Saturday, 3 December 2011

Dame Crusty Ponders - Marsh or Quagmire?

On Thursday evening, one was reclining on the chaise in the conservatory watching one’s weekly mental injection of political shenanigans on the glorious BBC; Question Time and This Week.

One normally doesn’t step into the world of politics. One does not possess shoes of adequate dullness, which could be deemed appropriate enough to step into the cess pit of self importance and spin-laden nonsense offered by our MPs.

Anyhoo … having watched a less than eventful Question Time and while waiting for the commencement of the Dame Crusty Follow Friday Frenzy in the Twitterverse, Chu Me poured one a Baccarat tumbler of gin and one settled back to view This Week. There is always a little game Chu Me and I like to play. We see who can guess the colour of Andrew Neil’s hair … against those set out on the Cuprinol colour card. This week he had opted for a dark mahogany (and by the looks of it, one was unclear if he had had it applied with a brush or if he had, instead, been dipped).

During the introduction of this week’s guests, one found a vaporised spray of gin exploding from one’s lips as Andrew described Jodie Marsh as “a bodybuilding glamourpuss”!

One was astounded!

One was not quite sure if “glamourpuss” was the correct descriptive. Yes, the ending could certainly be “uss” … but with a nose that even Michael Jackson would have laughed at and returned for a full refund, one fancies a far more appropriate stem would’ve been “hiddy”.

Sunday, 27 November 2011

Crusty Reflects On Jungle Shenanigans

Reality television seems to have taken over our lives once more, has it not? It seems wherever one goes one can’t avoid it and every member of the village, that is beneath one’s beloved Crusty Hall, wishes to discuss dancing-Xfactorial-Jungular shenanigans at every available opportunity.

It was only yesterday that one visited the village hardware emporium. Chu Me had watched an excessive number of his old specialist nature videos and was in need of something to clean a rather worn out head. One, on the other hand, was in desperate need of a screw.

One had to secure a picture on the oak panelled wall of Litten’s - the bar at Crusty Hall. One’s most treasured poppet Jake Canuso – beautifully hung, with a magnificent frame – kept coming off and dropping heavily on one’s forearm. It was not right that such a delicious creature should suffer in such a outrageously gravitorial manner, so action was required.

Now, you would have thought that at least one member of household staff would have had a screw somewhere on the premises, but it was sadly not to be (although, there is an unidentified stain on the carpet in the library. One is led to believe that the heady scent of a mixture of Cillet Bang and Brasso can be a potent aphrodisiac to those in service ... but that's a matter for another time.)

Anyhoo …While one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, waited outside in GUSSET 1, one entered the hardware shop to find Felicity Flakes standing behind the counter. It was clearly a slow morning, as she stood there with a look of pure boredom on her face, trimming the ends of her nail extensions with a pair of rubber-grip secateurs over the waste paper basket. With each spring-loaded snip, shards of painted plastic ricocheted off the small packets of drain cleaner displayed at the side of the 1960’s cash register, missing the receptacle below entirely.

Even here, among the myriad of tools and utensils of do-it-yourself manufacture and productivity, one was still confronted by the banality of it all.

”Good morning, Dame Crusty. Nice to see you again.” Then with not so much a second’s breath, continued “Did you see I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here last night? Wasn’t it really exciting?!”

One reflected for a moment. One had indeed seen the show, though one thought a more appropriate title would have been I’m A Celebrity Watch Me Almost Chuck My Ring Up. For on the first instalment one had seen, one witnessed the comedic legend Freddie Starr and Mark Wright, from a Channel 4 fly-on-the-wall series, sitting down to enjoy a feast – if indeed ‘enjoy’ is the right word – of strange fayre and animals body parts.

First a fermented egg. Chu Me sat at the far corner of the Doctor Christian Room salivating; this delicacy was much sought after in his village, in a place far, far away. The odious elliptical item did not go down well with Mark Wright … indeed, it almost came up more times than it went down. Next on the menu was a pair of testicles (and one does not refer to one’s gorgeous North East poppets, Ant and Dec!), followed by the unimaginable treat of a kangaroo’s anus. Thankfully, that particular offering had been removed from the creature before eating took place, or the trial could have taken on an altogether more sinister tone.

To finish, our daring duo sat and munched on a Camel toe … and do you know poppets, since witnessing that, one fears one shall never be able to look at a person wearing hot-pants in quite the same way again!

However, the show is bringing us a plethoratorial infestation of celebs feeling their way around Ant and Dec’s humid bush. The Hollywoodian big hitter this year is – or rather was - Stephanie Powers …and one must say having watched only a couple of episodes with her behaviour being scrutinised, one can quite understand why, in Hart to Hart, so many people tried to moider her! What a controlling woman!

To make matters worse, the most recent additions to the camp were Sinitta who, for some reason, was being described as an ‘80’s pop star’. Though one fears ‘pop’ is a little exaggerated … and ‘star’ is certainly a little too strong … but at least they got her age right, so 1 out of 3 isn’t too bad, is it?

The other addition was Pat Sharpe. He was a disc-jockey, of some description, from the 80s or some such fancy. He was known for a rather ridiculous hairstyle that never took on – save on farms in the southern American states … where farm animals pray for a sip of Rohypnol when they know their owners have been out for a spot of line dancing and moonshine and return with an amorous glint in their eye.

Needless to say, he has - for some time – bobbed deep beneath the diaphragm of celebrityism and has, by good fortune, been plucked from his bobbings to make up numbers. Thankfully, his hair has improved …slightly … but sadly, his body and attitude have not. He may have an ability to put a record onto a turntable and stick a stylus in the groove, but his manner and personality one finds highly objectionable and one suspects a revival of whatever career he had will remain out of reach when he is finally tossed off by the viewers.

Antony Cotton is proving a valuable member of the jungle with his adept cooking skills and Lorraine Chase still maintains an exquisite elegance. Delight was the word du jour when one saw the gorgeous Crissy Rock participating, hot footing it from the set of one’s most treasured poppet, Derren Litten’s, filming of Series 5 of Benidorm, due for screening in 2012.

We even have a rather focused inclusion of former Olympic athlete … the mighty Fatima Whitbread; most recently seen walking through the foliage with Pat singing “I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts” …(was there ever any doubt, dear.)

One looked at Felicity, “No dear. One doesn’t watch it.”

She looked deflated. “Pray forgive one, dear, one must away. One needs to screw a gorgeous poppet against the wall of the bar before he comes off again.”

Turning like a ballerina on point, in one’s Gucci stilettos, one took one’s purchases and sashayed majestically back to GUSSET 1, while Felicity returned to the mutilation her artificial claws with her garden clippers.

Wednesday, 23 November 2011

James Naughtie Sours Crusty's Eggs.

One was sitting in the Breakfast Room in one's beloved Crusty Hall this morning, enjoying a sumptuous selection of morning fayre prepared by Chef.

One's faithful houseboy, Chu Me, had been up early to pay a visit to his chicken coup at the side of the stables. His cock was standing proud as he collected a selection of the eggs the chickens had produced for the household overnight.

Munching on a delicious serving of Eggs Benedict, one drifted slightly as Radio 4’s Today programme droned on in the background.

Suddenly, one’s munching ceased in horror as one briefly caught a short extract of an interview being conducted by James Knockedknees. He was discussing some topic or other (the length of his questions often makes it impossible to remember what on earth he's talking about) but one nearly choked when the interviewee kept mentioning vaginal deliveries.

As Chu Me nibbled the end of a buttered up soldier, one swallowed one’s mouthful and turned to the radio simply saying, “If it’s all the same to you, dear, one would still prefer to have one’s mail delivered by hand!”

Saturday, 15 October 2011

Strictly Come Dancing 2011 - A Crusty Review

Well, this year’s glitterlicious dancefest, Strictly Come Dancing, is underway!

