Monday, 2 May 2016

Is Twitter Going Down The Shitter?

One could hear the rapid tapping of the hailstone ricocheting off the windows of The Badger’s Snatch. Outside it was freezing. Yet, inside the entire lounge area was warm and toasty. One’s dear friend, Fanny O’Dour, had lit a roaring fire earlier in the morning and, after taking a firm grip of Willie’s poker an hour earlier and inserting it forcibly into the depths of her glowing mound, achieved optimum heat.

“Another glass of Pere Ventura cava, Crusty?”

“One shouldn’t, Fanny dear but as the bottle’s open.”

Perched elegantly on the leather upholstered bar stool, one took a sip of the crisp, bubbly elixir of Catalunya and looked about one. The fruit machine was flashing its lights blissfully, along with the infuriating tune forcing itself from within. Daphne Dewdrop, significantly tanked up on Diamond White, was leaning upon a rather portly trucker, who’d only stopped off for a cheese and jalapeño Panini.  As he tried, awkwardly, to eat the contents of his lunch, Daphne rested her chin on the top of his protruding stomach, and looked up at him with her bloodshot eyes
“I think you could be the one,” she slurred several times.

The words didn’t make any connection with the gentleman; no doubt due to the fact Daphne was drooling from the right-hand side of her mouth, leaving a damp patch on his sweatshirt, ever increasing in size, that was well on its way to make connection with the sweat patches he had under each arm.

Fanny placed a plate of tapas assortments next to one’s glass and one sighed.

“That’s a deep sigh, Crusty!”

“Hmmm?” One replied. “Oh, forgive one, Fanny dear. One finds oneself a little flat from the world of Twitter.”

“Twitter?! What’s wrong? You love tweeting with everyone.”

“Not recently, dear. Yes, one has a pod of precious poppets who one nuzzles to one’s loving bosom but … dear Lord … there are some rather unpleasant scrapings of a mangy dog’s anal area on there too.”

“How so?” Fanny enquired, putting down a 3-colour pack of bingo cards she was preparing for that night’s entertainment.

“Take one’s delicious morsel of gorgeousness, Doctor Christian Jessen.”


“The man is Heaven sent! Every particle of his frame has been crafted by the hands of angels. A smile that could disintegrate one’s most high-tensile strength undergarments with just one glint off his molars. Goodness knows how many times one has seen him in one’s mind's eye, in varying states of undress, with one battling one’s mind to remove the remaining items of clothing without success but people are vile to him!”

“Vile? Why?”

“One suspects Stephen Fry was right, dear. A swarm of people getting twinges and lady-stiffies from thinking they have got one up on a highly trained professional, who just happen to be in the public eye. Take for example one creature; a female with an unnaturally pointy face; the type that could pass through a set of period railings without her ears touching the metal. To make matter worse, a rather piss-poor sense of fashion give her the motivation to top it off with an unflattering hat. She describes herself as a ‘bitchcake’, whatever such a thing is.”

“What did she say?”

“One’s blocked much of her nonsense from one’s mind, dear. Sufficed to say she had children, had read an article in Take a Break, or some such fancy, under a competition for knitwear and claimed to know more than Christian about vaccination. The woman is an airhead!”

On a roll, one continued, ”It’s like those ‘Ya! I wanked off in a porn cinema and wiped it on the hood of the guy in front and that Doctor Christian thinks he knows more than me about sperm donation?”

One knocked back the cava contents of one’s glass. Fanny obliged with a refill.

"Then, this week, an attack on one’s most treasured poppet, Derren Litten! Some woman, who – honestly Fanny, should never have a profile photo taken in close-up, without soft lighting or a veil – decided to advise him his show was on its last legs! Quite frankly, from the look of her, one’s surprised she lasted to the end of her first bile-drenched tweet! Apparently, he ‘writ’ 6 fantastic series. Writ?! Dear God! The woman casts aspersions on the comedy genius of one’s dear friend and can’t string 140 characters together to form a coherent tweet?! Clearly she only attended school on the days they were focusing on consonants. She finished by stating she won’t be watching Series 9. One thinks at that stage, an entire legion of Benidorm fans breathed a sigh of relief  and cracked one off … er … open to celebrate the knowledge she would be steeping in her own poison elsewhere.”

One was increasingly outraged but continued, “Then, to top it all, some vile former member of UKIP, Julia Gasper – you know the one, looks like she’s left her dentures out and her tonsils are sucking her lips in - called one a troll?”

“You?! A troll?!”

