Licked In London

My darlings! Your Lesbina writes you from the marginally comfortable surroundings of the first class coach headed home from The London. What a day I’ve had with my good friend Muriel Upson-Downes. She called me last night following a tip off that my ginger foe Winifred Sparrow was at large in the West End. I keep a tight eye on her movements these days, being a firm believer in friends close, enemies closer!

Masquerading as a ticket girl, my Cockney Stoolpigeon Muriel assured me that Winifred would be in attendance at tonight’s performance of Wicked. Ever since we both worked on the manuscript that would fatefully be stolen and turned into a worldwide hit of the stage, she’s been racked with rage and anger, whereas I have found the blow somewhat cushioned. I was paid royally for handing over the rights to that vulture Gregory Maguire, but alas Winifred wasn’t quite part of that deal.

So upon finding out she would be in The London I was on the first train I could find, obviously bringing my own velvet rope to ensure my privacy in Coach K. With my beloved Sara on my knee I couldn’t help but be lulled by the rolling hills of our wondrous British countryside. O! England, my Lionheart!

My vengeful heart picked up it’s pace once I arrived in the Big Smoke and was met at Euston by my marvellous Muriel. How wonderful she looks since her face transplant. Once in her Jaguar I realised I didn’t actually have a plan. What would I do to dispatch Winifred, kick her from the merry-go-round once and for all? Muriel then revealed Winifred had booked her own box for the show. That was how I would do it, I would infiltrate my ex-lover’s box and commit the dirty deed mid-show! But what method?

No mind, thought I! The priority was to slip into the crowds unnoticed. Luckily, Muriel’s horrific accident during a chemical peel resulted in her buying every kind of wig under the sun, so I adorned my head with a brunette switch, arranged halo-like around my face. And, thanks to my lock-picking skills acquired in Holloway Prison in 1982, I found my way into the makeup department at the theatre where I proceeded to black up, harking back to my days as an extra in those funny Marx Brothers films. Poor Sara got the shock of her life when she saw Mummy the Minstrel. It put her right off her crickets.

So in my cunning disguise I found my way to the VIP area, and as the show thrilled it’s gawping drooling audience I crept up the back passage and prepared to accost Winifred, end our feud once and for all. I decided I would do it with my own bare hands. With my grip I have been known to snap many a Russian mercenary’s neck in two. I’m not one to be messed with. So there I was, my eyes were on my prize, sat there with her ginger curls tossed back as she laughed her crone-like cackle, clearly disgusted with the bastardisation of her hard work on the West End stage below her. I reached out, and in one fell swoop, I had my prey beneath me on the ground.

You can imagine my surprise, and utter disappointment, to find I had the wrong box and in my vice-like grip squirmed poor Mick Hucknall. As he screamed ‘Be cool sistah, my death-like pallor hides the soul of a Nubian prince!’, I was distracted by the glint of light in a binocular lens. Winifred had switched boxes at the last minute and flashed a smug smile before ducking out through her velvet curtains and stealing off into the busy London night.

My ginger foe had foxed me once more!

My spirits low, I retreated into the cold London night, with Muriel doing her darnedest to try and cheer me up. We deposited Sara at our suite in Claridge’s – did you know they have separate rooms for Iguanas? And then descended upon Soho. After Langoustine Linguini on Crustini at Groucho’s and seven bottles of Veuve Cliquot at Ketner’s, followed by a bag of pork scratchings Muriel coaxed off a rickshaw driver, I was treated to some fervent cunnilinguini at the best underground brothel in Shaftesbury Avenue.

I have to say Muriel always knows just what to get me. I orgasmed past myself and awoke in a heap the next morning back at the hotel. I think Muriel had thrown some Rohypnol in with the price of the whore. Not enough so I’d forget my experience with the Monica Belluci lookalike ‘twixt my milky thighs, but enough so I wouldn’t have to worry about the rickshaw ride back to Claridge’s.

After breakfast at the Paramount Members Club with my darling Gok One I was off to meet June Brown for jellied eels and pie and mash down the Fortress Road in old Kentish Town. I find it’s always good to have a catch up with old friends before Christmas. Especially when your friends are so old it may be their last. June’s not quite on the colostomy bag yet but give it time.

I do have to get my affairs in order before I head out to LA. As soon as I’m back at Fallopia Towers I’ll be beavering away until the wee small hours. I do hope Muff is prepared for a long dark night. In fact I’ll give her a call now and make sure we’re stocked up on gin. I go through more of that stuff than Vera Drake.

