Dame Crusty And A Stiffened Package In Her Box

The day had started delightfully. After waking from a most dreamy slumber, one sashayed elegantly down the grand staircase. Once at the bottom, one gasped when one found one's front flap being prized open and a lengthy package being pushed carefully within its tight confines.

Grabbing the invading package with both hands one began to peel back the outer layer. Pulling it off with one's right hand, one squealed with ecstasy as one saw the contents covering the palm of one's left ... a Jake Canuso 2014 calendar!!! Not only that but affectionately signed by one's beloved poppet. 

He had even placed a kiss over a rather intimate area of his gorgeous anatomy, covered only by red gossamer-thin budgie-smugglage. Naturally, one felt it necessary to plant one's own kiss just next to it (...purely for luck, you understand).

Later that day one's levels of excitement grew further still. One had taken GUSSET 2 for a spin into the village and as one showed the precious item to one's dear friend Fanny O'Dour, landlady of the Badger's Snatch, one sat opened mouthed at what she suggested.

"I think he actually delivered it personally, Crusty." Fanny said.

One squealed. "No! One can't believe it! What makes you say that?"

"When I got up this morning, I looked out of the bedroom window and looking up towards your place I saw a large chopper ...."

"Well, it certainly sounds like him, dear" One interrupted.

" ...er...flying over Crusty Hall ... and there was someone hanging from the underneath."

One took a sip of chilled Pere Ventura Cava from the - less than -  sparkly flute, filled by Fanny's Willy and imagined the scene of one's delicious example of manly tottyness dropping on a zipwire, like a scene from Mission Impossible, stopping just above the gravel drive then slowly hovering forth to the letter box, to insert his stiffened package into one's box.

"Do you know, Fanny, you may be right. One knows he was flying into the loving arms of Mama Canuso. Perhaps he did stop en route.A detour if you will."

Anyhoo ... sadly, one found out later it was not, in fact, him. It appears the local police helicopter had swept a little low over a tree and caught Mr Craddick's braces as he was bird watching (or so he told the pilot when they eventually landed after a 20 minute flight. However, one knows his "bird watching" is merely watching Veronica Mantrapp doing her naked Zumba session in her spare room).

Nevertheless, one is delighted to announce that everybody can share in the joys of a well hung Jake on their wall, to enjoy every day of 2014 ... and trust one ...with his well balanced proportions, it will hang beautifully. Simply pop along to www.jakecanusoshop.co.uk  where one can be ordered and delivered in only a matter of days, arriving in plenty time for the new year. 

Furthermore, worry not if you are in a foreign land, as there are options for all international poppets too.

Crusty Examines Big Brother's Opening

One was sitting in Litten's - the oak panelled bar at Crusty Hall - enjoying a stiff one. One's faithful houseboy, Chu Me had plonked into one's hand moments earlier. It was a little cold, nevertheless, was sliding down the back of one's throat in the most pleasing manner (as, indeed, all glasses of gin should).

As Chu Me fought off one's pussy, Crotchet, while he was trying to munch on the sole of his evening flip- flops, one squealed with delight to see one's treasured poppet, Louie Spence appear on one's 32 incher! What was this programme that was bringing one one's dear twitterchum into one's home over the televisular airwaves? It was, of course, Celebrity Big Brother 2013.

Louie looked utterly delicious as he entered the monitored dwelling, in glistening sequinned jacket. My goodness, his attire almost sparkled as brightly as his infectious personality and one thought the entire show was going to be worth watching even if he was in there alone. Who else was to enter this years competition, one wondered?

In previous years, that awful word "celebrity" had been used in various programmes with a little too much poetic licence; a little like those profiles on dating website and chatrooms where people describe themselves as "cute" ... yet, they very seldom are. In the past, we had people that were aspiring to a 10 year wait to reach the double Z list of celebritism and occasionally even those, a nation sat in the comfort of their sumptuous home furnishings, pointing at the screen and exclaiming, "I thought they were dead". Needless to say, with the injection of dear Louie one began to think it was to be a bumper year.

