DFL Women – the Three Key Archetypes (In My Opionion)

Hello.  Had a break in London, ate too much, drank too much, but did see some great films and old friends.  I realised on day two that there was something I really missed about Whitstable!  Where we were staying did not have Chinese take-aways.  For real!  Thank god there was a Waitrose.

As promised, here is my blog on the three archetypes of DFL women.  Now before anyone gets all testy, I would like to point out that I am married to one.  I have run this past her and she has given it her blessing.  And she’s extremely scary, as you will find out.

The reason I’m writing this now (and not about my awesome 3 hour kite surfing session late morning today for example) is becuase of a recent meal out with two other families that became almost a tableaux of DFL living.  We were like a DFL microcosm, the six of us, representing/distilling most of the iconic or if you will, stereotypical aspects of coming from a big city to a small, very parochial village.

So we were out to celebrate my wife’s ‘proper’ return to Whitstable with two other families that I don’t really know.  I’ve met them at bbqs on the beach and various dinner things but their children are much smaller than mine and, well, I didn’t even really like my own children at that age, so….you get the picture.  Anyway, I thought dinner would be fun, until I heard that all the children were coming too.  That did include my youngest, but at 13 I’d hardly say she’d have impinged on our evening.  I was a little disappointed, until I realised the devious and slightly irresponsible tactic they’d deployed (and had used on many an occasion):

We – the adults – were dining in the seaweed place.

They – the children – were dining in the Italian run by the Eastern Europeans opposite.

Genius!  Turns out one of the couples had employed one of the leggier girls as a nanny until she got pregnant (more about this later) and now she was part time waitressing there.  They have an arragement where the kids all sat in the big table in the window so they could wave to their parents and eat crap generic pasta, while the parents are able to have a relaxed evening enjoying food that is way too good for kids.  The waitress got a bit extra to babysit them while they ate, gave a signal when they were all finished and that’s that.

Apprently they do it all the time.

On this particular night, there were six children ranging from 4 to 13.  My daughter the eldest by three years.  We went out at 7.30.  Any of you up to speed?  What are 4 year olds like at 7.30?  I know what mine were like.  But, of course, that’s the point.  We didn’t have to listen to it.  The whingeing, the whining, the crying, the shouting, shreeching, screaming, tantrums, the tribulations, the procrastination, the conflagration of emotions, the final, terrible keening that would lead to at least three of them falling asleep in their spaghetti.  We were oblivious.

I’m going to leave the telling of this while I revert to my main topic, becuase it was whilst I was sitting with the two other men (who I don’t know that well), waiting for the wives to ‘settle the children in’ that I began to formulate my archetypes.  I’d always vaguely thought of them – DFL women in genres, but as I watched them march/jog/stride across the road, it was a bit like watching the opening sequence of Sex in the City (the ‘sex’ we’re referring to here will be analysed in reference to the archetypes in time), each woman being an entirely different creature, yet all so thoroughly DFL it was astonishing!

So here are my three (feel free to conradict me if you think there are more!) DFL female archetypes:

1. Fierce DFL

Now, my wife is very much in this category.  She’s an executive.  She’s a doer. She’s academic, smart, capable, assertive.  She’s fierce.  This can be good and bad.  I’ve met many, many women like this in London, but something weird happens to them when they come down here, the fierceness goes underground.  And then comes out on MUMSNET. Or coaching their children and employing extra teachers for the 11-plus.  It comes out in competitive, unecessary over-yoga-ing, interior design, dinner parties, parenting (different from my next archetype).  They are like men, in disguise.  No!  They are how DFL men would like to be, if only they hadn’t been completely emasculated and neutered by the move to the coast.  Here’s an example of a woman many Fiesty’s might admire:

_51129036_brady_1024There are very few women I knew who were childless and fierce in London who had any intention to move to the coast.  Why would they?  Fierce DFLs are a unique phenomena.  Missing the cut and thrust of whatever their glittering career was, they transfer their considerable skills to community stuff.  And to just being women. 

