Eastenders Brings Star Trek A Little Closer.

One had just finished rubbing warm baby oil up the muscular inner thighs of Dr. Christian Jessen, when one suddenly awoke.

As the sleepy mistiness lifted from one’s eyes, one realised one was alone. Crotchet was no where to be seen and must have decided to utilise his cat-flap to explore the grounds; Chu Me had mentioned earlier that he had something that was in need of a quick rub, so one suspected he was still ensconced in his urgent rubbage, judging by the faint and distant panting one could hear from the corridor beyond.

One’s 32 incher had been on in the background as one dozed and as one looked towards its twinkling pixels one saw that a further depressing instalment of Eastenders was underway. One had been watching it recently in the hope of seeing one's delicious twitterchum Dan Brocklebank but it was not to be.

As one was drawn into the action, while trying to blot out the shape of Ian Beale with the aid of a mother of pearl coaster over one’s left eye, one’s mind began to whir. In particular, over the antics of Janine Butcher; Quite a nasty piece of works that one … and more so in this episode where her plan to poison her enemies was beginning to be acted out.

In an earlier scene, when she moved from room to room with Pat in tow – dragging her primary coloured danglies along with her – she was acting out every possible state of distress, anger, confusion and laughter. One realised one had saw something as vicious and vengeful as this before … but where?

After a sip from one’s Baccarat tumbler of gin and a shot of her lying with her crazed head on a pillow, scrunching up her rather high brow, a thought began to cross one’s mind ….’yIDoqhQo!’ One thought to oneself.

Goodness, one seemed to have been infiltrated by a strange tongue! …and then the penny well and truly plunged from a heavenly heights and clattered to stillness in the bottom of the terracotta pot of thought! She’s a Klingon!!

The reality of Star Trek, poppets, is a little closer than we think, one fancies!

Farewell Leslie Nielsen - Dame Crusty Mourns.

 1926 - 2010

As one sat in the Morning Room taking a pot of tea and a spot of crumpet with one’s good friend Fanny O’Dour - from the Badger’s Snatch - one was devastated to hear the very sad news that an actorial poppet - who had long been a comedic genius - had passed away.

One, of course, refers to the great Leslie Nielsen.

Born in 1926 he achieved a highly successful career in the early days as a serious actor before thrusting to meteoric stardom through his comedy roles. In particular, one thinks of the hit series Police Squad – in which he played Detective Frank Drebin - the film Airplane and the wonderful Naked Gun series of films, where Frank Drebin was revived for the big screen.

Leslie always made one titter uncontrollably, especially with his expressionless face as chaos erupted all around him. In the Naked Gun films, he teamed up with Priscilla Presley. This, at the time, was considered an unexpected pairing, however the two made a laughaliciously pleasing double act and his silver fox looks contrasted perfectly with Priscilla’s dark striking beauty. Indeed, Priscilla’s own expressionless face proved perfect for the comedy performance too.

Having said that, one recently saw a couple of old episodes of the US show Dancing with the Stars in which Priscilla was participating. Close ups suggested she had not so much had a Nip and Tuck but more a Grab and Stuff. Honestly, poppets, at first one thought one was watching Jacqui Stallone shaking her tail-feather on stage …until one realised there was no dribbling! Perhaps the lack of facial expression was not her comedy acting …perhaps it simply wasn’t humanly possible for the poor poppet!

Anyhoo … as one’s treasured poppets will know, the Gusset motto is Love, Joy and Laughter and Leslie certainly had, and gave, all three in gargantuan proportions. Though he may have left us, from the sun tickled shores of Fort Lauderdale at the rather impressive age of 84, we are truly blessed that his work is left for future generations to enjoy and, indeed, for his current legion of admirers to revisit  his gorgeousness whenever they so wish.

Back at one’s home and upon hearing the news one sashayed with sombre steps, with Fanny and Chu Me in tow, to the bar in Crusty Hall – recently renamed Litten’s after one’s delicious poppet Derren Litten. There we popped open a bottle of Pere Ventura, filled the Baccarat flutes and toasted his life, his accomplishments and his towering titterliciousness. Even one’s pussy, Crotchet maintained his ears at half mast as a mark of respect to the great man.

Chin, chin, Leslie dear, you'll never be forgotten, surely! *clink* 

[Stop calling me Shirley!]

Hillary Clinton - Dame Crusty Calms Her Fears.

Dame Crusty ... arrrr... I ... arrrr ... salute you!

Dearest Hillary,

One never likes to step into the world of politics – especially in this rather exquisite pair of Gucci pumps – but one felt one had to express opinion at your rather tawdry, public criticism of Her Majesty’s new government and their impending defence spending review.

Not so very long ago, a bunch of bankers (are one’s keys sticking?... ah no!) from your fair land were rather naughty and began a trickle – later turning into a tsunami - of devastation throughout the financial sectors of the entire western world and beyond. As a result, the world economy was brought to its knees … in a rather unpleasant Lewinski-esque fashion, if you will. There were bodily excretions hitting fan blades in every corner of our globe.

You must, therefore, forgive some of one’s European family while they attempt to adjust their monetary britches and support the countrymen held within the fabric of their nations boxers (while still fighting in battles - we can never hope to win - started by our very own Tony I’m-a best-selling-author-because-I-said-I’d-give-all-the-profits-from-my-book-to-the-Help-the-Heroes-Charity Blair and your Bush).

Even Great Britain – and one must emphasise Great with vigour and pride – finds itself in a terrible predicament, scraping along a plateau of broken glass on a rather bony expanse of buttock. This was made all the worse by your chums, in our previous government who were a little irresponsible with Her Majesty’s savings account, including the rather curious looking piece of eye-candy you became fond of, David Miliband, who I understand – since his defeat in the party elections – is now selling household cleaning products from a basket - door to door - in allocated streets of a North East town (though, quite frankly, even Cillit Bang couldn’t clean the hands of that last lot!). One believes his chamois leathers are selling like hotcakes, if you’re interested!

Anyhoo …they squandered the nation’s finances with gay abandon (and that does not solely relate to Peter Peggy-on-a-Sunday Mandelson). To put it simply, it was like going to the hairdressers, spending an absolute fortune on a new ‘do’ and getting something of very little value or consequence in return. One is sure you can relate to that scenario only too well, having blatantly exposed dark rootage on the international stage and – on occasion – picking ill-advised fights with hedges before televised press conferences.

One can assure you that the British nation is more than prepared to defend itself and its allies. Goodness, try and infiltrate the North East with a terrorist cell and there will be many a bloody nose in the streets of the quayside and Bigg Market, as those responsible will be battered to a state of poo, by locals wielding kebabs, cans of K cider and protected by Stand&Tan leatherette skin which, one can assure you, is impenetrable.

So please don’t worry about us and feel free to keep your proportionately stubby nasal formation out of our business. As one emailed one of your Texas judges only yesterday over this farcical Liverpool FC malarkey “You have no jurisdiction here, so bog off poppet!”

Hope you and the family are well,
Love, joy and laughter,

Dame Crusty
xxxx

Fascinating Aida's Report Into Cheap Flights

While relaxing with a glass of chilled Fonpinet Cava on the terrace in sun-drenched Málaga, one received a message from one's dear friend, Nigel, via the magnificent twitterverse. Something had tickled his fancy and wondered if one wanted one's tickled too. How could one refuse, poppets?

He had sent one a indepth study by Fascinating Aida of the workings of the low-cost airlines. The investigation below if both interesting and sets out all of the hidden costs in an easy to follow way.

Easyjet - Enemy At The Gates

Chu Me and I had left the comfort of the Executive Lounge in Newcastle International Airport and were heading, in an elegant fashion, towards the announced gate. Gliding effortlessly down the corridor, each time one passed by a window the light of Señor Sol’s tentacles would catch the simple selection of diamonds one was wearing and blast a brilliant explosion of light throughout the passageway. One young lady with fake Louis Vuitton hand-luggage and inappropriate footwear asked her companion, ”Was that lightening?!” Concerned, one put one’s right hand on her shoulder and reassured her, “No dear, just flawless diamonds,” and walked on.

Now, in times gone by when one has used the services of Easyjet, one has normally found oneself at the same gate as one found oneself on this particular day. Two departure gates, hidden down a set of stairs, almost in the bowels of the airport, where everyone would previously congregate until they heard the bing-bong and then it was like the opening of a cut price Burberry outlet near a housing estate of chavs; the stampede would begin in earnest. (Still, after all these years, passengers with Boarding Group E think for some inexplicable reason that they can board when Boarding Group A is announced. Then when turned away, stand blocking the thoroughfare, scratching their heads like chimpanzees wondering what to do next.)

