"I'm proud of you, Bully!"Thursday, 25 February 2010
Monday, 22 February 2010
Chu Me's DIY Dislodges Crusty's Drawers.
Recently, one was sat at one's desk in the private office, positioned near the large window.
One had taken a short break and was looking out across the grounds and contemplating the joys of ones life and admiring the breathtaking beauty of the flora and fauna that surrounds Crusty Hall .
Out of the corner of one's eye, one saw a Baccarat tumbler descending towards the corner of the desk. It was Chu Me with a replenishment of gin.
“Thank you, dear.” One said, placing one’s beautifully manicured hand around it, “What is that in your hand, dear?”
He lifted up a copy of a magazine and pointed to an advert on one of its pages. It was an advert for James Tudor. This great British company design and manufacture the most gorgeous briefs to comfortably hold the man-biscuit and jam donuts, while offering a sexually charged style to our men folk. Chu Me’s eye had been drawn to their latest offering; the magnetic brief. (How wonderful, one thought).
The price, however, had put him off (he's very careful you know) so he decided he was going to make his own. One was not convinced it was to be a success. Nevertheless, one took a sip of ones medicinal liquid and acknowledged his potential resourcefulness with a loving wink. He smiled and headed off out of the office and to the small box room in the east wing, where he had his workshop.
Next day, one was pondering a problem from a trouble poppet in Staffordshire. She had emailed to say she had recently had her nipple pierced and it had turned septic: 'What should I do?" she pleaded.
In response, one had just typed, 'Apologise immediately, dear! You've just put one off one's fondant fancy!", when Chu Me walked in. He walked to one's side and placed a refill on the corner of the desk, as per usual.
“Thank you, Chu Me.”
As he walked towards the door one’s heart began pounding at the most horrendous noise that filled the room: Then silence: Then the noise again. This time from one's peripheral vision, one saw the filing cabinet moving - like an non-aerodynamic Darlek – out from it's nesting place at the side of the desk.
Startled, one spun around in one’s Captain’s chair. Chu Me was stood, as if frozen, in a half-step motion pointing toward the door.
Curiosity tenderly cupped one's imagination. One lifted one's fountain pen upward and tapped it against ones lips to analyse the situation. Within seconds there was a tug at one's hand and the pen shot across the room, landed on Chu Me’s right buttock, stayed there for a fraction of a second before rolling round to the front and clamping to his crotch.
Still frozen in his half-step position, his face - now red with embarrassment – turned slowly toward his mistress.
“Wh …..what on earth is going on, dear? You’re dragging one’s drawers off and leaving the most unsightly gash on display at the back.”
It was then that he explained he had constructed his magnetic briefs in his workshop and had decided to wear them this very day.
"Poppet, this will not do. One's oak flooring will not survive the day and one can't have office furniture roaming around the residence."
The look of disappointment was too much to bear. There was only one thing for it. One immediately went on line and purchased 5 pairs of James Tudor quality undergarments for one's faithful houseboy. He jumped up and down, clapping his hands and his face lit up like a paparazzi flash bulb.
In true great British style, the goods arrived the very next day by courier. Each finely crafted item stored in its own cotton, drawstring pouch. The most delicious under-crackers one had ever seen.
One urges all one's poppets to invest in at least a pair. Your downstairs areas will feel as though they are wrapped in the feathers of an angel's wing.
One had taken a short break and was looking out across the grounds and contemplating the joys of ones life and admiring the breathtaking beauty of the flora and fauna that surrounds Crusty Hall .
Out of the corner of one's eye, one saw a Baccarat tumbler descending towards the corner of the desk. It was Chu Me with a replenishment of gin.
“Thank you, dear.” One said, placing one’s beautifully manicured hand around it, “What is that in your hand, dear?”
He lifted up a copy of a magazine and pointed to an advert on one of its pages. It was an advert for James Tudor. This great British company design and manufacture the most gorgeous briefs to comfortably hold the man-biscuit and jam donuts, while offering a sexually charged style to our men folk. Chu Me’s eye had been drawn to their latest offering; the magnetic brief. (How wonderful, one thought).
The price, however, had put him off (he's very careful you know) so he decided he was going to make his own. One was not convinced it was to be a success. Nevertheless, one took a sip of ones medicinal liquid and acknowledged his potential resourcefulness with a loving wink. He smiled and headed off out of the office and to the small box room in the east wing, where he had his workshop.
Next day, one was pondering a problem from a trouble poppet in Staffordshire. She had emailed to say she had recently had her nipple pierced and it had turned septic: 'What should I do?" she pleaded.
