London Escort

Hehehe, look what a cartoonist has drawn for me, its me! Do you like?

London Escort Busty

No, not that kind of gentlemen’s club!!  Stroll around St James’s, Pall Mall, Mayfair et al and you may (or may not spot them) some have signs, most do not – Gentlemen’s Clubs.  They used to be strictly closed to ladies – I do remember, I think, seeing a film – The Honest Courtesan where courtesans were allowed into gentlemen’s clubs in Venice, way back when; to use the libraries of course.   What fun!

Anyway, I have been into a few of these clubs now.  Lovely places, full of history, legends and stories to tell.  I can tell you one.  One of my ancestors gambled and drank the whole family estate away in such a club.   Its too far back to get too annoyed now but I used to look at the family pile (I never lived there, by the way) – its a hotel now, and think, yes that could possibly have been mine, if I was born a male and threw on this mortal coil  around 100 years ago. Totally true and apparently that  kind of thing was not uncommon in those days. Hey hum.  The sandwich was conceived in such a place too.

Now these clubs; well you have to be with a member (no jokes at the back) and some of them let ladies in.  Yes indeed.  But some still do not.  Is that legal?  Anyway, I dont care, who wants to go where they are not wanted anyway?  I desperately feel the need to quote the fabulous Groucho Marx’s missive to a private club right now;

“PLEASE ACCEPT MY RESIGNATION. I DON’T WANT TO BELONG TO ANY CLUB THAT WILL ACCEPT PEOPLE LIKE ME AS A MEMBER”.

Hahaha, superb.

So back to these clubs that I am not a member of…  they are rather wonderful you know, well you will know if you have been before too, perhaps you are a member?  No wonder the fellas tried to keep them all to themselves :)  I have been rather lucky in that a couple of my gents have taken me for lunch at these fine establishments and I must say the food has been marvelous, likewise the company and the ambience.  Oh I know some femi-nazi’s will be outraged but I like them, the clubs and the gentlemen,  not the femi-nazi’s.  Now then, I am moving onto nightspots now and  I just need to find a way to get myself into Annabel’s and the Groucho Club now, any tips? :)

Courtesan

…. and a gorgeous one it is too, just like the fella in question. Thank you kind Sir, I am a very lucky lady to get to meet such wonderful guys as you.  All the sentiments expressed in that review are totally reciprocated.  I had a fabulous evening, see you soon, much love xxx

PUNTERNET REVIEW # 13

Independent London Escort

I keep bumping into celebrities.  No, Im not one of those nutcase celeb stalkers, we just happen to be in the same place, oh I say!

I was at a party at the Mandarin Oriental the other night when this very, very famous sportsman walked towards me and stopped.  ‘Well you look familiar’ says I with a twinkle in my eye (no he was not a client) and he said ‘Oh hello!, how are you?, havent seen you for ages!’ (‘more like never’ thought I)  As he carried on talking I thought  ‘He has absolutely no idea who I am,  hehehe’  No I didnt put him out of his misery, that would have been rude and much less fun.

At another ‘do’ and I bump into  Sven-Goren Eriksson’s ex, ‘Mwah, mwah; Nancy darling!  How are you?!’

Oh I am wicked :)

PS, Did you see that piece in the Sunday Times last weekend, My Courtesan Life of Sex and Champers?  I tried to link to it but it wouldnt allow me to.  Search for it though, its a good read.

Miss Ayo-Sue sent me this and, well you will read for yourself and see how funny it is.  But then, reading ”perfect day”, I had to pop on a bit of Lou Reed’s Perfect Day (as you do) on my sexy ipod.  Got to love that ipod, (catch Lou Reed below, happy memories – I was introduced to Mr Reed at the age of 14, no not him personally; his music. I used to kiss boys to his music, Oh my!) and thanks A-S, you gorgeous thing xxx

PS  It is probably too tiny to read on here but click on it and it will take it you to  a window where you can read it properly.

English Escort

Oh I have to giggle as I write this because Mr x and I, well we were talking about certain things (all will become clear in a mo) and I said  ‘fill my box’ would be a great title for a post wouldnt it?’ and off it went into all sorts of double entendre, back and forth.