Toodle pip x

Tis the Season to be Jolie

So my dears it would appear Christmas is upon us. I would have blogged sooner but I've been busy, what with 4 spirits visiting me to highlight the error of my ways.

Ghost of Christmas Past was my first child Seraphina, who I sold for my first pair of kitten heels at the tender age of 18. She was whiney in the womb and she's whiney even now. It's always such a horrible feeling to outlive one's own child, it's even worse when the moaning cunt comes back and haunts one.

Ghost of Christmas Present was my recently dumped ex Broomhilda, she of the sturdy calves and sensible hair bun, who I drove to suicide last week after accidentally leaking photographs of her as a pre-op transexual online. How was I to know she was so damned sensitive? There she was rattling her chains and all I could say was 'Well you should have thought of that when you were throwing me around your caravan with gay abandon and a weeping wound!'

Ghost of Christmas Future is my matronly maid Muff, who I understand I do work into the ground despite her seven children stuck in that tiny masonette in Melling. So with that in mind I'm giving her Christmas off. Christmas day mind you. Well I won't be here! More of that later.

And the fourth spirit was good old Stolichnaya, a litre bottle which I polished off in an attempt to forget the preceding three!

Some of their words haunted me I have to say. I've never heard the word 'solipsistic' used in such quick succession, and on the one night. But that's one of the pluses of having had so much ECT in the 60s. A good shake and the thoughts fall away like a whore's clothes on payday.

So are we all looking forward to the festive season? I think I shall spend Christmas week with Brangelina and the kids. You know, little Maddox, and Shiloh, and Lilo, and Stitch, and Patches and Buttons, Flotsam, Jetsam Gigi, and the twins they just adopted, John and Edward. I do hope they keep up the Christmas tradition and send the little fuckers down to the soup kitchen to spread the Jolie-Pitt legacy of love and sharing. Whilst we're at the Chateau Marmont mainlining embalming fluid and raising the dead! Literally! This year we're bring Patrick Swayze back. He's booked 'Unchained Melody' on the Singstar.

Ah my Angelina. Long before she played that loveable scamp Tom Raider, she was my very own raider, of my lost arse. Our pleasure knew no bounds, but unfortunately her career did so in came the beards! Billy Joe Thornton, Jonny Windy Miller, and of course, my darling stepson Bradley. Of all of them I think I like Brad the most, not least because I was married to his father for a time. It's always a special moment when a mother can guide her stepson through the do's and don'ts of how to satisfy his woman. He now finds he can always hit the spot with Angelina with hardly any gagging at all.

I shall be dreaming of a white Christmas whilst baking in the Los Angeles sun. My dermatologist Poppy Panang will tan my hide when she sees how tanned my hide actually is. She knows what I'm like when I go to the Pitts. You lot will be freezing here like you're Soviets but spare a thought for a poor traditional girl like me who longs for the onset of December Depression, not debauchery and delving into the depths of the LA murk!

Now what would you all like from Lesbina? Shoved in your stocking when you're not looking!

My Sara. What a little darling.

Musings around my muff

Well hello there my little morsels of dirtiness, how are you all this evening? I'm in such a tiswas because I can't sleep. I fear my 4 day stint in rehab has left me somewhat restless. As the world goes by outside my window - not that I'd notice, I'm far too removed from reality here in Fallopia Towers - I sit, cigarillo in one hand, glass of Martini in the other, my beloved Sara nestling into my muff (which reminds me I must have it cleaned, it's spent more time as her makeshift bed than on my hands of late), and I contemplate the week gone by. Oh here I am modelling the muff back in the 30s.

How time blurs for a woman like me. A woman who lives life at a breakneck speed, one minute partying with Drag Kings in Rio, the next hang-gliding across the Riviera with Andre Agassi. A woman who dares to take life by the pubic hairs and live every moment like it were her last. A woman... desperately lonely. I kid ye not, my fair readers. The return of my ginger foe Winifred Sparrow has not only reminded me of my mortality and dormant Martial Arts prowess, but also of the fact that she is one of the few women to have melted the icy shores around the island that is my heart.

