Wednesday, 28 February 2018

A New TV Show is in the Creation Phase.

I am streamlining my Goddamn Media YouTube shows and starting a couple of new projects.
The Golden Dominatrix and other alter egos will continue and film will likely take over from appearances of the flesh around the country. Payment for live appearances is lousy and I need to get a lot of other work done to make my millions. 

I am fortunate to be in almost tip top health and no longer using any medication at all. My head feels very clear and I have nominal pain. I am officially off work foe another thee weeks but to be honest, I am itching to walk the dog!
Here is my Facebook status this morning with news of my new show. 

I want to launch a new TV show for positive living with cancer. I want it to be really upbeat with a wide range of reportage about treatments, trials, fund raising, good news, fascinating facts, and lots of emotional support, especially stress and fear management, which is really lacking in the medical profession as they are Hell bent on keeping us alive (thankfully).
I will fund raise for the show so I can travel around or pay for guests to come to the studio. I need a beautiful title that is not about death but about life because so many people will live many years after diagnosis and cancer is simply not the death sentence it once was.
Ideas for a name for the channel and the blog much appreciated. I liked 'Full Cup Brimming' but it isn't that obvious and I can use it for a poem instead.

Happy Thursday everyone, I love you all x

I am thinking then about titles and logos and lots of rather corporate ideas today. I am very lucky to be alive and have embraced a calm that I have never known before in all my life.

Pussy Action

Honey is settling in blissfully at the Palace of Domination and Submission.
I am so very lucky to have her in my life.

There will no doubt be daily pussy action as I am unable to curb my latest obsession.

Friendship, Love and My Full Cup Brimming

I have been ill for some time and the physicality of it all as each mini drama unfolded has been exhausting.

But much greater than the physical manifestation of atoms and empty space, disease and healing, has been the emotional trauma I have had to bear along the way.

Today I write from a place of positive diagnosis and prognosis, a likely healthy future, a long life ahead.
But yesterday was different.
Yesterday I was apologetic for being alive.
I was grateful for anything I could get and guilty for the emotional footprint I was leaving on my fellow humans every day I continued to survive.

Today I am rationalising mistreatment and trying to move on from it.

During my struggle with illness I have been completely ghosted by far too many close people. 

Ghosting is a modern concept (made easier by social media) whereby someone close simply blanks you.

I have been dumped, ghosted, ignored and abandoned by one of my children, a lover, a best friend and a few close friends who actually had me fooled they gave a fuck.

Ok, I can count this group on my own hands, but it is still obscene. How dare they. These people used me for their own ends, some for many years, and dropped me when the going got tough, not for me but for them. I was no longer useful, I was too much trouble, I was an unknown entity. They simply did not care.

I have been treated in a way which is beyond human decency. 

But today, because I am living and and perhaps even cured, and because I am a fighter, I will not forgive them. They have been marginalised with all the abusers before them and sent to the dark corner of sad memories where they will stay.

What I will do though is remember that some human beings let the rest of us down and I will use my anger to forge a future for myself and anyone else living with disease.
I will share my 'full cup brimming' with these new friends and lovers for they are very special people indeed.

Watch me grow.

Tuesday, 27 February 2018

Jelly Belly and the Countess

So today I was in hospital to find out what has been wrong with me.
Before I continue I need to say that my consultant has said I do not need to write my will.
I have an incredibly rare form of very low grade cancer of my appendix. I have had it for many years. It grows really really slowly.
My appendix has already been removed and I have been referred to a specialist in Basingstoke for what is called jelly belly cancer.
It is very curable and I may have none or very little of it left in my body. If there is any left I will have another operation in the future but I am not worried. I am likely to live much longer.

My ovaries, cervix, fallopian tubes and womb were cancer free. My uterine tumour was non cancerous and weighed the same as a bag of sugar. It was degenerating which is why I was in so much pain.

The appendix cancer is no doubt why I have had trouble with food for so many years. I did not have an eating disorder after all and I was not mad....well maybe a bit.

