Offal Joke

Today's Isle of Thanet Gazunder reports on page 27 that Our Lady of the Soiled Bedsheet, Tracey Emen, 'has sold a liver bird sculpture to the BBC for £59,000'.

Must get cracking on that Albatross I was going to wittle out of one of my kidneys.

Fence Toff

You know me, I'm not one to complain.

But ever since I relocated to my clifftop mansion here in Ramsgate (several months ago now), there has been temporary fencing along the promenade opposite Wellington Crescent. Why? I've a good mind to call Metal Monthly and get them to send down one of their millionaire scrap metal dealers to cart the whole lot off. While they're at it, they can take the redundant street lamps as well (see ECR passim).

Well, I've written to the council. That should get things moving.

Banks A Million

A rather odd call from my bank asking me to verbally verify my US$1.2m money transfer to a law firm in Namibia. I don't recall thinking Namibia would be a good place to invest in, but maybe I'll check through my back issues of Country Life, just to be on the safe side.

Ramsgate Takes The Biscuit

Good to see that our local Waitrose has started stocking Millionaire Shortbread, no doubt in deference to the area's new rich list status.

Data Bank

Lots of emails to deal with this morning. I must say, I find it surprising that both my HSBC and Halifax bank accounts, and my Bradford and Bingley building society account have all been suspended due to software upgrades, but I duly sign in again to keep them happy. You know what the banks are like if they don't have all your current details, and besides, I wouldn't want my millions to be accessible to any old Tom, Dick or Harry!

Who're You Gonna Call? Gullbusters!

Buried among the adverts for silicon bras and Davros undercarriages in this week's Adscene, I spy the following headline:

'Focus On... Bird Control'

It's an advertisement for Gullbusters, and their website makes frightening reading:

'Do they Nest on your chimneystack?

Do they call out from your ridge tiles, or bombard you in your garden when the chicks are born?

Have you had enough of clearing seagull debris from your gutters?

Well you don't have to put up with it any more!'

No, I don't have to put up with it any more! What else?

'Seagulls can seriously damage your health. "Anyone contemplating gourmet gull-tasting should think twice as they may harbour the organisms responsible for salmonella poisoning and botulism, as well as possibly carrying dangerous e-coli bacteria" - Chris Harbard, RSPB, Sandy, Beds.'

Oh my giddy aunt, and I was just about to boil one up for lunch.

'A seagull chick that may fall down your unused chimney will be within the fabric of your house potentially carrying all of the disease that the RSPB spokesman has made us aware of, which in turn means that you are living with the risk of this spreading. Worse, if the chimney is blocked-off at the fireplace the dying chicks behind in the grate will eventually become parasite food.'

Blurgh! I think I'm going to vom.

'And, if that did not worry you enough in many cases seagull nests will be causing an obstruction to gas flues, which can cause carbon monoxide poisoning.'

No wonder I've been feeling a bit chesty. That's it, I'm calling them straight away.

Swabbing The Poop Deck

This week the local council's magazine trumpets its new, improved cleaning services. Buried in the piles of self-congratulatory copy, I discover that my council tax has been invested in a motorised, mechanical pooper-scooper called 'Fido'.

How long will it be before Fido has the pavements of Ramsgate's Eastcliff looking shiny and new, as if they've been personally attended to by Cillit Bang!'s Barry Scott, I muse?

Well, the Ile de Thanet has around 310 miles of roads. Assuming a pavement on each side of the road, that's 620 miles of pavement. Further assuming Fido has a top pooper-scooping speed of, say, 4mph (I don't believe it could safely go much faster than that without flinging out dessicated barker's nests from its amazing, pooper-scooping mechanism), Fido should be around here once a month or so.

Now all we need is for the local hounds to only visit the bathroom 12 times a year, and the place will be spotless!

Who Wants To Buy A Millionaire?

I see my production pals Celador have put the global rights to 'Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?' up for grabs.

I'm in a buying mood this week, but after bagging 'Barker's Nest', even I haven't quite got the readies they're asking for. Nevertheless, a thought strikes me - what better way to attract the kind of people this town needs than by purchasing the rights, and setting future editions of the popular game show in Ramsgate's Monte Carlo style Casino?

