QUEEN BITCH (in Brighton)
NOVEMBER 2006

Original aficionados of the London fetish scene may remember my damning Queen Bitch diary in Fetish World magazine. Virtual scene folk may recall the poison cyber pen of Queen Jadis, an identity one inferior ‘writer’ (I shall name no names, but the little, flaky sloven knows who she is) once attempted to assume, not to mention the vociferous ‘who does she think she is’ vilification of this hateful harlot by Mr Mark Ramsden in his Fetish Times editorial. Amusing to note, when I told Mr R that the wicked Queen was in fact I, his literary peer, the poor chap stammered that he would have never, ever … had he know she and I were the same creature. Never would have what, exactly? Dared print a word? And there was I, taking it as a compliment. Ah, the good old days.

Now, although I may have been out of the public eye for a few years, I assure you that, despite rumours to the contrary (including death and marriage, which let’s face it, are pretty much the same thing), Queen Bitch is very much alive and very well indeed. Tales of running away to become a best selling author of trashy romance novellas couldn’t be further from the truth. For one, my soul already belongs to the devil and therefore couldn’t possibly be sold to Barbara Cartland, even if I desired such an appalling transaction. Likewise, and for the same fundamental reasons, nor could the whispers that I am working for Max Clifford be true.

Dear intrepid readers (and foolish fodder alike), allow me to dash those hopes that you had seen the back of the bitch, because I never went away. Rather, I simply made a geographical move and continued to create mayhem and mischief under identities and guises anew. I see all and I hear all … and (pray you never piss me off) my pen is far mightier than any sorry sword.

So, welcome to Queen Bitch in Brighton, my new, cruel chronicles, published exclusively on www.vinylla.co.uk. Forthcoming musings shall include observations on the sexual and social counter culture in both the fetish scene per se and the silly-sin city known as Brighton and Hove. No one will escape my, oh so sadistic, scrutiny. I may be far too smart to name and shame directly, but be warned, it is still going to hurt and I look forward to making lots of lovely new enemies.

Queen Bitch shoots from the hip and it fills me with glee to be in the midst of so much raw material which is just so worthy of ridicule. I congratulate and I love you all for your pseudo pretensions, your cyclic self-delusions, your co dependent cliques and your dubious lack of decorum in debauch.

However, before I take my leave and to show you that I’m not all bad, I’ve got a pair of free tickets to the next Vinylla for the person who can provide the answer to a conundrum which has been confounding me.

Why, oh why, do the men with the smallest tails insist upon having them out on display in scene clubs? Similarly, why do the most aesthetically repulsive specimens of ‘manhood’ insist upon revealing as much of their revolting torsos as possible?

Surely they should cover up in a nice uniform and develop passable conversation skills on at least one vaguely interesting subject, not to mention occasionally becoming acquainted with a shower and a squirt of deodorant? Then at least they may have a semblance of a chance of getting laid, instead of settling for having a cigarette stubbed out on their worm and being pathetically grateful for the ‘contact’.

I know my theory works, because a male friend of mine who used to stumble around in ‘outfits’ consisting of dickey bow ties, ill fitting leather thongs and ‘kick me’ eyes was wise enough to listen to Auntie Bitch and heed my advice. He now struts around in uniform and, having always been a clever boy who was just a little shy around the fairer sex, unleashes his wit and intelligence upon the unsuspecting public. Needless to say, he’s become something of a girly magnet.

Alas, said friend has been known to stoop a couple of Darwinian levels in his choice of filly. Not that yours truly can cast such stones after having dilly dallied with an oaf or two in my time, the inappropriateness of which led to one such lumbering ne’er do well becoming immortalised in a recent magazine article of my penning. I suspect he might be inclined to protest, but I think I summed him up rather succinctly with the introductory line, ‘He was no closet homosexual and in fact, he was only just homo erectus, if one considered his bearing and marsupial manners. On a scale of ape to academic, the boy cried banana’.

Queen Bitch x