Wednesday, 31 March 2010

Crusty Rides with the Rowing Team.

After a dreadful bout of rain, the morning was bright and sunny and one felt the need to get out into the open air. One looked down from one’s bedroom window and saw the horses in the stable. One’s favourite stood proud with the sunshine on his face, as he looked across the Gusset estate. A morning ride! A splendid idea!

One mounted Dribble in one’s riding finery and raced off across the grounds towards the River Pees Burn. The feeling of the fresh air whooshing past one’s face as one went was exquisite and Dribble was in his element.

Approaching the cinder track by the side of the river, one came across the village rowing team. They were out on a team practice and looked magnificent suspended in their Lycra bodysuits. Rowing has been a blessing for the entire team, the majority of who used to pass their time on the village green drinking bottles of peach Schnapps and being generally disagreeable. That is, all apart from one; Robin Gett.

Robin was notorious in the surrounding area for petty theft. One night, one stumbled across him trying to grab one’s jugs in the hallway . It was this incident that prompted one to suggest rehabilitation on the rowing team and since joining, he has become a changed character and a totally delightful young man.

“Morning, Dame Crusty!” They all shouted.

“Good morning, boys!” one replied as Dribble nodded his head and stamped his right front hoof.

“We’re going to try for a personal best, but Sammy was on the hoy last night, so we’re not hopeful.”

“It’s all a matter of focus, poppets! If you think you can achieve it, then so shall it be.”

Robin shouted from the middle of the boat, “Will you time us Dame Crusty?”

“Of course, poppet!” One shouted back.

To start them off one took the whip from the side of the saddle, drew it back and flicked it forward quickly; one’s crack pierced the air. At the very same moment, one pressed the start button on the chronograph one has on one’s Bvlgari watch. They huffed, puffed and heaved as they put all their strength into the acceleration of their canoe. The bow of the craft sliced through the glistening ripples of the Pees Burn; each stroke of the oars leaving a trail of tiny whirlpools of power in their wake.

Once up to speed, one squeezed Dribble between one’s thighs and we, too, were off. Galloping along side them on the cinder track, one could see they were putting everything they had into it; their faces contorting with the effort and the pain running through their muscles. Dribble and I raced past the finish marker and when one turned to see the crew cross it too, the button on the stopwatch was pressed once more.

Each of them let out an enormous puff to allow their lungs to draw in a gulp of fresh air to fill and rejuvenate them.

Dribble turned and cantered to the side of the river, by the old moss covered jetty. The boys pulled up alongside and lifted themselves out.

“How did we do, Dame Crusty?” asked Robin.

While they lifted their vessel from the water, one looked down to consult one’s timepiece.

“And what’s your fastest time for that distance so far, poppets?” One enquired.

“Four and a half minutes” said Robin.

One left a dramatic pause, as is befitting on such occasions (though not quite as long as the pause taken on American Idol to give a result or goodness knows, one could still be there now) then revealed the answer.

“Four minutes … and five seconds!! Bravísimo!”

Well, they were of course thrilled. They jumped up and down, joyously clapping their blistered hands before grabbing their cox and heading into the boathouse to express their joy by getting a couple down their necks.

Closing the boathouse door behind them, one patted the neck of one’s trusty steed; “Do you know, Dribble, I think we may have potential Olympians there.”

With that, we trotted off back to the Crusty Hall estate.

Tuesday, 30 March 2010

Crusty Cuts Claudia Shaver's Ribbon.

One shuddered recently when one entered one’s private office to consult the daily appointments in one’s diary.

The day in question was to be free and filled with fun and frivolity, save for one appointment. Despite knowing full well one has no particular fondness for her, Chu Me had pencilled one in for an opening and ribbon cutting at a new business venture on the outskirts of the village. The venture was being set up by aging former village beauty queen, Claudia Shaver.

Claudia was a svelte creature in her younger days. She received many opportunities to model in such popular 70s publications as Cogs & Wheels Monthly, Electric Bulbs & Filaments and Bunty. Yet, Father Time had sadly not been kind, and that, combined with gravity, proved too much for her frame to bear.

In the early days she attempted to mimic one’s own elegant sashay, in a cunning plot to take international fashion runways by storm. However, owing to an unpleasant incident with a Qualcast lawn mower and an over indulgence of Strawberry Rose 20/20s, she was unable to achieve success … even when she wedged a folded odour eater into the heel of her right shoe.

As her figure plummeted towards earth, so did the number of offers for work. Her marriage to her husband, Klaus Shaver – which had been the envy of many in the village for some time – ended suddenly, when Klaus developed a love of gingham and ran off with his personal assistant, Tristan, to open a florist shop in the Yumbo Centro on Gran Canaria.

