TALE TELLER CLUB ARTS HUB: countess of brighton and hackney

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Dec 7, 2024

Art illustrations for The Countess of Brighton and Hackney Diaries

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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!

Mr Capricious By Tale Teller Club

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Dec 3, 2024

Diaries of a Countess Chapter 30: A Detox Most Foul

Chapter 30: A Detox Most Foul

My dearest journal, it is with a reluctant quill that I recount the circumstances which have led to my current predicament—imprisonment (of sorts!) in a house of healing, or what the common folk rudely term "rehab." Though I vehemently refute the accusations of overindulgence in vodka (which I consume only for its medicinal properties) and smelling salts (which surely cannot harm one if used hourly), my physician insists otherwise.

Physician McBane is a man of infuriating logic wrapped in the most charmingly devilish features. His eyes are a piercing gray, like stormy seas that whisper both danger and allure. I should have suspected his intentions when he arrived at my chambers armed with charts, a tincture that tasted of despair, and the most infernal of suggestions: “Countess, your liver is in rebellion. If you value your empire of charm, wit, and intoxicating presence, you must retire to St. Elmo’s Retreat for recuperation.”

“Rehab, you mean,” I spat, indignantly tossing my silk turban across the room.

“Indeed,” he replied with maddening calm, “though I should mention, a certain Lord Peregrine—a duke of scandalous reputation and unrivaled beauty—resides there presently, seeking respite from his own excesses.”

Ah, dear Lord Peregrine. It has been whispered that his jawline could cut glass and his wit could undress even the most virtuous maiden. Though I feigned indifference, my heart—traitorous organ!—beat a little faster at the thought.

“And what, pray, shall be the nature of this... retreat?” I inquired, narrowing my eyes.

“Austere,” said Dr. McBane, his lips twitching ever so slightly. “No spirits, no stimulants, only rest, hydration, and light conversation—though in your case, Countess, I shall permit an hour of philosophical debate after supper, should you avoid too much anxiety from those who dare to disagree.”

I considered my options. To refuse would risk looking obstinate to society, while to agree might procure me the companionship of Lord Peregrine and an hour’s debate to crush Dr. McBane with my superior intellect. Such handsome men as folly seemed almost delicious. It was a sacrifice, but I am nothing if not a martyr to duty.

Thus, I arrived at St. Elmo’s Retreat with the air of a queen surveying her conquered territory. The staff seemed flustered, unsure whether to bow or escort me to my chambers. Was I prisoner or guest? And then, as if conjured by fate, Lord Peregrine appeared, a vision lounging upon a velvet chaise like a lion basking in the sun. I noted his healthy packet, my eyes transfixed by the excess. He rose, his every movement a symphony of grace, and bowed deeply. “Countess,” he purred, “your presence makes even rehabilitation bearable.”

I cannot deny, dear journal, that my cheeks reddened like a maiden’s, though I swiftly regained my composure. “And yours,” I replied, “is the tonic that dulls the pain of this most unjust exile.”

It has been three days since my arrival, and I find the regime most disagreeable. Broths are served in place of roasts; water replaces wine; and the physician has the audacity to suggest ‘mindful walks’ when everyone knows that strolling is only tolerable with a parasol and an audience.

But, alas, the evenings are salvaged by tête-à-têtes with Lord Peregrine, who reveals himself to be as wickedly charming as the rumors promised. Dr. McBane watches our exchanges with an expression I cannot quite place, amusement? Annoyance? Jealousy? No matter, for I have resolved to endure this ordeal with the grace and resilience befitting a Countess.

And when I depart, triumphant and perhaps a little healthier, it shall be known that I, the Countess of Brighton and Hackney, conquered not only my affliction but also the hearts of all who crossed my path.

And so, dear journal, this velvet-covered tome, crafted by the finest artisans in all the land, mashed to royal pulp by the tiny feet of Chinese children, is now filled to its very edges with the chronicles of my trials, triumphs, and undeniably noble escapades, thus far. I shall cease my writings until I return to my rightful palace in Brighton and Hackney, which is immeasurably superior to this austere barn in the Cotswolds. Here, I will endure the indignities beyond imagination: no wine cellars to plunder, no smelling salts concealed in cunning nooks (despite my midnight forays to locate such contraband), and not even the faintest slaver of foie gras to comfort my soul.

