Dame Crusty Gusset Opens Up

Dame Crusty Ponders - Marsh or Quagmire?

2011-12-03T22:37:00.000Z

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”.

Crusty Reflects On Jungle Shenanigans

2011-11-27T23:32:00.000Z

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.

James Naughtie Sours Crusty's Eggs.

2011-11-23T23:13:00.000Z

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!”

Strictly Come Dancing 2011 - A Crusty Review

2011-10-15T15:35:00.000+01:00

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.

A Moment of Reflection Munching a Meaty Ring.

2011-10-11T23:40:00.002+01:00

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!

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

2011-10-05T00:28:00.000+01:00

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!!

UK Deploys Weapon of Mass Destruction in Afghanistan

2011-09-15T22:48:00.000+01:00

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.

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

2011-08-14T16:00:00.000+01:00

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.

2011-08-14T13:24:00.000+01:00

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!

Outrage on the Village Green.

2011-07-18T20:03:00.000+01:00

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.

Barry Manilow - Odo Know Better.

2011-06-30T20:06:00.000+01:00

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.

Odo

(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!

Connie Candleshaft - A Village Says Good-bye

2011-05-08T19:00:00.001+01:00

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!”

Tragedy In The Village - RIP Connie Candleshaft

2011-04-11T23:46:00.000+01:00

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.

Wildlife at Breakfast

2011-04-09T22:30:00.000+01:00

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!

Benidorm Series 4 - You Say Mateo, One Says Potato

2011-03-02T00:11:00.000Z

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*

The Brit Awards 2011 - Crusty Reflects

2011-02-19T13:18:00.000Z

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.

A Certain Chord Plucks Crusty's Strings

2011-02-06T18:52:00.000Z

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!

Santa Litten Fills Crusty's Stocking.

2011-01-12T00:01:00.000Z

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 21^st 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.

Eastenders Brings Star Trek A Little Closer.

2010-12-15T22:25:00.001Z

One had just finished rubbing warm baby oil up the muscular inner thighs of Dr. Christian Jessen, when one suddenly awoke.

As the sleepy mistiness lifted from one’s eyes, one realised one was alone. Crotchet was no where to be seen and must have decided to utilise his cat-flap to explore the grounds; Chu Me had mentioned earlier that he had something that was in need of a quick rub, so one suspected he was still ensconced in his urgent rubbage, judging by the faint and distant panting one could hear from the corridor beyond.

One’s 32 incher had been on in the background as one dozed and as one looked towards its twinkling pixels one saw that a further depressing instalment of Eastenders was underway. One had been watching it recently in the hope of seeing one's delicious twitterchum Dan Brocklebank but it was not to be.

As one was drawn into the action, while trying to blot out the shape of Ian Beale with the aid of a mother of pearl coaster over one’s left eye, one’s mind began to whir. In particular, over the antics of Janine Butcher; Quite a nasty piece of works that one … and more so in this episode where her plan to poison her enemies was beginning to be acted out.

In an earlier scene, when she moved from room to room with Pat in tow – dragging her primary coloured danglies along with her – she was acting out every possible state of distress, anger, confusion and laughter. One realised one had saw something as vicious and vengeful as this before … but where?

After a sip from one’s Baccarat tumbler of gin and a shot of her lying with her crazed head on a pillow, scrunching up her rather high brow, a thought began to cross one’s mind ….’yIDoqhQo!’ One thought to oneself.

Goodness, one seemed to have been infiltrated by a strange tongue! …and then the penny well and truly plunged from a heavenly heights and clattered to stillness in the bottom of the terracotta pot of thought! She’s a Klingon!!

The reality of Star Trek, poppets, is a little closer than we think, one fancies!

Farewell Leslie Nielsen - Dame Crusty Mourns.

2010-11-30T20:38:00.000Z

1926 - 2010

As one sat in the Morning Room taking a pot of tea and a spot of crumpet with one’s good friend Fanny O’Dour - from the Badger’s Snatch - one was devastated to hear the very sad news that an actorial poppet - who had long been a comedic genius - had passed away.

One, of course, refers to the great Leslie Nielsen.

Born in 1926 he achieved a highly successful career in the early days as a serious actor before thrusting to meteoric stardom through his comedy roles. In particular, one thinks of the hit series Police Squad – in which he played Detective Frank Drebin - the film Airplane and the wonderful Naked Gun series of films, where Frank Drebin was revived for the big screen.

Leslie always made one titter uncontrollably, especially with his expressionless face as chaos erupted all around him. In the Naked Gun films, he teamed up with Priscilla Presley. This, at the time, was considered an unexpected pairing, however the two made a laughaliciously pleasing double act and his silver fox looks contrasted perfectly with Priscilla’s dark striking beauty. Indeed, Priscilla’s own expressionless face proved perfect for the comedy performance too.

Having said that, one recently saw a couple of old episodes of the US show Dancing with the Stars in which Priscilla was participating. Close ups suggested she had not so much had a Nip and Tuck but more a Grab and Stuff. Honestly, poppets, at first one thought one was watching Jacqui Stallone shaking her tail-feather on stage …until one realised there was no dribbling! Perhaps the lack of facial expression was not her comedy acting …perhaps it simply wasn’t humanly possible for the poor poppet!

Anyhoo … as one’s treasured poppets will know, the Gusset motto is Love, Joy and Laughter and Leslie certainly had, and gave, all three in gargantuan proportions. Though he may have left us, from the sun tickled shores of Fort Lauderdale at the rather impressive age of 84, we are truly blessed that his work is left for future generations to enjoy and, indeed, for his current legion of admirers to revisit his gorgeousness whenever they so wish.

Back at one’s home and upon hearing the news one sashayed with sombre steps, with Fanny and Chu Me in tow, to the bar in Crusty Hall – recently renamed Litten’s after one’s delicious poppet Derren Litten. There we popped open a bottle of Pere Ventura, filled the Baccarat flutes and toasted his life, his accomplishments and his towering titterliciousness. Even one’s pussy, Crotchet maintained his ears at half mast as a mark of respect to the great man.

Chin, chin, Leslie dear, you'll never be forgotten, surely! *clink*

[Stop calling me Shirley!]

Hillary Clinton - Dame Crusty Calms Her Fears.

2010-10-16T16:41:00.003+01:00

Dame Crusty ... arrrr... I ... arrrr ... salute you!

Dearest Hillary,

One never likes to step into the world of politics – especially in this rather exquisite pair of Gucci pumps – but one felt one had to express opinion at your rather tawdry, public criticism of Her Majesty’s new government and their impending defence spending review.

Not so very long ago, a bunch of bankers (are one’s keys sticking?... ah no!) from your fair land were rather naughty and began a trickle – later turning into a tsunami - of devastation throughout the financial sectors of the entire western world and beyond. As a result, the world economy was brought to its knees … in a rather unpleasant Lewinski-esque fashion, if you will. There were bodily excretions hitting fan blades in every corner of our globe.

You must, therefore, forgive some of one’s European family while they attempt to adjust their monetary britches and support the countrymen held within the fabric of their nations boxers (while still fighting in battles - we can never hope to win - started by our very own Tony I’m-a best-selling-author-because-I-said-I’d-give-all-the-profits-from-my-book-to-the-Help-the-Heroes-Charity Blair and your Bush).

Even Great Britain – and one must emphasise Great with vigour and pride – finds itself in a terrible predicament, scraping along a plateau of broken glass on a rather bony expanse of buttock. This was made all the worse by your chums, in our previous government who were a little irresponsible with Her Majesty’s savings account, including the rather curious looking piece of eye-candy you became fond of, David Miliband, who I understand – since his defeat in the party elections – is now selling household cleaning products from a basket - door to door - in allocated streets of a North East town (though, quite frankly, even Cillit Bang couldn’t clean the hands of that last lot!). One believes his chamois leathers are selling like hotcakes, if you’re interested!

Anyhoo …they squandered the nation’s finances with gay abandon (and that does not solely relate to Peter Peggy-on-a-Sunday Mandelson). To put it simply, it was like going to the hairdressers, spending an absolute fortune on a new ‘do’ and getting something of very little value or consequence in return. One is sure you can relate to that scenario only too well, having blatantly exposed dark rootage on the international stage and – on occasion – picking ill-advised fights with hedges before televised press conferences.

One can assure you that the British nation is more than prepared to defend itself and its allies. Goodness, try and infiltrate the North East with a terrorist cell and there will be many a bloody nose in the streets of the quayside and Bigg Market, as those responsible will be battered to a state of poo, by locals wielding kebabs, cans of K cider and protected by Stand&Tan leatherette skin which, one can assure you, is impenetrable.

So please don’t worry about us and feel free to keep your proportionately stubby nasal formation out of our business. As one emailed one of your Texas judges only yesterday over this farcical Liverpool FC malarkey “You have no jurisdiction here, so bog off poppet!”

Hope you and the family are well,
Love, joy and laughter,

Dame Crusty
xxxx

Fascinating Aida's Report Into Cheap Flights

2010-10-02T11:31:00.000+01:00

While relaxing with a glass of chilled Fonpinet Cava on the terrace in sun-drenched Málaga, one received a message from one's dear friend, Nigel, via the magnificent twitterverse. Something had tickled his fancy and wondered if one wanted one's tickled too. How could one refuse, poppets?

He had sent one a indepth study by Fascinating Aida of the workings of the low-cost airlines. The investigation below if both interesting and sets out all of the hidden costs in an easy to follow way.

Easyjet - Enemy At The Gates

2010-09-28T17:53:00.001+01:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You may not, dear!” One replied.

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

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

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

Crusty Prepares To Depart The North East On Tour

2010-09-27T18:53:00.001+01:00

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

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

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

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

Dear Poppet,

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

Love & cuddles,
Dame Crusty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Barcelona was fingering us enticingly into its welcoming bosom.

Crusty Tour Sept 2010 - The Journey Begins

2010-09-27T10:39:00.000+01:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rooney Causes Contemplation at Crusty Hall.

2010-09-08T20:09:00.001+01:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite, dear!”

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

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

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

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

“Ah yes, I know who you mean now!”

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

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

Rudi Douglas - All The Lovers

2010-08-27T15:33:00.002+01:00

One was chatting to some chums in the land of Twitter today and one's dear friend Mikey Walsh (Writer of the astoundingly brilliant and magically moving Gypsy Boy) suggested one took a little shufty of a twitteree's video on YouTube.

