Tess Tickles - Chu Me's Successful Massage?

Chu Me has lately been taking a keen interest in the art of massage.

It has long been the tradition in the village he was born in – in a land far, far, away – that the men-folk are highly adept at the technique, to maintain a relaxed and happy atmosphere throughout the community while – during intimate moments - providing unsurpassed sexual pleasure to their mates.

Unfortunately, Chu Me has been separated from this communal college of learning and his village elders. Nevertheless, there was clearly something welling up in his genes and, as a result, he ordered a Teach Yourself Massage book from the internet.

For the last week and a half he has been dividing his free time equally between his long running interested of watching specialist nature DVDs (his latest purchase is a documentary about the weekend existence of water animals, I believe; Saturday Night Beaver) and his massage studies.

As one sashayed past his room of an evening, he was certainly putting plenty of effort into his training as one could clearly hear the panting going on behind his door, as he no doubt practiced on his pillow.

Anyhoo … last night, something appears to have gone terribly wrong.

The household staff had all left for the day. It was my intention to pass the evening watching television and to simply relax. Chu Me, however, felt he had learned sufficient technique from his massage book and was eager to try it out on Tess Tickles, his lady-friend from the village.

One gave him the keys to the Aston and waved him off down the drive. Closing the door securely, one returned to the Drawing Room to settle down for the evening: Pitcher of gin full, ice bucket filled, nibbles delightfully arranged, flickering fire cracking in the fireplace and my pussy, Crotchet, snuggled up in his bed, snoring as he dreamt. One was set for the evening.

Half an hour had passed and one felt completely limp and relaxed as I watched the magnificent Stephen Fry educate and entertain the nation with the hugely successful QI.

Just as the credits began rolling up the screen and one topped up one’s glass of gin, one heard a door bang open. ‘What on earth was that?’ One thought.

My heart was thumping as I imagined one’s inner sanctum being invaded by a stranger. One leapt to one’s feet and slipped my feet into my trusty Chanel house shoes. I armed myself with a poker from the side of the fire and headed out into the corridor. Nothing!

One continued elegantly - with poker in right hand and tumbler of gin in left hand – to the Great Hall. It was here that one saw one’s faithful houseboy running up the Grand Staircase.

“Chu Me, dear!” One shouted, “ You nearly gave Crusty a heart attack! What on earth are you doing back home so soon?”

He stopped and looked at me for a moment, his eyes all puffy from crying and a face that resembled the mottled redness of a cox’s pippin. He turned and ran down to stop in front of me. Without a word he opened his massage book – sniffling and making strange squeaking noises – and thrust it up toward one’s face.

“What, dear? What?” I asked.

His little index finger poked at the bottom of the right-hand page with a frantic stabbing motion; one looked closer ….

Towards the end of your massage when your subject is on their back and completely relaxed and you have successfully massaged the muscles over their entire body, you can be proud of your achievement …

One turned the page,

…. Now, simply finish off on their face.

“What is it you’re trying to say poppet, was the massage a success? Was Tess surprised?”

He stabbed at the page again, then looking up towards the ornately painted ceiling, rolled his eyes; then covering his face with the book, he squealed like a small rodent, spun round on his heels and ran, crying, up the Grand staircase to his room. One hasn’t heard a peep from him since.

Sometimes, you know poppets, he can be highly sensitive and has very little faith in his abilities, however, one is quite sure he pulled it off beautifully.

Dancing On Ice Slides Into Our Lives.

It has not gone unnoticed at Crusty Hall that Dancing on Ice has returned to our screens. Once again, the nation’s favourite silver fox, Philip Schofield, presents us with a frozen-fest of skating entertainment, assisted by the bountifully busty Holly Wobbley.

2010 has brought a change of celebrities ranging from a couple on the cusp of the C list, a few T listers, some Z listers and Heather Mills (although one almost wishes it was ‘Dancing on Thin Ice’ with that one … and during an unexpected thaw).

Before the sequinned extravaganza hit our primetime pixels, comments were abound on the inclusion of the former Mrs McCartney in such a dangerous competition. Indeed, a poppet commenting on Closer Online pointing out that Heather had fallen on several occasions while participating in Dancing with the Stars; surely, this new challenge would be far too dangerous for her.

Well, indeed; ice skating – with dangerous spins, bone breaking jumps and razor sharp blades - is infinitely more dangerous … so we must not dissuade her in her endeavours. Nobody knows what is around the corner; we can only hope for the best outcome … or, that she manages to skate successfully.