One must confess one gets a warm feeling in one’s lady-garden when one sees the wrinkled, sun-kissed face of Sir Bruce Forsythe and – to some extent - his co-host Tess Daly; the latter normally adorned in an array of ill-fitting gowns and bizarre hairdos. One recalls her wearing something on the cusp of sexy two weeks ago, when her bottle-blonde hair was set in waves down the both sides of her face, like something from the early part of the 20th century. She looked adequately pleasing to the eye (if you turned your head quickly from side to front, side to front, side to front and squinted) but with her rocket-red mouth ... one couldn’t help thinking there was a hooker on the hunt for her missing lipstick.

Another time, the wardrobe department had advised Tess that bright yellow frockage would be a crowd pleaser. Alas, with her statuesque height, it only made her look like Sesame Street’s Big Bird in a pair of matching stilletoes and a platinum rinse. Then last week, the armless metallic number she wore served no other purpose than to remind one to have Chu Me remove the foil wrapped chicken wings from the Aga.

Anyhoo … there is an impressive line-up of celebrity fodder aiming to shake a tail-feather in front of the nation and the panel of judges; the ageless Lulu, the One Show’s Alex Jones, the gargantuanly gorgeous Audley Harrison, Nancy Dill’y’Dall’io and Holly Valance to name but a few.

It was also revealed that Holly had a fellow Australian to support her through the season’s shenanigans. Indeed, on the opening show, one’s jaw dropped and one’s inner thighs tightened when one saw Jason Donovan on one’s 32-incher with a smile - as bright as sunlight itself - beaming across his little face. He’s certainly aged well, has he not? Yet, one always recalls him at the height of his fame, having shoes that appeared to have been put together in a North East shipyard … great big hoofers they were! Now, however, his feet appear to have shrunk to a more agreeable size, which appear to be helping him float gracefully across the floor, consumed by the story behind the dance.

One’s dear twitterchum Russell Grant has signed up too. Now, many laughed at the delicious Russell, thinking he was going to be awful but one knew there was nibble footwork dangling from the end of those legs and, true to form, his nibble danglies have had one mesmerised.

The world of sport is represented by football bad-boy Robbie Savage.

During one video clip it was explained he’s known for being rather naughty and often dropping his shorts in public and, in case we viewers were not able to imagine such a sight, we were treated to a photograph of Robbie (who was showing an unnecessary amount of nipplage in this particular episode, one felt) standing on a pitch, being flanked by officials (No, Chu Me … ‘Flanked’ dear!) and exhibiting himself in a skimpy pair of white undercrackers, with his defiant arms stretched aloft. The visible lack of man-biscuit was disappointing but one took comfort in knowing that if football became too much and he didn’t win the Strictly Come Dancing competition, at least he had a successful career as a lady-boy ahead of him.

Before the series actually started, one was transfixed by the trailers for the show. Particularly, by a pretty young thing, strutting down a fictional BBC street, music playing, with an overly jiggly bosom. It was, of course, Chelsee Healy from Waterloo Road. However, ‘bosom’ doesn’t quite accurately describe a set of hooters like that! Especially when they look like a couple of activated airbags from the dashboard of 18-tonne truck!

As for the oddment of the line up, well this had to be the unveiling of Edwina Currie (and if anyone should be wearing a veil –and a very heavy one at that - it is she). Edwina, during a promotional video, told the viewers that she was really worried about doing the show in case she got egg on her face. Goodness! Through the Major years one fancies she had much worse on it!

As it turned out, however, she was the first to be voted off. One suspects it was due to her lying on her back at the end of her routine and kicking her legs in the air to a ripple of applause, while flashing her expansive buttock region. Having said that, the ripple of applause did stop when her feet returned to the floor, so it may actually have been airborne thigh-slappage that had created the ripple and not the audience, as one had first thought.

So with one down the show must go on and the competition must continue for the winner to be awarded the prized glitterball trophy, though one suspects it is all in the bag for either the taught-torsoed Harry He-can-beat-one’s-bongo’s-anytime Judd or Jason he’s-still-very-big-down-under Donovan.

Tuesday, 11 October 2011

A Moment of Reflection Munching a Meaty Ring.

The heavy wood door of Crusty Hall slowly opened, as one grabbed the immaculately buffed knob and twisted it to the left. Señor Sol’s tentacles of light burst through the opening and bounced off the reflective surfaces of the tiled vestibule and ricocheted off the walls of the Great Hall.

At the foot of the steps outside, one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, had prepared GUSSET 2 for one’s excursion into the village. With one thing and another, it seemed like an age since one had ventured out of the grounds of one’s exquisite residence. One had decided that a blast down the country lanes, into the heart of the village, to partake of a snifter or two with one’s dear friend, Fanny O’Dour, at The Badger’s Snatch, would be the perfect opportunity to catch up.

Chu Me held the driver’s door open on the glistening silver Aston Martin as one elegantly plonked oneself into the leather seat. Once settled into position, he clicked the door shut. Blowing him a kiss with one’s glove-covered hand, one pushed the gear stick into first and sped off down the drive. In less than 5 minutes, one was pulling up at the front of The Badger’s Snatch.

Sashaying majestically into the front entrance once saw Fanny’s husband, Willy O’Dour, standing behind the bar. It was very quiet. The musical ping-ponging of the fruit machine in the far corner echoed out spasmodically; Veronica Mantrapp was sitting in a booth with a bottle of Brown Ale, a straw and a copy of the latest Hello! Magazine (you wouldn’t think she was a model!) and a pair of ramblers had stopped by for a sandwich and a cup of coffee to rest from their pointless journey.

Willy had his laptop on the bar and seemed engrossed in whatever he was looking at. So much so, that he hadn’t even noticed one enter.

”Good morning, Willy dear!”

“Ah! Morning Crusty.” Willy looked up, “We’ve missed you!”

“One must apologise, poppet. Things have been rather hectic at Crusty Hall. One has felt like a prisoner in one’s own home. But, at last, one is free!” Removing one’s gloves and resting them on the bar, one continued, “One thought one would nip down and catch up on all the gossip with Fanny. Is she in?”

“She’s out I’m afraid, Crusty. Daphne Dewdrop was in last night and asked her if she fancied seeing the new Sarah Jessica Parker movie today (one shuddered … naturally), so they’ve both nipped into town.”

“A new movie you say? With Sarah Jessica Parker?” One enquired, trying to control one’s gag reflex.

“Yes. It’s called I Don’t Know How She Does It, I think. Can I get you a drink?”

“A glass of Pere Ventura Cava, if you will, Willy dear.” One replied, sitting on the supportive bar stool.

Willy placed the chilled glass of golden, bubbling elixir in front of one. He picked up a brown bag by his laptop and lifted it towards one, “Would you like a barbeque Hula Hoop, Crusty?”

“Very kind, dear!” One said, taking one from the packet and settled back with one’s drink.

Willy leant over the bar and continued scanning his laptop screen while one played with his meaty ring with one’s forefinger and thumb, before navigating it between one’s lips and enjoying a good munch.

I Don’t Know How She Does It, one thought.

She’ll certain never know the heartache of losing her good looks … but she must have all the best stylists at her disposal … she must have accumulated a sizeable fortune from her moderately successful career. Furthermore, she must have a plethora of designers flinging their outfits in her direction, to hang lifelessly upon her skeletal frame… yet she still looks like that?!!

One doesn’t know how she does it either, dear!

Wednesday, 5 October 2011

The Golden Twit Awards 2011 - Chu Me Nominates His Mistress.

One was surprised, yet humbled to the core of one's bosom, to discover that one's faithful houseboy, Chu Me, had put one forward for this years Golden Twit Awards.

He decided to select one for the categories of Humour (one does like to spread a little love, joy and laughter), Writing (one does offer one's scribblings on this very blogette) and ... Fake Celebrity (for which one held him by the neck and gave him a good slap across the dish!).

Anyhoo ...  if you are fellow Twitterees and have leanings to place your vote for one, then you may navigate to the appropriate voting booth in a jiffy by clicking the image below. On arrival at the page, simply sign in with your Twitter details and off you go!

One must say one has began making preparations should one be victorious. One has set aside an exquisite outfit, designed by the fashion-powerhouse Masato (Beverley Knight's not the only one to buy his elegant designs, you know?).

