Showing posts with label Goddamn Media. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Goddamn Media. Show all posts
Nov 25, 2024
Countess Diaries Chapter 27 The Countess Prepares for the Artistic Throne
Diary Entry: The Countess Prepares for the Artistic Throne
Ah, my dear and loyal readers, it seems I cannot bear a single day without sharing the intricate tapestry of my life with you, for such brilliance simply must be archived. Whether the world finds my exploits thrilling or not is, of course, irrelevant—this is art in motion, a living masterpiece, and I am but the grand orchestrator. So here I sit, mid-bath, pen in hand (metaphorically), preparing to regale you with the events of this most industrious day.
The alarm tolled at the ungodly hour of eight this morning—eight! I felt quite the pioneer, venturing out among Brighton’s early risers, a foreign species entirely. By nine (a more civilized hour), I had collected my printing, a batch so exquisite it might have been kissed by the muses themselves. Onward to the gallery I marched, laden with art, determination, and, admittedly, the vague annoyance that adhesive decisions now felt like choosing the next heir to the throne.
You see, the placement of each piece is an art form in itself. A gallery wall must be curated with precision and intent—no rogue angles or ungainly gaps here. I eschewed the vulgarity of Blu-Tack and instead opted for elegance with my trusty marker pen, scrawling titles and credits directly on the wall. Bold? Yes. A touch risky? Absolutely. But this is Brighton Arts Club, where convention bows to genius. Admittedly, a minor spelling hiccup occurred with “umberella” (blame Rihanna, truly), but no masterpiece is without its flaws.
Boy Cat, that fiendish little creature, tested my resolve at every turn. No sooner had I draped an art print over a trolley for safekeeping than he pounced, all paws and arrogance. A vandal! And then, to add insult, a passing plebeian had the audacity to mock him. Mock my Boy Cat! The nerve. I unleashed the full force of my scorn upon her with a glare so withering she scurried off faster than a common thief. Justice served.
The private members’ lounge, meanwhile, has undergone a transformation worthy of Versailles, thanks to my dear friend Sha Sha (his name an enigma, his gifts divine). Victorian nursing chairs, director’s chairs, and a rug now grace the space, elevating it from a barren chamber to a boudoir of decadence. Sha Sha, naturally, has earned himself free membership—a princely reward, I think, for such generosity.
Tina, my beloved cleaner, continues to perform miracles. She telepathically senses my chaos and eradicates it as though she were some divine deity of tidiness. I returned home to find the palace gleaming, a sanctuary of order amidst my creative whirlwind. How blessed I am!
Tonight’s ensemble has been meticulously chosen: a daring black dress, cut low at both the front and back, to showcase my tattoos (art upon art, if you will). Knee-length patent buckle boots will complete the look, with an arsenal of alternative footwear at the ready because, as every noblewoman knows, the key to survival in heels is rotation. The engineering of pressure points is a science I have mastered.
The event itself promises grandeur: a showcase of my art, an opportunity to mingle, and a chance to recruit new members for the club. My trusted lieutenants, Joanne and Danielle, will serve as my loyal attendants, ensuring all guests are treated like royalty. As for me? I shall glide among them, charming and resplendent, the very picture of grace and magnificence.
And when the festivities conclude? Perhaps a visit to Kelly’s bar or a catch-up with Mark, my cage-fighting friend turned doorman. (I mean, who else could one trust to keep the riffraff in check while simultaneously discussing life drawing classes?) The night is young, my energy boundless, and Brighton is mine to conquer.
So here I am, soaking in scented waters, plotting my ascent to tonight’s artistic throne. To those attending, I’ll see you on Lewes Road. And to those who aren’t—well, your loss entirely.
