Llancynfelyn Memories: Bonneville and Anti-Mate!

The dog, Bonneville, wasn’t overly keen – on the old connubial bliss, I mean. She didn’t go a bundle on long lines of randy males, tongues out and nethers alert (shall we say?), queuing up half way down the road for her seasonal favours. In fact, cowering and whimpering, she gave the impression that she would much prefer it if the whole sex-crazed pack would just bugger-off, vanish without trace, and leave her alone.

Unfortunately, the olfactory evidence of her state of readiness was undeniable – and I was expecting local wolves, foxes and passing Beasts of Bodmin to join the line at any moment.

It was already proving damned embarrassing: The poor farm workers couldn’t move an inch without tripping over a horde of horny hounds, and I could clearly see one of them surreptitiously oiling his gun (though whether he intended to shoot us, the dog, the Blue-balled beggars or himself was hard to work out).

Something had to be done – and fast. We did briefly consider buying a large can of the canine equivalent of Stud Delay – and letting them have it right up the proverbials – but common sense made us see that, by the time we got to the end of the line, the front few would have rediscovered their maimed mojo and gone into Gang Bang Mode.

So, we invested in a vanishing property for the dog herself: Anti Mate, I believe it was called, and we had to spray it liberally on the affected area.

What we were aiming for was twofold: The vanishing of the scent which so aroused the by-now-Guinness-Book-of-Records-sized-Pack – and, the speedy vanishing of the sex-crazed swains themselves, under the wheels of the 10.23 Machynlleth to Aberystwyth Express (which, naturally, took hours!), if that’s what it took!

We sprayed like demons. The stuff smelled repulsive. God knows what it had in it – but I swear I caught more than a passing note of sheep-dip, festering badger and chicken forgotten in the oven for two weeks. Even the dog looked a tad taken aback!

By God it worked, though: It cleared that farmyard (and adjacent road) quicker than sprout-induced flatulence in a bar – and the whole putative leg-over brigade had vanished almost before we could screw the top back on.


Blesséd relief, I can tell you!


The Lure of the YOUNGER Man!

In one significant way (if in no other!), dear Booby Fellatio (now up on BoobTube, as I put it in a rather splendid Freudian Slip to a friend earlier) and I are oceans apart. She (as those of you who have read, or viewed, her will know) lusts after, ‘…a plentiful supply of toothsome young men…a melange of mighty oaks…’ – whereas her redoubtable, orange-haired creator has, with one minor exception, always gone for the OLDER MAN!

My first proper boyfriend was four months my junior – and that’s the closest I have ever got to a Booby-type sexual scenario!

I have absolutely no prejudice on this front – and both know, and admire, many a woman in that hinterland between forty and seventy happily making the beast with two backs with a succession of youthful stallions! Good for them, I say! On the same lines – though not quite so extreme! – all three of my sisters are married to younger blokes!

However, my tastes have, historically – and, quite possibly, hysterically – always tended towards age (though not always maturity!). I probably fancied my father when I was four, or something.

I think another factor in my choice of bed-companion centred around the fact that I was a teacher for so ruddy long – and, therefore, any fresh-faced, light-on-years, chap I had cantered off into an orgasmic sunset with could all too easily have known, or even been (gulp!), an ex-pupil. The very thought was enough to freeze the blood – and, for this reason, I put a lower limit of early fifties (in my mind!) upon any potential conquest even when I was divorced and, thus, free to light the jolly old lamp of lust and ungird my loins (with a crowbar, if necessary!).

Booby, reading over my shoulder (as it were), is sneering away and guffawing wildly.

‘Really, Darling!’ she drawls. ‘Must you be so provincial, so damned narrow-minded? Think of all those gorgeous hunks of tautly-muscled testosterone just going to waste in the narrow beds of drunken tarts, or up a back alley in some plague-pit of a town!’ 

My (to me, very pertinent) points concerning saggage, baggage and wrinkles deeper than the bloody San Andrea Fault count for nowt in her jaded mind.

‘Hoick the GIRLS up as high as you can, without causing concussion!‘ she advises. ‘Pull the overhang in as far as you dare, or embrace Liposuction; wear your own weight in make-up and dress daringly at all times! Most men will be talking to your tits anyway, so why not cut out the Middleman?’


She may have a point, however.

‘Actually, Darling, I’ve got two!’ she cackles.

You see, I have always looked for emotional, intellectual and spiritual connection as well as sexual – and have created a further high-jump for the male population by insisting, somewhat stubbornly I daresay, upon a sense of humour too!