Also, one has had Chu Me send scented invitations to some of one's most treasured poppets; Jake Canuso, Derren Litten, Holly Johnson, Christian Jessen, Louie Spence, Dan Brocklebank, John Mason and Alex Nicolaou.

One thought they could dress in black Hom budgie-smugglers for the occasion - with bow ties (naturally!) - and be glistening in a fine film of baby oil, massaged carefully in to every nook and cranny of their epidermal expanse (one thinks it best if one sees to that part personally, Chu Me), then they can all take one up the aisle, help one onto the stage, where one can use one's oral skills to show one's gratitude - with one's poppets surrounding one in a semi-circle of oiled up deliciousness - before pulling them off one by one, to a ripple of applause and returning to our table to enjoy the rest of the evening with some bottles of bubbly and a few nibbles.

Goodness! One has rather enjoyed the evening already ... and it hasn't even arrived yet!!

Thursday, 15 September 2011

UK Deploys Weapon of Mass Destruction in Afghanistan

One awoke this morning to the wonderful – and long awaited – news that the Ministry of Defence had finally chosen to deploy our most heinous, lethal and abhorrent weapon into the heart of Afghanistan, in an attempt to bring the eternal battle there to an end; Cheryl y’nailed-it Cole.

While munching on a length of Mr. Peppercorn’s meaty sausage in the sumptuous comfort of one’s bed, one nodded approvingly at the decision that had been made. One’s faithful houseboy Chu Me attempted to tell one that she had gone there to motivate the troops, however, having burst into a state of hysterical laughter, with glistening droplets of joyous tears streaming down one’s face for 22½ minutes, one assured him his interpretation of the news was quite ludicrous. One still suffers a tad gigglelicious moistness at the thought even now.

Anyhoo … one is quite confident that, with the aid of some loud speakers strategically placed throughout the country and an impromptu concert where she sings a short (the shorter the better, dear!) medley of her hit, we will soon see the Taliban insurgents willingly jumping onto their own roadside IEDs and swan-diving majestically from the roof tops of tall buildings into the most densely packed areas of their deadly minefields with a overwhelming sense of urgency and purpose.

Once they have been taken care of, there is no reason, that one can see, why we can’t have all our brave troops back home with their loved ones by teatime on Saturday.

Sunday, 14 August 2011

A Benidorm Guide to a Happy Holiday - A Must Have!

It has long been recognised that one has some very special men in one’s life; none more so, than the exquisitely delicious and award-winning, comedy genius that is Derren Litten.

For many years, Derren has brought laughter into our lives, whether through his comedy acting or through his wonderful writing. His partnership with his school friend - the gorgeous Catherine Tate - brought us the sublimely gigglicious 'Catherine Tate Show' and without him, we would not have had the pleasure of the wonderful ‘Benidorm’ (The television series, not the town, dear. …He’s not a construction worker!).

The latter has introduced us to a plethora of characters that we have grown to know and love; the Garvey family with the sun-drenched, chain-smoking matriarch, Madge; the wonderfully sarcastic Gavin and Troy; the swinging shenanigans of Donald and Jacqueline and the saucy antics of the Solana’s very own Mateo (played by one’s treasured poppet, Jake Canuso).

Derren has proved that, not only can he write fabulous comedy lines but also bring us story lines filled with emotion and sentiment. In Series 4 of the show one had many a droplet force itself from one’s tear ducts at the story line he brought us, which paid perfect homage to the late, great Geoffrey Hutchings.

Anyhoo … one was in Litten’s this afternoon – the oak-panelled bar at Crusty Hall. Chu Me had just poured one a tumbler of gin but was having considerable problem trying to get some ice cubes from a clump in the ice bucket that had frostily welded themselves to one another. One was standing behind the bar and gazing upon the picture framed magnificence of one’s comedy poppet and wondering whether to re-apply a lipstick imprint of one’s kiss upon his cheek when, suddenly, one felt an intense and very pleasurable vibration round one’s downstairs area; it was one’s mobile device.

As Chu Me, gripped his weapon of choice and managed - with a quick bash and a degree of panting – to get his rocks off, one read the screen while he deposited a handful into one’s glass. One squealed loudly.

Apparently, not only had one’s dearest poppet, Derren,  been locked in a room, beavering away furiously on Benidorm Series 5 …but he had also been writing a book!!!! Good Lord, he never stops!!! Sufficed to say his work is complete and is available to pre-order from our wonderful Amazonians. One has already made one’s reservation and urge all of one’s poppets to do the same. It is guaranteed to exercise your chuckle-muscles and provide hints and tips from Madge on the art of tanning, from Donald and Jacqueline on getting into the 'swing' of things and advice from Mateo on holiday romances (oh yes, it's not all down to pert buttocks and gossamer thin budgie-smugglers, I can tell you!)

It will be the most delicious read and the sort of thing you can always give a quick fingering every now and then. You’ll also find it’s currently a hard one (and who can resist one of those), so reserve it now before it goes soft. Simply click on the image below to get your copy from Amazon!

Rained In With Jordan.

The weather outside was horrendous! Mother Nature certainly appeared to have a lot of angst that she wished to rid herself of. The heavy, swollen liquidity of her tears plummeted from the heavens and exploded violently upon the grounds here at Crusty Hall. One stood with a Baccarat tumbler of gin at the Study window watching this heavy curtain of water fall upon the day’s production and random droplets ricocheting from the lush green foliage of gardener’s borders.

From behind, one could hear the slapping sound given off by the flip-flops of one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me. As he came up one’s rear, one sighed and said, “One fears today is not a day to venture outside, dear.”

One had no appetite to go into the Library; by the time one had searched through the immense catalogue of books on the shelves, it would be quite possible that the day would be over. What could one do with the day? One placed the glistening crystal tumbler on the corner of one’s desk.

“Chu Me, dear, ask one of the household staff to come in, would you?”

Within a few minutes a small, slender girl entered, grabbed the sides of her skirt and curtsied, “Ma’am.”

“Ah! You there … run down to the village would you, and nip into the newsagent and bring one back some interesting reading. One is becoming extremely bored.”

The young creature looked towards the rain battered windows then back to her mistress with sad puppy-esque eyes. “Run along, dear!” One shooed with the back of one’s hand.

Following her to the front door she extended her, almost skeletal, arm towards the umbrella stand. One let out a shriek. “Good Lord! Those umbrellas are antiques, dear! You mustn’t touch them. Honestly, you shall be quite safe. Your uniform is made of synthetic fabrics so you shall be adequately protected against the rain. Now, hurry along.” Chu Me opened the great oak door and we watched her – her hand held out in front of her to shield her face from the rain – run down the saturated drive.

An hour later, one was sashaying from Litten’s – the oak-panelled bar at Crusty Hall – towards the little Dame’s room. Someone lifted one of one’s knockers and whacked it against the door. Opening it, one saw what looked like a drowned rat with the made-up face of Alice Cooper standing in front of one, shivering and clutching a sealed plastic bag. It was the member of household staff that had ran one’s errand. She handed the bag to one, to the almost Salsa-esque sound of her chattering teeth (and one must confess one felt a little shake of one’s tail-feather at the hypnotic rhythm). Then, completely unexpectedly and quite outrageously, the creature made a move to put her foot over the threshold! With the protection of the plastic bag, one propelled her back with a mighty push to her chest. One looked at her sitting there looking up at one, “Not this way, dear!” One said, closing the door, “you’ll play havoc with the parquet flooring.”

Anyhoo … One made one’s way to the Doctor Christian Room and fingered through the selection of magazines in the bag. One of the glossies that the girl had brought back was the recent edition of Closer. Reclining back on one’s chaise, one was immediately drawn – for some inexplicable reason – to the never ending, self-promoted troubles of Katie Jordan Price. It would seem that she is having a few problems with her latest beau, Leandro Penna. (Oh Lord! Here we go again!)

She has apparently told friends she feels “empty and lost”, which is quite coincidental because one has long since thought the same; one has always considered her vacuous … and … as for the point of her … one could never find it.

