Samantha Brick - Beauty or a Beast? Dame Crusty Ponders.

One was perched elegantly on the edge of a bar stool in the Badger’s Snatch, catching up on the local gossip in the village with the landlady; one’s dear friend Fanny O’Dour.

All appeared to be well and all of the local businesses were avoiding the recession that we are constantly being told we are on the cusp of; Mr. Peppercorn’s butcher emporium was certainly thriving. This came as no surprise, as he has the most meaty, mouth-watering sausage one has ever set one’s eyes upon; encapsulated in a gossamer thin sheath. One can chomp on it for an age without feeling so much as a hint of gristle between one’s teeth. Seasoned deliciously, it always leaves just a hint of saltiness as it slides down the back of one’s throat.

Pat Tissery’s bakery establishment had also seen a surge of eager shoppers grabbing her crusty bloomers while they were still warm; sniffing them, blatantly, as they rush down the street to hide them in their pantries.

The only piece of scandal was that Mr. Craddick had escaped from his cottage in his pyjamas again. Due to a catastrophic failure of drawstring knottage, his bottoms had dropped round his ankles while he was buying a head of broccoli at the village greengrocers. A charge of exposure was averted (thankfully) when the local magistrate explained that by the time any passers by had made the effort to look at what was desperately trying to “hang there”, the outcome would have simply been a case of public exhaustion, of which there were no appropriate statutes. Mr. Craddick’s only defence was that it was a very cold day.

Anyhoo … as one sat sipping a rather refreshing flute of chilled Pere Ventura Tresor Nature, Fanny was wiping the rim of her bucket when she suddenly asked, “Oh, and what about that Samantha Brick, Crusty? Can you believe it?!”

“One has heard her name mentioned, Fanny dear, but one couldn’t tell you who on earth she is.”

“Hang on! I’ve got some copies of the Daily Mail under the bar that need to be thrown out.”

“Only some, dear?” one questioned.

Fanny opened the pages and showed one the pictures of the woman that was creating such an international storm.

“There. That’s that Brick woman.” Fanny said, as she pointed at the images.

“Goodness!” one replied, “Brick, you say? Are you sure her surname isn’t double-barrelled … and Shithouse hasn’t been removed from the end of it? Quite a sturdy girl, is she not?”

One’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, sat next to one, licking the crust of a, particularly large and hairy pork scratching. He glanced across at the photographs and sniggered, hunching his shoulders as he did so.

“Now, now, Chu Me! Let us not pre-judge. Let us first examine the extent of this individual’s self-professed outer deliciousness.”

Reading the article, it seems Samantha feels women hate her for no other reason than her ‘lovely looks’. She is of the opinion that her beauty is so intense that it has caused men to rush up to her with flowers, offer to pay her taxi fares at the drop of a hat and waiters to refuse to allow her to pay her bar bill; all because of her self-proclaimed gorgeousness.

One sat and gazed upon the pictures laid out on the bar counter as the golden bubbling elixir of Catalonia passed one’s lips.

At first one thought there was a look of Anneka Rice about Samantha. The sort of look that may have been achieved had Anneka let herself go. There wasn’t the same delicious smile, clearly, and she appeared to have split-ends any diviner would have been desperate to get their hands on to start dowsing for water immediately. Nevertheless, squinting one’s eyes and turning one’s head from side to front, side to front … very quickly, the resemblance was there.

The body – in unflattering clothes – certainly didn’t support her case of womanly beautifulness and with her kite (a Geordie phrase for stomach) expanding underneath her mid-riffular section of fabric, one couldn’t help remind oneself that one must catch up on the goings-on in Eastenders, since the malicious murder of Heather Trott.

The rather ample and mighty oak-like lower limbs protruding from below the hemline of her frockage almost led one to believe she was an athlete, or some such fancy … a shot-putter perhaps?

Then one’s eyes lowered to, what one thought were, a pair of club feet, before one realised that there were just an unfortunate choice of chunky shoes that the poor poppet had mistaken for fashion (if only she had had the foresight to consult one’s gloriously talented fashion powerhouse Masato, she may have learnt a valuable lesson).

All in all, the assembled package was not in the slightest bit desirable.

Furthermore, she had claimed that at soirées, men would flock to her; enchanted by her beautiful looks. Having looked at the evidence, one would suggest this has nothing to do with her looks at all. One knows only too well, when the gin-goggles are on … it’s any port in a storm for most men. Plus, we have all been to such functions and we all know just how warm these occasions can be. Judging by the armless frock she was wearing in one shot - one could not forgive any man, woman … or, indeed, family pet for trying to be within range of her bingo wings, in order to get the chance of a cooling breeze each time her arms stretched out for an oven-warmed vol au vent.

Needless to say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder and, as our poor poppet Samantha looks into her opaque mirror, one can offer only sympathy to her for the fight she so clearly has against her cataracts.