Allo Allo?

Bonjour les enfants!

Now listen very carefully. I shall say this only once!!

I come to you from high in the hills of the Cote D’Azur. By now the news of my daring escape from prison has probably hit the tabloids. Let me clear one thing up. I did not strangle that guard with his own tie as the Daily Star reported. It was with a pair of Loose Lucy Longwood’s silk stockings, acquired after a late night session down the isolation wing. He had it coming anyway, the bastard. And trust him to get in the way just as I gave flight over the wall using the makeshift trampoline left behind by the HMP’s Travelling Circus.

I trust we are on a secure connection here and nobody is tapping in. My friend Connie Lingus, heir to the Aer Lingus fortune, flew me to the south of France, where I must remain Incognito until the smoke dies down. Or until the swelling goes down on my plastic surgery. That’s right, my dears. After years of swearing I would grow old gracefully I have had to resort to visiting Madonna’s dermatologist and ask for the Full Ciccone. When you see me next I shall have cheekbones bigger than my bosoms. Purely to remain unnoticed, you understand. I also asked him to tighten me up down south whilst I was there. Eight months in prison can do things to a lady’s suspension. How else is one to smuggle ornaments in for one’s cell?

I fear I’m being monitored at the moment so must dash for now. I have a local Rose chilling on ice waiting for me to pop her cork, not to mention a fine bottle of wine we’ll sup afterwards. So off I go but I shall return, fear not!

A bientot!

L x

Prison Quickie!

Pssst. My darlings. I must keep it down as I come to you from my cell in Holloway Prison. My cellmate Lizzie the Lockpick is down the latrine lifting her legs for lags and fags so I thought I'd come online and send out a desperate plea. My ginger foe Winifred Sparrow tracked me down at the Jolie-Pitts on New Year's Eve and planted, dare I say it, HARD DRUGS on me en route to LAX Airport. It's a good job little Shiloh and his new brother Liloh weren't there, they'll put anything in their mouth that doesn't run away - they take after their Mother.

Anyway there I was with newly acquired Parakeet Perrinia and a skateboard I promised my darling nephew Alfonse, marching chin and nose skyward past the economy scum to the front of the boarding queue, when I was ACCOSTED by a broad shouldered beast of a woman called Shoniqua. It appears my case was a veritable pharmacy of Class A's, most of which I wouldn't be caught dead with at my time of life. I mean come on. Once you get to my age, Ketamin is akin to catnip. But after a humiliating encounter with a can of Criscoe and Shoniqua elbow deep whilst eating a Butterfinger bar with her free hand, it transpired that, even though I was clean inside, my troubles had just begun!

As it happens, the skateboard I had bought from a blind prostitute on Venice Beach was filled not with random graffiti as I'd thought, but top secret classified information meant for MI5, not your dear Lesbina. And there was some issue with Perrina being endangered but hell, that dumb bird got thrown over the escalator the minute Shoniqua made her beeline! So now here I am landed in Holloway selling my holiday snaps of Angelina's 'Naked New Year's Eve' party to horny dykes and dodging Debbie the Deep Diver in the dunny. But time is ticking away. The longer MI5 grill me, the closer they will come to realising that, although my skateboard purchase was an unfortunate accident, my history with the secret services runs deep and low. Let's not forget my stint with the KGB in 1982.

So my plea. One of you must find my ex colleague of the night and one time spiritual advisor, Martine Fennel-Teague! The last I heard she was sailing in the Ganges with Betty Boothroyd. She's busted me out of the big house before, she can do it again, sans Boothroyd.

Martine, if you're out there! SOS! Oh and I hear my ex-lover Stephanie Beacham has wound up in Big Brother. And I thought I had problems.

Send help. Send Martine. Lizzie the Lockpick is back. She has a limp. I'm in for it tonight.

God speed x

ps. Happy Cunting New Year.

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