Countess Diaries Ch 20 Goddamn Media: A Noble Enterprise in a Modern World

Diary Entry: Goddamn Media: A Noble Enterprise in a Modern World

Ah, my dear world outside, another day has passed in this curious epoch I now call home. As the Countess of Brighton and Hackney, I often find myself marveling at the peculiarities of modern life, where social gatherings revolve around “Wi-Fi” rather than waltzes, and one’s reputation is built not upon lineage but on “content creation.” Despite my 16th-century sensibilities, I have taken to this era with aplomb—or so I like to think—and nowhere is this more evident than in my burgeoning empire: Goddamn Media.
A Radio Revolution

The radio station, much like my palace, is a hub of artistic expression, albeit one steeped in the curious glow of neon and the hum of technology. By day, we feature the voices of bright-eyed students, their earnest enthusiasm a charming counterpoint to my own polished broadcasts. By night, I transform into a sultry siren of the airwaves, a midnight anchor whose voice, I am told, has a rather hypnotic quality.

During these nocturnal hours, I play local and unsigned tracks, lending my regal endorsement to Brighton’s vibrant music scene. “You are listening,” I intone in my most velvety tones, “to the Countess’s Midnight Hour, where the music is as moody as the moonlight.” I imagine myself akin to a 16th-century bard, weaving tales and melodies to captivate my loyal subjects—though admittedly, my lute-playing days are long behind me.

The breakfast show is an entirely different affair. Here, I trade sultry for spirited, introducing more famous bands and engaging in what the modern world calls “banter.” It is a delicate balance, maintaining the Countess’s dignity while discussing which bassist is dating whom, but I manage. “Even nobility must keep up with the times,” I remind myself, often with a wry smile.
An Unlikely Legacy

It is still something of a marvel to me that Goddamn Media, with its eclectic programming and ragtag team of creatives, has struck such a chord with Brighton’s populace. When I first arrived in this century (ahem), I expected my noble bearing to be met with reverence, not skepticism. Yet, as word of the station has spread, I find myself greeted not with quizzical looks but with warm enthusiasm.

“Countess!” someone called out to me today as I passed a café. “Loved your show last night!”

I turned, delighted, and replied, “Why, thank you, my dear subject!” They laughed, though whether at my words or the feathered hat I was wearing is anyone’s guess.
Students and Surprises

The student shows, while not always polished, are a particular delight. Their youthful passion reminds me of the court poets I once patronized—idealistic, ambitious, and occasionally incomprehensible. One young presenter, bless his heart, dedicated an entire hour to a genre he called “ambient screamo.” I smiled and nodded as he explained it to me, though I’m quite certain he was speaking a foreign language.

And then there are the technical mishaps. Just last week, a student accidentally broadcast their shopping list instead of their setlist. “Peanut butter, oat milk, toilet rolls,” played over the airwaves for a full two minutes before anyone noticed. I, of course, turned it into a moment of charm: “Even royalty needs the essentials,” I quipped, swiftly reclaiming the mic.
A Palace of the People

Goddamn Media, much like the Brighton Arts Club, has become a palace of the people—a place where creativity reigns and hierarchy takes a back seat to talent. I like to think of myself as its patron and protector, a modern-day Medici with a penchant for experimental art and obscure soundscapes.

And yet, there are moments when my noble origins assert themselves. I often find myself rearranging the station’s décor, replacing the minimalist aesthetic with touches of grandeur: a gilded frame here, a velvet cushion there. After all, even a radio station deserves a bit of regality.
Closing Thoughts

As I sip my post-broadcast wine (a fine vintage, naturally), I reflect on how far we’ve come. Goddamn Media is no longer just a station; it is a movement, a testament to the power of creativity and community. And while I may hail from the 16th century—or at least channel its spirit—I find myself increasingly at home in this peculiar, modern world.

Tomorrow, my dear listeners, we broadcast again. Until then, I remain your Countess of the Airwaves, forever in pursuit of beauty, brilliance, and the perfect playlist.


