In which I count all my chickens and eggs

This week I took delivery of six glorious, soft haired chickens. The most important thing, of course, was the naming ceremony. After checking with Michaelangelo (my dog) and Saint Squeakilicious (chief mouser) I called the Vicar for a christening of the chicks who are now known as:

              Milli, Vanilli, Vermicelli, Tinklinson, Pylonsicle, and Pog.

On Tuesday I had to reach for the brandy when a ghastly bank statement landed on my beautiful cashmere welcome mat. It seems I have gone into the red again by over £2,500,000. I really don't know how. It can't be anything to do with having bought a brand new Aga, SMEG fridge, 5 pairs of Christian Louboutins, one Lamborghini, and the entire Maria Grachvogel 2011 collection (that will stop that skinny bitch Mrs Beckham getting her hands on any! Ha ha!).

My hapless little female brain simply cannot compute these things. As a feminist, I insist that a man do my accounts for me!

Last time I mentioned my impoverished situation the editor bollocked me after readers sent in donations, which was inappropriate (apparently). So this time I decided to seek financial assistance the proper way, with an “Eye Need” advert in that charitable journal, Private Eye. This is my ad:

Mad as a bat shit witch, professional lunatic and domestic goddess seeks £2 million to save mansion, barn, 17 cats, 4 dogs, 3 horses, 25 sheep, 6 chickens, 4 donkeys, 15 acres of land, plus 26,000 bats, one specialist psychic animal behaviourist / horse whisperer, confidante / sister and myself from financial ruin. Donations to: The Mad Bat Sanctuary, Brushford. Seeking philanthropic eccentric millionaire, preferably a committed vegan like myself.

At least my love life is hotting up! Just when I had gotten used to sneakily two timing the Rock Star with the Famous Actor, several more suitors have turned up, almost miraculously, just when the death knell was sounding for my column. How convenient.

Now, I have decided to line up The Totally Peculiar Suspects and make sure I get a sperm sample off all of them pronto. The victims candidates (in no particular order) are:

RS (the Rock Star)
now he is a wonderful chap but I have severe doubts about his ability to father a child, even with the assistance of IVF. He already told me 20 years of booze and narcotics have done the same damage to his teabags as his eyebags, so much as I love him dearly I will have to find another donor for the the “Mad as Bat Shit Blair Witch Cloning Project”.

FA (the Famous Actor)
is an absolute caddish skallywag who has apparently already fathered one love child out of wedlock (sometime between seeing me and playing golf he found time to biff some other bird – the swine!). He may well be the most unfaithful, uncommitted boyfriend ever but at least he has some juice in the tank.

MoS (the Man of Steel) who is hopelessly in love with me.  He is tall, dark, handsome, totally loaded and always comes to my defence.  He is also an international man of mystery, as reports to his precise physiognomy vary.

TB (The Boffin)
who I'm sure you all remember from my previous diaries, the one who proposed to me in New York, silly! TB is a television presenter and expert on inter-galactic space travel and a complete D-ream boat handsome devil. He must be fertile, simply must!

PP (Postman Pete and his Black and White Sheep)
who delivers all the hate mail and death threats personally by hand, and always stops to give me a little hug and peck on the cheek. I am convinced he is in love with me, it must be soooooo exciting for him having a celebrity living in the village.

ME (My Ex)
who I found out through stalking checking his FB page has finally broken up with Flipping Whale Daff-knee and is available again for important impregnating duties! He has been sending me letters from his solicitor all week. I know he is angling to renew our former love tryst. Super!

I have invited them all to my Bonfire-Work Night of the Vanities Special and intend to trick them all, one at a time, into the bathroom, into surreptitiously providing a specimen.

In which the Rock Star takes over the column

Liz asked me to fill in her column today.  She left me in control of her laptop and Blackberry as she had a fit of the vapours after me and the lads decided to practice our 2 hour drum and guitar solos in The Barn with the windows wide open. 
Lizzie said she didn’t mind at all as being 70% deaf she couldn’t hear a note.  Unfortunately 5 of our neighbours on nearby farms did, and called the Environmental Noise Nuisance team.
So Liz has gone for a lie down, crying and wailing “I just can’t cope anymore!” but asked me to update you about our recent adventures.