Anyhoo … Claudia seems to have spent the majority of money she had from the marriage break up and had taken the decision to open a model agency – something she knew about - in order to maintain a suitable income … and one supposes one must commend her for her initiative.

So, the time came to leave; Chu Me brought GUSSET 1 to the front of Crusty Hall and once settled in the back seat, one poured a small tumbler of gin, took a quick snifter and waved one hand so Chu Me could begin to pull off slowly.

Driving down the narrow country lanes, one certainly wasn’t expecting wonders from the occasion; one knew that Claudia was putting everything together on a very tight budget, so one focused on being utterly enchanting throughout … as always.

As the Bentley pulled up outside, there was a small crowd assembled – none of whom one would expect to see anywhere near a model agency - and even the vicar and his wife had turned up to bless the endeavour. Mr. Peppercorn the butcher too - rather strangely - could be seen at the back of the gathered mass, eager to get involved.

After the cutting of the ribbon and a ripple of applause from the onlookers, Claudia invited us all inside to mingle and christen the new offices. She came over, immediately, as one was scanning the buffet table.

“Champagne, Crusty? I don’t have any Cava.” She asked.

“Champagne would be splendid, Claudia dear.”

Filling one’s flute, she put the bottle down on the table beside us and turned to welcome a villager. Taking a small sip of the liquid, one’s face contorted as if one had just sucked an overly juicy lemon. Looking down to check the bottle, one was horrified to discover one was, in actual fact, drinking Babycham! One immediately, poured the contents of one’s glass back into the neck of the bottle.

Turning in one’s direction, Claudia asked, “So … is Kitty coming?”

“Goodness no, dear! She has far more important things to do with the day.”

”Ah! Well … at least you’re here.” She said smiling.

“In body, if not in spirit, dear: in body, if not in spirit.”

Her eyes caught the empty flute one was holding and she picked up the bottle to refill it.

“How are you finding the champagne?” She said, pouring carefully.

“It seems to be finding me, dear and one can’t get it down the neck quick enough. It’s like nothing one has tasted before.”

“I know! I got it from the cellar at the Badger’s Snatch. Willy let me have it for a very reasonable price. The bottles are 30 years old you know?” (The taste certainly suggested as much).

She seemed impressed with how long the bottles lasted, not knowing that every time she filled one’s glass and turned around one simply kept pouring it back in.

Anyhoo … one survived the rest of the soirée, though one didn’t feel up to indulging in anything from the buffet. Her prawn ring looked as if it had seen better days; reports were filtering back to warn her cheesy wotsits had been left out too long and had gone soft and one certainly didn’t want to chance the vol au vents after she told me her eczema had flared up again after her big opening had stressed her out.

It was all such a shame. For, though the food was well presented, the problem, one feels, was that nothing was fresh and one would not have been at all surprised if the supermarket had seen a peak in turnover the day before when the entire selection had been grabbed from the freezer section and purchased with the Nectar points she had accumulated at Christmas.

Or at least, that is what one thought, until one got chatting to Mr. Peppercorn. Pointing to Claudia’s brown baps in the corner, he whispered he’d proved the saviour of the day when he’d snuck round earlier to give her some tongue.

One turned to him and gazed upon him adoringly, “The village would be lost without you, dear! The epitome of kindness, you truly are.”

Ricky Martin - A Proud & Gay Poppet.

an utterly delicious poppet!

One was lying in bed this morning, wrapped warmly in exquisite white Egyptian cotton sheets and engaged in the most delightful dream.

Doctor Christian Jessen and I were alone on a beach in a deserted cove, with the waves gently lapping against the pebbly shore. While he lay there - soaked in Factor 20, absorbing Señor Sol’s rays in a teasingly tight pair of swim-shorts and listening to his i-pod - one was sitting beside him in a charming one-piece bathing suit and wide-brimmed sunhat, busying oneself with smothering his muscled torso with dark chocolate body paint and sliced strawberries.

Just as one was about to feast upon him, with a bottle of chilled Pere Ventura cava, one sensed the giant hand of reality enter one’s state of wistful bliss only to pluck one quickly from within.

The explanation for this unwanted plucking was the revelation on the radio news that lip-dribblingly, Latin-lovely Ricky Martin has confirmed to the world he is gay on his website.

One doesn’t know about one’s poppets, but there was very little doubt in Crusty’s mind anyway. The way this delicious poppet dances is a major giveaway. One has attended many a dreaded “wedding do” and other breed of social function and one has never seen a heterosexual man who can rattle his hips like that. If they even tried it would be a taxi ride to A & E and 3 months in a body cast.
One swears to this day, while watching a performance of 'Livin’ La Vida Loca' on one’s 32 incher, one suffered a black eye when raunchy Ricky thrust his groin forward and let out a guttural “Huh”. The man oozes sexuality from every pore of his epidermal layer.