Recently, however, someone of limited intelligence has decided it would be far better to create an enormous queue by checking passports etc. at the bottom of the stairwell. To make matters worse, this particular trip saw a rather saggy-jowelled individual standing at the right of the stairs, at the bottom, leaning against the wall like a badly dressed hooker and clinging to a hand-luggage cage with her right hand. She was insisting passengers put their bags inside.

She was a well rounded creature, with blonde hair pulled back in an aubergine coloured scrunchy and her trousers were clinging on to her thighs for dear life. She had, one supposes, what Gok Wan would describe as an hour-glass figure. If that was the case, she was certainly containing more than her fair share of sand.

Anyhoo … one neared the lair of the dragon and she pointed at the aperture. One stood motionless, save one’s eyes looking down at the cage, then up at her face, then down to the cage, then up at her face.

“Could you put your bag in there?” She asked.

“More than likely, dear.” Then one turned to walk to a seat.

“Excuse me! All bags need to be checked for size.”

“Are we expecting the bag to have transformed into a suitcase since check-in, dear?” One said, finally sitting in a seat near the entrance to the gate.

On five occasions people put their hand luggage in and with handles, wheels etc. they proved difficult to remove; the light-weight structure of the tubular template lifted as they tried harder and harder to pull them back out. The Easyjet dragon, nevertheless, continued to hold the apparatus with her right hand. Well, after 5 minutes one stood and sashayed across to her. “For the love of God! Assist them dear! The contraption clearly needs a hefty weight to hold it down while they pull! Stick your hoof on it to give them a chance!”

The result was a resounding success and bags began popping out with gay abandon.

Finally, the flight was announced. Bing-bong and everyone rose to block the entrance of the embarkation aisle as normal. ‘Passengers with Speedy Boarding only please.’ However, one found oneself boxed in. Chu Me slipped through the legs of the blockade and turned to face one with a distressed look on his face.

“EXCUSE ME!!” One shouted. A row of heads turned. “Speedy Boarding does not function efficiently if one is stopped from doing so by a wall of insipid flesh and unnaturally bright fabrics!”

Like the parting of the Red Sea, a channel appeared and one sashayed through onto the aircraft. Chu Me selected a perfect position and covered the seating with the velvet throw. He then placed the small piece of sheepskin rug on the floor and placed a hand-embroidered scatter cushion against the back of the window seat. Just before take-off a woman appeared at the side of our row of seats with the stewardess.

“I think that’s the last seat.” She said, smiling and pointing at the seat in the centre, “May I?”

“You may not, dear!” One replied.

“The lady does need to be secured in a seat for take off and landing, Dame Crusty.” Said the stewardess in a rather condescending tone of voice.

One clapped one’s hands twice and Chu Me jumped up and grabbed hold of the woman and took her up the rear. Then in the toilet, he removed some gaffa tape from his leather man-bag and managed to secure her beautifully to the seat in there. Returning to the side of his mistress, one looked at the now open-mouthed stewardess.

“That should do it poppet! Now … be a dear and inform the Captain we’re ready to leave.”

Crusty Prepares To Depart The North East On Tour

On arrival at – for want of a better phrase - Newcastle International Airport, the commuters were already bustling around departures. Their despondent faces growing ever more so as they drew closer to the check-in desks for the usual uppity member of staff to check them in with a face as motionless as that of Dannniiiiiii Minge (sorry, my keyboard’s sticking).

Not only that, but the worry welling up inside them, knowing they were involuntarily entering the Newcastle International Airport Lottery. This is a most exciting game where one never knows if one is going to be charged for excess baggage or not.

This happened to Crusty one year when travelling to the utterly scrumptious Bilbao for a short getaway. A young girl, with a complexion as smooth as a page of Braille and ‘blonde hair’ with unattended roots, charged one for an additional 4kg. This baffled one as Chu Me had already weighed them in advance. Nevertheless, one sent him to pay the £24 or so and we left for Gatwick to make our connection.

Sashaying elegantly to the check-in desk at the connecting airport one was naturally expecting further payment to be made. But no, poppets, the trunks were under the required weight!! One later complained, in the most strongest terms, to the service provider but they wrote back to say after an investigation, the scales in question had been checked by Weights & Measures. One naturally wrote back immediately;

Dear Poppet,

Thank you for your letter, which arrived at an opportune time, as one had just ran out of cat litter for Crotchet. One takes on board your comments but, quite frankly dear, would not take anything Weights & Measures say as of any consequence; they have been telling us for years that 25ml is sufficient for a single measure of spirit … however, as you will be well aware one can never put a measurement on such things, as it all depends on one’s mood at the time.

Love & cuddles,
Dame Crusty

Check-in over and the horror of Newcastle International Airport security was thrust upon the now exhausted travellers. If ever one wished to empathise with the cattle world, then one could find no better place; herded into the cordoned corridors, one minute walking left the next minute walking right, zigzagging backwards and forwards (not the most ideal scenario when one has indulged in the odd glass of gin and is wearing heels) only to reach the end to find the sour-faced employees waiting to greet you at the X-Ray machines.

When we arrived at the gates of Hell, a rather heavy set young man approached one with a look of panic on his face; “Just walk through Dame Crusty! There’s no need to undress like last year.” (How splendid one thought, though one must admit one rather enjoyed the disrobing experience last time). Instead, one clapped one’s hands; Chu Me jumped up onto the machine and began to glide through the dangling leatherette strips in one of the large plastic trays. The security man seemed a little caught off guard as he saw one’s faithful houseboy moving past the X-ray screen.

“Er…all, er, seems to be ok with your companion.” He said.

“Hmmmm … Not so, dear,” One said, pointing at the screen, “One thinks he will need a filling in his upper first premolar when we return! Alas, and despite many warnings from his mistress, he just loves chewing his nuts a little too much.”

Anyhoo … Chu Me surfed to the end of the inspection channel in the plastic tray and jumped down to the floor. Our items collected, one sashayed elegantly past an entirely aggressive woman. She darted forward and one stepped back quickly. One could not see any chain around her neck as she began to ask the most invasive questions with a growl at the back of her throat; “Do you have a loyalty card? Do you have a Credit Card?”

All that was missing from the scene was a leather collar with a bone shaped metal tag with Gripper carved into it, along with her address and telephone number should she go missing. Needless to say, one’s self-defence training kicked in immediately and from the top of one’s bag one grabbed a small bottle of Chanel Nº 5 and sprayed her in the face. She recoiled back spitting and spluttering like an angry viper.

“Good Lord, dear, that’s none of your business, one is quite sure!!” and walked on leaving her in a heap with her eyes streaming; the tears meandering down the cheeks of her over made-up face, splashing down upon her Poly-cotton blouse.

The executive lounge was very pleasing and certainly infinitely quieter than last time, when a bleached haired Rotwieller and her friends were draining the bar dry of every drop of alcohol it held. Chu Me found one a comfortable seat, threw over the velvet throw and placed the small square of sheepskin rug on the floor upon which one’s feet would rest. The peace and quiet was wonderful until an older gentleman entered with a highly polished head and sat to one’s left. He had already caught one’s attention at the sign in desk when he started talking quite loudly to the hostess about what flights he normally took. One could feel oneself saying under one’s breath,” She really isn’t interested in the slightest, dear.”

He took up residence in a seat very near and there was silence once more. Then several minutes later he put his hands in his trouser pocket and began to rummage around. There was no look of ecstasy on his face so one realised he was searching for something. He pulled out his mobile device. In a voice that could only resemble that of God in a Charlton Heston movie he bellowed forth into the tiny mouthpiece.

“Hi Paul, it’s me. You’re obviously not up yet. I’m in the airport lounge. Just wanted to know if you wanted to meet up for lunch on Monday? I’m out of the country until then but we can meet up. Give me a call when you get up, mate.”

After what seemed like a lifetime of shouting, there was peace and quiet once more. However, poppets, it was not to last. Again this person, with the lovely head of skin, whipped out his device. He was ‘phoning Paul again (though one doubted the poor poppet would be up considering he wasn’t 2 minutes and 12 seconds ago). However, to one’s surprise he was ... and the lounge pest could now hold a dialogue. From the start of his conversation one concluded he was a referee of some description from his observations of 16 year old boys who could hold their balls well in varying positions.

One stood and glided towards him while he was in mid conversation.