Liz and I are aware that there has been a teensy weensy ickle bit of internet debate over my identity, so Lizzie thought it was only right that she give me the chance to prove my existence in one of her columns.

Some of you thought that I was this chap:
And others of you thought I was this be-goateed geezer:

You were all wrong.  It is, me, Eddie_van_Mad_Cat_Woman (ex Spinal Tap – and don’t query which band I say I was with, roight, because I am only gonna tell it loike it is).
Look, roight, when I met Lovely Lizzie I was just recovering in The Priory for substance abuse, and LL came to interview me.  There was an instant attraction, and we swapped numbers.  Only after days of trying to phone her, Liz texted me about her hearing problems, and suggested we exchange messages via e-mail, or text etc.

That was the start of the romance of the century, loike, and since then Liz has supported me at Glastonbury, Isle of Wight, the V Festival, Rock for Jobs, The Big Chill, all of dem gigs we did. 

(Why on earth couldn’t you forum femme fatales google us better we just don’t know!).
But then I read on the twit-vine that Liz is dating some brown eyed, silver haired, foxy Famous Actor chap!  This is nonsense, absolute nonsense!  Yet another red herring from Lizzie to protect my privacy and throw you all off the scent again!  Ha ha!
Of course, if there is smidgen of evidence that Lizzie does have “Another Man” (viz: “A Man”) I will knock his block off with my Stratoscaster Fender Bender pronto !!
You have been warned!
Next week:   the other side of the story, from sweet FA.

In which sweet FA proposes and I proclaim war on wheelie bins

From last week:  “Lizzie, darling, look we’re both in our fifties, single and childless, I think we are the perfect match.  I have something important I want to ask you ....”


I waited with girlish excitement, heart racing as the handsome Famous Actor lowered his lashes and placed a sweet and tender kiss on my ear.  He stood back slightly, delicately placing my palms in his manly hands as he outlined what was so important.
“I think we should become a couple, you know, officially dating.  I have a villa in Italy, near Lake Como.  Would you like to join me for an extended break whilst we see if we can make a go of it?”
For a moment I drowned in the pools of his coruscatingly beautiful brown eyes, set off so magnificently by his tanned complexion and silver hair.  [THIS WILL PUT A CAT AMONG THE PIGEONS OF THOSE DEDICATED FORUM POSTERS WHO THOUGHT IT WAS HUGH GRANT LAST WEEK!  HA!  THYE’LL NEVER BE ABLE TO GET IT RIGHT! ]
“Well, yes, of course George, Ringo, Mark, Peter, Paul, Matthew, Luke, John, Andrew, Simon, Thomas, Judas, Philip, Bartholomew  or whatever your name is, I’d love to come!”
The FA said he just had to finish filming a wee little movie, but that we could try out living together in Laglio in two weeks’ time.  Two weeks!   Fourteen days!  How would I cope, knowing that my life was about to change so monumentally, whilst having to continue with the mundane drudgery of mucking out the horses, herding the sheep, feeding the dogs and  whizzing up to London and back twice a week?  How, dear reader, how?
On my return flight I couldn’t get a moment’s rest, my head was buzzing and my heart throbbing with anticipation.  Sadly, a wretched officious letter from West Somerset Cider Council soon brought me down with bump.

“Dear Miss Jones.  We write to inform you that under Section 87/88 of the Environmental Protection Act 1990, sub-section 94.1v3 and the Waste Collection Rules of the Council, you have breached local bye-laws on all of the following counts:
  1.  Not disposing of your black and green sacks in the appropriate wheelie bin. 
2.   Leaving empty sheep lick containers in the hedgerow. 
3.   Littering your fields with tyres.
4.   Dumping grass clippings at your gate. 
5.  Wrapping hay in black plastic sacks, some of which had come loose and been floating in the hedges, trees and pond.  Miss Jones this is a danger to local wildlife.
6.  Parking a derelict bus in your north field and daubing it with pink graffiti proclaiming “West Somerset Cider Council are the spawn of the devil.”
The penalty fee for these breaches is £1,600 and we would appreciate payment within 28 days.”
Dear god, no.  Just when I thought I was getting over the last “help me I’m down to my last brass farthing” episode and begging for donations from readers, I get hit with this!   How dare they!  Don’t they know who I am?