The report by Amy Swales, tells us she is suffering mood swings and is constantly arguing with poor Leandro about his behaviour in public and what he wears (He’s of Latin extraction, dear, he could be wearing cowbells and a smile and he’d still be stunning …whereas, if you were wearing cowbells you'd be ….well …quite at home, one fancies). The man is a successful model. One is quite sure he is highly knowledgeable about style and fashion. That is worlds apart from Katie Jordan Price who – though she may be referred to as a ‘model’ – would not have absorbed the same expertise from kneeling in a skimpy pair of pants, arching her back and thrusting forth her mammoth hooters.

The relationship situation has been made all the worse – Amy reveals - because our morsel of Argentine tottyness’ English has been improving and he’s now beginning to understand what the unnaturally blonde abomination is saying. Now … one would always urge any person one meets to learn a second language but one is saddened that one never met Leandro prior to his meeting the gutter-press goddess to whisper, “Stick with what you know, dear!” (and after all, who doesn’t adore the Spanish tongue?)

It may well be (as if one even cared) that her moodiness is being caused by the liquid diet she is on. She’s off to Marbella for a holiday and wants to lose some weight. (Holidaymakers, if you’re reading this, you still have time to pack and run ... now!). As an aside, one remmbers when one enjoyed a liquid diet some years ago. When one told the local Slimming World rep that one had lost just over a stone on it in a week, she mocked and demanded, “ What proof do you have?”

“38.5% ,dear, unless Fanny’s got an imported bottle in behind the bar.” One told her, while slapping her across the dish for her rudeness.

Having reflected upon this article, it would seem that the ceaseless stories and updates of this over-exposed eyesore are to continue. There will be a well publicised split, then when some other poor victim is drawn into the Katie Jordan Price Circus, we will be deluged with the stories of her heart-to-hearts with, not only Peter you-can-scrub-y’-washing-on-my-6-pack André, and Alex I’ll-fight-you-but-don’t-ladder-me-tights Reid but now the smoulderingly sexy deliciousness of Leandro too.

Will it ever end?! Alas, one fears not!

Monday, 18 July 2011

Outrage on the Village Green.

One was gliding elegantly along the pavement by the village green the other day, in a stunning pair of Gucci pumps and gorgeous trouser suit. The air was moist with an agreeable level of humidity and a warm breeze brushed one’s velvety cheeks like that given off from the exhaust pipe of a Harrier jump jet.

In the far corner of the green, one could see Mrs. Tickles, with her daughter Tess, planting an array of floral delights. To one’s right the row of picturesque cottages with their gardens in resplendent bloom. The heady scent of Mr. Craddick’s sweet peas filled one’s nasal passages with molecules of odorous splendour as it drifted heavenly across the narrow road. It was a most fragrant morning indeed.

Just as one began to take a deep and lung-bulging sniff, one stopped suddenly when one noticed a small dog squatting down to one’s left, making ready to leave a little parcel for Mother Nature.

One looked down in total disbelief. At that same moment, the village school teacher, Molly Coddle, strolled by reading her weekly glossy magazine and stopped for a chat.

“Morning Dame Crusty. It’s a beautiful day isn’t it?”

One was forced to hold out one’s exquisitely manicured hand and shake it to command silence.

The little creature completed its task, held its front paws steady and scratched its back legs through the grass; then with a half turn, looked up at one, wagged its tail and shot off with a yapping noise towards a car belonging to a visitor to our sleepy hamlet.

“Good boy!” the woman shouted in a child-like manner, as she lifted the tailgate of her Vauxhall Corsa. “Mummy’s very happy you had poo-poo! Yezzz she is; yezzz she is!”

Looking down at the small deposit squidged on top and between the blades of grass, one wondered if the owner was intending to bring her legging-clad, gladiator-sandaled self over to remove the offending mass. Instead, she bent down and kissed her Shih-tzu (quite a trick in anyone’s book), closed the tailgate to secure her inside and walked towards the driver’s door. It was all quite outrageous!!

What happened next was like the superhuman combat precision one only sees in Hollywood blockbusters such as the Matrix. In what seemed like slow motion, one turned; the previously fluttering hand now reached out to grab Molly’s magazine – opened on the page where Katie Price stated she felt fat and ugly (for a brief moment one thought, 'if it’s any consolation, dear, you look it too!') – and in a wide arc-like scooping movement, shovelled the faecal matter onto the pages and with a fairy godmother like flick, fired the bullet of botty business across the street to land with a thud against the rear panel of the escaping car.

The woman drove off without knowing, while the little pooch recoiled back from the window with the shock of the thud. One turned to hand Molly her magazine back.

“No time to stop and chat now, dear. Off to the Badger’s Snatch for a coffee with Fanny.”

One had only made a couple of steps when one heard Molly shouting from behind.

“Dame Crusty?!”

One turned, “Yes, dear?”

“My magazine?! The pages are covered in shit!”

“Oh I know dear! … and to think they call themselves journalists!”

With that, one turned and picked up one’s pace (naturally, maintaining elegance at all times) to arrive at the Badger’s Snatch on time.

One was not all sure what Molly was shouting as one gained a greater distance from her, but by her inflection one feels it was certainly not befitting an educator of young children.

Thursday, 30 June 2011

Barry Manilow - Odo Know Better.

One was reclining on the chaise in the Doctor Christian Room last Friday, while indulging in a small plate of Mediterranean nibbles and a glass of chilled Pere Ventura Cava.

The television was on in the background but one was not paying a great deal of attention to it. One’s pussy, Crotchet, had decided to have a mad half-hour with a paperclip he had came across on the parquet flooring; watching him spring forward with this paws pushed together and outstretched and jumping somersaults around the room had proved far more interesting than what our broadcasters had to offer. Indeed, an extended broadcast of Wimbledon had caused havoc with one’s Friday routine of titterlicious comedy programmes.

Anyhoo … A momentary distraction drew one away from one’s feline fascination when one heard rapturous applause. Looking up, one saw that an episode of Star Trek was on. Police constable Odo was singing Karaoke in the bar on Deep Space 9. He’d dispensed with the slicked back hair and had gone for a much softer style with highlights. It was certainly less severe but one couldn’t help thinking it was highly unusual for the character to be performing in such a flamboyant manner; he was usually so reserved.

Barry Manilow
Curious to see the synopsis of the episode one found oneself pressing the information button on one’s remote. One squealed with surprise when one discovered one was, in fact, watching Paul O’Grady Live … and it was not the interstellar changeling,Odo, as one had thought but , in actual fact, Barry Manilow!

At first one couldn’t believe it, however, looking at the dancing technique with the Big Bird-esque legs and the shipyard constructed shoes, one soon realised it was indeed the velvety-voiced, Copacabanial poppet.

(oh dear, do you know, one's not
quite sure now!)

Sitting on the guests sofa, he turned frequently to talk to the host – Paul O’Grady – and as he did so one moved closer to the screen to see if one could catch a glimpse of a bulldog clip clamped onto the back of his neck, but there was no evidence to support one’s suspicions. Something must have happened for him to, seemingly, have the need to put so much effort into blinking his eye-lids. And when he sang a line that required lipular rounding, the words tried their utmost to tease his lips into movement but one was on the edge of one's chaise expecting his cheeks to split open like the knicker elastic around a fat man’s thigh.

One’s faithful houseboy entered the room at that point, exhausted after watching one of his specialist nature DVDs in his quarters – ‘Dirty Mares In The Paddock II’ (something about horses, one imagines) - and declared Mr. Manilow had had a facelift.

“Goodness, dear, one’s never seen Clingfilm pulled that tight …let alone skin!” (Yes, one knows one rarely cooks oneself, but one does occasionally stretch a piece across the household staff’s toilet bowl for a bit of a giggle.)

One honestly does not know why people do it! … And do you know, poppets, one is convinced every time he closed his mouth one saw his toes curl up!

Sunday, 8 May 2011

Connie Candleshaft - A Village Says Good-bye

The tragic demise – or rather consumption – of Connie Candleshaft had shocked the entire village. Word had spread quickly throughout the local cliques of gossip, the bar at the Badger’s Snatch and across the counter of the village Post Office so, as the day of the funeral arrived, many were expected to line the streets to pay their last respects … and to see how the occasion was to be handled; bearing in mind the grizzly circumstances in which she met her end.