“Quite, you gorgeous thing. All because, while she was spouting her venom of anti-LGBT opinion, she directed one detractor to read her book and one, quite rightly, said one would rather read tea leaves.”

“I take it another glass is in order?” Fanny asked with the exquisite bottle of Pere Ventura lifting in her hand to the rim of one’s glass.

“No thank you, Fanny. One’s going to head off back to Crusty Hall.”

As one dropped from the stool, took the last mouthful of cava and sashayed elegantly towards the door one heard Fanny’s voice.

“You know what you should do?”

One turned. The trucker was now attempting to make an exit past one, with Daphne Dewdrop embracing the calf of his left leg, being dragged along with each step. “I think he’s the one, Crusty.” She said, trying to keep her tights from rolling down with the friction as she moved towards the door. One looked back towards one’s dear Fanny.

“Write your blog again.”

Outside, clipping oneself into the driving seat of GUSSET 2 and switching on the finely tuned Aston engine one thought, “you know, Fanny, you may be right.”

Saturday, 7 June 2014

Simon Cowell Takes The Pith Over Cheryl

One was reclining elegantly on the leather sofa in Litten’s – the oak panelled bar at Crusty Hall – perusing the interwebular, while Chu Me prepared a rather delightful gin at the bar.

By chance, one came across an article by Jack White on the Closeronline site, which provided very little interest but, nevertheless, one read the words within. The story related to the relationship between Simon when-I-walk-I-can’t-move-my-arms Cowell and Cheryl y’nailed-it Cole.

One must admit one’s interest was poked, a smidgen, when one got past the rather poor grammar of the article and discovered that ageing mogul had taken Cheryl out to dinner before “offering her a chance to appear on the X Factor judge again”. Good Lord! It’s one thing for her to appear on the judging panel but we don’t want to see her on top of him, riding him like sweaty cowboy on prime time television!

Simon praised Cheryl’s ability to stay in the public eye (while the rest of a nation, one suspects, condemned and cursed her ability to do the very same thing).

“She’s still in the papers …”(so’s the piece of cod I bought from the fish shop next to the Badger’s Snatch last Tuesday, dear) … “that’s the interesting thing about her”  …(like the cod, it’s probably the only interesting thing).

He also claims that, having not been on our screen for three years if she so much as peels an orange, she’s in the papers. (Now that is just taking the pith!).

Anyhoo … Simon makes it quite clear that their relationship is strong (should anyone out there be shallow enough to care)

Simon says, “We need each other.” (Isn't it normally, “… put your right hand on your head”?)

One must say that brings one question into one’s own mind … “Yes, dear, but do we need either of you?” One fears not.

Sunday, 17 November 2013

Dame Crusty And A Stiffened Package In Her Box

The day had started delightfully. After waking from a most dreamy slumber, one sashayed elegantly down the grand staircase. Once at the bottom, one gasped when one found one's front flap being prized open and a lengthy package being pushed carefully within its tight confines.

Grabbing the invading package with both hands one began to peel back the outer layer. Pulling it off with one's right hand, one squealed with ecstasy as one saw the contents covering the palm of one's left ... a Jake Canuso 2014 calendar!!! Not only that but affectionately signed by one's beloved poppet. 

He had even placed a kiss over a rather intimate area of his gorgeous anatomy, covered only by red gossamer-thin budgie-smugglage. 
Naturally, one felt it necessary to plant one's own kiss just next to it (...purely for luck, you understand).

Later that day one's levels of excitement grew further still. One had taken GUSSET 2 for a spin into the village and as one showed the precious item to one's dear friend Fanny O'Dour, landlady of the Badger's Snatch, one sat opened mouthed at what she suggested.

"I think he actually delivered it personally, Crusty." Fanny said.

One squealed. "No! One can't believe it! What makes you say that?"

"When I got up this morning, I looked out of the bedroom window and looking up towards your place I saw a large chopper ...."

"Well, it certainly sounds like him, dear" One interrupted.

" over Crusty Hall ... and there was someone hanging from the underneath."

One took a sip of chilled Pere Ventura Cava from the - less than -  sparkly flute, filled by Fanny's Willy and imagined the scene of one's delicious example of manly tottyness dropping on a zipwire, like a scene from Mission Impossible, stopping just above the gravel drive then slowly hovering forth to the letter box, to insert his stiffened package into one's box.

"Do you know, Fanny, you may be right. One knows he was flying into the loving arms of Mama Canuso. Perhaps he did stop en route.A detour if you will."