“Hang on, Paul, there’s a lady who wants to talk to me.” He covered the mouthpiece with his left hand.

“Excuse me, poppet. One knows a place which is infinitely better for such a conversation. May I?”

He got up out of his seat and followed one to a double doorway at the far end of the lounge. One opened the door and as he leant forward to see what lay beyond, one grabbed his lapel and flung him out the door and closed it behind him. Seconds later Chu Me had arrived behind one with the gentleman’s hand luggage. Taking the handle, one opened the door once more and threw it onto the tiled floor ahead. He was now in the main departure lounge and there he would stay (One had rolled up a copy of Cosmopolitan and wedged it in the handles).

Turning to return to one’s seat, Chu Me noticed it was time for us to board. Velvet throw, sheep skin rug and hand luggage gathered, we headed to the required gate while the rather shocked face of an unknown referee pressed against the window of the door behind us, could only see us disappear into the distance.

Barcelona was fingering us enticingly into its welcoming bosom.

Crusty Tour Sept 2010 - The Journey Begins

The morning of the 15th September arrived and inside one was squealing with excitement; the Crusty Tour September 2010 was about to begin. Its commencement was met with a blustery introduction; clearly, Mother Nature had been on the flageolet beans again and the resulting wind was literally breathtaking when one awoke and popped one’s head out of the bedroom window. One’s beloved Crusty Hall was being battered from all sides but there was a particularly strong concentration coming from the rear.

Preparations had been completed over the weekend and the household staff – with the assistance of Chu Me – had ensured one’s trunks were packed beautifully (though, not quite as beautifully packed as the trunks of one’s treasured poppet Jake Canuso, but that’s a matter for another time). So, on this morning of departure all that was left for one to do was adorn oneself in an utterly stunning ensemble made of entirely natural fibres and accessorise with a simple selection of diamonds from the Gusset Collection.

The week previous, while enjoying a moment of relaxation in the Badger’s Snatch, with Fanny O’Dour – the landlady and one’s good friend – her husband came into the bar area. He had just been out the back helping yank off the Drayman’s kegs, so he could empty his load and shoot off a little quicker than normal. Willy remembered one was off on holiday and immediately offered to give Chu Me and I a lift.

“Willy, dear, you’re a gentleman!” One said, “You must use GUSSET 1.”

The morning we left, one took a look back at one’s beloved Crusty Hall and saw one’s pussy, Crotchet, sat on the windowsill in the bar. His poor little face was etched with sadness as his ears and whiskers drooped.

“Don’t worry, Crusty.” Willy said, “Once my Fanny comes and give him something to munch on, he’ll forget you’ve even left.”

It was all too much to bear, so one clung on to the words Willy had said, waved at Crotchet and blew him a kiss and the Bentley pulled away.

Rooney Causes Contemplation at Crusty Hall.

One was shocked recently when one saw the headlines relating to the alleged Rooney sex scandal. Quite frankly, poppets, who wouldn’t be?

At first one thought, this Hollywood great must be older than Tutankhamun himself by now; if his circulatory system still pumps blood into his man-biscuit for a little how’s-your-father, then more power to his elbow.

Indeed, one had just made that very point to Kitty, who had stopped by for a spot of tea and cake in the conservatory, when she clarified it was Wayne Rooney all the fuss was about and not Mickey Rooney, as one had assumed.

This, of course, threw a completely different light on the subject.

“Ah! You know, one finds it incomprehensible why that rather peculiar looking sportsman need look further than his adequately attractive lady-wife to satisfy his yearnings. Further more, Kitty, one believes – if the stories are to be taken as gospel – that he had his hanky-panky during the motherly incubation period, post breeding process.”

Sipping her tea, Kitty nodded and made a rather delightful ‘mmmm ‘ sound. “That’s men all over, Crusty” she said.

“Quite, dear!”

We sat in a relaxing silence for a few minutes, before one continued after a moment of contemplation

“Footballers seem to be a blessed section of our society, do they not? Take the delicious David Beckham for instance. He just has to walk past a young lady – and many a man - and they can feel their undergarments dissolve immediately as a volcanic surge of sexual desire wells up inside them. Even Peter Crotch, Couch, or some such fancy has managed to acquire love in his life with just such a reaction… and he’s like an albino Pepperami.”

“Which one is Rooney again. I heard the name but wasn’t sure?” Kitty asked.

“You must have seen the advert, poppet. The one where he’s running around in slow motion with his top off and whacking his balls off the end of his boot; rivers of sweat trickling down his hairy frontage in the most unsightly manner (One’s always compelled to throw a napkin over the screen to stop one’s nibbles shrivelling up and to avoid the almost certain gag reflex). Do you remember, dear? A sort of Shrek in monochrome, if you will.”

“Ah yes, I know who you mean now!”

“If it comes out in the laundry that these allegations are true, one suspects Mrs. Rooney will take him to task over his shenanigans and it will be her who is whacking his balls off the end of her Hush-Puppies. Anyhoo … it surely couldn’t be true that such a famous footballer would have to pay someone to have sex with them, could it? That would be highly embarrassing for them to live down, would it not?”

Kitty shrugged her shoulders and went in for another slice of Lemon Fancy.

Rudi Douglas - All The Lovers

One was chatting to some chums in the land of Twitter today and one's dear friend Mikey Walsh (Writer of the astoundingly brilliant and magically moving Gypsy Boy) suggested one took a little shufty of a twitteree's video on YouTube.

One was intrigued and navigated there immediately. What one found was simply gorgeous! The talented and delicious poppet, Rudi Douglas, singing an acoustic version of a recent Kylie Minogue hit, All The Lovers. One felt one had to share his talent with you all (Goodness, they'll have one as a judge of X-Factor next!)

Incidentally, if you have not already bought Mikey's book, Gypsy Boy - and one cannot recommend it highly enough - have a pop along to Amazon via the link on the right and you will not be disappointed.

Note To Self: READ THINGS CAREFULLY, DEAR!

“Good morning, Marjorie Flecks speaking.”

“Good morning, poppet. I caught a quick glimpse of your advert and thought I’d call and perhaps get the ball rolling. One had an accident recently – which was most certainly not one’s fault – where a member of the household staff bumped into one with the Dyson. One, of course, does not need the money but would be interested to know how much one would receive.”

There was a short silence at the other end of the line. “Erm … I think you may have the wrong number … Is that Dame Crusty?”

“It is indeed, Marjorie dear, and one is quite sure one has the correct number! Now are you going to take on the case or not?”

“But this is the vicarage, Dame Crusty, we don’t deal with insurance. Oh, Sebastian ensures salvation with his sermons [snort], if you’ll forgive the joke?”

There was another lengthy pause. “Dame Crusty, are you still there?”

“One is, dear; one's waiting for the joke.”

“That was it; ‘ensures salvation with his sermons’ …’ensures’, ‘insures’? That was the joke.”

“Very nearly, dear. Honestly Marjorie with such a lack-lustre attempt at humour, you could do nothing but give Patrick Kielty a run for his money, nothing more. Now, are you going to take up one’s case?”

“Dame Crusty, you must have it wrong!” She insisted.

Increasingly frustrated, one picked up the newspaper. Licking the tip of one’s index finger, one began to violently search the pages. “Right! Here we are … oh! … Marjorie dear … it appears one has indeed made an error. One should have read it more carefully. I naturally thought of you when one saw Bigger Bloomers and simply pressed the speed dial for the vicarage … but upon closer inspection, I have noticed it is BGR Bloomer. I’ll give them a call.”

One couldn’t hear exactly what the vicar’s wife was saying, as one put down the phone, but the inflection in her voice certainly didn’t befit the wife of a man of the cloth.

As it turned out, one didn’t need to call them anyway. The folloing morning, while returning from the village, the very same member of household staff was riding up the drive on her bicycle. As one passed by her, one simply lowered the window and pushed her into the box hedging.

One felt as if an exquisite balance had been restored.

A Gross Occasion At Crusty Hall.

The 12th August is an important date in the diary for any so-inclined poppets who are into hunting down a game bird or two. It is, of course, the date upon which the Grouse shooting season starts.

Here at Crusty Hall preparations are underway to mark the occasion, but as many of you will know, one is a lover of all Mother Nature’s creatures …well, perhaps not wasps … or bluebottles … or Esther Rantzen … (well we shall settle on a lover of most of her creatures) and so one does things a little differently on one’s magnificent estate; One uses the 12th of August to celebrate a one day festival which has traditionally been known as Gross Shooting Day.

