Tales from South Cornwall

Lovely Trixy (™) has twisted my arm (I am Minge – hope you are well), to recount our recent well-earned sojourn to sun ourselves like lazy but, withered, gazelles in glorious Cornwall.

Owing to her lolling around on a beach like a bronzed Amazon, she asked me to keep you, her faithful readers, up to date; she was fairly preoccupied during our stay, building and implementing her master plan to snog and possibly deflower all males of the species that she get her elegantly manicured talons on - well at least those who had recently departed a selection of Britain's better public schools, and had keys to a floating gin palace on the Helford River…

Firstly lets recap our journey in the Trix-mobile to the “Duchy”, the land where pasties don't just come from kiosks at suburban railway stations, the only County where the cream is as clotted as John Prescott’s syntax – and sadly home to five singularly ineffectual, and hopefully soon to be redundant, Liberal Democrat Members of Parliament...(Andrew George, Moron of Parliament for St Ives for instance doesn't seem to really mind that his constituents lack jobs, or live in the most appalling poverty in the UK...he's preoccupied with a greater scheme, persecuting those who buy holiday homes with a zealotry not seen since the Catholic Kings –bugger everything else, lets burn the rich!!)

We departed Trixy Towers upbeat (thanks to Cher and Marlboro lights) until we discovered to our inverse delight, that the Department of Transport had turned the M3 over to the NCP people, and it is now an almost completely static carpark. However praise where praise is due for this bunch of socialist cowboys (sorry Harriet, cow-persons) - I congratulate HMG on their successful implementation of the plan – not so much the wheels of the Government wagon falling off, as the wagon grinding to a halt completely. The only excitement is hanging out of the window looking at the people whose cars have exploded in the heat – if there’s one thing that brings the great British public together, its suppressed joy at someone else’s misery.

Once we’d moved on, we eventually found ourselves pootling (Trix thought the term mincing was not quite a gay enough description for our driving style, and music choices) down the A303, and Trixy decided randomly that, owing to Sherborne having a girls’ school (where my friend Sophie went incidentally) it was obviously a perfect place to stop off for a refreshing glass of wine. Our criterion was stiff however, and we brooked no opposition - we wanted a public house with lashings of local colour and country charm and a barman who made a) a good martini b) a tent in my pants. We envisaged rosy cheeked wenches, pulling pints of the Syphilitic Rooster (or whatever local beverage was all the rage) to horny handed farm hands…

We finally found such an olde Dorsetshire country hostelry (can’t remember the name, the Dog & Bollocks, or the Ducks’ Nuts or similar) replete with thatched roof, and dripping with what (the lovely) Kirsty Alsopp would describe as 'character features'. Trix and I hoped we'd fit in with the locals in our London rags – we certainly tried to make ourselves inconspicuous (Trixy tucked her tiara surreptitiously behind her ear, as I hid my monocle – although the rustle of our cerise taffeta evening gowns underneath our evening capes was a bit of a giveaway). However, as luck would have it, we managed to avoid being run out of town by angry village “folk” - hurling slurs on we metropolitan types daring to enter their village…

The hostelry in question had been bought twelve months ago by this delightful, and almost certainly lovely, couple from Balham: Jeremy and Sophie (would you believe it!). Trix and I were in awe of their stripped pine and Cath Kidson dining accessories, but harboured vague doubts on the authenticity of their “Olde Dorsetshire Map: c.1550) – I’m not certain, but I have a feeling that the M5 didn’t run from Exeter to Bristol in 1550? Please do write-in if I’m wrong…I’ll prepare a fact sheet if necessary…

“So. I'm almost at the end of the country?” This was Trixy's observation as the Trix-mobile finally cruised over the Devon -Cornwall border (hurrah!) near to journey’s end. I always treasure moments such as these, when Trixy demonstrates the keen mind and agile wit which has propelled her so seamlessly to such dizzying heights within Euro-baiting politics...

And so, we arrived at Mingey Manor, in the small village of Moist-on-the-Gusset, near Little Felching – and home of the Mingey family since we first starting minging way back in the reign of Farty the First - but we’re also equipped with all the mod-cons you’d expect in the County where David Cameron suns himself – running water, electricity every other week, and hot and cold running houseboys...

I won’t bore you with the details of our stay. Suffice it to say that for a good time dear reader, go to South Cornwall, which is infinitely preferable to North Cornwall for all too obvious reasons (please note this list is not exhaustive, and may include utterly irrelevant as well as breathtakingly incisive material:)

· In a recent Government report, issued by the Department for Health, It has been proven that Newquay has more chavs, per sq ft (or per square Ford Escort – it amounts to the same thing) than anywhere else in the British Isles – with the obvious exception of Romford, and parts of Chingford. Visitors beware; I try to camouflage myself behind hooped earrings and (faux) Burberry tracksuits if the need arises – I understand the TA runs a course to prepare people for such adversity…

· “Sloane-Square-on-Sea” (also known as the Padstow/Rock conurbation) has more annoying 16 sixteen year old boys trying to get served in bars than anywhere else –except the Trafalgar on the Kings Road (SW3) or the Henry VI in Eton High Street.…Which can make being served problematic, and can skew the choices on the jukebox from something lovely by Bonnie Tyler/Cher/Barbara Streisand, to something crap by Naughty Rascals, or whoever the latest dance sensations may be..

However, in South Cornwall we have lots of secret places, and the people are much nicer, if fatter. But I’m not going to tell you about them, because it will get too crowded and then we’ll have to bring back emmett-culling* and I’ve just put myself down for a flower arranging class so I’m not sure I’ll have the time.

Hope this has livened up your day, and stay moist.

Minge
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*Emmett-Culling (v): literally, to cull an emmett; a process practiced by Cornish persons of hurling clotted cream, Ginsters pasties and Cornish fairings at non-Cornish folk as they cross the Tamar River in order to repel, or possibly maim non – Cornish folk.