Yours in brilliance,
The Countess of Brighton and Hackney
Rat Gang Crew Logo Design by iServalan White on Black Framed Art Print
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Rat Gang Crew Logo Design by iServalan Black on White Framed Art Print
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Kiss Kiss Lady Love Monochrome Logo Heart Retro 1960s Framed Art Print
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Lucky Flying Unicorn by iServalan for Tale Teller Club Framed Art Print
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The Diamond Ovaries by Goddamn Media exclusive to Tale Teller Club Framed Art Print
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My DMs by Goddamn Media Archive Retro Punky Boots Monochrome Framed Art Print
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Mr Fox by Tale Teller Club Framed Art Print
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Dragonfly by Tale Teller Club Books Framed Art Print
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Going Underground Eye Graphic by Goddamn Media Archive at Tele Teller Club Framed Art Print
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Pink Flamingo at Midnight with Twinkly Stars by Goddamn Media Framed Art Print
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Leather Corset In White Fashion Illustration by Goddamn Media Framed Art Print
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Leather Corset Fashion Illustration by Goddamn Media Framed Art Print
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Mum’s Chihuahua Alfie in Florescent Green by Goddamn Media for Tale Teller Club Books Framed Art Print
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Fred Wears Puffballs and blows Bubbles Walking His Stag by iServalan Book s Framed Art Print
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Happy Hippo with Crane Fly Watercolour by Tale Teller Club Books Framed Art Print
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Nov 22, 2024
Countess Diaries Chapter 23 Parties, Cats, and the Smoking Conundrum
Diary Entry: Parties, Cats, and the Smoking Conundrum
Good evening, dear world, from the bath at Providence Palace, where I soak away the remnants of an utterly madcap weekend. The water’s teetering on the edge of tolerable heat, my throat’s gravelly from too many Marlboros, and my mind’s racing from the whirlwind that was the last few days. Allow me to regale you with tales of wild parties, feline escapades, and my ongoing battle with smoking.
The Friday Night Marathon
Friday’s party was the sort of event that legends (and exhaustion) are made of. Three birthdays—two gentlemen and one delightfully sassy lady—merged into one raucous celebration at the palace. The revelers danced like maniacs until half-past six in the morning, at which point I gently encouraged them to “go party somewhere else, dears.”
Twelve hours on my feet, not a moment’s rest, and by Saturday morning my legs felt like they’d been trampled by a particularly enthusiastic marching band. It was magnificent, but I’m not sure my noble constitution can survive too many such soirées. Age may not weary me, but hosting marathons might.
Cat Chaos
Saturday brought Cat Café, where feline therapy and tea reign supreme. Unfortunately, my staff abandoned ship, leaving me scrambling to prepare. There I was, bleary-eyed and running on fumes, fumbling with kettles and saucers like a sleep-deprived Downton Abbey maid. Eventually, reinforcements arrived, and the café was, as always, a haven for cat lovers.
Anyone who works at the café must genuinely adore cats—no pretenders allowed. Cats, like their Countess, have an uncanny ability to sniff out insincerity.
I’m contemplating opening the café more often, perhaps as an evening art space where guests can sip tea amidst feline muses. But for now, Saturdays suffice.
The Photography Show
Saturday evening belonged to the second-year photography students, who brought their friends, family, and a heartwarming sense of pride to their private view. Parents traveled from London to support their offspring, and the gallery was alive with chatter and admiration. Everyone behaved impeccably—no spills, no drama, just art and appreciation.
After the event, Joel (bless his wine-bearing soul) tempted me with two bottles of red. Fatal, of course. Thus began the night’s second chapter.
Karaoke and Foam Fights
Joel and I ventured into Brighton, where we stumbled upon the glorious spectacle that is Poison Ivy. Disco balls—dozens of them—clustered together like a glittering galaxy on the ceiling. I’ve decided I simply must replicate this in the private members’ lounge. They even had a smoke machine, though I’ve noted it makes photos look dreadful. Still, the atmosphere was sublime.
The foam machine, however, was the real star. Joel and I had an epic foam fight, with me shrieking, “Not the makeup!” He was a gentleman and aimed for my hair and cleavage instead.
The night continued at The Bulldog, Brighton’s sticky-floored, fabulous gay bar, where I basked in the company of the most divine men and belted out gay anthems on karaoke. Truly, there is no better way to spend an evening.
The Bus Stop Battle
Not all was joyous, though. Outside the bar, I encountered a foul-mouthed teenager hurling homophobic abuse at a passerby. St. James’s Street, of all places! I couldn’t let it slide.
“Excuse me!” I bellowed, channeling my inner fishwife. “This is my town, and your ignorance isn’t welcome here!”
It became a full-blown shouting match, with me delivering a thorough verbal dressing-down while the girl’s friends looked mortified. Victory was mine, of course, but it left me seething at the audacity of it all. Joel, ever the diplomat, ensured peace prevailed by getting on the same bus as her, albeit upstairs and out of earshot.
Wine, Fudge, and Marlboros
The night ended with Esther, wine, and a bag of 25p fudge. We laughed, gossiped, and indulged in the kind of sugary nostalgia that only fudge can provide. But as I puffed on yet another Marlboro, Esther gently suggested I consider quitting.
I suppose she’s right—my throat does sound like I’ve swallowed gravel—but I can’t quite imagine giving up the ritual of a cigarette break. Perhaps someone could invent a “dummy cigarette” that looks chic without the nicotine. Imagine it: the glamour of smoking, without the health risks. Someone should get on that immediately.
Tabby in Monochrome
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Shazambam Boogie
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