Sunday, 23 April 2017

Dame Crusty Takes Barry Manilow in the Holly Johnson Room

The 5th of April 2017 will be one of those days when, one thinks, we will all remember where we were when the devastating and unexpected news was unleashed to the world, without warning.
As for onself, one was in the village pub; The Badger’s Snatch.

One had been sitting for a short time in a freshly upholstered booth reading through a discarded Daily Mail left on the table. It was then one’s dear friend - and owner of the aforementioned drinking emporium - Fanny O’Dour approached.

“Like a refill, Crusty?” Fanny said, while hovering the deliciously designed bottle of Pere Ventura Tresor above one’s crystal flute.

“How delightful, dear. Let’s!”

“You found anything interesting?”

Looking briefly at her, then briefly at the Daily Mail, then back at her one replied, “Good Lord! In this dear?! No, just checking the state of the pages. It’s a perfect publication for lining the bottom of Crotchet’s litter tray.”

Fanny smiled and turned to walk away. Suddenly, she stopped.

“Oh! By the way, did you hear the news earlier? Barry Manilow’s come out.”

“In a rash, dear?” One replied inquisitively.

“No. Come out … of the closet.”

“It must have had very loose hinges, dear. Just now?”

“Yes. I was shocked? Who knew?” She added.

“Not everyone, it seems.” One replied, looking her up and down and slowly sipping one’s Cava.

“Of course, reading the articles over the years about his private life, he’s always been very tight-lipped.”

“Quite, dear and from recent TV appearances, he’s also been very tight-eyed, tight-eared, tight-chinned, tight-cheeked and tight-necked. The last time one saw him hit a high note during Copacabana, his eyes shut and his toes curled up!”

“Crusty! You’re terrible. He has said his fans have been very supportive, which is nice.”

“In fairness, Fanny dear, they have had over 40 years to prepare for the revelation.”

Sometime later and ready to leave, one glided elegantly to the bar to hand Fanny one’s flute.

“Do you know, Fanny, you’ve made one remember something.”


“Yes, one remembers a time when Barry Manilow stayed at one’s beloved Crusty Hall.”

“Stayed with you?! You never brought him down?” Fanny exclaimed, a little miffed.

“Oh, it was a whistle-stop visit, dear. Mr Peppercorn had asked him to judge his prized sausage in the back room of the village butchers and the guesthouse was out of bounds because it had just been fumigated. Anyhoo … one had offered him a suite in the east wing for the night before he flew off to America. We had had dinner and one was reclining divinely on the chaise on the Holly Johnson room …”

“The music room?” Fanny clarified.

“Quite, you gorgeous thing. Barry had just sung a medley of hits, while one fingered through a gents quarterly …Suddenly, his fingers lifted from the keys and the music stopped. One felt a little tension in the air. Chu Me was rigid and his eyes had widened. Nevertheless, one continued fingering one’s flaps and humming Could It Be Magic. One could see him from one’s peripheral vision, walking towards one. He sat next to one and took one’s hand. One could feel him shaking and beads of sweat began to cascade down his face – quicker than one would expect as there were no wrinkles to slow them down – and there was a raspy pant in his voice. “Dame Crusty, there’s something I need to tell you.” He said. “I see.” One said. “It’s something I’ve never told a soul but I feel I can confide in you.” After moment one said, “Don’t feel you need to, dear.””

“Oh my God! What happened?!” Fanny squealed.

“After what seemed like the length of an X-Factor result, complete with the sound of his pounding heart to add suspense, he stood up and said, “I can’t. I can’t. I’m so sorry.” Then off he went to his quarters with one’s pussy, Crotchet, close behind. One looked at Chu Me. Chu Me looked at one, shrugged his shoulders and left the Holly Johnson room with a steady slap of flip-flop.”

“Do you think he was going to tell you?”

“Goodness dear, one thought he was going to tell one he was a vegetarian!! The other wouldn’t have mattered a jot, as one believes his legion of fans will concur.”

With that, one bid Fanny farewell with a kiss on each cheek, headed out of the Badger’s Snatch, into a waiting GUSSET 1 outside, where Chu Me had prepared a selection of nibbles in the armrest and one headed off back to the residence.

Sunday, 16 April 2017

Dame Crusty Oils Dr Christian

One was sitting, in one’s painting studio at one’s beloved Crusty Hall in a state of deep reflection. Adorned in one’s Vivienne Westwood painting ball gown, one stared out of the window and across the top of gardener’s greenhouse.

The previous night, whilst deep in slumber, one was embroiled in a hot and steamy session with one’s most gorgeous of poppets, Dr Christian Jessen (Mother always said never eat a block of cheese before bedtime and how right she was!).