Anyway, you know that I like champagne, just a teeny, tiny bit, right?

Well Mr x is a bit of an authority on champagne (how goddamn sexy is that??) and brought the most delicious champagne to join the one I had got for our dinner.  You see, Mr x is of the opinion that the smaller champagne houses are usually far superior than the larger ones with big marketing budgets,  and do you know? I cant argue with him right now because, as I said, the one he produced was splendid, fabulous.  I had one too, a rose from a smaller house that was recommended to me and I could only get it at Fortnums.  Stunning it was too.

So you also know about my little collection?  The metal tops of champagnes that I have sipped?  Here’s the post. Well, Ive got two new tops for my collection tonight,  hence  the ‘fill my box’ quip.  Oh you had to be there.

Do you want to though?  Fill my box? ;)

When Napoleon Bonaparte died in May 1821, there were fears that rumours would spread about the manner of his death (recent claims included the suggestion that he was poisoned), which may explain why no fewer than seventeen witnesses were invited to observe the autopsy which was carried out the day after he died by the Emperor’s own doctor, Francesco Antommarchi.

On the Emperor’s own instructions, his heart was removed first. Napoleon had asked that it be sent to his wife Marie-Louise, though the heart apparently vanished before it could be delivered. Curiouser and curiouser.

The stomach was carefully examined and at the time it was agreed that cancer was the cause of death.  Nothing else is recorded as having been removed.  However, within a few decades it was commonly supposed that Napoleon’s penis had been cut off and stored away carefully during the autopsy.  Oddly this was not mentioned in any of the seventeen witnesses present at the time of the autopsy.  But several commentator (let me tell you the commentators joke, go on!) have suggested that the body was not guarded at all times during the procedure and while everyone’s backs were turned Napoleon’s organ could have been quickly snipped off (Ouch).

Napoleon’s friemd Vignali, who adminstered the last rites, was left a large sum of money in Napoleon’s will as well as numerous ‘personal affects’ – these were not specified however.  Thirty years later Napoleon’s manservant claimed that Vignali had indeed removed various parts of Napoleon’s body, but this was not corroborated.

By 1916, the material bequeathed to Vignali had been sold en masse to a London collector, who some years later sold the collection to an American. it was at this point that the peni sstory became more substantial.  The description of the collection included the curious phrase mentioning ‘the mummified tendon taken from Napoleon’s body during the post-mortem’.

By the 1930′s A.S Rosenbach, an American collector, was displaying the ‘tendon’ in a blue velvet case and describing it as Napoleon’s penis.  It trravelled to France and was later the centrepiece of a grand display at the Museum of French Art in New York.

A newspaper report described the organ as looking something like a maltreated strip of buckskin shoelace or shriveled eel’.  Reports – largely stemming from Napoleon himself – that he was particularly well-endowed seem to be contradicted by the fact that the organ was also described as an inch long and resembling a grape. (Id like to see their’s almost 100 years after their death)

The most extraordinary part of this story occurred in London in 1972 when the putative penis was put up for sale – complete with magnificent velvet-lined case – at the London auction house Christie’s along with the rest of the Vignali collection.  The collection failed to reach its reserve and was withdrawn. A few years later the penis popped up (pardon?!) again, this time in Paris and unemcumbered by all the other paraphernalia of the collection.  The penis was bought by John Lattimer, a retired professor od Urology (apropriately enough) at the University of Columbia for $3,000.  The penis is still, as it were, in Professor Latimer’s hands.

Arghh!