Anyhoo ... sadly, one found out later it was not, in fact, him. It appears the local police helicopter had swept a little low over a tree and caught Mr Craddick's braces as he was bird watching (or so he told the pilot when they eventually landed after a 20 minute flight. However, one knows his "bird watching" is merely watching Veronica Mantrapp doing her naked Zumba session in her spare room).

Nevertheless, one is delighted to announce that everybody can share in the joys of a well hung Jake on their wall, to enjoy every day of 2014 ... and trust one ...with his well balanced proportions, it will hang beautifully. Simply pop along to  where one can be ordered and delivered in only a matter of days, arriving in plenty time for the new year. 

Furthermore, worry not if you are in a foreign land, as there are options for all international poppets too.

Saturday, 24 August 2013

Crusty Examines Big Brother's Opening

One was sitting in Litten's - the oak panelled bar at Crusty Hall - enjoying a stiff one. One's faithful houseboy, Chu Me had plonked into one's hand moments earlier. It was a little cold, nevertheless, was sliding down the back of one's throat in the most pleasing manner (as, indeed, all glasses of gin should).

As Chu Me fought off one's pussy, Crotchet, while he was trying to munch on the sole of his evening flip- flops, one squealed with delight to see one's treasured poppet, Louie Spence appear on one's 32 incher! What was this programme that was bringing one one's dear twitterchum into one's home over the televisular airwaves? It was, of course, Celebrity Big Brother 2013.

Louie looked utterly delicious as he entered the monitored dwelling, in glistening sequinned jacket. My goodness, his attire almost sparkled as brightly as his infectious personality and one thought the entire show was going to be worth watching even if he was in there alone. Who else was to enter this years competition, one wondered?

In previous years, that awful word "celebrity" had been used in various programmes with a little too much poetic licence; a little like those profiles on dating website and chatrooms where people describe themselves as "cute" ... yet, they very seldom are. In the past, we had people that were aspiring to a 10 year wait to reach the double Z list of celebritism and occasionally even those, a nation sat in the comfort of their sumptuous home furnishings, pointing at the screen and exclaiming, "I thought they were dead". Needless to say, with the injection of dear Louie one began to think it was to be a bumper year.

The next two contestants were Lauren Harries and Sophie Anderton. The former, Lauren, has always been a most interesting creature. One remembers Lauren appearing on Wogan (the television show ... not the man himself) many years ago, when she was a young boy called James. He was always a very interesting, if not slightly precocious, child back then, so now with gender reassignment, one is quite sure she will be a one to watch. Her entrance wasn't as glamorous as it should have been, however; one fancies the overly high heels and incorrect poise resulted in a uncomfortable clomp, rather than an elegant sashay. The frock also looked, perhaps, a size too small, judging by the overflow of body fat and the two highly compressed hooters attempting to escape at the front. Neck up she had achieved the look of a genetic merging of a young Barbara Cartland and Myra Hindley, had she discovered back combing.

As for Sophie Anderton, one must admit one has never heard of her. Apparently, she is a model who became famous ( if indeed she ever did) for having pictures taken in the grass, or some such fancy. Well, we've all done that on a hot Summer day, have we not? ... only one had the foresight to have the negatives destroyed afterwards and the midge bites treated with Savlon as soon as one returned to the car. Before entering the house she revealed that her drug addiction was well documented; quite a pity she is of such insignificance or it may have proved interesting reading. "Believe it or not, I can be quite boring", she said ...after only 1½ minutes of her introductory interview, one was entirely convinced.

In the usual twist, our first three house mates were taken to another room. From that point, there was the steady influx of the remaining participants. Predominantly, poppets who could carry the title of celebrity; there was Ron Atkinson, Vicki Entwistle, Carol McGiffin and Bruce Jones. Sadly, however, there was a further injection of those not so worthy ... the "I thought they'd died" ... and a couple who were only feeding around the anal sphincter of celebrity, praying for a life of fame and fortune in return for offering very little, if no, talent at all, such as Charlotte Crosby and Courtney Stodden.

As a native resident of the utterly gorgeous North East of Her Majesty's realm (What? You've never been?! Goodness ...come at once, you'll adore the hospitality and friendliness!), one must first apologise for Charlotte Crosby. She has received notoriety from being part of a most embarrassing programme called Geordie Shore. You can remain quite certain - and safe in the knowledge - that she, with the large head in relation to her frame and the pre-middle-age bingo wings - is not a typical example of North East ladyism and that most in one's beloved region can communicate orally without shouting louder than a back-firing Fiat Punto.