I'm going to ring the council. They're a forward thinking bunch, and I feel this is just the sort of project on which they should be spending the £50m they've saved by nixing the Anthea Turner Centre.

Wonderful Radio Frinton

Good to know my old mucker and former Radio 1 breakfast shock jock Mike Read is still entertaining audiences with his zany mix of wacky comedy and humourous impersonations, albeit on a smaller scale these days.

Mike is now the breakfast stalwart behind Wonderful Radio Frinton, broadcasting from a beach hut on the seafront there. You can tune in to him on 1395Khz AM, 215m medium wave. Well, you could, if his transmitter wasn't on the blink. Oh, but you can get him on the internet via the link on the right.

Oh yes, and I'm booked for a guest slot next Wednesday.

Compo

Just two days to go until I decide who has won my Competition To Find Something To Do With Dreamland, and so far, I'm afraid, the entries have been rather disappointing. Just to remind ourselves of the suggestions we've already had:

- Displays of synchronised tea drinking and thumb twiddling by local rozzers
- Hamster juggling
- Thorleyworld

Pretty much sums up the state of imaginative thinking in North Thanet if you ask me. But I'm sure here in the south of the Ile we can do much better. After all, look at what we've achieved with Pleasurama.

Junk Head

A lifesize archbishop mask was waiting for me on the doormat when I got home this evening.

It turns out to be junk mail from South Eastern Trains, but it's so convincing that I'm going to wear it around town tomorrow, just to see if I'm treated with a little more deference.

The Ego Has Landed

Well I'm glad that's over. Now all I've got to do is take the make-up off and spend the next four hours queing on the M25. I bet bloody Noel gets it. I don't think the rush job they did on my hair down on Kings Street helped much, either. Looked like I was wearing a balaclava helmet knitted out of my own hair. Still, the oldies they'd bussed in for an audience seemed to enjoy my new catchphrase.

You can't get rid of me that easily!

Bad Hair Day

Eek! Just as I'm about to fire up the TT and blast off to Teddington, I remember I omitted to have Charles rearrange my syrup while I was up in the smoke on Monday.

Dare I risk one of the two 'Sweeney Todd's' on the High Street? And if so, which one? It could mean the difference between Eamonn style, back-to-back, 26 week, primetime runs, and guest slots on Radio Frinton for the rest of my days. What a pigging nightmare.

Deal Or Noel Deal

Up against the awful Noel this morning for the presenter's job on this new game show, The Rich List. Wish me luck!

Cafe Culture 2

Barker's Nest it is, then. It has a definite ring to it, and links in with the area quite nicely. You could say I've taken my cue from Pooland.

Cafe Culture

I decide the dead frog is definitely a good omen, and dash straight round to the estate agent to place a small deposit on the cafe which has mysteriously become available to rent on the corner of Harbour Street.

The cafe boasts magnificent views across Ramsgate's Monte Carlo style marina, and has got to be a dead cert money spinner. I will call it either 'The Slumbering Frog', or 'Barker's Nest'. I walk home whistling to the tune of 'We're in the Money'.

A. N. Onymous Writes

Pleased to see that, despite a desperate attempt by the Thanet Times to establish my true identity, no-one has called the paper's 'Grass-im-up' Hotline.

Their newshounds have, however, followed up my investigation of Pooland. They report on page 5 that the coppers have been round and discovered some really good sh*t there.

Kissing The Frog

Wading through the flattened White Lightning cans, kerbside oil slicks, cast-off gnomes and Zimmer frames, plus, of course, the usual sundry barker's nests in varying states of decay, on the way to my local shop, I pass a mummified frog.

It's a new one on me, but in a way, I feel it's a positive sign.

I take it as a metaphor for Ramsgate. One kiss from some decent inward investor like me, and the whole place will come back to life like a beautiful princess from her slumber.

Which makes me, erm, a dead frog. Er, not quite sure I've worked this one out properly.

Snail Space

Driving back from town last night, I tuned into Radio 4 and caught a half hour devoted entirely to one man's quest to milk poisonous snails using only a fish, a condom and a pair of barbecue tongs.