One, however, is delighted at the news and, now that he has got this off his smooth, muscled pectoral expanse, he can now enjoy an unburdened future with his partner and their adorable children.

May his hips swivel with happiness and contentment for all eternity and the oscillations of his vocal chords resonate beyond time itself.

Sunday, 28 March 2010

The Queen of Regional News Returns.

Walking past the breakfast room this morning, one heard a strange noise which aroused one’s curiosity.

Pushing the door open slowly, in case anyone unsavoury had violated one’s inner sanctum, one found Crotchet rubbing the sides of his face against the side of the television in the corner. He was purring furiously and his tail was quivering as he conducted his rubbing ritual.

“Crotchet dear!” One shouted, “What on earth are you doing? Stop that at once!”

He immediately, jumped down from the table but weaved and turned frantically below it.

“What’s the matter, dear? Tell mummy.”

He sat and fixed his gaze upon the screen, which was showing some piece of Sunday nonsense. Well it couldn’t be that; the few minutes one saw were as absorbing as one of the vicar’s sermons. Picking up the remote one remembered the wonders of Sky+ and rewound the channel. It was then that all became clear.

The queen of North East evening news (and one suspects national news also … but you can’t have her), Her Serene Highness Carol Malia, is returning to our screens after her time off to give birth to her delicious baby daughter, Anna Margaret. One squealed with joy and lifting Crotchet into one’s arms. We danced around the breakfast table in celebration.

As a distant fairy godmother, one has arranged for the Doctor Christian Room to be cleaned thoroughly, then sealed until tomorrow evening. A bottle of Pere Ventura is being chilled and Chef has promised a delicious selection of nibbles so Chu Me and I can savour every minute of her return.

Your Country Chose You, Josh.

Ever since one was a little Damelette, one has had an intense passion for the Eurovision Song Contest, despite Terry Wogan and Katie Boyle.

One was thrilled last year to see the gorgeous Graham Norton and the delicious Andrew Lloyd-Webber putting so much effort into getting the nation behind our entry; weeks of different styles of song; the great British public voting for their favourite, then the stunning Jade being triumphant and amazing our European brothers and sisters with 'It’s My Time'.

Despite the fact it wasn’t, she did us proud and achieved a magnificent position on the scoreboard and now has a prominent position in the pop group The Sugacubes … Sugababes (thank you, Chu Me) and let’s be frank, it’s about time they had a group member who could sing, is it not?

However, it dismays one terrible that this year, it appears, we are not putting as much effort into things. We have gone to the enormous trouble of gaining the skills and Mike Stock and Pete Waterman to produce a toe-tapping ditty but the nation had to make their decision after a piss-poor karaoke session from our finalists and a shot at our Eurovision entry. Then all 60 million people had to pick up their phones and vote while a rather pleasing Norwegian sang about his fairy tale and before the kitchen kettle boiled. Crusty was outraged, though, one must confess, one felt the right selection was made with the lovely Josh Dubovie.

One does think Alexis (not Carrington-Colby-Dexter from Dynasty) also had stage presence, a rather pleasing aesthetic quality and a lovely smile … as well as a lovely voice, of course. One took a shine to this talented little poppet as soon as he revealed his head on stage.

That aside, what about the other four finalists. Well, one was very disappointed, one must say.

We had Karen, who we were told had a husky voice and a husky voice she had indeed. While Graham was introducing her, one looked around the Drawing Room to find Crotchet and when she started singing in the background, one felt Coronation Street’s Phyllis had resurrected and put herself forward … but where was Percy?

UniFive, Uni5, or some such nonsense, certainly seemed to have had potential. The BBC website tells us, '5 singers and dancers come together for YCNY'. Well, one’s quite sure they do, dear, but this is a singing competition and we'll have none of that filthy nonsense!

Anyhoo … they may come together but their harmonies seem to speed of into the sunset, in different directions and on totally different modes of transport.

Miss Fitz were the greatest disappointment. After their sassed up interpretation of Brittle Spear’s ‘Toxic’ on Britain’s Got Talent one wished they had done a similar thing with the S.A.W. number, then one thinks they could have been the viewers’ choice.

Finally, we were presented with Asthma, or some such fancy. An absolutely gorgeous creature with eyes like cooling pools of infinite deepness. Sadly, her performances were not worthy of our nation’s representation. Looking like a non-cast member of the Glee club she blasted her song selections from the deepest pit of her lungs. Her enthusiasm, however, made her lose her energy through her first number. This was self evident at one point when she rolled her eyes as if to say, “How long does this song go on for!?”

Her dancing was that of a young lady, with little confidence, on a night out at a local social club and one screamed at the screen for a member of the production crew to drop a handbag at her feet and a Bacardi Breezer in her hand, at least to make her feel a little more comfortable.