One was intrigued and navigated there immediately. What one found was simply gorgeous! The talented and delicious poppet, Rudi Douglas, singing an acoustic version of a recent Kylie Minogue hit, All The Lovers. One felt one had to share his talent with you all (Goodness, they'll have one as a judge of X-Factor next!)

Incidentally, if you have not already bought Mikey's book, Gypsy Boy - and one cannot recommend it highly enough - have a pop along to Amazon via the link on the right and you will not be disappointed.

Note To Self: READ THINGS CAREFULLY, DEAR!

2010-08-13T14:44:00.000+01:00

“Good morning, Marjorie Flecks speaking.”

“Good morning, poppet. I caught a quick glimpse of your advert and thought I’d call and perhaps get the ball rolling. One had an accident recently – which was most certainly not one’s fault – where a member of the household staff bumped into one with the Dyson. One, of course, does not need the money but would be interested to know how much one would receive.”

There was a short silence at the other end of the line. “Erm … I think you may have the wrong number … Is that Dame Crusty?”

“It is indeed, Marjorie dear, and one is quite sure one has the correct number! Now are you going to take on the case or not?”

“But this is the vicarage, Dame Crusty, we don’t deal with insurance. Oh, Sebastian ensures salvation with his sermons [snort], if you’ll forgive the joke?”

There was another lengthy pause. “Dame Crusty, are you still there?”

“One is, dear; one's waiting for the joke.”

“That was it; ‘ensures salvation with his sermons’ …’ensures’, ‘insures’? That was the joke.”

“Very nearly, dear. Honestly Marjorie with such a lack-lustre attempt at humour, you could do nothing but give Patrick Kielty a run for his money, nothing more. Now, are you going to take up one’s case?”

“Dame Crusty, you must have it wrong!” She insisted.

Increasingly frustrated, one picked up the newspaper. Licking the tip of one’s index finger, one began to violently search the pages. “Right! Here we are … oh! … Marjorie dear … it appears one has indeed made an error. One should have read it more carefully. I naturally thought of you when one saw Bigger Bloomers and simply pressed the speed dial for the vicarage … but upon closer inspection, I have noticed it is BGR Bloomer. I’ll give them a call.”

One couldn’t hear exactly what the vicar’s wife was saying, as one put down the phone, but the inflection in her voice certainly didn’t befit the wife of a man of the cloth.

As it turned out, one didn’t need to call them anyway. The folloing morning, while returning from the village, the very same member of household staff was riding up the drive on her bicycle. As one passed by her, one simply lowered the window and pushed her into the box hedging.

One felt as if an exquisite balance had been restored.

A Gross Occasion At Crusty Hall.

2010-08-04T21:53:00.001+01:00

The 12th August is an important date in the diary for any so-inclined poppets who are into hunting down a game bird or two. It is, of course, the date upon which the Grouse shooting season starts.

Here at Crusty Hall preparations are underway to mark the occasion, but as many of you will know, one is a lover of all Mother Nature’s creatures …well, perhaps not wasps … or bluebottles … or Esther Rantzen … (well we shall settle on a lover of most of her creatures) and so one does things a little differently on one’s magnificent estate; One uses the 12th of August to celebrate a one day festival which has traditionally been known as Gross Shooting Day.

Each year, a week before the special day, one assembles the household staff in one of the outbuildings and with the assistance of one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, one peruses the mob of depravity to find those that have not worn well over the previous year: This can be because of many different reasons; the sun being kept off their sallow complexions through duty expectations, an appalling bone structure, a lack of fruit consumption leading to inadequate Vitamin C absorption or simply because they are hereditarily hideous and one has just been too preoccupied to notice.

Anyhoo … the chosen few that one finds the most gross – hence Gross Shooting Day - are then issued with a ticket, a pair of goggles and some shin pads and, as they stand with excited faces ( … yes, I’m sure it’s excitement) one leaves, so that Chu Me can give them their instructions in private.

Then early morning, on the 12th, one dons one’s shooting jacket and heads down for a hearty breakfast. After which, one arms oneself with one’s trusty paintball rifle and heads out into the grounds, with a hip flask of gin to accompany one on the safari ahead.

In an overgrown field at the back of estate, one stands upon Gusset Clump and waits (Gusset Clump is a small mound of earth that elevates one sufficiently above the height of the long, unkempt grass to give one an advantageous vista). Then for the rest of the morning, Chu Me scurries through the grass coaxing the chosen participants out into the open with a wooden stick; this is when the fun begins!

Clearly there is a cross section of ages and one is disappointed that older members simply jump out in front of one in the first 20 minutes, panting heavily as I blast them with aubergine paint pellets. They paint-splatteredly return to the kitchen where Chef always prepares an elaborate array of nibbles and refreshments to reward participation.

Some of the younger one’s, however, are significantly more competitive. Only last year Gardener’s useless apprentice managed three and a half hours on the run. It was like a scene from a Sir David Attenborough documentary watching this horticulturally challenged poppet spring from the tall grass like a young Gazelle, running for its life from the jaws of a ravenous tiger (Honestly, poppets, Grouse can fly at speeds of up to 80mph, but point a paintball gun at a healthy member of staff and one really does get the same affect).

One’s aim was unable to find him and pellets fell, defeated, to the ground. In the end one had to mount one’s trusty steed and, as he hid behind the distant hedgerow, one galloped towards him with the reigns gripped between one’s teeth in true cowgirl style. With a powerful squeeze of one’s inner thighs, Dribble shot over the hedgerow, straight over the pray’s head and landed four feet away from him. Pulling on the reigns, Dribble rose up on his hind legs. One turned and fired two pellets into the buttocks of one’s Titchmarchesquian quarry. After one shot one's load, the hunted down poppet fell to his knees and wept … exhausted!

All in all, it’s a wonderful way of establishing team work amongst the household staff; it gets them out into the fresh air, gives them a little cardio-vascular exercise … and reminds them of their position within the estate.

Quite exhilarating, one can assure you!

Chiles and Bleakley To Bring Us Face-Ache On ITV.

2010-08-02T19:38:00.001+01:00

It has one quite baffled, all of this hoo-har surrounding the signing up to ITV of Adrian Chiles and Christine the-water-skiing-WAG Bleakley.

For those poppets who are unaware, the long running (and extremely bright) breakfast show, GMTV, is being revamped into a new show called ‘Face Ache’ ….[sorry Chu Me? … are you sure, dear?] … apparently it’s ‘Daybreak’ (Though, quite frankly, one fancies the former is more apt where Mr Chiles is involved).

Recently, everybody at the current GMTV show has been resigning at a rate of knots; first Penny Smith, then Andrew Castle (one doubts whether the cogs will turn so smoothly once his oily-slickyness has oozed out of the building) and, as yet, one is unclear what will happen with intrepid reporter John Stapleton – the Jason King of morning news; he’s certainly not getting any younger, so it would be tragic for him to have to hang up his jacket and ties and the Marks and Spencer poly-blend sand safari suit we have come to know and love, whenever he is reporting from a sun-drenched, war-torn country.

But still this frenzy over the new co-hosts is quite unexpected and totally unnecessary. One certainly didn’t find anything special about them on the BBC’s ‘The One Show’. Indeed, the first evening dear Christine was on, one just caught a momentary glimpse of her after hearing the voice and for a moment thought it was Ian Paisley in a summer dress and lipstick. Of course, after an hour of looking much closer, one realised this was not the case.

As for Adrian, one thought the mask of misery etched across his dish was due to the aftermath of saddle sores from his charity bike ride with Alan Shearer. However, one has been assured that this is his natural look (poor poppet!).

Anyhoo … One may have a shufty once the show starts, to acquire a taste of how terrible it all is, but as a rule one tends not to watch ITV in the morning now; ever since the Tyne Tees division cruelly ripped one’s angelic, charismatic poppet, Mark make-my-mouth-water Warr, from one’s pixels during cut backs … only to immediately replace him with an eardrum-piercing Harpy with an appalling wardrobe.

Jonathan Morrell Evokes A Crusty Memory.

2010-08-02T19:20:00.001+01:00

Jonathan Morrell: A North East icon pictured in front of a North East landmark.

It was about a week ago and Chu Me and I had finished the delicious breakfast Chef had prepared, rather later than usual. Mr. Peppercorn, the butcher, had been kind enough to call up to the residence early morning, carrying a length of sausage on him that was simply mouth-watering. Once Chef got his hands on it and gave it his special treatment, the result was pure meaty luxuriousness, which melted in one’s mouth and slid effortlessly down the throat.

Sausagely satisfied, Chu Me excused himself and went out to check on his hens and to release Dribble into the paddock. One rang the bell for a member of household staff to clear the breakfast room of dishes etc. and made one’s way to the Doctor Christian Room. Opening the door, one heard a loud purring; it was one’s pussy, Crotchet. Sashaying further in, one could see him resting like a sphinx – his front paws folded – with the line of his fluffilicious body pointing towards the Bang & Olufsen.

“Goodness, Crotchet, what has attracted your fancy so?” One asked.

He turned his head to look at one, his eyes bright as buttons, then turned back to face the audio equipment, adjusted his folded paws and continued to purr loudly. Turning the volume up a smidgen, one realised instantly what was causing this strange behaviour. The velvety vocal vibrations of one’s dear poppet, Jonathan Morrell, were oscillating from Real Radio Towers and out of one’s exquisitely expensive woofers and tweeters.

This particular day, Jonathan was asking his adoring listeners for a favourite holiday song and the memory that went with it. One immediately thought of Mariah Carey (though heaven only knows why) and a memory of a balmy night in Barcelona, while Chu Me and I were holidaying at one’s beach house on the outskirts.

We had travelled into the centre to dine at one of one’s favourite eateries; El Barkito in Carrer Còsega. Both Chu Me and I adore popping in of an evening for the set menu - entremeses marineros - where a caravan of oceanic cuisine is brought to the table in stages; each contains a selection of cooked, fresh shellfish and fish. This combined with a bottle of wine, a chilled bottle of Cava and coffee cortado to finish … well, bliss springs to mind.