Proof, if proof were needed, that the BBC is the best public broadcasting service in the world, and well worth the £786 licence fee.

Not only that, but I've been on to One-Eyed Pete, and he's now booked the bloke for the re-opening of Dreamland.

Load Of Rubbish

I see our glorious council leader, Sandy Beach, is to take on the mammoth daytime task of collecting everyone's household waste himself, in addition to his nightly duties of scaring all good little boys and girls into eating up their greens.

Quite how he's going to pilot his new fleet of 14 gleaming rubbish trucks on his own, though, I'm not sure. Perhaps he's been involved in some hideous cloning experiment, and even now there are 13 more of him lying in wait in coffins beneath the Winter Gardens. Should make winning votes in the council chamber a lot easier, too.

Good on yer, Sandy!

Tavern Fever

I've been researching the local drinking scene over the past few weeks, and have come to the following conclusions:

1. Most hostelries in the area appear to come with the suffix 'A Thorley Tavern', e.g. The Haemoglobe Inn - A Thorley Tavern; The Royal Unmentionables - A Thorley Tavern; Rissoles - A Thorley Tavern. You get the picture.

2. One must not be misled into imagining that the epithet 'tavern' necessarily denotes an establishment where there is a cosy fire blazing in the grate, hops hanging from the tudor beams, and a busty landlady welcoming customers with a cheeky wink, accompanied by the cry of "'Ello, darlin', can I pull you off a quick one?"

3. Nonetheless, most of these 'taverns' reflect the diversity of the area, are clean and bright, sell a range of interesting beers and drinks, and most do hot food both lunchtime and evenings.

Thanks to my new millionaire friend Frank for pointing that out.

A Snip At Half The Price

Bev, my agent, phones to say she's booked me in to do some after dinner speaking at the National Vasectomy Club of Great Britain Annual Dinner. It's a charity I like to support, ever since my own operation went slightly wrong, and I ended up with what the irrepressibly jolly surgeon rather distastefully referred to as 'a dishonourable discharge'. I think he'd learnt his trade in the army.

Anyway, once I had properly joined the ranks of those firing blanks, he asked me if I would care to sign up for NatVas, and I leapt at the chance (although leaping, or indeed any kind of strenuous exercise, was out of the question for months after that particular spot of nastiness).

Bev says the topic they want me to speak on is 'Getting Back on the Horse'. Not sure if that's very fair on the wives.

Bear Necessities

To tea this afternoon with my billionaire ventriloquist pal Roger De Courcey.

Roger's been making a bit of a splash this week down the road in his home town Folkestone, outlining how he's going to spend all his millions on new ice cream huts and some deckchairs for the seafront there.

We joke about how it's actually dirty money - what else could it be, when it's all been made by sticking his hand up a bear's arse?

Avast Behind!

Today's weather was just the ticket for hanging around the harbour in my Captain's cap, chunky sweater and deck shoes. Such attire is all the rage among my millionaire mates in Whitstable, so it won't be long before it catches on here in Ramsgate, methinks.

Thanks to the ever informative Thanet Life site, run by multi-millionaire James Bond lookalike Dr Simon Moores, I now also have a reliable web weather forecast (www.theyr.net) to tell me when such natty dressing will be appropriate!

By the way, Dr Moores spent the entire day overflying Ramsgate in his Lear jet, no doubt ferrying millionaires keen to get a bird's eye view of their new luxury residences. Hope the Jacuzzi in the back didn't slosh around and ruin the Axminster, Simon!

Light Relief

Looking out from my study here on the fashionable Eastcliff of Ramsgate, my view of the English Channel, glimmering in the morning sun, would be perfect, were it not marred by a forest of redundant street lamps. Consequently, I find my thoughts turning yet again to our elected representatives in general, and our local councillor David Green in particular.

Councillor Green is known in the area as 'The Incredible Hulk' for his heroic propensity to snort and rip the shirt off his back every time he comes across a vehicle with an out of date tax disc, a carelessly deposited barker's nest, or a council official flogging off yet another historic piece of municipal real estate.

