Tuesday, 28 September 2010

Easyjet - Enemy At The Gates

Chu Me and I had left the comfort of the Executive Lounge in Newcastle International Airport and were heading, in an elegant fashion, towards the announced gate. Gliding effortlessly down the corridor, each time one passed by a window the light of Señor Sol’s tentacles would catch the simple selection of diamonds one was wearing and blast a brilliant explosion of light throughout the passageway. One young lady with fake Louis Vuitton hand-luggage and inappropriate footwear asked her companion, ”Was that lightening?!” Concerned, one put one’s right hand on her shoulder and reassured her, “No dear, just flawless diamonds,” and walked on.

Now, in times gone by when one has used the services of Easyjet, one has normally found oneself at the same gate as one found oneself on this particular day. Two departure gates, hidden down a set of stairs, almost in the bowels of the airport, where everyone would previously congregate until they heard the bing-bong and then it was like the opening of a cut price Burberry outlet near a housing estate of chavs; the stampede would begin in earnest. (Still, after all these years, passengers with Boarding Group E think for some inexplicable reason that they can board when Boarding Group A is announced. Then when turned away, stand blocking the thoroughfare, scratching their heads like chimpanzees wondering what to do next.)

Recently, however, someone of limited intelligence has decided it would be far better to create an enormous queue by checking passports etc. at the bottom of the stairwell. To make matters worse, this particular trip saw a rather saggy-jowelled individual standing at the right of the stairs, at the bottom, leaning against the wall like a badly dressed hooker and clinging to a hand-luggage cage with her right hand. She was insisting passengers put their bags inside.

She was a well rounded creature, with blonde hair pulled back in an aubergine coloured scrunchy and her trousers were clinging on to her thighs for dear life. She had, one supposes, what Gok Wan would describe as an hour-glass figure. If that was the case, she was certainly containing more than her fair share of sand.

Anyhoo … one neared the lair of the dragon and she pointed at the aperture. One stood motionless, save one’s eyes looking down at the cage, then up at her face, then down to the cage, then up at her face.

“Could you put your bag in there?” She asked.

“More than likely, dear.” Then one turned to walk to a seat.

“Excuse me! All bags need to be checked for size.”

“Are we expecting the bag to have transformed into a suitcase since check-in, dear?” One said, finally sitting in a seat near the entrance to the gate.

On five occasions people put their hand luggage in and with handles, wheels etc. they proved difficult to remove; the light-weight structure of the tubular template lifted as they tried harder and harder to pull them back out. The Easyjet dragon, nevertheless, continued to hold the apparatus with her right hand. Well, after 5 minutes one stood and sashayed across to her. “For the love of God! Assist them dear! The contraption clearly needs a hefty weight to hold it down while they pull! Stick your hoof on it to give them a chance!”

The result was a resounding success and bags began popping out with gay abandon.

Finally, the flight was announced. Bing-bong and everyone rose to block the entrance of the embarkation aisle as normal. ‘Passengers with Speedy Boarding only please.’ However, one found oneself boxed in. Chu Me slipped through the legs of the blockade and turned to face one with a distressed look on his face.

“EXCUSE ME!!” One shouted. A row of heads turned. “Speedy Boarding does not function efficiently if one is stopped from doing so by a wall of insipid flesh and unnaturally bright fabrics!”

Like the parting of the Red Sea, a channel appeared and one sashayed through onto the aircraft. Chu Me selected a perfect position and covered the seating with the velvet throw. He then placed the small piece of sheepskin rug on the floor and placed a hand-embroidered scatter cushion against the back of the window seat. Just before take-off a woman appeared at the side of our row of seats with the stewardess.

“I think that’s the last seat.” She said, smiling and pointing at the seat in the centre, “May I?”

“You may not, dear!” One replied.

“The lady does need to be secured in a seat for take off and landing, Dame Crusty.” Said the stewardess in a rather condescending tone of voice.

One clapped one’s hands twice and Chu Me jumped up and grabbed hold of the woman and took her up the rear. Then in the toilet, he removed some gaffa tape from his leather man-bag and managed to secure her beautifully to the seat in there. Returning to the side of his mistress, one looked at the now open-mouthed stewardess.

“That should do it poppet! Now … be a dear and inform the Captain we’re ready to leave.”

Monday, 27 September 2010

Crusty Prepares To Depart The North East On Tour

On arrival at – for want of a better phrase - Newcastle International Airport, the commuters were already bustling around departures. Their despondent faces growing ever more so as they drew closer to the check-in desks for the usual uppity member of staff to check them in with a face as motionless as that of Dannniiiiiii Minge (sorry, my keyboard’s sticking).

Not only that, but the worry welling up inside them, knowing they were involuntarily entering the Newcastle International Airport Lottery. This is a most exciting game where one never knows if one is going to be charged for excess baggage or not.

