Archive | May, 2014

The Diary Of Tran Frank.

30 May
'Femon' By Finlay Cowan

‘Femon’ By Finlay Cowan

Click for more on Finlay Cowan

 

*Warning!  Not for kids or the faint-hearted!*

 

There is a true back story as to what inspired this badly-behaved little collection of yarns, but it’s so so unbelievable that I won’t even try to explain.

Image

So… about *cough* Tran Frank…

Industry Arts
Occupation Professional Stalker
Location Little Withering, Milton Keynes, United Kingdom
Introduction Well, modesty prevents me from revealing the size of my willy, but post-op, I’ll keep it pickled in a large jar displayed alongside my You Too memorabilia and karaoke trophies (my specialty is singing ‘Bloody Bloody Mary’, that well-known You Too anthem about ‘The Troubles’ in Northern Ireland, where I studied philosophy and physics at Queens Uni). I’m a single tranny and live in a picture-postcard village in a bijou 50s, council-owned studio flat.
Interests An Irish rock band called You Too, lingerie, midi-skirts, lavender talc, Boots (the chemist), collecting cuddly toys, making my own pot-pouri, transvestites, transexuals, transgendered, travel, wigs, make-up, nuclear physics, the early recording of Cilla Black, existentialism, lateral thinking, the songs of Jimmy Webb, crochet, Burt Reynolds, windowbox gardening, origami, cocaine, champagne, becoming a real woman… one day.
Favourite Films Ooh – anything glamorous and featuring female-bonding, like Thelma And Louise, Some Like It Hot, Pink Flamingoes and Carry On Screaming.
Favourite Music You Too.
Favourite Books The Diary Of Tran Frank, by Frank Lynne-Mint

You forgot your mom’s birthday! What can you make out of super glue and olive pits?

An organic dildo!

 

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The Diary Of Tran Frank

 

Monday

 

Woke, up got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head. My wig came off.

Tuesday. 

Bought lovely, mushroom-coloured pleated midi-dress in Dorothy Perkins. Sooo very feminine. Went home to my bedsit in Acacia road, Milton Keynes. Well, I like to call it a studio flat. Rearranged all my lovely, cuddly toys on the end of my futon sofa-bed. Listened to Heart FM. Sprayed on some lavender talc – no time for a shower – and went to Uganda.

Wednesday. 

Went to LA. Met a film producer on Sunset who said I looked like Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie! Could stardom beckon in the remake, Tootsie Too? Bought some specs in Rodeo Drive, a snip at $500! Went to my seedy motel and got raped, doggie-style, by the pool boy. What a hunk! Offered him a part in the movie.

Thursday. 

Flew back to London and went and dusted You Two’s 20-bedroomed penthouse in Dagenham. It’s a very up-and-coming area. Their penthouse used to be the Ford factory! They’ve got a Ford Mondeo hanging from the roof – how post-ironic and rock n’ roll, eh?

Friday 

Went to Dublin, sold some cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh! Then had a meeting with the Real IRA in the Presidential suite of The Florence, You Two’s sumptious, boutique hotel. Shagged the bass player with a dildo. He said it reminded him of Noomi a bit. Sprayed myself with Lavender talc and went to Boots to buy some suppositories.

Saturday. 

Beano came to the suite with a bottle of Bailey’s and an ounce of coke. That’s what I call breakfast. We talked very fast and raced each other round the room. Then the Reverend Ian Paisley came to tea. Did he wear paisley underpants, I wondered naughtily? He drank the rest of Beano’s Bailey’s and started shouting obscenities about gays and catholics. Beano called President Bush and told him to save the starving in Africa, then we read the collected works of James Joyce by candlelight.

Sunday.

Went to church in a fleet of limos. Beano distributed grams to all the needy urchins pressing their dirty faces to the blacked-out windows of the limo. How thoughtful and kind he is at times! Flew to SA to meet Nelson whatshisname. He patted my butt and whispered ‘Would U like to come back to my cell on Robben island?’ Oooh! What a naughty fantasy! I felt like Venus in chains! It’s true what they say too…

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The Diary Of Tran Frank Two

 

Monday.

