Golden Browne

The East Cliff's grimy back streets are remarkably clear of barkers' nests at the moment, and the crushed Carlsberg and Strongbow cans are easily circumnavigated, so I thought I'd vary my route for today's afternoon stroll. Blow me down if I didn't come across this:

A wall plaque commemorating John Collis Browne, inventor of one of the Victorian era's most famous patent medicines. It seems Mr Pfizer wasn't the only pharmaceuticalist to take a shine to this part of Kent! Upon closer inspection the plaque reveals that it commemorates the death of Collis Browne in the very house it's attached to at the, er, ripe old age of 65. So perhaps the stuff wasn't exactly the elixir of life.

Upon arriving back at my cliff top mansion, I took the liberty of looking the chap up on Wikipedia. Apparently his 'Chlorodyne' mixture sold in bucketloads. Not surprising, really, as it was mainly composed of opium, chloroform and cannabis.

I'm sure he'd be pleased to know that you can still buy at least two of those ingredients within yards of his plaque, albeit no longer from a chemist!

News Snooze

Once again the Gazunder has followed up two of my stories. Drugs raids (from two weeks ago) is today's front page lead, and caulis (from a week ago, and which the BBC followed up on Monday) lead page two.

Perhaps I should be charging a licence fee and taking advertising!

Down And Out In Ramsgate Or London?

As regular readers will have no doubt surmised, I've not had much work lately, apart from an offer from P&O to support Jimmy Cricket on a Baltic cruise. And now that our monocular visioned, Prime-Minister-in-waiting's pals at the Bank of England have pumped up interest rates again, well, something's got to give.

So what shall it be? Sell the pied-a-terre in Chelsea and settle here in Ramsgate? Or flog the cliff top mansion and trundle off back to the village? It was this dilemma that was fevering the old Eastcliff brow as I tottered home from knocking back a couple of pints of the Gaddfather's finest at my favourite watering hole last night. Then a sign appeared.

They say that all life is in London, but I beg to differ. After all, where else, in the space of little more than 24 hours, and in the same street, can you witness a drugs raid, an open-air display of male micturation, and two chaps inflating rubber mattresses in the middle of the road at midnight?

Nope, there's no two ways about it - it's Ramsgate for me!

Nicked!

You go for weeks without seeing a bobby, and then six come along all at once!

Toddling down to the newsagents for my copy of Gra*ia just now, my glass eye nearly popped out of its socket as round the corner of Augusta Road marched half a dozen of our blue uniformed finest in stab vests. One was carrying a battering ram. My initial reaction was to rummage through the old grey matter in pursuit of any unpaid parking fines I may have neglected, but to my relief they brushed right past.

Naturally curiosity got the better of me, and I watched as they proceeded to make a forcible entry into one of those grimy residences on Truro Road. Much shouting and screaming from a top floor window, including the words: GET THAT OUT OF YOUR MOUTH NOW!, ensued.

One can only assume that they were on the trail of another of our talented local, er, horticulturalists. And they say nothing happens around here.