There had been some controversy in the days prior, however, when the village undertakers Digget & Buryham had gently moved the – rather gelatinous – fish tank from the back of Diana Scrunch’s salon to the preparation room of their funeral emporium. The ravenous aquatic killers had already been removed by specialists but the question remained; how were they going to retrieve poor Connie’s remains in order to give her an appropriate send-off?

A traditional coffin would certainly not suffice, as poor Connie would simply seep through the knots and dovetail joints. No, the occasion required something more practical and it was not until one paid a short visit to Mr. Peppercorn’s butchery shop and bumped into the two partners – Al Digget and Al Buryham – that one was able to assist with a little Gusset resourcefulness. Mr Peppercorn was busy giving one some tongue and a length of his sausage as we chatted and the pair had clearly dwelled upon the dilemma for an age and, as a result, one could see the stress etched into their sombre faces.

“Dame Crusty, we are at a loss! We don’t know what to do?” declared Mr. Digget, “and the funeral is planned for two days time!”

“Goodness, poppets, what a fix you find yourselves in! Circumstances have certainly caused complications, have they not?!” It was at that very moment that one’s eyes strayed to the back counter of the Mr. Peppercorn’s preparation area and one was struck by an inspirational “eureka” moment. For there, placed at the side of Pat Tissery’s mouth-wateringly plumptious baps - from the village bakers - was a tub of pease pudding.

“Tupperware!” one exclaimed.

“Sorry?!” asked Al Buryham.

“Tupperware, dear! Get yourselves a large receptacle of Tupperware and use that! Simply ladle the … broth – for want of a better word – through a sieve … or, better still, a large piece of muslin. You can get that from the vicar’s wife; she’s always making jams and uses it for …for…”

“Taking the pith?” Mr. Digget asked.

“No, one’s quite serious, dear! But if you don’t want one’s help …”

“No, Dame Crusty …the muslin …for taking the pith of the fruit … to make the jam.”

“Ahh!” One acknowledged. After a moments thought, they looked at each other, realised it may just work and set off upon their mission.

Marjorie Flecks, the vicar’s wife, had taken it upon herself to telephone Connie’s sister, Clarissa, as soon as the time and date had been arranged. This would give her enough time to travel up from Hitchin, where she resided with her collection of garden gnomes …. “I explained the whole sad tale to her, Dame Crusty.” Marjorie later told one, “It was a terribly crackly line but at least she heard the news from someone in the village and not some stranger.”

After the death of their parents, Connie and Clarissa had spent many years living together in the family home here in the village. However, as years passed by the relationship had become strained. Connie’s eating habits had become a great cause for concern; Apart from a penchant for Mustafa Sidoon’s kebabs, she could quite easily eat anything that was put in front of her and one day, after Clarissa had been roasted by the sun in the back garden and coated herself in Greek yogurt to soothe the redness, she had entered the kitchen to find Connie sitting with a cotton serviette tucked down her cleavage, a knife and fork in her hands and a look of hunger on her face with unnatural lip-dribblage occurring. She could take no more and moved out.

Anyhoo … problems solved and preparations made, the sad day of the burial arrived. The Tupperware container was placed in the back of the Daimler hearse and the crowds that lined the streets of the village, dipped their heads in respect as it passed. It was all very Egyptian; just as in times gone by, bits of a pharaohs were buried in small jars, so here, Connie was to be laid to rest in something similar …only plastic …and with an air-tight lid.

Sadly, there was no sign of Clarissa, who was and always had been as intelligent as a block of wood. However, the event – between the funeral parlour and the vicar – was timed with almost military precision and no delay could be accommodated.

After saying our farewells to dear Connie, we all returned to the lounge of the Badger’s Snatch, where Fanny O’Dour had put on a wonderful spread for Connie’s wake. There was a subdued and respectful ambience as people tucked into the food and raised their glasses in honour of our lost poppet. Then, just as one had had a nibble on Fanny’s prawn ring, the door swung open and Clarissa appeared, looking quite flustered.

It turned out (and one was not in the slightest surprised) that she had arrived at the wrong venue. She had turned up at a small chapel very near to the village, however it was the one for the pet crematorium. She had thought it odd that there were only a few people present and, more so, that there was no one she recognised. It was only when the coffin was brought out with a with a bag of Shapes on top of it and a black leather collar with a tag with Connie, studded across it in diamante tackiness, that she found out she was paying her respects to a 15 year old Golden Retriever. Needless to say, she made a hasty exit.

One stool with Clarissa by the brightly lit fruit machine, near the fireplace. Flanked by Kitty, Fanny, Mrs. Tickle – from the garden centre - and her daughter Tess, none of us could find appropriate words of consolation.

Eventually the silence was broken. “Well!” Clarissa sighed, “She had a good life! At least she went the way she would’ve wanted.”

Fanny dropped her glass and we all turned to look at her…”the way she would have wanted, dear?!”

“Yes! Eating!” Clarissa nodded, “She always had a passion for food.”

“No, dear … EATEN!! She was eaten!”

Monday, 11 April 2011

Tragedy In The Village - RIP Connie Candleshaft

It has long been the case that people, in the village beneath Crusty Hall, look towards one for guidance and advice, both in their private life and with their business ventures. Indeed, some have had the benefit of both; Claudia Shaver for example. One was there - in a fashion - as a shoulder to cry on when her husband, Klaus Shaver, ran off with his gingham clad personal assistant, Tristan, to open their flower shop in the Yumbo Centre on Gran Canaria. Then later, performing one’s public duty, at the opening of her new business; the village model agency.

Recently, while standing under the greengrocer’s canopy and feeling the ripeness of his plumbs, one saw the village beautician, Diana Scrunch out of one’s peripheral vision.

“Ah, good morning, Diana dear!” One said, turning towards her.

“Morning Dame Crusty.” She said in a rather rattled voice.

“Good Lord, poppet, you seem all of a hoo-har. What troubles you so?”

“Honestly Dame Crusty, I don’t know where to begin. The shop toilet is over-flowing, so customers are having to use a wheelie bin in the back yard with a loose bit of wicker fencing for privacy; my car had a flat tyre this morning and I’ve found out I’ve got a leaky valve; the only clean pair of knickers I could find when I got dressed are two sizes too small and slicing through me like a cheese wire and - if all that wasn’t bad enough - I’ve been running an advert for my new therapeutic foot cleansing sessions … but the fish haven’t arrived!! I’m supposed to start the sessions in two days!!! I’ve been trying the suppliers since 6.30 and they’re just not answering the phone!” With that, she let out a highly audible and unpleasant scream. “Aaaaaaggh!!!!”

The shrill outcry made one jump and one’s natural instinct contracted one’s gorgeously manicured hands until one felt a ‘pop’ and felt a sticky, liquid feeling. One realised one had just crushed the greengrocer’s plumbs in one’s hands! One paused a couple of seconds to reflect upon her dilemma ….

“Fish dear?! What on earth do you need fish for? Surely you’re not thinking of using their scales to file you customers toes nails?! … or use their sharp, spiny fins to clean their cuticles?”

A little calmer after her battle cry, she explained further. “No Dame Crusty, it’s the new rage. You put these special fish in a large tank and then dip your feet in. Their natural urge is to nibble at the dead skin on your feet and it leaves them feeling refreshed and soft. It’s a wonderful feeling. You should try it …IF I EVER GET SORTED!!!”

“Calm yourself, poppet! Now … though one appreciates your bizarre offer, one prefers Chu Me to work his magic in one’s weekly foot massage session by one’s indoor pool … and so one must decline. However! One does have a few contacts and may be able to sort out your fish problem for tomorrow.”

The look of gratitude across her heavily made-up face was overwhelming …or at least from what one could make out.  Arriving back at one’s beloved Crusty Hall, one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, wiped the squashed, dripping fruit residue from one’s hands with a luxurious soapy flannel.

“Chu Me, dear! We have a mission … one’s phonebook, if you please!”