Booby – bless or curse her! – is much more direct in her needs: Under – and preferably WELL under! –  forty (in years), well-blessed (in the Todger Department), gorgeous – and with the stamina of a bull servicing a herd of heifers.

I look at the wondrous specimen Booby insisted I post on here and find myself in a certain amount of turmoil: What, I ask, would one talk about after the Act? Would he be able to read? Write? Would he have any level of Emotional Intelligence?

Booby, licking her lips in prurient anticipation, has no such scruples.

‘Oh, bugger that, Darling!’ she warbles. ‘Just have your wicked way with the blighter and then turf him out! That’s what I do!’

Hmmm! I think she and I may have to agree to differ on this one for the moment.

Do I find the young man above attractive? Ye Gods, yes. But, I could so easily have taught him years ago – and I am old enough, I suspect, to be not just his mother, but probably his grandmother!

‘Nuff said, methinks!

Writing a Diary/Journal: 7.1-1972 onwards…DP


You do not need a degree in Creative Writing to become a writer. Now, don’t get me wrong: I have a B.A in English Literature, from Aberystwyth University – but my ability with words has come from two things: Being an avid reader since I was small – and writing, writing, writing, most days, every month, every year since I was thirteen.

I am a writer…because I write! It is not, for me, an academic exercise; it is passion and respiration mixed!

Little did I know, when I opened the small green exercise book, on January 7th 1972, and penned the first sentence, that this diary habit would last me for decades rather than days – and is, in fact, with me still!

I had written my first play when I was eleven, and many stories when aged eight, nine and ten – but personal writing was very different!

I had gone, with other members of my year group at school, on an activities fortnight to Glasbury in Wales – and we were all required to write a diary of our experiences while we were there.

The day we arrived was the antepenultimate one before my fourteenth birthday (which, for the first time ever, I spent away from home!) – and it felt very grown-up to be writing my thoughts in a real diary: Like Anne Frank, I can remember thinking, for she, too, had been thirteen when she started writing.

I took to this kind of writing immediately – and, in this, was unlike the vast majority of my friends and other members of the third year cohort. I can recall vividly writing someone else’s daily entry for her – and, while most girls struggled to fill half of one book, I ended up writing two!

As previously intimated in other posts, I now have well over a hundred volumes of the thing lurking in a chest and the top of my wardrobe – and the reason I am mentioning this today is two-fold: I have just finished one volume (which, amazingly, has lasted since April 12th of this year) and am starting a new one exactly one month before my birthday rolls round again!

The diary habit has seen me through adolescence, university, teaching days, loves and deaths, sex (why, my deflowering alone takes up twelve pages!), friends and enemies, holidays, illnesses, marriage, childbirth (yes, I wrote a page whilst in the early stages of labour – as you do!), divorce, moves, terrors and delights.

Now coming up to its forty-sixth year, this is a strong continuum in my life and will, I hope, last me until I shuffle off this mortal coil or lose my capacity for coherent thought (whichever happens first!).

It is akin to breathing for me: I could not do without it!

If you know me, the chances are that you are in at least one volume!

Little did I know, when I opened that first volume, that this writing habit would, in time, spawn Booby Fellatio and, eventually, the video (which can be seen on YouTube or via Facebook).

Mystic-Ali: An Earthy Old Bawd!

This is me, Alienora, aged nearly fifty-nine! The lovely feathers, long since gone, were put in during the 2016 Glastonbury Frost Fayre and this photo taken soon afterwards, three weeks before I moved here permanently.

I am now a month away from reaching sixty and, among many other things, am mystical – but, according to much current thinking on the subject, I sure as hell don’t look it!

I am not pale and wan, or interestingly thin; Gothic is not a look that suits me (the one time I dyed my hair black, horses shied away in terror and small children wept!), and I’m afraid I don’t go a bundle on the far-away look, the plethora of occult doodads and the personal affiliation with, or psychic hotline to, a known member of the Fey or Dion Fortune/Morgan Le Fay/King Arthur!

And yet, I feel that I do, indeed, inspire a sense of spiritual mystery (even if it is only at the, ‘Jeez, she makes you wonder if mankind really was God’s last word,’ level), awe and fascination!

Why? Because I am a merry old bawd as well, with a loud laugh and a vulgar sense of humour – but, to some, Falstaff and mysticism do not marry well.

Actually, I think they do. My view is that you cannot be a mystic, or have a mystical turn of spirit, without also being fully earthed in the world, without your body also coming into play. In order to be transported to other realms, you need to have a solid base to return to – and you can’t get much more solid and earthy than moi!