It is comforting to know that it will surely only be a matter of time before he turns his superpowers on the daftly dualled street lights along the otherwise beautiful, cliff top Victoria Parade, and crushes the redundant posts with a single blow of his mighty, muscly, viridescent arm.

In the meantime, I shall continue my practice of placing Fortnums cheese platters on top of the nearest lamp post by means of a fishing rod dangling from the third floor bedroom window. The hope is that the weight of flying poodles which the comestibles attract will eventually send the offending street furniture toppling into the sea below.

Roman In The Gloaming

Curses on Derek and all his psychic pals. That's the last time I do one of his rubbishy shows, it's all been downhill since that Cilla incident earlier in the week. Not only did QVC cancel yesterday, but this afternoon some whippersnapper of a producer from Ideal World phoned to say they wouldn't be requiring me for the V Slicer Hour tomorrow either.

As consolation I thought I'd drown my sorrows with a pint of foaming wallop in one of the local hostelries. Many of them look rather dreary, and most have incomprehensible names like Nadgers or Ye Olde Gaye Bosun. But The Amputated Arms up near the hospital (which is currently being converted into luxury flats - hurrah!) had been recommended, so I trudged over there.

After three or four pints of the local brew, I was walking back just after sunset through the trendier, Eastcliff part of town, when I heard the unmistakable sound of the Russian tongue. Just over the road was a group of Russkies crowded round a car, and I could honestly swear that sitting in the driver's seat was none other than Roman Abramovich. I'd heard tell that the local football team was doing rather well, but could it be... dare we hope...? Even now it looked like he was arguing the toss with his management team.

Disappointingly, though, just as I was about to cross the road to offer him encouragement by congratulating him on his wise choice of location, he revved up his 'N' registration BMW and sped off in a cloud of blue smoke. I'll keep you posted.

Pooland - There's Confirmation

I haven't felt an urgent need to return to Pooland this morning, but if anyone's desperate, just follow the link on the right.

And people have had the audacity to suggest that I make this stuff up.

Going For A Shot

This evening I forgo the cheap thrills of getting legless on White Lightning with my gnome mates, followed by a stagger home aided only by a Zimmer frame, and instead head for the more upmarket climes of Waitrose.

As I'm piling the crates of Krug onto the passenger seat in the car park, I glance up. What meets my eyes beggars belief. There, round the back of the supermarket, stands an establishment revelling in the name of Pooland. Admittedly it's getting dark, the sign isn't illuminated, and the old laser eye treatment hasn't been as effective as one might have hoped. But I'm pretty sure that's what it says - Pooland.

I was tempted to investigate, but the place looked shut. I presume they must do most of their business first thing in the morning.

Two Pints Of Sanatogen And A Zimmer Frame, Please

A quick stroll to the local supermarket reveals that their latest specials include White Lightning Super Strength Cider at £1.89 for a four pack, Zimmer frames at £19.99 each, and three garden gnomes for £2.99.

Just what I was after for that special night out.

Bin And Gone

Confusion reigns here in the Millionaires' Playground, following the local council's recent decision to redraft its rubbish collection schedule by means of a crack-crazed hamster scampering across a time sheet, dragging a felt tip pen between its teeth.

The service is so irregular that the streets are positively buzzing most days with millionaires in their Dunhill smoking jackets, first carrying out their bulging bin bags, then later bringing them in again when they realise the collection was made several hours/days/months earlier.

As a consequence, the seagulls have seized the opportunity to gorge on the feast of leftover caviar and blinis these bin bags contain. Most have grown to the size of flying poodles, and now snap all but the stoutest of TV aerials when they land on them.

Old Red Eyes Is Back

Re that last post, I've just been persuaded that Frank would also understand the need to make regular comebacks, so in the true spirit of the bewigged one, I'm back!

Ha ha, you can't get rid of me that easily.

I Did It My Way

With my new found notoriety comes additional responsibility, and, after much soul searching, I am afraid I have decided that I am not the man to shoulder that particular burden.

As my old showbiz pal Frank Sinatra said, there have been times when I bit off more than I could chew, and, now that those chickens are coming home to roost, I find I lack the moral fibre to face eating them up and spitting them out. Beautiful lyrics, those.