But fear not, for I shall rise above these tribulations and continue my grand saga, refreshed, reinvigorated, and armed with tales to scandalize and delight all of society. Until then, my faithful parchment, adieu.

Yours humbly, Countess of Brighton and Hackney.

Mr Capricious By Tale Teller Club

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Dec 1, 2024

The Countess of Brighton and Hackney is Gifted Modern Art

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Countess Diaries, Chapter 29, An Intrusion Most Foul and a Songbird’s Lament

Diary of the Countess of Brighton and Hackney

"An Intrusion Most Foul and a Songbird’s Lament"

Greetings, my beloved subjects and gentle companions,

Tonight, I recount a tale of such nerve and villainy that it shall live in infamy within the annals of my court. As I recline now in my tub, the waters scented with lavender to soothe my frayed spirits, I must unburden my soul to you, my ever-loyal confidantes.

’Twas but last night, after the day’s labors and triumphs, that I retired to my chamber of rest and refreshment. My bath drawn, I did recline, washing my delicate person with the care befitting a Countess. The hour was late, and the night air still. Then, lo, a most dreadful sound reached mine ears—a ruckus, as though some brutish beasts had descended upon my palace unbidden.

At first, I thought it a mouse, for my abode, like any noble’s, is occasionally troubled by such tiny creatures. Yet no! The noise was heavier, angrier, and full of menace. I lay still as stone, listening intently, and then—oh, horror!—I heard footsteps, booted and heavy, ascending my fire escape. Voices followed, coarse and gruff.

I, your Countess, called out, “Who dares disturb the sanctity of my palace? Who treads so boldly where they have no right?” No reply came. Grabbing the nearest cloth—a towel so small it might as well have been a kerchief—I leapt from the bath, dripping and incensed, and flew to confront these intruders.

Up on my mezzanine I spied them—two men of ill repute, their figures shadowed but their intentions clear. I shouted, demanding their purpose. “Begone!” I cried. “Lest you face the wrath of my court!”

Hearing my voice, they muttered foul oaths and made to flee, clambering down the fire escape like thieves caught in the light. I pursued them, as any noble protector of their realm would, but they vanished into the darkness before I could seize them. Yet their escape was not the end of it. No, dear reader, for justice would soon be meted out.

This morning, with my court guards summoned and the fire escape barred with iron bolts, I set forth a decree to hunt the knaves. By midday, they were captured and brought before me, quaking and covered in filth, as they deserved. I sentenced them to a punishment both fitting and revolting—dunking in the slurry pits of my estate. There, their sins would be washed away in a tide of foulness most befitting their audacity.

But now, to other matters that weigh upon my heart. For though my spirit burns with righteousness, there is one criticism oft whispered beyond my court that wounds me deeply: the claim that my voice, my sweet and melodious song, is not in tune.

Can you imagine such gall? Within my court, none dare utter such falsehoods. Indeed, my loyal subjects clap and swoon when I grace them with a tune. “Like a nightingale,” they say, their eyes bright with admiration. Yet beyond my domain, in the murmurings of commoners, I am accused of shrieking like a crow or wailing like a banshee.

It is slander, pure and simple. Do I not possess the poise of a songbird? The grace of a lark? And yet, these unrefined ears, unfit for the delicacies of my art, spread their cruel assessments.

I shall not be swayed by their lies. When I sing, I bring forth the joys and sorrows of the soul, uniting heaven and earth in melody. If they cannot appreciate the beauty, it is because their own hearts are unworthy of such gifts. Still, I wonder—might there be truth in their jests? Could my pitch stray? Perhaps it is the fault of the chamber’s acoustics, not mine own.

I shall practice anew, for a Countess must always strive for perfection. Tomorrow, I shall sing in the grand hall and let my notes soar to the rafters. Let the critics come and hear for themselves, though I doubt they possess the courage to face me directly.