Anyhoo … we had finished our meal and Chu Me, decided it would be a good idea if he returned to the beach house. He had spent the afternoon playing volleyball with a group of bikini-clad Catalan lovelies and though he had appeared all right when he had returned home, it appeared the siesta he had passed in his quarters had brought with it an aching wrist (too much batting of the balls with the palm of his hand, one suspects). Analysing the situation, one agreed this was the best course of action. One patted him on his head and sent him on his way.

One, however, had the urge to walk the streets (though not in a professional capacity, you understand). As one sashayed along the Gaudilicious carrers one came across an establishment vibrating with rhythm. Naturally, one’s curiosity was prodded and one decided to investigate further.

It was bursting with energy, packed to the rafters and delicately lit - save some ultraviolet tubing - and a heady scent of Kouros filled the air. It appeared to be a workingmen’s club, as there were very few females; indeed, one could see only two at the end of the bar dressed in faded jeans and lumberjack checked shirts (though, quite frankly, they looked as if they had not the slightest interest in holding a chopper).

Well, after two mojitos and a tequila shot, given gratis by the muscular barman, one was overcome by the atmosphere and was soon up shaking a tail-feather on the smoke-filled dance floor with a rather hirsuit young man, dressed in a leather waistcoat and trouser ensemble (an odd mode of attire for such warm temperatures one thought, but he wore no shirt or vest and his trousers were backless, so at least air was managing to circulate around his downstairs area … one imagines there is nothing worse than a sweaty man-biscuit).

One’s dancing prowess was an instant hit, especially when one’s slender hips gyrated gorgeously to the more Latin rhythms, and very soon one’s dance card was full. One’s new chums and I danced until our legs buckled and the bar ran out of gin. A truly magical night!

Jonathan’s question of the day had certainly stirred something within one and a vivid recollection of Ms Carey’s “I’ll Give My All” (and after a couple of Bacardi Breezers, one is quite sure you would, dear!) attached itself, like a limpet, to one’s memory pathways. But that woman is exposed enough as it is; one only thinks back to the Michael Jackson memorial concert, when she still managed to hoist up her hooters before murdering ‘I’ll Be There’ (Take your time, dear … there’s no rush!).

In the end one sent a message to one’s North East iconic poppet to suggest an altogether more appropriate number; Londonbeat’s ‘You Bring On The Sun’. While one was dancing with another of one’s chums, Raul, one recalled a rather interesting bit of hip thrusting in the middle of the song. Furthermore, far more appropriate for dear Jonathan because each time he’s on the radio, he does just that … bring out the sun, that is … not indulge in outrageous hip thrustage!

Then, curiously enough, that very same day, while having a rummage through the well filled draws of one’s bow-legged tallboy, one came across the leather clad hombre’s photograph with the message he had left for one as we waved buenas noches at the end of the night:

For Crusty, I had a good crack tonight!
Love
Ricardo

Indeed, dear, and mercifully, in those leather chaps, it was slightly less off-putting when you weren’t spinning round!

Rent a Friend - A Warning From Crusty Hall!

2010-07-20T21:55:00.001+01:00

Chu Me had been out early to collect some eggs. As he entered the coop, his cock was standing proud near the gate and he knew, instantly, that a successful cache lay in wait. Sure enough, as he checked the chickens, each one had produced at least two delicious ellipsoids of egginess.

As a result, when one awoke and glided down the grand staircase to the Breakfast Room there was a heavenly plate of scrambled eggs set down in front of one. The television in the corner was already on and BBC Breakfast was in full swing. Looking at the clock on the fire place, one had just missed the first instalment of one’s delicious poppet, Colin his-twinkle-makes-y’-tingle Briggs on the local news round-up so, while awaiting his next bulletin, one passed the time watching Charlie Stayt and Suzanna I-have-a-scary-expression-for-every-occasion Reid. One of the stories du jour was that of a new idea which had recently crossed the Atlantic Ocean from our American brothers and sisters … “Rent a Friend”.

The idea is that when you’re sitting at home – lonely, with an element of social ineptness and the inability to communicate successfully with your fellow human beings – you can simply pay for someone to like you … and be your friend.

As one understands it, poppets may already enjoy such a service on many an inner city street corner and in certain ‘select’ establishments where foisty bodily aromas linger in the air - partially camouflaged by a toilet block - and carpet stainage is hidden with subdued lighting. However, a young man who had started a pimping organisation for just such pay-as-you-go friends assured us, in a rather wishy-washy-not-entirely-convinced-himself fashion, that this was not the case.

Having pondered the situation carefully, one would sincerely advise all of one’s poppets not to get involved in such a sinister arrangement and certainly not prostitute themselves so. Goodness, it’s bad enough when one goes to a restaurant; “I didn’t have the wine”, “I only had a main course”, “I’m a vegan”.

Heaven only knows if this took off and groups were involved; “I only said hello but paid for an hour”, “We’ve been talking all night! Do you take Chip ‘n’ Pin?” and “Ooh! You brushed my hooter; that’ll be £16.50 and a white wine spritzer”.

It would be absolute pandemonium!! Should such poor poppets exist, they’d still feel utterly uncomfortable had they left their reclusive cocoon and actually met someone new naturally, but simply be out of pocket doing it.

Instead, come join one and one’s chums on Twitter, Facebook or indeed, stop by here at one's website for a coffee from time to time - and you will always have a friend in Crusty. What’s more, one’s friendship is free!

A Morning of Chaos at Crusty Hall

2010-07-19T22:56:00.000+01:00

It promised to be a glorious day: Crusty Hall – indeed, the entire estate - was saturated with the rippling rays of Señor Sol’s glowing sunlight as one walked out onto the steps of the main entrance to take in the sumptuous summer air.

Inhaling deeply – with one’s bosom expanding as one did so – one had just reached the point of fullness – when one spluttered (elegantly, of course) when one noticed a young, half-naked, muscular gentleman to one's left. He was delivering some hay for one’s dear horse, Dribble, but one could do nothing other than stand open mouthed as he began emptying his load right by the side of the conservatory. This was quite outrageous!

It was not customary for those who provided a service to the estate to come up the front. One always insisted they use the back entrance to ensure they can complete their duties without being seen. After all, one never knows when one will have an unexpected visitor, does one?

“Morning!” Shouted the young man, grabbing one of his bales and giving it a yank to the floor.

Dumfounded, one turned into the house and shouted for one’s faithful houseboy; “CHU ME! Hurry, dear!”

Like a flip-flop gilded gazelle he sprang out from the inside of the house and landed at one’s side. “Chu Me, dear,” one continued, pointing at the bare chested workman,”this is quite unacceptable. Please tend to the matter at once!”

Efficient as ever, he took charge of the situation and within a few moments, he was successfully taking the hayman up the rear. Slowly, one began to relax and enjoy the morning once more. Until, that is, one looked down and saw Crotchet padding across the drive. He had clearly been rolling around the dewy foliage and his fur was dripping wet. Trying to act oblivious to it all, he came closer. Folding one’s arms one moved to block him, “Crotchet, dear, where do you think you are going in that state?”

He stopped to look up at his displeased mistress, “You are not entering our home like that, poppet. One will not tolerate a wet pussy rubbing against one’s antique fabrics! You shall stay in the grounds until you are dry, dear. Now … off you go!” He turned and headed off, his tail shaking upright like that of a rattlesnake, show ing his annoyance and – one believes - a small pump of disgust was expelled to emphasise his point.

One simply couldn’t believe it. The morning was becoming a disaster. One felt one was in the middle of a scene from 2012, only blessed by the fact that the situation was – frankly – more believable.

Anyhoo … Just as one was about to return indoors, one felt the vicar’s horn pierce one’s eardrum. Sure enough, turning on the heel of one’s Gucci slipper, one saw his head whizzing past the bush at the bottom of the drive. He was panting furiously as he tried to make the entire uphill journey without stopping for a breather. One called for a member of the household staff to bring a glass of water and we waited …and waited … and waited. Eventually, he pulled up outside the steps, his face a very peculiar colour, and the small urchin in one’s employ ran to his aid with the water.

“Good … morning …Dame Cru …Crusty!” The vicar said, trying to catch his breath. “I was passing … and thought I’d … thought I’d pop by.”

“Had you taken any longer, vicar, you would have been passing by. I was about to close the door!

“I know. I must apologise, I’m having terrible problems. I think my sprocket may have gone.”

“Nothing a good rest and a bag of ice wouldn’t cure, I’m sure. Now … a spot of tea?”

One sashayed into the house with the vicar close behind, his bicycle clips clanging as we went. We took tea in the Drawing Room where one is convinced he was trying to tell me something, but the chaos of the morning had put my mind on another track and one simply sat and looked past him the whole time.

From the window, one could see the hayman and Chu Me down by the stables. Dribble was just starting to come out while Chu Me was trying desperately to prove himself, by helping with the unloading. He was simply too small resulting in the hayman having to drop his own handful and grab Chu Me’s bale to do the humping himself, while Chu Me, precariously, sat on top. Finally, his job done, the hayman shot off leaving Chu Me to clean up the mess. One sighed with relief as one began to see order was being restored to the day.

One turned one’s attention back to the vicar, who was still rambling on. By this point, one had missed what he’d already said so thought it best not to waste the energy listening to the conclusion, so smiled delightfully and injected the odd “Oh!”, “I see!” and “Well, of course” in what seemed like appropriate moments.

After a further cup of tea and six milk chocolate digestives, the vicar gave his leave. As he mounted his bicycle at the steps he turned, “Oh! By the way, Marjorie said she may call by later for a chat about the school sports day.” A shiver went up one’s spine.

“Oh no! One fears one will be out poppet” One said.

“When?” The vicar asked.

“Whenever she calls, dear! No doubt I’ll see her in the village at some point.”

“Very well, Dame Crusty. Must dash! So much more pleasurable going down, isn’t it?.”

“Quite, dear!” One replied with a shocked look on one’s face.

And with that one waved him goodbye as he set off down the drive. One waited several minutes on the step. No more emergencies seemed to be rearing their heads, so one headed into the bar for a gin.

Jonathan Ross - Wolls Over For A Million.

2010-07-10T13:56:00.002+01:00

News has reached one's office, here at Crusty Hall, that the lecherous Jonathan Ross will be moving to ITV late next year with a new prime time chat show.

When asked about it by members of the media, he was enthusiastic about bringing us something 'fast and funny'

One is delighted he's making a departure from his current format. One wishes him well ...and that he gets that folicularly floppy hair cut once and for all!

