My darling Crustettes, as your mistress sits in her beautifully decorated private office, she feels she needs to share her thoughts with those she loves.
Yesterday I arose around 7.01 in the morning. I brought my 28 incher to life and enjoyed a spattering of BBC Breakfast before my hand, as a matter of instinct, picked up the remote and switched the channel to GMTV (the set colours of which remind one of a children's nursery, although that explains the way they talk to their viewers). Anyhoo ... my hand action was occurring at the very time of the morning when my little Marky would normally appear in front of me and get to work giving me the low down on the region I love best.
Though I was thinking "No! No!", I could hear my inner voice slurring, "it might not be that bad. " and I braced myself for our local bulletin; I was still praying that at the eleventh hour a reprieve had been granted and I could see my gorgeous, tanned, shimmering Adonis greeting me with his, "Hello...Good Morning."
Instead, I was shocked to see a rather pale and knackered looking Nana Mouskouri sitting in front of a sunny, blue, cloudyesque back drop (one imagines taken from the 70s section of the archive department); her hair not the vibrant example of bounce we know and love but lank and seemingly set not in a cloud of hairspray but, evidently, with a gentle application of Fry Light. Then several seconds later, I was shocked and relieved to find it wasn't the lovely Nana but, in fact, a girl called Helen Peedon or some such fancy.
I could not watch any longer; after only 32½ seconds I screamed and threw the remote at Chu Me, who had just entered for my breakfast order. He kindly turned the channel back to little Billy Turnbull.
I shall NEVER watch that pile of poo again and I can only pray my loyal Crustettes do not inflict this unnecessary suffering on themselves; be enveloped in the warmth of Colin his-twinkle-makes-y'-tingle Briggs until Mark returns to our screens and then we can enjoy both and balance will be restored.
Thursday, 26 February 2009
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It would appear Dame Crusty that some people in their Ivory Towers at the regional television centre must take your comments on board. If you should find it within yourself, or even get Chu Me to do it for you for 7 seconds and turn on your 28 inches to ITV, then behold we no longer have Nana Mouskouri to shock us. Following s visit to Specsavers and thanks to the wonders of contact lenses it would seem rather than the fruit of the afore mentioned Nanna's womb it would appear that the twinkly Colin and our beloved Mark have been usurped by a love child borne from a one minute knee trembler between your esteemed friend His Mighty BJohnson and Lady Miller.
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