Seriously – if you’ve never been on Mumsnet, sneak on when the wife has left it logged in and just have a browse around.  Don’t, however, DO NOT, pretent to be her and leave a message.  They will know INSTANTLY that is it you and you will be run out of town.

Warning.  If the fierceness of the Fierce DFL is not tempered somehow, they could end up like this:

Theresa May

Don’t be fooled by the shoes.  This woman is the epitomy of FIERCE.  I watched my wife cross the road from the Italian run by Eastern Europeans and she was marching, grim faced, in control.  She was wearing cropped, gold statement trousers and a coral silk top with May like kitten heels.  It was terrifying.  If you saw that marching towards you across the boardroom, you’d shit your pants.

2. Mumsy DFL

Aw Mumsy! These are women unburdened by the sudden lack of status the Fierce Girls feel so keenly.  They are able to accept things will be different, however, this doesn’t mean they aren’t using motherhood at every opportunity to showcase their London heritage.  No!  No lie, they’ve had to build a whole new Kath Kidston factory just to produce the reams of pastel, paisley and gingham bunting that’s festooned from gazebos, their £120,000 beach huts (they HAVE to have one) and back gardens.  They like mis-matched antique crockery, they might even be a bit Christian (Jesus H Christ!), into cupcakes, too many cupcakes, they love Boden.  Really into baking,  But, they are great mums.  Unless they’ve had wine.  Which is all that matters really.  I’m just glad I’m not married to one…Kirsty is the epitome of DFL Mumsiness. But I wouldn’t.


The shoes say it all.  What infant wouldn’t want to bury their face into that generous bosom!  Mumsy’s get all a bit flirty when they’ve had too much Rose too.  Which can be fun.  Bit of a double edged sword if you’re as hot as me though…

Warning!  Mumsy might find it hard to let go of the Mumsy thing even when there are no children left.  She might also be unable to let go of her chronic food issues and end up cooking ALL THE TIME.  She may even end up looking like this..

Clarissa Dickson Wright death

There’s are two other things apart from bunting the drive me nuts about Mumsy DFLs – these


And these:


I know I don’t need to explain why…

3.  The final archetype is split into two sub-types  –

a) Slutty DFL (Alpha)

This woman is top totty, or at least she was in her twenties and she is doing EVERYTHING IN HER POWER AND THE POWER OF HER HUSBANDS WALLET to maintain her looks.  That’s the key word here, maintenance, because she was already as good as it could get.  Her hair is bra length, ‘honey’ blonde with a feathering of extentions, she is still a size 6/8 (but battling the 16/61 issue daily –  good lighting is of the essence – you NEVER see them between 11am and 2pm), she has had a discrete boob job (is there such a thing?), has subtle fillers and has a personal trainer, IN LONDON.  She probably dabbles with healing crystals and sprituality and bemoans the lack of Bikram Yoga classes in the town.  She doesn’t cook apart from raw food.  She likes to dance, especially when she’s a bit drunk.  Her daughters look just like her.  Or rather, people mistake her for their slightly older sister all the time.  These women are quite rare – they don’t often move here (for obvious reasons) but there are a few dotted about.  They tend to be the bitchiest of the three – shun Mumsy (who is likely to be oblivious) and compete for ranking as Alpha female with Fierce (no competition).

A typical Alpha Slutty might look like this:


We’ve all seen women who look like this on the school run.  Mostly, these Alpha types wouldn’t dream of sending their offspring to a state school but occasionally they do.  You’d think they’d stand out like a sore thumb but no – not in Whitstable!  Alongside Alpha SLutty, looking just as tall, groomed and ridiculouslyl over-dressed are the local hotties (although usually pramfaces – not desperately trying to hold onto it all).  They’re just back from a shopping spree at Primark where they got exactly the same get up but for a fraction of the price!  Go local girls!

Warning.  Things can go quite wrong.  Ellen-Barkin-Plastic-Surgery


Yep.  Say no more.

b) Slutty DFL (Beta)

She’d like to look like Alpha.  Maybe she even thinks she does.   Maybe.  It doesn’t matter.  She gets more action.  The other DFL women know the difference though.  I’m going to go out on a limb here.  The difference between these wannabes and the other DFL lady’s isn’t class, it’s brains.  Or lack there of.  They just try too hard but on the wrong things.  All the same applies to Beta as is does Alpha, yet…yet.  We’ve ALL met those public shool girls who only went to public school becuase they were too stupid and deviant to stay in state school.   Think vicar’s daughters. Money does not equal taste.