Woke up with a terrible case of TB.  Went to Swiss Clinic, paid for by The Boyz.  Only €20,000 a day, with champagne and cocaine included!  The nurses all wanted to shag me, until they found out about my little testosterone problem.  Stayed up all night in my sumptious Tyrolian-style suite playing Pokemon and listening to old Marlene Deitrich 78s on a wind-up gramophone. The two-speed Elvis vibrator sent me off into the land of nod.

Tuesday.

Ah! The wonders of that alpine air!  Knocked-off a few mathematical equations before breakfasting on muesli, cocaine and my own urine.  Beano came to visit, bearing a huge bouquet of white lillies.  He said they matched my ashen complexion.  Adam took me to lunch and I gave him a blow job under the table – he nearly choked on his schnizel with noodles.  The Leibfraumilch went down a treat.  These are a few of my favourite things, I mused.

Wednesday.

Felt well enough to don some leder hosen, grabbed a concertina and performed Tyrolean folk songs to an eager audience of local youth (such marvellously Ayrian blond tresses!).  Larry played the bongos.  My mother called from Holloway demanding more phone cards and rolling tobacco, and complained about lesbian warders harrassing her. U should B so lucky, I hissed.

Thursday.

Made miraculous recovery from TB and flew to the US to plan You Two’s triumphant appearance at the Super Bowl (why they were playing at a cookery competition is quite beyond me).  Well, ISH is a bit of a whizz in the kitchen.  Dined with Robert (De Niro, silly), Madge and The Duckess Of York at TriBeCa.  Robert was feeling my leg under the table until Madge shot him a glance that could’ve melted ice!  Fergie kept going on about her ‘Italian estate’ in Tuscany. Hah!  They saw her coming!  A former concentration camp, I believe.

Friday.

Flew to Barcelona and started anti-globalisation riot with a few petrol bombs.  Assembled a private army of around 300,000 and was carried shoulder high through the throng. I felt just like Joan Of Arc!  Then the idiots dropped me when the tanks started rolling towards us and I broke my arm!  Dined with Melanie (Griffiths, silly) and that greasy hubby of hers, Antonio Banderas.  Some fat, old queen came over and I asked for a bottle of Marques De Caceres Reserva, 1935.  Well, how was I to know it was Pedro Almodovar?

Saturday.

Went to recuperate at my country (council) estate in Cambridgshire, surrounded by all my lovely cuddly toys. I felt the words of that delightful Atomic Kitten song were spookily appropriate: ‘You Can Make Me Whole Again’. Indeed.  So I rang for the gardener and he was happy to plant his seeds in my flower beds!  Took a nostalgic look through my digital photo album of Beano in compromising poses, then demanded more money by email.

Sunday.

Went to church after a late lunch of pot noodles and caviar and a browse through the Sundays –  there I was in Barcelona.  I really shouldn’t have worn THAT wig, but hey, the camouflage hot-pants looked sensational in the Mail On Sunday.  Father (Phil) O’Sophical was a little concerned about my health, but I assured him that it was nothing that a little communion wine and confessional-role-playing wouldn’t cure.  We retired to his manse, or whatever it’s called, and re-enacted scenes from The Thorn Birds – he does rather resemble Richard Chamberlain. I thought he overdid the crack a little though.

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The Diary Of Tran Frank Three

 

Wednesday

Went to Cornwall with my friend the incredibly famous DJ and her two lovely sons.  Tried to have lesbo sex on the train, but a babysitter wasn’t available.  We managed a quick snog in the toilet anyway. Does that mean we joined the 250 mile-long club? Dabbed on some lavender talc and ate a Great Western Trains cheeseburger instead. Arrived at our caravan and threw up all over the children, then smoked loads of crack.