The judging panel remains more or less the same; the delightful Robin Cousins, Nicky Slater etc but a metamorphosis has taken place elsewhere; Ruthie eyes-and-teeth-darling Henshall – the Jane McDonald of the West End - has been changed for the bubbly, smiley former Spice rack, Emma Bunton.

Mr/Miss* Nasty (*- delete as appropriate), Jason Gardiner, is still seated in middle position and spewing out his poison in a failed attempt to impress the nation. In previous series one absolutely loathed this shrew-faced prima Dona. Now in 2010, one must confess that absolutely nothing has changed.

Jason Gardiner shows a dancer
the importance of hold.

It is highly unnatural for any one to have teeth that white, unless they are delivered on a daily basis after a 24 hour soak in bleach. One feels so sorry for the contestants as the lights go down and they begin their routines; shafts of light from the suspended glitterball exploding through the atmospheric studio air, ricocheting off Miss Gardiner's incisors and blinding them like a rabbit caught between the headlights of an old Princess.

Anyhoo ... one tuned into the first results show and was surprised to see that the British public had kept Mills in but had voted for British swimming legend Sharron Davies and 'So Macho' Sinitta to face each other in the skate-off.

Well, if the viewers can't make the right decisions, Crusty will certainly not be wasting one's time watching it.

Crusty On The Piste.

The north east of England is the most gorgeous of places. Recently, however, its gorgeousness has been severely affected by a horrendous flutteration of heavy snow. To make matters worse, it has also had to endure temperatures as low as -10ºC!

It was Tuesday morning and one was at a loss as to what to do. Chu Me was clearly bored as one caught him in the Breakfast Room playing with something; something a faithful houseboy should not be caught playing with … his sausage.

Mr. Peppercorn, the village butcher, would not be at all pleased if he knew that, after kneading his meat to the point of total tenderisation, that his sausage would be played with in such a disrespectful manner.

“Chu Me!” One shouted, “Stop that at once!”

He continued eating but had a pathetic look on his face. He was bored. But what could we do? One certainly did not want to venture out onto the local roads ; they were pure ice; even the Range Rover would struggle.

Then it came to me! One had a little flurry at the front but had a good seven inches round the back.

“One has the most wonderful idea, poppet. Let’s go out on the piste!”

His eyes lit up and he clapped his little hands. There was a spring in his step as he skipped to the garages to locate our skis.

Dressed in a stunning aubergine ski-suit and armed with a planished, sliver hipflask of gin, we headed to Mount Gusset – at the rear of one’s estate - to take advantage of the fresh, virgin snow.

We spent five glorious hours swishing through the fluffy blanket of snowflakes to the bottom before having the button-tow take us back up to the top again.

Well … one says button-tow; it’s actually a rather burly member of the household staff with a pair of crampons and a rope, but the result if just as affective. One forgets her name but she certainly responds well to ‘Mush!’

Exhilarated and exhausted, we returned to Crusty Hall’s kitchen, where Chef had prepared a large glass of Torres Jaime I brandy to warm our cockles and a deliciously warming bowl of hot vegetable soup with some homemade crusty buns.

Though one is growing tired of the appalling Siberian weather we are being battered with, at least it brought a spell of exercise and fun. That said, one hopes all one’s poppets keep safe and warm during this arctic spell.

Are The Labour Party Revolting?

Crusty understands there were shifty shenanigans going on in the House of Commons yesterday after Gordon Brown had, allegedly, performed well in the week’s session of Prime Minister’s Questions, or PMQs as it is annoyingly referred to by the media (their parents spend all that money on an education and they start speaking in abbreviations! It’s outrageous!).

Anyhoo …according to Peter Peggy-on-a-Sunday Mandelson, it appears Geoff Hoon and Patricia Hewitt were misjudging the mood of the Labour party and were revolting.

One tries not to step into the world of politics (one simply does not have the correct shoes) so one can not comment on their mood perception but as for them being revolting … well, one would concur wholeheartedly, poppets.

Crusty's Christmas Day

Preparations began early for one of the busiest days of the year at Crusty Hall.

It is usual for Wing Commander Bertie of Chipmunk Squadron, at any dining event and after a few glasses of wine, to remove his dentures for comedic and general attention seeking purposes. As poppets will imagine, this is not what one wants to see around a dinner table, especially when - after the removal has been executed - his face implodes like the back end of a happy cat.

