Monday, 30 January 2012
Finally, it's come to me. After years of deliberation, I've ended the internal war on what to say to a guy who approaches you in the hotel bar after a hard day's touring - "I'm a serial killer". Simply inform him that your patio is heaving at the seams for space and suddenly he'll decide that a game on his PS2 in his room is the better option.
You'll have gathered by now that I am indeed back in my hotel room, having shaken off the man who thought that wearing his jeans half way down his arse was not only cool, but attractive to the opposite sex too. Sorry, maybe it's my age but - GET. A. BELT. While you're at it, read "Women are from Saturn and Men are from the Lunar Ring", or a title to that effect anyway. It never did me any good but if it helps you shed your dreadful dress sense and handbag dog then it has to be a good thing, right ?
Meanwhile, I came across an article in the Irish Independent, link here.
This article caught my attention for a number of reasons, not least because I started my working life in Dublin and worked there for many years.
The first quote to jump out for me was from the author -
"But the author, known only by her pseudonym Scarlett O'Kelly, is far from alone. She is just one of a growing number of Irish women from respectable backgrounds who are selling their bodies to make it through the downturn."
How many times ? The women who choose to work in the sex industry are not "selling their bodies", they are renting their skills, there is a HUGE difference. As I said recently, if I decide to sell a kidney, you'll be the first to know. For those of you who think that our job doesn't involve any skills, I'd invite you to meet the client of an under trained dominatrix, it ain't pretty and that's for sure, because I've had to mop it up, more than once.
Moving on to the next quote that caught my eye -
"No matter what side of the tracks they come from, I have never met a happy prostitute in my 12 years working in this business," says Linda Latham, of the Women's Health Service on Dublin's Baggot Street, which has seen a dramatic increase in middle-class women coming to its door.
"In the '80s and '90s, we saw mainly heroin addicts but now across the board we are seeing educated women who are so strapped for cash they are resorting to it out of dire economic need."
Ah, right. What the IE neglected to inform you of here, is that the Baggot Street project deals primarily with street sex workers. So, whilst I absolutely applaud their work ( and I know they do a van based outreach service too ), nevertheless they are not in a position to make a statement about the sex industry in general, quite simply because they haven't had the experience with the ( and I hate the term ) "upper echelons" of the industry to make an informed statement.
Before I was about to put pen to cyber paper and give the IE a piece of my ever fragmenting mind, I read this part of the interview -
"It's not always the case that women are forced into prostitution," says Dr Paul Ryan, sociology lecturer at NUI Maynooth and a member of the Sex Workers Alliance of Ireland (SWAI), a representative body for Irish prostitutes opposed to the criminalisation of sex workers and their clients.
"Some make a choice to do it. It is something women enter and leave all the time depending on whether they have a First Communion coming up or another financial pressure.
"I did research which showed that some women prefer to do sex work than resort to shoplifting. It is actually a moral choice for them and there is a lot of decision-making based around it. That notion is often brushed under the carpet with the attitude that all prostitution is violent, all prostitutes need to be rescued. . . end of. That's far too simplistic."
A senior garda detective based in Limerick, a city that has become a magnet for sex workers, backs up this claim.
"None of the women we have caught has been trafficked. A lot are coming over to make money and they are certainly not always under the control of a pimp, especially the Romanians and Brazilians. They make more in a week here than they would in a year in their home country. Sadly, it's a lifestyle choice for them and they can make very big money out of it."
Niamh claims to be a prime example of this new class of sex worker. A strong-minded, opinionated, single woman, she operates as a sole agent, squirms at the idea of having a pimp, and claims she has never put her life in danger."
Whilst I don't appreciate the equation of sex work to shop lifting, I am very much encouraged by a sensible and truth founded statement from a member of the Gardai.
I have to be honest, it's something I never thought I'd see in my life time.
Maith an fear.
( English translation - good man. )
Wednesday, 25 January 2012
Oh God, how awful. I'm in a hotel room in Perth after a hard day at the helm and the people upstairs have made it their business to ensure that the whole hotel knows they're having sex. I DON'T CARE, and what's more, she's sooo faking it. I have a good mind to go and knock on their door and inform them of that because any more of those fake huge exhalations and she'll need an inhaler, so really, I'm doing them a favour.
I said in my last blog that there were far more serious things to be discussed and there are, I'm just too weary and battle worn to do it tonight. Instead, I fancy a brief word on "discretion".