In response, one had just typed, 'Apologise immediately, dear! You've just put one off one's fondant fancy!", when Chu Me walked in. He walked to one's side and placed a refill on the corner of the desk, as per usual.
“Thank you, Chu Me.”
As he walked towards the door one’s heart began pounding at the most horrendous noise that filled the room: Then silence: Then the noise again. This time from one's peripheral vision, one saw the filing cabinet moving - like an non-aerodynamic Darlek – out from it's nesting place at the side of the desk.
Startled, one spun around in one’s Captain’s chair. Chu Me was stood, as if frozen, in a half-step motion pointing toward the door.
Curiosity tenderly cupped one's imagination. One lifted one's fountain pen upward and tapped it against ones lips to analyse the situation. Within seconds there was a tug at one's hand and the pen shot across the room, landed on Chu Me’s right buttock, stayed there for a fraction of a second before rolling round to the front and clamping to his crotch.
Still frozen in his half-step position, his face - now red with embarrassment – turned slowly toward his mistress.
“Wh …..what on earth is going on, dear? You’re dragging one’s drawers off and leaving the most unsightly gash on display at the back.”
It was then that he explained he had constructed his magnetic briefs in his workshop and had decided to wear them this very day.
"Poppet, this will not do. One's oak flooring will not survive the day and one can't have office furniture roaming around the residence."
The look of disappointment was too much to bear. There was only one thing for it. One immediately went on line and purchased 5 pairs of James Tudor quality undergarments for one's faithful houseboy. He jumped up and down, clapping his hands and his face lit up like a paparazzi flash bulb.
In true great British style, the goods arrived the very next day by courier. Each finely crafted item stored in its own cotton, drawstring pouch. The most delicious under-crackers one had ever seen.
One urges all one's poppets to invest in at least a pair. Your downstairs areas will feel as though they are wrapped in the feathers of an angel's wing.
Eastenders - Underneath the Archies.
Well, poppets, on the 25th anniversary of Eastenders and after a storyline that seemed to have taken just as long to reach its climax, the nation discovered the identity of Archie Mitchell's murderer.
As one pondered the question our glorious BBC posed - Archie's Dead, Whodunnit? - and saw that poor homeless couple drawing attention to themselves on their park bench with over accentuated scarvalwear in a adequately affluent area of our capital, one thought that, in actual fact, the question should've been What did it? To paraphrase the delicious Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady, 'It was the script what done him in.'
Yet ... no ... 'twas not. 'Twas the young lady, Stacey (she with the face like a young Les Dawson). Of course one had experienced a bubbling in one's bladder region which suggested she was responsible; the entire square dragged in to the police station to help Walford's Angie Dickinson with her enquiries except her. It was an elementary deduction. Indeed, one's delicious twitterchum Beth even won money after a little flutter! (Our minds were clearly one.)
On the whole, the show was certainly better than one has witnessed before. The live broadcast appeared to have kept the cast on their toes and there seemed something a little special in the air ... other than Bradley.
The uberlicious Barbara Windsor looked stunning and was the consumate professional and all-in-all things seemed to fall into place ... including Bradley.
Dot and Ian Beale shared a moment of reflection after Phil not-now-right-I-said-not-now Mitchell had thrown a tantrum in Beale's bijou living area. Sitting watching a video the editing suite had flung together from episodes of years gone by, Ian turned to Dot and said, "I wish I could go back, Dot: Do things right." (Starting with the acting, dear).
We can only imagine what poignant moments are to pixelate into our home over the coming months, however, one is quite sure it will involve a lot of shouting.
As one pondered the question our glorious BBC posed - Archie's Dead, Whodunnit? - and saw that poor homeless couple drawing attention to themselves on their park bench with over accentuated scarvalwear in a adequately affluent area of our capital, one thought that, in actual fact, the question should've been What did it? To paraphrase the delicious Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady, 'It was the script what done him in.'
Yet ... no ... 'twas not. 'Twas the young lady, Stacey (she with the face like a young Les Dawson). Of course one had experienced a bubbling in one's bladder region which suggested she was responsible; the entire square dragged in to the police station to help Walford's Angie Dickinson with her enquiries except her. It was an elementary deduction. Indeed, one's delicious twitterchum Beth even won money after a little flutter! (Our minds were clearly one.)
On the whole, the show was certainly better than one has witnessed before. The live broadcast appeared to have kept the cast on their toes and there seemed something a little special in the air ... other than Bradley.
The uberlicious Barbara Windsor looked stunning and was the consumate professional and all-in-all things seemed to fall into place ... including Bradley.