The next two contestants were Lauren Harries and Sophie Anderton. The former, Lauren, has always been a most interesting creature. One remembers Lauren appearing on Wogan (the television show ... not the man himself) many years ago, when she was a young boy called James. He was always a very interesting, if not slightly precocious, child back then, so now with gender reassignment, one is quite sure she will be a one to watch. Her entrance wasn't as glamorous as it should have been, however; one fancies the overly high heels and incorrect poise resulted in a uncomfortable clomp, rather than an elegant sashay. The frock also looked, perhaps, a size too small, judging by the overflow of body fat and the two highly compressed hooters attempting to escape at the front. Neck up she had achieved the look of a genetic merging of a young Barbara Cartland and Myra Hindley, had she discovered back combing.

As for Sophie Anderton, one must admit one has never heard of her. Apparently, she is a model who became famous ( if indeed she ever did) for having pictures taken in the grass, or some such fancy. Well, we've all done that on a hot Summer day, have we not? ... only one had the foresight to have the negatives destroyed afterwards and the midge bites treated with Savlon as soon as one returned to the car. Before entering the house she revealed that her drug addiction was well documented; quite a pity she is of such insignificance or it may have proved interesting reading. "Believe it or not, I can be quite boring", she said ...after only 1½ minutes of her introductory interview, one was entirely convinced.

In the usual twist, our first three house mates were taken to another room. From that point, there was the steady influx of the remaining participants. Predominantly, poppets who could carry the title of celebrity; there was Ron Atkinson, Vicki Entwistle, Carol McGiffin and Bruce Jones. Sadly, however, there was a further injection of those not so worthy ... the "I thought they'd died" ... and a couple who were only feeding around the anal sphincter of celebrity, praying for a life of fame and fortune in return for offering very little, if no, talent at all, such as Charlotte Crosby and Courtney Stodden.

As a native resident of the utterly gorgeous North East of Her Majesty's realm (What? You've never been?! Goodness ...come at once, you'll adore the hospitality and friendliness!), one must first apologise for Charlotte Crosby. She has received notoriety from being part of a most embarrassing programme called Geordie Shore. You can remain quite certain - and safe in the knowledge - that she, with the large head in relation to her frame and the pre-middle-age bingo wings - is not a typical example of North East ladyism and that most in one's beloved region can communicate orally without shouting louder than a back-firing Fiat Punto.

When one saw Courtney Stodden one must admit one was horrified! Having just emptied one's Baccarat crystal tumbler of liquid refreshment, one screamed to have Chu Me filled it at once. He slapped hurriedly across the parquet flooring in his half eaten flip-flops (Crotchet, still running after him) and began to pour, "Don't bother about the tonic, dear! One'll take it neat! Have you seen what has just appeared on screen?"

Chu Me stood by one's side, dibbling at the sight of this breastular-inflated individual.

"Stop dribbling at once! Furthermore, never trust a woman whose breasts are the size of two Pacific islands and whose hair will not move in a force 8 gale!"

Indeed, looking at her hair a little closer, one realised the last time one had saw anything with a texture like that, it was being rolled up and tied by our local farmer's combine harvester! In the outrageously high heels she was wearing and her spindly legs, she resembled two cocktails sticks that had been plucked from a mutually pierced cheese and pickled onion hedgehog at an inferior evening buffet.As house mate after house mate entered and one saw her leaning against the kitchen counter, one wondered if she'd ever been on her feet that long before!

Coming up the behind, there was Abz from Five (one's not sure he could count any higher, dear), Mario my-manbiscuit-has-its-own-postcode Falcone, Dustin "Screech" Diamond who claims to have slept with over 200 women (one wonders if they knew) and Danielle Marr. Danielle said "You'll know me best for Dublin Wives", to which one replied, "Then one doesn't know you at all, dear."

One's only complaint was the young creature whom was presenting the opening extravaganza; Emma Willis. Certainly pleasing to eye but, my goodness, when trying to speak over the crowds, one thought Dino from the Flintstones had come out of retirement. Not only do we have a "Screech" inside the house ...Channel 5 have given us one outside too!!

