As a nation, we have long been associated with a reputation for exquisite pomp and pageantry. Our long and ancient history and our traditions have made it impossible for anyone to match us in that regard. That was certainly the case over the recent Diamond Jubilee celebrations held in honour of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.
An entire nation of patriotic poppets came together down The Mall
(and that’s quite an accomplishment, one can assure you!) over four days of regal festivities.
On the Sunday, the armada of aquatic vessels on the Thames was magnificent, despite the horrendous weather conditions. As the troop of operatic singers sang their tribute to Her Majesty on the orchestral barge, mascara trickling down their cheeks and their hair sodden, one squealed with glee at their sacrifice.
The day after, Monday, saw the long awaited and much hyped Diamond Jubilee Concert, organised by the Take Thatularly delicious Gary Barlow. He certainly had his work cut out for him, trying to please a population with such diverse tastes in musical entertainment but if anyone was able to accomplish the task, it was he.
Here at one’s beloved Crusty Hall, one reclined elegantly on the faux fur covered chaise in Litten’s
(the bar at Crusty Hall). The walls were festooned with Union Jacks and Bunty was hanging from every picture. The scene was set for one to enjoy the star-studded extravaganza. Chu Me was armed with a bottle of gin behind the bar and on standby to satisfy one’s needs for the crystal clear elixir while one’s pussy, Crotchet, lay against ones left thigh looking completely disinterested by all the fuss and licking his …
(oh dear!)… well … let’s just say he was cleaning himself.
As the Royal Family settled in their seats and the crowd, gathered around them, cheered, we were off!
A rather portly Robbie Williams opened the show with ‘Let Me Entertain You’
(One thought, it’s a little bit late in your career to be starting now, dear). He was being flanked by a line of Coldstream Guards blowing their long and slender horns. We were also tret to a small pianotic interlude from the highly digitally dextrous Lang Lang. His addition was most welcome but upon seeing him Chu Me’s face dropped.
“One feels your pain, dear. If only Gary Barlow knew how well you played chopsticks, one suspects you would have been asked instead.”
Then slight glimmer of what might have been brought a smile back to his face, despite the fact one was talking nonsense. Needless, to say it was all going rather well. Rob Brydon began the hosting of the show and was a good choice. He’s of that neutral variety is he not? He can be funny and … cannot be funny … but he is of sufficiently impish appeal that … well … you’d forgive him anything, simply tilt the head with a slight smile and say, “Bless!”
When the leg-bucklingly gorgeous legend Tom Jones took to the stage, one could feel every natural fibre of one’s undergarments disintegrate with each note that exploded from his voice box. This tsunami of pleasurable oscillations lapping over one’s epidermal expanse was brought to an abrupt halt, however, when one was more than a little disturbed and caught off guard with the control of one’s gag reflex when one saw Cheryl y’-nailed-it-Tweedypie Cole standing aside Gary Barlow in an over-the-top synthetic frock. Was she there to clean up after everyone was finished, one wondered? Was she serving bags of chips to the audience, perhaps? No … one’s worst fears were realised when the music started and one realised she was going to “sing”.
As she started screeching the first lines of the forgettable song, one held one’s throat to keep at bay the rising bile. One wondered how many witches tits there must have been, throughout our land, that were envious at just how flat she was. Had she been a Michelin tyre one suspects even ATS would have been unable to seal her hole.
Dame Elton John was quite magnificent, though when he walked on stage with his little buttocks clenched, in his pink sequinned jacket one did have to send one’s faithful houseboy to one’s dressing room to ensure one’s own was still there. As the sound of Chu Me’s flip-flops slapped with increasing repetition, one shouted, “He only wanted to borrow it for a sample pot from B&Q, dear. One never said he could keep it!”
The legendary, iconically delicious Grace Jones was breathtaking! Singing an all time favourite of the Crusty residence, one could feel one’s foot tap against the parquet flooring as one fixed one’s eyes on her hoop.
One suspects it came as no surprise to anyone when Dame Birley Shassey was wheeled out. She looked quite remarkable for her age. Her hair was coiffured into a pleasant style and she complemented her white ensemble with a sheer cape; an ideal choice of garment to disguise the bingo wings as she belted out ‘Diamonds Are Forever’
(they certainly are, dear, but a taut upper arm, alas, is not).
Anyhoo … as well as the acts being diverse, so too were the presenters. Naturally, Rolf Harris was invited along and for his segments one felt he couldn’t have fawned over Her Majesty to any greater extent. Just one gnat’s testicle more and he would have been either arrested for performing an indecent act on royalty or be starring in a black market XXX-rated DVD for the top shelves of a local sex emporium. Still, he is an icon of our nation and one must say, one was rather alarmed when Lenny I-was-funny-once-on-a-talent-show-in-1975 Henry, interrupted Rolf as he performed with Two Little Boys. Needless to say, the crowd turned and Mr. Henry realised the error of his ways. As Lenny withdrew from behind, Rolf continued to finish off Two Little Boys in front of a mesmerised audience.
One was certainly enjoying it all. So much so, before one knew it, while munching on a Mediterranean nibble, the last act of the night was coming on. The levels of excitement welled up inside one. For several seconds one was convinced one’s hooters were going to explode with pounding exhilaration.
“Who could it be?!” One squealed, gripping the arm of the chaise.
One could not find the words to express one’s utter disappointment and devastation when one discovered it was … Sir Paul McCartney.
“Dear Lord!!” One cried, “He couldn’t sing at the last one! There’s very little chance he’ll be able to now!” Even Crotchet jumped down from the chaise and walked out of the bar giving a little pump of disgust as he walked into the adjoining room.
As one feared, the performance was terrible and as one watched him sitting at the piano singing ‘Live & Let Die’, one looked at his jowelled face – the appearance of which resembled a toothless hobo sucking on an onion – and wondered if his memory was fit enough to take him back to a time when he could actually hit a note.
Thankfully, the myriad of exploding fireworks that accompanied the performance drowned out the squeaks and croaks
(croaks so regular they would have given a whole new dimension to The Frog Chorus). One should warn the world that he is booked to sing at the closing ceremony of the London Olympics. One apologises on behalf of Her Majesties realm now.
All in all, the extended Bank Holiday fiesta was a roaring success and one fancies it brought a new sense of pride and unity to our great nation … and one is all for that! And one must say Her Majesty looked utterly delicious throughout the celebrations! Bravísima, dear!
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