…. and a gorgeous one it is too, just like the fella in question. Thank you kind Sir, I am a very lucky lady to get to meet such wonderful guys as you. All the sentiments expressed in that review are totally reciprocated. I had a fabulous evening, see you soon, much love xxx
I keep bumping into celebrities. No, Im not one of those nutcase celeb stalkers, we just happen to be in the same place, oh I say!
I was at a party at the Mandarin Oriental the other night when this very, very famous sportsman walked towards me and stopped. ‘Well you look familiar’ says I with a twinkle in my eye (no he was not a client) and he said ‘Oh hello!, how are you?, havent seen you for ages!’ (‘more like never’ thought I) As he carried on talking I thought ‘He has absolutely no idea who I am, hehehe’ No I didnt put him out of his misery, that would have been rude and much less fun.
At another ‘do’ and I bump into Sven-Goren Eriksson’s ex, ‘Mwah, mwah; Nancy darling! How are you?!’
Oh I am wicked :)
PS, Did you see that piece in the Sunday Times last weekend, My Courtesan Life of Sex and Champers? I tried to link to it but it wouldnt allow me to. Search for it though, its a good read.
Miss Ayo-Sue sent me this and, well you will read for yourself and see how funny it is. But then, reading ”perfect day”, I had to pop on a bit of Lou Reed’s Perfect Day (as you do) on my sexy ipod. Got to love that ipod, (catch Lou Reed below, happy memories – I was introduced to Mr Reed at the age of 14, no not him personally; his music. I used to kiss boys to his music, Oh my!) and thanks A-S, you gorgeous thing xxx
PS It is probably too tiny to read on here but click on it and it will take it you to a window where you can read it properly.
Oh I have to giggle as I write this because Mr x and I, well we were talking about certain things (all will become clear in a mo) and I said ‘fill my box’ would be a great title for a post wouldnt it?’ and off it went into all sorts of double entendre, back and forth.
Anyway, you know that I like champagne, just a teeny, tiny bit, right?
Well Mr x is a bit of an authority on champagne (how goddamn sexy is that??) and brought the most delicious champagne to join the one I had got for our dinner. You see, Mr x is of the opinion that the smaller champagne houses are usually far superior than the larger ones with big marketing budgets, and do you know? I cant argue with him right now because, as I said, the one he produced was splendid, fabulous. I had one too, a rose from a smaller house that was recommended to me and I could only get it at Fortnums. Stunning it was too.
So you also know about my little collection? The metal tops of champagnes that I have sipped? Here’s the post. Well, Ive got two new tops for my collection tonight, hence the ‘fill my box’ quip. Oh you had to be there.
Do you want to though? Fill my box? ;)
When Napoleon Bonaparte died in May 1821, there were fears that rumours woudl spread about the manner of his death (recent claims included the suggestion that he was poisoned), which may explain why no fewer than seventeen witnesses were invited to observe the autopsy which was carried out the day after he died by the Emperor’s own doctor, Francesco Antommarchi.
On the Emperor’s own instructions, his heart was removed first. Napoleon had asked that it be sent to his wife Marie-Louise, though the heart apparently vanished before it could be delivered. Curiouser and curiouser.
The stomach was carefully examined and at the time it was agreed that cancer was the cause of death. Nothing else is recorded as having been removed. However, within a few decades it was commonly supposed that Napoleon’s penis had been cut off and stored away carefully during the autopsy. Oddly this was not mentioned in any of the seventeen witnesses present at the time of the autopsy. But several commentator (let me tell you the commentators joke, go on!) have suggested that the body was not guarded at all times during the procedure and while everyone’s backs were turned Napoleon’s organ could have been quickly snipped off (Ouch).
Napoleon’s friemd Vignali, who adminstered the last rites, was left a large sum of money in Napoleon’s will as well as numerous ‘personal affects’ – these were not specified however. Thirty years later Napoleon’s manservant claimed that Vignali had indeed removed various parts of Napoleon’s body, but this was not corroborated.
By 1916, the material bequeathed to Vignali had been sold en masse to a London collector, who some years later sold the collection to an American. it was at this point that the peni sstory became more substantial. The description of the collection included the curious phrase mentioning ‘the mummified tendon taken from Napoleon’s body during the post-mortem’.
By the 1930′s A.S Rosenbach, an American collector, was displaying the ‘tendon’ in a blue velvet case and describing it as Napoleon’s penis. It trravelled to France and was later the centrepiece of a grand display at the Museum of French Art in New York.