Dot and Ian Beale shared a moment of reflection after Phil not-now-right-I-said-not-now Mitchell had thrown a tantrum in Beale's bijou living area. Sitting watching a video the editing suite had flung together from episodes of years gone by, Ian turned to Dot and said, "I wish I could go back, Dot: Do things right." (Starting with the acting, dear).
We can only imagine what poignant moments are to pixelate into our home over the coming months, however, one is quite sure it will involve a lot of shouting.
Friday, 12 February 2010
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
Crusty's Cure For Constipation.
There seems to be an increasing amount of attention being focused on the nation’s bowel movements over recent months.
Wherever one looks, whether it be magazines, newspapers, radio or television advertising etc., we appear to be encouraged to buy such products that ease our motions.
Products such as DulcoEase , which softens one stools (although why there is a connection to soft furnishings, is unclear) and the more yoghurty solutions, such as Activia; Activia, contains polyprostate peptide squitalots, or some such fancy, that biff your digestive tract and improve the flow of a Ford Transit.
Anyhoo …To me this is absolute madness! One wonders how much money is being spent on these ludicrous potions and remedies, when it could be redirected elsewhere. There are far simpler answers already available.
One had never considered this issue in depth until a chance tweeting session with one’s uber-gorgeous twitterchum, Katrina.
It is certainly true, that many people suffer the discomfort of a bloated bowel and back passage blockage. One doesn’t suffer such ailments oneself, as one mainly sticks to a liquid diet. That, and the food Chef and Chu Me prepare is full of healthy and wholesome properties that keep one as regular as a Katie Price exclusive in a tabloid newspaper. Still one can empathise with those that do.
This is partly due to the care that one seldom shows towards one’s household staff. If any of them are feeling bloated (‘Feeling’ because one is unable to go by looks alone, or one would be seeking a remedy every minute of service for some of them) or if any are finding it difficult to carry out their duties effectively due to a degree of constipation, one has had a long standing, simple solution to get things moving and get them back to work in a jiffy.
All one does is lead the afflicted individual to the kitchen, have a root around my pussy Crotchet’s cupboard and feed them an out of date prawn … then wait.
Within a matter of minutes they are back on their feet and, though one has not conducted any scientific experiments, one is convinced that they move a little faster as they work.
Wherever one looks, whether it be magazines, newspapers, radio or television advertising etc., we appear to be encouraged to buy such products that ease our motions.
Products such as DulcoEase , which softens one stools (although why there is a connection to soft furnishings, is unclear) and the more yoghurty solutions, such as Activia; Activia, contains polyprostate peptide squitalots, or some such fancy, that biff your digestive tract and improve the flow of a Ford Transit.
Anyhoo …To me this is absolute madness! One wonders how much money is being spent on these ludicrous potions and remedies, when it could be redirected elsewhere. There are far simpler answers already available.
One had never considered this issue in depth until a chance tweeting session with one’s uber-gorgeous twitterchum, Katrina.
It is certainly true, that many people suffer the discomfort of a bloated bowel and back passage blockage. One doesn’t suffer such ailments oneself, as one mainly sticks to a liquid diet. That, and the food Chef and Chu Me prepare is full of healthy and wholesome properties that keep one as regular as a Katie Price exclusive in a tabloid newspaper. Still one can empathise with those that do.
This is partly due to the care that one seldom shows towards one’s household staff. If any of them are feeling bloated (‘Feeling’ because one is unable to go by looks alone, or one would be seeking a remedy every minute of service for some of them) or if any are finding it difficult to carry out their duties effectively due to a degree of constipation, one has had a long standing, simple solution to get things moving and get them back to work in a jiffy.
All one does is lead the afflicted individual to the kitchen, have a root around my pussy Crotchet’s cupboard and feed them an out of date prawn … then wait.
Within a matter of minutes they are back on their feet and, though one has not conducted any scientific experiments, one is convinced that they move a little faster as they work.
Sunday, 7 February 2010
Trouble At The Badger's Snatch
One was involved in a rather alarming experience this morning.
It was a misty morning in the village and the myriad of moisture droplets were hanging over the grounds here at Crusty Hall. They looked saturated, sad and as though the colour had been drained from them by Mother Nature’s vaccum cleaner.
Chu Me had arisen early and tended to the fires in the principle rooms. Exiting the rear of the residence, he made his way to the side of the stables where he kept his hens. His little eyes had opened to the size of small saucers when he saw the handsome harvest of eggs his girls had produced. Collecting them in his cotton handkerchief, he thanked the hens and patted the head of his cock and made his way back to the house.