Obvious risks here:



Or worse still, one of THESE –


Mind you, Carol Vorderman.  I so would, but the other Loose Women – they’re only really referring to their pelvic floor aren’t they?  Ugh.

Having said that, meeting these ladies on a night out can be most entertaining and rewarding. 🙂

Now, they are the PURE archetypes, but the BIG trouble comes when one attempts to be another.

Just imagine!

Mumsy trying to take on a Fierce in organising a church hall bric-a-bac fete!

Just imagine!

Fierce trying to challenge the raw sexiness of Beta Slutty on a night out!  (I’ve seen this at close hand…)

Just imagine!

Alpha Slutty trying to out Mummy Mumsy at the Easter Egg hunt at the Castle!

All manner of things would go wrong.  Finally – imagine if Mumsy or Fierce went out in a body-con dress like this?


They’d probably have to wear one of these (yes the wife does have one and I’ve had to get her out of it with scissors before – not in a sexy way)


And, believe me, they end up looking more like this –


Best to stay true to type…

So first, back to our night out.  My wife Fierce and her friends Mumsy and Beta Slutty (the best type) were out.  We got there and the kids were ‘settled in’.  My youngest giving me forlorn looks through the window and my wife telling me to ignore her.  Apparently she was mortified she’d had it sprung on her that she was sitting with ‘the babies’.  I did feel a bit sorry for her, but then the good times rolled, the food, the wine, etc.

The majority of the conversation revolved around the this topic of Eastern European nannies.  Something my wife and the other DFL women hotly debated all night. Mumsy  had not had an EastoNanno as she doesn’t work, but lots of her friends had experienced this. Turns out the experience of Beta Slutty and her husband with the waitress over the road isn’t uncommon.  The conclusion they came to, after copious bottles of wine – throughout which I could see my daughter’s face becoming more and more vexed twenty feet away as she looked at me with pleading eyes, was that you should only ever employ the ugliest of nannies.  The conclusion they came to after that, was in that case, you were better off getting a local girl for cash in hand and avoiding the EastoNannos altogether.  Contentious stuff!

Over pudding, the men started discussing how they could dodge employment law should a nanny get pregnant so the family could just dump her and get another unpregnant one.  By then, my 13 year old was beckoning me furiously.  Everytime I looked up, my wife said, ‘Leave!’

Eventually, I saw a swarthy looking Romanian in a chef’s costume questioning her as she pointed reluctantly towards our table, across the road.  As soon as I saw the look on his face, I sprinted across the road and found the three smallest had been transferred to comfy chairs, while the older three finished ice creams, in sullen silence.  Now that’s service!

Swarthy carried two children and I carried the other over the road where he banged his fist on the plate glass window by one of the dad’s heads as he was nodding off.  Mumsy started crying and rushed out, blaming her banker husband, Pippa took charge and got the others mobilised while Slutty was flirting with the manager while she paid for the bill.  It was all rather embarassing really but, you know, no one died!  We gave Swarthy a ‘bullseye’ and he seemed ok with that.  Only muttering a bit about social services.

Then we went back to Beta Slutty’s for a party.  I won’t tell you what happened.

But what I do have for you is a little game!!  It’s called –


Here are our four DFL’s

Fierce DFL
Mumsy DFL
Slutty DFL2
Alpha Slutty
Slutty DFL
Beta Slutty

Now, you can print these off and try on the outfits!

Which outfits go with which DFL archetype?

slutty dress
Fierce DFL dress
slutty 2 dress
Mumsy DFL dress

Send me your answers and there’s absolutely no prize for the winner!  Well, if it’s a lady, I might let you stroke my beard. Lol.

In conclusion, having spoken in confidence with other DFL men, we all hanker after a Alpha Slutty for status but know she’s too high maintenance, we lust after a Beta Slutty but know she’d do our heads in and be too princess-ish.

