Monday, 29 June 2009

Colin Briggs - Welcome Back

Crusty awoke this morning - very early, I hasten to add – to prepare oneself for the moment one had been anticipating for two very long weeks; the return of the George Clooney of breakfast news, Colin his-twinkle-makes-y’tingle Briggs. He had been on a well deserved holiday for a fortnight and despite the prescribed medication I had received from the village doctor, Arthur Pedic and a little something obtained from a youth in the village pub, The Badger’s Snatch, I still felt I had a hole that had been unfilled for the duration.

Anyhoo … this morning, I reclined on one’s bed, with freshly plumped pillows supporting me (thank you, my dearest Chu Me) and a chilled bottle of Pere Ventura Cava in an ice bucket to the right of me. As the time drew ever closer to his returning bulletin, I took a glassful down the hatch in one go, set my flute to one side – this was no time for music - and clapped my hands with glee. The moment arrived and …Goodness me!

Never mind the George Clooney of news, he had returned as the George Hamilton of news! As he sat there in his beautifully colour co-ordinated apparel looking like a Chippendale with beautiful hand made drawers against the bright red background of the BBC North East newsroom. One thing is for certain, Señorita Sun had certainly been kissing his flesh while he was taking time off and his subsequent tanned epidermis made his famous twinkle almost hazardous!

As his first slot ended at 6.30am, he smiled straight to camera – I swear, he was undressing Crusty with his sparkling eyes – and said, “and isn’t it nice to be back?”

It’s not only nice , it’s glorious having you back, dear!

Sunday, 28 June 2009

Michael Jackson - Crusty Reflects.

Well, it is the day after tomorrow – as they say – and the world has woken up to the terrible news that Michael Jackson has died at the tender age of 50, only mere hours since the tragic loss of Hollywood beauty Farrah Fawcett (who I must say seems to have been forgot since the King of Pops demise).

Crusty was first made aware something was occurring in the astral plain of stardom when one of the North East’s regional radio superstars, Phil Holmes, twatted me (if, indeed, that is the past participle of “tweet”). One’s curiosity was aroused and I turned from my beloved Question Time to Sky News. There were ticker lines whizzing by with mountains of speculation; correspondents were speaking of their reaction to this news – or rather possible news; a myriad of people who hardly knew him were being given their 5 minutes of fame, being asked the most inane questions the news anchors could think of, while the Los Angeles news helicopters circled the L.A. skies like mechanical vultures waiting to pick what they could from the bones of this story.

Meanwhile, back in Her Majesty’s realm, it was a race to see who could get the exclusive with spoon bender Uri Geller. The poor little poppet was run ragged; on every news channel Crusty turned to, “…and we can now go to Uri Geller, a friend of Michael Jackson …”.

All we got from the showbiz wizard was that the news was devastating - if it was true - but “I just can’t talk right now!”

This very same message he conveyed to viewers on each news channel he was on over the next 10 minutes. Crusty was shocked at one stage when I noticed on one’s Facebook messages that Uri Geller had dyed! …is it any wonder, one thought…all that running around from newsroom to newsroom? but then realised it was in reference to his hair colour.

Dressed in a rather eye-catching, multi-coloured top – either that or we had caught him the middle of decorating – he give a in-depth, beautifully lit interview where he spilled the beans; for someone who “just can’t talk”, the little magical poppet wouldn’t shut up, to the point where we were even offered the revelation of a hypnotising incident where rather intrusive questions were asked about inappropriate touching. It was all becoming too much and I was forced to instruct my faithful houseboy, Chu Me, to switch the Mojitos to straight gins.

The media frenzy has clearly started and despite the gorgeous Ashton Kutcher’s requests to think of his children, one suspects these will not be heeded and journalists will be armed with their powerful telephoto lenses and dirt-sifting rakes for a considerable time to come.