One Year On - Crusty Remembers Michael Jackson.

2010-07-04T17:09:00.001+01:00

Mother Nature had been kind and the day had been glorious! Señor Sol had extended his tentacles of warming sunlight across the region and one had even managed to allocated three hours to recline on the terrace, adorned only in Factor 30, a wide brimmed hat, several diamonds and a mental image of Dr. Christian Jessen in a pair of skimpy, gossamer thin budgie-smugglers.

The evening proved to be just as warm but there was still a pleasant, summery silence in the residence that evening, despite the windows being opened, letting the breeze from the estate circulate around the principal rooms.

Chu Me had joined forces with one’s pussy, Crotchet, in an attempt to catch a moth that had penetrated one’s inner sanctum and as they ran off down the endless corridors, one was left alone.

Ficking up and down the listings on one’s Sky+ system one came across the filmumentary This Is It; the snippets edited together from the rehearsals of Michael Jackson’s last tour, before he sadly moonwalked into the afterlife and left his fans inconsolably bereft of his dancing deliciousness. One was about to … to use a technical term …’page down’ … when one remembered it had just passed the anniversary of his death. How rather fitting it would be for one to pay one’s own homage to him and watch the piece; absorbing his musical mastery. This Is It it was and that was that.

One found it very poignant indeed. Here one was, sitting in the luxurious splendour of Crusty Hall, dressed in natural designer fabrics, a few diamonds and holding a beautiful Baccarat crystal tumbler of gin against one’s shapely thigh and there was a iconic poppet preparing for his tour; not knowing, that in a very short space of time, he would be no more; that rumours would be abound at the cause of his departure; that the 2 minute silence at his memorial concert would be completely ruined by the annoying voiceover of Paul Gambaccini until he realised 12 seconds from the end … and that Mariah Scary would still manage to hoist her puppies up – inappropriately so – at the very same event before murdering his classic ‘I’ll Be There’ (one could almost hear muffled shouting from the coffin that afternoon yelling, “For the love of God, woman!!!).

Anyhoo … Throughout the entire film, one squealed with excitement and awe at his voice and his delicious dance moves. On several occasions one felt the urge to set down the crystal tumbler and applaud gleefully with the odd shout of ¡Bravísimo, guapo!. He was simply magnificent … except for the ‘I Just Can’t Stop Loving You’ segment, which one fears was all a little Child-Catcher-Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang. Had Crusty been the one he was singing to, one thinks one would have been urged to tell him to try and stop – especially if he continued to dance in that fashion - otherwise one would be forced to get a court injunction.

There was one thing, however, that truly amazed one as the show finished and one had a moment of reflection. Here was a slim – yet, muscled – individual, bursting with talent from every atom of his being. Due to his frame executing years of breathtaking gyration, he had maintained a small, dainty and pleasantly pert buttock region. How utterly astounding it was that for such a small arsal expanse, so many of the entourage were able to kiss it simultaneously!

Glamour Awards 2010 - Nothing Glamorous About Them, Dear!

2010-07-04T15:13:00.002+01:00

One was reminded, recently, of the disgraceful shenanigans that went on at this year’s Glamour Women of the Year Awards in London, hosted by James Corden.

One is unclear of the credence that one can give to these particular awards, particularly when you consider Cheryl y’nailed-it Cole was voted Woman of the Year and Dannniiiiiii Minge (sorry, my keyboard’s sticking) won Personality of the Year, despite never actually showing us she has one. To rub a further palm full of Maldon salt flakes into the gaping sore, Christine Bleakley – a recent addition to the WAG club (her mother must be so proud) – was named Presenter of the Year. One would have liked to have seen the quality of the other nominees in that category to conclude piss-poor Christine was the best! She may have crossed the English Channel on water-skis but one crossed the River Pees Burn in a badly lubricated pedalo and one never received the slightest bit of recognition, just the clap that Chu Me gave me as one disembarqued!

The outfits worn were certainly proof it wasn't a necessarily plush affair. Many of the celebrities snapped in the traditional photos had clearly been dressing in porta-loos without the blessing of a mirror. The ensembles were like that of holiday makers …the things you’d never wear on a night out at home, but in a country two thousand miles away you could get away with because no one knew you. Coincidentally, looking at the stills from the event, one didn't know 95.35% of them.

Anyhoo … the most shocking moment of the proceedings took place during the presentation of the Film Actress of the Year award, won by Zoe Saldana of Avatar fame (though in truth it was the acting of the CGI representation of her that did all the work). Master of ceremonies James Corden introduced the person to present the award, Sir Patrick Stewart and well … what followed wasn’t pretty...

Now, one knows James Corden is like something strange you find in your mouth; you can either swallow it or have a compelling urge to spit it out caused by a natural gag reflex, but on the whole he is quite harmless and apart from the rather irritating false laugh he insists on using, he can be relatively entertaining. However, I do feel that the diplomatic qualities of the former captain of the Starship Enterprise were taking a small holiday when he thought his Shakespearean wit and delivery could attack and embarrass a ‘comedian’ (for want of a better word) in such a public setting.

Nevertheless, the damage is done and poor comedic poppet, James, must battle on despite having his fatulage attacked so publicly by a knight of Her Majesty’s realm. As for Sir Patrick … he must now Troy to engage his fans and Klingon to his reputation, hoping that he can make the incident blow over without being reported. There is no Data, at this stage, to suggest he can make it so.

England - Our Boys Scuttle Home.

2010-06-27T17:22:00.002+01:00

Well, poppets, that's your lot. Our national team is scuttling back to Her Majesty’s realm after being beaten by our German neighbours. Even the natural deliciousness of David Beckham watching over proceedings could not help.

Many fans, including music legend David Arnold, were shouting, “Come on England” ... and one dares say that had England won and fans had been in the players dressing room, then they probably would have.

However, with such a defeat one fears the team may be sprayed with matter altogether more unpleasant and from a slightly different locale of the bodily expanse.

One recommended they listened to a blasting of Dame Vera Lynn’s “There’ll Always Be An England” before and during the match for inspiration … but did they listen?

Honestly, sometimes one feels one is put onto this earth simply to make natural fabrics and diamonds look stunning!

Anyhoo … maybe next time.

Crusty's Unexpected Night Out.

2010-06-22T23:01:00.000+01:00

It was an unexpected invitation one received that morning. One had planned to spend the evening in the bar at Crusty Hall, watching a little television in the company of some of one’s most delicious poppets (Colin his-twinkle-makes-y’-tingle Briggs, Mark makes-my-mouth-water Warr, Sir Derren it’s-an-outrage-he-isn’t-already Litten, Jake a-God-in-gossamer-thin-black-budgie-smugglers Canuso and one’s doctorially delicious dreamboat, Dr. Christian Jessen). All of them around the wood panelled walls of the bar and all of them exquisitely hung.

However, just as a member of the household staff was chiming ten bells, Chu Me ran to inform one that Claudia Shaver was having a soirée at her flat to celebrate the success – thus far – of the village model agency. As we had not seen eye to eye for some years and only recently cleared the air, one naturally agreed; if for no other reason than to see if her cooking had improved since the manky mollusc incident of ’87.

Dinner was at 8pm but drinks were being served from seven. Chu Me made ready GUSSET 1 and, adorned in a stunning Versace evening gown, a luxurious contrasting wrap and a selection of glistening diamonds from the Gusset Collection, one sashayed out of the main entrance into the chilly evening air, with one hands squeezed comfortably inside one’s muff.

The hand-built magnificence of the Bentley bobbed majestically along the winding roads – Chu Me driving perfectly as always – still giving one enough time to partake of a small snifter from the drinks cabinet in front of one.

The lights were burning brightly inside Claudia’s flat. When Chu Me opened the door to allow one to alight, one could hear the forced laughter of the vicar and his wife, Marjorie. One turned to look at one’s faithful houseboy; a look of horror set upon both our faces. A few seconds past , then one threw the remainder of one chilled, crystal clear elixir down the back of one’s throat (elegantly, of course!).

“Well, too late to turn back now, dear! Mistress must do her duty!” Handing the empty Baccarat receptacle to him, one straightened oneself and glided toward the door, where one waited for Chu Me to ring the bell before watching him head back to GUSSET 1 and the palatial serenity of Crusty Hall.

“Dame Crusty!” screamed Claudia, with her arms extended.

“Good evening, poppet. [mwah mwah]” one replied. Gliding over the threshold, she grabbed one’s muff and stuck it aggressively on a hook to the side of the door before we ventured upstairs. At the top, one could see Marjorie Flecks, the vicar’s wife, sitting in her usual floral explosion ensemble, clinging onto her sherry glass as if about to take communion. Entering the lounge one saw the vicar, who one had heard earlier, as well as Daphne Dewdrop and Pat Tissery, from the village bakers.

“Goodness … an all ladies night!” one commented.

“Not quite, Dame Crusty … [guffaw] … what about me?”

“Indeed, vicar!”

Daphne Dewdrop, for those unfamiliar, has long been known as the village … how can one put it? … slapper (easier than one thought!). After tipping a couple of Bailey’s Orgasms down her throat, she’d drop her knickers to stop a bus. Indeed she used this very trick some years ago with our local driver, Mr. Treehorn; just as he was about to come upon her under the Post Office security light, he turned and shot off in the opposite direction. In the end she was forced to hoist her undergarments back up and make her way home on foot.

Anyhoo … the evening was a pleasant enough affair and the conversation flowed satisfactorily. Claudia’s cooking had improved slightly, thanks to the Delia Smith bible one could see lying on the kitchen bench. One did, however, feel the mutton was a little tough. As with any kind of old meat, it is important to tenderise it with, perhaps a quick bash, or a long soak before putting into one’s mouth. Altogether more pleasant to swallow, thereafter.

Leaving the dining table and retiring to the lounge for post dinner coffee, one’s worst fears were realised. The vicar – during a conversation on whether Heaven truly exists – suggested Marjorie sang a couple of numbers from her Brittle Spears repertoire (If Heaven did indeed exist, it appeared we were not going to be fortunate enough to go there; instead, we were to be sent to Hell). Needless to say, quick thinking was on the cards and, discretely, one sent a priority text to Chu Me back at the Hall.

“Shall we all have our coffee first?” Claudia asked.