Half an hour later, one was sat in the breakfast room enjoying the fayre that he had collected; dunking one’s soldiers into the golden creamy yolks and watching Nicky No-one-can-love-me-more-than-me Campbell on the piss-poor Big Question. One’s faithful houseboy was munching away at the opposite end of the table, having to witness the usual barrage of Sunday morning abuse;
“Why an earth doesn’t he let the woman finish her sentence, for goodness sake?!”
“Could you be and more smarmy, Nicky dear?!”
“Why on earth doesn’t his face move when he speaks? Have you had bollocks … Botox (thank you, Chu Me) injected to stiffen it up, dear?”
(Poppets may conclude from this that dear Nicky is not Crusty’s favourite … you would be correct in your conclusions.)
Anyhoo … just as one was nibbling the end of one’s last soldier, the telephone rang. Chu Me had egg all over his fingers so one picked up the receiver:
“You may speak.” One greeted.
It was my dear friend Fanny O’Dour , landlady of the village pub. The Badger’s Snatch. As she spoke one sensed an unusual tone in her voice.
“Crusty, I’m beside myself. I know I’m being stupid but …. Oh, it’s nothing. Forget it … it’s just …”
“Goodness Fanny dear, what on earth is the matter?!” one exclaimed.
“I think Willy may be having an affair!”
With that, and before one could utter another word, she whimpered like an unloved puppy and hung up.
“Chu Me! The Bentley. We have an emergency at the Snatch”
Like a gorgeous, small but well-formed panther he sprang towards the door and headed for GUSSET 1. Within minutes we were racing out of the drive and on our way to the village.
The village was deserted, the residents clearly opting to stay indoors in the horrendous weather, save for Mr. Craddick who had ventured out in his pyjamas once more. He was sitting on the bench on the village green, protected from the elements only by a dark blue kagool and his copy of the Evening Chronicle.
Chu Me pulled into the entrance of the carpark to the Badger’s Snatch and as the Bentley purred to the rear of the premises, one could see Willy yanking off his kegs and helping the drayman empty his load.
“Good morning, Willy dear.” One said as one sashayed past the two. Willy replied and the drayman tipped his hat.
Inside, one found fanny in the kitchen with red, bloodshot eyes and tear–soaked cheeks: it wasn’t a good look. She ran toward me with her arms open.
As she began to wrap her arms around one’s frame I held her head firmly in one’s hands … for no other reason than to avoid the moisture of her tears from coming into contact with the rather stunning Stella McCartney jacket one was wearing.
Over a cafetiere of strong coffee and a packet of chocolate hobnobs we discussed the situation. It appears Willy has not been acting within normal parameters.
“He’s behaving very secretive and he can’t look me in the eye. Haven’t you noticed anything strange in his behaviour, Crusty?” She enquired.
“Well … one did see him in the bakers, earlier in the week. He’s always had a fancy for Pat Tissery’s crusty baps and one did think it suspect when he seemed to be taking an unusually long time sniffing the yeasty aroma of her bloomers. Having said that, she had just taken them out of the oven. No, Fanny, it’s nonsense! You must cast the idea from your head immediately; he wouldn’t do anything so horrid to you and certainly not with anyone in the village. There is clearly an innocent explanation to all this.”
A further cup of coffee and two and a half hobnobs later, one had managed to calm her down and reassure her that she was just overreacting to something that didn’t exist. Nevertheless, because of all the excitement, Crusty felt she, herself, was on the edge.
Walking back to the Bentley and, as Chu Me opened the door for one to exit, Willy was coming back in after helping the drayman shoot off a little quicker.
He give a brief smile before one thrust one’s knee into his downstairs area. He hit the floor moaning in agony.
“What was that for?” He moaned.
“You’re a disgrace Willy. Poor Fanny is distraught with all your secret shenanigans. Well, you have been exposed. She knows of your affair!”
“Affair? Affair! What affair? I can’t look her in the eye because I’m taking her to Paris for Valentine’s day. You know I can’t keep anything from her.”
One giggled gleefully, “How marvellous!” one cried, clapping one’s hands, “Although why on earth you would want to take her to a place like that, one has no idea. You’ll both have a wonderful time. ”
Half way across the carpark one was still giggling with excitement; one turned and still seeing Willy’s head wedged in the bottom of the door shouted, “And make sure you pack ice on those, dear. You’ll need to be in full working order for your romantic break.”
“Chu Me? Our work here is done. Let us make haste to Crusty Hall.”
It was a misty morning in the village and the myriad of moisture droplets were hanging over the grounds here at Crusty Hall. They looked saturated, sad and as though the colour had been drained from them by Mother Nature’s vaccum cleaner.
