Trouble At The Badger's Snatch

One was involved in a rather alarming experience this morning.

It was a misty morning in the village and the myriad of moisture droplets were hanging over the grounds here at Crusty Hall. They looked saturated, sad and as though the colour had been drained from them by Mother Nature’s vaccum cleaner.

Chu Me had arisen early and tended to the fires in the principle rooms. Exiting the rear of the residence, he made his way to the side of the stables where he kept his hens. His little eyes had opened to the size of small saucers when he saw the handsome harvest of eggs his girls had produced. Collecting them in his cotton handkerchief, he thanked the hens and patted the head of his cock and made his way back to the house.

Half an hour later, one was sat in the breakfast room enjoying the fayre that he had collected; dunking one’s soldiers into the golden creamy yolks and watching Nicky No-one-can-love-me-more-than-me Campbell on the piss-poor Big Question. One’s faithful houseboy was munching away at the opposite end of the table, having to witness the usual barrage of Sunday morning abuse;

“Why an earth doesn’t he let the woman finish her sentence, for goodness sake?!”

“Could you be and more smarmy, Nicky dear?!”

“Why on earth doesn’t his face move when he speaks? Have you had bollocks … Botox (thank you, Chu Me) injected to stiffen it up, dear?”

(Poppets may conclude from this that dear Nicky is not Crusty’s favourite … you would be correct in your conclusions.)

Anyhoo … just as one was nibbling the end of one’s last soldier, the telephone rang. Chu Me had egg all over his fingers so one picked up the receiver:

“You may speak.” One greeted.

It was my dear friend Fanny O’Dour , landlady of the village pub. The Badger’s Snatch. As she spoke one sensed an unusual tone in her voice.

“Crusty, I’m beside myself. I know I’m being stupid but …. Oh, it’s nothing. Forget it … it’s just …”

“Goodness Fanny dear, what on earth is the matter?!” one exclaimed.

“I think Willy may be having an affair!”

With that, and before one could utter another word, she whimpered like an unloved puppy and hung up.

“Chu Me! The Bentley. We have an emergency at the Snatch”

Like a gorgeous, small but well-formed panther he sprang towards the door and headed for GUSSET 1. Within minutes we were racing out of the drive and on our way to the village.

The village was deserted, the residents clearly opting to stay indoors in the horrendous weather, save for Mr. Craddick who had ventured out in his pyjamas once more. He was sitting on the bench on the village green, protected from the elements only by a dark blue kagool and his copy of the Evening Chronicle.

Chu Me pulled into the entrance of the carpark to the Badger’s Snatch and as the Bentley purred to the rear of the premises, one could see Willy yanking off his kegs and helping the drayman empty his load.

“Good morning, Willy dear.” One said as one sashayed past the two. Willy replied and the drayman tipped his hat.

Inside, one found fanny in the kitchen with red, bloodshot eyes and tear–soaked cheeks: it wasn’t a good look. She ran toward me with her arms open.

As she began to wrap her arms around one’s frame I held her head firmly in one’s hands … for no other reason than to avoid the moisture of her tears from coming into contact with the rather stunning Stella McCartney jacket one was wearing.

Over a cafetiere of strong coffee and a packet of chocolate hobnobs we discussed the situation. It appears Willy has not been acting within normal parameters.

“He’s behaving very secretive and he can’t look me in the eye. Haven’t you noticed anything strange in his behaviour, Crusty?” She enquired.

“Well … one did see him in the bakers, earlier in the week. He’s always had a fancy for Pat Tissery’s crusty baps and one did think it suspect when he seemed to be taking an unusually long time sniffing the yeasty aroma of her bloomers. Having said that, she had just taken them out of the oven. No, Fanny, it’s nonsense! You must cast the idea from your head immediately; he wouldn’t do anything so horrid to you and certainly not with anyone in the village. There is clearly an innocent explanation to all this.”

A further cup of coffee and two and a half hobnobs later, one had managed to calm her down and reassure her that she was just overreacting to something that didn’t exist. Nevertheless, because of all the excitement, Crusty felt she, herself, was on the edge.