I was due to have lunch with the lovely Ayo-Sue today, somewhere very fab and a place I have had on my list for a while.  Of course I was very excited to be catching up with Ayo too.  So, I plan my day, I even had a relatively early night last night to be fresh and lively.  So I  get everything ready and  try to run a bath.  Uh oh! no water, what? this cant be right.  I used to have intermittent plumbing problems in the southwest, it cant be happening again surely.  Am I doomed to be plagued by the plumbers curse?  I know, I know that I am lucky to have water running from my taps (usually), plenty dont but I desperately didnt want to let this lady down, but now I have and I have to wait for a plumber to arrive and he wont tell me when that will be and she has to lunch alone. I’ll make it up to her though, Im so sorry darling x

A lot of people have said recently that I look French.  I personally dont think I do.  When you say ‘French lady’ I think of Nicole in the Renault TV advertisements of the 1980′s and 90′s.   Il n’est pas si?

She (and ladies who look like her, I have a friend who does) are fantastic, gorgeous,  and I wish I did look like her/them.  I really do.  But I dont.  I have more of a Bridget Bardot sex kitten look  and always have  had since I was around 15, which I try to tame down with a Grace Kelly cool blonde style :)  So when we go out my lovely, you get Grace Kelly and when the boudoir beckons, I morph into Bridget Bardot – voila!

We all want what nature has not bestowed upon us though and the darker, chic, sultry looks of a Nicole – yes I would love that. But I am what I am and I make do with what I have been lucky enough to have been given.

But they say it, that I look French.  ‘How and why?’, I ask.  ‘You have that gamine look about you’  they say. Hmmm.

Gamine is a French word, the feminine form of gamin, originally meaning urchin, waif or playful, naughty child.

The word was used in English from about the mid 19th century (for example, by Thackeray in 1840 in one of his Parisian sketches), but, in the 20th century, came to be applied in its more modern sense of a slim, often boyish, wide-eyed young woman who is, or is perceived to be, mischievous, teasing or sexually appealing – think Audrey Hepburn, who is obviously beyond fabulous.

Gamine has been used particularly of such women in the performing arts or world of fashion. In that context, the closest English word – of Anglo-Norman origin – is probably “waif” (although “gamine” is often seen as conveying an additional sense of style and Chic).

It sounds awfully glam but boyish waif I am not darlings.  Let me embrace some of it though.  Chic and style I will gratefully have (I’ll tuck it into my bra strap) and mischievous, teasing and sexually appealing I will definitely take and pop that under my suspender belt.  Yes I am part French but for the life of me, I cant see me as gamine, but thanks anyway, you are too kind.

Of course ‘French’ has other connotations; French Kissing, French Polish (which in our world means oral sex, Ohh la la) and of course a French letter which we always use :)  Ok maybe I am more French than I know or acknowledge.  Embrasse-moi ;)

London Companion

Ive just bought this great book.  Its called London’s Strangest Tales
and in amongst all the many, many tales are a few wonderful stories regarding us ladies.  I will post the ones of interest over the next few days.  Here’s one that caught my eye…

The huge popularity of marzipan in Victorian England (it was far more popular than it is now) is entirely attributable to a cockney girl who became one of the best-known and most sought-after Courtesans in Paris.

Born in Stepney in 1760, Eliza Marchpane grew up in abject poverty – with  no schooling and no other way to earn a living, her only option was prostitution. She began by working the pubs along the notoriously dangerous Ratcliffe Highway, but she quickly realised that once her looks were gone her income would dry up.

She set off for Paris knowing nothing of the city or the language. How she lived after arriving we do not know but within a few years she was certainly known to the aristocracy – she dined regularly at the houses of the nobility under the assumed title Marquessa de Marchpane.  Her cockney French simply made her sound exotic to the Parisian nobility, who admired her good looks and vivacity.  In memoirs of the time she is described as extraordinarily attractive and her fame quickly spread far beyond Paris – she became the darling of the aristocracy in Vienna where it is said she seduced the young Mozart.

Gifts of houses, jewellery and lavish clothing from her admirers had made her rich and when she returned to England in about 1800 she brought with her the recipe for an almond paste she had first tasted in Austria.

Her large house in the West End became a fashionable centre and at every party she gave there were always cakes and other sweets made from almond paste.  Eliza ended her days in Brighton where she was for a time the lover of the Prince Regent, whose enormous girth no doubt could be attributed to Eliza’s almond paste.  She died in 1830.

High Class London Courtesan