Secretly we’re happiest with Fierce and Mumsy.  Fierce, because she takes care of shit and there’s a certain joy in being absolved of repsonsibility.  Mumsy, well, usually because men love and miss their mums (or Eastern European nannies 😉 !


Hangover From Hell

I’m back from our little juant to London and only just able to revisit last Sunday – my worst hangover in YEARS.  As I’d said, I was more hammered than I thought, which is unsurprising when you factor in a total of nine solid hours at the lager-face.  Pippa let me lie in until 10, which was very generous of her.  It was one of those hangovers where I knew I couldn’t drive.   One of those hangovers I had to over one eye just to navigate my house.   Had I driven, I’d have crashed and died, maybe even ploughed through a dozen families of bewildered looking DFLs, miserabley staring at the torrential rain and wondering why they’d bothered.

Now, like so many men of my generation, I have a soft spot for old skool, proper vintage games.  Stuff I could have only dreamed had been invented back in the 70s and 80s when I was an actual child.  Well thanks to my love of Deli coffee, I had the good fortune to meet a gentleman that finds the rarest of rare consoles and games and sells them, mainly on e-bay, but also from a little lock up a stone’s throw from my cottage.  Visit Retro Recyclers – it’s the business.  Bonza!  The combo of the awful weather and my monumental stonker of a headache froced me to the conclusion that that was the day the Universe meant me to seek out the ultimate of consoles – the Super Famicom.  Oh yeah.  I gave my new friend, Rexy a tinkle and an hour later, me and Miranda were there.

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Well me and Rexy hit it off striaght away.  He’s hilarious and uniquely local.  And he talks very fast.  So fast, so local, I had to ask my daughter to translate.  I’m horrified she could, but it served a purpose.  So his emporium – a cornucopia of gaming fun.  And the Famicon – the Holy Grail of consoles.  I gave my phone to Miranda to photograph the momentous event, while we cut the deal.  It felt edgy, a bit East End arches.

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Ooh!  A Nes!  I was back in my Uni dorm, drinking cider, avoiding my deadlines – on this!  So tempting…

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Rexy bargaining hard.  He knows his shit.

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Tempted to treat myself to the whole family!  Nes, Snes and Famicom.  Except if Pippa ever found out, she’d chop my testicles off.

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But – BUT!  Arrg!  So hard!!

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The Famicom won through.  I had to barter.  I offered him 200, he got me down to 50.  What a guy!


Safe as, fam.  Yeah blud.

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Shorty after my purchase, Pippa summond us for lunch.  A treat as I was suffering – V.C. Jones for sit down fish and chips.  YUSS!  Miranda moaned a bit about fat and carbs so we let her go home and eat a lettuce leaf.  I felt really guilty about snoring the night before so I ducked into iS-2Gallery (what does that actually mean?  Is is code?)  to get Pippa a gift by way of an apology.  I’m certain the gent in there thought I was going to rob the place.  He was very friendly but once I started talking, I pulled a whitey and had to leave I was heaving so much.

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This woman runs the place.  She’s called Anne Jones. We’ve become quite pally over the years, at least until my daughters refused to eat food.  I was pretty ill here.  I was trying to think of something that would give the vital nutrients I’d need to mend.  I was asking if she knew the omega 3/6/9 content of her fish and chips.  She’s very nice, but very busy.

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I remembered!  Talapia! That’s what we all ought to be eating!  Anne didn’t have any though.  She reminded me, again that they have fish and chips and you can order that either, seperate, or together.

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I fell asleep for a while.  It was that or I puked on her shoes.  I dreamt about my Famicom while Pip took these pretentious shots.  Love V.C. Jones…

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Thankfully Anne Jones artfully used the tip of her biro in my ear to awaken me and I was able to make the correct ordering selection – would you believe it?  Cod and chips with mushy peas!

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It was so good, I rested my eyes for a while so Pippa could read the Telegraph (obvs, she had to bring it in – they only had the Mail and the Sun, Lol!)