Anyhoo ... the house it filled it is now only a matter of time before the ..[no, not ejeculations, Chu Me ... that's something altogether different] ... evictions begin. One prays, however, that one's twitterchum Louie is victorious. One thing is for sure ... he will bring a burst of sunshine and joy into our lives each day he is in there.

Dame Crusty: "There Shall Be No Balls For Breakfast"

It was only but a week or so ago when one awoke from a deep sleep, in the sumptuous snuggly softness of one’s nightly retreat. The curtains were drawn and, though one’s bed chamber was filled with a low level of natural lightage, one of Señor Sol’s tentacles of light had found its way through a small opening between the lush, heavy hanging fabric to land on the wall above the fireplace. The grounds of Crusty Hall seemed silent, save the gentle chirrup coming from a feather congregation.

One’s eyes were still heavy and one thought one could quite easily fall back to sleep. In an attempt to raise oneself from one’s semi-tired state one leant over to the radio on one’s mahogany bedside table and switched it on. A bit of the delicious Chris Evans would surely to the trick.

It was rather disappointing, however, when one entered a conversation with some poor individual who, evidently, had terrible health problems; words rattling out at a rate of knots with a frequent audible gasp for breath. One bit one’s lip in sympathy at this poor poppet who, one could only assume, suffered her difficulty acquiring oxygen from something as ghastly as a collapsed lung perhaps. With one’s levels of sympathy rising with every gasp, one was rather horrified at the distasteful insertion of popular musicality. This was too serious a moment to be putting toe-tapping ditties on!

As one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, turned the knob on one’s bedroom door and entered with a squeak (coming from the hinges of the door, or course, and not from Chu Me), he made his way – in a rather dashing pair of flip-flops – to the side of one’s bed with a tray of breakfast goodies. One turned down the volume on the radio slightly and relayed a summary of this poor creature. Chu Me looked a little puzzled and placed the breakfast tray across the mound of duvetliciousness that covered one’s lallies and reached over to the radio to turn up the volume.

He listened for only matter of seconds and then – with a totally unnecessary and unbecoming tut – advised me the person was not an oxygen-deficient lung collapsee, but was in fact Zoe Ball!! Good Lord!

Anyhoo … as soon as one realised who it was, one has to say all levels of sympathy evaporated and she simply became increasingly annoying and totally unsuitable for early morning airage. Particularly with her recounting the story of when she was walking down the street with last night’s G-string stuck to her face without her knowing … or some such fancy.

Chu Me withdrew and one was left with the voice of old-gaspy-knickers unpleasantly oscillating through the air molecules of one’s bed chamber.As one concentrated on the gargantuan intakes of breath, one began to grow weary. One’s eye lids became heavy and one found oneself slipping off. Before one knew it one was in the production studio of Radio 2.

Looking through the misty haze one could see the figure of old-gaspy sitting there. Clicking on a button, from which one could establish communication with her, one offered direction.

“You’re coming through rather loud, dear. One fears you may need to step back a little from the microphone.” She rose from her seat and took a step back. “Will this do, Dame Crusty? >gasp<”

“A little further, dear.”

“>gasp< Will this do?”

“One fancies a little further.”

“That ok?”

“A little further?”

A distant voice said, “It that – erm – ok now? >gasp<”

"A few steps more, dear?"

“Is that ok now?” The voice was faint but one was still not satisfied.

“One thinks just a couple more steps back and we’ll have it, poppet.”

The distant mumble came immediately back. “I can’t go any further back, Dame Crusty, my backs against the wall of the stationery cupboard”

“Can you manage to kick the door shut, dear?”

There was the far off sound of her hoof catching the side of the door and eventually there was a click as the door closed and the catch secured itself. After several minutes there was nothing but silence. “Ah! Now that’s much better!”

As one awoke from one’s dream, one felt a warm feeling at one’s accomplishment … or so one thought until one realised one had knocked the teapot over from the breakfast tray and it was soaking through one’s bed clothes. Still, it certainly put a spring in one’s step for the remainder of the day.