A newspaper report described the organ as looking something like a maltreated strip of buckskin shoelace or shriveled eel’. Reports – largely stemming from Napoleon himself – that he was particularly well-endowed seem to be contradicted by the fact that the organ was also described as an inch long and resembling a grape. (Id like to see their’s almost 100 years after their death)
The most extraordinary part of this story occurred in London in 1972 when the putative penis was put up for sale – complete with magnificent velvet-lined case – at the London auction house Christie’s along with the rest of the Vignali collection. The collection failed to reach its reserve and was withdrawn. A few years later the penis popped up (pardon?!) again, this time in Paris and unemcumbered by all the other paraphernalia of the collection. The penis was bought by John Lattimer, a retired professor od Urology (apropriately enough) at the University of Columbia for $3,000. The penis is still, as it were, in Professor Latimer’s hands.
Arghh!
I was due to have lunch with the lovely Ayo-Sue today, somewhere very fab and a place I have had on my list for a while. Of course I was very excited to be catching up with Ayo too. So, I plan my day, I even had a relatively early night last night to be fresh and lively. So I get everything ready and try to run a bath. Uh oh! no water, what? this cant be right. I used to have intermittent plumbing problems in the southwest, it cant be happening again surely. Am I doomed to be plagued by the plumbers curse? I know, I know that I am lucky to have water running from my taps (usually), plenty dont but I desperately didnt want to let this lady down, but now I have and I have to wait for a plumber to arrive and he wont tell me when that will be and she has to lunch alone. I’ll make it up to her though, Im so sorry darling x
Well that was the title of the piece, but dont be too sure ;) I have another post about Catherine Walters but I liked this one too. Now I reside in London, I shall have to pay a visit to the past residences of these wonderful ladies. I think the assumption of the demise of the Courtesan is because of modern society’s looser morals, media intrusion and the reduction of power of the aristocracy. Powerful men still and will always exisit and one could argue that they are the new aristocracy. Like I say, dont be too sure about the demise of the Courtesan, the most discreet of ladies may still enjoy the same status even though they dont necessarily bed royalty, may I be so bold?
English prostitutes probably suffered most in the nineteenth century, which not only criminalised them but also patronised them. Earlier centuries accepted the role of the honest whore with more equanimity. In the nineteeth century only one sort of ‘lady’ could live within the vague bounds of of respectability – the sort who slept with kings and princes. If the king insisited that his mistress be allowed to accompany him to country houses, the theatre and other social engagements then everyone had to be polite to her. Lower down the social scale a mistress would be completely ostracised in a society that expected respectable women to be so delicate that it was as much as they could do to lie on a sofa all day long complaining about headaches.
But in the thick of all this hypocrisy we can still espy the mighty creature that is Catherine Walters (1839-1920), tales of whose extraordinary exploits filled the air of Victorian and Edwardian London . Mrs Walters – whose nickname was Skittles – is also proof that the power of personality can overcome almost any obstacle.
She was known as Skittle for reasons no one can now discover – it may have been that she started work in Skittle Alley, Liverpool, but she was a great beauty in her youth as well as being part of a line of professional courtesans stretching back to Nell Gwynn and beyond.
What is most remarkable about Skittles is that she lived through an age which was probably the most moralistic – even if hypocritically s0 – in British history. The Victorian obsession with purity and chastity except within marriage combined with the absolute rule of respectability meant that any middle – or working-class woman suspected of sexual irregularity (as the Victorian newspapers might have put it) would be shunned by everyone, but as always there was one rule for the majority and an entitirely different rule for the elite.
Because Mrs Walters was the paid mistress of a number of members of the aristocracy and royalty she had to be received into society if her various partners insisted on it. But even without aristocratic patronage the decidedly eccentric Skittles would have arrived anyway. She was in many respects immune to the rules that applied to most people simply because she did not give a fig about them. She was the mistress of the Duke of Devonshire and the Marquis of Hartington among others and insisted on the finest clothes and carriages – finer even it was said than the wives of her lovers. Stories about her are legion. She loved horses and hunting and once when out with the Quorn in Leicestershire she had caught up with leaders of the field throughout. The master of hounds ventured to compliment her on the fine flushed colour of her cheeks. ‘That’s nothing’ she replied ‘You should see the colour of my ruddy arse!’
She reached the height of her fame in 1861 when any rumour that she might be driving in the park on a Sunday would lead to huge crowds assembling to catch a glimpse of her. She lived for many years at No 15 South Street, Mayfair – the house is still there – and in old age was pushed in her wheelchair through Hyde Park by none other than Lord Kitchener.