Myself and my family are thrilled with this outcome as the chance of ovarian cancer was very real, and that is deadly.
I love you all x

Monday, 26 February 2018

Criminals and Anecdotes

An English businessman is suing Google in a bid to remove links to his criminal history, which he claims have left him treated like a “pariah”. The unnamed man, The Times reports (paywall), was convicted on a charge of “conspiracy to account falsely” in the 1990s. Newspaper articles remain online referencing the crime and the businessman, who was awarded anonymity for this suit, said he was “unable to form any new friendships or personal relationships”. Google defended its right to retain information it said was in the public interest. It is the first “right to be forgotten” case to be heard in the UK.

Courtesy of Linkedin

Many years ago in the heady days of 1970s London punk, I was on my way home (a squat in an old office block) after  an all nighter with some friends. We were feeling peckish. There was a delivery of bread at one of the restaurants in the west end and for the first time in my life I ended up in court charged with the theft of a somewhat unglamourous french loaf.

I was fresh out of public school and had run away from home to marry a punk. I really should have been more prepared for a life of vice.
I was in Bow Street Magistrates Court within hours (after a hearty breakfast which was the first meal I had eaten in weeks as I was technically homeless at the time). I was really pleased about the fry up but in court, along with the night's 'clippers', I broke down like a the baby I was.

Clippers were working girls who didn't put out. They usually worked with an accomplice male who set up the deal and took the money, then the girl would literally leg it. The police despised them and so did the courts. I have never really understood why, it seems a very male reaction.

Anyway, after I broke down in court, a nice policeman, the one who had arrested me over a french loaf (what a career) advised me on what to say to the judge. I was out by lunch with a £35 fine and a criminal record.

I never really thought of the incident until another arrest on my 50th birthday.
It was to do with my cats so I feel completely exonerated.
There was a cafe above my godforsaken pit of a basement flat owned by a slum landlord in Brighton. There were weekly incidents flooding my artwork in espresso and I lost it one day because my two beautiful deaf white cats were covered in hot coffee.

Apparently I threatened to kill people, scared customers and broke the espresso machine. I would do it again. I am a fearless cat woman.

The previous arrest came up in court because, although it was spent and thirty two years old, it was relevant in terms of my criminality. The judges understood my mitigating circumstances and despite my barrister's (and the barista's) expectations of community service orders, I just got the fine. There may have been another cat woman on the panel.

The point here is that google has a public record more accessible than courtroom files. Any Tom Dick or cat hater can have access to previous newspaper articles, true or false, and privacy is a thing none of us control. How can a sentence be spent if it comes up on google every time someone puts in your name?

Google have become the Nazi controllers of our personal histories which are now paraded about for public entertainment. And they are not even paying for it. Google are way worse than the clippers I met at Bow Street that fateful morning. They need to be stopped. I hope the gentleman wins his case.

YouTube Branding and the Future of Goddamn Media

Jason Calacanis, a well-known Silicon Valley entrepreneur who was part of YouTube's professional partners program, said that to make 10 videos he would spend $25,000 to $75,000 in costs before a dime was earned in advertising:
'We were huge fans of YouTube ... but we are not creating content anymore because it’s simply not sustainable. YouTube is an awesome place to build a brand, but it is a horrible place to build a business.'

I have been working through many ideas for the future of my media business, Goddamn Media. It looks like my next move will be to disable all my archival films, of which there are thousands, and to run only this year's projects on the public platform.
I make no money through ads as most footage is deemed offensive or adult material: lots of swearing and sexual references because I am a grown up.
The films of a more artistic nature are wasted on YouTube and better suited for gallery viewing at any rate.
As for the Golden Dominatrix and Aphrobitey...I am looking at finding a niche for them also as they are poetic beasts who like to show off.

TV in the Age of Conveyor Belt Productions

Followers will no that I recently did a mainstream daytime TV show appearance in the UK for a light entertainment show called Judge Rinder.

It was a bit of fun and I did it to get a bit of personal publicity for the brand that is me.