Walking back to the Bentley and, as Chu Me opened the door for one to exit, Willy was coming back in after helping the drayman shoot off a little quicker.

He give a brief smile before one thrust one’s knee into his downstairs area. He hit the floor moaning in agony.

“What was that for?” He moaned.

“You’re a disgrace Willy. Poor Fanny is distraught with all your secret shenanigans. Well, you have been exposed. She knows of your affair!”

“Affair? Affair! What affair? I can’t look her in the eye because I’m taking her to Paris for Valentine’s day. You know I can’t keep anything from her.”

One giggled gleefully, “How marvellous!” one cried, clapping one’s hands, “Although why on earth you would want to take her to a place like that, one has no idea. You’ll both have a wonderful time. ”

Half way across the carpark one was still giggling with excitement; one turned and still seeing Willy’s head wedged in the bottom of the door shouted, “And make sure you pack ice on those, dear. You’ll need to be in full working order for your romantic break.”

“Chu Me? Our work here is done. Let us make haste to Crusty Hall.”

Crusty's Favourite "Duff-Duff" Moment.

This year, the BBC soap opera Eastenders is celebrating its 25th birthday.

Can you believe it’s really been that long? (It seems sooooooo much longer).

For those of one’s poppets who are not familiar with the programme, all of the excitement takes place in a fictional, small part of the East End of London - the capital (although heaven only knows why) of Her Majesty’s realm - known as Walford.

There is a resplendent representation of all religious and ethnic backgrounds and a gargantuan splatteration of people of a rather gangstertorial nature. Indeed, when one is flitting though the newspapers and magazines and sees that a new character is about the emerge in the square, one often wonders how long it will be before they are selling drugs, plotting a take over of the local nightclub (where the music of such a volume, one could hear a nun speak) or dismembering an enemy in the back yard with a butter knife and a piece of tarpaulin.

Only recently, an older gentleman appeared, in very dandy attire, I must say. After a couple of episodes one thought one may have been wrong. There were no threats being issued. No one had been harmed in any way. Then, his true colours were shown in the local garage, the Arches, when we discovered he was not only a gangster, but one of the more sinister variety; one that wore hand-made shoes!

To break the monotony, there is often the announcement that a new piece of lady-totty or man-hunk is to enter the arena, although after their first appearance on screen, it is quite clear that the casting director has been devoid of understanding the meaning of the terms “totty” and “hunk”. The last great hunk addition was Scott Maslen. He’d tossed off his helmet in The Bill on ITV and decided to bat for the other side.

Now, though one admits he is quite the buff, little stud-muffin, one does wish he would keep his hair short. When it reaches a longer length one can’t help but see Odd Bod from Carry on Screaming in front of one.

Albert Square families are certainly not like normal ones either. The residents of Albert Square are breeding more successfully than rabbits. Another new member turns up … “Oh, it’s so-and-so’s long lost brother.” .. and another … “Oh, it’s Mr. Poppadopulus’s estranged daughter.

Having said that, it certainly seems to be the place to live. Though the locals never seem to have much money, they are still fortunate enough to have 3 & 4 bedroom houses that can comfortably accommodate 22 people and still have enough room for further visiting relatives, who decide to stay indefinitely … until they too are killed off or relocated on Witness Protection.

Not the quietest of locales either, everyone is screaming and shouting at one another. One is forever having to grab one’s device to turn up, then turn down, then turn up, then turn down the volume. Poor Crotchet – one’s pussy – wastes no time and simply pushes his head behind a scatter cushion, as a precaution, the minute the theme begins. He’s very wise and recently one has wondered if it would wiser still to follow his example.

Indeed, the only quiet moments are when burley Phil Mitchell opens his mouth to speak to simply utter, “Not now right! … I said, not now!” I believe that’s the only lines he’s ever had to work with, save for the odd time he’s snuck a “Billy” in.

As well as trying to maintain the storylines of the characters, the writers also have their work cut out for them trying to inject their important “messages”. For example, one would recommend a regular shufty around the Christmas period, when many references will be made about the little baby Jesus and loving one’s neighbour etc., before a leading character is killed with a quick bludgeon or mown down by Charlie’s taxi.