Ah, but enough of these trivial grievances. The day ends, and I must rest, my subjects. My bath grows tepid, and I find myself longing for a warm goblet of mulled wine to chase away the chill.

May your nights be peaceful and your dreams filled with grandeur befitting the loyal companions of a Countess. Until tomorrow, my dearest friends.

The Countess of Brighton and Hackney

Nov 25, 2024

Countess Diaries, Chapter 26, A Most Delicate Crusade

Diary Entry: A Most Delicate Crusade

My dear and devoted readership,
It is with great humility that I pen this account of yet another act of benevolence executed by my noble self. One must strive, after all, to set an example of philanthropy for the lesser mortals who wallow in their own mediocrity. This past week saw me embroiled in a campaign of the utmost importance—a crusade, if you will—against a most heinous practice known as Female Genital Mutilation (FGM). Pray, do not be alarmed at my addressing such a serious matter, for even the loftiest Countesses must sometimes soil their silken gloves with the dirt of humanity's worst afflictions.

It began, as many such endeavors do, with an invitation to a charity luncheon, where I was to sit at the head of the table (naturally) and regale the gathered philanthropists with my wit and wisdom. The event was held at a splendid manor, though, I must confess, the canapés were frightfully small. One had to consume at least five to feel even remotely sated, though I suppose hunger lends an air of gravitas to one’s oratory.

I addressed the room with my usual eloquence, weaving words into a tapestry of inspiration that left many a dowager dabbing their cheeks with lace-trimmed handkerchiefs. My speech, titled "Cut No More: A Noblewoman’s Call to Arms," was hailed as a triumph. I declared, with a dramatic sweep of my gloved hand, that the eradication of such barbarity required not only funds but the cultural enlightenment that only the likes of me could provide. My suggestion of organizing a series of workshops—complete with interpretive dance and possibly a cello accompaniment—was met with polite applause. (Some of the attendees are not yet ready for the full breadth of my genius, but they will learn.)

The next day, I took to the streets, flanked by my loyal retinue of Brighton’s finest eccentrics. My dear friend Pastor Po (whose knack for creating spectacles rivals even mine) insisted on carrying a banner that read, “The Countess Commands Compassion.” It was a touch verbose, but I allowed it for the sake of camaraderie. We distributed leaflets, mingled with the public, and even staged a short play outside the Pavilion Gardens. I played the role of "Lady Justice," naturally, draped in a toga and armed with a prop sword, which I wielded with such vigor that a tourist mistook me for a live statue and attempted to tip me a pound coin. I accepted graciously, for every penny counts in the fight for justice.

Later that evening, exhausted but victorious, I hosted a soirée in the grand salon of my palace. I declared it a “Night of Enlightenment,” where wine flowed as freely as my speeches. My staff had outdone themselves with the decorations, transforming the room into a vision of classical elegance (though I did have to remind the maid to dust the chandeliers more thoroughly—one must not allow standards to slip).

The evening concluded with a rousing toast to the cause, during which I likened myself to Joan of Arc, though without the unfortunate burning. "I shall not rest," I proclaimed, "until this scourge is but a dark chapter in the history books, and women everywhere may embrace their futures unscarred!" There was much clinking of glasses and murmurs of admiration, though I did catch Lady Penelope whispering to her companion that I had perhaps overdone it with the metaphors. Jealousy, dear reader, is the sincerest form of flattery.

As I write this, I am already planning my next endeavor—a charity gala with the theme "Cutting No More, Cutting No Corners." It will feature a fashion show of ethically sourced gowns (designed by me, of course), a silent auction, and a grand finale in which I shall perform an original aria composed in honor of the survivors. Truly, no one gives of themselves as selflessly as I.

And so, I retire to my chambers, satisfied that I have once again contributed to the betterment of humanity. The weight of my own brilliance is heavy indeed, but someone must bear it. Who better than I, the Countess of Brighton and Hackney, patroness of the oppressed, beacon of hope, and undisputed queen of charity events?

Books by Author Sarnia de la Maré FRSA