One thing is for sure, the worlds walk-in wardrobe of musical legends is slowly being depleted; We are fortunate to still have iconic stars such as Dame Tina Turner, Madonna, Dame Birley Shassey (if one goes in for that sort of thing), Tom *scream* Jones, Barbra I-love-to-keep-people-waiting Streisand et al, but many of the hangers are empty now and once that wardrobe is bare, we will never find pieces of the required quality to replenish it.

Friday, 26 June 2009

Michael Jackson Moonwalks Through the Pearly Gates.

1958 - 2009

BBC News 24, Sky News and Fox News have scrambled to get an exclusive, having talked at length for hours of the "possible" and "unconfirmed" death of Pop-licious Michael Jackson; "I wouldn't like to speculate until we have confirmation" (however, I will continue to fill time should it be announced and we get an exclusive)

They have searched frantically to find anyone who might have known him, talked to him or brushed against him in a shopping mall. Poor Uri Geller has had a particularly busy night, flipping from one news channel to the next and not being able to talk to any of them...until the Sky News crew turned up with cameras, make-up and lighting and then you couldn't shut him up if you tried. We even had revelations of hypnosis and unethical questions.

Well, the news has finally been confirmed that pop legend Michael Jackson has sadly passed and moon walked through the pearly gates to his heavenly stage in the sky.

He has brought us love, joy, intrigue and shock and, most of all, wonderful music and creativity throughout his long career.

He may be gone but, one suspects, he will never be forgotten by all lovers of music, whichever musical train they travel on.

Wednesday, 24 June 2009

The Mystery of The Stig Continues ....

I was delighted to see the return of Top Gear on Sunday night. One has always loved to see the antics of the dynamic trio as they wreak havoc on our roads, tracks and waterways.

The continuity announcer was titillating us with the news that The Stig would be revealing his true identity during the show; well, of course, I was glued to my set, eager for the unveiling.

Crusty sat through the first section of the great race from London to Edinburgh; the lovely James May in his seductive Jaguar, Jeremy in his gleaming steam train and little pocket-sized, cute as a button Richard on his motorcycle. The latter was the most surprising of the night; as we know Richard can be quite the morsel of eye candy and the thought of his slithering in to a leather bike suit made ones toes curl; yet, when he emerged, straddled his beast and tried to pump it into life, one looked at his diminutive stature and could only see Stuart Little on his way to a gay S & M club.

Anyhoo … the moment arrived and The Stig entered the hanger and walked toward the stage. Crusty gasped as the mysterious figure lifted both of his hands and grabbed his shiny, white helmet and slowly started to pull it off in front of Jeremy and the audience.
To the surprise of everyone, the enigmatic racing driver turned out to be none other than Michael Schumacher!

Crusty however is not convinced and one’s mystical powers are saying he was only on because he owned the £1million pound super car being timed or that Ferrari themselves had said they would only lend one to the show on the understanding that Mr Schumacher drove it.

I therefore put it to the world that the mystery of The Stig continues …..

Tuesday, 16 June 2009

Eating with the Enemy - Not a Chance, Dear!

One was sitting all alone one evening last week, within the vast magnificent expanse of Crusty Hall. The household staff had all gone home, or to their rooms and Chu Me was in the kitchen furiously buffing something - the silver, one imagines.

As usual the television was appalling and one was searching the Sky on-screen TV guide for something titillating to grasp ones interest; up and doon, like a whore’s drawers, I went until I finally came across a program that caught ones eye; Eating with the Enemy.

I wondered what the content of this program could be and seemed to drift slightly as I thought of eating with some of my own enemies; perhaps Danniiiiii Minge (sorry my keyboard’s sticking) or Cheryl y’nailed-it Cole. Then I chuckled to myself when I realised one would never invite such people to Crusty Hall for dinner and one most certainly would not be seen out in the public arena with them.

Anyhoo … the program was just starting and immediately I realised that it was a programme with a format that had been flogged to an inch of its spinal column; a panel of featureless faced, pompous judges sitting being awful to everyday people trying their best to cook a delicious meal. The only redeeming factor was that scrumptious, dancing dessert James Martin, who hosts the competition beautifully.

