Pushing The Boat Out

On my morning toddle down to the Costcutter for my copy of Gra*ia (oh what glittering lives us celebs lead), I noticed the RNLI lifeboat was in serious trouble off the Haribo coast, just beyond Wrigley Rock, south of the Trident Sands. Yes, I'm talking about the charity lifeboat that I customarily pop any loose change in.

It's now in serious danger of turning turtle, due to the weight of 'Herbal V' it appears to be carrying on its deck. The noxious looking sachets promise 'sexual pleasure for men' and seem to offer a whole new way of, er, 'launching the lifeboat' for the older male. To be frank, I felt like telling them to stick their Herbal V, and the rest of the sugary crap that's overwhelmed the RNLI box, up their arses. But then, I'm far too polite. And I guess they know what their customers want to splash out on better than I do!

Council Cancels Christmas

Further news of cost-cutting and blood-letting at our beloved council has reached the old Eascliff lugholes. Yes dear reader, even on a Bank Holiday Monday I must be a slave to your news lust and forgo plans to whip out my trusty old throbber and give it a thrashing!

My spies on Uranus report that Chief Executive Yosemite Samuel ushered grim-faced senior officers into a meeting last week to give them the gloomy news that large pruning shears are being sharpened and that even 'the topmost branch may go too'. Presumably if you add diminishing receipts from credit-crunched tenants and council taxpayers to the interest being paid on assets that are becoming increasingly worthless, it all adds up to a large pile of sod-all. Hence the need for drastic action.

So it looks as if the only turkey Thanet Council will be carving up this Christmas is itself! What worries me is that they can barely be classed as competent in the boom times, let alone with all these costly chickens coming home to roost!

Late Night Line Up

Whilst making an emergency gin run to the local Murco/Costcutter just now, I observed the following interchanges take place through the late night, plate glass security grille:

First (tracksuited) customer: Can o' Stellaaar 'n er packet o' blue Rizlaaars.
Costcutter dude: £1.30
Second (suited) customer: Do you have any crumpets?
Costcutter dude: Uh?
Second (suited) customer: Round, bread type things. You eat them with butter.
Costcutter dude: Uh?
Second (suited) customer: No, no, you probably don't stock those. Do you have any croissants?
Costcutter dude: Uh?
Second (suited) customer: Croissants?
Costcutter dude: Uh?
Second (suited) customer: A bit like cakes? You have them at breakfast.

With all us millionaires piling into the area, surely it's about time they opened a 24 hour Fortnums Express round here?

Local Customs

All the nice girls love a sailor. Or in this case an HM Customs and Revenue officer, but that's a bit prosaic. This is HMCC Valiant, and we'll be getting used to the cut of her jib here in the Millionaires' Playground, as she seems to now have a permanent berth in the Royal Harbour. Here's what they say about her on one of those websites for nautical anoraks:

Special care has been taken to provide a high standard of living accommodation for the crew during operations. Low noise levels and a relaxation area for those off-watch reduces crew fatigue. The large, well-equipped galley is designed to enable the crew to prepare meals and drinks in all sea conditions.

Cruisey! Assuming she can actually get out of the harbour at low tide, that is, seeing as half the entrance now appears to have sprouted a new beach.

As I rather nosily peeked through the windows, I caught one of those bell-bottomed types peering back at me through an enormous pair of binocs. Maybe I should speak to my accountant about getting those tax returns up to date!

Fun In The Sun

As temperatures here on the UK's Costa Cutter soared into the 90s yesterday, I decided it would be a splendid opportunity to check out how the tourist trade was coming along. So it was on with the leathers and onto the old throbber for a quick thrash around the island.

First stop Ramsgate, and as befits Kent's premier Monte Carlo style resort the place was heaving. Versace wearing, Ferrari driving millionaires were parked up along the marina, sipping lattes and nibbling ciabattas outside the continental cafes on Harbour Parade. It might have been the croissette, if it wasn't for the knackered old jets taking off from RAF London Kent Ramsgate Manston International Airport every ten minutes.

Next Boredstares, and despite the strange moustachioed men in Victorian bathing costumes giving some of the young middle class mums cause for concern, the joint was jumping. The experiment in converting the wibbly-wobbly jetty into a new beach is coming along a treat too. The sand now obscures all those boring white lines in the car park, so I was forced to place my gleaming machine on top of a Sharan load of chip munching nippers that had hogged the bike bay.

Then Margate. The unmistakeable smell so beloved by Ronnie Biggs was in evidence, but even I will admit that the front was packed. Albeit mainly with second generation unemployables wheeling the third generation along in pushchairs.

I pushed on to God's Waiting Room, Westgate, but as advertised the place was dead. Or at least heavily sedated. Not for nothing is the mini golf course on Westbrook front called Strokes.