Anyhoo … the question, it would seem, that is being put to the British public is What is your favourite Duff-Duff moment?

Well, one would have to say the end of every episode, dear! When all that depressing, noisy nonsense has finished.

Not even the inclusion of national icon and legend Barbara Windsor has managed to make it anymore endurable. To think they axed Eldorado for this rubbish!

Weather Forecasts and Mono-brows.

One was dipping one’s bejewelled slipper into the twitterverse last night and enjoying a terrific tweetfest with one’s twitterchums.

Reclined on the sofa, in the warmth of the Drawing Room and tweeting merrily away with one’s good friend, NikkiG, one’s eyes were mysteriously drawn past the screen of one’s laptop.

It was there that one saw BBC weatherman Rob McElwee on one’s 32 incher.

One watched and listened, politely, to his forecast for the duration; he certainly has a soft and gentle vocal delivery. However, regardless of his warming tones and smart appearance, can one really be expected to accept the weather predictions of a man with a mono-brow?

Further more, after two and half minutes, one was not at all comfortable with the way his left hand was fondling Lands End.

It was only last month that the exquisite boys and girls at Attitude towers had provided us with an insight into the delicious Tomasz Schafernaker – adorned, on the cover of their Attitude Active supplement, in only a pair of short, black Aussi Bums, with his rippling six pack hovering above the waistband and his pectorals protruding from their taught epidermal terrain like a muscled mountain range (Chu Me! A glass of iced water and one’s fan, dear! ... Hurry!)

Every time one now sees a towering cumulus one thinks of dear Tomasz fondly (sigh).

Anyhoo …though poor Rob may not posses the smouldering deliciousness of his colleague, one feels a little attention to detail is essential. Predominantly, a small and painless waxing of his browal border to improve his facial fancy.

Crusty can then, and only then, hold him in higher regard and, quite frankly, he can fondle any part of our nation how so ever he pleases.

Supermarkets - A Place for Pyjamas?

Tesco announced this week that they are to ban people, of the lady variety, from wearing pyjamas when they go out shopping at their stores.

One must say, one agrees wholeheartedly. There have been a couple of occasions when one has been perusing the produce of the day at our local supermarket and been shocked at what one has witnessed.

Well, perhaps supermarket is too strong a description; it’s more like a mediocremarket, if the truth be known. The shelves are very nearly always empty; stock rotation appears to mean the staff turn the product round to hide the label and one’s supply of gin is only guaranteed by the ‘Reserved’ sign one had Chu Me stick on discretely.

Anyhoo … twice, one has seen young ladies wandering around the aisles in multicoloured cotton pyjama bottoms; one in a pair of bunny slippers and the other in a rather ragged pair of green flip-flops (which oddly enough, matched the colour of her feet).

Neither of these individuals were wearing appropriate undergarments and the latter had thought it a good idea to don a G-string; the poor device had been hoisted to an unslightly height between her buttocks and was clinging on for dear life to the ring of fat flesh that was hovering over the elasticated waistband.

Gliding elegantly up the aisle behind her, one’s attention was glued to the hypnotic swaying of her ample buttocks and the vertical rippling of posterior after each heel made contact with the tiled floor.

Though these sights concerned me greatly, one must confess that they were nothing compared to that of seeing old Mr. Craddick as he passed through the tills last Friday evening. He had obviously been out to replenish his stock of Whisky and he too was wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms; the only problem was his front flappage was open and ….well, poppets can only imagine what was peering out at the poor check-out operator and the world beyond.

As one sashayed past till number 4 - Chu Me close behind with our trolley of replenishments - the supervisor Doreen approached the offending party.

“Mr. Craddick” She cried, “You’re exposing yourself!”

He turned to her in his unshaven state - with bodily bouncing occurring at his downstairs area – and shouted, “What y’ talkin’ about your stupid woman! Exposing mesel’ to what?”

One was just passing him at that point and he caught one’s eye. My eyes dropped downward toward his exposed wrinkled man-biscuit.

