Tale Teller Club Music: comedy

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Dec 7, 2024

Art illustrations for The Countess of Brighton and Hackney Diaries

Book illustration caricature cartoon ink splashes

Dec 4, 2024

Introducing the Countess of Brighton and Hackney Diaries: A Hilarious Multiverse of Eccentricities #adult #fiction

Introducing the Countess of Brighton and Hackney Diaries: A Hilarious Multiverse of Eccentricities

Prepare to immerse yourself in a world where 16th-century nobility meets modern Brighton in a delightful clash of grandeur and hilarity. The Countess of Brighton and Hackney Diaries is now available in a variety of formats to suit every taste, bringing this whimsical comedy to life like never before.
The Diaries: A Story of Flamboyant Chaos

Follow the Countess—a self-proclaimed Z-list celebrity, misunderstood artist, and cultural provocateur—as she navigates life with a mix of vodka-fueled determination and a penchant for mischief. From hosting underground art parties to dodging scandal at every turn, these diaries are a treasure trove of laugh-out-loud escapades.
Now Available Across Platforms

Blog
The Diaries are serialized on a dedicated blog, perfect for readers who prefer bite-sized doses of comedy. Each post is a stand-alone vignette, offering a glimpse into the Countess’s chaotic yet endearing world. Whether she’s grappling with menopausal mishaps or creatively reimagining art installations, her wit will leave you chuckling.

Subscription Channel
Dive deeper into the Countess's universe with exclusive content available through a subscription channel. Subscribers can enjoy behind-the-scenes anecdotes, commentary from the Countess herself, and bonus stories too risqué for the main blog. Think of it as your VIP pass to her palace of eccentricities.

Audiobook Podcast
For fans of storytelling on the go, the Countess of Brighton and Hackney Diaries is also available as an audiobook podcast. Narrated in her signature melodramatic style, the Countess invites you to hear her tales as she intended—with flair, exaggeration, and the occasional aside about her beloved smelling salts.

Graphic Novel
For those who appreciate visual storytelling, the Diaries have been transformed into a graphic novel. Lavish illustrations capture the Countess's bold style, the quirkiness of her staff, and the absurdity of her misadventures. It’s a feast for the eyes and the funny bone.
What Readers Are Saying

"The Countess is everything I didn’t know I needed—part diva, part disaster, and wholly hilarious!"
"Think Downton Abbey meets Absolutely Fabulous. Pure comedic gold."
"I laughed, I cried, I subscribed. This is my new favorite escape."

Why You'll Love ItLaugh-Out-Loud Comedy: The Countess’s misadventures are a masterclass in humor, blending satire, wit, and a touch of the absurd.
Quirky Characters: From her hapless staff to scandalous suitors, every character is uniquely memorable.
Multiple Formats: Whether you prefer to read, listen, or experience the stories visually, there's a format for you.
Join the Countess’s World Today

Explore the Countess of Brighton and Hackney Diaries and discover why this lovable aristocrat-turned-modern-day-provocateur is winning hearts everywhere. Visit the blog, subscribe for exclusive content, tune into the podcast, or grab the graphic novel to enjoy her escapades in the format that suits you best.

Life is short—add a little Countess to it!

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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

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Nov 23, 2024

Countess Diaries Chapter 25 The Curious Case of the Sentry Who Wasn’t There

The Diaries of the Countess of Brighton and Hackney

The Curious Case of the Sentry Who Wasn’t There

Dearest and most patient readers, today I must recount an absurdity so improbable that even Molière might have balked at its implausibility. It began with an alarming discovery: the palace gate, which ought to be steadfastly guarded by my trusted sentry, had been left open to the Brighton winds, as vacant as a charity shop at dawn. This sentry, mind you, is not a strapping musketeer but one of my more eccentric staff—a poet-turned-security-enthusiast named Algernon, whose greatest weapon is his penchant for quoting Shakespeare at passersby.

Algernon had apparently decided that guarding the gate required interpretation, and so, instead of standing vigilant, he had relocated himself to the café to conduct an impromptu symposium on the metaphorical “gates of life.” Guests were treated to a rambling soliloquy on how “the portals of existence are best left ajar to let in inspiration,” punctuated by sips of a latte he had commandeered from the café’s supplies.

Meanwhile, I, oblivious to this dereliction of duty, was upstairs attempting to soothe the gallery curator, Maria, who had taken offense at the positioning of her latest abstract masterpiece. She claimed the light in the gallery was “undermining the emotional integrity” of her work. I suggested a compromise: a new spotlight and perhaps a dose of Valerian root tea. Maria muttered something about “art being shackled by utility” and stormed out, leaving me to consider whether I should advertise for an emotionally detached curator instead.

Returning downstairs, I found a small gathering of libertines had taken advantage of the unguarded gate. They had installed themselves in the café, claiming to be a traveling troupe of improv actors, though their performance seemed to involve little more than gesticulating wildly and confusing Maria’s abstract sculptures for coat racks.

“Oh, but what do you expect me to do?” Algernon protested when I confronted him about the chaos. “Am I to physically keep people out? I am an artist, not a bouncer!”

It was then that I noticed Toria, the ever-dutiful DJ and occasional model, observing the scene with a bemused smirk. “Countess,” she said, “this reminds me of the time you tried to run a VIP gallery bar and forgot that VIP means Very Important People, not ‘Very Interesting Passersby.’”

She wasn’t wrong. My reputation for gathering Brighton’s most eclectic misfits precedes me, and it seems the café has inadvertently become an impromptu clubhouse for the town’s most theatrical vagabonds. One particularly bold fellow attempted to barter his “services” as a human statue in exchange for a pot of Earl Grey.

I shooed the libertines out with promises of hosting an open mic night at some vague and distant point in the future—sufficiently far away that they will likely forget all about it—and dragged Algernon back to his post.

To ensure no further artistic interpretations of gate-guarding occur, I have drawn up a list of official sentry duties, which I have laminated for Algernon’s reference:

Keep the gate closed unless the visitor has an appointment or a compelling backstory.
Refrain from engaging in existential debates with guests who have yet to prove their ability to purchase coffee.
Do not compose or recite poetry while on duty unless it is an ode to vigilance.

Algernon swore solemnly to abide by these rules, though I suspect he will pen a 12-stanza rebuttal in iambic pentameter by week's end.

As for me, I’ve decided to implement a new protocol: all gate-related grievances must now be forwarded to my French-imported bed, which remains the most steadfast and reliable thing in my life. Until tomorrow, dear readers, may your gates be guarded, your poets obedient, and your libertines suitably shooed.

Yours in unending exasperation,
The Countess of Brighton and Hackney

Books by Author Sarnia de la Maré FRSA