The one thing that let her down most of all, however, was her breath control. One has never seen a performer draw in oxygen during a lyric (unless of course they can breathe through their ears) and one feels this was her downfall with the forgetting of words and the need to apologise to the audience.

Honestly poppets, Fanny’s mother has better breath control and she’s on 80 a day!

Despite the lack of effort put in by the BBC – no doubt, because of their search for a Dorothy (one has come across many a Dorothy, poppets … and trust me … they’re not that difficult to find) – one hopes all one’s poppets, twitterchums and Crustettes will get behind the deliciously sexy Josh and keep their fingers crossed we have a win in 2010.

Crusty Comes Home.

The short stay in Valencia was over and the journey home began. All in all it was smooth sailing except for a slight inconvenience at the soon to be refurbished Terminal 2 at Barcelona airport. Though many flights are now leaving the new and completely stunning Terminal 1, there are still some smaller companies utilising the facilities of the old one.

Upon arrival at the airport, one’s faithful houseboy Chu Me and I made our way to the main building. It seemed almost deserted as the escalatorial mechanism lowered us to the highly polished floor. Chu Me, efficient as ever, walked over to the information screen to find out where we needed to be; Terminal C.

For poppets who may not have travelled to Barcelona Terminal C (in Terminal 2) is a considerable distance to walk from the area of train disembarkment in Terminal B . It is certainly not a journey one can make easyily in Gucci two-piece and matching shoes. So, Chu Me and I stood and pondered our predicament. At the very moment of one’s ponderings, an electric airport buggy approached us. Taking hold of Chu Me’s arm quickly, one flung him in the path of the buggy. The tiny rubber wheels screeched against the polished floor tiles and the young driver – with a name badge identifying him as Juan - screamed.

“Buenos dias. One wonders if you would be able to take us to Terminal C, dear? One asked with a pitiful look on one’s face (One had seen Esther Rantzen use it many times and it seemed to work for her).

“Sí, Dame Crusty (Esther knows what she’s talking about)… but not I am able to take the maletas.” He said, pointing to one’s luggage and still in mild shock after his near collision with Chu Me.

One looked around for a moment and saw a rather attractive, older gentleman speaking English on his mobile phone. I sashayed quickly to his side, removed the phone from his hand and disconnected the call.

“Could you do Crusty a favour, dear? This nice airport employee is taking one to one’s check-in desk. Would you be a kindly poppet and carry one’s luggage for one?” As the unexpected good Samaritan replied, “I …I … well … my telephone …you want me?”

“Yes, dear, you’ve clearly got time on your hands if you’re just standing there chatting.”

“Well, I suppose…”

“Good show, dear!” One cried, applauding his enthusiasm.

“Which desk are you checking in at?” He inquired with an air of bewilderment. Banging one’s foot on the floor of the buggy, Juan began to jerk off slowly and one began to shout the information as our speed increased and we sped off into the distance.

“Terminal C, dear! Oh, and drop them off by Speedy Boarding, there’s a poppet.”

Within minutes, Juan had pulled up outside the entrance of the terminal and, kissing him tenderly in his forehead and patting him softly on the top of his head, one bid him farewell. It was approximately 15 minutes later when a man entered the doors with a face the colour of a ripened plumb. It was one’s sweet and sweaty Samaritan.

Panting heavily, he dropped one’s luggage in front of Chu Me, “I … couldn’t … couldn’t find a trolley.” He stood up and put is hands to the base of his back and pushed to straighten himself, while giving a pained look on his ripened face.

“Never mind, dear. You made it here … eventually!” one replied.

Checking in was very straight forward, however it would appear old Father Fate was waiting for one just past the security section. Chu Me checked the boarding passes and our gate was in … Terminal A!

“Goodness!!! Chu me, dear, if one has to sashay elegantly all the way to the other end of this airport, one fears Gucci heels will become Gucci pumps by the time one reaches the Salvador Dalí lounge! One is not prepared to wear down six inches unnecessarily.”

Dejected, one rested in a chair of a closed down cafeteria until Chu Me turned up with a small trolley designed specifically for hand baggage. One’s eyes widened at our good fortune and immediately mounted the trolley and sat comfortably on the basket section. Once settled, Chu Me pushed me the entire length of the airport. With one’s umbrella in one’s right hand and one’s handbag in one’s left, one felt like Britannia herself as one glided through the airport – passengers gasping as one passed - to the security gates at the other side.