Needless to say, one shall spare readers the full and graphic details of the Pere Ventura Cava fuelled dreamy encounter but sufficed to say, there was an urgent need for a member of household staff to replace one’s Egyptian cotton sheeting once one arose, slipped on one’s dressing gown and sashayed downstairs to the breakfast room.

As one sat there, munching on a thick, meaty pork sausage in a most undamely-like manner, one's faithful houseboy, Chu Me fussed about pouring tea , buttering one’s buns and banging his coarse, hairy nuts on a sharp point. The latter, in order for one to enjoy a pleasing mouthful of fresh milk for the day ahead. One read somewhere coconut milk every morning was good for one. Who was one to argue?

Anyhoo … still holding the length of sausage between one’s clenched hand and nibbling the end delicately with one’s teeth, the image of Dr Christian remained in one’s mind; standing by the side of the open fire, the orange and yellow light from the flickering flames dancing across the surface of his naked, muscular frame and refracted, like the light through a thousand diamonds, from the myriad beads of sweat droplets coating his epidermal expanse after our torrid entanglement in this ethereal locale. At his feet, one found oneself lying spent and undone on a silky soft sheepskin rug with just a Gucci pump, carefully placed, to keep one’s lady-garden out of sight and a sand filled length of draught excluder across one’s hooters to maintain one’s post-coital dignity (one did say it was a dream!).

Needless to say, one was eager to recapture the image in oils.

One had spent several hours of that day painting the majority of the body. His velvety-soft skin was looking rather good; one had managed to get his chiselled pectoral expanse just right and one clearly had success replicating the undulating 6-pack (one began to feel as if one was on a rollercoaster ride as one’s eyes followed the ebb and flow of undulationess). One was rather pleased with the effect I had created for the marble fire surround and one had also stuck a bowl of ripe fruit on the mantel shelf as part of one’s five a day. 

His legs were coming along magnificently; firm, muscular and looking like they could crack a walnut with one flex.

When the time came to complete the painting and concentrate on the … shall we say … centre of the piece, one closed one’s eyes to refresh oneself of the image held in one’s mind's eye, looked back at one’s paint pallet and after circling one’s index finger several times around one’s rusty box, realised one would need significantly more paint. One tube of each primary colour would certainly not be sufficient for the task in hand.

Deeply frustrated, one glided elegantly down the corridor in search of a solution. As one passed by Chu Me’s room, one could hear heavy panting. One knew he had just received a new exercise video from his cousin, sent express post from his village in a land far away. It was nice that his cousin took the time to copy such DVDs for Chu Me but one does wish he would pay more attention to his English and spelling. That being said, Quim Buddies II was clearly on and Chu Me was, evidently, having a thorough workout.

Not wishing to disturb him, one made one’s way to the garage and took the keys to GUSSET 2. The power of the Aston engine, throbbing under one’s shapely thighs, brought back happy memories of my dream that previous night and within minutes one arrived at the centre of the village and pulled up outside the Badger’s Snatch with a satisfied smile on one’s face and fresh nail indentations on the steering wheel.

As one clenched one’s knees together and swung one’s legs out to the side, one exited GUSSET 2 with grace and an expected demeanour. 

One heard a sudden knocking. Looking down at one’s knees, all appeared in order but after another, one looked up to see one’s dear friend, Fanny O’Dour, at the window of the our much loved public house waving out at one. She looked angelic in the crystal clear lead-lined window. Honestly, what that woman can do with a bottle of Windolene and a lint free cloth is the stuff of legend!

Minutes later, one was standing at the counter in the village arts and crafts shop, facing the wonderfully flamboyant owner, Abby Stract.

“Good morning, Dame Crusty! What a lovely surprise! What can I do for you?” Abby said.

“Good morning, Abby dear! One’s in the midst of an oil piece and need a few more colours to achieve flesh tone”.

“Oooo! A portrait. How exciting.”

“Of sorts, dear.” One clarified.

“Will one tube of each be enough? Is it a large piece?” Abby enquired.

“It would certainly make y’ eyes water, dear. You’d better give me a box of each.”

Soon after, one was back at one’s easel and painting furiously to finish. However, you can imagine one’s utter disbelief when after using up 8½ tubes of paint one realised one didn’t have enough canvas!!

An unrolled off cut of anaglypta stapled to the bottom (of the artwork and not Christian’s … or, indeed, one’s own) allowed one to complete the piece. Though it added a recollected stiffness and pleasing texture, it wasn’t the look one was going for.However, as it was for one’s private collection it was enough to record the memory.

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.