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Countess Diaries Ch 19 The Countess Goes to Alcatraz #countessoffbrightonandhackney

Countess Diaries Ch 19.

Diary Entry: The Countess Goes to Alcatraz.

Oh, what a day, my dear world. I write to you from my bath—a sauna masquerading as a sanctuary tonight—after an adventure that tested my patience, my dignity, and my eyeliner. Today, I made my first foray into Alcatraz—or, as the locals call it, Lewes Jail.


The day began with chaos. Knowing I had to leave the palace before noon—a time I consider unholy—I set my alarm for nine, only to toss and turn in a fit of nerves until dawn. The Baron, my incarcerated son, had requested some essentials, including boxer shorts. Simple enough, one might think, except Brighton Arts Club operates on an unspoken socialism of shared everything. As luck would have it, the second pair of boxers on his list were currently being worn—by me. Naturally.

And then there was the ID debacle. My passport, like my alter ego, exists under a different name. Combine that with a missing bank card (left at the gallery the night before), and I was a picture of disarray as I sprinted across the park in five layers, sweating profusely under an unseasonably warm sun. The eyeliner was the final insult—dull, blunt, and utterly unsalvageable. By the time I left for Lewes, I looked more prisoner than visitor.


Lewes, my dear readers, is a town that defies logic. Shops close with the whimsical irregularity of a Dickensian novel. We needed change—prison rules demand shrapnel, not notes—but every place we visited was either shut for half-term or out of coins. After an endless trek through jaywalker-unfriendly streets, we stumbled into a pub that promised sustenance, only to abandon it 30 minutes later when no sandwiches appeared. By the time we reached the jail, I was famished, frazzled, and faintly homicidal.


The prison itself is a marvel of bureaucracy and indignity. As a Countess, I’m accustomed to deference, so being herded like livestock was quite the humbling experience. Perhaps next time I’ll dress as a solicitor; they seemed to glide through the process with an air of untouchable efficiency. Meanwhile, I found myself fumbling through security, trying to convince a stern-faced officer that no, I did not have contraband tucked into my Victoria sponge.

Once inside, the emotional toll hit me. The waiting area was a microcosm of pent-up tension, brimming with nervous mothers, tearful sisters, and a sprinkling of overly aggressive visitors who seemed one step away from starting a fight over queue etiquette. The highlight—or perhaps lowlight—was seeing a man whose visitors never arrived. He waited for nearly an hour, his hope slowly eroding until it was unbearable to watch. My heart broke for him, though I made a mental note to tell The Baron never to expect Victoria sponge in his care packages.

Finally, I saw The Baron. The relief was immediate, the joy palpable, and yes, I may have shed a tear or two. Despite his polyester-sheet predicament, he was in good spirits, regaling me with tales of prison politics and his plans to reform the canteen menu. It was a bittersweet meeting, but one I wouldn’t trade for anything.


The return journey was a blur of hunger and poor decisions. A tasteless sandwich at a service station followed by McDonald’s back in Brighton left me questioning every life choice that led to this gastronomic low point. Tomorrow, I resolve to detox with something green, fresh, and decidedly non-processed.


Back at the gallery, I discovered my latest flyer—a photograph of a rope-suspended model—had ruffled a few feathers. Apparently, her “blueish hue” upset a fellow rope enthusiast, who felt compelled to lecture me on technique. “Darling,” I wanted to say, “I’m a photographer, not a knot connoisseur. If you think you can do better, tie yourself up and let me take your picture.”


And so, another day in the life of the Countess concludes. My bath is finally cooling, the Marlboros are calling, and Midsomer Murders awaits—because even in chaos, one must have their comforts. Until tomorrow, my dear world, I remain yours in exhaustion and eyeliner smudges.