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So that was the aftermath of the stag night.  Christ knows what the wedding will be like.  I’m still trying to get out of it.

Off to play Street Fighter, Earth Worm Jim and Castlevania.  Baddabing!

My Ultimate Plan for Sorting Whitstable Harbour Out – Finally!

Right, back to my normal chipper demeanour.  I have to say I feel better for airing my grievances.  However, I did promise a ‘spesh’ on my carefully considered and dynamic architectural ideas for the Harbour that would create a MASSIVE GDP and inward investment for the town and improve it beyond belief.

First of all, we need to eradicate some of the existing structures.  Here’s my preferred method for getting rid of the carbuncle that is Bretts –


 So, what’ll will be there instead?  Well here’s my little plan.  I would just like to say this is ALL MY OWN WORK, however, I did get lots of help and tips with the fine architectural drawing from my bud Alec.  He’s a proper architect and very important locally.  Here he is – obvs he doesn’t normally look this demented.  We go mountain biking quite a lot and I’ve talked through my ideas.  He wasn’t able to give it his comprehensive support unfortunately.  Something about ‘legals’ but he did smile a lot.


See?  He has other friends with beards too!

So here’s my idea.  I’ll list the attractions in case they aren’t clear enough on my plan.

Plan with writing

So, on the West Quay there will be the Peter Cushing Vampire Experience!  Imagine Dickens World, Harry Potter World etc but all dedicated to Hammer Horror and old Pete!  Who wouldn’t love that?!  Then along from that, do away with the huts and build some very attractive waterside apartments.  Something like this I thought –


 Then, we ABSOLUTELY have to get rid of the whelks.  Just yuk.  I imagine, in my darkest moments that suffocating in a mountain of whelks might be the actual worst way to die.  Eugh.  Perhaps ‘the people’ could decide what to put there instead?  A kids play park perhaps?  I dunno.  I’ve done all the hard work here!  HELLO!

Now along from that, we have The Peter Firmin/Bagpuss Experience!  Same thing as The Cush, but with children’s workshops, lots of experiential learning and lots of screenings.  Could be part of the big INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL I have planned for the Harbour – more about that later.  The building could look something like this –


Lots of parking to replace the garage (compulsory purchase) but FREE for locals and DFLs that have lived here for say, more than 5 years.

Then – and this is what I’m REALLY excited about – a giant mixed arts venue, a bit like the one in Bristol.  Here’s the blurb from the Watershed’s website:

We curate ideas, spaces and talent to enable artistic visions and creative collaborations to flourish. We produce work that cuts across film, music, theatre, design, visual art, and the creative and technology sectors. Examples include The Passion of Joan of Arc, Theatre Sandbox, Electric December and our ongoing artist residency programme.

Watershed and the Pervasive Media Studio (a city-centre research space) occupy the first floor of a historic Grade II* listed building at the entranceway to Bristol’s Harbourside.

In the building you will find three cinemas, a large, light and airy Café/Bar, flexible conference and events spaces and the Pervasive Media Studio, our research space which brings together a network of over 100 artists, technologists and academics to explore the future of mobile and wireless media.

With audiences and participation at the heart of the organisation, Watershed delivers a diverse cultural programme of films, events, festivals, artist commissions, tours and conferences. In all of its work Watershed seeks to produce open collaborations and create opportunities which bridge expertise, imaginations and boundaries to promote new ideas and enjoyable experiences.

Here’s what it looks like and the harbour a little further along.  Lots of space underneath for popular chains to open (like Pitcher and Piano).  And this would be where we could hold the Whitstable International Film Festival.

Bristol Watershed

Bristol Waterfront

However, seeing as there isn’t a beautiful historic building there to renovate, I thought it would be cool if it looked a bit like this –


Right behind that, I thought it would be fun to have a mega high ropes/bungee/zipwire/climbing wall experience!  Something for all those teens to do while there parent’s are getting drunk in Pitcher and Piano.  They could even run regular schools sessions for when they split up from GCSEs, that sort of thing.  Why should PGL in Devon get all our smelly teens and what they’d pay at the end of July?