Each year, a week before the special day, one assembles the household staff in one of the outbuildings and with the assistance of one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, one peruses the mob of depravity to find those that have not worn well over the previous year: This can be because of many different reasons; the sun being kept off their sallow complexions through duty expectations, an appalling bone structure, a lack of fruit consumption leading to inadequate Vitamin C absorption or simply because they are hereditarily hideous and one has just been too preoccupied to notice.

Anyhoo … the chosen few that one finds the most gross – hence Gross Shooting Day - are then issued with a ticket, a pair of goggles and some shin pads and, as they stand with excited faces ( … yes, I’m sure it’s excitement) one leaves, so that Chu Me can give them their instructions in private.

Then early morning, on the 12th, one dons one’s shooting jacket and heads down for a hearty breakfast. After which, one arms oneself with one’s trusty paintball rifle and heads out into the grounds, with a hip flask of gin to accompany one on the safari ahead.

In an overgrown field at the back of estate, one stands upon Gusset Clump and waits (Gusset Clump is a small mound of earth that elevates one sufficiently above the height of the long, unkempt grass to give one an advantageous vista). Then for the rest of the morning, Chu Me scurries through the grass coaxing the chosen participants out into the open with a wooden stick; this is when the fun begins!

Clearly there is a cross section of ages and one is disappointed that older members simply jump out in front of one in the first 20 minutes, panting heavily as I blast them with aubergine paint pellets. They paint-splatteredly return to the kitchen where Chef always prepares an elaborate array of nibbles and refreshments to reward participation.

Some of the younger one’s, however, are significantly more competitive. Only last year Gardener’s useless apprentice managed three and a half hours on the run. It was like a scene from a Sir David Attenborough documentary watching this horticulturally challenged poppet spring from the tall grass like a young Gazelle, running for its life from the jaws of a ravenous tiger (Honestly, poppets, Grouse can fly at speeds of up to 80mph, but point a paintball gun at a healthy member of staff and one really does get the same affect).

One’s aim was unable to find him and pellets fell, defeated, to the ground. In the end one had to mount one’s trusty steed and, as he hid behind the distant hedgerow, one galloped towards him with the reigns gripped between one’s teeth in true cowgirl style. With a powerful squeeze of one’s inner thighs, Dribble shot over the hedgerow, straight over the pray’s head and landed four feet away from him. Pulling on the reigns, Dribble rose up on his hind legs. One turned and fired two pellets into the buttocks of one’s Titchmarchesquian quarry. After one shot one's load, the hunted down poppet fell to his knees and wept … exhausted!

All in all, it’s a wonderful way of establishing team work amongst the household staff; it gets them out into the fresh air, gives them a little cardio-vascular exercise … and reminds them of their position within the estate.

Quite exhilarating, one can assure you!

© DCG 2010

Chiles and Bleakley To Bring Us Face-Ache On ITV.

It has one quite baffled, all of this hoo-har surrounding the signing up to ITV of Adrian Chiles and Christine the-water-skiing-WAG Bleakley.

For those poppets who are unaware, the long running (and extremely bright) breakfast show, GMTV, is being revamped into a new show called ‘Face Ache’ ….[sorry Chu Me? … are you sure, dear?] … apparently it’s ‘Daybreak’ (Though, quite frankly, one fancies the former is more apt where Mr Chiles is involved).

Recently, everybody at the current GMTV show has been resigning at a rate of knots; first Penny Smith, then Andrew Castle (one doubts whether the cogs will turn so smoothly once his oily-slickyness has oozed out of the building) and, as yet, one is unclear what will happen with intrepid reporter John Stapleton – the Jason King of morning news; he’s certainly not getting any younger, so it would be tragic for him to have to hang up his jacket and ties and the Marks and Spencer poly-blend sand safari suit we have come to know and love, whenever he is reporting from a sun-drenched, war-torn country.

But still this frenzy over the new co-hosts is quite unexpected and totally unnecessary. One certainly didn’t find anything special about them on the BBC’s ‘The One Show’. Indeed, the first evening dear Christine was on, one just caught a momentary glimpse of her after hearing the voice and for a moment thought it was Ian Paisley in a summer dress and lipstick. Of course, after an hour of looking much closer, one realised this was not the case.

As for Adrian, one thought the mask of misery etched across his dish was due to the aftermath of saddle sores from his charity bike ride with Alan Shearer. However, one has been assured that this is his natural look (poor poppet!).

Anyhoo … One may have a shufty once the show starts, to acquire a taste of how terrible it all is, but as a rule one tends not to watch ITV in the morning now; ever since the Tyne Tees division cruelly ripped one’s angelic, charismatic poppet, Mark make-my-mouth-water Warr, from one’s pixels during cut backs … only to immediately replace him with an eardrum-piercing Harpy with an appalling wardrobe.

© DCG 2010

Jonathan Morrell Evokes A Crusty Memory.

Jonathan Morrell: A North East icon pictured in front of a North East landmark.

It was about a week ago and Chu Me and I had finished the delicious breakfast Chef had prepared, rather later than usual. Mr. Peppercorn, the butcher, had been kind enough to call up to the residence early morning, carrying a length of sausage on him that was simply mouth-watering. Once Chef got his hands on it and gave it his special treatment, the result was pure meaty luxuriousness, which melted in one’s mouth and slid effortlessly down the throat.

Sausagely satisfied, Chu Me excused himself and went out to check on his hens and to release Dribble into the paddock. One rang the bell for a member of household staff to clear the breakfast room of dishes etc. and made one’s way to the Doctor Christian Room. Opening the door, one heard a loud purring; it was one’s pussy, Crotchet. Sashaying further in, one could see him resting like a sphinx – his front paws folded – with the line of his fluffilicious body pointing towards the Bang & Olufsen.

“Goodness, Crotchet, what has attracted your fancy so?” One asked.

He turned his head to look at one, his eyes bright as buttons, then turned back to face the audio equipment, adjusted his folded paws and continued to purr loudly. Turning the volume up a smidgen, one realised instantly what was causing this strange behaviour. The velvety vocal vibrations of one’s dear poppet, Jonathan Morrell, were oscillating from Real Radio Towers and out of one’s exquisitely expensive woofers and tweeters.

This particular day, Jonathan was asking his adoring listeners for a favourite holiday song and the memory that went with it. One immediately thought of Mariah Carey (though heaven only knows why) and a memory of a balmy night in Barcelona, while Chu Me and I were holidaying at one’s beach house on the outskirts.

We had travelled into the centre to dine at one of one’s favourite eateries; El Barkito in Carrer Còsega. Both Chu Me and I adore popping in of an evening for the set menu - entremeses marineros - where a caravan of oceanic cuisine is brought to the table in stages; each contains a selection of cooked, fresh shellfish and fish. This combined with a bottle of wine, a chilled bottle of Cava and coffee cortado to finish … well, bliss springs to mind.

Anyhoo … we had finished our meal and Chu Me, decided it would be a good idea if he returned to the beach house. He had spent the afternoon playing volleyball with a group of bikini-clad Catalan lovelies and though he had appeared all right when he had returned home, it appeared the siesta he had passed in his quarters had brought with it an aching wrist (too much batting of the balls with the palm of his hand, one suspects). Analysing the situation, one agreed this was the best course of action. One patted him on his head and sent him on his way.

One, however, had the urge to walk the streets (though not in a professional capacity, you understand). As one sashayed along the Gaudilicious carrers one came across an establishment vibrating with rhythm. Naturally, one’s curiosity was prodded and one decided to investigate further.

It was bursting with energy, packed to the rafters and delicately lit - save some ultraviolet tubing - and a heady scent of Kouros filled the air. It appeared to be a workingmen’s club, as there were very few females; indeed, one could see only two at the end of the bar dressed in faded jeans and lumberjack checked shirts (though, quite frankly, they looked as if they had not the slightest interest in holding a chopper).

Well, after two mojitos and a tequila shot, given gratis by the muscular barman, one was overcome by the atmosphere and was soon up shaking a tail-feather on the smoke-filled dance floor with a rather hirsuit young man, dressed in a leather waistcoat and trouser ensemble (an odd mode of attire for such warm temperatures one thought, but he wore no shirt or vest and his trousers were backless, so at least air was managing to circulate around his downstairs area … one imagines there is nothing worse than a sweaty man-biscuit).

One’s dancing prowess was an instant hit, especially when one’s slender hips gyrated gorgeously to the more Latin rhythms, and very soon one’s dance card was full. One’s new chums and I danced until our legs buckled and the bar ran out of gin. A truly magical night!