I poured myself a gin and went to rummage in my “emergency drawer” (you know the place where you keep 15 half dead batteries, an old USB cable, two candles in case of power cuts, 3 fuses of various ampage but none a decent 13 amp fuse, some environmentally friendly raffia, and old watches that no longer work.)
I searched in vain for a cheque I might have forgotten to cash [AS IF], or pension book sent in by a kindly reader, but all I found was an exquisite Rolex that a former lover had given me, a politician with whom I had been extremely good 'mates' but will have to discreetly and mysteriously refer to him for now simply as "MP".
I turned the trinket over and found this inscription:
           “Dear Lizzie, don't let the buggers get you down!!”


In which I have an international crisis

Did I tell you about the time last summer when I got in a spot of bother on holiday in Thailand with the RS, when the Famous Actor came to my rescue?  Did I?

It all started when the RS called me inviting me to join him and his band ....

“Lizzie, darling.  It must be an age since we had a mini-break, at least 2 weeks since your last diary entry.  Look, sweetie, me and the boys are doing a short tour in the Far East, why not come and join me in Tando Bago? ”

Yippe dee doo dah, he does love me, I thought as I meticulously laid my Gucci python pencil skirt (£2,680) and YSL peasant blouse (a snip at £915) into my Louis Vuitton Damier Graphite case, slinging my Miss Dior pink lambskin clutch over my shoulder.

The holiday itself in Tatooine was heavenly, exquisite, magical, enchanting and wonderful.  Long kisses and cocktails by the pool, canoodling on the beach and in the waves just like Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster.  Bliss!

Things only started to go wrong on the journey home from Timbuktu. 

The RS flew off from Tristan da Cunha a day before me and said he would leave one of his roadies to help me pack and ensure I got home safely.

It was at Titiwawa Airport that I found myself arrested for concealing some horrendous white powder in an ancient Phoenix & Foo Dog Lion vase which the RS had sneakily concealed in my case as a present.  I should have known the drug addled love-rat was only using me!

Silly, Lizzie, silly!

Finding myself incarcerated at the Hanoi Hilton, I was incensed that I had to ditch my Swarovski crystal-encrusted peep toe Louboutins (£2,095) at the Alcatraz reception.

For 30 days and 30 nights I tried to make polite conversation with my fellow inmates on Robben Island, although they were all ghastly, Primark-clad chavettes with no understanding of social graces outside the walls of Risdon Prison.

My only saving grace was my Victoria’s Secret jewel coated “Red Hot Fantasy” undies (£15 million) with which I knew would be able to tunnel my way out of Devil’s Island.  [EDITOR:  you’re supposed to be in a women’s prison, Liz, FFS do some research on international women’s prisons!]

It was at this point that the gorgeous, heroic FA came to my rescue, chartered 3 flights to get him from his current film set to liberate me from Tenko.  [That’s more like it, Ed.]

One of the obnoxious, officious guards came and grabbed my delicate arm, while snarling “Visitor for you”.

Well, blow me down with a double duvet, if it wasn’t that foppish chap who had seen me tread the boards as Mrs Pankhurst, all those years ago, the delightful, handsome Famous Actor.

“Darling, Lizzie, I heard about your troubles and knew I had to help!”

Somehow, the charming, slightly effeminate, sweet FA with his floppy hair and bright blue eyes managed to persuade MI5, Interpol, and the Prison Governor at San Quentin that I was a totally innocent pawn in a drug-dealing rock star’s illicit sting, and that I should be freed immediately.

Honestly, it was almost as if I had been to the edge of reason and back .....

On escaping from Toblermary (and what a nightmare that was!) the FA whisked me back to Blighty, for a traditional cottage holiday sipping warm mulled wine by an open fire, toasting my freedom in the autumn glow, snowed in by the February freeze, deep in middleditch England.

“Lizzie, darling, look we’re both in our fifties, single and childless, I think we are the perfect match.  I have something important I want to ask you ....”