Chu Me had arisen early and tended to the fires in the principle rooms. Exiting the rear of the residence, he made his way to the side of the stables where he kept his hens. His little eyes had opened to the size of small saucers when he saw the handsome harvest of eggs his girls had produced. Collecting them in his cotton handkerchief, he thanked the hens and patted the head of his cock and made his way back to the house.
Half an hour later, one was sat in the breakfast room enjoying the fayre that he had collected; dunking one’s soldiers into the golden creamy yolks and watching Nicky No-one-can-love-me-more-than-me Campbell on the piss-poor Big Question. One’s faithful houseboy was munching away at the opposite end of the table, having to witness the usual barrage of Sunday morning abuse;
“Why an earth doesn’t he let the woman finish her sentence, for goodness sake?!”
“Could you be and more smarmy, Nicky dear?!”
“Why on earth doesn’t his face move when he speaks? Have you had bollocks … Botox (thank you, Chu Me) injected to stiffen it up, dear?”
(Poppets may conclude from this that dear Nicky is not Crusty’s favourite … you would be correct in your conclusions.)
Anyhoo … just as one was nibbling the end of one’s last soldier, the telephone rang. Chu Me had egg all over his fingers so one picked up the receiver:
“You may speak.” One greeted.
It was my dear friend Fanny O’Dour , landlady of the village pub. The Badger’s Snatch. As she spoke one sensed an unusual tone in her voice.
“Crusty, I’m beside myself. I know I’m being stupid but …. Oh, it’s nothing. Forget it … it’s just …”
“Goodness Fanny dear, what on earth is the matter?!” one exclaimed.
“I think Willy may be having an affair!”
With that, and before one could utter another word, she whimpered like an unloved puppy and hung up.
“Chu Me! The Bentley. We have an emergency at the Snatch”
Like a gorgeous, small but well-formed panther he sprang towards the door and headed for GUSSET 1. Within minutes we were racing out of the drive and on our way to the village.
The village was deserted, the residents clearly opting to stay indoors in the horrendous weather, save for Mr. Craddick who had ventured out in his pyjamas once more. He was sitting on the bench on the village green, protected from the elements only by a dark blue kagool and his copy of the Evening Chronicle.
Chu Me pulled into the entrance of the carpark to the Badger’s Snatch and as the Bentley purred to the rear of the premises, one could see Willy yanking off his kegs and helping the drayman empty his load.
“Good morning, Willy dear.” One said as one sashayed past the two. Willy replied and the drayman tipped his hat.
Inside, one found fanny in the kitchen with red, bloodshot eyes and tear–soaked cheeks: it wasn’t a good look. She ran toward me with her arms open.
As she began to wrap her arms around one’s frame I held her head firmly in one’s hands … for no other reason than to avoid the moisture of her tears from coming into contact with the rather stunning Stella McCartney jacket one was wearing.
Over a cafetiere of strong coffee and a packet of chocolate hobnobs we discussed the situation. It appears Willy has not been acting within normal parameters.
“He’s behaving very secretive and he can’t look me in the eye. Haven’t you noticed anything strange in his behaviour, Crusty?” She enquired.
“Well … one did see him in the bakers, earlier in the week. He’s always had a fancy for Pat Tissery’s crusty baps and one did think it suspect when he seemed to be taking an unusually long time sniffing the yeasty aroma of her bloomers. Having said that, she had just taken them out of the oven. No, Fanny, it’s nonsense! You must cast the idea from your head immediately; he wouldn’t do anything so horrid to you and certainly not with anyone in the village. There is clearly an innocent explanation to all this.”
A further cup of coffee and two and a half hobnobs later, one had managed to calm her down and reassure her that she was just overreacting to something that didn’t exist. Nevertheless, because of all the excitement, Crusty felt she, herself, was on the edge.
Walking back to the Bentley and, as Chu Me opened the door for one to exit, Willy was coming back in after helping the drayman shoot off a little quicker.
He give a brief smile before one thrust one’s knee into his downstairs area. He hit the floor moaning in agony.
“What was that for?” He moaned.
“You’re a disgrace Willy. Poor Fanny is distraught with all your secret shenanigans. Well, you have been exposed. She knows of your affair!”
“Affair? Affair! What affair? I can’t look her in the eye because I’m taking her to Paris for Valentine’s day. You know I can’t keep anything from her.”
One giggled gleefully, “How marvellous!” one cried, clapping one’s hands, “Although why on earth you would want to take her to a place like that, one has no idea. You’ll both have a wonderful time. ”
Half way across the carpark one was still giggling with excitement; one turned and still seeing Willy’s head wedged in the bottom of the door shouted, “And make sure you pack ice on those, dear. You’ll need to be in full working order for your romantic break.”