"Discretion" is a word you'll see bandied about on various websites, but in my case, I mean it literally. Moving swiftly on from the man in Belfast who thought he could sail through reception with a life-sized cross on his back, we come to my client this morning.
"I like to cross dress, is that a problem ?"
"Not at all, looking forward to meeting you".
I thought I was going to meet a suited and booted man with a backpack containing all the niceties he would like to change into.
When I opened my door ( in a quiet Perthshire hotel where every fecker is noticed ), there stood an apparition. A 6'2 man in a bright purple dress, with thick black woollen tights, a shiny and sparkling belt, black high heels and a matching black clutch bag. The look was complete with a bright red wig and matching lipstick, all topped off with huge dark sunglasses.
For a moment, I thought I was going to faint, ( you know that awful feeling of blood rushing through your ears ) but after I gathered my senses I grabbed him by the handbag strap into the room.
"ARE YOU QUITE MAD?"
"No, it's fine, I've been told I'm quite believable as a woman".
I had fully prepared myself for the eventuality that the manager was going to ask me to leave the hotel, ASAP, but when I went down for lunch he flashed me a grin and said - " No rest for the wicked, eh ?"
He's not kidding.
Friday, 20 January 2012
You know that feeling, that dreadful feeling like when you're in a lift which goes up really quickly and leaves your stomach behind ? That's how I felt on Saturday. Allow me to explain.
I had not long arrived back with several primed princesses from the Irn Bru Carnival; by primed I mean that they had overloaded on candy floss and sugary drinks and it was with a great sense of relief that I handed them over ( frothing at the mouth and cross eyed ) to their ( um, grateful ? ) parents. Job done, and several "sleepovers" owed to me, result.
There was no sign of boy cat, highly unusual in that ordinarily when the car pulls up I'm met with the meow concerto in A minor, i.e. "feed me now woman and some hugs wouldn't go amiss either". MIA, a huge worry.
Eventually and after much calling and whistling, he arrived at the back door. Usually he'd sprint a la Sebastian Coe for his food bowl, but he hung his head and wasn't even headbutting my leg for cuddles. Eventually he arrived at my feet, passed some blood from you know, there, and keeled over, hence my stomach crashing to the floor. I called the 24 hour vet, who told me to bring him straight in, we were there in eight minutes. It would seem that my boy had a severe blow to the abdomen, either caused by a car, or .. ( wait for it ) a boot from a ned.
The reason the vet mentioned a boot from a ned is that we are all aware that there are people out there who just do not like cats, but therein lies the irony. He is such a beautiful boy that it has been suggested to me that he would be an ideal candidate to bring around to retirement homes to cheer the inhabitants because he is a lap whore, any warm lap accompanied by cuddles will do, he's really not fussy. Very many people who "don't like cats" have met him and fallen in love with him, that's just his nature.
So, for the life of me, I fail to understand why anyone would hit a cat in their car and keep going and worse, why ANYONE would kick him. I just don't get it.
On Saturday night I was told that he was up to his furry ears in painkillers and that I hadn't to worry, but by Sunday that had changed. He had a perforated bladder, if it was a small tear it could be repaired there and then at the surgery, if it was really badly torn, he would need to go to a specialist veterinary hospital in Glasgow on Monday morning and there was no guarantee he'd pull through. On that basis, I asked if I could see him, and flew down to the vets. We had a cuddle and a kiss and I cried until I thought my eyes were going to shrivel up. Later that night came the phone call to tell me he was deteriorating and they couldn't wait for Glasgow, they had to operate there and then.
I don't think this blog is the appropriate place to discuss my faith, suffice to say I have a very strong faith and regularly have animated discussions with the powers that be.
"I don't ask for much, I really don't, but please let him pull through".
Several Hail Mary's later and he was in recovery and doing well, I cried my lamps out again but this time from relief. In the interim, I had to cancel my Carlisle tour, sorry guys but my children come first - furry and actual. You know, outside my Domme persona, I'm not a violent person, I'm really not, but I would dearly love five minutes alone with whoever hurt my boy and just left him there.
Finally, yesterday we got him home. He is skin and bone and very clingy but the main thing is he's OK. I sat down last night with a black and white stole in the form of boy cat to watch TV when the cry went up -
"MUM, FATTY HAS A WET TAIL".