Frank would also certainly have understood all the talk there's been this week of concrete overcoats and propping up the Turner Centre, and heaven forbid that I should wake up one morning to find a seagull's head lying next to me.

So I must therefore thank you all for your brickbats and bouquets, and bid you adieu.

I'm off to Bournemouth. Now that's a place that really does understand millionaires.

Outed

I see that one of the local 'newspapers' is calling for an end to my 'poison blog entry', and is appealing to readers to grass me up.

I must say, if I have caused any unintended offence with my musings about Ramsgate, or, indeed, the rest of the area, I apologise unreservedly. Furthermore, if any of the elevated personages I have mentioned on these pages feels aggrieved or hard done by, let me say that nothing I have written was meant to be taken personally. I am merely guilty of attempting to amuse my many readers.

As to my real identity, which has been much debated, I can now reveal that I am in fact the late President Richard Millhouse Nixon. Following my death in 1994, I was secretly put into cryogenic suspension by the CIA, and shipped to a warehouse round the back of Ramsgate Harbour. Unfortunately, due to an electrical fault, I thawed out at the end of last year, and now walk among you.

Now, when are the local elections?

Driving The Thanet Way

I was in a bit of a panic yesterday, rushing around Thanet in the Smart car (I reserve the TT for motorway munching), in a last minute attempt to purchase a set of false Dracula teeth for my guest appearance on 'Psychic Fright Night Live'.

As I was dashing about, it struck me that the rules of the road on the Ile are slightly different from those that pertain in the rest of the United Kingdom. Unfortunately there did not appear to be a 'Thanet Highway Code' on the shelves of W H Smith at Westwood Cross, so I can only annotate the few rules I have noticed so far.

Rule One: I'm 96 And I'll Drive How The F*** I Like. Practically universal rule, applies to 90% of drivers in Westgate.

Rule Two: Never Indicate Where You Are Going. This rule apears to be especially observed on roundabouts, or as you are about to turn left into a road from which a car has been waiting for several days to turn right.

Rule Three: Never Park Between The Lines In A Car Park. Always, if you can, skew your vehicle so that you take up at least two spaces. At least one of the spaces should be reserved for the disabled. If anyone complains, respond with the words: "What are you looking at, I'll park where the f*** I like".

Rule Four: My Car Is DEFINITELY Faster Than Yours And If You Attempt To Overtake Me I Will Prove It.

Rule Five: The Diesel Is At Least 0.5p Cheaper At This Petrol Station, I Will Fill My Crummy Old White Van To The Brim So That Diesel Sloshes Out Of The Filler On Every Bend For The Next Six Miles, Spelling Certain Death For The Next Motorcyclist That Has The Temerity To Come This Way.

Rule Six: This Is My Road And I Will Continue To Drive For The Next 20 Miles In The Outside Lane Of This Dual Carriageway At 65 MPH Despite The Fact That There Are No Other Vehicles Ahead Of Me.

Rule Seven: This Baked Bean Can Which I Have Welded To The End Of My Exhaust Pipe So That My Vehicle Sounds Like A Flatulent Walrus Certainly Increases My Chances Of Getting Laid.

If you have any more tips for safe driving in the area, do let me know.

Ghost Story

Well, the guest appearance on 'Psychic Night Fright Live!' could have gone better. How was I to know Cilla wasn't wearing a bra? Derek's the bloody psychic. Amateurs, flipping amateurs.

Blue Sky Thinking

Another glorious day of brilliant sunshine and stunningly blue skies leads me to reflect on how lucky we are with our climate here in Ramsgate.

While other, more northerly parts, of the Ile de Thanet suffer from freezing sea mists, storm force winds, plagues of boils, etc, here on the sheltered, southern side we bask in practically Mediterranean conditions.

Although I'm not altogether certain it yet warrants the bucket and spade, and wind break, that the gentlemen who has just walked past my window was carrying.

Dreamedupland

I might have had rather too many sherbets with Elton yesterday lunchtime, as I could have sworn I saw an item here last night apologising for the rude comments I made earlier in the week about Margate's beloved Dreamland. I must have accidentally deleted it, careless me.