“Chu Me? Our work here is done. Let us make haste to Crusty Hall.”
Saturday, 6 February 2010
Crusty's Favourite "Duff-Duff" Moment.
This year, the BBC soap opera Eastenders is celebrating its 25th birthday.
Can you believe it’s really been that long? (It seems sooooooo much longer).
For those of one’s poppets who are not familiar with the programme, all of the excitement takes place in a fictional, small part of the East End of London - the capital (although heaven only knows why) of Her Majesty’s realm - known as Walford.
There is a resplendent representation of all religious and ethnic backgrounds and a gargantuan splatteration of people of a rather gangstertorial nature. Indeed, when one is flitting though the newspapers and magazines and sees that a new character is about the emerge in the square, one often wonders how long it will be before they are selling drugs, plotting a take over of the local nightclub (where the music of such a volume, one could hear a nun speak) or dismembering an enemy in the back yard with a butter knife and a piece of tarpaulin.
Only recently, an older gentleman appeared, in very dandy attire, I must say. After a couple of episodes one thought one may have been wrong. There were no threats being issued. No one had been harmed in any way. Then, his true colours were shown in the local garage, the Arches, when we discovered he was not only a gangster, but one of the more sinister variety; one that wore hand-made shoes!
To break the monotony, there is often the announcement that a new piece of lady-totty or man-hunk is to enter the arena, although after their first appearance on screen, it is quite clear that the casting director has been devoid of understanding the meaning of the terms “totty” and “hunk”. The last great hunk addition was Scott Maslen. He’d tossed off his helmet in The Bill on ITV and decided to bat for the other side.
Now, though one admits he is quite the buff, little stud-muffin, one does wish he would keep his hair short. When it reaches a longer length one can’t help but see Odd Bod from Carry on Screaming in front of one.
Albert Square families are certainly not like normal ones either. The residents of Albert Square are breeding more successfully than rabbits. Another new member turns up … “Oh, it’s so-and-so’s long lost brother.” .. and another … “Oh, it’s Mr. Poppadopulus’s estranged daughter.
Having said that, it certainly seems to be the place to live. Though the locals never seem to have much money, they are still fortunate enough to have 3 & 4 bedroom houses that can comfortably accommodate 22 people and still have enough room for further visiting relatives, who decide to stay indefinitely … until they too are killed off or relocated on Witness Protection.
Not the quietest of locales either, everyone is screaming and shouting at one another. One is forever having to grab one’s device to turn up, then turn down, then turn up, then turn down the volume. Poor Crotchet – one’s pussy – wastes no time and simply pushes his head behind a scatter cushion, as a precaution, the minute the theme begins. He’s very wise and recently one has wondered if it would wiser still to follow his example.
Indeed, the only quiet moments are when burley Phil Mitchell opens his mouth to speak to simply utter, “Not now right! … I said, not now!” I believe that’s the only lines he’s ever had to work with, save for the odd time he’s snuck a “Billy” in.
As well as trying to maintain the storylines of the characters, the writers also have their work cut out for them trying to inject their important “messages”. For example, one would recommend a regular shufty around the Christmas period, when many references will be made about the little baby Jesus and loving one’s neighbour etc., before a leading character is killed with a quick bludgeon or mown down by Charlie’s taxi.
Anyhoo … the question, it would seem, that is being put to the British public is What is your favourite Duff-Duff moment?
Well, one would have to say the end of every episode, dear! When all that depressing, noisy nonsense has finished.
Not even the inclusion of national icon and legend Barbara Windsor has managed to make it anymore endurable. To think they axed Eldorado for this rubbish!
Can you believe it’s really been that long? (It seems sooooooo much longer).
For those of one’s poppets who are not familiar with the programme, all of the excitement takes place in a fictional, small part of the East End of London - the capital (although heaven only knows why) of Her Majesty’s realm - known as Walford.
There is a resplendent representation of all religious and ethnic backgrounds and a gargantuan splatteration of people of a rather gangstertorial nature. Indeed, when one is flitting though the newspapers and magazines and sees that a new character is about the emerge in the square, one often wonders how long it will be before they are selling drugs, plotting a take over of the local nightclub (where the music of such a volume, one could hear a nun speak) or dismembering an enemy in the back yard with a butter knife and a piece of tarpaulin.