I love the sound of Ms Walters, what a gal. It reminds me a lot of the other ladies I know in this business; gutsy, honest, clever, witty and fun. Ladies, I salute you x
Yes again but not too far away. Phew! this time I have removal fellas coming in to do it all. Next available 27th July, see you then I hope xxx
A lot of people have said recently that I look French. I personally dont think I do. When you say ‘French lady’ I think of Nicole in the Renault TV advertisements of the 1980′s and 90′s. Il n’est pas si?
She (and ladies who look like her, I have a friend who does) are fantastic, gorgeous, and I wish I did look like her/them. I really do. But I dont. I have more of a Bridget Bardot sex kitten look and always have had since I was around 15, which I try to tame down with a Grace Kelly cool blonde style :) So when we go out my lovely, you get Grace Kelly and when the boudoir beckons, I morph into Bridget Bardot – voila!
We all want what nature has not bestowed upon us though and the darker, chic, sultry looks of a Nicole – yes I would love that. But I am what I am and I make do with what I have been lucky enough to have been given.
But they say it, that I look French. ‘How and why?’, I ask. ‘You have that gamine look about you’ they say. Hmmm.
Gamine is a French word, the feminine form of gamin, originally meaning urchin, waif or playful, naughty child.
The word was used in English from about the mid 19th century (for example, by Thackeray in 1840 in one of his Parisian sketches), but, in the 20th century, came to be applied in its more modern sense of a slim, often boyish, wide-eyed young woman who is, or is perceived to be, mischievous, teasing or sexually appealing – think Audrey Hepburn, who is obviously beyond fabulous.
Gamine has been used particularly of such women in the performing arts or world of fashion. In that context, the closest English word – of Anglo-Norman origin – is probably “waif” (although “gamine” is often seen as conveying an additional sense of style and Chic).
It sounds awfully glam but boyish waif I am not darlings. Let me embrace some of it though. Chic and style I will gratefully have (I’ll tuck it into my bra strap) and mischievous, teasing and sexually appealing I will definitely take and pop that under my suspender belt. Yes I am part French but for the life of me, I cant see me as gamine, but thanks anyway, you are too kind.
Of course ‘French’ has other connotations; French Kissing, French Polish (which in our world means oral sex, Ohh la la) and of course a French letter which we always use :) Ok maybe I am more French than I know or acknowledge. Embrasse-moi ;)
Yes we are still on the stangest tales of London :)
Dr James Graham was a genuine doctor, but at a time when all genuine doctors were by modern standards complete frauds – the evidence for this can be seen in the fact that, for example the Edinburgh medical textbook of 1750 listed under ‘valuable remedies’ the following: horse dung, pig skulls, frogspawn, ants’ eggs and ground-up human skulls.
But Dr Graham, although interested in medicine, was far more interested in money, which is why when he left his native Edinburgh for London in around 1774 he set up his surgery in the most fashionable part of town at the time – St James.
By 1779 he had realised that an important medical affliction was not at that time being addressed by any medical practitioner. Dr Graham decided that he would corner the market in cures for infertility. He set his Temple of the Hymen in Pall Mall and took large expensive advertisements in the London newspapers. In these he made outlandish claims for the extrardinary benefits of what he called his ‘Cellestial bed’ The idea was that infertile couples would seek out the doctor, ask his advice and then be directed to his own certain cure: the Celestial Bed. Not only would the bed cure infertility – it would also ensure that any children conceived on it were far stronger and more beautiful ‘in mental as well as in bodily endowments than the present puny race of Christians’.
The bed could only be rented and couples paid exorbitant sums for the privilege – perhaps as much as £100 per session (around £12000 today).
Graham claimed that while an infertile couple had sex on his bed he would activate a mechanism that would surround the happy couple with ‘celestial fire’ and ‘cherishing vapours’. He would also pump through glass tubes the very same perfumes used by the Turkish Sultan to guarantee that he could keep up with the demands of his enormous harem.
Despite the bed’s mattress being made from the baked tails of sexually rapacious English stallions, history does not record the levels of statisfaction enjoyed by Dr Graham’s customers, but we do know that within a few years of the advertisments appearing, the good doctor vanished from the London scene.
Im not quite sure about the correlation between viagra and infertility, apart from the obvious; but its a great story and one I wanted to share. I get asked about viagra – a lot. My opinion is that it is a fantastic little pill and definitely does work. However, like must drugs, it has serious side effects and I would urge my fellas NOT to purchase anything of this nature from sources on the internet. Please go and see your GP. They know your history and can do a quick health check (blood pressure is the key factor here) to make sure all is ok.
Now then, I am off to find some celestial fire, cherishing vapours, and let me see, what else is on my list? Oh yes the baked tails of sexually rapacious stallions, do you think Waitrose will have them?
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