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