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Ch 18 Bathtime Reflections: Minge Fringe, Kidnappings, Karaoke, and the Art of Everything

Ch 18 Bathtime Reflections: Minge Fringe, Kidnappings, Karaoke, and the Art of Everything

Ah, my beloved world, here I sit, wrapped in the fragrant steam of my bath at Providence Palace, contemplating the whirlwind of a weekend just past. If life in Brighton is a circus, then I am its unicycling ringmaster, juggling everything from art to activism with just enough chaos to keep it interesting.
Not Quite Kidnapped

Let’s begin with the weekend’s peculiar highlight: my self-imposed exile in the VIP basement of the Brighton Arts Club. It wasn’t a kidnapping, per se—more a situation where the red lighting, sultry décor, and bottomless prosecco conspired to make the outside world utterly irrelevant. Hours bled into days, and before I knew it, I had been there two nights, only emerging for the occasional karaoke-induced breath of fresh air on St. James’s Street.
The Camp Circuit

St. James’s Street—Brighton’s fabulously camp answer to a runway of revelry—was, as ever, the highlight of my social escapades. Poison Ivy, with its gloriously kitsch décor, played host to our ragtag group as we butchered classics at karaoke. My dear Joel, the open mic maestro, serenaded us with a rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody so off-key it became performance art. Meanwhile, Cass, one of my stunning models, belted out I Will Survive like her rent depended on it.

We hit The Bulldog next, a venue where drinks are strong, tempers are stronger, and the regulars treat newcomers with a mix of suspicion and amusement. From there, it was on to Legends, where a minor skirmish over spilled drinks almost derailed the evening. For legal reasons, I’ll refrain from details, but suffice it to say, heels were flung, and words like "unladylike" were hurled. We laughed it off, of course, retreating back to the palace where we stayed until the wee hours, sipping wine and debating whether karaoke is a valid art form (it is).
Art, Activism, and Minje Fringe

The rest of the week has been a delightful mix of creativity and chaos. My gallery continues to thrive, attracting artists, dreamers, and the occasional oddball. Maria, ever the visionary, performed her Tuesday Through the Looking Glass piece, painting live in the gallery window. Her fluid use of color and texture is mesmerizing, and I’m thrilled she’s planning a solo show soon. It will undoubtedly transform the gallery into a kaleidoscope of vibrancy—quite the contrast to my own muted, melancholic aesthetic.

Preparations are also underway for Minge Fringe, my annual celebration of femininity, featuring work that elevates rather than denigrates. The submissions so far have been… mixed. While most are stunning tributes to the power and beauty of womanhood, there are always a few misguided attempts at provocation. Last year, a man submitted a tampon in a cardboard kennel. This year, I’ve preemptively warned artists: “No teeth on your vaginas, please.”
The Baron’s Saga Continues

Meanwhile, my dear son, The Baron, remains detained, undoubtedly using his time to compose rap lyrics about polyester sheets and plotting his next "big" move. I imagine he fancies himself a misunderstood genius, a Picasso of petty crime. I’ve decided to send him a care package—a notebook, a pen, and a few biscuits. Let him channel his “urban poetry” into something that doesn’t land him back in handcuffs.
Charity and Hot Tubs

The week ahead promises no rest. Sunday’s Desert Flower Charity Event at Providence Palace looms large on the horizon. We’re raising funds and awareness for survivors of female genital mutilation, a cause close to my heart. Volunteers are rallying, rehearsals are in full swing, and the palace is buzzing with anticipation. It’s a sobering reminder that art and activism can and must coexist.

On a lighter note, Danny has nearly finished assembling the hot tub in the garden. Its completion marks the beginning of springtime decadence—a place for plotting, philosophizing, and perhaps the odd bottle of champagne.
The Countess in Reflection

As I sip my frothy hot chocolate and contemplate the temptation of the Marlboro staring back at me from the sink, I can’t help but smile at the madness of it all. The palace, my gallery, my son, my art—it’s a life of contradictions, chaos, and unexpected beauty. But isn’t that what makes it worth living?

Tomorrow, the circus resumes. Until then, dear reader, I remain yours in bubbles and bath salts.

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