When one saw Courtney Stodden one must admit one was horrified! Having just emptied one's Baccarat crystal tumbler of liquid refreshment, one screamed to have Chu Me filled it at once. He slapped hurriedly across the parquet flooring in his half eaten flip-flops (Crotchet, still running after him) and began to pour, "Don't bother about the tonic, dear! One'll take it neat! Have you seen what has just appeared on screen?"

Chu Me stood by one's side, dibbling at the sight of this breastular-inflated individual.

"Stop dribbling at once! Furthermore, never trust a woman whose breasts are the size of two Pacific islands and whose hair will not move in a force 8 gale!"

Indeed, looking at her hair a little closer, one realised the last time one had saw anything with a texture like that, it was being rolled up and tied by our local farmer's combine harvester! In the outrageously high heels she was wearing and her spindly legs, she resembled two cocktails sticks that had been plucked from a mutually pierced cheese and pickled onion hedgehog at an inferior evening buffet.As house mate after house mate entered and one saw her leaning against the kitchen counter, one wondered if she'd ever been on her feet that long before!

Coming up the behind, there was Abz from Five (one's not sure he could count any higher, dear), Mario my-manbiscuit-has-its-own-postcode Falcone, Dustin "Screech" Diamond who claims to have slept with over 200 women (one wonders if they knew) and Danielle Marr. Danielle said "You'll know me best for Dublin Wives", to which one replied, "Then one doesn't know you at all, dear."

One's only complaint was the young creature whom was presenting the opening extravaganza; Emma Willis. Certainly pleasing to eye but, my goodness, when trying to speak over the crowds, one thought Dino from the Flintstones had come out of retirement. Not only do we have a "Screech" inside the house ...Channel 5 have given us one outside too!!

Anyhoo ... the house it filled it is now only a matter of time before the ..[no, not ejeculations, Chu Me ... that's something altogether different] ... evictions begin. One prays, however, that one's twitterchum Louie is victorious. One thing is for sure ... he will bring a burst of sunshine and joy into our lives each day he is in there.

Saturday, 16 March 2013

Dame Crusty: "There Shall Be No Balls For Breakfast"

It was only but a week or so ago when one awoke from a deep sleep, in the sumptuous snuggly softness of one’s nightly retreat. The curtains were drawn and, though one’s bed chamber was filled with a low level of natural lightage, one of Señor Sol’s tentacles of light had found its way through a small opening between the lush, heavy hanging fabric to land on the wall above the fireplace. The grounds of Crusty Hall seemed silent, save the gentle chirrup coming from a feather congregation.

One’s eyes were still heavy and one thought one could quite easily fall back to sleep. In an attempt to raise oneself from one’s semi-tired state one leant over to the radio on one’s mahogany bedside table and switched it on. A bit of the delicious Chris Evans would surely to the trick.

It was rather disappointing, however, when one entered a conversation with some poor individual who, evidently, had terrible health problems; words rattling out at a rate of knots with a frequent audible gasp for breath. One bit one’s lip in sympathy at this poor poppet who, one could only assume, suffered her difficulty acquiring oxygen from something as ghastly as a collapsed lung perhaps. With one’s levels of sympathy rising with every gasp, one was rather horrified at the distasteful insertion of popular musicality. This was too serious a moment to be putting toe-tapping ditties on!

As one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, turned the knob on one’s bedroom door and entered with a squeak (coming from the hinges of the door, or course, and not from Chu Me), he made his way – in a rather dashing pair of flip-flops – to the side of one’s bed with a tray of breakfast goodies. One turned down the volume on the radio slightly and relayed a summary of this poor creature. Chu Me looked a little puzzled and placed the breakfast tray across the mound of duvetliciousness that covered one’s lallies and reached over to the radio to turn up the volume.

He listened for only matter of seconds and then – with a totally unnecessary and unbecoming tut – advised me the person was not an oxygen-deficient lung collapsee, but was in fact Zoe Ball!! Good Lord!

Anyhoo … as soon as one realised who it was, one has to say all levels of sympathy evaporated and she simply became increasingly annoying and totally unsuitable for early morning airage. Particularly with her recounting the story of when she was walking down the street with last night’s G-string stuck to her face without her knowing … or some such fancy.

Chu Me withdrew and one was left with the voice of old-gaspy-knickers unpleasantly oscillating through the air molecules of one’s bed chamber.As one concentrated on the gargantuan intakes of breath, one began to grow weary. One’s eye lids became heavy and one found oneself slipping off. Before one knew it one was in the production studio of Radio 2.