One made the call to one’s specialist supplier. He supplies one’s estate with all its aquatic creatures for one’s own ponds and water features. One was confident he would know the variety Diana required. Alas, he was bamboozled. He had not heard of such a strange practice and laughed at the very thought.

“One knows, dear, it all sounds very odd. Needless to say, it’s fish that eat flesh. One’s sure you can find something. I’m under the impression we need quite a few of them too, so about a hundred would suffice, one fancies.”

Two days later one had completely forgotten about one’s good deed and had ridden down to the heart of the village on the back of one’s trusty steed, Dribble. When one reached the village green there was a huge degree of excitement. There was an ambulance slowly leaving via the north route and looking over to the corner of the village, a police car was blocking off Briggs Street with its blue lights flashing and a cordon tied around the nearby lampposts. One could also see the hearse from the local funeral parlour, Digget & Buryham, parked in the back street of the beautician’s emporium. Riding over, one was concerned that one’s mount may be spooked with all this activity but, thankfully, one managed to hold Dribble calmly between one’s knees.

One dismounted and one’s Jessica Feltcher curiosity came over one in an instant.  There was a sound of weeping and one spun to see Diana Scrunch sitting on a step crying into her hands.

“What on earth is the matter, dear. What has happened to cause so much excitement?!” One enquired.

Apparently, all had gone according to plan and the fish one had requested had been delivered and plopped into their new home; the large glass container in the back of the salon.  At 9am that morning, it would appear the first to try the treatment …well …came a bit of a cropper. The paramedic –who one had seen driving out of the village moments earlier - had advised Diana that the actual fish needed for the procedure were Garra Rufa …and not the Piranha that one’s specialist supplier had delivered. Who knew?

Anyhoo … as a result, poor Connie Candleshaft was no more but one thing’s for sure, with her constant diet of fatty foods and desserts, the little beggars must have certainly had a slap up meal!

“Honestly, Dame Crusty!” Wept Diana,”They ate practically everything …except her ring!(sniff)

“Well who could blame them dear, with the number of Mustafa Sidoon’s kebabs she’s ate, it would have hardly been the tastiest part!”

It turns out, however, it was the nine carat gold puzzle ring she bought from Ratners some years ago. 

Saturday, 9 April 2011

Wildlife at Breakfast

The fire cracked in the hearth like Dame Birley Shassey’s hips. The flickerations of orangey-yellow light danced across the walls of the room and glistened off one’s epidermal moisture. The gentle sounds of one’s dear twitterchum Holly Johnson’s voice filled the air from the Bang & Olufsen music system and a feeling of pure paradise welled up inside one’s elegant frame. One rubbed one’s oily palms together contentedly. Then, leaning forward and… just as one began to rub the warmed baby oil into the tanned, pert buttocks of one’s most treasured poppet, Jake Canuso … one woke up!

Chu Me had knocked on the door of one’s bedroom to bring one breakfast and this noise, that of his small hand upon one’s wooden door, had plucked one from one’s dreamy paradise.

One adjusted oneself into a seated position while Chu Me placed the breakfast tray on the table to the side of the bed. He plumped up one’s pillows so maximum comfort could be enjoyed. One settled back into their downy plumptiousness and looked at the exquisite array of bacon, sausage and egg one’s faithful houseboy had placed before one. Delicious!

One had just picked up one’s knife and fork when Chu Me shouted, “Peacock!”

Cutting through the thick rasher bacon one replied, “No, thank you dear. One doesn’t need one at the moment. Perhaps after some food and a cup of tea.”

He tugged at the sleeve of one’s nightdress. “Good Lord, Chu Me! One is not a machine. One can not just go at your beck and call!” It was then that one  looked at him and saw him  pointing – with his other hand – toward the window. There, behind the pane of glass, was indeed the face of one of the estate’s peacocks. It was quite amazing. 

One has often seen a peahen but ...goodness ... it has been a while since once saw a cock outside one's bedroom window!

Wednesday, 2 March 2011

Benidorm Series 4 - You Say Mateo, One Says Potato

It was Friday afternoon and one had taken GUSSET 2 for a spin down to the village. One had arranged to meet one’s dear friends Fanny O’Dour and Kitty at the Badger’s Snatch for a chilled glass of Pere Ventura Nature Tresor and to catch up on the recent local gossip.

As one pulled up outside the front of the village pub, life seemed to be going on as usual. Daphne Dewdrop had clearly enjoyed herself the night before. All the evidence was there; slumped back asleep on the bench in the corner of the village green, a bottle of 20/20 gripped in her mitten, lipstick smudged all over her face and her knickers apparently being warn as an off-white cotton anklet. In the distance, one could see Mr Peppercorn preparing his sausage meat through the window of his butcher’s emporium and Annelise Stules-Hoffen, the village chemist, was out cleaning her windows with a quick squirt and a follow through with a rubberised length.

Getting out of the Aston and locking the door, one heard a thunderous voice shouting, “Good Morning, Dame Crusty!” One turned one’s head to the right to see a large muscular drayman standing by the side of his vehicle yanking off his kegs and emptying his weekly load into the cellar below.

“Good morning, poppet! Goodness, you’re grip is vice-like.” One shouted back.

Entering the Badger’s Snatch with an elegant sashay, one joined Kitty and Fanny at a window table. Fanny’s husband Willy had already been kind enough to lay out some nibbles and, upon one’s arrival, brought an ice bucket containing the chilling bottle of Pere Ventura Cava we were to consume during our gossipfest.

It was towards the end of our meeting when we had a visitor. Annelise Stules-Hoffen had seen one pull up and had walked across – squeegee in hand – to invite us to her home that very evening. She was holding a skin awareness evening where she was going to explain various skin conditions with the aid of a selection of pastries, followed by suggested remedies using some of the many concoctions a person could buy over her counter. All-in-all, it sounded quite revolting, so one interjected speedily.

“Annalise dear, your invitation is very thoughtful but alas this evening there is something of such importance that even an invitation to dine at Buck House would be turned down. Tonight we see the return of Benidorm to our screens and it would be deeply unfair if one did not support one’s gorgeous poppet, Derren, after all the work he has put into it. There are also rumours that one’s treasured poppet Jake Canuso is to be caught without a stitch on, so you will appreciate one will need to be present when it happens to ascertain the most fitting moments to freeze frame.”

Though she had a look of confusion on her face (no more so than one did when she got to the ‘selection of pastries’ bit of her invitation) she quite understood and returned to the chemist shop, where she had left the village teacher, Molly Coddle, searching for a corn plaster.

Sipping the last bubblicious drops of one’s Cava, one set down the flute on the table and checked one’s Cartier watch. “Fanny? Kitty? Always a pleasure never a chore, but pray excuse one as one must away to make preparations for this evening.”

By 8.52pm Crusty Hall and its grounds were secure. The drive gates were locked, the telephones had been take off the hook, a selection of mouth-watering tapas had been placed in the Doctor Christian Room of the residence, along with several bottles of chilled Cava (naturally) and a pitcher of gin for emergencies. One reclined elegantly back on one’s chaise and clutched the framed, lipstick covered photograph of dear Derren that one had Chu Me bring in from the oak-panelled bar here at Crusty Hall. One cuddled it to one’s heaving bosom with affection and anticipation. One’s pussy Crotchet settled in his faux leopard skin and cream fur bed and one let out a small squeal of delight as it dawned on one… 9pm …the time had come!

One realised the new series would have a different feel. Last year the deliciously talented and well respected Geoffrey Hutchings – who played Mel - passed away and our writing poppet dwelled on whether a replacement should be sought. In the end he made the perfect decision and wrote an emotional Christmas special where the cast and viewer could say goodbye to him affectionately. Thankfully, however, due to the medium of film his memory will endure for generations to come.

And so the story starts; the Garvey family arrive at the airport; the start of their holiday and they are in search of their hire car (One only hopes it wasn’t from Europcar; if one could steer one’s poppets away from any holiday hire company it would be they. Recently, after Chu Me and I had used their services 'sin problemas' for an eternity, they decided to withdraw further money after the rental and when one complained most strongly … their customer service skills and focus on assisting a long running customer were non existent. By the end of several items of correspondence, it was clear that they cared as much about one as one cared for them.)