A few hours later and one was back in Her Majesty’s realm. GUSSET 3 pulled into the wide gravel drive of Crusty Hall and, as Chu Me stopped to wait until the gates closed behind us, one saw Crotchet sitting by the old, moss covered bird table. He turned and his little eyes widened when one tapped against the car window. As we crunched along the drive towards the residence, Crotchet bounded likes a gazelle up the lawn and through the shrubbery to the steps outside the main door, where one’s good friend Fanny O’Dour was waiting (Fanny, Landlady of the Badger’s Snatch, always tends to my dear pussy when one is on holiday). Alighting from the GUSSET 3, Fanny ran towards one and we embraced.

“Crusty, I’ve missed you so much.” She said.

“Goodness, poppet, it’s only been a week! Tell me …Crotchet … has he behaved himself?”

“He’s been an absolute joy to look after … as always.”

One turned to look at Crotchet, who was now sitting erect and proud by the large plant pot by the door. The look on his face telling me he thought he was the cat’s whiskers. Indeed he was.

How wonderful it is to be back home.

Tuesday, 23 March 2010

Valencia 2010 - Elegance, Rain and Fluttering Flaps.

One’s visit to Crusty Towers, in the heart of Valencia, was just as relaxing as one had anticipated.

From the first night, when one went out for a spot of dinner, one felt welcomed and loved by the locals of this beautiful city. Sashaying majestically along Calle Caballeros, with Chu Me close behind, one passed by the crowded bars and cafes near the corner of Calle Baja. There, large windows displayed the gorgeous people inside enjoying their evening’s frivolities.

At one point one was almost moved to tears, as the revellers in two establishments all stopped and turned to look at one – one’s beaded gown shimmering in the street lighting and a mesmerising and multicoloured discharge exploded from one’s baubles; the shafts of bejewelled light ricocheting off the walls of the surrounding buildings.

In an instant, they had whipped up there serviettes, scarves and other garmentry adornments and had raised them high into the air; circling their hands, they twirled them enthusiastically as one passed by. The Barrio del Carmen momentarily rang out with their voices.

“Guapa!! Guapa!!”

One nodded humbly to the masses and waved elegantly, before heading to Cafe San Miguel to gorge oneself on the delicious delicacies served within.

Despite Mother Nature insisting on sprinkling her tears over the city for one’s arrival and the following day, one managed to tolerate the unexpected moistness without any great problem. After that, Señor Sol returned and, although he did not have his hat on, he certainly managed to warm the skies to an agreeable level.

There was one particular night, however, when one got a terrible shock. One had taken a small cat-nap in the lounge, when suddenly one woke up with a severe wind blasting under one’s canopy. Urgent attention was required and one called for Chu Me to spring into action. Within seconds, he had hoisted one’s canopy to its uppermost; nevertheless, for another hour, one had to endure further fierce flutterings of one’s flaps until, with the aid of some velcro and an elastic band, Chu Me restored penthouse tranquillity.

Sadly, one had to leave before the start of the fiesta of Las Fallas – one shall return to that next year, one thinks; it seems an age since one was absorbed in the excitement of it all and one misses it so.

Thursday, 18 March 2010

Valencia 2010 - Crusty Takes A Pit Stop.

Whenever one has time to spare on a long journey in España, one likes nothing better than taking advantage of the food on offer in the location one is visiting. This was certainly the case when one found oneself at Barcelona Sants train station during the recent trip to Valencia.

As Chu Me tended to the luggage from the metro train, one ascended the narrow escalatorial mechanism into the bustling heart of the station and immediately made one’s way to the ARS over in the corner. It is, by no means, the biggest ARS one has come across, however, its wide entrance makes it ideal for pushing your luggage up and once inside yourself, one can feast on the fresh and tasty morsels packed within.

A gin, a filling tortilla Española sandwich and a few glasses of delicious Pere Ventura Cava later and one was refreshed and ready for the next stage of our journey on the 4 o’clock Euromed.

The usual 1st class service was provided by the two delicious young attendants. One in particular caught one’s eye; 6ft 3, slim and dressed in shirt, waistcoat and teasingly tight trousers. As the train got up to speed, he came into the carriage offering his tray of delights; Cava, orange juice or sherry. The liquids rippling in their chilled glasses as the hunky hombre swayed with the motion of the carriage.

One watched his glinting smile as he served the other passengers and one’s heart began to beat swiftly as he moved toward one’s seat.

Buenas tardes, Dame Crusty. ¿Toma Cava? ¿Zumo? ¿Jerez?”

“One thinks a glass of Cava, dear” One replied in velvety tones.

“I have nuts too.” He continued in his delightful broken English.

One’s eyes rolled downward (like an off-licences security shutter after a quick yank) and focused briefly - and scandalously - on his downstairs area.

“Indeed you do, dear!” One flirted, leaning towards him. ”One will most definitely have a nibble on those.”

Imagine one’s surprise – and disappointment – when one was handed a rather nondescript, air-tight, foil bag of peanuts and dried fruit.