Thursday

Our initiation into the ‘white trash’ ghetto improved by the hour as the chicken nuggets cooked in the microwave. Went to the disco in the caravan site clubhouse with the kids at 11pm – hey, that’s early for them – and demanded You Two tunes from the DJ.  He refused, saying that he only played pop like Steps and S Club Junior.  Well purleeeze!  Grabbed the mic and insisted that DJ Snatch play all the housey You Too remixes and threatened to kill all the people on the site with my suicide bum.  They eventually gave in and I played the bongos.  But it was all a fiendish MI5 plot and I was arrested by armed police!  Came in my pants (aka knickers).

Friday

Plymouth Police Station.  The pigs tried to torture me into admitting I was Yasser Arafat’s secret love child, but I hung on in there and stated emphatically:  ‘I’m fookin Oirish, you fookin’ dickhead pigs and a nuclear physicist!’ (well, the prozac was still firing).  Got out on bail after Beano flew down by hang glider and put up 50 million Euros.

Flew with him to Uganda.

Saturday

Went shopping in Harare’s lovely bazaars – so many feminine-yet-ethnic gowns to choose from – and those were just the ones for  men!  Felt so empowered that I went to visit a witch doctor, but only after consulting Which magazine (the Ugandan version). I mean, which witch doctor?  They recommended Ongobonolarryedgeirlando.  Lovely mud hut!

He suggested that I get sectioned then shagged me senseless.

Sunday

Flew to Jerusalem to liberate the Christians from the evil clutches of the Palestinian fascist dogs who’d saught refuge in the church of the nativity in Bethlehem.  Unfortunately, I was too late, as Blair n’ Bush had sorted it.  Got there in time to seize a photo op in my new ethnic robes with some Palestinian wannabe suicide bombers and some Jewish settlers at their annual karaoke night.  Hot gig dudes! The meze was rockin’ too!

Monday

Was invited to Afganistan by the British army to press the detonator to blow up the Al Queda arms cache in the caves.  My, what a rush!  So much so, the force of the blast blew off my wig, but one gallant soldier thought I looked like Sinead in the ‘Nothing Compares to You’ video. So I shed a tear, albeit somewhat theatrically, as he fucked me up the ass in a genuine army tank.  Not very comfy though, I mean, where’s the upholstery?

Tuesday

At last! Back home in Milton Keynes!  I cuddled my cuddly toys, put on the kettle, turned on East Enders and thought of my life in the fast lane.  My! The lows, the highs, the fast food joints, the libraries, the bus stops, the supermarkets, the wheely bins, the cornflakes,   the trashy magazines… the… emptiness of it all.  And I hadn’t had time to bathe all week, what with the drama of it all!  Thank goodness for aromatherapy in the form of Lavender talc!

Next stop: Boots!

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The Diary Of Tran Frank Four. 

 

Monday.

Beano drove us to Heathrow in his bullet-proof Smart Car – so eco-dinky (it runs on Irish peat) – as we were going to Thailand to publicise the terrible plight of the eight (eight!) people who’d so far caught some mystery disease there. I went on Thai TV to explain that it was in fact a WMD originating from that axis of evil, North Korea (or should that be ‘North career?). Had marvellous anal sex with a commie spy posing as a Taiwanese chef in a lady-boy bar in Phuket. Almost ripped my tie-dyed sarong!

Tuesday.

Caught malaria in the floating market from a swarm of mozzies whilst shopping in vain for lavender talc (do these orientals have NO class?). Larry rented the entire island of Kay Hole to aid me in my recovery. Beano decided to build a designer, boutique hotel featuring Thai-style teepees thatched with recycled glass noodles on the beach and You Two performed a benefit concert for the victims of SARS (now numbering ten and a half) to an audience of gay, Aussie backpackers and a posse of mixed-race, South African Lesbos, who were having a conference about the political relevance of the strap-on.

Wednesday.