Jonathan’s question of the day had certainly stirred something within one and a vivid recollection of Ms Carey’s “I’ll Give My All” (and after a couple of Bacardi Breezers, one is quite sure you would, dear!) attached itself, like a limpet, to one’s memory pathways. But that woman is exposed enough as it is; one only thinks back to the Michael Jackson memorial concert, when she still managed to hoist up her hooters before murdering ‘I’ll Be There’ (Take your time, dear … there’s no rush!).

In the end one sent a message to one’s North East iconic poppet to suggest an altogether more appropriate number; Londonbeat’s ‘You Bring On The Sun’. While one was dancing with another of one’s chums, Raul, one recalled a rather interesting bit of hip thrusting in the middle of the song. Furthermore, far more appropriate for dear Jonathan because each time he’s on the radio, he does just that … bring out the sun, that is … not indulge in outrageous hip thrustage!

Then, curiously enough, that very same day, while having a rummage through the well filled draws of one’s bow-legged tallboy, one came across the leather clad hombre’s photograph with the message he had left for one as we waved buenas noches at the end of the night:

For Crusty, I had a good crack tonight!
Love
Ricardo

Indeed, dear, and mercifully, in those leather chaps, it was slightly less off-putting when you weren’t spinning round!

© DCG 2010

Rent a Friend - A Warning From Crusty Hall!

Chu Me had been out early to collect some eggs. As he entered the coop, his cock was standing proud near the gate and he knew, instantly, that a successful cache lay in wait. Sure enough, as he checked the chickens, each one had produced at least two delicious ellipsoids of egginess.

As a result, when one awoke and glided down the grand staircase to the Breakfast Room there was a heavenly plate of scrambled eggs set down in front of one. The television in the corner was already on and BBC Breakfast was in full swing. Looking at the clock on the fire place, one had just missed the first instalment of one’s delicious poppet, Colin his-twinkle-makes-y’-tingle Briggs on the local news round-up so, while awaiting his next bulletin, one passed the time watching Charlie Stayt and Suzanna I-have-a-scary-expression-for-every-occasion Reid. One of the stories du jour was that of a new idea which had recently crossed the Atlantic Ocean from our American brothers and sisters … “Rent a Friend”.

The idea is that when you’re sitting at home – lonely, with an element of social ineptness and the inability to communicate successfully with your fellow human beings – you can simply pay for someone to like you … and be your friend.

As one understands it, poppets may already enjoy such a service on many an inner city street corner and in certain ‘select’ establishments where foisty bodily aromas linger in the air - partially camouflaged by a toilet block - and carpet stainage is hidden with subdued lighting. However, a young man who had started a pimping organisation for just such pay-as-you-go friends assured us, in a rather wishy-washy-not-entirely-convinced-himself fashion, that this was not the case.

Having pondered the situation carefully, one would sincerely advise all of one’s poppets not to get involved in such a sinister arrangement and certainly not prostitute themselves so. Goodness, it’s bad enough when one goes to a restaurant; “I didn’t have the wine”, “I only had a main course”, “I’m a vegan”.

Heaven only knows if this took off and groups were involved; “I only said hello but paid for an hour”, “We’ve been talking all night! Do you take Chip ‘n’ Pin?” and “Ooh! You brushed my hooter; that’ll be £16.50 and a white wine spritzer”.

It would be absolute pandemonium!! Should such poor poppets exist, they’d still feel utterly uncomfortable had they left their reclusive cocoon and actually met someone new naturally, but simply be out of pocket doing it.

Instead, come join one and one’s chums on Twitter, Facebook or indeed, stop by here at one's website for a coffee from time to time - and you will always have a friend in Crusty. What’s more, one’s friendship is free!

© DCG 2010

A Morning of Chaos at Crusty Hall

It promised to be a glorious day: Crusty Hall – indeed, the entire estate - was saturated with the rippling rays of Señor Sol’s glowing sunlight as one walked out onto the steps of the main entrance to take in the sumptuous summer air.

Inhaling deeply – with one’s bosom expanding as one did so – one had just reached the point of fullness – when one spluttered (elegantly, of course) when one noticed a young, half-naked, muscular gentleman to one's left. He was delivering some hay for one’s dear horse, Dribble, but one could do nothing other than stand open mouthed as he began emptying his load right by the side of the conservatory. This was quite outrageous!

It was not customary for those who provided a service to the estate to come up the front. One always insisted they use the back entrance to ensure they can complete their duties without being seen. After all, one never knows when one will have an unexpected visitor, does one?

“Morning!” Shouted the young man, grabbing one of his bales and giving it a yank to the floor.

Dumfounded, one turned into the house and shouted for one’s faithful houseboy; “CHU ME! Hurry, dear!”

Like a flip-flop gilded gazelle he sprang out from the inside of the house and landed at one’s side. “Chu Me, dear,” one continued, pointing at the bare chested workman,”this is quite unacceptable. Please tend to the matter at once!”

Efficient as ever, he took charge of the situation and within a few moments, he was successfully taking the hayman up the rear. Slowly, one began to relax and enjoy the morning once more. Until, that is, one looked down and saw Crotchet padding across the drive. He had clearly been rolling around the dewy foliage and his fur was dripping wet. Trying to act oblivious to it all, he came closer. Folding one’s arms one moved to block him, “Crotchet, dear, where do you think you are going in that state?”

He stopped to look up at his displeased mistress, “You are not entering our home like that, poppet. One will not tolerate a wet pussy rubbing against one’s antique fabrics! You shall stay in the grounds until you are dry, dear. Now … off you go!” He turned and headed off, his tail shaking upright like that of a rattlesnake, show ing his annoyance and – one believes - a small pump of disgust was expelled to emphasise his point.

One simply couldn’t believe it. The morning was becoming a disaster. One felt one was in the middle of a scene from 2012, only blessed by the fact that the situation was – frankly – more believable.

Anyhoo … Just as one was about to return indoors, one felt the vicar’s horn pierce one’s eardrum. Sure enough, turning on the heel of one’s Gucci slipper, one saw his head whizzing past the bush at the bottom of the drive. He was panting furiously as he tried to make the entire uphill journey without stopping for a breather. One called for a member of the household staff to bring a glass of water and we waited …and waited … and waited. Eventually, he pulled up outside the steps, his face a very peculiar colour, and the small urchin in one’s employ ran to his aid with the water.

“Good … morning …Dame Cru …Crusty!” The vicar said, trying to catch his breath. “I was passing … and thought I’d … thought I’d pop by.”

“Had you taken any longer, vicar, you would have been passing by. I was about to close the door!

“I know. I must apologise, I’m having terrible problems. I think my sprocket may have gone.”

“Nothing a good rest and a bag of ice wouldn’t cure, I’m sure. Now … a spot of tea?”

One sashayed into the house with the vicar close behind, his bicycle clips clanging as we went. We took tea in the Drawing Room where one is convinced he was trying to tell me something, but the chaos of the morning had put my mind on another track and one simply sat and looked past him the whole time.

From the window, one could see the hayman and Chu Me down by the stables. Dribble was just starting to come out while Chu Me was trying desperately to prove himself, by helping with the unloading. He was simply too small resulting in the hayman having to drop his own handful and grab Chu Me’s bale to do the humping himself, while Chu Me, precariously, sat on top. Finally, his job done, the hayman shot off leaving Chu Me to clean up the mess. One sighed with relief as one began to see order was being restored to the day.

One turned one’s attention back to the vicar, who was still rambling on. By this point, one had missed what he’d already said so thought it best not to waste the energy listening to the conclusion, so smiled delightfully and injected the odd “Oh!”, “I see!” and “Well, of course” in what seemed like appropriate moments.

After a further cup of tea and six milk chocolate digestives, the vicar gave his leave. As he mounted his bicycle at the steps he turned, “Oh! By the way, Marjorie said she may call by later for a chat about the school sports day.” A shiver went up one’s spine.

“Oh no! One fears one will be out poppet” One said.

“When?” The vicar asked.

“Whenever she calls, dear! No doubt I’ll see her in the village at some point.”

“Very well, Dame Crusty. Must dash! So much more pleasurable going down, isn’t it?.”

“Quite, dear!” One replied with a shocked look on one’s face.

And with that one waved him goodbye as he set off down the drive. One waited several minutes on the step. No more emergencies seemed to be rearing their heads, so one headed into the bar for a gin.

© Copyright DCG 2010

Jonathan Ross - Wolls Over For A Million.

News has reached one's office, here at Crusty Hall, that the lecherous Jonathan Ross will be moving to ITV late next year with a new prime time chat show.