Oh, dear God. This was a reference to "Fatima", our hamster - and apparently if her tail is a mess of um ... "stuff", it means big trouble and perhaps a full military honours funeral.
So back down to the vets we went, ( you really couldn't make this up ). The vet felt so sorry for me having paid £150 for an out of hours consultation fee for boy cat that she only charged me £35 to see Fatty. She's OK, she has an infection and is on anti-biotics, huge fun is to be had in administering that, via a syringe down the throat of a terrified small animal.
"GODAMMIT, I'M DOING THIS FOR YOUR OWN GOOD."
The good news is that at least the feckin' snake is OK, he observed the circus with a wry grin whilst digesting his small white mouse, ( *boak* - not fed by me, I hasten to add ).
So, on Monday I'm off to Perth and I really hope that in the interim The Waltons behave themselves. I mean I've never asked for perfection but Jaysus, give me a break.
There are lots more serious things for discussion which I will do over the next couple of days, in the comfort of a hotel room and away from syringes and furry creatures, so, I will catch up with you from Perth.
Friday, 13 January 2012
.... and the following description of a car for sale made me spray my screen liberally with coco pops ;
Attention Teenage Drug Dealers / Low Life & Oxygen Thieves
If you think you've saved enough benefit from your 4 children before you're 20, this could be the answer to your prayers.
A proper bastardized, chaved up Skippy mobile if ever there was. Enhance your street cred at the local drive through burger joint or council estate shop front no end with this utterly tacky converted little MG ZR. Not your Gran's idea of a lift to town, granted, but a fantastic opportunity to increase 3 fold your class A drug selling ability. This is the car you need boys. The punters will flock to the window for your home grown skunk and other illegal substances. You just ain't gonna look out of place in this little beauty! Now I've made sure the tax ran out last November, so there is a big pat on your scrawny little backs already.
Dig out your favorite unwashed "Um bro" hoody and come cast your shifty little eyes on this. Ideal for the "Street Pharmacist" and other suitably attired twats. Your gonna need a baseball cap with this beauty, ideally one that comes with no fitting instructions. Heaven forbid you should put it on the right way. What better way to compliment your stolen Nike Air Max trainers than to be seen dangling a foot outta this pocket rocket.
Worried about the Babylon spotting ya, no need. Car comes fully equipped with proper blacked out gangster glass on the side windows. Hell, you could even fill the back up with your ugly chav kids and know one would see 'em. doesn't get much better boys. Ah, but it does. It does. To show your complete and utter lack of taste and knowledge of the motor car you'll also find the ridiculous rock hard lowered suspension to your taste as well. Why not get a step closer to Gran's inheritance by offering her a lift in ya new "wheels" then taking her down the post Office flat out over the speed humps round your estate and hopefully knocking the spine out of her? Might need 2 laps but god damn them single teenage mums smoking Marlboro Lights outside the chippy will be impressed fellas. You know that they like a ride like this.
To complete the proper drug dealer look, maybe you could add a tasteless stripe from the front to the rear in "Air Max" white it really wouldn't complement the car in any shape or form. Rather like you and your Brethren spitting on the floor constantly. Completely needless but you think it makes a statement about you. You'll also enjoy the totally pointless but ridiculously noisy after market air filter. About as helpful as a fart in an astronaut suit, but hell, you didn't get where you are today by being helpful, did you?
I'm quite sad to see the thing go really. There is nothing more pleasurable to me at 38 than to drive round in this bit of shit and look a complete prick. I'd much rather hand the opportunity to you work shy crack head council tenants any day. This little set of wheels is gonna let the other hoodies know you've made it. Cocaine and skunk selling is never gonna get any easier for the lucky buyer of this car. I might have a deal on a couple of gram's of smack or coke, but ideally I'd need to get a serious drug habit before hand. Perhaps someone could help? You can pay in cash or wraps, I'm easy really. Bring along your mums credit card or one that your mate has cloned down the petrol station. If it is going to be hard cash, please ensure it is discretely hidden in a used Tesco carrier bag, and you have folded one £20 note around 4 others. Makes counting so much easier.
For any female buyer I'm offering a free Tattoo of something utterly meaningless to go in the middle of your lower back. If you haven't already got your "Tramp Stamp" that is.