In a further outburst of public spiritedness, I am today announcing the Eastcliff Richard Competition To Find Something To Do With Dreamland (not a very snappy title, I'm afraid).

Ideas will be considered in two categories: Rides and Attractions, and what to do with the Dreamland site as a whole.

In the rides and attractions category we've already had the following entries:

- Hamster juggling
- The 'You Looking At Me Or What?' Hall of Mirrors
- The Rickety Rockety Rollercoaster (years of neglect guaranteed)

In the competition to find a suitable, alternative use for the site, we've so far had:

- Seafood Centre/Skate Park (presumably fish other than skate will also be eaten/exhibited)
- Dreadland (Convention and Conference Centre for Local Rastafarians)
- Schemeland (Convention and Conference Centre for Local Politicians)
- Arsonworld (my own favourite)

The competition will be judged by myself and Elton, our decisions will be final. The closing date for entries is Friday 31st March.

The two lucky winners will receive gold-plated barkers' nests, plucked from the very pavement in front of my luxury, cliff-top mansion, here on the East Cliff of Ramsgate, the Millionaires' Playground.

Board Teenagers

As I was driving back from the charity cheese and wine do last night, I had to brake so hard the old glass eye almost popped out of its socket.

Admittedly, it was one of the dingier back streets round here, but you still don't expect to encounter a fully erected ironing board in the middle of the road at that time of night, do you?

H5N1 Flu Over The Cuckoo's Nest

With all the seagulls round here, it won't take long for this chicken flu thing to take hold and wipe out much of the population. Fortunately us Ramsgate millionaires have been secretly hoarding Tamiflu for the past year, and will probably be alright.

That didn't prevent poor Angela, though, from collapsing in tears when she returned to her gleaming black Cayenne, after popping up from Barnes for afternoon tea today. Some seabird, which I can only imagine had been scavenging senna pods out of one of the many bin bags that festoon our road, had turned her new 4x4 into what looked like a negative of a Dalmatian.

We had to rush the poor woman to the nearest car wash for emergency treatment.

Inconsolable

To say I'm devastated is an understatement.

I've scoured the entire paper, and not a single mention of how many keyrings our man has now amassed.

I'm off to open a vein.

Waiting For Fobot

Only a few more hours now until Adscene is stuffed through my letterbox.

Be still my beating heart.

Dreamland News

A flurry of excitment over in Margate, the Arsonists' Playground, where a gentleman called One-Eyed Pete has got pulses racing by announcing that he is going to 'fill Dreamland with rides for the summer'.

Mr Pete's list of exciting attractions includes:

- Stepladder climb (tickets available for both the upward and downward legs)
- Stuffed cat spinning on a turntable
- The Pirate Bench (new from Latvia)
- Bogie picking
- General arsing about
- Burgers

That should bring the tourists flocking.

Our Lady Of The Soiled Bedsheet

Roused from my slumber again last night by what sounded like a great dane servicing a poorly lubricated hovermower on the other side of town, I turned on the television to find Margate's very own Tracey Emen wafting around in a garden, surrounded by delightful modern sculptures.

These marvellous pieces were just what I've been looking for to adorn my small patch, and Tracey was even talking to a man from Sotheby's about how one might be expected to pay millions for such an objet. Just the ticket, I thought. I'll pop over to Ms Emen's garden centre in the morning and pick one up.

Later in the programme, however, it transpired that Tracey's place is not in Margate after all, but St Ives, which is somewhere in Cornwall. Perhaps she fears that, if she were to open such an establishment in her home town, her statues would not be able to compete with the demand for gnomes waving a fishing rod that seem to be all the rage there.

A Doctor Writes

Having recently complained to my MP, Dr Stephen Ladyperson, about the dreadful state of the local street lamps, I have now received a response.

I am told that, unfortunately, the good doctor-cum-politician is too busy at the moment being Minister in Charge of Traffic Wardens to communicate directly with pillars of the community such as myself. However, he has asked a minnion to get in touch.

