14 January 2018

Hey I’ve got a Twitter account. That’s right; I’ve actually got a Twitter account. Well whaddya know!

After all these years of laughing at the mindless melts who chatter away childishly on this site, I apparently have my own Twitter feed complete with dopey duck pout selfies . How cool am I? A wise man speaks when he has something to say, a fool speaks when he has to say something. That’s Twitter’s motto, I think.

Oh, no, it’s not me after all on this Twitter account. It’s some American girl wrestler who’s decided to use the name Miss Spiteful as her Twitterati account. An American female wrestler? Well not much chance they’ll get us mixed up, I don’t suppose.

I’m afraid the “sport” of show-biz wrestling conjures up images of Mick McManus and Jackie Pallo dancing around the ring and Kent Walton on the mic at the ringside and screaming old girls believing it all to be real. Because, of course, female wrestling isn’t choreographed at all, is it? It’s all perfectly above board and genuine.

I’ve used the name Miss Spiteful for over 20 years now. It came about because I once grabbed hold of the thigh and squeezed hard of a dear friend, Ian, now sadly departed. He squealed and lovable old Nick said, “Oh look out, Miss Spiteful’s around.” And we all thought it was a great and distinctive name to use as Domme. That was around 1996.

And this Twitter account is hot on the heels of Steph who decided my website was so good, she cut and pasted large chunks of it and claimed it for her own website. Just a shame they left my name in the text. I created my own website in 2001 and wrote a lot of it as you see around 2003.

Now I know it might be difficult for some of you to think for yourselves but you do have a brain, so maybe you should try using it and be original. But maybe this American female wrestler Miss Spiteful picked the name purely at random, in ignorance perchance; after all they do say ignorance is bliss.

I wonder if she gets phone calls and text messages asking if she offers fisting and toilet training as well.

6 January 2018

Twelfth Night

Or what you will. Thank heavens that’s all over until next time; whenever that is. I had a number of house guests, most of whom decided to drink my entire collection of Sancerre; I think about four or five bottles a day was the average. And poor old slave Daffydd, we went off to meet my friend Jon, the Nawashi, in a pub and Daffydd fell over. That’s before we’d even had a drink. I had to wear a nurse’s uniform for the next couple of days.

Anyway, now I’ve decided to give up drinking wine, like everybody else until February. And I’ve also made a New Year’s resolution that, yet again, I’m not going to become a vegan. I know it’s going to be hard but I think I’ll be able to do it.

You know what these vegans are like, sandal wearing, self-righteous creatures who demand to know every ingredient of some dish you’ve spent hours preparing in case it’s been tainted with meat products. Foie gras? Good heavens, no, it’s mushroom pate. Believe me. Well it’s not going to hurt them, is it? Ignorance is bliss. I could just as well have bought it from Marks and Sparks.

I once told Lovable old Nick that we had a vegetarian coming for Sunday lunch and he famously replied, “Vegetarian? What the f*** do they eat?” Exactly. They eat the same as us in this house; we just say it doesn’t contain any meat or diary. It’s either that or they can fight Sprout the budgie for a bowlful of bird seed. Offended? See if I care. Being a non-vegan is going to be very difficult but I think I’ll manage to get through the year eating beef, pork, lamb, chicken and fish, cheese, eggs, bacon and anything else I can find in the fridge.

Then, instead of the Queen’s Speech, as I refuse to fund the lifestyles of the metropolitan socialist elite with the television tax, we all sit around and watch the latest Pat Condell video on uTube. It’s not much different to the old baked bean wishing for the good old days when we still had an Empire and when most of the atlas was red and ruled by Great Britain anyway as Pat is often discussing the ways foreigners have enhanced life in Europe in general. His latest video is about how Common Purpose have taken over the police force and made saying anything unkind or unfriendly about these foreign gimmigrants, child rapists or jihadi terrorists into a hate crime.

And on top of all of that, I’ve had beggars knocking on the door every ten minutes asking for money for Christmas. Be off with you. Damned carol singers.

I also attended the Two Kings Christmas Spanking Party and spanked a couple of bottoms but unfortunately a couple of my regulars were missing through ill-health but I had a lovely chat with my friend, Mistress Cordelia.

So that’s it for another year, now where’s my cane?

I Don’t Believe It

The cheek of it! Laurence, a 66 year old pensioner from Wembley, who says he’s a novice, calls me asking me what I would do if he was naughty in class. Naturally, the answer is to take his trousers down, make him touch his toes and then a good hard six of the best. After about ten minutes of similar questions, I manage to get the old boy off the telephone as I suspect he’s playing with his old boy. Then he telephones me back to tell me he’d once wet himself in junior school and what would I do about that? Well I can see where this is going so after a telling him he would need toilet training, but I don’t offer that then he tells me I’m depraved and lectures me that when I’m standing in front of St Peter to answer for all my sins, I shall go to hell.

Oh dear! I hadn’t thought of that. Should I change my ways?

Laurence’s telephone number is: 07448 007496, if you’d like to leave a message for him. Now normally I wouldn’t bother with some idiot like this but after kindly answering all his questions, I don’t see why I should accept this type of effrontery. I have put his telephone number on here because when I searched for his number, it comes up on whocalled.co.uk and shows he contacts a lot of people and is a rather offensive nut case.



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