Flew with ‘The Boyz’ to Hong Kong to distribute thousands of free You Two designer face masks to the few remaining residents. Had a great Chinese! ‘Dim sum lights!’ I squeeled, making exaggerated slitty eyes at Beano, as he plunged his Ming vase (BC 394) into my nether regions whilst shoving an opium pipe under my grateful nose. Flew to Antiqua for a few day’s treatment at Erica’s (Claptout, silly) lovely re-hab clinic-in-a-genuine-tin-roofed-shack. Watched millions of Chinese peasants dying live in the paddy fields (but where was the peat?) on cable TV. ‘It’s the opium of the people!’ Said Erica, whilst her guitar gently wept.

Thursday.

Went into the disabled toilet sporting the pink, towelling trackie that I’d liberated from Madonna’s Oxfam bin-liner and who should be coming out but that perma-tanned hunk David Dickinson! ‘I didn’t know you were disabled…’ I cooed, fluttering my eyelashes at his orange-tinged, craggy features. ‘Oh no!’ He replied, looking like the cat that had got the cream, ‘That’s where Erica keeps her secret stash!  Then he led me tenderly to his rented vintage Bentley Convertible and took me for a drive through the sugar cane fields, scattering terrified workers in all directions as I gave him a lovely blow job. ‘This is what I call The Antigua Road Show!’ I gasped, as I came up for air.

Friday.

Got bored of Erica’s shack and flew to Basra to organise You Two’s benefit concert for legless people (I didn’t know Muslims DRANK! Like FISH darling!) and cleared a few token mines with Lady Heather Hills-McDonald (she was sooo ‘method’, I thought: how selfless to actually stand on a REAL mine and lose another leg, just for the cameras!). The support act, Saddam Kool, performed for the assembled media pack in a huge bathroom (lovely gold-plated bidet! Tasteful, erotic murals!) in Saddam’s burnt-out palace, and were brill. You could really believe they were him! Eight of them! All identical! Their version of Bohemian Rhapsody was classic (was it the moustaches that made it so authentic?)! I wouldn’t mind finding THEIR weapons of mass destruction! They would definitely win Iraq Has Talent!

Saturday.

Decided to board the Trans-Siberian express and gasped in awe at the disused labour camps (what a waste!), whilst sipping frozen vodka martinis and shovelling caviar into my mouth. The soldier opposite offered me ten Roubles to give him a blow-job. ‘Make it twenty and I’ll tweak your nipples too!’ I trilled, in perfect Russian. ‘Perestroika!’ He intoned, eyes rolled heaven-ward, trousers round his ankles, in the ornate, almost baroque elegance of the toilet. I reached into my Fendi bag for my dwindling supply of Lavender Talc and sprayed some down my knickers.

Sunday.

Went shark-hunting in the Caspian sea with President Putin and Tony Blair. We didn’t catch any, which is hardly surprising, seeing as sharks don’t actually live there. Tony made jokes about Bond villains (pointing at Vladimir) and said I looked like a bit of a Bond babe (it must have been the white, leather catsuit and the purple, vinyl kinky boots). ‘Can I try your rod Tony? I asked coquettishly and grabbed it in a girlie sort-of fashion. ‘How do I look?’ I asked demurely. ‘Oh Frank,’ He giggled manfully, sweat starting to stain his Marks And Spencer shirt. ‘Are you fishing for compliments?

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Now looking for The Diary Of Tran Frank Five and Six…. buried somewhere deep in the broken heart of my hard drive.

Found Them!

 

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The Diary Of Tran Frank. Chapter Five.

Sunday

Woke up feeling very wobbly, and realised I was bouncing around in a circular water bed, not a giant bowl of vomit. I felt seasick, or maybe it was the drink and drugs of the night before, or both, or… where the fuck was I? I wondered, lonely as a cloud. I looked out of the floor-to-ceiling windows and that was all I could see – clouds. ‘Clouds in my coffee, clouds in my coffee – you’re so vain…’ I found myself humming. Perhaps it was somehow appropriate. Or not. Where was I? I wrapped a lovely oriental silk sarong around my finely toned body, slipped on some Jimmy Choo flip-flops and staggered through double Egyptian-style doors into a vast hallway lined with what looked liked spatter paintings done by chimps. What a load of old pollocks, I mused. Where was the kitchen? ‘Can I assist madame?’ Asked a somewhat posh voice suddenly. I turned to find a tall, handsome young uniformed black butler smiling at me inquisitively. ‘Well, er, yes…’ I replied, trying to stop my eyes travelling downwards towards an impressive-looking package. ‘Could you tell me where I am?’. 