When asked about it by members of the media, he was enthusiastic about bringing us something 'fast and funny'

One is delighted he's making a departure from his current format. One wishes him well ...and that he gets that folicularly floppy hair cut once and for all!

One Year On - Crusty Remembers Michael Jackson.

Mother Nature had been kind and the day had been glorious! Señor Sol had extended his tentacles of warming sunlight across the region and one had even managed to allocated three hours to recline on the terrace, adorned only in Factor 30, a wide brimmed hat, several diamonds and a mental image of Dr. Christian Jessen in a pair of skimpy, gossamer thin budgie-smugglers.

The evening proved to be just as warm but there was still a pleasant, summery silence in the residence that evening, despite the windows being opened, letting the breeze from the estate circulate around the principal rooms.

Chu Me had joined forces with one’s pussy, Crotchet, in an attempt to catch a moth that had penetrated one’s inner sanctum and as they ran off down the endless corridors, one was left alone.

Ficking up and down the listings on one’s Sky+ system one came across the filmumentary This Is It; the snippets edited together from the rehearsals of Michael Jackson’s last tour, before he sadly moonwalked into the afterlife and left his fans inconsolably bereft of his dancing deliciousness. One was about to … to use a technical term …’page down’ … when one remembered it had just passed the anniversary of his death. How rather fitting it would be for one to pay one’s own homage to him and watch the piece; absorbing his musical mastery. This Is It it was and that was that.

One found it very poignant indeed. Here one was, sitting in the luxurious splendour of Crusty Hall, dressed in natural designer fabrics, a few diamonds and holding a beautiful Baccarat crystal tumbler of gin against one’s shapely thigh and there was a iconic poppet preparing for his tour; not knowing, that in a very short space of time, he would be no more; that rumours would be abound at the cause of his departure; that the 2 minute silence at his memorial concert would be completely ruined by the annoying voiceover of Paul Gambaccini until he realised 12 seconds from the end … and that Mariah Scary would still manage to hoist her puppies up – inappropriately so – at the very same event before murdering his classic ‘I’ll Be There’ (one could almost hear muffled shouting from the coffin that afternoon yelling, “For the love of God, woman!!!).

Anyhoo … Throughout the entire film, one squealed with excitement and awe at his voice and his delicious dance moves. On several occasions one felt the urge to set down the crystal tumbler and applaud gleefully with the odd shout of ¡Bravísimo, guapo!. He was simply magnificent … except for the ‘I Just Can’t Stop Loving You’ segment, which one fears was all a little Child-Catcher-Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang. Had Crusty been the one he was singing to, one thinks one would have been urged to tell him to try and stop – especially if he continued to dance in that fashion - otherwise one would be forced to get a court injunction.

There was one thing, however, that truly amazed one as the show finished and one had a moment of reflection. Here was a slim – yet, muscled – individual, bursting with talent from every atom of his being. Due to his frame executing years of breathtaking gyration, he had maintained a small, dainty and pleasantly pert buttock region. How utterly astounding it was that for such a small arsal expanse, so many of the entourage were able to kiss it simultaneously!

Glamour Awards 2010 - Nothing Glamorous About Them, Dear!

One was reminded, recently, of the disgraceful shenanigans that went on at this year’s Glamour Women of the Year Awards in London, hosted by James Corden.

One is unclear of the credence that one can give to these particular awards, particularly when you consider Cheryl y’nailed-it Cole was voted Woman of the Year and Dannniiiiiii Minge (sorry, my keyboard’s sticking) won Personality of the Year, despite never actually showing us she has one. To rub a further palm full of Maldon salt flakes into the gaping sore, Christine Bleakley – a recent addition to the WAG club (her mother must be so proud) – was named Presenter of the Year. One would have liked to have seen the quality of the other nominees in that category to conclude piss-poor Christine was the best! She may have crossed the English Channel on water-skis but one crossed the River Pees Burn in a badly lubricated pedalo and one never received the slightest bit of recognition, just the clap that Chu Me gave me as one disembarqued!

The outfits worn were certainly proof it wasn't a necessarily plush affair. Many of the celebrities snapped in the traditional photos had clearly been dressing in porta-loos without the blessing of a mirror. The ensembles were like that of holiday makers …the things you’d never wear on a night out at home, but in a country two thousand miles away you could get away with because no one knew you. Coincidentally, looking at the stills from the event, one didn't know 95.35% of them.

Anyhoo … the most shocking moment of the proceedings took place during the presentation of the Film Actress of the Year award, won by Zoe Saldana of Avatar fame (though in truth it was the acting of the CGI representation of her that did all the work). Master of ceremonies James Corden introduced the person to present the award, Sir Patrick Stewart and well … what followed wasn’t pretty...



Now, one knows James Corden is like something strange you find in your mouth; you can either swallow it or have a compelling urge to spit it out caused by a natural gag reflex, but on the whole he is quite harmless and apart from the rather irritating false laugh he insists on using, he can be relatively entertaining. However, I do feel that the diplomatic qualities of the former captain of the Starship Enterprise were taking a small holiday when he thought his Shakespearean wit and delivery could attack and embarrass a ‘comedian’ (for want of a better word) in such a public setting.

Nevertheless, the damage is done and poor comedic poppet, James, must battle on despite having his fatulage attacked so publicly by a knight of Her Majesty’s realm. As for Sir Patrick … he must now Troy to engage his fans and Klingon to his reputation, hoping that he can make the incident blow over without being reported. There is no Data, at this stage, to suggest he can make it so.

England - Our Boys Scuttle Home.

Well, poppets, that's your lot. Our national team is scuttling back to Her Majesty’s realm after being beaten by our German neighbours. Even the natural deliciousness of David Beckham watching over proceedings could not help.

Many fans, including music legend David Arnold, were shouting, “Come on England” ... and one dares say that had England won and fans had been in the players dressing room, then they probably would have.

However, with such a defeat one fears the team may be sprayed with matter altogether more unpleasant and from a slightly different locale of the bodily expanse.

One recommended they listened to a blasting of Dame Vera Lynn’s “There’ll Always Be An England” before and during the match for inspiration … but did they listen?

Honestly, sometimes one feels one is put onto this earth simply to make natural fabrics and diamonds look stunning!

Anyhoo … maybe next time.

Crusty's Unexpected Night Out.

It was an unexpected invitation one received that morning. One had planned to spend the evening in the bar at Crusty Hall, watching a little television in the company of some of one’s most delicious poppets (Colin his-twinkle-makes-y’-tingle Briggs, Mark makes-my-mouth-water Warr, Sir Derren it’s-an-outrage-he-isn’t-already Litten, Jake a-God-in-gossamer-thin-black-budgie-smugglers Canuso and one’s doctorially delicious dreamboat, Dr. Christian Jessen). All of them around the wood panelled walls of the bar and all of them exquisitely hung.

However, just as a member of the household staff was chiming ten bells, Chu Me ran to inform one that Claudia Shaver was having a soirée at her flat to celebrate the success – thus far – of the village model agency. As we had not seen eye to eye for some years and only recently cleared the air, one naturally agreed; if for no other reason than to see if her cooking had improved since the manky mollusc incident of ’87.

Dinner was at 8pm but drinks were being served from seven. Chu Me made ready GUSSET 1 and, adorned in a stunning Versace evening gown, a luxurious contrasting wrap and a selection of glistening diamonds from the Gusset Collection, one sashayed out of the main entrance into the chilly evening air, with one hands squeezed comfortably inside one’s muff.

The hand-built magnificence of the Bentley bobbed majestically along the winding roads – Chu Me driving perfectly as always – still giving one enough time to partake of a small snifter from the drinks cabinet in front of one.

The lights were burning brightly inside Claudia’s flat. When Chu Me opened the door to allow one to alight, one could hear the forced laughter of the vicar and his wife, Marjorie. One turned to look at one’s faithful houseboy; a look of horror set upon both our faces. A few seconds past , then one threw the remainder of one chilled, crystal clear elixir down the back of one’s throat (elegantly, of course!).

“Well, too late to turn back now, dear! Mistress must do her duty!” Handing the empty Baccarat receptacle to him, one straightened oneself and glided toward the door, where one waited for Chu Me to ring the bell before watching him head back to GUSSET 1 and the palatial serenity of Crusty Hall.

“Dame Crusty!” screamed Claudia, with her arms extended.