Nice bit of waterside space (like the South Bank) for tourists and locals to mingle, have a picnic, share a laugh.  Then demolish all the beach huts and build some seriously sexy high rise luxury flats.  Something like this –


I’m not done yet!!  Who doesn’t love that massive ferris wheel at Brighton?  Nobody, that’s who.  Demolish the indoor bowls (deliberate) centre and build an even bigger one there! 


Why stop there?  Want to put Whitstable on the map?  What about having something like this in that space too.  Wowzers!  A mega roller coasters.  Let’s do it!  We could be a destination for thrill seekers the world over!!


Now – the film festival.  Film Festivals are serious business for writers/directors/producers/acquisitions people/distributers.  I’m not suggesting a frothy affiar of rubbish block busters, I’m mooting a serious industry led market where deals are sealed and buisness is done.  There is a small (weirdly English led) festival I would say would be a good model in Dinard in France.  Dinard has grown to 20,000 delegates, 50 screenings over five days.  We’d have to start with a modest weekend, 500 delegates with a closed competition and selection, industry panel, mentoring, workshops, discussions, networking and pitching events.  Yes, some public screenings to raise awarenes and give it a public facing aura, but really, it will bring film industry money into the town.  Christ – these people are here every weekend anyway, so why not just make it easier for them?  Look at the success of the Sheffield Documentary Film Festival – and it’s in SHEFFIELD!!

So, that’s it.  I’m off to do some skating now before it chucks it down.  I’m stuck on a scene and in the absence of decent wind for my kite, skating helps get the ideas flowing again.  Well, that’s the plan anyway! Lol.

Next blog will be from London as we’re borrowing a friend’s flat for a few days in Chiswick, our old patch.  I must say, I’m looking forward to getting back up there for a break.

Love to all!


Ten Ultimate Truths about Moving to Whitstable from London

Well, you’ve had the playful, yes, slightly banal and cheeky me so far, but the avalanche of continual criticism has led me to dwell a little on Shitstable and why the crap anyone would move here in the first place.  Or, indeed, if you were born here, why you would stay.  So here is it.  An utterly serious critique, arse-and-all look at the good, the mediocre and the utter dog shite that is Whitstable living.  Imagine this is advice to the young me, all full of hope and expectation, five years ago…

1. You will never, ever be a local.  Although obvs I’ve proved that total assimilation is possible as I am completely integrated and valued here, there is a strata of resistance in this town, that is impenetrable.  Imagine you are the TBM that triumphantly suceeded in linking the UK with mainland Europe for the first time since the ice age?  Well  if you used that to attempt to penetrate the stony arse faced resistence of certain locals to ‘outsiders’ it would shatter, splinter and kill everyone working on it.  It would be a blood bath.  Don’t bother trying to be ‘one of them’.  Work on the nice one’s and ignore the piss takers.  This is largely about class. 

2. ‘We preferred Whitstable when it was shit’.  This is a widely propogated MYTH and it needs to be challenged and corrected.  I’m happy to do that.  The supposition is that certain elements if the town believe Whitstable  was shit before the DFLs injected some much needed cash into the local economy – but they would have much preferred it to stay like that.  Well, HELLO!  We were there too!  When it was shit!  Right back in the early nineties.  Here are 5 reasons why the Shitness was Good and 5 reasons why the Shitness was Bad.

  5 Reasons Why the Shitness was Good

1. It actually had fucking CINEMAS.  When me and the Mrs first came down there was NOTHING.  Now can you imagine?  We were young, used to London.  Film culture was accessible, vibrant and varied.  Then NOTHING.  Thank GOD the owner of the fish restaurant opened a flea pit upstairs.  We saw Resevoir Dogs there, I fell asleep during The English Patient, loved Kidz and Natural Born Killers and barely managed to endure 8 Mile (don’t bother) there and – like in London, you could drink alcohol!  However, the projection was shit ( I think he was shagging someone) and the seats left you with the slight feeling that you’d been violated.  Whitstable, as I vaguely understand it, has a rich history of picture palaces – The Oxford, another that is now Budgens, another tiny one that was in Harbour street and a large cinema that I remember the giant empty hulk of in Tankerton by the tennis courts.  Then, due to shoddy management and terrible audience development (and seats that probably gave you crabs), the cinema above the fish restaurant shut.