Our four judges were Jay any-relation-to-Claire-dear? Rayner, Kate Spicer, Toby Young and Charles Campion.

Crusty finds Kate Spicer a strange one! A relatively youthful looking face - if not a little over-moisturised - and lips that, it seems, the good Lord stuck on upside down; the poor girl always seems so unhappy, poor poppet! It’s quite ironic that she should be on a panel to criticise people for their cooking, when she clearly doesn’t take the opportunity to criticise her hairdresser. I find her appearance like that of Ann Boleyn - had someone picked her decapitated head out of the bucket and stuck it back onto her neck with UHU.

Jay any-relation-to-Claire-dear? Rayner just looks like someone playing at the Three Musketeers, with his almost ringletted hair-do (All for one … and that one’s me!), while Toby Young always comes across as the naughty little schoolboy trying to impress the older boys with his contrived wit and sarcasm yet never quite accomplishing it. As for Charles Campion, if one had ever wondered what Jabba the Hutt would look like in a charcoal suit and burnt crimson v-neck, then one need look no further.

All four sit with looks of disgust, disbelief and horror as each competitor describes their proposed dishes: “You realise you don’t normally use berries in that recipe for a reason?”; “And you think those combinations go together why?” and “that’s the sort of thing you think people want to eat, is it? We shall see!”

Well, I mean, one must always have manners and respect for the efforts others put in. I know when I visit the vicarage for dinner; Mrs Flecks produces some strange and wonderful things. When I attended one of dinners only a week ago, we were sitting around the dinner table and Marjorie was boasting of her cooking skill. As she served her next dish she said, “Sebastian always compliments me on my cooking, Dame Crusty. Don’t you Sebastian?”

“Oh, I do Marjorie. It’s like the very food from Heaven!” The vicar proclaimed.

“Yes, his two favourite dishes of mine are turkey pot roast or my own twist on Shepherd’s Pie. He can’t get enough of them”

As I looked down at my food, I raised my head and smiled; “And which is this, dear?”

“Oh no!” Marjorie giggled, “this is my lemon roulade!”

“And with….gravy … how Bohemian,” I replied.

As it transpired, Marjorie assured the dinner guests it was actually a chocolate caramel sauce ... however, I would tend to stick with my original observation.

But you see, poppets, how easy it is to be pleasant when staring in the face of possible food poisoning and potential death?

I really think such televisual nastiness should be stopped and those wishing to enter a life of cooking and running a restaurant should be allowed to do so naturally, without these snooby ogres degrading their florishing skills.

Of course, these are just Crusty’s humble opinions, my legion of Crustettes may have their own.

Friday, 12 June 2009

Carol Malia - The Bundle of Joy is Delivered.

Crusty was delighted this evening to discover that the North East of England's jewel in the crown, Her Serene Highness Carol of Malia, has given birth to an absolutely gorgeous baby girl; Anna Margaret.

Juicy Jeff Brown shared a wonderful picture with the region - complete with soft cloudy edging - of the elated parents with their 7lb 5oz new addition. At first, I thought the cloudiness was due to over indulging on the gin, but Chu Me confirmed it was a photographic affect.

One never knew that our poppet was married to such a studmuffin; the lovely Gary! One thing is for sure with two parents genetically laden with such gorgeousness, little Anna will certainly grow up to be a beautiful individual and be talented beyond all her parents hopes and aspirations.

My faitfhful houseboy, Chu Me, has sent word to his mother in her Haitian prison cell. She is disappointed that she was not able to knit some luxurious baby clothes as planned but after "the incident" it became impossible. Instead, last night, there was rejoicing from all corners of her institution with ticker-tape flying everywhere. At first, the guards thought there was a riot until they were informed of the joyous news and realised it was merely a celebration and, naturally, joined in.

Crusty wishes Carol and Gary and wonderful future with their little angelic addition. She will always have a fairy Godmother looking out for her.