“Good evening, poppet. [mwah mwah]” one replied. Gliding over the threshold, she grabbed one’s muff and stuck it aggressively on a hook to the side of the door before we ventured upstairs. At the top, one could see Marjorie Flecks, the vicar’s wife, sitting in her usual floral explosion ensemble, clinging onto her sherry glass as if about to take communion. Entering the lounge one saw the vicar, who one had heard earlier, as well as Daphne Dewdrop and Pat Tissery, from the village bakers.

“Goodness … an all ladies night!” one commented.

“Not quite, Dame Crusty … [guffaw] … what about me?”

“Indeed, vicar!”

Daphne Dewdrop, for those unfamiliar, has long been known as the village … how can one put it? … slapper (easier than one thought!). After tipping a couple of Bailey’s Orgasms down her throat, she’d drop her knickers to stop a bus. Indeed she used this very trick some years ago with our local driver, Mr. Treehorn; just as he was about to come upon her under the Post Office security light, he turned and shot off in the opposite direction. In the end she was forced to hoist her undergarments back up and make her way home on foot.

Anyhoo … the evening was a pleasant enough affair and the conversation flowed satisfactorily. Claudia’s cooking had improved slightly, thanks to the Delia Smith bible one could see lying on the kitchen bench. One did, however, feel the mutton was a little tough. As with any kind of old meat, it is important to tenderise it with, perhaps a quick bash, or a long soak before putting into one’s mouth. Altogether more pleasant to swallow, thereafter.

Leaving the dining table and retiring to the lounge for post dinner coffee, one’s worst fears were realised. The vicar – during a conversation on whether Heaven truly exists – suggested Marjorie sang a couple of numbers from her Brittle Spears repertoire (If Heaven did indeed exist, it appeared we were not going to be fortunate enough to go there; instead, we were to be sent to Hell). Needless to say, quick thinking was on the cards and, discretely, one sent a priority text to Chu Me back at the Hall.

“Shall we all have our coffee first?” Claudia asked.

“A wonderful idea,” one added, “it will give us time to prepare ourselves for this unexpected ….treat. I’m quite sure we’ll have heard nothing quite like it before.”

Coffee finished and our moment of torture had arrived, Gargling on a cap full of Listerine, Marjorie prepared her, alleged, vocal cords. One felt the chill rise up through one’s spinal column and into the base of one’s neck. She took her place in front of the fire, cupped her hands together and took a deep breath with her mouth open …

DING DONG

“Right! That’s me, poppets!” one said, rising from one’s chair and in a tone that was mixed with a little too much glee and a huge sigh of relief. Daphne made a quick grab for one’s wrist and squeezed tightly as she uttered desperately, ”Please stay. Pleeeeaase!”

“One would like nothing better than to sit and listen to Marjorie sing beautifully, but alas … somethings are not possible.”

Eventually, one managed to reach the front door. One straightened one’s wrap, while Claudia plumped up one’s muff with a quick shake and a slap.

“Did you enjoy the evening, Dame Crusty?”

“It was quite splendid” one replied heading out to GUSSET 1. Chu Me opened the rear door and one slithered into the back seat and lowered the window. Chu Me took his place in the driver’s seat and Claudia approached and held one’s hand at the car window.

“It was really wonderful that you came. I can’t tell you what it means after … well, after what’s happened in the past. Incidentally, how was the mutton?”

Banging one’s foot on the floor, Chu Me started the engine as one started raising the window. “Fine, dear … until she got up to sing!”

With that we sped off to the comfort of one’s beloved Crusty Hall and the love and adoration of my dear pussy, Crotchet.

Confusion for Crusty: Horror for Fanny.

Chu Me had prepared GUSSET 2 for one’s morning’s trip into Newcastle City Centre. The thriving metropolis is not somewhere one ventures to often because of the horrendous road markings designed by someone obsessed with yellow boxes. Plus, one can find most of one’s requirements in the village retail outlets.

Just as one was about to leave, the telephone rang. Chu Me answered it and told me it was my good friend Fanny O’Dour from the Badger’s Snatch.

“Fanny dear! One was just on one’s way out to the city. You’ve just caught me.”

“I know, Willy told me you were going in today. I was wondering if you could do me a small favour?”

“Of course, poppet! Name it and it shall be done?”

She was looking to make things a little more fun on her days off. Normally, Willy would still be working downstairs in the bar and she often got a little bored by herself, so had wanted something she could play with. It’s quite understandable and when she told me what she wanted one knew the very shop from which to buy it.

Later that evening, after returning from the bustling metropolis and after a spot of dinner (Chef insisted it was fish but one was not convinced and sent a piece to Annelise Stules-Hoffen, the village chemist, for analysis) one left one’s faithful pussy, Crotchet, and Chu Me engrossed in one of his specialist DVDs in his quarters and headed off into the village.

Walking into the residential section of the pub, Fanny greeted one and removed one’s coat.

“Did you manage to get one?” She asked excitedly.

“One did indeed, dear. Give Crusty a mission and she shall complete it.”

One lifted the box out of the bag in one’s right hand and began to open the top. There was a puzzled look on Fanny’s face. As one finished opening the box, Fanny’s puzzled look turned to a one of horror.

"Mm, that's not the type of rabbit I was looking for!" She said.

“Well, granted it’s probably a little bigger than you had expected, dear, but one’s quite sure you can accommodate it. You’ve plenty room downstairs and when you’re working you can always stick it round the back of the Snatch, where no one will be able to see it.”

Anyhoo ... it turns out that Fanny had been referring to a battery operated, vibrating device with speed settings and not a furry creature with floppy ears and a twitching nose!

One shall never watch Watership Down in the same way again ... if ever!

Kerry Katona Disrupts An Intimate Moment.

Chu Me had went outside early to see to his hens and reward his proud cock with a pat on the head. Dribble also required letting out of his stable so he could wander into the paddock for his morning frolic.

One had sought sanctuary in the Doctor Christian Room and found oneself gazing at the corner of the room upon the tapestry of the dimpled, dollop of doctorial deliciousness one had completed some weeks previous.

The lack of sound was magnificent.

One was drifting further and further into the wool-stitched eyes of one’s medical marvel when, suddenly, a terrifying sound pierced one’s eardrum like the stab from a rusty, blunt pin. The intimate moment with one’s poppet was destroyed by something that sounded like two speaker wires being crossed with the volume set on full. One jumped up from one’s chaise to investigate immediately.

In one’s peripheral vision, one witnessed former queen of Iceland (that’s the prawn ring emporium, not the bankrupt country), Kerry Katona, advertising yet another newspaper exclusive about her umpteenth ‘successful’ rehabilitation from her vices and from the evil enchantment of the Doner Kebab.

“I’m Kerry Katona” She said, “I was a mess …”

Yes you were, dear, but yellow greasy hair, an overly tight silver frock and your puppies popping out does not exactly tidy you up!

SATC2 - Crusty's Eureka Moment!

It would appear the nation’s press has gone sex mad with regard to the imminent release of Sex and the City 2, the [it says here] long awaited sequel to Sex and the City 1.

The cast of the film, of course, remains the same; the uber-gorgeous Kim Cattrall, the stunning Kristin Davis, the delicious Cynthia Nixon … and she who will never know the pain of losing her looks, Sarah Jessica Parker (a woman whom Mother Nature has balance beautifully by putting knobbly knees on her legs as well as her face).

Sitting in the Drawing Room and watching the BBC Breakfast interview - with the rather scary Susanna Reid (she with an extreme expression for any occasion) – one noted to oneself the natural elegance of Kim, Kristin and Cynthia yet was slightly put off by the intense, heavy analytical ramblings of Sarah. One took a sip of some chilled Pere Ventura Chu Me had poured for one and it was at that very moment when one had a Eureka moment!

Yes, the more one looked at SJP in her emerald green frock, the more one was convinced one’s discovery was accurate; bony face, small shifty eyes, the spectacles on/off routine to maintain a Superman-Clark-Kentesque anonimity. Furthermore, one has certainly never seen a photograph of them in the same room.

Could one’s suspicions be true? Could Sarah Jessica Parker be Mr. Woody Allen in lippy and designer frock?

One shall of course monitor the situation and report to one’s poppets as soon as investigations are complete.

Anyhoo … the premier has already been held in the capital, with one’s very own oofalicious poppet, Jake Canuso in attendance along with his good friends Louie the-poppet-is-elastic Spence and the sublimely gorgeous Emma Bunton. The crowds turned up in their thousands – as they often do for such events - and there was a cornucopia of national treasures (including one's Jakey) gliding up the red carpet with an air of glitterliciousness about them.