This happened to Crusty one year when travelling to the utterly scrumptious Bilbao for a short getaway. A young girl, with a complexion as smooth as a page of Braille and ‘blonde hair’ with unattended roots, charged one for an additional 4kg. This baffled one as Chu Me had already weighed them in advance. Nevertheless, one sent him to pay the £24 or so and we left for Gatwick to make our connection.

Sashaying elegantly to the check-in desk at the connecting airport one was naturally expecting further payment to be made. But no, poppets, the trunks were under the required weight!! One later complained, in the most strongest terms, to the service provider but they wrote back to say after an investigation, the scales in question had been checked by Weights & Measures. One naturally wrote back immediately;

Dear Poppet,

Thank you for your letter, which arrived at an opportune time, as one had just ran out of cat litter for Crotchet. One takes on board your comments but, quite frankly dear, would not take anything Weights & Measures say as of any consequence; they have been telling us for years that 25ml is sufficient for a single measure of spirit … however, as you will be well aware one can never put a measurement on such things, as it all depends on one’s mood at the time.

Love & cuddles,
Dame Crusty

Check-in over and the horror of Newcastle International Airport security was thrust upon the now exhausted travellers. If ever one wished to empathise with the cattle world, then one could find no better place; herded into the cordoned corridors, one minute walking left the next minute walking right, zigzagging backwards and forwards (not the most ideal scenario when one has indulged in the odd glass of gin and is wearing heels) only to reach the end to find the sour-faced employees waiting to greet you at the X-Ray machines.

When we arrived at the gates of Hell, a rather heavy set young man approached one with a look of panic on his face; “Just walk through Dame Crusty! There’s no need to undress like last year.” (How splendid one thought, though one must admit one rather enjoyed the disrobing experience last time). Instead, one clapped one’s hands; Chu Me jumped up onto the machine and began to glide through the dangling leatherette strips in one of the large plastic trays. The security man seemed a little caught off guard as he saw one’s faithful houseboy moving past the X-ray screen.

“Er…all, er, seems to be ok with your companion.” He said.

“Hmmmm … Not so, dear,” One said, pointing at the screen, “One thinks he will need a filling in his upper first premolar when we return! Alas, and despite many warnings from his mistress, he just loves chewing his nuts a little too much.”

Anyhoo … Chu Me surfed to the end of the inspection channel in the plastic tray and jumped down to the floor. Our items collected, one sashayed elegantly past an entirely aggressive woman. She darted forward and one stepped back quickly. One could not see any chain around her neck as she began to ask the most invasive questions with a growl at the back of her throat; “Do you have a loyalty card? Do you have a Credit Card?”

All that was missing from the scene was a leather collar with a bone shaped metal tag with Gripper carved into it, along with her address and telephone number should she go missing. Needless to say, one’s self-defence training kicked in immediately and from the top of one’s bag one grabbed a small bottle of Chanel Nº 5 and sprayed her in the face. She recoiled back spitting and spluttering like an angry viper.

“Good Lord, dear, that’s none of your business, one is quite sure!!” and walked on leaving her in a heap with her eyes streaming; the tears meandering down the cheeks of her over made-up face, splashing down upon her Poly-cotton blouse.

The executive lounge was very pleasing and certainly infinitely quieter than last time, when a bleached haired Rotwieller and her friends were draining the bar dry of every drop of alcohol it held. Chu Me found one a comfortable seat, threw over the velvet throw and placed the small square of sheepskin rug on the floor upon which one’s feet would rest. The peace and quiet was wonderful until an older gentleman entered with a highly polished head and sat to one’s left. He had already caught one’s attention at the sign in desk when he started talking quite loudly to the hostess about what flights he normally took. One could feel oneself saying under one’s breath,” She really isn’t interested in the slightest, dear.”

He took up residence in a seat very near and there was silence once more. Then several minutes later he put his hands in his trouser pocket and began to rummage around. There was no look of ecstasy on his face so one realised he was searching for something. He pulled out his mobile device. In a voice that could only resemble that of God in a Charlton Heston movie he bellowed forth into the tiny mouthpiece.

“Hi Paul, it’s me. You’re obviously not up yet. I’m in the airport lounge. Just wanted to know if you wanted to meet up for lunch on Monday? I’m out of the country until then but we can meet up. Give me a call when you get up, mate.”

After what seemed like a lifetime of shouting, there was peace and quiet once more. However, poppets, it was not to last. Again this person, with the lovely head of skin, whipped out his device. He was ‘phoning Paul again (though one doubted the poor poppet would be up considering he wasn’t 2 minutes and 12 seconds ago). However, to one’s surprise he was ... and the lounge pest could now hold a dialogue. From the start of his conversation one concluded he was a referee of some description from his observations of 16 year old boys who could hold their balls well in varying positions.

One stood and glided towards him while he was in mid conversation.

“Hang on, Paul, there’s a lady who wants to talk to me.” He covered the mouthpiece with his left hand.

“Excuse me, poppet. One knows a place which is infinitely better for such a conversation. May I?”