Anyhoo … the remainder of the journey was extremely pleasant, to say the least, and once the train had settled in Valencia Nord station, the delightful young attendant took one’s hand to help one step from the 1st class carriage onto the tiles surface of the platform. Standing erect, he continued to hold one’s hand before bowing in a gentlemanly fashion and kissed the back of one’s hand, “It was a pleasure, Dame Crusty.”

“And it could have be far more so, had it not been for the shrivelled up raisins.”

Taking a deep breath of the moist Valencian air, a smile emerged on one’s face when one thought a short distance by taxi and one would once again be in the penthousal perfection of Crusty Towers with those two magnificent erections standing proud outside one’s window.

Saturday, 13 March 2010

Valencia 2010 (Part 2)– VIP Lounge or Private Party for Undesireables.

Some moments had passed and the VIP lounge at Newcastle International Conservatory was gloriously quiet.

As one sipped a rather pleasant gin - Chu Me standing at the window in awe at the big, metal birds - one could see and hear the sensual vocal chords of Colin his-twinkle-makes-me-tingle Briggs giving the region its daily roundup of news.

A small droplet forced itself from one’s tear duct as one realised one would not see one’s delicious poppet while one was away and, for a moment, one was plunged into a gaping crack of sadness. The recollection that one was only away for a week was the key to snap one back up again, as if on a bungee cord of anticipation.

Spirits lifted, one began to notice a party of four people – 3 men and a possible woman - who, though remaining respectfully quiet, were consuming copious quantities of alcoholic beverages from the drinks section. Every 15 minutes one of the relatively young men would walk over, collect an arm full of beer cans and return to his seat. Moments later another would stand and collect glasses filled with wine. As the men-folk sat supping their beverages, the suspected female would then rise up regularly and retrieve bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale – for herself - only to take them back and drink them directly from the bottle.

For over an hour their scavenging trips rapidly began to deplete the stocks of the lounge. Yet, the poor solitary attendant felt she was not in a position to object and no doubt feared the response she would receive from the Brown Ale binging buffalo even if she did.

On one of the trips by the male members, the attendant was cleaning the service area and as he went to fill a further 3 glasses of wine, she said to him, “Why not take a bottle? It’ll save you getting up all the time.”

One leaned over the side of one’s chair, “Indeed, why not take the whole lot, dear! One may even have a bottle in Chu Me’s bag if you run short!”

He walked to the party table. Half way there he turned back and looked. One raised one’s tumbler and gave a contemptible smile, then one returned to a state of sedate sippage.

Moments later, the she-creature stood up and walked to the refrigeration unit to claim her next bottle of Brown Ale. Her nail-bitten mitten was just about to grab the neck of the bottle when one interjected.

“One understands now why they say 'having a bottle of dog', dear!” A sip of gin followed.

The hand stopped short of the bottle and she stood up and turned in the direction of one’s chair. “Eh?”

“Eloquently put, dear! No ... one was just commenting; one understands why they say 'having a bottle of dog' … your appearance, dear." One said. waving one's finger up and down her length. "One suspects split ends and the facial aspect of the north face of the Eiger wouldn’t have been the result were you to have succumbed to … let’s say … a life of white wine spritzers.”

Her jaw tightened as she spun round to face the fridge. Her hand moved towards the bottle of Brown Ale, then hovered momentarily before moving to the side and reaching for a bottle of mineral water instead. She stood up as straight as she could with appalling posture and held her head up in a pseudo-snooty fashion and began to walk back to her seat.

“One suspects it’s a little late for hydration, poppet … nevertheless … Bravo!”

Finally, the gold ingot that broke the lid of the antique mahogany casket occurred.

One did not wish to disturb Chu Me. He was engrossed in jumping towards the window and clapping his hands in an attempt to chase the big metal birds away and relishing his lack of success (One feels he doesn’t yet grasp the wonder of the aeroplane), so one went to refill one’s tumbler with a further pre-holiday gin and tonic. One of the alcohol-fueled sump-brigade appeared at one's side

“We thought we’d have another drink before the flight … if that’s ok with you?!” He said sarcastically.

“Well, if there’s anything left, dear.”

His hairy, unmoisturised right hand rose up. It was then, as if one had obtained Spiderman’s ‘spidey-sense’, one sensed danger. Something was vibrating inside one as the realisation dawned he was heading for the half filled bottle of gin in front of us. With cat-like reflexes one whisked up one of the plastic picnic folks – ridiculously laid out to give the impression of acceptable cutlery – and stuck it in the back of his hand. As he reeled back in pain, one grabbed the body of the bottle, picked it up and turned to go back to one’s silk covered chair.

“There are boundaries in life, dear, and you very nearly crossed a very dangerous one.”