I spent last weekend lying low on 'The Salty Seaman', my good friend Fionnula Fudgefinger's boat that rocks gently in the local harbour. I don't mind saying I had fanny on tap that weekend. Her wonderful deckhand Estrogena, she of the Amazonian thighs and the face of a Boticelli angel, marred only by her glass eye, saw to my every whim. Be it the finest Martinis or the most exquisite cunning linguism, there was nothing Estrogena couldn't lend her hand to. But I did find myself thinking, as naked and breathless we bathed in the moonlight, her beautiful blue eye resting on the bedside cabinet, "When will Lesbina love again?"

It's a heady mix, my life. Sometimes I find it hard to keep up even with myself. But in those quieter moments between cocktail parties and racing the homeless for sport, I do look in the mirror and think, "Well old girl you're not getting any younger. The virgins' blood didn't work, what next?" I do believe I'm being somewhat melodramatic. I know. Not like me at all. But I'm allowed my downtime. I said to Frances Bean Cobain in rehab over the weekend, "You know, when you get as old as me, you'll see just how much of a marvel Botox is." I mean let's face it. If I hadn't gone under the knife (and dare say the syringe) 10 years ago my face today would look the same as the poor girl's father's did when he took up arms on that cold April day. But alas my face can look as radiant as I want it to look but it's my heart I worry about. As does my doctor, bless him. I think he agrees with me these days that I'd be worse off if I STOPPED ingesting Class As the way I do.

It's a quandary. How can someone of my position find a suitor in this day and age? The current crop are hardly inspiring optimism. It is ironic that two of my exes now share the screen on television every night in that god-awful jungle. Sam and Katie, sigh. I always did go for the big breasted ladies. Why feel a bit of a tit when you can lose your face in them, I say. Maybe I should join one of these internet dating sites! Something about that smacks of desperation, however. I had to remove my profile from Gaydar Girls, there's only so many groupies one can fend off. And ever the technophobe, I had left it up to my dear Daniella to manage and she never had the classiest taste. It wasn't long before there was a queue outside my door, there were more check shirts and dungarees than an episode of Prisoner Cell Block H.

Maybe I'll talk to my friend Martine Fennel-Teague. She has her finger in many pies and knows me inside out. In fact I hear she's throwing a fabulous party in the Palm House next Thursday, maybe I'll drop by and see who she can hook me up with. She's been around the block quite a few times has Martine, in fact we were in a girl group together in the 70s. We were called 'Lip Quiver' and had a minor Top 100 hit in Germany with 'Deep In Me'. The melody was stolen by that dreadful Pete Hammond and became 'Touch Me' by Sam Fox. Which is how me and the ample-bosomed one met. Ah memories. And indeed mammaries. But I grow weary as the night stretches on and I fear Sara is dribbling into my muff. I've had this thing for years, I'm not having her ruin it.

Ciao for now. And if you can think of any suitors for poor solitary Lesbina then do get in touch on my Facebook page.

Sweet dreams, peasants xx

Lesbina waxes Brazilian

Hello my dears, merciful Zeus isn't it cold? I'm feeling the bitter bite on my nipples having come from Rio in the wee small hours after a whirlwind visit to my dear Clara DeVulva. She is still beavering away out there with her PhD. Always keen to further herself, Clara is an avid anthropologist of women's movements in Brazil. So when she called me up the other day and asked if I wanted to join her for some 'study time' I jumped at the chance. Partly because I'm forced to lie low now Winifred is back on the scene. By the way my arch nemesis ginger foe has her own blog now. I don't want to advertise it on here but as they say, keep your friends close, keep your enemas closer.

Have a sniff around her spoutings - http://winifredsparrow.blogspot.com/

So back to my weekend in the sun. Clara DeVulva led me there under false pretences, telling me it would be a couple of days relaxing by a pool, with every whim tended to by a sexy Brazilian with a penchant for the more mature lady garden. What followed was a haze of sex, drugs and revelry the likes I haven't experienced since the time I went on the road with The Spice Girls and came back smelling of Chisolm. I couldn't spit without hitting a mocha-skinned Goddess. My every waking (and sleeping) moment was spent attached to a hard body! And somewhere in the middle of it all we found time to enter Rio's first Drag King Contest. Check out my dear Clara's tribute to her Great Uncle Freddie Mercury below...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXxY1blRW8k

I was behind the camera on this one. My face ended up covered in terrible stubble rash (ironic, considering the way I got it) to the point where I was crowned winner the moment we walked into the marquee! Luckily they saw their mistake and the true King was crowned. All hail King Clara DeVulva.