He got up out of his seat and followed one to a double doorway at the far end of the lounge. One opened the door and as he leant forward to see what lay beyond, one grabbed his lapel and flung him out the door and closed it behind him. Seconds later Chu Me had arrived behind one with the gentleman’s hand luggage. Taking the handle, one opened the door once more and threw it onto the tiled floor ahead. He was now in the main departure lounge and there he would stay (One had rolled up a copy of Cosmopolitan and wedged it in the handles).

Turning to return to one’s seat, Chu Me noticed it was time for us to board. Velvet throw, sheep skin rug and hand luggage gathered, we headed to the required gate while the rather shocked face of an unknown referee pressed against the window of the door behind us, could only see us disappear into the distance.

Barcelona was fingering us enticingly into its welcoming bosom.

Crusty Tour Sept 2010 - The Journey Begins

The morning of the 15th September arrived and inside one was squealing with excitement; the Crusty Tour September 2010 was about to begin. Its commencement was met with a blustery introduction; clearly, Mother Nature had been on the flageolet beans again and the resulting wind was literally breathtaking when one awoke and popped one’s head out of the bedroom window. One’s beloved Crusty Hall was being battered from all sides but there was a particularly strong concentration coming from the rear.

Preparations had been completed over the weekend and the household staff – with the assistance of Chu Me – had ensured one’s trunks were packed beautifully (though, not quite as beautifully packed as the trunks of one’s treasured poppet Jake Canuso, but that’s a matter for another time). So, on this morning of departure all that was left for one to do was adorn oneself in an utterly stunning ensemble made of entirely natural fibres and accessorise with a simple selection of diamonds from the Gusset Collection.

The week previous, while enjoying a moment of relaxation in the Badger’s Snatch, with Fanny O’Dour – the landlady and one’s good friend – her husband came into the bar area. He had just been out the back helping yank off the Drayman’s kegs, so he could empty his load and shoot off a little quicker than normal. Willy remembered one was off on holiday and immediately offered to give Chu Me and I a lift.

“Willy, dear, you’re a gentleman!” One said, “You must use GUSSET 1.”

The morning we left, one took a look back at one’s beloved Crusty Hall and saw one’s pussy, Crotchet, sat on the windowsill in the bar. His poor little face was etched with sadness as his ears and whiskers drooped.

“Don’t worry, Crusty.” Willy said, “Once my Fanny comes and give him something to munch on, he’ll forget you’ve even left.”

It was all too much to bear, so one clung on to the words Willy had said, waved at Crotchet and blew him a kiss and the Bentley pulled away.

Wednesday, 8 September 2010

Rooney Causes Contemplation at Crusty Hall.

One was shocked recently when one saw the headlines relating to the alleged Rooney sex scandal. Quite frankly, poppets, who wouldn’t be?

At first one thought, this Hollywood great must be older than Tutankhamun himself by now; if his circulatory system still pumps blood into his man-biscuit for a little how’s-your-father, then more power to his elbow.

Indeed, one had just made that very point to Kitty, who had stopped by for a spot of tea and cake in the conservatory, when she clarified it was Wayne Rooney all the fuss was about and not Mickey Rooney, as one had assumed.

This, of course, threw a completely different light on the subject.

“Ah! You know, one finds it incomprehensible why that rather peculiar looking sportsman need look further than his adequately attractive lady-wife to satisfy his yearnings. Further more, Kitty, one believes – if the stories are to be taken as gospel – that he had his hanky-panky during the motherly incubation period, post breeding process.”

Sipping her tea, Kitty nodded and made a rather delightful ‘mmmm ‘ sound. “That’s men all over, Crusty” she said.

“Quite, dear!”

We sat in a relaxing silence for a few minutes, before one continued after a moment of contemplation

“Footballers seem to be a blessed section of our society, do they not? Take the delicious David Beckham for instance. He just has to walk past a young lady – and many a man - and they can feel their undergarments dissolve immediately as a volcanic surge of sexual desire wells up inside them. Even Peter Crotch, Couch, or some such fancy has managed to acquire love in his life with just such a reaction… and he’s like an albino Pepperami.”

“Which one is Rooney again. I heard the name but wasn’t sure?” Kitty asked.

“You must have seen the advert, poppet. The one where he’s running around in slow motion with his top off and whacking his balls off the end of his boot; rivers of sweat trickling down his hairy frontage in the most unsightly manner (One’s always compelled to throw a napkin over the screen to stop one’s nibbles shrivelling up and to avoid the almost certain gag reflex). Do you remember, dear? A sort of Shrek in monochrome, if you will.”

“Ah yes, I know who you mean now!”

“If it comes out in the laundry that these allegations are true, one suspects Mrs. Rooney will take him to task over his shenanigans and it will be her who is whacking his balls off the end of her Hush-Puppies. Anyhoo … it surely couldn’t be true that such a famous footballer would have to pay someone to have sex with them, could it? That would be highly embarrassing for them to live down, would it not?”

Kitty shrugged her shoulders and went in for another slice of Lemon Fancy.