“To ridicule, dear, if that shrivels up any more!”

Immediately, he looked down and tucked what little he had back into its cotton housing and his face went a shade of red one had always sought for a hearth rug.

Crisis averted, one made one’s way to the carpark outside.

One thinks the lesson has been learned that it is not only the lady variety who offend one’s eye in such garmentry; the threat of an unleashed man-biscuit over the fish counter can be equally discerning.

Tess Tickles - Chu Me's Successful Massage?

Chu Me has lately been taking a keen interest in the art of massage.

It has long been the tradition in the village he was born in – in a land far, far, away – that the men-folk are highly adept at the technique, to maintain a relaxed and happy atmosphere throughout the community while – during intimate moments - providing unsurpassed sexual pleasure to their mates.

Unfortunately, Chu Me has been separated from this communal college of learning and his village elders. Nevertheless, there was clearly something welling up in his genes and, as a result, he ordered a Teach Yourself Massage book from the internet.

For the last week and a half he has been dividing his free time equally between his long running interested of watching specialist nature DVDs (his latest purchase is a documentary about the weekend existence of water animals, I believe; Saturday Night Beaver) and his massage studies.

As one sashayed past his room of an evening, he was certainly putting plenty of effort into his training as one could clearly hear the panting going on behind his door, as he no doubt practiced on his pillow.

Anyhoo … last night, something appears to have gone terribly wrong.

The household staff had all left for the day. It was my intention to pass the evening watching television and to simply relax. Chu Me, however, felt he had learned sufficient technique from his massage book and was eager to try it out on Tess Tickles, his lady-friend from the village.

One gave him the keys to the Aston and waved him off down the drive. Closing the door securely, one returned to the Drawing Room to settle down for the evening: Pitcher of gin full, ice bucket filled, nibbles delightfully arranged, flickering fire cracking in the fireplace and my pussy, Crotchet, snuggled up in his bed, snoring as he dreamt. One was set for the evening.

Half an hour had passed and one felt completely limp and relaxed as I watched the magnificent Stephen Fry educate and entertain the nation with the hugely successful QI.

Just as the credits began rolling up the screen and one topped up one’s glass of gin, one heard a door bang open. ‘What on earth was that?’ One thought.

My heart was thumping as I imagined one’s inner sanctum being invaded by a stranger. One leapt to one’s feet and slipped my feet into my trusty Chanel house shoes. I armed myself with a poker from the side of the fire and headed out into the corridor. Nothing!

One continued elegantly - with poker in right hand and tumbler of gin in left hand – to the Great Hall. It was here that one saw one’s faithful houseboy running up the Grand Staircase.

“Chu Me, dear!” One shouted, “ You nearly gave Crusty a heart attack! What on earth are you doing back home so soon?”

He stopped and looked at me for a moment, his eyes all puffy from crying and a face that resembled the mottled redness of a cox’s pippin. He turned and ran down to stop in front of me. Without a word he opened his massage book – sniffling and making strange squeaking noises – and thrust it up toward one’s face.

“What, dear? What?” I asked.

His little index finger poked at the bottom of the right-hand page with a frantic stabbing motion; one looked closer ….

Towards the end of your massage when your subject is on their back and completely relaxed and you have successfully massaged the muscles over their entire body, you can be proud of your achievement …

One turned the page,

…. Now, simply finish off on their face.

“What is it you’re trying to say poppet, was the massage a success? Was Tess surprised?”

He stabbed at the page again, then looking up towards the ornately painted ceiling, rolled his eyes; then covering his face with the book, he squealed like a small rodent, spun round on his heels and ran, crying, up the Grand staircase to his room. One hasn’t heard a peep from him since.

Sometimes, you know poppets, he can be highly sensitive and has very little faith in his abilities, however, one is quite sure he pulled it off beautifully.

Dancing On Ice Slides Into Our Lives.

It has not gone unnoticed at Crusty Hall that Dancing on Ice has returned to our screens. Once again, the nation’s favourite silver fox, Philip Schofield, presents us with a frozen-fest of skating entertainment, assisted by the bountifully busty Holly Wobbley.