Only recently, an older gentleman appeared, in very dandy attire, I must say. After a couple of episodes one thought one may have been wrong. There were no threats being issued. No one had been harmed in any way. Then, his true colours were shown in the local garage, the Arches, when we discovered he was not only a gangster, but one of the more sinister variety; one that wore hand-made shoes!
To break the monotony, there is often the announcement that a new piece of lady-totty or man-hunk is to enter the arena, although after their first appearance on screen, it is quite clear that the casting director has been devoid of understanding the meaning of the terms “totty” and “hunk”. The last great hunk addition was Scott Maslen. He’d tossed off his helmet in The Bill on ITV and decided to bat for the other side.
Now, though one admits he is quite the buff, little stud-muffin, one does wish he would keep his hair short. When it reaches a longer length one can’t help but see Odd Bod from Carry on Screaming in front of one.
Albert Square families are certainly not like normal ones either. The residents of Albert Square are breeding more successfully than rabbits. Another new member turns up … “Oh, it’s so-and-so’s long lost brother.” .. and another … “Oh, it’s Mr. Poppadopulus’s estranged daughter.
Having said that, it certainly seems to be the place to live. Though the locals never seem to have much money, they are still fortunate enough to have 3 & 4 bedroom houses that can comfortably accommodate 22 people and still have enough room for further visiting relatives, who decide to stay indefinitely … until they too are killed off or relocated on Witness Protection.
Not the quietest of locales either, everyone is screaming and shouting at one another. One is forever having to grab one’s device to turn up, then turn down, then turn up, then turn down the volume. Poor Crotchet – one’s pussy – wastes no time and simply pushes his head behind a scatter cushion, as a precaution, the minute the theme begins. He’s very wise and recently one has wondered if it would wiser still to follow his example.
Indeed, the only quiet moments are when burley Phil Mitchell opens his mouth to speak to simply utter, “Not now right! … I said, not now!” I believe that’s the only lines he’s ever had to work with, save for the odd time he’s snuck a “Billy” in.
As well as trying to maintain the storylines of the characters, the writers also have their work cut out for them trying to inject their important “messages”. For example, one would recommend a regular shufty around the Christmas period, when many references will be made about the little baby Jesus and loving one’s neighbour etc., before a leading character is killed with a quick bludgeon or mown down by Charlie’s taxi.
Anyhoo … the question, it would seem, that is being put to the British public is What is your favourite Duff-Duff moment?
Well, one would have to say the end of every episode, dear! When all that depressing, noisy nonsense has finished.
Not even the inclusion of national icon and legend Barbara Windsor has managed to make it anymore endurable. To think they axed Eldorado for this rubbish!
Weather Forecasts and Mono-brows.
One was dipping one’s bejewelled slipper into the twitterverse last night and enjoying a terrific tweetfest with one’s twitterchums.
Reclined on the sofa, in the warmth of the Drawing Room and tweeting merrily away with one’s good friend, NikkiG, one’s eyes were mysteriously drawn past the screen of one’s laptop.
It was there that one saw BBC weatherman Rob McElwee on one’s 32 incher.
Reclined on the sofa, in the warmth of the Drawing Room and tweeting merrily away with one’s good friend, NikkiG, one’s eyes were mysteriously drawn past the screen of one’s laptop.
It was there that one saw BBC weatherman Rob McElwee on one’s 32 incher.
One watched and listened, politely, to his forecast for the duration; he certainly has a soft and gentle vocal delivery. However, regardless of his warming tones and smart appearance, can one really be expected to accept the weather predictions of a man with a mono-brow?
Further more, after two and half minutes, one was not at all comfortable with the way his left hand was fondling Lands End.
It was only last month that the exquisite boys and girls at Attitude towers had provided us with an insight into the delicious Tomasz Schafernaker – adorned, on the cover of their Attitude Active supplement, in only a pair of short, black Aussi Bums, with his rippling six pack hovering above the waistband and his pectorals protruding from their taught epidermal terrain like a muscled mountain range (Chu Me! A glass of iced water and one’s fan, dear! ... Hurry!)
Every time one now sees a towering cumulus one thinks of dear Tomasz fondly (sigh).
Anyhoo …though poor Rob may not posses the smouldering deliciousness of his colleague, one feels a little attention to detail is essential. Predominantly, a small and painless waxing of his browal border to improve his facial fancy.
Crusty can then, and only then, hold him in higher regard and, quite frankly, he can fondle any part of our nation how so ever he pleases.
Monday, 1 February 2010
Supermarkets - A Place for Pyjamas?
Tesco announced this week that they are to ban people, of the lady variety, from wearing pyjamas when they go out shopping at their stores.