At that moment, they were called for their flight and normality was restored; the remaining three assisting their blood-soaked team mate out into the main building. The attendant thanked one for the assistance one had provided and went to clean up the mess that had been left.

Soon after, the embarkation of Easyjet flight 6401 was announced and we were underway on the next leg of our journey; beautiful Barcelona beckoned (one’s second home and a place that holds a very special place in one's heart).

Valencia 2010 – Crusty Prepares to Leave Her Beloved North East

It was a crispy Friday morning when Chu Me and I left one’s beloved Crusty Hall for the joys of Newcastle International Airport and our journey beyond; a weeks break at Crusty Towers, right in the heart of beautiful Valencia.

My dear pussy, Crotchet was well catered for during our holiday. Fanny would pop up regularly from the Badger’s Snatch to give him a little company, while the household staff were not in residence, and ensure his food requirements were maintained.

The mode of transport one had chosen to take us to the airport was GUSSET 3 (One does not wish to take the Bentley or the Aston to a car park that does not appear to have been swept regularly, does one?). Chu Me had loaded the luggage beautifully and ensured we were fully fuelled. Locking to great door behind us, one blew a kiss to Crotchet as he looked out from the Drawing Room window and we were on our way.

Entering the terminal building, we headed for the Easyjet desks and one began to search for the ‘dedicated’ check-in desk one had been notified of on the paperwork for our Speedy Boarding; a desk sprinkled with a little glitter perhaps, maybe a candelabra set to the side or a red carpet and cordon and a sign saying 'WELCOME, DAME CRUSTY'. But there was nothing; they all looked the same.

One asked a young gentleman on a car hire desk nearby and apparently, the term ‘dedicated’ means that it is available to everybody who has selected the Speedy Boarding option and not per individual. “How outrageous!” one said.

“I couldn’t agree more, Dame Crusty.” The charming young thing replied.

“You’re clearly a very sensitive young man, dear.” With that, one bid him farewell.

Gliding up to the not-in-the-slightest–bit dedicated desk, one was confronted by a pleasant enough young girl, looking very smart in her uniform but with a rather sour face hanging from beneath her hairline.

“Have you booked Speedy Boarding?” She enquired, in a rather direct fashion.

“One’s wearing Versace, dear, of course one has booked Speedy Boarding, unless of course you confuse delicious hand-stiched designer fabrics for an acrylic football strip or shellsuit ensemble?”

She immediately went red with embarrassment (Well, one presumes she did, there was so many layers of foundation applied to her facial epidermis one could only see a change in colour on the tips of her ears, so one took it as read).

Boarding passes dispensed, Chu Me and I made our way to the most joyous part of the Newcastle International Airport experience … security. Sashaying the two and a half mile of zig-zagging pens – crammed into a floor area that is only 2 metres in length - one drew closer to the x-ray machines and the slack-jowled staff that lay there in wait; their faces grimacing at the business people and holiday makers that kept them in employment. Honestly poppets, one appreciates the safety and security of Her Majesty’s realm is of the utmost importance but the old crack your face and make your arse jealous certainly applies here and, most certainly, wouldn’t go amiss.

A middle aged creature demanded one place one’s belongings on the conveyor belt for x- ray. One snapped one’s fingers and Chu Me jumped onto the belt and went through first. One placed one’s small clutch purse on next and then began to disrobe. A male security guard leapt over as one was just slipping off the strap of one’s gown.

“That’s not necessary, Dame Crusty!” he shouted, waving his hands.

“One must to be sure, dear,” continuing to undress. “One doesn’t want people running away screaming should one activate your equipment and get your bells clanging.”

Finally, having passed through the detector and after insisting the young security guard frisk one a third time (in case he missed something), one re-dressed and adorned oneself in the stunning selection of jewels one had chosen from the Gusset collection. Chu Me handed over one’s purse and we made our way past two very aggressive Credit Card representatives to the VIP lounge. (I’ve seen mature panthers take longer to pounce on their pray than those two and indeed, their aged, leatherette complexion made one wonder how their hips and knees even allowed them to spring at all .. especially in heels!).

Once in the VIP lounge, Chu Me moved a chair within view of the notice screen and placed a hand-embroidered silk throw over it. Placing a small, rectangular piece of sheepskin at the foot, he headed to the drinks section to tend to gin duties. It was then, that one could finally sit and relax, scrunching one’s toes in the soft, fluffy, cream fur beneath.

One took a sip of one's gin, sighed. The journey had begun!

Sunday, 7 March 2010

Gold Medals Required, One Feels.

Well, poppets, the Winter Olympics has passed now, but everyone who participated seems to have had the most splendid time and medals were dished out in ribbon-festooned abundance to our refrigerated Olympians.

However, one was slightly puzzled when one heard that someone had won the gold medal for going down on a skeleton.