So I've come home not only to freezing cold but to a terrible comedown. Sometimes I wonder how much more my nostrils can take, and how much longer I can pass off such excessive sinus problems in the world press as swine flu! Thank God Gordon Brown's handwriting has taken the heat off, I don't think the front pages are ready for Dykenhausen on a comedown. The country would be in an uproar I'm sure.

I'm going into hiding for a couple of days on my friend's boat down at the Marina. Fionnula Fudgefinger has kindly offered me the use of her floater home 'The Salty Seaman', and more importantly her cabin girl Estrogena. I imagine our nautical adventures will keep me warm until the icy mists roll back to where they belong. Birkenhead.

Until later my darlings x

Winifred's Deadly Tahini

Our fashion show at the Guatemalan prison. I'm not on this pic, I was tunnelling my way out with a sharpened tampon in the shower block... read on for more...

So here I am holding Daniella's hand before tonight's show. She gets so nervous before going out there, not least because she has to put up with the heavy-handed advances of her closeted fellow judge The Racist Cheryl Tweedy-Cole. What, she asks, would Cheryl's secret lover - hmmm we'll call her Jimberley - make of such behaviour? Cheryl seems to forget how she felt when her beard Ashley found that novel use for a mobile phone in the glare of the public eye a few years back.

Enough of that anyway. I've only just got over my rather crazy night with the Sugababes Thursday gone. You can imagine what they were like, but luckily Mutya was better behaved this time. There was no defocating in my airing cupboard and Sara my Iguana managed to get through the night without intoxication. However I was most displeased this afternoon when I was woken from my 36 hour slumber by what I thought was the smell of baked Camembert left out by my incorrigible niece Gagagina. I was ready to hit her with her own disco stick as I removed my jewel-encrusted £6000 eye mask, only to be confronted by the real culprit. Mutya had crashed out on my four poster queen and was top and tailed, her hoofs placed right in front of my delicate (and 3 month old) nose. As you can imagine I saw red, and had my maid Miff remove her at once. She was thrown into a passing taxi and I just had a text off her saying 'Alrite gel, nuva top nite innit, cant memba getn home IZ IT'. I have no idea what any of that means so if someone can write in with a translation I'd be most obliged.

I've had Sheila Shakeyshaft hammering on my door again. Complaining about the noise. But I said to her 'Sheila, you should be honoured to hear 4 of the 6 Sugababes rehearsing a gala surprise comeback show in my through lounge'. Alas that woman wouldn't know culture if it kicked her in the lady garden. You'd think she'd almost forgotten the fact that I was the one to rescue her little pussy from a deep fat fryer-related house fire not 2 months ago. She has a memory as short as her skirt clearly.

Now on to more pressing matters. I've had a jolting reminder of my past in the form of an assassination attempt. I know, I know, you're all going to be dreadfully worried but remember I was the stand-in for the Pope from 1973-1975, so I'm used to living a life that is, shall we say, on the edge. However this murderous vendetta has nothing to do with my Papal past. Oh no. Way back in the 70s I spent some time in a women's prison in Guatemala. I'd been caught smuggling a Faberge egg full of cocaine across the border and it looked like my future was going to be spent dodging shivs in the shower block. Then along came Winifred Sparrow. A ginger genius from Geneva, she was there two minutes before she had the place sewn up. She introduced the girls to Swiss Bingo, which became something of a phenomenon on the Block, and brought style and glamour to the prison thanks to her 17 years spent working for Coco Chanel in Paris. And, well, women have needs, and thus began a torrid affair. The day she was moved into my cell and poor little Alma Alvarez was shipped off to the nut house, we were scissoring something silly!

But, a love so intense can only burn for so long, and before I knew it we were on rival gangs, I was sabotaging the Bingo, it just got unpleasant. It was in 1972 I realised she was planning her escape. She had arranged a beauty pageant at the prison and was going to use that as her diversion to escape down the tunnel she'd dug with a sharpened tampon. I only happened upon this when I nipped to the toilet and found her beavering in the out of order cubicle. I initially thought she'd taken another lover but no, she emerged alone, and when I looked I found the hole dug just behind the toilet. So came the fashion show, and as Winifred bedecked the many murderers, rapists, drug muels and petty thieves in the finest couture a corrupt governor can afford, I was burrowing into her secret hole with all the gusto I could muster.