‘Certainly madame, ‘replied the butler. ‘My name is Chapsworth, and you are in the penthouse of You Too Towers in Shanghai. Would madame care for some coffee – fair trade beans, naturally?’ A strange, muffled whimpering noise made me feel slighly uneasy. Perhaps it was my stomach. 

‘Ooh yes please, I croaked. And where is ah…?’

‘Mr Lil is feeding his favourite pet, it’s called Anna, Anna Condo, ha ha, and this package…’ He pointed to the large parcel he was carrying, ‘is a litter of live puppies for Anna to – ahem – play with! Follow me please.’ How very odd!

Mr Lil – Shanghai? It had a certain ring to it, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, as it were. Chapsworth led me into a vast, hi-tech circular kitchen set inside a glass pyramid. ‘I bet the knives stay nice and sharp naturally,’ I muttered to the butler, who merely nodded with a hint of a smile, and pressed some buttons on a black and chrome machine, having placed the box full of puppies on a table. ‘Would a double espresso be suitable for madame’s requirements?’ He asked. ‘That would be marvellous, ‘ I replied, eyeing his sturdy forearms; they were like mahogany covered in soft, black silky gossamer. His huge hands found some Phillipe Starke cups – was he was going to join me perhaps – ooh-er! My back bottom twitched involuntarily (my front bottom still hadn’t quite ‘settled in’ to having sexually-triggered muscular spasms, despite the best efforts of Mr Federico Feline, Beano’s plastic surgeon). Chapsworth placed two espressos on a silver tray and beckoned for me to follow him through some double doors into another vast pyramid, which was like an enclosed rain forest in the sky, surrounding a huge artificial pond.

‘Ah so, my dear Flankie, ‘ said a voice with a strong Chinese accent, ‘I am seeing that Chapsworth hass tekken care of you. You seemply moost meet Anna.’

The tiny, Buddha-like Mr Lil was standing on a bridge that spanned the ‘lake’, holding a little puppy. ‘How adorable!’ I cooed, ‘is Anna a Pekinese?’

‘Oh no – Anna is positively Amazonian’ giggled Mr Lil, holding the puppy out over the water and whistling. Suddenly a huge snake’s head lunged out the water and towards the bridge, but instead of grabbing the whimpering puppy it wrapped itself around Mr Lil and dragged him screaming into the foaming depths. Somehow, the puppy had managed to jump back onto the bridge. ‘Do something Chapsworth!’ I yelled hysterically (some might say my screaming was, well, hysterical, but that’s ‘cos it’s soooo deep. Hmm. Goes with the territory). Chapsworth just stood there and winked at me, passed me my espresso and said ‘Oh well, there goes Shanghai Lil. Fancy some bird nest soup madame?’ 

I slurped down my coffee, scooped the pekinese puppy into my arms and followed Chapsworth back into the kitchen. Somehow my antique silk sarong slipped to the floor. Chapsworth’s trouser crotch seemed to twitch and grow… and grow. He took me in his manly arms. ‘Wait!’ I whispered, putting the Pekinese down, ‘The poor, adorable little puppies!’. 

I tore open the large box and out tumbled five little bundles of joy, snatched, indeed, from the jaws of death. ‘Meat! Chapsworth, Meat!’ I exclaimed urgently. He started to unzip his fly. ‘No, for the adorable little puppies first!’. 

Soon, we were all feasting on prime steak. The puppies got fillet, and I somehow made do with Sir Loin, once I’d got the butler to call the police about the horrible accident and ghastly death that had befallen Mr Lil. 