2010 has brought a change of celebrities ranging from a couple on the cusp of the C list, a few T listers, some Z listers and Heather Mills (although one almost wishes it was ‘Dancing on Thin Ice’ with that one … and during an unexpected thaw).

Before the sequinned extravaganza hit our primetime pixels, comments were abound on the inclusion of the former Mrs McCartney in such a dangerous competition. Indeed, a poppet commenting on Closer Online pointing out that Heather had fallen on several occasions while participating in Dancing with the Stars; surely, this new challenge would be far too dangerous for her.

Well, indeed; ice skating – with dangerous spins, bone breaking jumps and razor sharp blades - is infinitely more dangerous … so we must not dissuade her in her endeavours. Nobody knows what is around the corner; we can only hope for the best outcome … or, that she manages to skate successfully.

The judging panel remains more or less the same; the delightful Robin Cousins, Nicky Slater etc but a metamorphosis has taken place elsewhere; Ruthie eyes-and-teeth-darling Henshall – the Jane McDonald of the West End - has been changed for the bubbly, smiley former Spice rack, Emma Bunton.

Mr/Miss* Nasty (*- delete as appropriate), Jason Gardiner, is still seated in middle position and spewing out his poison in a failed attempt to impress the nation. In previous series one absolutely loathed this shrew-faced prima Dona. Now in 2010, one must confess that absolutely nothing has changed.

Jason Gardiner shows a dancer
the importance of hold.

It is highly unnatural for any one to have teeth that white, unless they are delivered on a daily basis after a 24 hour soak in bleach. One feels so sorry for the contestants as the lights go down and they begin their routines; shafts of light from the suspended glitterball exploding through the atmospheric studio air, ricocheting off Miss Gardiner's incisors and blinding them like a rabbit caught between the headlights of an old Princess.

Anyhoo ... one tuned into the first results show and was surprised to see that the British public had kept Mills in but had voted for British swimming legend Sharron Davies and 'So Macho' Sinitta to face each other in the skate-off.

Well, if the viewers can't make the right decisions, Crusty will certainly not be wasting one's time watching it.

Crusty On The Piste.

The north east of England is the most gorgeous of places. Recently, however, its gorgeousness has been severely affected by a horrendous flutteration of heavy snow. To make matters worse, it has also had to endure temperatures as low as -10ºC!

It was Tuesday morning and one was at a loss as to what to do. Chu Me was clearly bored as one caught him in the Breakfast Room playing with something; something a faithful houseboy should not be caught playing with … his sausage.

Mr. Peppercorn, the village butcher, would not be at all pleased if he knew that, after kneading his meat to the point of total tenderisation, that his sausage would be played with in such a disrespectful manner.

“Chu Me!” One shouted, “Stop that at once!”

He continued eating but had a pathetic look on his face. He was bored. But what could we do? One certainly did not want to venture out onto the local roads ; they were pure ice; even the Range Rover would struggle.

Then it came to me! One had a little flurry at the front but had a good seven inches round the back.

“One has the most wonderful idea, poppet. Let’s go out on the piste!”

His eyes lit up and he clapped his little hands. There was a spring in his step as he skipped to the garages to locate our skis.

Dressed in a stunning aubergine ski-suit and armed with a planished, sliver hipflask of gin, we headed to Mount Gusset – at the rear of one’s estate - to take advantage of the fresh, virgin snow.

We spent five glorious hours swishing through the fluffy blanket of snowflakes to the bottom before having the button-tow take us back up to the top again.

Well … one says button-tow; it’s actually a rather burly member of the household staff with a pair of crampons and a rope, but the result if just as affective. One forgets her name but she certainly responds well to ‘Mush!’

Exhilarated and exhausted, we returned to Crusty Hall’s kitchen, where Chef had prepared a large glass of Torres Jaime I brandy to warm our cockles and a deliciously warming bowl of hot vegetable soup with some homemade crusty buns.

Though one is growing tired of the appalling Siberian weather we are being battered with, at least it brought a spell of exercise and fun. That said, one hopes all one’s poppets keep safe and warm during this arctic spell.