Anyhoo …. The comfortable feeling of being among one’s long participating Benidorm chums made one relax immediately and within minutes we were by the poolside of the Solana. It was here we began to be introduced to the new characters; the holidaying friends Natalie and Sam, the delicious Adam Gillen, playing Liam  - Tim the-roller-skating-tranny Healy’s son – and the beguiled Kenneth, friend and work colleague of the gorgeous Gavin, played by Hugh Sachs. One often thinks new characters can knock a programme off kilter but Derren’s exquisite writing solved that and they were like the knickers of a five legged woman … fitting snuggly like a glove.

As if the new characters were not enough, it was in the Altea Hills we come upon a British legend. One screamed as Mick and Janice were confronted by the utterly divine Cilla Black who had taken over Janice’s mother’s villa. One would never have envisaged a swinging Cilla but when the naughty Donald and Jacquline appeared on the scene it left a moment of comedic perfection in the annals of televisual history. The mental images one has of Donald, Jacqueline and Cilla naked in the Jacuzzi with bubbles blasting up between their buttocks under the Benidorm sun will stay with one for some time. The question the nation was faced with, however, was … where was Madge?

Not knowing what to expect and feeling quite concerned for her well-being, one was relieved the camera located her in a rundown caravan, as Janice frantically called her mobile when she found her mother’s electric scooter for sale in the local second hand market. Madge was in hiding. Keeping out of sight her scruffy, dishevelled state and before we knew where we were, The Garveys discover poor Madge has been left with huge debts after some unsuccessful investments by her late husband and she is being hunted down for settlement by the local villains.

This dramatic tale was a perfect contrast against the comedy of the other characters and one must confess a droplet pushed itself up from one’s right tear duct at the scene and wonderful connection between Dame Sheila Reid ( Madge) and the gorgeous Hugh Sachs (Gavin) by the poolside; Gavin recognises the scruffy Madge and gets up to say hello. Turning round he asks her "Where's Mel?", only to be told, “He died! On Christmas Day!” One could feel the emotion and sadness between them, heightened further by the camp interjections from Kenneth from his sunbed. Wonderful!

One was, of course, delighted to see one’s most treasured poppet, Jake ­he-of-the-gossamer-thin-budgie-smuggler Canuso appear on one’s 32 incher throughout, and one roared with laughter when a regional icon from one’s own locale, Tim Healy, stepped behind the poolside bar of the resort and called our dear Mateo …Potato. One still giggles now when one recalls it.

To top off this opening episode of joy, we have a Jackie Chanesque fight sequence between the Garveys, Madge, Lesley (the roller skating transvestite), Mateo-Potato and gangster’s moll, Scary Mary – played beautifully by a further regional icon of the North East Riviera, Denise Welch.

By the time one saw Janice head-butting Scary Mary to a state of unconsciousness, one was well and truly satisfied and applauded loudly. Even one’s pussy, Crotchet, banged his right paw against the parquet flooring with purring-padded approval.

As the credits began, one took a sip of from a Baccarat flute of Cava and reflected. Is it any wonder Derren and his chums won the National Television Award? One thinks not!

Amazingly, there are some people who do not “get” the show. Not appreciating its qualities and it’s modern day homage to some of the great comedies of our proud past; Are You Being Served? Carry Ons etc. Indeed, after the National Television Awards one “critic” from the Guardian – Vicky Frosty-knickers – seemed to scorn the presented award when there were "better" programs out there. Clearly, the brain the good Lord gave her behind her chubby cheeks didn’t understand the who premise of the awards. That winner was chosen by those whose opinion counts; the people who watch and adore the show.

Needless to say we shall not dwell on her. When one investigated her futher and found a photograph on Google, Crotchet immediately coughed up a furball on the blotting paper upon one’s writing desk. Sufficed to say, should Vicky Frosty-knickers discover anything that she has a talent for, one prays people are a little kinder to her … or, then again, not.

For Crusty, the show is exquisitely delicious and one cannot wait for the coming episodes. One must cast aside the sadness that one's poppet has decided this will be his last series. There may be others that take Derren's baby and take it further, but one only need look at Ronnie Mitchell and Kat Slater to see how that one turns out.

In the meantime, one raises one’s glass to a script writing wonder …. Ladies and gentlespoons …Sir Derren Litten …Chin, chin *clink*

Saturday, 19 February 2011

The Brit Awards 2011 - Crusty Reflects

It’s certainly been a year for award ceremonies, has it not poppet? We’ve had the Glamour Awards, the BAFTAs, the National Telelvision Awards (in which one’s delicious twitterchum Sir Derren Litten was victorious), the Golden Globes and the Most Shapely Ankle of the Village 2011 (which one has won for 10 consecutive years).

On Wednesday evening, one entered Litten’s bar – the gorgeous oak panelled room in one’s beloved Crusty Hall – to sit and enjoy a Mojito or two. As one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, poured one’s intoxicating minty mixture into a glistening Baccarat tumbler, one glided effortlessly to the television and switched it on. Imagine one’s glee when one saw Take That, writhing their manly hips on one’s 32 incher. Excited by their gyrations on the long – almost phallic – stage, one checked the guide on the television and saw it was the Brit Awards 2011.

The five pulsatingly popular poppets sang their little hearts out backed by a dance troupe kitted out in, what looked like, riot gear. The music took them over in a moment of frenzied madness and the dance troupe, thrusting their shields in front of them, grabbed their thick black truncheons and began whacking their helmets with vigour, before whipping off their riotesque garmentry and stripping down to their under-crackers for the climax. Take That’s opening had left one breathless and moist!

Dear James Corden did a magnificent job of hosting the proceedings and managed to get through everything without any controversy (Clearly Sir Patrick Stewart hadn’t been invited - or given permission from his nurse to attend - after the infamous Glamour Award debacle). One did think one small child … Justin Beaver, or some such fancy …was going to wet his undergarments at the comedic flirtatiousness from the host but after several minutes and giggles from the audience, realised the attentions were for comic effect and joined in.

It was also nice to see all the acts behaving themselves. None of the usual alco-pop fuelled tom-foolery that one normally sees at the event; every one trying to be as obnoxious as the last or asking for a bit of rough-and-tumble outside in the foyer because “my eyebrows are bushier than yours!” nonsense, as witnessed between Robbie Williams and Liam needs-a-good-slap-across-the-dish Gallagher some years ago.

The performances were impressively staged; Adele sang her little emotionally-laden heart out accompanied only by a pianist …[Stop giggling, Chu Me! …P-I-A-N-I-S-T! … For goodness sake!], Rihanna expelled a ripple of raunchiness across the auditorium as she swung her surprisingly ample hippage up and down the catwalk and Plan B brought us a melodic medley of their hits, while re-enacting the court case of a rather naughty chav.

The down side to the evening - for there must always be one – was the introduction of award presenter Cheryl y-nailed-it Tweedy-pie Cole. As she clomped her way down the runway in her off-the-peg ensemble, she smiled at the crowd and greeted everyone with her best telephone voice – suitable for any number of the call centres residing in our region. Indeed, it may well have been the case that her frock was acquired from just such an call centre … a catalogue, perhaps.

Anyhoo … one suspects it was in preparation for her possible move to the land of our American poppets. While talks have been going on for her involvement in the US X-Factor, there were concerns the Americans may not understand her (one fears, it’s a given!)

One noted she was up for an award herself, but by then one had completely lost interest in for what. However, they did show a snippet of her video for Parachute, where she sings those well penned lines, ‘I don’t need no parachute’. Apart from correcting her grammar, one was always tempted to take her to 33,000ft and test her theory. Alas, social engagements prevented one from doing so, so we shall never know.

 All in all it was a wonderful night. It appeared all the people who deserved awards won them and there was none of the jiggery-pokery going on as in years gone by. And the show was ended with a duet with the beautifully packaged plumptiousness of Cee Lo Green and our very own, exquisitely delicious Paloma Faith.