One must admit one shall no doubt sashay down to one’s private cinema here a Crusty Hall to watch the offering at some point. One certainly managed to get through the last one despite the long drawn out marriage-nonmarriage-get-together-split-up-get-back-together-marry carry on between Mr. Big and Woody Parker. It is clear that any relationship that has to endure that amount of nonsense will be destined to fail and result in a lifetime of lying on a psychiatrists couch (psychiatrists couch?!!! Another link … uncanny!)

Crusty Returns From Death’s Door.

If ever one was in need of the muscular, yet velvety soft, healing hands of Doctor Christian Jessen it would have most certainly been this week.

One was going about one’s daily business - in an elegant fashion (naturally) - on Monday when at 21:32 - and while passing a moment of mediocrity with the vicar playing Connect 4 in the conservatory - one began to feel something a little strange at the back of one’s throat. One thought nothing of it, thinking Chu Me had acquired a little more “knock awf” gin from Robin Gett in the village. Perhaps he had tried to slip it in on the sly for our visitor, so as not to waste the good stuff.

Tuesday came and one’s throat was a tad worse, plus one seemed to have a slight fluidic cascade from one’s nasal passages: One was beginning to get slightly alarmed as this Dame is most definitely not for sniffing.

By Wednesday, the flood gates of … not to put too fine a point on it … nasal residue were well and truly opened. One’s throat felt as rough as Anne Robinson’s heels and temperature-wise, one was as hot as the sight of Jake Canuso in a pair of skimpy, skin-tight, budgie-smugglers, smothered in baby oil and lying back with a red rose gripped between his teeth.

As one sat in one’s private office on the Wednesday morning, attempting to reply to the myriad of agony emails from troubled poppets, Chu Me entered. He was about to put the Baccarat tumbler of medicinal gin on the coaster by one’s diary, when he caught sight of one still adorned in one’s silk, embroidered Mark makes-my-mouth-water Warr bathrobe. Unkempt hair (still clinging to a hint of gorgeousness), a face like Margaret Lockwood made up in the style of a teenage Goth and coughing like a docker on 80-a-day made Chu Me whisk away the tumbler and demand one went to bed immediately.

When one saw his little face, saturated with concern, one could not have argued (plus, in fairness, one didn’t have the strength). The rest of the day was spent with complete and utter bed rest. Chu Me would pop in from time to time with a cup of Miso soup, dressed alarmingly in fishing waders, a surgical gown, face mask and marigold gloves. Poppets would be right to imagine the scene as one from Holby City.

One’s pussy, Crotchet, loyal as ever, remained by his mistress’s side throughout, adopting the deportment of the Sphinx at the bottom right hand corner of one’s bed.

One managed to find the strength to use one’s laptopular device briefly and one must say one was pleased one did. The combination of Chu Me’s care, Crotchet’s protection and the abundance of love and concern from one’s Twitterchums allowed one to awake - after a restful nights sleep - refreshed and running at 92.3% of optimum elegance.

Crusty Hall has now been wiped down thoroughly with disinfectant, including the household staff, in an attempt to rid the residence of the any further sniff-inducing germs, so fingers cross, one has seen the last of it.

An Early Night and Crusty Misses It All.

Last night was a warm and balmy night here at one’s beloved Crusty Hall. The excitement – or is that exhaustion – of how long it takes to put a government together had taken its toll. It certainly causes many problems when our Parliamentarians find themselves hung. Even the crude-oilesque, slicky, greasiness of Peter Peggy-on-a-Sunday Mandelson was unable to shift the tectonic plates of coalitionism for an alternative or speedier result. Chu Me suggested one have an early night and one agreed it was the best course of action.

After a relaxing bath in rose scented water one staggered one’s way to the bed and flopped elegantly onto Mark makes-my-mouth-water Warr’s face (emroided onto one’s quality Egyptian cotton duvet cover). One immediately fell into a deep, deep sleep ... dressed only in a simple diamond necklace and a film of moisturiser over one’s entire epidermal expanse.

Then this morning, one awoke abruptly to the noise of the household staff going about their daily routine, in the dim light of the window covered boudoir, Colin his-twinkle-makes-y’-tingle Briggs exploded on one’s 28 incher giving the full regional roundup of news for the day. Sashaying barefoot through the deep sumptuous shag pile carpet to his velvety tones, one arrived at the heavy curtains keeping the main thrust of Señor Sol’s rays at bay, one reached up, grabbed the delicious fabric and thrust the curtains open.

Looking down, one saw Dribble walking around the paddock and Gardener losing momentary control of his petrol powered lawnmower and crashing into a small tree (Perhaps it may have been prudent to have put on a robe before introducing oneself to the day through clear glass). His front end was clearly not hard enough and suffered some buckling as he banged the wood, but one is quite sure by pulling it off and giving it a good beating in his greenhouse, he will accomplish a smooth finish.

Anyhoo … the news filtered through that Her Majesty had mustered up a new Prime Minister – David Cameron. The one evening one decides on a early night, the nation changes hands; one may never sleep again!

It appears Mr. Cameron and Mr. Tarty-pants Clegg (who has flirted outrageously on both sides of the fence) managed to sit down and reach a compromise to unite as a powerful force indeed.

Though one does not step into the world of politics - especially in Gucci pumps - one hopes the boys can work well together and manage to get our great nation back on its feet again.

Humiliation for Veronica Manntrapp.

Since the opening of the village model agency, it would appear the differences Claudia Shaver and I have let fester over the years, now seem to have been put to rest.

It was Tuesday morning and one had arranged the usual Ladies-Who-Brunch meet at the village coffee shop. Kitty, Fanny and I always like to have a weekly meet to put the world to rights over a length of Mr. Peppercorn’s prize sausages stuffed between Pat Tissery’s buttered baps (one feels strongly that local businesses should always be loyal to their community and use the local fayre).

Anyhoo … Kitty was running late so Fanny – landlady of the Badger’s Snatch – and I had ordered our sandwiches and were sipping our coffees when Claudia walked through the door. The bell ring dissipated as she closed the door behind her.

“Dame Crusty!” She said, with an air of surprise in her voice.

“Claudia dear,” One acknowledged, “one trusts the model agency is proving a success?”

“Oh yes, Dame Crusty, things are going great. Only this week, I’ve signed up Veronica Manntrapp. She’s got a lucrative advertising job already with Les Gumbres, the Greengrocer.”

“Splendid, dear!” One said. “Well … one would like to invite you to join us, dear, but one doesn’t want too. We shall catch up again soon.”

Claudia made her way to a table for one in the back of the coffee shop. Turning to the young woman standing by the window and gaining her attention by throwing a small sachet of sweetener at her head one said, “ Could you bring one another pot of coffee, dear, and perhaps a couple of hobnobs?”

“Oh… I don’t work here, I’m just waiting for my daughter.”

“Then you have ample time on your hands, poppet. Two sugars with milk please. Fanny? Another?”

Fanny declined and the rather sour faced woman made her way to the counter. Suddenly, there was a strange vibration against one’s right hooter. It was a text from Kitty advising she would be unable to attend. Her C.P.R. class had turned into chaos after a pair of adolescents had used a little licence in their interpretation of mouth-to-mouth. Thankfully, she managed to stop things before babies were born.

Fanny and I decided to take a gentle stroll back to the Badger’s Snatch, where one had parked the Aston. Getting up from our seats, the sour faced woman returned with a pot of coffee and a plate of biscuits. “No thank you, dear. One couldn’t manage another thing!”

We were approaching Mr. Peppercorn’s butchery emporium and saw him come out of the Greengrocer shop next door and go into his own – he was taking a leek inside – and one thought no more about one’s encounter with Claudia. It was not until passing the shop window that Fanny nudged one’s arm and pointed.

There stood Veronica Manntrapp doing her advertising campaign. When she saw us, her poor face said it all. She was devastated. Her elegant Marks & Spencer ensemble did not compliment the full length sandwich board she had been contracted to don and her angst had clearly caused her to grip Mr. Gumbres’ onions a little too hard resulting in the skin flaking off. Both he and Veronica had tears in their eyes. Poor Les couldn’t even see his scales and Veronica looked like a young Alice Cooper but with better skin tone. All in all it sort of distracted one from the advertising message regarding the low price on Les’s full length sheathed cucumber. Fanny and I made haste back to the Snatch to lessen Veronica’s humiliation.

Anyhoo … one later found out that the days work had brought £129.52 into the modelling agency and 2 weeks worth of free fresh produce for Veronica herself.

Well, as they always say ... no pain, no gain.