I travel in mystical lands, and write of the experiences I have there – and then, once back, I am very likely to grab a large slab of Lindt, chuckle uproariously at an example of double entendre and write a post which combines the earth-based and the spiritual, a piece in which subtle eroticism blend with the fires of the spirit.

It concerns me, moving away from humour for a moment, that there is this view that spiritual people should, in some way, be rejecting the humanity which comes with a body and appetites and senses; that mysticism is often defined in terms of hermits and those of both genders who enter enclosed orders.

I do not think the act of giving up three-quarters of what makes us human beings is, in any way, a path to truly superior mystical ability. I think it can be a cop-out, a decision taken by those who are afraid of life, of passion, of the messiness and demands of the body!

Frankly, if I were to be the re-incarnation of someone from the past, it would most likely be an unnamed strumpet, Latrine Cleaner Number 8 or any one of the unremarked human being who have lived their lives in quiet obscurity and handed in their dinner pails with an equal lack of pomp and circumstance!

Channelled pieces on here are brief borrowings – generally from unknown sources – and, if I dip into anything, it is more akin to Collective Unconscious than famous historical or mythical figure.

I do not admire mystical pretentiousness or endless claims to rebirth of the souls of the famous and infamous. Mysticism is, to me, quiet and unassuming. It does not need to dress a particular way to be genuine, nor does it need to link to a spiritual Great to be validated.

We live in a world rich with the generous gifts of the senses – and no mystical journey, in my view, should be attempted without full recourse to the delights of earthing afterwards!

Mystic-Ali? Yup!

Source? Various and ultimately unknown!

Booby’s Debut: Aelph Edgewood creates a YouTube Video of Ali reading aloud…

Gorge, my dears, on this succulent dish, the one and only Booby Fellatio – a fine figure of several women!


This has been a real labour of love and friendship – and I feel very warmed, supported and encouraged as I write these words.

A while back, my lovely friend, Aelph Edgewood, filmed me reading three extracts from my humorously naughty book, ‘Come Laughing!’ Usually, I am very self-conscious about anything which involves cameras – but, because I trust Aelph implicitly – and know how talented she is – I was able to relax and just be me…or should that be: Just come out as Booby Fellatio?!

Aelph also managed, as I have mentioned before, to capture a snippet of Booby’s debut at the recent Shadow of the Tor Variety Evening and ‘The Amortal’ premiere, and this she has very cleverly added to the end of the video.

With a combination of visionary magic and the technical brilliance she uses in Edgewood Studios, Aelph spliced it all together, pruning and cutting and so forthing (says Ali, running very speedily out of appropriate words!) until she had the three sections smoothly gliding into one whole – and all the other bits and bobs in place.

Bless her, she spent hours and days on this – and the combination of meticulous attention to detail, wonderful artistic vision, humour and knowledge has left me gob-smacked and breath-taken. Watching, as she tweaked our three favourite Booby photos and put them together, had me reaching for my brain as it leaked out of my ears (my having completely failed to ascend the ladder of understanding by this time and having, instead, slid ignominiously down the snake of technological ineptness!) – and yet also vastly impressed by the apparent ease (misleading, I know!) of it all!

I am thrilled and delighted with the final product – and so touched by all the care and commitment that went into it.

On a serious note now – and something many may not realise – I start from a baseline of NO CONFIDENCE in myself as a woman. I am aware that I cover this up fairly well – and that the persona I adopted as a teacher can see me through most situations, at least on the surface – but the last few years have taken a massive toll upon my sense of any kind of attractiveness, let alone desirability, and, therefore, this has all been very confronting – though also liberating and enjoyable.

This video-making project has been healing on all sorts of levels – as was the chance to strut Booby’s stuff on stage three weeks ago.

Booby Fellatio, as a fully-formed alter ego, came to me three years ago when, lonely, scared and trapped, I felt utterly powerless. She seemed to have a strength and certainty I lacked – and her utter indifference to what anyone else thought was refreshingly different to my own terror of annoying or hurting or disagreeing with ANYONE.

She made me laugh, which was even better in a way – and reassured me that, somewhere deep inside, there was a version of her, no matter how watered down. But, and I’ll be honest here, I was too frightened – and, oddly, inhibited – to bring her out by myself; I needed to be sure, I suppose, that she was ridiculous in a controlled, deliberate and self-mocking way – and that it wasn’t just a case of me, Ali, making a complete and unaware fool of myself.