Tuesday, 9 June 2009

One Wants Colin Briggs - One Gets A Banana!

I was munching on Chu Me’s deliciously succulent eggs this morning and I turned on my 28 incher in the bedroom waiting for my daily injection of news.

As I looked down to smother a soldier in Chu Me’s golden creamy yolks I heard, “ …here's the news from your region”; I felt a quiver of excitement as I waited for the George Clooney of breakfast news, Colin ­his-twinkle-makes-y’tingle Briggs (Last night, the North East was privileged enough to have him presenting the evening news. I swear he looked as if he’d just walked off an Armani fashion shoot and into the BBC studios!)

Anyhoo …when I heard a high pitched whine, saw the remainder of my breakfast shrivel up to nothing and saw Crotchet roll onto his back, cover his ears with his paws and hiss, I realised I had accidentally switched to ITV and not the BBC.

When I looked up - while frantically trying to get my finger upon the number “1” button - I caught a brief glimpse of Helen Peengpong(or some such fancy) clad in an eye-scorching yellow summer frock.

Really, dears, when I want to be brought up to date with my beloved region’s news, one doesn’t want to hear it from a giant squeaking banana with a squint!

Thankfully, Armani Briggs was at hand 20 minutes later to soothe my burning retinas... he's marvellous!

Sunday, 7 June 2009

Crusty Visits Seaham Car Boot Fair

Crusty awoke this morning wondering what she could do to break the day up. One had planned to do very little but felt one needed to exercise oneself in some way.

Fortunately, Chu Me had been doing some research on his computer on, one presumes, the Navy; he had typed, what he thought was, "Seamen" but had actually typed "Seaham" and as a result of this error, he found there was a Car Boot Fair held every Sunday in Seaham. When I heard this information I decided it was a splendid answer to the question I had put to myself.

For those people fortunate enough not to have visited Seaham, it was once a small agricultural area which was made famous when one of its residents, Anne Isabella Millbanke, married Lord Byron in 1815. Evidently, Lord Byron found boredom a constant companion when he resided there - which, in fairness, doesn't say a lot for poor Anne, does it? - but found the sea enthralling and no doubt he felt the urge to walk into it on many occasions after returning home to his less than entertaining wife.

Later the port was built but was never considered big enough for the business it was to receive. Mining was also a source of income to the community until all three of its pits closed, including Seaham Colliery - known locally as "the Knacks". To this day it's as if the knackers are just hanging about, suspended in a state of limbo, waiting for a role to fill.

Anyhoo .... Chu Me and I took the Bentley to the event and one had a sashay around the stalls. As one entered the arena of tat I noticed a couple of stalls selling fresh fruit and vegetables. This confused Crusty somewhat, as the people visiting didn't appear to have consumed either for some considerable time; in fact, the children looked upon the plumbs, potatoes and oranges as exotic, priceless jewels beyond their reach and status.

As one wandered past stall after stall, one realised that one had never seen so much rubbish collated in one place and as one battled on, a young gentleman accompanied by his wife/girlfriend/sister - or all three -passed us and I overheard him say, " .. a lot of people like to buy shit." The grey sweatpant ensemble he had opted for and the sparkly top, headband and tatty extensions his lady friend were wearing certainly gave support to his argument.

It was not until I wondered past a lady selling make-up that I realised I had had enough. This poor individual - with a face like an Ordnance Survey map of the Lake District and chewing on her fingernails like they were her last meal - was not being in the slightest successful in selling her wares and though she had L'Oreal included in her merchandise, she clearly wasn't worth it!

Saturday, 6 June 2009

Crusty's Titanic Dream.

Now that Britain's Got Talent has ended its run, Crusty has had withdrawal symptoms from not having the adorable Ant McPartlin and Declan Donnelly popping on and off my 28 incher with weekly regularity. So much so that the other night was spent continually tossing and by the morning I was exhausted.