If your an under-age drink driver, or under-age driver for that matter, this little beauty really will attract the attention of the local constabulary. You'll struggle to drift pass any patrol car. Make sure there is at least 6 of you in the car though, Spliff in hand. If your driving, have another swig from your 2 litre plastic "LIDL" brand cider as you nonchalantly flip the bird to the passing police patrol. Head off for the nearest estate for some tyre screeching fun. They ain't never gonna take you alive in this.
The car does like a good rev in the morning at any unsocial hour. Neighbors will love it and feel proud to live in the same road. don't forget to rev the pants off of it at all junctions and roundabouts as well. This really will increase the length of your manhood no end. Your virginity is gonna be a thing of the past when the babes see you in this "fanny magnet". You can almost bet your last eighth of puff your gonna get laid. Hell, might even get a few STD's as well. your gonna get a proper bird with this motor.
For the disqualified driver I'll even offer to recover it from outside the local Magistrates or police station. What better way to impress the local Judicial system in one final act of defiance before collecting your ASBO?
Don't let the frivolous matter of actually holding a current, valid drivers license and insurance put you off this bargain. A visit to your local crack house should procure some documentation from as little as fifty quid.
Surely the man deserves the asking price for his "motor" if for no other reason than to recompense him for the time and effort put into that description.
Wednesday, 4 January 2012
Good evening and greetings from Belfast where I am chilling out with a hot choccy, a bag of Maltesers ( less than 200 calories per bag, you know ) and some Tayto cheese and onion ( calories unknown, probably horrendous ). This has been a wonderful tour in many respects, not least because of it's diversity. I have been MAD busy but in a very lovely way. Today for example, I kicked a man around my hotel room ( as you do ) for an hour, then met with a very sexy PHD student who wanted to cover me in custard ( God damn those private gallery pics, they are the scourge of my life ) and finally, I met with a very dominant man, who wanted to take control from the start, so he put the money on the side as he came in and my only responses to him were "Thank you Sir".
If I think about it too much I'll go blind.
On Monday I met some interesting guys too, in fact on Monday night I was invited to the Hilton for a dinner date and I sprinted out the door like Roadrunner, anything to escape Belfast's answer to Butlins, ( my usual destination was fully booked ). Whilst I was sashaying through the hotel I ( almost literally ) bumped into Christine Bleakley, my God but she is tall !! She looks like such a small, slight woman on the telly. She's also teeth grindingly gorgeous, grrrrr. Monday also saw me getting a brand new review here , thank you, it was my pleasure too.
Meanwhile, back on the ranch, my menagerie has been growing. No, I'm not popping out little Lee's but if I don't stop watching the new series of "One born every minute", I can't promise anything. First off, you will recall the discussion that was had recently regarding tortoises. In the end, we decided that was never going to work because you can't put them on a lead, nor tickle their bellies and what's worse, they go to sleep for a large portion of the year, battle won.
Unfortunately, the little light of my life had a Plan B - a hamster. Said hamster arrived chez nous around four weeks ago now, and to be fair is settling in well. Boy cat was not too impressed with the new arrival at all, but he was soon to find out what happens when a cat presses their face up to the cage of a hamster who really doesn't welcome their presence, a sharp nip to the nose. He retreated, and has since spent his time backing up against the wall whenever she is out and about in her hamster ball, rolling about the living room. I have told him that he is a disgrace to cats everywhere, an embarrassment in fact and he should be hunting her, but he just gives me a complacent look and curls up, so I guess she wins.
You would think that the new arrival would be enough, wouldn't you ? No. La Princess found the web presence of Inverclyde reptile rescue. Ahem, where I come from St. Patrick drove out all of the snakes but not in Scotland it would seem. Cue the arrival of a very cute but very needy Royal Python, aptly named by us as "Harry". He has taken up residence in my bedroom and needs a heat light to maintain his body temp at approx 31 degrees. We had to buy a heat pad and specialist box to keep him, but he seems happy enough.
I should just explain at this juncture that my bedroom is no longer my bedroom, it's more like Noah's Ark. You see, we didn't do our research on hamsters before buying our new cutie, so we didn't know that the feckers are nocturnal. It's fair to say, that we have adopted the Fatima Whitbread of hamsters, she runs on her wheel like prohibition is coming in and what's worse, she stores her sunflower seeds in her pouch and carries them up to the wheel so they make a very impressive clackety-clack sound when she runs. On that basis, she lasted two nights in La Princess's room and is now a permanent feature in mine, oh joy.
If anyone has an animal that needs to be re homed, just drop me an email, I don't see why not, every other fecker is here.