Despite one’s VIP invite not having arrived in time, one sat back and sipped from the tumbler of minty mojitoness and felt quite content. Bravísimo to all of the winners.

Sunday, 6 February 2011

A Certain Chord Plucks Crusty's Strings

 Chord Overstreet *squeal*!!

One has been thoroughly enjoying season two of the ear-poppingly, leg-bucklingly entertaining Glee.

The characters are a wonderfully eclectic mix and one is particularly fond of the incredibly talented and angelically voiced Chris Colfer (Kurt Hummel) and the utterly gorgeous Amber Riley (Mercedes Jones). Amber's vocal vibrations constantly rip the tights from one's shapely thighs when ever she belts out a number and Chris ... well, everytime he sings a song one is consumed by the overwhelming passion and feeling his voicebox projects, through the speakers at either side of one's 32 incher. Utterly exquisite!!

Strangely enough, the delicious Jane Lynch (Sue Sylvester) reminds one of oneself in one's younger years; always thinking of others, always polite and never offensive ... and, indeed, the only difference one can find is that one never had the experience of wearing a tracksuit having never lived in local authority housing. Other than that we could almost be twins!

Recently, however, one's eyes have been drawn to a rather slurpalicious piece of eye-candy that has joined the talented cast. One, of course, refers to the blonde beau of breathtakenness, Chord Overstreet.

One shall watch with interest his progression through the series and the development as the character Sam Evans. One shall also remain hypnotised by those rather cupidesque lips ... so full and plumptious they could suck the catalytic converter from a tail pipe!

Wednesday, 12 January 2011

Santa Litten Fills Crusty's Stocking.

A rather special event occurred here at Crusty Hall over the recent festive season, when Santa Litten slipped something a little special inside one’s stocking. Who is his Santa Litten? One hears you ask.

Many readers from Her Majesty’s realm will, of course, recognise the name immediately … it is the utterly delicious comedic poppet, Derren Litten, who not only – and among other things – co-wrote The Catherine Tate Show, but also is the master behind the hugely popular series Benidorm. For international poppets, this is a masterpiece observation of British families and friends holidaying under the tentacles of Señor Sol in the holiday resort of the very same name.

One has often campaigned for one’s dear Derren to be knighted and, quite frankly, one thinks it is outrageous that it has not already taken place. After all, they gave a knighthood to John Prescott and what has he ever accomplished? Save standing in as a stunt double for the Churchill insurance mascot while he is away getting his nails clipped and his anal glands cleaned!

One is quite sure, that with a sustained campaign, young Derren will receive his reward soon enough; kneeling to feel a heavy weapon bounce off each shoulder to shoot off to the side once done for a spot of tea and nibbles.

The show itself is jam-packed with talent; the delicious Dame Sheila Reid, who casts aside her natural elegance to portray a hard-talking, cigarette-puffing woman of little patience for her family; One’s leg-bucklingly gorgeous twitterchum Jake he-of-the-gossamer-thin-budgie-smuggler Canuso … (one feels quite giddy just mentioning his name) … and the further deliciousness of regulars Steve Pemberton, Tim Healy (a monument of North East manliness), Siobhan Finneran, the charming Hugh Sachs and the teasingly titterlicious Janine Duvitski and Kenny Ireland.

Goodness, one could go on and on, could one not? The show is well endowed indeed with British talent!

Anyhoo … it was the week before Christmas and one was in one’s study writing out a card for Derren’s birthday. By chance, one's pussy, Crotchet, was wandering annoyingly across the keys of one’s laptopular device and activated the favourite icon for one’s poppet’s blog. There in front of one was an invitation to submit an email to him, as part of a competition, to say why one liked Benidorm.

One immediately felt a tingle oscillate up one’s inners thighs, around one’s downstairs area and shoot up to one’s perky bosom where it lingered momentarily. How wonderful!! One had been set a challenge and one was determined to rise up to it.

Setting the card aside, one picked up a quality piece of writing paper and one’s trusty fountain pen and got to work. After 7¼ hours, 6 gins, a small plate of boquerones en vinagre and a furball (the latter from Crotchet, incidentally) one sat back elated at one’s efforts:

The 21st of December,
Is a very special occasion,
For an undervalued treasure
Of our ever glorious nation.
One speaks of one’s dear poppet -
For whom one is slightly smitten -
The utterly delicious … talented
Soon(?), Sir Derren Litten.
He’s witty and outspoken,
And, often, very naughty,
And this particular cumpleaños
Tickles the very toes of 40.
And to celebrate his birthday,
He’s set himself a mission,
To put a Christmas Card and DVD
Up for competition!
The DVD is of Benidorm,
His comedy masterpiece,
A series which keeps one’s chuckle-muscles
In ever such a crease.
His writing is simply exquisite,
His characters sublime,
All enjoying the Solana Resort
Under Señor Sol’s sunshine.
But though comedy is the theme throughout,
We can bathe in other things,
And the sentimental moments
Gently tug at one’s heart strings.
Like the continuing troubled saga
Of dear Martin and wife Kate,
Riding life’s roller-coaster
Of drama, love and hate;
The Oracle on his search for love,
With his mum, Noreen … who’s canny
But the only girl he ends up with
Is a Healy-esque Geordie tranny.
And the complicated goings on
Of the infamous Garvey clan;
Chantelle, with baby Coolio and
A chain-smoking, sun-drenched Nan.
Janice with her smitten beau,
Desperate for a snog,
While poor Mick can do nothing more
Than sit there all agog.
Sadly, the family was broken up
With the devastating loss of Mel,
After Geoffrey Hutchings left us
After he’d spent a time unwell.
An actor of pure quality,
Who we will never see again,
Who always gave a performance
That was, by far, ten out of ten!
And of course, the oooofalicious dreamboat …
Mateo, is his name,
A smouldering package of chunkiness
With his smooth and muscular frame
Who uses his sexual prowess
To seduce his chosen pray,
(Well, if one were at the Solana Resort,
He could certainly have his way!
One would gladly spend an afternoon
Rubbing oil into his back,
And maybe let one’s hand slip down
And rest between his cr …[cough]);
So, one thinks it would be quite wonderful -
If not a little shocking -
If Santa Litten came and dumped his prize
Inside one’s stocking
So when one woke up on Christmas morning,
One could untie the festive wrapper -
Before even getting out of bed
And heading for the cra … toilet -
And squeal, if it were possible
For one’s misty eyes to see,
An autographed, glistening copy
Of the box set of series three!
So, as one sashays into Litten’s,
The bar in one’s beloved Crusty Hall,
One always takes a little gasp,
Seeing his deliciousness upon the wall,
With a little smudge of lipstick
Pressed against his upper cheek,
(One likes to re-apply the lippy
T’ freshen up the smudge each week.)
One raises one’s glass in honour
To a man one just adores,
From the top of his highest follicle,
To the tip of his very toes.
From where he’s elegantly mounted,
 He watches over every tipple
And it never fails to bring to one
An epidermal ripple
Of dreamy pleasure that oscillates
Through every nerve and pore,
And continues through one’s skeleton
Then onto one’s very core.
May your birthday be filled with wonderment
And with all that you desire,
May the drink flow oh so generously,
And may you never tire.
Have a very Merry Christmas,
With friends and family near,
I’m sure you’ll enjoy every minute of it
(You’re very popular, dear.)
 And may 2011 be saturated
With love, with joy, with laugher
And happiness for now, tomorrow
And then for ever after.

One typed up the short verse as quickly as one’s beautifully manicured nails could manage and sent it off without delay. A few days later (one screams aloud just recalling it) one received a delightful Christmas card from the delicious Derren himself. This naturally took pride of place in Litten’s, which is the recently renamed bar here at one’s beloved Crusty Hall.

Not only that, but one had been triumphant at one’s attempt to win the competition and a week later the DVD arrived! One is quite sure one felt a surge of genius ripple through one’s fingers as one ripped opened his package and ran one’s fingers slowly over his thick, black moniker.

One shall of course watch it several times before it is put safely in the family vault, where it can be added to all the other valuables that make up the Gusset estate.