The reason? A dream that I was enjoying a weekend on the high seas on Lady Gusset - my private yacht - There was Chu Me, Antony and Declan and Crusty. We had enjoyed a gorgeous weekend with glorious weather until suddenly we drifted off course and my luxurious vessel hit an iceberg.

The rest of the dream was very hazy. All I remember is a gurgling noise and Chu Me and Ant jumping to safety, grasping at their dinghy in desperation ... then an eerie silence ... an eerie silence that was shattered as Ant let out a deafening scream as I slowly went down with both hands on deck.

Separated at Birth?

Is it just Crusty or was there some awful tragedy in our recent history, when a mother left hospital with only one child instead of two?
This would certainly explain many things; chaos and terror in the heart of Gotham City and the same throughout Her Majesty's realm. We've also just seen Catty Woman resign so there is another thing we must take into account.
Crusty hopes they are reunited very soon!

Crusty Cures Sweating at Crusty Hall?

Crusty has been feeling a little low this week since Señor Sun slowly tipped his hat and bid farewell for a spell. .

So, instead, I spent more time inside watching television. This week Embarrassing Bodies with the dazzlingly dashing Dr. Christian Jessen; he with the body of finely sculpted marble and the grin that makes one’s apertures blow secret kisses from down below.

As usual there was an array of problems this week; a rotting armpit (so disgusting I had to look away and stroke my Crotchet), a lady with piles (Chu Me had just arrived with a plate of grapes but spun on his little heels and left immediately when he saw it), upturned toes and a young man introduced to us who was having problems with a sore penis.
My attention was instantly aroused and I was eager to help Dr. Christian by offering to rub any required cream on the affected area, but then the young man didn’t appear to be that young at all and as he whipped down his drawers to reveal a little shrivelled sausage, I sat back and thought it better left to a professional.

One segment that interested me greatly was that of the young lady who had a sweating problem. Dr. Christian demonstrated to us how we sweat - by having a good pumping session in a gym - then whipping off his vest ….oh, my! … the shimmering beads of doctor-dew clinging to his rippling [ahem!] …and weighing the removed garment on some scales.

Well, our medical team suggested a remedy for our damsel in distress, whereby hands are placed on mats and an electric current is passed through the body to reset the glands. Here at Crusty Hall, a member of the household staff also has a frightful sweating problem; on hot summer days she is forever dripping over my antique furniture and indeed one finds globules of her bodily residue where one least expects them.

It was at this stage that Crusty has a Eureka moment; My faithful houseboy, Chu Me, brought the staff member to the utility room where I explained I was going to cure her of her embarrassing problem. I asked her to stand in a bucket of water then lightly sprayed her to moisten her apparel. Chu Me and I stood back and asked her to now pick up the two cables at either side of her – one in each hand.

As she picked up the two live cables – oh, did I omit that information? – we waited for the miracle to occur.

5 minutes later we stopped as the treatment wasn’t working in the slightest. The girl was still sweating – more so, in fact – though one suspects it was due to the energy she was using to grit her teeth!

Caroline Flint Clomps Away From Cabinet

Well, poppets, the state of British politics is certainly bobbing along on the winds of change, is it not? The expenses malarkey has certainly made people stand up and think and certainly made our long, long, long, long ... well, it seems like eternally serving .... Labour politicians stand up and think how quickly and effectively they can stab our Prime Minister in the back.

One has never been particularly fond of Gordon I'm-sinking-faster-than-a-hooker-with-two-minutes Brown but must admit there was a squeal of glee from Crusty's vocal opening when the pool of noxious slime - Brown's predecessor, Tony Blair - was booted out/resigned* (*- delete as appropriate).

Anyhoo .... dressed in something far too tight for her shape - which had clearly been last put on a boil wash in error - Europe Minister Caroline my-haircolour's-natural Flint clomped up the path of Downing Street to deliver her resignation.

She explained to the Prime Minister that he was only using her as "female window dressing".

Goodness me, poppets, he'd need to invest in a substantially wide window and once in situ I would doubt the sight of that one on display would entice anyone into the shop!