Looking through the misty haze one could see the figure of old-gaspy sitting there. Clicking on a button, from which one could establish communication with her, one offered direction.

“You’re coming through rather loud, dear. One fears you may need to step back a little from the microphone.” She rose from her seat and took a step back. “Will this do, Dame Crusty? >gasp<”

“A little further, dear.”

“>gasp< Will this do?”

“One fancies a little further.”

“That ok?”

“A little further?”

A distant voice said, “It that – erm – ok now? >gasp<”

"A few steps more, dear?"

“Is that ok now?” The voice was faint but one was still not satisfied.

“One thinks just a couple more steps back and we’ll have it, poppet.”

The distant mumble came immediately back. “I can’t go any further back, Dame Crusty, my backs against the wall of the stationery cupboard”

“Can you manage to kick the door shut, dear?”

There was the far off sound of her hoof catching the side of the door and eventually there was a click as the door closed and the catch secured itself. After several minutes there was nothing but silence. “Ah! Now that’s much better!”

As one awoke from one’s dream, one felt a warm feeling at one’s accomplishment … or so one thought until one realised one had knocked the teapot over from the breakfast tray and it was soaking through one’s bed clothes. Still, it certainly put a spring in one’s step for the remainder of the day.

Monday, 17 September 2012

Celebrity Big Brother 2012 - Julian Clary; Last One Tossed Off

As one reclined on the leather couch in Litten’s – the bar here at one’s beloved Crusty Hall - the lush natural fabrics of one’s Masato ensemble draped deliciously over the rich, soft hide and one’s back supported adequately by the plumptiously filled Jake Canuso embroidered scatter cushions, one - for some inexplicable reason - pondered the events of the Celebrity Big Brother house.

One cast one’s mind back to when this season all started and recalled when the celebrities (‘celebrities’ being used in its broadest sense, of course) entered the infamous reality house for their period of televisual incarceration. The customary insistence when such programmes are created - and the dreaded word ‘celebrity’ is used - to pluck any old duffer, that has had so much as one column inch in a tawdry periodical, out of the ether had certainly been maintained .

Prince Lozenge Bolognese – a rather fragrant and delicious poppet - being the perfect example of this ongoing practice. Apparently, from what one has heard, he has appeared on our television screens before! One is sure he has … and how very nice for him. However, Chu Me’s former love interest, Tess Tickle, has also appeared on television (a local news report, where she was seen buying a nit comb from the village chemist, Annelise Stules-Hoffen, in a rather unflattering pair of dungarees, tan brogues and gingham) but make a celebrity of her it most certainly does not!

Enticed further, one was horrified at one stage of the inaugural extravaganza when one sat open-mouthed - a crystal clear meandering of gin flowing down one’s chin as a result of the dropping of one’s jaw - and dripping upon one’s exposed bosom, “Jimmy Saville?!! In a leopard skin print??!! Good Lord! One thought he was dead … and wore nylon?!”

It was then that one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, informed one it was actually Coronation Street’s Julie Goodyear. Upon closer inspection one realised Chu Me was, in fact, correct; the sagging bags under the eyes, the hair with the texture of Hessian wallpaper and her mouth masticating a large ball of gum as if her life depended on it (one has read chewing of gum is a good way to maintain the tautness of the jaw line … looking at the Bulldog-esque jowls of our leopard skin print diva, she clearly needed to chew a lot harder … and purchase significantly more gum).

Other celebrities – worthy of the title – were introduced one by one; the lovely Coleen Nolan, the delicious Martin Kemp, the glamorous  Julian Clary, the adorably delicious Cheryl they’ve-killed-‘Ev Fergison … and the rather tottylicious TeamGB Ashley McKenzie who, after the performance of the British team at this year’s Olympics, is not a mere celebrity but a Judotastic star!

Then, as one feared, it all started going down hill.

A young, handsome poppet called Mike Sorrentino, who had opted to refer to himself as The Shituation, or some such fancy. An abdominal expanse you could bounce a conker off but all the personality and appeal of overcooked pasta.

A rather odd looking poppet, called Jasmine Lennard, who if the Daily Mail is ever to believed is 27 (however, her face, bony lallies and the overall appearance of a lanky streak of piss in designer frockage, suggested a typo had occurred and those two digits were, in fact, destined to be reversed). Jasmine is apparently a lover of both the man-biscuit and lady-garden and she has even dated Simon Cowell (which has certainly drained the life from her, poor thing). She also has a son to American musician Seth Shift y’binz. (however, if Seth put his bins out after 9pm, then I for one would wholly support him in leaving them where they were until they’d been emptied!)