One must say, one agrees wholeheartedly. There have been a couple of occasions when one has been perusing the produce of the day at our local supermarket and been shocked at what one has witnessed.
Well, perhaps supermarket is too strong a description; it’s more like a mediocremarket, if the truth be known. The shelves are very nearly always empty; stock rotation appears to mean the staff turn the product round to hide the label and one’s supply of gin is only guaranteed by the ‘Reserved’ sign one had Chu Me stick on discretely.
Anyhoo … twice, one has seen young ladies wandering around the aisles in multicoloured cotton pyjama bottoms; one in a pair of bunny slippers and the other in a rather ragged pair of green flip-flops (which oddly enough, matched the colour of her feet).
Neither of these individuals were wearing appropriate undergarments and the latter had thought it a good idea to don a G-string; the poor device had been hoisted to an unslightly height between her buttocks and was clinging on for dear life to the ring of fat flesh that was hovering over the elasticated waistband.
Gliding elegantly up the aisle behind her, one’s attention was glued to the hypnotic swaying of her ample buttocks and the vertical rippling of posterior after each heel made contact with the tiled floor.
Though these sights concerned me greatly, one must confess that they were nothing compared to that of seeing old Mr. Craddick as he passed through the tills last Friday evening. He had obviously been out to replenish his stock of Whisky and he too was wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms; the only problem was his front flappage was open and ….well, poppets can only imagine what was peering out at the poor check-out operator and the world beyond.
As one sashayed past till number 4 - Chu Me close behind with our trolley of replenishments - the supervisor Doreen approached the offending party.
“Mr. Craddick” She cried, “You’re exposing yourself!”
He turned to her in his unshaven state - with bodily bouncing occurring at his downstairs area – and shouted, “What y’ talkin’ about your stupid woman! Exposing mesel’ to what?”
One was just passing him at that point and he caught one’s eye. My eyes dropped downward toward his exposed wrinkled man-biscuit.
“To ridicule, dear, if that shrivels up any more!”
Immediately, he looked down and tucked what little he had back into its cotton housing and his face went a shade of red one had always sought for a hearth rug.
Crisis averted, one made one’s way to the carpark outside.
One thinks the lesson has been learned that it is not only the lady variety who offend one’s eye in such garmentry; the threat of an unleashed man-biscuit over the fish counter can be equally discerning.
One must say, one agrees wholeheartedly. There have been a couple of occasions when one has been perusing the produce of the day at our local supermarket and been shocked at what one has witnessed.
Well, perhaps supermarket is too strong a description; it’s more like a mediocremarket, if the truth be known. The shelves are very nearly always empty; stock rotation appears to mean the staff turn the product round to hide the label and one’s supply of gin is only guaranteed by the ‘Reserved’ sign one had Chu Me stick on discretely.
Anyhoo … twice, one has seen young ladies wandering around the aisles in multicoloured cotton pyjama bottoms; one in a pair of bunny slippers and the other in a rather ragged pair of green flip-flops (which oddly enough, matched the colour of her feet).
Neither of these individuals were wearing appropriate undergarments and the latter had thought it a good idea to don a G-string; the poor device had been hoisted to an unslightly height between her buttocks and was clinging on for dear life to the ring of fat flesh that was hovering over the elasticated waistband.
Gliding elegantly up the aisle behind her, one’s attention was glued to the hypnotic swaying of her ample buttocks and the vertical rippling of posterior after each heel made contact with the tiled floor.
Though these sights concerned me greatly, one must confess that they were nothing compared to that of seeing old Mr. Craddick as he passed through the tills last Friday evening. He had obviously been out to replenish his stock of Whisky and he too was wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms; the only problem was his front flappage was open and ….well, poppets can only imagine what was peering out at the poor check-out operator and the world beyond.
As one sashayed past till number 4 - Chu Me close behind with our trolley of replenishments - the supervisor Doreen approached the offending party.
“Mr. Craddick” She cried, “You’re exposing yourself!”
He turned to her in his unshaven state - with bodily bouncing occurring at his downstairs area – and shouted, “What y’ talkin’ about your stupid woman! Exposing mesel’ to what?”
One was just passing him at that point and he caught one’s eye. My eyes dropped downward toward his exposed wrinkled man-biscuit.
“To ridicule, dear, if that shrivels up any more!”
Immediately, he looked down and tucked what little he had back into its cotton housing and his face went a shade of red one had always sought for a hearth rug.
Crisis averted, one made one’s way to the carpark outside.
One thinks the lesson has been learned that it is not only the lady variety who offend one’s eye in such garmentry; the threat of an unleashed man-biscuit over the fish counter can be equally discerning.
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