Now guess what?  NO FUCKING CINEMA!  Do not worry, I have my own plan for the Harbour which I will reveal in a separate blog.  I am working with a local architect (who I lift very heavy weights with) on a strategic plan for the Harbour development.  I’m seeking out private finance right now and negotiating a buy out deal for Bretts.

2. There were less shite shops.  Is that really ‘our fault’?  There were also cool places like the Assembly Rooms with its weird sprung floor and Johnny’s Art House.  My wife loved the Magic Wardrobe too.

3. The Beach – less crowded.

4. You could get a bloody table for dinner without booking three weeks ahead.

5. The pubs – there were more of them.  The beer was dirt cheap.  I occasionally got a lock in – usually only if I was in the middle of a game of pool (I hate pool.  Only did it to get a lock in) or in the toilet for a really long time.

Ooh, I’m going to stretch to a contentious 6 now…


5 Reasons Why the Shitness was BAD

1. It looked shitter.  I know I go on about Kath Kittywhatsherfuckingname bunting, but at least DFLs plant flowers and paint their front doors and windows and remodel their houses to look less old and knackered.  A greater inward investment means the council pay for better lighting, more planted municipal flowers, better pavements, roads, cleaner streets etc etc.  Sorry?  Is this boring you?

2. The drugs.  No one really likes to discuss this do they?  Hmmm?  Rather point the finger at  Brown Town up the road or the Planet Thanet in the dark beyond, but Whitstable, sorry, Shitstable has and has always had a GIANT drugs issue.  Just try and get your prescription in under and hour on ‘methedone day’ at Boots.  I tried to ignore the drugs situation in the 90’s like lots of us did.  We brought our own, highly superior stuff with us thank you, but spent many an evening throughout the 90’s observing the terrible states people got themselves in.  I managed to personally avoid any local brush with drugs apart from one evening.  One really, really terrible evening. But I’m not prepared to talk about that without a lawyer.

3. The Food.  Now I’m on really dodgy ground here.  We patronised the fish restaurant for years when we were young, largely because everyone from London did then.  Looking back, it was the ambience of the place that was great, the sunsets, the way the skinny ballet dancer of the waitress never wore a bra, but the food was just….grilled fish.  Fucking expensive, grilled fish.  Deliah’s was fab, but that was it.  Well. Apart from the French place in Harbour Street.  Most dyslexic menus I’ve ever read.  Mackerelly on toast and Salaman Rushdie salad.  Fab.  Soooo, that’s why I think a bit of competition is good.  Now there is the Michelin starred Sportsman, the Pearsons, which apparently is good (not into celebrity chefs), Salt Marsh at the the back of the best DFL pub in town, Samphire, The Oxford and JoJos (she’s not from Whitstable though, she’s from up North and don’t bother going if you like to eat clean.  It’s all deep fried.).
Burger Bros are a pop up that have been slated by certain elements.  They are run by a massive gent who looks like a criminal.  He’s from Sheppey.  No they’re not from Whitstable, but that’s hardly posh is it?!

4.The pubs.  Ok, there were more.  The beer was cheaper. But they were SHITE and full of dick heads.  Scary, tacky, smelly.  Need I go on?  I even had the misfortune to wander into one (not far from my own Victorian cottage now) that was showing HOME PORN every Saturday night and advertised that they had a girl from Herne Bay upstairs for consensual ‘massage’ every Thursday.  Classy!