Freedom was mine! Masquerading as a goodwill ambassador I was on the next plane to Peru and poor Winifred was trapped. It was only after my Papal period that she caught up with me in a Harem in Vanuartu, a small island in the South Pacific where I decided to be a tax exile for a short while (which I would repeat years later in that ill-fated caper with Ken Dodd). After a short sharp set-to I was off again on my travels, and had to pay Big Betsy the Butcher of Block B, who'd also found herself in our Harem, to keep Winifred trapped in Vanuatu for as long as possible. Apparently stealing someone's passport can only go so far, however, and it appears Winifred is back.

You can imagine my horror when I found ten terrifying Tarantulas in the Tahini tray whilst entertaining Heidi Range on Thursday, and a note saying 'You can't keep a bad woman down! Love W'. Luckily between Sara my Iguana and Jemima by Terrapin, the tarantulas were seen off and all was well. Plus I'd taken so much Ketamine I was busy trying to eat my own face.

But nevertheless I'm on high alert. Winifred Sparrow is back, but I'm not going to take it lying down.

I have to run now, Daniella has to have her therapeutic game of online poker before tonight's show. But keep an eye peeled for my ginger foe. She's out there. Somewhere...

Lesbina is ONLINE!

Well here I am. This is blogging. My Goddaughter Daniella Minogew has been trying to drag me kicking and screaming into the 21st Century for an age I tell you. Not that kicking and screaming is anything new to someone who's been sectioned 7 times, mind you. But anyway here I am. You'll h have to forgive me the odd typing error or superfluous apostrophe here and there - it's been a long time since I did some manual labour like this. Sat at Daniella's laptop actually typing the keys. Usually I dictate and my secretary Mr Timberlake takes down my finer details but alas - he had to go. Yes even the Dykenhausen has been fingered by the credit crunch.

So where was I? Ah yes. My walkabout. As I'm a quarter Aborigine I can't set a stiletto heel on to Australian soil (now I'm allowed in) without Daniella prattling on about us going bush. I said to her 'Daniella, going bush is something I hardly have to travel for 24 hours to do.' But she means something completely different. So one night after a drunken tumble down the steps of The Sydney Opera House (I still maintain Kylie pushed us), I finally caved and said 'Alrroiight. Oy'll doyyy ittt'. And there we were chartering a jet to take us to the 'centre' as Aunt Noelene calls it.

Now it wasn't until we'd landed that she decided to let me in on the fact that Walkabout is supposed to last for six months. It's the tradition when the Adolescent Aboriginal Male learns to live off the land by being thrust into the wilderness with nothing but his spear and his Kookaburra for company. So as you can imagine I got a bit of a shock when I was forced to step into the great arrid vastness with nothing but my Femfresh and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

Needless to say we lasted 2 days. Daniella was itching to get back to her Botox and I was itching all over, particularly in my nether regions having flown via Melbourne where they were holding a Neighbours reunion and I wound up in bed with Mrs Mangel. Luckily I don't go anywhere without my trusty GPS and before we knew it the lear jet was landing on a couple of hapless Kangaroos and we hopped it back to civilisation.

I must say it's a relief to be home in Liverpool, drizzling and depressing as it is. The grim reality of life barely reaches me at my home in Fallopia Towers, L3. I've got 4 of the 6 Sugababes coming round for a late night cocaine party, although I'll be frigged if I know which ones. I put them in my phone as Suga1, 2, 3 and such, but can't remember which one is which. All I can say is I hope that dreadful Mutya isn't one of them. Last time she was here she shat in my airing cupboard and got my Iguana drunk. Poor Sara, she's still got the hiccups to this very day.

I've got a cracking tan from my Walkabout - bang goes my audition for the new lineup in the group, my skin is far too dark for their latest incarnation. But at least when they get here I can preview my new demo to them. It's amazing what I can rustle up with an old karaoke mic and a small recording studio left to me by my ex lover Michael Jackson. It's a little cramped but he always did say 'Better to squeeze into a tiny hole than be left echoing in a gaping cavernous one'. Lovely boy.

I suppose I should run. It's taken 4 hours to type just this with my acrylics on. Daniella's got through an entire box set of The Golden Girls in the time it's taken me. She's braying so loud I've had to close the balcone window.

Off I go, I can hear Keisha's klip klop bounding down my halls.

Toodles dears x