Monday

Fate is strange sometimes, I mused, as I sprayed lavender talc between my somewhat sore thighs. Thighs and whispers, I whispered into the deeply vulgar ormulu mirror in one of the opulent (after the Dubai school of interior design) bathrooms in ‘lil ol Lil’s palatial master suite, checking my lippy. Boots #7 – so reliable and economical too. I’m sure Joy Borge SWEARS by it. I fucking love Boots, she might bellow, apropos of nothing, other than the pain in her builders’ arse. I sashayed back to the bowl of vomit to find a pleasantly arousing site: Chapsworth lying face down in his butlers white shirt. Only. His magnificent legs spread like mighty oaks, his tremendous buttocks protruding alluringly through the white cotton. Shame he was asleep.

Still, I had plenty to take care of, like my newly acquired billions. Just a few legal niceities to sort out. It had all been such a tragic accident – but we were so very close, even after such a short romance. That’s why he left his entire fortune to me, and a lovely island called Battee, well more of an atoll really, with a lovely palm tree and a litle beach bar called Crusoes, to the adorable Chapsworth! That’s when I came up with the idea of the floating atolls in the Carribean – a bit like the Maldives, but with drugs and studs, hookers and hoodlums just to add some real retro-romantic-rumpy-pumpy-for-the-old-the-rich-and-the-humpy-dumpy. But only in cyberspace, of course. http://www.tranfrankia.tv became a legend in its own launch time. And Tran Frank became ruler of all before her. Chapsworth changed his name to Merc Anthony and got murdered by a rent boy on crack. So much for a dull Monday eh? Virtual reality is so much less stressful than hateful, horrid real life, espcially when you’re the queen as well! 

Then I got out of the shower and realised that it had all been a dream!

 

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The Diary Of Tran Frank Six.

Squirrels Ate My Crack.

Monday.

It was buried in the garden under the begonias. In Liddle plastic bags. 

Then it  all turned into The Liddle Shop Of Horrors! 

Allow me to explain it all as best I can – even though it couldn’t possibly ever make any sense.  OMFG!  The pain, the humiliation, the addiction, the squirrels, the fluffy tails, the Hitchcockian horror, the desecration of my sunflowers by dark, animal forces (on crack) and… well…

A hunky mixed-race rapper (or should that be wrapper, as he was initially so sweet?) was something of a fuck-buddy of mine for the occasional drug-fuelled, long weekend through the summer of 2009.  I believe he called himself Crackatoa professionally. I’d love to think that his moniker was inspired by my very own, uptight little burning volcano of love. 

Then there was my bank manager, Mr Panini, who once offered me a loan at zero percent, after I’d absent-mindedly dropped my handbag under his desk and tasted his assets, as it were.  Actually, Crackatoa’s ‘professional’ name has bugger all to to with Mr Panini… or does it?  You see, I took Crackatoa, better known as Colin Dale,  to meet Mr Panini, who was most accommodating.  Naturally, I filmed it all on my iPhone.  Mr Panini wouldn’t, or couldn’t have noticed – as he was face-down; getting royally rogered by Colin. Crackerjack! You could say, although not exactly a ‘Crackerjack pencil’.  Crackatoa was hung like a horse on Ketamine. That’s why he needed the Viagra.

Mr Panini was soon innocently ‘banking’ Crackatoa big-time – Those ‘pregnant’ Yardie mulettas  don’t come cheap, I can tell you – they cost at least £50 per kilo in real terms!  Quite good value, generally, I’d say, apart from the unfortunate ones who suffered ‘miscarriages’ on the plane. Cheap condoms eh? 