5. Crime and  Violence.  Again, like the Drugs.  no one really likes to talk about this…except me!  Consider the following before you move here:

a. Kebab shop fights.  Not just between the men, hhooo nooo.  Watch those drunk young ladees give it sum.  Also, I watched a young man have his kebab ninja kicked right out of his hands as he was about to take his first bite.  There are A LOT  of ninjas in Whitstable.

b. I was enjoying a Christmas Eve at an old pub up on Tankerton slopes one year in the 90’s when a MASSIVE  fight broke out.  It was like watching a Western – one pumped up pikey on steroids and Hurlimann threw one bad punch and the whole sorry lot of them were thumping each other.  We just sat frozen until the police arrived.

c. Crime.  Very upsetting.  We brought two fold up bikes down in the early 2000’s and they were nicked when we had a coffee.  Then someone tried to sell the same bikes back to us outside Bruce Randall’s.  I’m ashamed to say we bought them.  No one ‘buys’ a bike in Whitstable.  They just ‘acquire’ one.  FACT.

d.  Two people have had their ears bitten off in Whitstable in  20 years.  WTF?!

 3. It’s a much happier experience being a DFL woman.  I will expand on this in a later blog – I have DFL women archetypes that I would like to explore with you, but for now, let’s say that DFL men fall into two categories:

a. Put upon spineless, emasculated ‘stay at home-your career is over’ DFL men, who pretend the company of small children is better than the thrill of  a proper job.  They get thinner and thinner because they can’t see the point in eating, while they spend all day every day feeding their plump London children.  All the while SHE is up in town, doing important shit.

b. ‘I didn’t want to move here’ poor bastards who, having married their dream girl, realised she’s turned into a different person once pregnant.  She’s life-managed them into a semi-rural existence that is TOTALLY NIHILISTIC to his career.  So, the poor bastard has to get  up at 5 am to get the ‘fast’ train to where he used to be able to get to work in 20 minutes JUST SO SHE CAN SIT ON THE FUCKING BEACH.

4.  Whitstable IS  cultural wasteland compared to London.  Ok, there are ‘hotspots’.  The Whitstable Biennale (none of the locals get it. They don’t even understand that it runs every other year. Lol), some other stuff Whitstable 365 etc, but really, compared to the free, wonderful INTERNATIONAL CULTURE available in London, Whitstable is a white dog turd of culture.  Rare, unpleasant, best ignored.

5.  Prepare to do a pretty savage Personal Identity MOT!  This is strongly linked with number 1 but subtly different, whereas number 1 dealt with class prejudices, this deals with JEALOUSLY about ego and success.  Locals in Whitstable (bar a couple of big tattoeed exceptions) are very short of self confidence.  They HATE anyone who is successful or is prominent about their achievements.  By all means, come here if you are famous, but don’t fucking talk about it, don’t acknowledge it.  Please, please, don’t expect any one to respect you for it!!  Ho, no.

6.  Like moving, or any change really, don’t let expectations exceed reality.  And when the reality kicks in, just think, well, you know what, I made that decision, I’ve got to deal with it.  My reality?  The weather.  Ok, bit stupid maybe but I thought it might be hotter here than London.  It’s not.  It’s windy and very cold in the winter.  But hey!  I got into kite surfing instead.  It’s the source!

7. Okay, okay, let’s have some positives…um, kitesurfing 7 days a week, Georges mini market (seriously man – I shit you not!), micro breweries and micro pubs – Tankerton Arms and the Black Dog, live music in the pubs in town – fucking A.

8. Some big negatives I will deal with comprehensively in other blogs.  Housing (not social obvioulsly), and parking.

9.  Shopping.  Fucking terrible.  Still have to come to London to get what I need.  No Waitrose or M&S local.  No one has anything to eat in the evening.

10. Okay.  Lastly, the worst thing about the town is?……The DFLs!  Yes, I am one, but I’ve been here for ages.  I’m massive friends with locals.  Even the ugly, gobby ones!  I’m going to save my DFL rant up for another night.  It’s a bit epic.

So – sorry it’s been a saga.  Sorry there are not images.  Actually, I don’t care.  If you’ve got this far, well done.

Final random list of things currently getting on my nerves, seeing as I’m on a roll…

Small children.  Just wandering about.  Getting in the way

Elderly people, driving.

Idiot people, chatting by zebra crossings.

Ahh.  I think that’s it for now.  We’ve been in Cornwall for a few days so it’s nice to come back now the town is a bit less mad.  Be interested to see if other DFLs feel the same.  Lol!  BTW  – hello Mumsnet!  Lol!

Laters. x