moment, and is a easygoing date.

    Although virtually teetotal, he has an echt Welsh tolerance for drunken women. All he asks is a similar indulgence of his enthusiasm for Formula One and superskunk.

    His favourite words are "Duw, fuck, aye, but", in that order. They are also about the only thing he's said for 35 years.

    Otherwise Col Peter Deakin's firstborn Otto is eligible. After a tour of duty in Afghanistan as mascot of some German regiment, he has come to some understanding with the Belgian government over that village. He can be found at Taff's End, Saltney-on-Mick, Shropshire. Bring a seagull and you're away.

  12. Water, Mrs P. At our age, we need to remain hydrated :P

    Goddammit, the silly wordy thing was grapeses. Even the internet is trying to force me to drink!

  13. Pat, we are all puzzled by Numb. Even Numb's mum is puzzled by her son.

    Scarlet, you are too too gracious. I have read your E and say yay! Let's do it. You will see La Pouncita at her fearless best, I tell you.

    Dear Gorilla, yes. I see myself with a martial arts master of the highest quality. Not some grizzled old judo enthusiast from Kenilworth with a hiatus hernia (once met on Wolverhampton Station when I missed my connection).

    Beast, please do not link me with Mick Hucknall. I once met Charlie Drake at a children's charity gala at Pinewood. He sang Daddy Wouldn't Buy Me a Bow-Wow and called me onto the stage to accept a stuffed Scottie. I was discomforted. He looked very like MH.

    Simon, I missed you, too. Last week at an Creole-themed All You Can Eat Buffet, you were foremost in my thoughts. I don't know why. Pissed, probably.

    Dr Maroon, did you see the news item about the gay Church of Scotland minister? The protestors were priceless. Three very short men - each one a ringer for M. Hucknall - brandished an enormous bible. One held the book, the other leafed through it feverishly and the third shrilled "it's in here somewhere!" when asked to reference the no-homo bits.

    Grump, age is never a bar with me. I value experience very highly hemhem. Ask Kevin.

  14. I'll take that as a no then.

    Obviously I shall have to take my trench in another direction from here out... ;-)

  15. Mr Coppens, Numb's nixed. I have never known a greedier man. After the All You Can Eat Buffet he lay in a hammock. A group of local urchins mistook him for a pig-shaped penata and beat him mercilessly.
    He is now in his Droitwich mansion; I am back in the bosom of the Thames Valley.

    Fammy, luckily for you, your lustings are still current. Unluckily for you, however, I have been snapped up (today) by the best-known serial adulterer celebrity chef in the Home Counties! Is there such a thing as a free lunch? I will be telling all in the weeks to come.

    Boyo, I refer to my comment above. Too little, too late, as per, although I am grateful for your suggestions. You may be interested to hear that there was a Welsh at Sandals (from Llanelli) with an Algerian wife. They spent the whole time grooming each other like spider monkeys.

    Hello, Cake! Yes, definitely. I lost a lot of essential fluids during my sojourn which I am anxious to replace. I keep a small bottle of fizzy water at my bedside. First night home I awoke in the small hours with a raging thirst. Reaching for what I believed to be Perrier, I took a huge glug of Sally Hansen. Horrible burning throat, but my sinuses were zinging. And I'd have liked the Thames Valley Constabulary to have breathalysed me that morning.

    Ellis, it is good to be back. Take my tip and don't go to a ghastly Caribbean resort; not even if one of the 400 richest men in the world is paying. There are no redeeming features, apart from the decapitated pineapples in which certain cocktails are served. I haven't seen the like since Carry On Cruising.

    Kevin, you tease. You have missed me more than most. And now that I am home, I will make you whole again. Cx

  16. Next time go on holiday with a gay man. They are the perfect companions. Tarquin La Folle was charm itself during our recent jaunt to Warszawa, sharing his moisturizer and waiting till I went to the loo to give his phone number to the waiter. They love dissolute old harridans like Edith Piaf and yourself, and are very useful for carrying the shopping and getting served in bars - they always spot the gay barman and give him the wink.

    Happy bloggiversary by the way !

  17. Countess Drunckula, eh? Sounds like one of our Circus Acts!