“A wonderful idea,” one added, “it will give us time to prepare ourselves for this unexpected ….treat. I’m quite sure we’ll have heard nothing quite like it before.”

Coffee finished and our moment of torture had arrived, Gargling on a cap full of Listerine, Marjorie prepared her, alleged, vocal cords. One felt the chill rise up through one’s spinal column and into the base of one’s neck. She took her place in front of the fire, cupped her hands together and took a deep breath with her mouth open …

DING DONG

“Right! That’s me, poppets!” one said, rising from one’s chair and in a tone that was mixed with a little too much glee and a huge sigh of relief. Daphne made a quick grab for one’s wrist and squeezed tightly as she uttered desperately, ”Please stay. Pleeeeaase!”

“One would like nothing better than to sit and listen to Marjorie sing beautifully, but alas … somethings are not possible.”

Eventually, one managed to reach the front door. One straightened one’s wrap, while Claudia plumped up one’s muff with a quick shake and a slap.

“Did you enjoy the evening, Dame Crusty?”

“It was quite splendid” one replied heading out to GUSSET 1. Chu Me opened the rear door and one slithered into the back seat and lowered the window. Chu Me took his place in the driver’s seat and Claudia approached and held one’s hand at the car window.

“It was really wonderful that you came. I can’t tell you what it means after … well, after what’s happened in the past. Incidentally, how was the mutton?”

Banging one’s foot on the floor, Chu Me started the engine as one started raising the window. “Fine, dear … until she got up to sing!”

With that we sped off to the comfort of one’s beloved Crusty Hall and the love and adoration of my dear pussy, Crotchet.

Confusion for Crusty: Horror for Fanny.

2010-06-15T23:54:00.000+01:00

Chu Me had prepared GUSSET 2 for one’s morning’s trip into Newcastle City Centre. The thriving metropolis is not somewhere one ventures to often because of the horrendous road markings designed by someone obsessed with yellow boxes. Plus, one can find most of one’s requirements in the village retail outlets.

Just as one was about to leave, the telephone rang. Chu Me answered it and told me it was my good friend Fanny O’Dour from the Badger’s Snatch.

“Fanny dear! One was just on one’s way out to the city. You’ve just caught me.”

“I know, Willy told me you were going in today. I was wondering if you could do me a small favour?”

“Of course, poppet! Name it and it shall be done?”

She was looking to make things a little more fun on her days off. Normally, Willy would still be working downstairs in the bar and she often got a little bored by herself, so had wanted something she could play with. It’s quite understandable and when she told me what she wanted one knew the very shop from which to buy it.

Later that evening, after returning from the bustling metropolis and after a spot of dinner (Chef insisted it was fish but one was not convinced and sent a piece to Annelise Stules-Hoffen, the village chemist, for analysis) one left one’s faithful pussy, Crotchet, and Chu Me engrossed in one of his specialist DVDs in his quarters and headed off into the village.

Walking into the residential section of the pub, Fanny greeted one and removed one’s coat.

“Did you manage to get one?” She asked excitedly.

“One did indeed, dear. Give Crusty a mission and she shall complete it.”

One lifted the box out of the bag in one’s right hand and began to open the top. There was a puzzled look on Fanny’s face. As one finished opening the box, Fanny’s puzzled look turned to a one of horror.

"Mm, that's not the type of rabbit I was looking for!" She said.

“Well, granted it’s probably a little bigger than you had expected, dear, but one’s quite sure you can accommodate it. You’ve plenty room downstairs and when you’re working you can always stick it round the back of the Snatch, where no one will be able to see it.”

Anyhoo ... it turns out that Fanny had been referring to a battery operated, vibrating device with speed settings and not a furry creature with floppy ears and a twitching nose!

One shall never watch Watership Down in the same way again ... if ever!

Kerry Katona Disrupts An Intimate Moment.

2010-06-10T21:53:00.001+01:00

Chu Me had went outside early to see to his hens and reward his proud cock with a pat on the head. Dribble also required letting out of his stable so he could wander into the paddock for his morning frolic.

One had sought sanctuary in the Doctor Christian Room and found oneself gazing at the corner of the room upon the tapestry of the dimpled, dollop of doctorial deliciousness one had completed some weeks previous.

The lack of sound was magnificent.

One was drifting further and further into the wool-stitched eyes of one’s medical marvel when, suddenly, a terrifying sound pierced one’s eardrum like the stab from a rusty, blunt pin. The intimate moment with one’s poppet was destroyed by something that sounded like two speaker wires being crossed with the volume set on full. One jumped up from one’s chaise to investigate immediately.

In one’s peripheral vision, one witnessed former queen of Iceland (that’s the prawn ring emporium, not the bankrupt country), Kerry Katona, advertising yet another newspaper exclusive about her umpteenth ‘successful’ rehabilitation from her vices and from the evil enchantment of the Doner Kebab.

“I’m Kerry Katona” She said, “I was a mess …”

Yes you were, dear, but yellow greasy hair, an overly tight silver frock and your puppies popping out does not exactly tidy you up!

SATC2 - Crusty's Eureka Moment!

2010-05-29T14:23:00.006+01:00

It would appear the nation’s press has gone sex mad with regard to the imminent release of Sex and the City 2, the [it says here] long awaited sequel to Sex and the City 1.

The cast of the film, of course, remains the same; the uber-gorgeous Kim Cattrall, the stunning Kristin Davis, the delicious Cynthia Nixon … and she who will never know the pain of losing her looks, Sarah Jessica Parker (a woman whom Mother Nature has balance beautifully by putting knobbly knees on her legs as well as her face).

Sitting in the Drawing Room and watching the BBC Breakfast interview - with the rather scary Susanna Reid (she with an extreme expression for any occasion) – one noted to oneself the natural elegance of Kim, Kristin and Cynthia yet was slightly put off by the intense, heavy analytical ramblings of Sarah. One took a sip of some chilled Pere Ventura Chu Me had poured for one and it was at that very moment when one had a Eureka moment!

Yes, the more one looked at SJP in her emerald green frock, the more one was convinced one’s discovery was accurate; bony face, small shifty eyes, the spectacles on/off routine to maintain a Superman-Clark-Kentesque anonimity. Furthermore, one has certainly never seen a photograph of them in the same room.

Could one’s suspicions be true? Could Sarah Jessica Parker be Mr. Woody Allen in lippy and designer frock?

One shall of course monitor the situation and report to one’s poppets as soon as investigations are complete.

Anyhoo … the premier has already been held in the capital, with one’s very own oofalicious poppet, Jake Canuso in attendance along with his good friends Louie the-poppet-is-elastic Spence and the sublimely gorgeous Emma Bunton. The crowds turned up in their thousands – as they often do for such events - and there was a cornucopia of national treasures (including one's Jakey) gliding up the red carpet with an air of glitterliciousness about them.

One must admit one shall no doubt sashay down to one’s private cinema here a Crusty Hall to watch the offering at some point. One certainly managed to get through the last one despite the long drawn out marriage-nonmarriage-get-together-split-up-get-back-together-marry carry on between Mr. Big and Woody Parker. It is clear that any relationship that has to endure that amount of nonsense will be destined to fail and result in a lifetime of lying on a psychiatrists couch (psychiatrists couch?!!! Another link … uncanny!)

Crusty Returns From Death’s Door.

2010-05-21T19:47:00.005+01:00

If ever one was in need of the muscular, yet velvety soft, healing hands of Doctor Christian Jessen it would have most certainly been this week.

One was going about one’s daily business - in an elegant fashion (naturally) - on Monday when at 21:32 - and while passing a moment of mediocrity with the vicar playing Connect 4 in the conservatory - one began to feel something a little strange at the back of one’s throat. One thought nothing of it, thinking Chu Me had acquired a little more “knock awf” gin from Robin Gett in the village. Perhaps he had tried to slip it in on the sly for our visitor, so as not to waste the good stuff.

Tuesday came and one’s throat was a tad worse, plus one seemed to have a slight fluidic cascade from one’s nasal passages: One was beginning to get slightly alarmed as this Dame is most definitely not for sniffing.

By Wednesday, the flood gates of … not to put too fine a point on it … nasal residue were well and truly opened. One’s throat felt as rough as Anne Robinson’s heels and temperature-wise, one was as hot as the sight of Jake Canuso in a pair of skimpy, skin-tight, budgie-smugglers, smothered in baby oil and lying back with a red rose gripped between his teeth.

As one sat in one’s private office on the Wednesday morning, attempting to reply to the myriad of agony emails from troubled poppets, Chu Me entered. He was about to put the Baccarat tumbler of medicinal gin on the coaster by one’s diary, when he caught sight of one still adorned in one’s silk, embroidered Mark makes-my-mouth-water Warr bathrobe. Unkempt hair (still clinging to a hint of gorgeousness), a face like Margaret Lockwood made up in the style of a teenage Goth and coughing like a docker on 80-a-day made Chu Me whisk away the tumbler and demand one went to bed immediately.

When one saw his little face, saturated with concern, one could not have argued (plus, in fairness, one didn’t have the strength). The rest of the day was spent with complete and utter bed rest. Chu Me would pop in from time to time with a cup of Miso soup, dressed alarmingly in fishing waders, a surgical gown, face mask and marigold gloves. Poppets would be right to imagine the scene as one from Holby City.

One’s pussy, Crotchet, loyal as ever, remained by his mistress’s side throughout, adopting the deportment of the Sphinx at the bottom right hand corner of one’s bed.

One managed to find the strength to use one’s laptopular device briefly and one must say one was pleased one did. The combination of Chu Me’s care, Crotchet’s protection and the abundance of love and concern from one’s Twitterchums allowed one to awake - after a restful nights sleep - refreshed and running at 92.3% of optimum elegance.

Crusty Hall has now been wiped down thoroughly with disinfectant, including the household staff, in an attempt to rid the residence of the any further sniff-inducing germs, so fingers cross, one has seen the last of it.

An Early Night and Crusty Misses It All.

2010-05-12T22:56:00.004+01:00

Last night was a warm and balmy night here at one’s beloved Crusty Hall. The excitement – or is that exhaustion – of how long it takes to put a government together had taken its toll. It certainly causes many problems when our Parliamentarians find themselves hung. Even the crude-oilesque, slicky, greasiness of Peter Peggy-on-a-Sunday Mandelson was unable to shift the tectonic plates of coalitionism for an alternative or speedier result. Chu Me suggested one have an early night and one agreed it was the best course of action.