It was aired mid January.

Last week I was approached by a young lady who is now part of the production team asking if I would like to appear on the show.

I informed her that I was only on it a month ago and she was genuinely surprised.

There were several things that crossed my mind.

Did I not make an impact?
Does the show change production teams all the time?
Don't new production associates do their homework?

This is the problem with reality TV of course. It has become a conveyor belt of suitable subjects who are sourced out from the likes of Facebook to appear on shows as regular as a daily shit.

It is unlikely I will ever do another although I did win my virtual court case and was up £950.

Love at the Palace of Domination and Submission

Getting older is buying clippers, not for your skinhead lover, for your new Persian cat.

It was a night of pussy action, face sitting, butt shoving and heavy breathing, like one of my parties!

Babushka the Renaissance Grandmother

My new TV studio is almost ready and I will be starting my new show 'Babushka' soon. 
Babushka is the Russian name for Grandma and the show will be about story telling and commentary on life for people who like to use their brains. 
True to myself there will still be a creative edge. 
I will be having guests on the show from time to time so do let me know if you would like to feature. You will have to get to the studio as I am not doing any more Skype interviews for the time being. 

I am all about TV this year and interested in all aspects of life after and beyond first generation family. Fashion, art, literature, health, nostalgia...Babushka is a Renaissance Grandmother.

Let them eat cake, said Grandma!

Sunday, 25 February 2018

Pasha Adopts New Baby at the Palace of Dreams

Meet Honey the newest resident at Royal Clarence

The Countess Buys a New Gold Plated Card Holder

I have always had a gold card holder but my old one was looking a bit bashed in with all the partying from the last fifteen years.

So I treated myself to a new one. Gold plated as I won't risk solid gold with my absent mindedness.
And having it named should put off a thief one imagines, although it is very nice.

I love my new gold plated card holder!

Adoption and Pink Cat Litter!

Today is the day when the adoption of my new baby will be finalised and she will be delivered to the Palace of dreams.

'Honey' has been abused and neglected and we are perfect for one another.
She is 6 years old and has had to be shaved due to neglect but her new mommy will love and care for her from now on as she is now the baby of a Countess.

I will take pics later today when all the paperwork is done.

Meantime, I found pink cat litter!

Apparently this litter will last a month....

Saturday, 24 February 2018

Gold Digging

I was never any good at gold digging. I found the compromises too great and am not just talking about sex.

Some years ago I had managed to snare an unsuspecting Swiss man with all the trappings a single mother of four living in one of the worst council estates in Europe could wish for.
He had no idea what had hit him. I had lured him in with my effervescent beauty and offbeat humour by convincing him I had a successful fashion label and did ballet for keep fit. (I was trying to set up a business and I had been to one ballet class, one should never lie, just use good 'spin').

He bought me a car, a battered £700 Fiesta for which I was pressed for gratitude but the love was lost once and for all when he told me off for laughing loudly in a fancy restaurant, wearing the clothes he had bought me.

But the real test was one day on the beach. I had more or less accepted that the remote control Porsche he bought my son came with a price. The Swiss was an ogler. It was an embarrassment and totally disrespectful, something I was too young and underdeveloped to quantify at the time. He would dribble over every woman that passed, but my son really loved those cars so I determined to see it through for the summer.

But that was not the worst.

The Swiss was well endowed (which was never wasted in the circumstances) but he had a penchant for lycra that I could never really understand. He was an avid mountain biker so there was a lot of Lycra in our lives already and one day on the beach he arrived in tight pink lycra shorts which gripped his every Swiss curve and dent; was that hair I could see through the shiny surface layer?

Even the kids eyes watered.

The Swiss glans were clearly visible around the Swiss circumcision gleaming from every angle in the baking British sun.
I was dying and the kids peered over their ice creams in disbelief, probably thinking 'thank fuck he is not my real dad'.

More recently, yesterday in fact, a local man offered kindly to pop in with chocolate. As it turned out some had already been delivered but I really need the hoovering done as I am currently incapacitated. 