Lets talk eco-friendly shall we? No, not white people with dreadlocks, but Trains.  Personally, I think EuroStar should have ‘Miss Carriages’, where only females (and, perhaps, conveniently, mulettas) are allowed to wear their Hijabs-and-or-dread-hats, pleated maxi- skirts and-or-burkas, and, of course, the holy Christian cross, bejazus!  A haven for the modern-day Mata-Hari, where I, Tran Frank, could become a martyr!  A true martyr for the cause… the cause and effect of the effectiveness of You Too being the main factor in the recovery of the Irish economy/the second potato famine.  I mean, look at Abba (and which tranny wouldn’t drink in their iconic style?) and the fact that they were actually more important to the Swedish economy than Vulva!  Such lovely, safe cars!  Just like driving a Smorgasbord with a dashboard through the mountains and by the Fjords. Pickled herring anyone?  Although, for some strange reason, that makes me instinctively reach for the lavender talc.  Oooh, don’t! 

I can’t wait to visit Dykea on the ever- romantic North Circular to catch-up on my cheap rug-munching and to pick-up closetted couples in the scented-candle dept for heavenly threesomes!  

Surely, there must be a dogging site near to Dykea?  The bleakness and total lack of any aesthetic pleasures would surely suggest that a once handsome, dusky,  ex-premier-league footballer would be ineffably drawn to the car park of the Trollyday Inn, along with hundreds of other extremely attractive suburbanites in ill-fitting, cheap ‘bondage’ gear, as they activated a complicated, multi-texting-thingie-event and headed towards some suitably discreet-yet-foreboding, dark, industrial wasteland in which to invade each others’ spaces by mutual agreement.  It’s not really my thing, I have to say – as I don’t drive a Range Rover, or anything with wheels (other than my pink and purple Tyson  – I call it Mike – with its dual thermosuckerthingie). It was a bit of a bargain in my local Ukip charity shop where I like to stock-up on lovely, feminine, pleated, pink maxi-skirts and diaphanous  purple, fuscia and mauve rayon blouses. 

Don’t even suggest that a hint of  the hot flushes had affected my state of mind!  My taste has always been towards a Thatcherite look.  Sensible,  mumsy, practical, yet subtly vaguely dominatrix-esque.  My lovely local yokels just adore it – especially when I talk dirty (this lady IS for turning!). Most of them work at the local call-centre (most of their clients are Indian companies looking to ‘out-source’, so my guys have to watch hours of Bollywood movies and pretend that called Shiva or something).  The other phalanx work at the local Service Station on the M whatever – the Costalotta Cafe, Bugger Queen and Travel Dodge. All class acts, as I’m sure you’ll agree.

Anyway, back to Colin Dale’s begonias and those fluffy-tailed space-invaders!

Gerbils?  Richard Queer?  Hey, this is way beyond that particular urban, ahem, ‘myth’. The squirrels, however, weren’t up a crack, they were on crack, having dug it up from Crakatoa’s back garden and consumed it, presumably in small measures (like little nuts); otherwise the crazy-paving patio would have been littered with little fluffy, dead tree rats who’d OD’d.  Not quite the cull that the local council had in mind. But, little squirrel cracky-wack had had years of experience of storage and gradual partaking of his chosen ‘five a day’.  Clever. Controlled addiction – rather like me and my lavender talc. And You Too.  Giving Larry blow jobs,  and my frequent trips to Uganda with Beano. 

After a while, of course, the supply of crack ran out and the squirrels had to go into animal rehab with some sunflower seed remedies and a load of pecans and almonds that they’d nicked from the allotment belonging to Al Queerda, a radical, underground Muslim gay club, in my local village!  Not that the locals didn’t notice all those ‘women’ in Bhurkas disappearing into the local ‘cottage’ hospital, which had been recently shut down by the coalition.  Rumours soon began circulating about them being funded by Foamali pirates.  As if!  A bit of a training ground for suicide bummers, I’d suspect.  Nothing like a hairy butt in your face as you pray in the erstwhile mosgue in a light, white cotton gown to get you inspired to become a martyr.  Seventy three virgins!  And all of them  trannies!  Bring on the holy strap-ons!

© Frank Lynne-Mint.  2011.

iPhone Phinger Painting © Steve Swindells

 

 

 

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