After a relaxing bath in rose scented water one staggered one’s way to the bed and flopped elegantly onto Mark makes-my-mouth-water Warr’s face (emroided onto one’s quality Egyptian cotton duvet cover). One immediately fell into a deep, deep sleep ... dressed only in a simple diamond necklace and a film of moisturiser over one’s entire epidermal expanse.

Then this morning, one awoke abruptly to the noise of the household staff going about their daily routine, in the dim light of the window covered boudoir, Colin his-twinkle-makes-y’-tingle Briggs exploded on one’s 28 incher giving the full regional roundup of news for the day. Sashaying barefoot through the deep sumptuous shag pile carpet to his velvety tones, one arrived at the heavy curtains keeping the main thrust of Señor Sol’s rays at bay, one reached up, grabbed the delicious fabric and thrust the curtains open.

Looking down, one saw Dribble walking around the paddock and Gardener losing momentary control of his petrol powered lawnmower and crashing into a small tree (Perhaps it may have been prudent to have put on a robe before introducing oneself to the day through clear glass). His front end was clearly not hard enough and suffered some buckling as he banged the wood, but one is quite sure by pulling it off and giving it a good beating in his greenhouse, he will accomplish a smooth finish.

Anyhoo … the news filtered through that Her Majesty had mustered up a new Prime Minister – David Cameron. The one evening one decides on a early night, the nation changes hands; one may never sleep again!

It appears Mr. Cameron and Mr. Tarty-pants Clegg (who has flirted outrageously on both sides of the fence) managed to sit down and reach a compromise to unite as a powerful force indeed.

Though one does not step into the world of politics - especially in Gucci pumps - one hopes the boys can work well together and manage to get our great nation back on its feet again.

Humiliation for Veronica Manntrapp.

2010-05-03T12:02:00.003+01:00

Since the opening of the village model agency, it would appear the differences Claudia Shaver and I have let fester over the years, now seem to have been put to rest.

It was Tuesday morning and one had arranged the usual Ladies-Who-Brunch meet at the village coffee shop. Kitty, Fanny and I always like to have a weekly meet to put the world to rights over a length of Mr. Peppercorn’s prize sausages stuffed between Pat Tissery’s buttered baps (one feels strongly that local businesses should always be loyal to their community and use the local fayre).

Anyhoo … Kitty was running late so Fanny – landlady of the Badger’s Snatch – and I had ordered our sandwiches and were sipping our coffees when Claudia walked through the door. The bell ring dissipated as she closed the door behind her.

“Dame Crusty!” She said, with an air of surprise in her voice.

“Claudia dear,” One acknowledged, “one trusts the model agency is proving a success?”

“Oh yes, Dame Crusty, things are going great. Only this week, I’ve signed up Veronica Manntrapp. She’s got a lucrative advertising job already with Les Gumbres, the Greengrocer.”

“Splendid, dear!” One said. “Well … one would like to invite you to join us, dear, but one doesn’t want too. We shall catch up again soon.”

Claudia made her way to a table for one in the back of the coffee shop. Turning to the young woman standing by the window and gaining her attention by throwing a small sachet of sweetener at her head one said, “ Could you bring one another pot of coffee, dear, and perhaps a couple of hobnobs?”

“Oh… I don’t work here, I’m just waiting for my daughter.”

“Then you have ample time on your hands, poppet. Two sugars with milk please. Fanny? Another?”

Fanny declined and the rather sour faced woman made her way to the counter. Suddenly, there was a strange vibration against one’s right hooter. It was a text from Kitty advising she would be unable to attend. Her C.P.R. class had turned into chaos after a pair of adolescents had used a little licence in their interpretation of mouth-to-mouth. Thankfully, she managed to stop things before babies were born.

Fanny and I decided to take a gentle stroll back to the Badger’s Snatch, where one had parked the Aston. Getting up from our seats, the sour faced woman returned with a pot of coffee and a plate of biscuits. “No thank you, dear. One couldn’t manage another thing!”

We were approaching Mr. Peppercorn’s butchery emporium and saw him come out of the Greengrocer shop next door and go into his own – he was taking a leek inside – and one thought no more about one’s encounter with Claudia. It was not until passing the shop window that Fanny nudged one’s arm and pointed.

There stood Veronica Manntrapp doing her advertising campaign. When she saw us, her poor face said it all. She was devastated. Her elegant Marks & Spencer ensemble did not compliment the full length sandwich board she had been contracted to don and her angst had clearly caused her to grip Mr. Gumbres’ onions a little too hard resulting in the skin flaking off. Both he and Veronica had tears in their eyes. Poor Les couldn’t even see his scales and Veronica looked like a young Alice Cooper but with better skin tone. All in all it sort of distracted one from the advertising message regarding the low price on Les’s full length sheathed cucumber. Fanny and I made haste back to the Snatch to lessen Veronica’s humiliation.

Anyhoo … one later found out that the days work had brought £129.52 into the modelling agency and 2 weeks worth of free fresh produce for Veronica herself.

Well, as they always say ... no pain, no gain.

Doctor Who ... Dame Crusty Reflects.

2010-04-25T20:23:00.005+01:00

One has been a fan of the hero of time, Doctor Who, for many years now; ever since one was a small Damelette, in fact. There were, of course, the bleak and troubled years when the nation was subjected to Sylvester McCoy and Colin Baker, but one found the on/off switch a suitable tool against that unnecessary suffering.

In the 21st century, the hands of the gorgeous Russell T. Davies brought us incredible storylines, tension that gripped one by one’s slender, deliciously smooth neck and characters that clicked as delightfully as Dame Burley Chassis’ hips. However, since dear Russell’s departure as captain of the ship, one must confess one is slightly concerned about the latest series.

Matt Smith, clearly, is quite splendid as the new Doctor and seems to have slipped in to David Tennants socks very easily. Amelia Pond also appears to be proving the perfect companion (if not a little of a … smart arse (?) … there, one said it!). Yet it is the writing that causes the bubbles of doubt to pop inside one’s slender frame. The new writer, Steven Moffat – whom, from watching Doctor Who: Confidential is certainly not unsure of his own talents – is, one feels, trying too hard.

The first episode was a wonderful introduction to our new cast. A young Amelia Pond sitting in her bedroom praying for someone to come and help tend to her mysteriously glowing crack, only for our regenerated hero to come across her in her nightdress, then venture downstairs to spit out everything she had to offer him onto the kitchen floor. The rest – as they say – is history.

The aliens of this episode were adequately frightening until the large eyeball, suspended from a giant snowflake, entered; it all seemed a little too Sarah Jane Adventures for prime time Saturday evening televisualisation.

The third episode saw the return of the Daleks. Even here – and not content with changing the sumptuous simplicity of the TARDIS – the long running enemy of the Doctor were apparently not good enough for Monsieur Moffat and he felt the Earth’s arch nemesis required (one believes the phrase is) ‘pimped up', to the point of complete and utter campness.

Indeed, when the super multi-primary-coloured Daleks came onto our screens and spread out into their sinister formation in front of the Jammy Dodger yielding Doctor, they looked like a giant Freedom Flag. All that was missing from the scene was a glitterball, Hi-NRG music pounding out in the background, a slight aroma of Amyl Nitrate and the Doctor in a pair of backless leather chaps serving cocktails and the scene would have been complete. Aside from that, the script, again, was over worked and despite a cast of superb actorial poppets, there just didn’t seem to be a fluidity to the storyline.

The most recent episode has seen the return of the Weeping Angels (no doubt weeping more after a shufty at the script). Not only that, but we have a woman with a very tight perm acting very familiar with the Doctor. While the lovely Russell introduced a character subtly, as in the Face of Boe, Steven introduces us to this woman and by the end of the episode, one is still no further forward as to knowing who on earth she is. It is all a little off putting and certainly gives a metallic aftertaste to a perfectly poured glass of gin while watching.

Anyhoo … all said and done, one certainly approves, on the whole, of the new TARDIS interior, but do we really need taps, typewriters and sex toys to be part of the control panels? Yes … sex toys, poppets! Surely one is not the only one who has witnessed the ribbed glass penetrating device in the centre of the craft forcing itself up and down, up and down, up and down … [Chu Me! Iced water … quickly! … and one’s fan!!]

The BBC prop poppet in the first Confidential told Matt, “We had to look high and low for that new centre piece.” Chu Me told one if he’d looked at page 24 of one of his specialist catalogues, he could have picked one up for £32.95 with Next Day delivery. He could have saved himself so much time.

Still, one must keep an open mind and see how the stories develop. Rome wasn't built in a day, after all.

Chu Me Learns To Swim

2010-04-17T15:50:00.001+01:00

Over recent weeks one has been giving Chu Me lessons on how to swim. There was never any need to learn when he was a child, in that land far, far away. His village was surrounded by flooded fields and all the residents were traditionally content skimming across the surface in plastic flip-flops, propelled by large wooden poles. So, since taking him under one’s wing, it has long been on the cards for me to teach him this valuable skill.

Anyhoo … we were in the pool yesterday morning. One was elegantly contained in a ravishing aubergine Gucci swimsuit and matching cap, while Chu Me had his favourite pair of Hom budgie-smugglers on with a bright orange pair of inflatable water wings.

It would be wrong, one suspects, to say he ‘found his feet’, therefore we shall say he ‘found his flippers’ very quickly in our lesson. Within an hour he had grasped the technique of the front crawl. Even with his water wings, he managed to accomplish a satisfying speed up and down the length and one was delighted.

Bobbing majestically at the deep end of the pool – one treading water like an aquatic ballerina and Chu Me paddling his hands to stabilise his inflatables - one congratulated him on his efforts.

“Bravísimo, Chu Me! That was perfect!”

With a gleaming smile arcing across his proud-as-punch face he shouted, “Breast stroke?”

“Well, as you’ve done so well, why not.”

No sooner had I said those words, one felt Chu Me’s hand brush against one’s right hooter. One’s cat-like reflexes took a hold; kicking harder with one’s feet, one raised further from the water, raising one’s arms into the air and making pincers from one’s hands. Like a Praying Mantis, one’s pincers shot down and with a nip of stunningly manicured nails, one burst his inflatable water wings. The air rapidly squeaked out of the puncture holes as Chu Me looked on in horror. His head slowly starting to sink below the surface, one turned and propelled oneself to the ladder at the side. Exiting, one picked up the towel that lay on the lounger and stormed off elegantly to the steam room, “Outrageous!! Naughty Chu Me … Crusty is shocked!”

