Sunday, 25 April 2010

Doctor Who ... Dame Crusty Reflects.

One has been a fan of the hero of time, Doctor Who, for many years now; ever since one was a small Damelette, in fact. There were, of course, the bleak and troubled years when the nation was subjected to Sylvester McCoy and Colin Baker, but one found the on/off switch a suitable tool against that unnecessary suffering.

In the 21st century, the hands of the gorgeous Russell T. Davies brought us incredible storylines, tension that gripped one by one’s slender, deliciously smooth neck and characters that clicked as delightfully as Dame Burley Chassis’ hips. However, since dear Russell’s departure as captain of the ship, one must confess one is slightly concerned about the latest series.

Matt Smith, clearly, is quite splendid as the new Doctor and seems to have slipped in to David Tennants socks very easily. Amelia Pond also appears to be proving the perfect companion (if not a little of a … smart arse (?) … there, one said it!). Yet it is the writing that causes the bubbles of doubt to pop inside one’s slender frame. The new writer, Steven Moffat – whom, from watching Doctor Who: Confidential is certainly not unsure of his own talents – is, one feels, trying too hard.

The first episode was a wonderful introduction to our new cast. A young Amelia Pond sitting in her bedroom praying for someone to come and help tend to her mysteriously glowing crack, only for our regenerated hero to come across her in her nightdress, then venture downstairs to spit out everything she had to offer him onto the kitchen floor. The rest – as they say – is history.

The aliens of this episode were adequately frightening until the large eyeball, suspended from a giant snowflake, entered; it all seemed a little too Sarah Jane Adventures for prime time Saturday evening televisualisation.

The third episode saw the return of the Daleks. Even here – and not content with changing the sumptuous simplicity of the TARDIS – the long running enemy of the Doctor were apparently not good enough for Monsieur Moffat and he felt the Earth’s arch nemesis required (one believes the phrase is) ‘pimped up', to the point of complete and utter campness.

Indeed, when the super multi-primary-coloured Daleks came onto our screens and spread out into their sinister formation in front of the Jammy Dodger yielding Doctor, they looked like a giant Freedom Flag. All that was missing from the scene was a glitterball, Hi-NRG music pounding out in the background, a slight aroma of Amyl Nitrate and the Doctor in a pair of backless leather chaps serving cocktails and the scene would have been complete. Aside from that, the script, again, was over worked and despite a cast of superb actorial poppets, there just didn’t seem to be a fluidity to the storyline.

The most recent episode has seen the return of the Weeping Angels (no doubt weeping more after a shufty at the script). Not only that, but we have a woman with a very tight perm acting very familiar with the Doctor. While the lovely Russell introduced a character subtly, as in the Face of Boe, Steven introduces us to this woman and by the end of the episode, one is still no further forward as to knowing who on earth she is. It is all a little off putting and certainly gives a metallic aftertaste to a perfectly poured glass of gin while watching.

Anyhoo … all said and done, one certainly approves, on the whole, of the new TARDIS interior, but do we really need taps, typewriters and sex toys to be part of the control panels? Yes … sex toys, poppets! Surely one is not the only one who has witnessed the ribbed glass penetrating device in the centre of the craft forcing itself up and down, up and down, up and down … [Chu Me! Iced water … quickly! … and one’s fan!!]

The BBC prop poppet in the first Confidential told Matt, “We had to look high and low for that new centre piece.” Chu Me told one if he’d looked at page 24 of one of his specialist catalogues, he could have picked one up for £32.95 with Next Day delivery. He could have saved himself so much time.

Still, one must keep an open mind and see how the stories develop. Rome wasn't built in a day, after all.

Saturday, 17 April 2010

Chu Me Learns To Swim

Over recent weeks one has been giving Chu Me lessons on how to swim. There was never any need to learn when he was a child, in that land far, far away. His village was surrounded by flooded fields and all the residents were traditionally content skimming across the surface in plastic flip-flops, propelled by large wooden poles. So, since taking him under one’s wing, it has long been on the cards for me to teach him this valuable skill.

Anyhoo … we were in the pool yesterday morning. One was elegantly contained in a ravishing aubergine Gucci swimsuit and matching cap, while Chu Me had his favourite pair of Hom budgie-smugglers on with a bright orange pair of inflatable water wings.

It would be wrong, one suspects, to say he ‘found his feet’, therefore we shall say he ‘found his flippers’ very quickly in our lesson. Within an hour he had grasped the technique of the front crawl. Even with his water wings, he managed to accomplish a satisfying speed up and down the length and one was delighted.

Bobbing majestically at the deep end of the pool – one treading water like an aquatic ballerina and Chu Me paddling his hands to stabilise his inflatables - one congratulated him on his efforts.

“Bravísimo, Chu Me! That was perfect!”

With a gleaming smile arcing across his proud-as-punch face he shouted, “Breast stroke?”

“Well, as you’ve done so well, why not.”

No sooner had I said those words, one felt Chu Me’s hand brush against one’s right hooter. One’s cat-like reflexes took a hold; kicking harder with one’s feet, one raised further from the water, raising one’s arms into the air and making pincers from one’s hands. Like a Praying Mantis, one’s pincers shot down and with a nip of stunningly manicured nails, one burst his inflatable water wings. The air rapidly squeaked out of the puncture holes as Chu Me looked on in horror. His head slowly starting to sink below the surface, one turned and propelled oneself to the ladder at the side. Exiting, one picked up the towel that lay on the lounger and stormed off elegantly to the steam room, “Outrageous!! Naughty Chu Me … Crusty is shocked!”

The window cleaner had passed by moments later. He saw the bubbles on the surface of the pool, bursting to emit small yelps and he dived in to pull one’s faithful houseboy from the crystal clear depths.

“What on earth is all this noise?” One shouted, as one left the steam room to investigate. Before me, one saw Chu Me lying on a lounger, panting heavily. The window cleaner was sitting in a chair, saturated and removing his shirt. The disrobing revealed a muscled, tanned torso with a six-pack stomach; tiny droplets of water falling from his jaw line and landing on his pectorial plane, creating tiny rivers that meandered down his body to the belt above his downstairs area.

Sahaying towards him, he stood up and one grabbed the back of his head and pushed one’s lips on his. After a few seconds, he began to struggle and our lips were released.

“Dame Crusty, what are you doing?”

“The kiss of life, dear! You’ve had a terrible trauma”

“But I’m fine…”

“Better make sure, dear” and with that one planted one’s lips upon him again. Finally, releasing him from one’s vice-like medical grip, Chu Me explained he had not intentionally brushed one’s bosom. It had been the ripples of the pool that had turned him towards me. He was simply trying to stabilise himself.

One looked at him briefly before the pieces all fell into place. Turning to head towards the door of the main residence, one chuckled loudly thinking how easy it is for misunderstandings to happen.

Saturday, 3 April 2010

Chelsea Leaves Walford.

News has filtered through to one's private office at Crusty Hall, that stunningly delicious Eastenders actress Tiana Benjamin is set to leave the long running soap after 4 years.

This will cause the show untold damage, being the only knee-tremblingly beautiful member of the female cast (except Dame Barbara Windsor, the exquisite legend that she is).

It is understood that it has been a difficult choice for the actress to make, but she feels it is time to move on.

One doesn't know what she will do, but hopes she was advised The Bill has been axed. Nevertheless, one wishes her gorgeousness all the luck in the future.

One thing is for sure, her happiness levels with soar - like the birds above the clouds - when she finally leaves that depressing square.