I threw it out there. Would he be so kind as to pop round and do the hoovering?

Look, as gold digging goes, it is hardly up there with Trump's wife, but the carpets are a mess.

The gentleman messaged saying he was unable to hoover over the weekend as he was 'booked' but he could come over if I am bored with 'munchies and a DVD'.

Do people still do DVD's?
And would he wear lycra I wondered?

Friday, 23 February 2018

Pasha du Valentine ĐØΜƗŇΔŘŦƗŞŦ

Some days I am more artist than Dominatrix and other days more Dominatrix than artist but today I realised that I am a DOMINARTIST which I choose to write in capitals.

I may need a logo. I like it a lot.


Goddamn Media Studio Hire

Great lighting, great tech advice and great ideas folio.

Whatever your project Goddamn Media will be able to help.

Interior studio facilities as well as outside broadcasting and shoots in the Royal Clarence Marina.

Whatever idea you would like to realise, get in touch.

Whatsapp business 07845810180

Lights Camera Action

My lighting for the new Goddamn Media Studio at Royal Clarence has arrived although I do need some assistance to set it all up due to height restrictions.

I believe I will be fully operational by midweek next week.

The space will be available for hire mostly as I am no jobbing photographer. But primarily the studio will be used to film my new shows and for the Golden Dominatrix to work her magic webcam for private clients.

It is all in the lighting love.

The Renaissance Dominatrix

I have been looking at ways to relaunch myself into the world of fashion and style now that I am free of the restraints of the ovaries.

The Goddamn Granny will be forging a future for herself as style icon just as soon as the studio lights arrive, hopefully this week.

Style is such an emotive issue for me as it is always linked with anarchic punk couture and the garb of a Dominatrix. Also, the mainstream terrifies me.

Thursday, 22 February 2018

Agoraphobia and other irrational fears.

Many years ago when I was eighteen I found myself married to a violent abuser and I was left alone all day to wallow in my own personal fuck ups.

I started reading the Sun because it was all he could read and I could do the crossword. My outings were limited to the red light district launderette where I would watch the businessmen come and go from the tiny Victorian dwellings with giveaway illuminations.

After six months or so my home was drenched in my heart and I was increasingly anxious about leaving it.
I had planned to meet the wife beater at work one day and ended up by the stadium in the middle of a football crowd, very bad timing. I was becoming agoraphobic.

Fortunately myself and the wife beater went our separate ways and my family, yet again, got me on track.

I have two friends who are going through anxiety and agoraphobia at the moment and after a disastrous excursion yesterday I am really feeling for them. It is much more common place than you might think and it starts for many reasons, often, seemingly, from nowhere.

I had had to walk around a fifteen minute slow pace journey to the nurse to check my wound. Stupidly, I was so stressed about the journey in my condition that I accidentally went an hour early. I was already beating myself up at my error. I had gone home, had rice pudding, and tried again.
As I have had to pretty much learn how to eat and shit again since my surgery (signals need to be rebuilt and there had been lesions removed as well as organs), I had also gone into a panic because I thought I needed a Countess poop and some level of urgency meant I would be late for the appointment.
(Her poops are now legendary and for the moment at least, after a poop I need a lie down.)

At this point I tried to placate myself with the promise of chocolate. Of course living in a backwater hinders most simultaneous desires. I would struggle to find cocaine and prostitutes but mostly, you can't get a fucking impromptu mars bar for love nor money.

I took some shrapnel and would try the chemist. 

I should be so lucky.
The chemist was filled with sick people, just like me, with the stooped bodies of the infirm and the the worn shoes of the shuffling brigade. Of course there was no chocolate, not even a fucking lollipop.

I saw the nurse crying (me not her) and she was a wonderful woman who told me all about her own hysterectomy and menopause and how it only lasted five years.

Five years?

I thought of Bowie and more death and came home half the woman I was when I had woken up in the morning.