The window cleaner had passed by moments later. He saw the bubbles on the surface of the pool, bursting to emit small yelps and he dived in to pull one’s faithful houseboy from the crystal clear depths.

“What on earth is all this noise?” One shouted, as one left the steam room to investigate. Before me, one saw Chu Me lying on a lounger, panting heavily. The window cleaner was sitting in a chair, saturated and removing his shirt. The disrobing revealed a muscled, tanned torso with a six-pack stomach; tiny droplets of water falling from his jaw line and landing on his pectorial plane, creating tiny rivers that meandered down his body to the belt above his downstairs area.

Sahaying towards him, he stood up and one grabbed the back of his head and pushed one’s lips on his. After a few seconds, he began to struggle and our lips were released.

“Dame Crusty, what are you doing?”

“The kiss of life, dear! You’ve had a terrible trauma”

“But I’m fine…”

“Better make sure, dear” and with that one planted one’s lips upon him again. Finally, releasing him from one’s vice-like medical grip, Chu Me explained he had not intentionally brushed one’s bosom. It had been the ripples of the pool that had turned him towards me. He was simply trying to stabilise himself.

One looked at him briefly before the pieces all fell into place. Turning to head towards the door of the main residence, one chuckled loudly thinking how easy it is for misunderstandings to happen.

Chelsea Leaves Walford.

2010-04-03T15:27:00.003+01:00

News has filtered through to one's private office at Crusty Hall, that stunningly delicious Eastenders actress Tiana Benjamin is set to leave the long running soap after 4 years.

This will cause the show untold damage, being the only knee-tremblingly beautiful member of the female cast (except Dame Barbara Windsor, the exquisite legend that she is).

It is understood that it has been a difficult choice for the actress to make, but she feels it is time to move on.

One doesn't know what she will do, but hopes she was advised The Bill has been axed. Nevertheless, one wishes her gorgeousness all the luck in the future.

One thing is for sure, her happiness levels with soar - like the birds above the clouds - when she finally leaves that depressing square.

Crusty Rides with the Rowing Team.

2010-03-31T20:32:00.001+01:00

After a dreadful bout of rain, the morning was bright and sunny and one felt the need to get out into the open air. One looked down from one’s bedroom window and saw the horses in the stable. One’s favourite stood proud with the sunshine on his face, as he looked across the Gusset estate. A morning ride! A splendid idea!

One mounted Dribble in one’s riding finery and raced off across the grounds towards the River Pees Burn. The feeling of the fresh air whooshing past one’s face as one went was exquisite and Dribble was in his element.

Approaching the cinder track by the side of the river, one came across the village rowing team. They were out on a team practice and looked magnificent suspended in their Lycra bodysuits. Rowing has been a blessing for the entire team, the majority of who used to pass their time on the village green drinking bottles of peach Schnapps and being generally disagreeable. That is, all apart from one; Robin Gett.

Robin was notorious in the surrounding area for petty theft. One night, one stumbled across him trying to grab one’s jugs in the hallway . It was this incident that prompted one to suggest rehabilitation on the rowing team and since joining, he has become a changed character and a totally delightful young man.

“Morning, Dame Crusty!” They all shouted.

“Good morning, boys!” one replied as Dribble nodded his head and stamped his right front hoof.

“We’re going to try for a personal best, but Sammy was on the hoy last night, so we’re not hopeful.”

“It’s all a matter of focus, poppets! If you think you can achieve it, then so shall it be.”

Robin shouted from the middle of the boat, “Will you time us Dame Crusty?”

“Of course, poppet!” One shouted back.

To start them off one took the whip from the side of the saddle, drew it back and flicked it forward quickly; one’s crack pierced the air. At the very same moment, one pressed the start button on the chronograph one has on one’s Bvlgari watch. They huffed, puffed and heaved as they put all their strength into the acceleration of their canoe. The bow of the craft sliced through the glistening ripples of the Pees Burn; each stroke of the oars leaving a trail of tiny whirlpools of power in their wake.

Once up to speed, one squeezed Dribble between one’s thighs and we, too, were off. Galloping along side them on the cinder track, one could see they were putting everything they had into it; their faces contorting with the effort and the pain running through their muscles. Dribble and I raced past the finish marker and when one turned to see the crew cross it too, the button on the stopwatch was pressed once more.

Each of them let out an enormous puff to allow their lungs to draw in a gulp of fresh air to fill and rejuvenate them.

Dribble turned and cantered to the side of the river, by the old moss covered jetty. The boys pulled up alongside and lifted themselves out.

“How did we do, Dame Crusty?” asked Robin.

While they lifted their vessel from the water, one looked down to consult one’s timepiece.

“And what’s your fastest time for that distance so far, poppets?” One enquired.

“Four and a half minutes” said Robin.

One left a dramatic pause, as is befitting on such occasions (though not quite as long as the pause taken on American Idol to give a result or goodness knows, one could still be there now) then revealed the answer.

“Four minutes … and five seconds!! Bravísimo!”

Well, they were of course thrilled. They jumped up and down, joyously clapping their blistered hands before grabbing their cox and heading into the boathouse to express their joy by getting a couple down their necks.

Closing the boathouse door behind them, one patted the neck of one’s trusty steed; “Do you know, Dribble, I think we may have potential Olympians there.”

With that, we trotted off back to the Crusty Hall estate.

Crusty Cuts Claudia Shaver's Ribbon.

2010-03-30T23:55:00.001+01:00

One shuddered recently when one entered one’s private office to consult the daily appointments in one’s diary.

The day in question was to be free and filled with fun and frivolity, save for one appointment. Despite knowing full well one has no particular fondness for her, Chu Me had pencilled one in for an opening and ribbon cutting at a new business venture on the outskirts of the village. The venture was being set up by aging former village beauty queen, Claudia Shaver.

Claudia was a svelte creature in her younger days. She received many opportunities to model in such popular 70s publications as Cogs & Wheels Monthly, Electric Bulbs & Filaments and Bunty. Yet, Father Time had sadly not been kind, and that, combined with gravity, proved too much for her frame to bear.

In the early days she attempted to mimic one’s own elegant sashay, in a cunning plot to take international fashion runways by storm. However, owing to an unpleasant incident with a Qualcast lawn mower and an over indulgence of Strawberry Rose 20/20s, she was unable to achieve success … even when she wedged a folded odour eater into the heel of her right shoe.

As her figure plummeted towards earth, so did the number of offers for work. Her marriage to her husband, Klaus Shaver – which had been the envy of many in the village for some time – ended suddenly, when Klaus developed a love of gingham and ran off with his personal assistant, Tristan, to open a florist shop in the Yumbo Centro on Gran Canaria.

Anyhoo … Claudia seems to have spent the majority of money she had from the marriage break up and had taken the decision to open a model agency – something she knew about - in order to maintain a suitable income … and one supposes one must commend her for her initiative.

So, the time came to leave; Chu Me brought GUSSET 1 to the front of Crusty Hall and once settled in the back seat, one poured a small tumbler of gin, took a quick snifter and waved one hand so Chu Me could begin to pull off slowly.

Driving down the narrow country lanes, one certainly wasn’t expecting wonders from the occasion; one knew that Claudia was putting everything together on a very tight budget, so one focused on being utterly enchanting throughout … as always.

As the Bentley pulled up outside, there was a small crowd assembled – none of whom one would expect to see anywhere near a model agency - and even the vicar and his wife had turned up to bless the endeavour. Mr. Peppercorn the butcher too - rather strangely - could be seen at the back of the gathered mass, eager to get involved.

After the cutting of the ribbon and a ripple of applause from the onlookers, Claudia invited us all inside to mingle and christen the new offices. She came over, immediately, as one was scanning the buffet table.

“Champagne, Crusty? I don’t have any Cava.” She asked.

“Champagne would be splendid, Claudia dear.”

Filling one’s flute, she put the bottle down on the table beside us and turned to welcome a villager. Taking a small sip of the liquid, one’s face contorted as if one had just sucked an overly juicy lemon. Looking down to check the bottle, one was horrified to discover one was, in actual fact, drinking Babycham! One immediately, poured the contents of one’s glass back into the neck of the bottle.

Turning in one’s direction, Claudia asked, “So … is Kitty coming?”

“Goodness no, dear! She has far more important things to do with the day.”

”Ah! Well … at least you’re here.” She said smiling.

“In body, if not in spirit, dear: in body, if not in spirit.”

Her eyes caught the empty flute one was holding and she picked up the bottle to refill it.

“How are you finding the champagne?” She said, pouring carefully.

“It seems to be finding me, dear and one can’t get it down the neck quick enough. It’s like nothing one has tasted before.”

“I know! I got it from the cellar at the Badger’s Snatch. Willy let me have it for a very reasonable price. The bottles are 30 years old you know?” (The taste certainly suggested as much).

She seemed impressed with how long the bottles lasted, not knowing that every time she filled one’s glass and turned around one simply kept pouring it back in.

Anyhoo … one survived the rest of the soirée, though one didn’t feel up to indulging in anything from the buffet. Her prawn ring looked as if it had seen better days; reports were filtering back to warn her cheesy wotsits had been left out too long and had gone soft and one certainly didn’t want to chance the vol au vents after she told me her eczema had flared up again after her big opening had stressed her out.

It was all such a shame. For, though the food was well presented, the problem, one feels, was that nothing was fresh and one would not have been at all surprised if the supermarket had seen a peak in turnover the day before when the entire selection had been grabbed from the freezer section and purchased with the Nectar points she had accumulated at Christmas.

Or at least, that is what one thought, until one got chatting to Mr. Peppercorn. Pointing to Claudia’s brown baps in the corner, he whispered he’d proved the saviour of the day when he’d snuck round earlier to give her some tongue.

One turned to him and gazed upon him adoringly, “The village would be lost without you, dear! The epitome of kindness, you truly are.”

Ricky Martin - A Proud & Gay Poppet.

2010-03-30T17:52:00.004+01:00

an utterly delicious poppet!