Meanwhile the number of street lamps that are not working on the approach to Ramsgate's Monte Carlo style marina has actually decreased, from more than 13 down to 7. One would like to imagine that this was due to the sterling efforts of our local car-crushing councillor, David Green, or the 219 letters of complaint I have written to Kent County Council.

I'm afraid, though, that it's more likely to be the result of a passing party of Norwegian electricians, hell bent on a drunken night of debauchery in our harbourside Ramada, finding the situation an effrontery to their profession and feeling compelled to do the decent thing.

Moores' Law

Congratulations to Dr Simon Moores from the Thanet Life blog for stumbling across my fevered musings over here on Ramsgate's East Cliff.

I can heartily recommend Dr Moore's site (the link is on the right) as a font of all wisdom and news regarding the Ile de Thanet.

Even though he appears to live in Birchington.

Krakatoa, East Of Ramsgate

Glancing through one of Thanet's more upmarket publications, an advertisement caught my eye.

"Add sophistication to your function," it said.

Sophistication, eh? That could be right up my street. I'm always on the lookout for ways to pep up my garden parties. What could it be? A troupe of performing Indian elephants? A Buckingham Palace-sized marquee, perhaps? Or maybe a new home performance service from the English National Opera?

"Add sophistication to your function. The Chocolate Volcano. Indulge in all of your desires. Details to hire the Chocolate Fountain etc etc"

You can imagine my disappointment.

Sign Of The Times

Bombing back from London this evening in the TT, I was gratified to see that someone has at last carried out my suggestion of renovating the Ramsgate sign on the outskirts of town.

Gone are the blobs of chewing gum which once adorned it, forming an alarming night time simulacrum of bullet holes in the partially reflected glare of the TT's headlights. Gone, too, are the invasive ivy, mildew and diesel stains. Conflans, unfortunately, remains, but apart from that, the sign shines out like a beacon, a fitting welcome for millionaires and lesser mortals alike.

A pity, though, that there are still more than 147 unilluminated street lights on the charming cliff road down to the marina. Perhaps us millionaires should have a whip round and lend poor old Thanet District Council 50p to put in the meter.

Fobbing Marvellous

Keyring Ronnie, the Thanet man who wants to be in the Guinness Book of Records for having the largest collection of keyrings in the world, has now been contacted by the BBC, according to 'Adscene', the fish and chip vendor's friend.

Apparently the BBC are going to send a researcher to his bungalow. One has to wonder what monstrous crime this poor researcher has committed to deserve such a punishment.

Meanwhile, according to the paper, 'another sackful of keyrings hit the office this week'. Good. Give it a month or two and the whole place will hopefully have been completely demolished.

Call Me A Cab

I was waiting in the old TT outside the local Pizza Express the other night, while Elton popped in to get his usual takeaway order of a Quattro Formaggi with double extra cheese, when a total stranger opened the passenger door and got in.

"Hello," I said in a pleasant tone, assuming that he had recognised me from the UK Living tribute the other night, and perhaps wanted my autograph.

"Station mate," he grunted, wafting the unmistakable stench of stale beer all over the Alcantara leather.

"I'm sorry, I'm not a cab," I retorted.

"Well, you shouldn't be parked on a bloody taxi rank then, should you?" he burped, rather too grumpily for my liking.

With that he got out and slammed the door so hard I thought the TT was going to roll over, just as I was suggesting that perhaps he shouldn't be getting so pie-eyed at half past eight in the evening that he couldn't tell the difference between a local millionaire, out and about on celebrity business, and a common or garden, taxi-driving herbert.

Dumper Truck

A beautiful day here in Ramsgate, the Millionaires' Playground. Blue skies with the odd fluffy cloud being blown along by the standard biting wind. My view of the silver briny blighted only marginally by the camper van which has decided to park opposite my study window.

Hold on, though, here comes the owner, a middle-aged man wearing one of those gaudy, yellow, high visibility jackets. He's probably about to set off again.

In he gets.

He's moving to the back of the van and getting into a small cupboard.

He's been there some time now.

Ye Gods.

Oh well, I suppose one must at least be grateful that he's not doing it on the pavement.