She is my creation – and her words are mine, as, indeed, are the phrases and descriptions, funny moments and lyrical ones, in the other two stories – but she is not me. She is, perhaps, a phase I never went through -or maybe one yet to come: Who knows?

But to bring her out in this way is a major step forward.

Thank you, dear Aelph!

Saintly: St Joan of Arc


So the witch-like instructions whispered in her adolescent shell-like ear, her unmaidenly dressing up in the shiny steel – soon battered and blooded – of war, (instead of simpering inanely as she sampled a comfit and tinkled on the virginals)…and, worst of all, her deep rebellion – a mere girl winning; all of these crimes against the church no doubt meant she was a barbecue just waiting to happen, and any old sieve of a charge (leaking corruption and misogynistic glee all over the raven-fat bloated meat hectares of sodden battleground) would have carried the righteous through the Sea of Superstition.

Martyr: What other species could have come up with so cunning a conceit, so barbarous a blighted blessing? For Joan (born, as I was, under Capricorn, and dead before she had left her teens) is one of a martyred multitude: Men and women, girls and boys slaughtered in repulsively inventive ways (which were then celebrated in book form and given, as presents, to good Catholic children) because of the cut of their spiritual jibs – which did not accord with the strict letter of the opposing religion’s law, and so merited the ripping out of maidenheads, eyes, breasts, the forcing of multiple arrows into young men’s flesh; the mass burning, in Oxford City Centre, of the infamous trio for whom the Martyrs’ Memorial was hewn, constructed and named.

But have you noticed? How loose and sick the definition of ‘martyr’ actually is? How degenerate its adherents? For it is the dominant religion which gets to play in the pen of slaying and raping and burning and bone-breaking and still has the moral upper-hand, claiming that its victims in some way deserved such treatment – and it is a belief in this Top God that oils the martyr’s way up the canonical slope to Sainthood: Cauterisation followed by Canonisation.

Would it not be far better to have a world in which no martyrs were needed? In which holding on to one’s beliefs were seen as a sign of strength rather than treachery? Where the Elders in religious tribes were not encouraged to abuse their power (under the spurious sanction of some long-bearded smiting Deity up in the Heavens) by murdering those who believed differently?

Back to Joan: I feel fairly sure that, as the heat of flames became unbearable and the smell of her own flesh roasting would have brought vomiting had she still had a working stomach or gullet, no kindly God-figure was waiting to scoop her up from the agonising moments prior to bodily release, and that no subsequent elevation to sainthood could justify treating a human being like a hog-roast.


And what, I ask, about the millions massacred for their beliefs who, through belonging to so-called Heathen sects, do not deserve the Martyr’s Tabard, the footnote in a book of all saints, the appellation of ‘St’ to their names, the showing of their miraculously-preserved bodies in ancient crypts?

Unmarked graves. Unmarked lives. Unmartyred. But horribly dead all the same.

NATURE PRESERVED: New shop in Glastonbury!

Nature Preserved, a lovely new shop in Glastonbury, opened last month. Situated in Church Lane – the alleyway which runs between Crystals and St John’s Church – it is the brain child of up-and-coming entrepreneur, Vicky Scipio. 

The shop, which sells ethically-sourced, and beautifully-preserved, creatures, and fine crystals. also features a broad range of goods designed by talented local artist and musician, Aelph Edgewood.

The shop has been tastefully furnished and is a joy to behold, being full of colour and interest and inspiration: Lifelike jays appear to fly above glistering crystals; a rack of Aelph-designed tee-shirts, dresses and leggings hang opposite cushions and mugs and colourful glitter, while the wonderful Boris (about whom I shall say no more: Go into the shop and find out for yourselves!) sits in lordly splendour in a corner.

I was lucky enough to be there on Opening Day – and seeing Vicky’s vision become reality, and the combined products of the two women shimmering, swooping and colourfully catching the light, was a delight and a privilege.

Sad to relate, I am having to introduce a sour note into this post. My own feeling is – and ever has been – that new initiatives need support and help, not spite. Unfortunately, the eye-catching and lovely banners Vicky and Aelph hung so proudly were cut down deliberately, by person or persons unknown, and left near a bin.

I would like to think that this isolated act of mean-spiritedness does not represent Glastonbury’s more open, generous and caring side – and that, once the banners are flying in all their glory once more, many new people will turn left at Crystals and venture into the fascinating space which is NATURE PRESERVED!

I shall certainly be nipping in again soonest!