Sunday, 27 June 2010

England - Our Boys Scuttle Home.

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

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

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

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

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

Anyhoo … maybe next time.

Tuesday, 22 June 2010

Crusty's Unexpected Night Out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Indeed, vicar!”

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

“Did you enjoy the evening, Dame Crusty?”

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, 15 June 2010

Confusion for Crusty: Horror for Fanny.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, 10 June 2010

Kerry Katona Disrupts An Intimate Moment.

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

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

The lack of sound was magnificent.

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

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

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

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