I'm quite sure the love interest of Jarvis Cocker does the very same thing at least a couple of times a week but they aren't awarded a medal ... though, in fairness, they should be.

Very peculiar, is it not poppets?

Doctor Christian Will See You Now.

It was a quiet night and one was sitting in the Aubergine Room at Crusty Hall. One’s dear friend Kitty had called by to celebrate the return of local news reading hero, Colin his-twinkle-makes-me-tingle Briggs, to our screen in the morning.

One feels for the other parts of Her Majesty’s realm that are unable to bathe in Colin’s deliciousness each morning. One often feels it is like lying naked in a warmed room while being wrapped in a sumptuously soft blanket of chinchilla fur (Though one must stress, fur from Chinchillas that have passed away due to natural causes or that have carried a donor card, of course). However, though one feels that pain, one must stress, one’s special poppet is not for sale and anyone who tries to take him from us shall feel the full wrath of the Gusset.

Anyhoo … Kitty was reclining on the sofa by the Royal Worcester display cabinet reading her latest imported copy of Casa y Campo and I was on the sofa opposite with a book of Sudoku. A regular at the Badger’s Snatch had recommended it as a wonderful way to relax, however, after 3 minutes and 21 seconds, one didn’t feel relaxed in the slightest. One’s muscle network felt tighter than Vanessa Feltz’s knicker elastic and thus, with an elegant movement of one’s arm, one projected the book across the room and into the open fire. Kitty looked up from her magazine, “What’s the matter, Crusty?”

“Sudoku, poppet! It’s utterly nonsensical!”

“Would you like me to have Chu Me bring another gin for you?”

“No, thank you, dear.”

Kitty returned to her article and one switched on the television, selecting Channel 4 and Embarrassing Bodies. One began to relax, then suddenly, after an introduction from the gorgeous Doctor Pixie, one felt one’s entire body become as limp and lifeless as Cheryl y-nailed it Cole. One slid from the sofa and down onto the floor like a sack of diamonds and ended up in an unsightly – yet elegantly positioned – heap.

Kitty sprang gazelle-like across the narrow expanse between sofas. “Crusty! Crusty! What’s the matter?” She screamed.

One could see her gorgeous face etched with concern but one was unable to speak. One’s tongue was hanging out the right side of one’s mouth and one felt cross-eyed and delirious.

“Crusty?!” With her medical training taking charge, Kitty lifted the Baccarat crystal tumbler from the coffee table and held it under one’s nose. The magical properties of the medicinal liquid penetrated one’s nasal passage and one began to come round.

“Zogzur Kriz dee un, zear!“ One mumbled.


She placed the tumbler to one’s mouth and tipped in a little of the crystal clear elixir. Pulling oneself round, one blurted out, “Doctor Christian, dear! Isn’t he just a dreamy dimpled dollop of doctorial deliciousness?”

“He is indeed. Quite the hotty.” Kitty agreed.

”Do you know, dear, one marvels at how a man so utterly gorgeous, with a body like the statue of David – apart from one small area – can find the time to care and heal the nation’s sick. He’s a blessing to us all.”

And, upon reflection poppets, this is certainly true. This towering mountain of medicinal muscle and his colleagues have done more for the health and sexual education of our nation than any Government over recent decades. Though it is quite easy to find sadistic entertainment in the televised suffering of the masses, one important point is brought home to us; our bodies are unique and we must cherish that uniqueness.

It is expected that most people will suffer problems throughout their lives; some serious; some mild and many embarrassing. Yet, we must always feel perfectly at ease discussing these things with our local medical professional. Why, when one visits the village doctor – Arthur Pedic – one has no hesitation in removing one’s clothes, even when just popping in for a chat … and despite him insisting it isn't necessary.

Having said that, if one were to walk into Doctor Christian's surgery and enter his consultation room, one glinting smile from him would undoubtedly and instantaneously rip the designer fabrics from one's shapely frame in an instant.

“Kitty, dear,” one said, “One has made a decision. One shall rename the Aubergine Room the Doctor Christian Room. After all, aubergines are a colour that symbolizes quality; they have a firm, meaty flesh with a velvety texture and are, most certainly, good for one’s health. One can think of nothing more appropriate.”

“How wonderful!” Kitty cried, “Actually, when you think about it … DCG (Dame Crusty Gusset) … DCJ (Doctor Christian Jessen) … you’re practically related!”

“Quite, dear!” one concurred, “One shall have Chu Me get some wood and whip out his little tool in the morning.”

Monday, 1 March 2010

Farewell Kristian.

June 1977 - March 2010

One was devastated to hear the news that television presenter and gorgeous poppet Kristian Digby had been found dead in his London home. A young talent taken from us far too early.

One's thoughts are with his family and friends at this very sad time.