An attempt at glamour was made with the introduction of Danica, who as one understands it is an ‘international lingerie model’ (Essentially meaning she flashes her knickers to the world).

Danica (which sounds more like the brand name for a range of kitchen units) clomped enthusiastically into the house, as did another model, Rhian no-relation-to-Percy Sugden. Rhian has been a page three girl and has flashed her baps over many a glossy, such as Zoo … indeed, many Nuts have been grabbed (in more ways than one, one suspects) by young heterosexual males wishing to finger through the pages until they come upon her picture, in the privacy of their bedrooms.

Finally, Samantha Brick (who, coincidentally, from what one has observed, has the complexion of a breeze block). Samantha was the journalist who claimed her life was difficult because she was so beautiful. Having seen the amount of spottage on her facial epidermis, her crooked mouth and gammy eye, one fears her case is rapidly being lost in the law courts of aesthetic appeal. Many gentlemen who have come upon her in bars, restaurants and even the streets of our bustling metropolis have whipped out their wallets and insisted on paying for her, simply because she is earth-shatteringly gorgeous. If any of those men have been watching Celebrity Big Brother, there is sure to be a line longer than any Marks & Spencer returns queue, with all of them having an eager desire to have their money refunded, without so much as a quibble.

All in all, the show was reasonably entertaining and if viewers didn’t know that Julie no-I’m-not-Jimmy-Saville-in-a-leopard-skin-print  Goodyear was a national icon, famous for being the landlady of the Rovers Return for 25 years, 70 and disabled, then they certainly do now … the woman never shut up about it!

One also understands from newspaper reports that, since the show has ended,  Danica Knicker-flasher Thrall has had blazing rows with her boyfriend but, thankfully, the model, who apparently has made her name taking money and gifts from rich men, is receiving consolation from multi-millionaire hotty Prince Lozenge Bolognese. One suspects the words ‘ching’ and ‘ker’ have been involved, though not necessarily in that order.

Anyhoo … one was rather delighted to see that the very elegant Julian Clary was victorious. Though one was quite surprised Martin Kempt didn’t win, one was chuffed as punch Julian came first. Bravo dear!

Saturday, 4 August 2012

Karl Lagerfeld Let's Rip ... Again! ... [Nurse!!!!!]

The Metro periodical was lying open on the workbench of gardener’s greenhouse. He was in the far corner, somewhat preoccupied with pulling off Basil, so had left it unattended. Naturally, one felt drawn to read the words scattered within the pages. As one did, one was flabbergasted at what one read, as one focused in on the typeset! So much so, one had to put one’s binoculars down and sit back in the studded leather captain’s chair of one’s study to reach an acceptable level of damely composure.

"Kate Middleton has a nice silhouette and she is the right girl for that boy (by ‘that boy’ one assumes you mean Prince William, our future King, dear). I like that kind of woman, I like romantic beauties. On the other hand, her sister struggles. I don't like the sister's face. She should only show her back."
One was outraged!
Even the slapping of a member of household staff, as she picked up remnants of Chu Me’s flip-flops from a rough section of the parquet flooring, could one release the pure anger one felt at such a revolting comment about the utterly gorgeous sister of our future queen.
“Who made this comment, Dame Crusty?” One hears you ask.
One’s gag reflex is held at bay as one mentions his name … Karl Lagerfeld.
One acknowledges that this member of the fashion community has been around for … well, goodness … it would seem like centuries (something certainly backed up by the way he dresses; wearing his usual high collar shirts, black suits and thigh length boots … often resembling a 17th century hooker with a vampire fetish). As for the best sides to be taken from (especially where the rear is concerned), one suspects he speaks from significant experience.
If you are still unsure, picture the same outfit as one has previously described in your mind’s eye; black suit, high collared white shirt (one fancies to hide the turkey-neck at which even Coronation Street’s Audrey Roberts would grimace), thigh high leather boots (and one’s talking heels here), a face with the complexion of a pensioner’s left testicle and with white wiry hair plonked on top of said teste-face (akin to that of the pubic foliage surrounding that very same pensioner’s downstairs area) brushed back into a ponytail. Finish that image off with a pendulous pair of ears, a pair of Mick Jagger-esque lips which haven’t seen lip salve in a month and a pair of sunglasses … et voila! 
That’s right … that’s the one.
Karl dear, you are no oil painting yourself ... if oil was involved, however, one suspects it would be crude.