I understand that I was very afraid to leave the house because I am in pain, because I may need a loo if it takes me so long to get anywhere, that I can't run from danger, that if I fell it would hurt a lot and could rip my stitches. But really, the uncontrollable hysterical sobbing for the rest of the day was such an embodiment of extreme fear that I have never experienced before, even at the hands of the wife beater.

Wednesday, 21 February 2018

Suspicious Activities

One of my own shots, a favourite of the Golden Dominatrix in fairly unoffensive mode.

Last year I was a model for some second rate artists who basically abused my image.
They paid me and I learned my lesson but the image of the slaughtered Dominatrix was all over London in one poor grade art piece or another.

More recently one of the images has been hijacked once again for more bad art and poignantly, for an artist to once again attempt some sort of visual dominance within the image. 

The image is not owned by me so I did not even bother to complain about yet more bastardisation of my fine form. But it got me wondering why these second rate artists want my demise, or at least desire to establish their superiority over my persona.

What did the Golden Dominatrix ever do to them?

What does she represent that creates a burning desire in men and women to annihilate her?

One thing is for sure, I will never pose under instruction again and they won't get me on the floor playing into their hands as victors.

They are just bad artists with no style or content but more importantly, these people are untrustworthy.

Angling for a freebie.

When you beat people for a living there are inevitably freeloaders.

I am usually requested daily for images or conversations of a sexual nature.

These days I won't reply to a simple good morning without a fee.

But I have had men go to extreme lengths to get a freebie.
They have pretended to be interested in my life, my health, my moods. They have talked for many many hours over many many months to get some sexual attention. They have even tried several different ways to attract my attention through several different doorways pretending to be several different people.

I really have to keep my wits about me as I sometimes make mistakes, particularly if they use many different names, different social media sites or names that are so generic I think they may be my plumber.

I don't know why they don't just book a session, I am way more exciting during a session.

Sweet Hysterectomy

Something else has shifted since my immediate menopause some two weeks ago.

My taste and style has completely changed. The carpet, old and drab and no doubt council issue, is driving me insane. I am struggling to look at it.

The battleship grey abomination is making me feel nauseous.

Clothes that I once adored have been moved to the recess of the wardrobe.

I am looking at complete change her, not shallow modifications.

There are probably two reasons for the mammoth shift, maybe three.

My waist is back after 15 years without one and it feels like I had a tummy tuck. 
My health is back to normal, and I had forgotten what normal felt like. 
And of course the ovaries have been binned.

Seems I was a slave to them. They curbed my business acumen, my grandiose tastes, my confidence and my development as an equal on the playing field of life.

With them has gone guilt, fear, female tenderness and bad taste.

Whore Moans and Hormones

Something changed. I feel so deeply that I am different.

But the loss of my ovaries has made me stronger than I realised was ever possible.

Last night I was a business bitch. I stood my ground with a musician and it felt good to finally stick up for myself in terms of my business dealings.

I was told I was aggressive, which really pleased me.

There will be trouble ahead no doubt as musicians are always fucking trouble. But Goddamn Radio spent 5 years building people up for no fee. We hosted radio shows and streamed and promoted bands whilst passing all possible revenue rights direct to the artists. I built websites and channels. I shed tears, sweat, and the blood of my womb to keep the Goddamn Dream alive.

A note to musicians.....

If you use a radio station for a few years as part of their archive and then decide you are too famous to be on the playlist, fuck you!

I will see you in court without my ovaries.

Hen Party Hire, the Golden Dominatrix

My job as a hen party entertainer channels the Golden Dominatrix for classes. Women only groups usually considered but I can talk about mixed groups too. My hire fee is dependent on if I bring a slave with me and how many hens I will be showing the fine art of Domination and Submission to.

It is a broad intro with lots of laughs but also very educational. I am taking bookings now for London and south for the year ahead.

Whips at the ready!

Tuesday, 20 February 2018

Dressing Up

I have so many wigs and so many outfits and so much make up!
This week, slowly due to my mother's rantings to take it easy and a few other messages warning the same, I will be sorting out the walk in wardrobe where dreams will be made and broken no doubt.