This year proactive action was required, so one had Chu Me sneak into the Wing Commander’s bedroom during the early hours of the morning and replace his denture fixative with No More Nails.

Mission accomplished, it was on to the preparations for the festive feast.

Chef was already busying himself with the delicious four course meal he had planned. Chu Me was using his artistic flair to arrange the dining table with one’s Baccarat crystal and Royal Doulton Harlow dinner service as one went into the Music Room to have a tinkle on the ivories in a moment of musical madness.

By mid-day, everything was ready and the Wing Commander and I met in the bar for a celebratory gin and tonic as we waited for the other guests to arrive; Willy and Fanny O’Dour from The Badger’s Snatch, Mr Peppercorn the village butcher and our village GP, Dr. Arthur Pedic.

As usual, Chef’s selection of Christmas cuisine was quite delicious; everyone certainly seemed to tuck in and enjoy it and thankfully, the only things that popped out were the Wing Commanders eyes when he tried to remove his top set without success (much to Chu Me’s amusement as he sniggered at the far end of the dining table).

The mood was made perfect by the accompaniment of some new music one had recently downloaded from the gargantuan archive of iTunes.

First in the Bang & Olufsen was Doris Day and her Christmas Collection; her voice lends itself beautifully to festive melody and with snow falling outside in the grounds and the roaring fire cracking away, one felt we were all sitting in a Hollywood Christmas Special waiting for Andy Williams to shuffle through the door.

As we reached our intercourse break between main course and dessert, Doris sang her last note.

“Chu Me, dear, would you be kind enough to put the other disc on? One thinks we should enjoy a bit if swinging, don’t you?”

To my left one could see the Wing Commander rummaging in his jacket pocket. He pulled out his car keys and tossed them on to the centre of the table. Fanny went beetroot red and Dr. Pedic coughed into his clenched hand.

One handed him his keys back immediately with a gentle pat on his hand, ”One refers to Ella Fitzgerald, Bertie dear!”

As the legendary voice belted out her jazzed up numbers of Christmas cheer, we tucked into our Christmas pudding complete with a decadent drizzle of Bailey’s Irish Cream poured over to enhance the nutty, fruity flavour.

Afterwards, we retired back to the bar where Fanny suggested a game of Hide and Seek. This provided the surprise of the year when Bertie tried to hide in a cupboard in the West Wing. The door was jammed and after a hefty push it finally opened. Out popped Carmen – a member of one’s household staff. One actually thought she had left one’s service last Christmas but apparently the door had closed and jammed behind her when she nipped in for a pillow case. If it wasn’t for a three quarter full packet of hob-nobs and a bottle of Evian, her traumatic experience would have been far worse.

Anyhoo … one gave her the weekend off and suggested she start a little later on the Monday morning.

Hide and Seek finished soon after as were all getting slightly tipsy and couldn’t be bother trailing around such an enormous residence, so guests reunited in the bar once more and we decided on a game of Charades to end our most splendid day.

Mr Peppercorn was the star of the evening, completing all of his given titles effortlessly; poor Fanny fell foul of the drink and accidentally used her mouth to finish off 12 Angry Men, whereas one’s success in brining off An Officer and a Gentleman with only one’s index finger and thumb met with rapturous applause.

All in all, a delightful time was had by all and as one waved the Wing Commander off on Boxing Day morning, one reflected on how wonderful it was to spend such a special time of year with one’s dear friends.

In actual fact, this year was made all the more special by the wonderful Christmas wishes and messages from one’s dear Twitterchums.

Crusty feels truly blessed.

Ashley Cole - A Troubled Poppet.

One was saddened to see the smolderingly-sexilicious Ashley Cole - footballing husband to Cheryl y'-nailed-it Cole - back in the news today. It appears our tormented poppet has had another spot of bad luck.

While out for a discrete drive in his shiny Lamborghini, the local constabulary allegedly caught him doing 105 m.p.h. in a 50 m.ph zone.

A statement was read out in court that Ashley was attempting to evade prying paparazzi and this was the reason for his naughtiness. Mrs Lady Judge was not impressed (and frankly, who could blame her?) She warned that, at sentencing, his punishment may be stiff.

However, time is still on his side and one feels, if he changed his statement and appealed to the Judge's heartstrings and better nature, he could sway her to be understanding and lenient.

He only need tell her he was trying to get out of earshot of his wife's singing practice and one is sure the case would be dismissed immediately.

Let us hope, perchance, he stumbles across one's wise typlings.