I also invented another character for my repertoire....Aphrobite....

Lighting for selfies and webcams.

When I was at uni studying film, I really didn't pay attention in the lighting class. It was dull. I wanted gritty British realism narratives.

I regret that now though I do have the internet and they have invented LED lights which I am spunking over today. Let me at that Ebay bitch!

With the nasty lighting I had last night I experimented for the video I am making. I need to up my game. The energy bulbs are an insult to my reality, but I had filters.

Casual Sex Ism

I received some family house guests the other day at the Royal Palace.

I was fresh out of hospital with a half empty bag strewn across the red leather love couch.

There was a bra, wanton, beckoning, and, it would seem, utterly irresistible. Padded, pert, shiny, all my bras. I am at an age where that cleavage needs a bit of scaffolding to achieve. I have been wearing them since I was thirteen.

Nothing unusual there of course and not something one would consider one's family would comment on. But of course, I am female. I am owned. I may be able to beat fuckery out of strangers but I am not weird enough to get my family members into my dungeon ( I should ask a friend.)

Anyway, the Godfather, of whom I have mentioned before for his misdemeanors and foibles, looked to seat himself on the love couch and was compelled by a male force of nature to manhandle my bra.

Stroking ensued. I was too ill to karate chop his neck.

Then things plummeted into that abyss of watery unexplained sexism that we women know all about but often never notice, until it is too late. The men dove into the pool.

My Godfather mentioned padding and my brother, who now needs a karate chop himself, said to my Godfather,

'Now you know, things are never as they seem.'

Mutual male laughing ensued, they were very happy with themselves. In their minds they embraced then high fived and roared like gorillas. The women were not in their room.

What is wrong with this scenario you may ask?

Reducing me to a body is perpetuating old ideas of gender roles.
Making a physical spectacle of me is inappropriate.
Pretending you understand the intricacies of female fashion is foolhardy.
Not supporting me when I have just come out of hospital is unkind.
Sexualising a family member because she is female is sexist.
Ganging up against an invalid is insensitive.
My tits, enhanced or otherwise, are not anyone's business.
Fingering my underwear is bad manners.

You may think I am being dramatic but that is the point of casual sexism. We are not supposed to make a fuss because it is just a bit of fun.

Monday, 19 February 2018


Some years ago in Brighton I had a friend who had succumbed to a serious drug habit, coke and crack mostly with alcohol thrown in like a narcotic gravy.

He was a good friend from Ireland. Funny and warm and the whole family loved him.

One night, drug fueled and thoughtful, he mentioned that he was in a spiral he was unable to escape from. A spiral of bad luck where one event would spawn another and then another; an extrapolation of  increasing negative experiences was predicted.

Drug users often have a warped view of reality so I tried to convince him that this was an impossibility. His Irish luck had not run out because luck, in the way he had meant, did not exist.

Some time later I found my home situation with a lover and my son increasingly violent and stressful.

I was caught in a trap of emotional and physical suffering with seemingly no way to escape. I was simply not coping. No one was helping me and each day things got worse. I was in that spiral my friend had spoken of and it seemed as much luck driven as his spiral. When would it end, this tornado of chaos?

More recently my health seemed to be spiraling out of control.
Things began with a breakdown or two and then to some serious physical issues that were taking me, perhaps, close to death.

When would I ever be in full health again? How would I live with serious mental or physical health issues. I was dying before myself. (Please note, I consider mental and physical health equally.)

I now believe in spirals, my friend was correct. And to some degree, these spirals are peppered with bad luck. A series of 'unlucky' events can cause or worsen your spiral based on how they effect you.

It was bad luck that I had once again discovered violence in my domestic environment.
It was bad luck that I was not mentally strong enough to stop a mental breakdown.
It was bad luck that I needed to have surgery for several things.

But the hand I am dealt is the hand I must deal and I now do so with tempered consideration. I use caution in all that I do because if any perceived 'bad luck' happens I will be ready for it. I have learned about spirals and I have learned how to stop them.

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