One was lying in bed this morning, wrapped warmly in exquisite white Egyptian cotton sheets and engaged in the most delightful dream.

Doctor Christian Jessen and I were alone on a beach in a deserted cove, with the waves gently lapping against the pebbly shore. While he lay there - soaked in Factor 20, absorbing Señor Sol’s rays in a teasingly tight pair of swim-shorts and listening to his i-pod - one was sitting beside him in a charming one-piece bathing suit and wide-brimmed sunhat, busying oneself with smothering his muscled torso with dark chocolate body paint and sliced strawberries.

Just as one was about to feast upon him, with a bottle of chilled Pere Ventura cava, one sensed the giant hand of reality enter one’s state of wistful bliss only to pluck one quickly from within.

The explanation for this unwanted plucking was the revelation on the radio news that lip-dribblingly, Latin-lovely Ricky Martin has confirmed to the world he is gay on his website.

One doesn’t know about one’s poppets, but there was very little doubt in Crusty’s mind anyway. The way this delicious poppet dances is a major giveaway. One has attended many a dreaded “wedding do” and other breed of social function and one has never seen a heterosexual man who can rattle his hips like that. If they even tried it would be a taxi ride to A & E and 3 months in a body cast.

One swears to this day, while watching a performance of 'Livin’ La Vida Loca' on one’s 32 incher, one suffered a black eye when raunchy Ricky thrust his groin forward and let out a guttural “Huh”. The man oozes sexuality from every pore of his epidermal layer.

One, however, is delighted at the news and, now that he has got this off his smooth, muscled pectoral expanse, he can now enjoy an unburdened future with his partner and their adorable children.

May his hips swivel with happiness and contentment for all eternity and the oscillations of his vocal chords resonate beyond time itself.

The Queen of Regional News Returns.

2010-03-28T22:05:00.003+01:00

Walking past the breakfast room this morning, one heard a strange noise which aroused one’s curiosity.

Pushing the door open slowly, in case anyone unsavoury had violated one’s inner sanctum, one found Crotchet rubbing the sides of his face against the side of the television in the corner. He was purring furiously and his tail was quivering as he conducted his rubbing ritual.

“Crotchet dear!” One shouted, “What on earth are you doing? Stop that at once!”

He immediately, jumped down from the table but weaved and turned frantically below it.

“What’s the matter, dear? Tell mummy.”

He sat and fixed his gaze upon the screen, which was showing some piece of Sunday nonsense. Well it couldn’t be that; the few minutes one saw were as absorbing as one of the vicar’s sermons. Picking up the remote one remembered the wonders of Sky+ and rewound the channel. It was then that all became clear.

The queen of North East evening news (and one suspects national news also … but you can’t have her), Her Serene Highness Carol Malia, is returning to our screens after her time off to give birth to her delicious baby daughter, Anna Margaret. One squealed with joy and lifting Crotchet into one’s arms. We danced around the breakfast table in celebration.

As a distant fairy godmother, one has arranged for the Doctor Christian Room to be cleaned thoroughly, then sealed until tomorrow evening. A bottle of Pere Ventura is being chilled and Chef has promised a delicious selection of nibbles so Chu Me and I can savour every minute of her return.

Your Country Chose You, Josh.

2010-03-28T17:33:00.006+01:00

Ever since one was a little Damelette, one has had an intense passion for the Eurovision Song Contest, despite Terry Wogan and Katie Boyle.

One was thrilled last year to see the gorgeous Graham Norton and the delicious Andrew Lloyd-Webber putting so much effort into getting the nation behind our entry; weeks of different styles of song; the great British public voting for their favourite, then the stunning Jade being triumphant and amazing our European brothers and sisters with 'It’s My Time'.

Despite the fact it wasn’t, she did us proud and achieved a magnificent position on the scoreboard and now has a prominent position in the pop group The Sugacubes … Sugababes (thank you, Chu Me) and let’s be frank, it’s about time they had a group member who could sing, is it not?

However, it dismays one terrible that this year, it appears, we are not putting as much effort into things. We have gone to the enormous trouble of gaining the skills and Mike Stock and Pete Waterman to produce a toe-tapping ditty but the nation had to make their decision after a piss-poor karaoke session from our finalists and a shot at our Eurovision entry. Then all 60 million people had to pick up their phones and vote while a rather pleasing Norwegian sang about his fairy tale and before the kitchen kettle boiled. Crusty was outraged, though, one must confess, one felt the right selection was made with the lovely Josh Dubovie.

One does think Alexis (not Carrington-Colby-Dexter from Dynasty) also had stage presence, a rather pleasing aesthetic quality and a lovely smile … as well as a lovely voice, of course. One took a shine to this talented little poppet as soon as he revealed his head on stage.

That aside, what about the other four finalists. Well, one was very disappointed, one must say.

We had Karen, who we were told had a husky voice and a husky voice she had indeed. While Graham was introducing her, one looked around the Drawing Room to find Crotchet and when she started singing in the background, one felt Coronation Street’s Phyllis had resurrected and put herself forward … but where was Percy?

UniFive, Uni5, or some such nonsense, certainly seemed to have had potential. The BBC website tells us, '5 singers and dancers come together for YCNY'. Well, one’s quite sure they do, dear, but this is a singing competition and we'll have none of that filthy nonsense!

Anyhoo … they may come together but their harmonies seem to speed of into the sunset, in different directions and on totally different modes of transport.

Miss Fitz were the greatest disappointment. After their sassed up interpretation of Brittle Spear’s ‘Toxic’ on Britain’s Got Talent one wished they had done a similar thing with the S.A.W. number, then one thinks they could have been the viewers’ choice.

Finally, we were presented with Asthma, or some such fancy. An absolutely gorgeous creature with eyes like cooling pools of infinite deepness. Sadly, her performances were not worthy of our nation’s representation. Looking like a non-cast member of the Glee club she blasted her song selections from the deepest pit of her lungs. Her enthusiasm, however, made her lose her energy through her first number. This was self evident at one point when she rolled her eyes as if to say, “How long does this song go on for!?”

Her dancing was that of a young lady, with little confidence, on a night out at a local social club and one screamed at the screen for a member of the production crew to drop a handbag at her feet and a Bacardi Breezer in her hand, at least to make her feel a little more comfortable.

The one thing that let her down most of all, however, was her breath control. One has never seen a performer draw in oxygen during a lyric (unless of course they can breathe through their ears) and one feels this was her downfall with the forgetting of words and the need to apologise to the audience.

Honestly poppets, Fanny’s mother has better breath control and she’s on 80 a day!

Despite the lack of effort put in by the BBC – no doubt, because of their search for a Dorothy (one has come across many a Dorothy, poppets … and trust me … they’re not that difficult to find) – one hopes all one’s poppets, twitterchums and Crustettes will get behind the deliciously sexy Josh and keep their fingers crossed we have a win in 2010.

Crusty Comes Home.

2010-03-28T15:29:00.003+01:00

The short stay in Valencia was over and the journey home began. All in all it was smooth sailing except for a slight inconvenience at the soon to be refurbished Terminal 2 at Barcelona airport. Though many flights are now leaving the new and completely stunning Terminal 1, there are still some smaller companies utilising the facilities of the old one.

Upon arrival at the airport, one’s faithful houseboy Chu Me and I made our way to the main building. It seemed almost deserted as the escalatorial mechanism lowered us to the highly polished floor. Chu Me, efficient as ever, walked over to the information screen to find out where we needed to be; Terminal C.

For poppets who may not have travelled to Barcelona Terminal C (in Terminal 2) is a considerable distance to walk from the area of train disembarkment in Terminal B . It is certainly not a journey one can make easyily in Gucci two-piece and matching shoes. So, Chu Me and I stood and pondered our predicament. At the very moment of one’s ponderings, an electric airport buggy approached us. Taking hold of Chu Me’s arm quickly, one flung him in the path of the buggy. The tiny rubber wheels screeched against the polished floor tiles and the young driver – with a name badge identifying him as Juan - screamed.

“Buenos dias. One wonders if you would be able to take us to Terminal C, dear? One asked with a pitiful look on one’s face (One had seen Esther Rantzen use it many times and it seemed to work for her).

“Sí, Dame Crusty (Esther knows what she’s talking about)… but not I am able to take the maletas.” He said, pointing to one’s luggage and still in mild shock after his near collision with Chu Me.

One looked around for a moment and saw a rather attractive, older gentleman speaking English on his mobile phone. I sashayed quickly to his side, removed the phone from his hand and disconnected the call.

“Could you do Crusty a favour, dear? This nice airport employee is taking one to one’s check-in desk. Would you be a kindly poppet and carry one’s luggage for one?” As the unexpected good Samaritan replied, “I …I … well … my telephone …you want me?”

“Yes, dear, you’ve clearly got time on your hands if you’re just standing there chatting.”

“Well, I suppose…”

“Good show, dear!” One cried, applauding his enthusiasm.

“Which desk are you checking in at?” He inquired with an air of bewilderment. Banging one’s foot on the floor of the buggy, Juan began to jerk off slowly and one began to shout the information as our speed increased and we sped off into the distance.

“Terminal C, dear! Oh, and drop them off by Speedy Boarding, there’s a poppet.”

Within minutes, Juan had pulled up outside the entrance of the terminal and, kissing him tenderly in his forehead and patting him softly on the top of his head, one bid him farewell. It was approximately 15 minutes later when a man entered the doors with a face the colour of a ripened plumb. It was one’s sweet and sweaty Samaritan.

Panting heavily, he dropped one’s luggage in front of Chu Me, “I … couldn’t … couldn’t find a trolley.” He stood up and put is hands to the base of his back and pushed to straighten himself, while giving a pained look on his ripened face.

“Never mind, dear. You made it here … eventually!” one replied.

Checking in was very straight forward, however it would appear old Father Fate was waiting for one just past the security section. Chu Me checked the boarding passes and our gate was in … Terminal A!

“Goodness!!! Chu me, dear, if one has to sashay elegantly all the way to the other end of this airport, one fears Gucci heels will become Gucci pumps by the time one reaches the Salvador Dalí lounge! One is not prepared to wear down six inches unnecessarily.”

Dejected, one rested in a chair of a closed down cafeteria until Chu Me turned up with a small trolley designed specifically for hand baggage. One’s eyes widened at our good fortune and immediately mounted the trolley and sat comfortably on the basket section. Once settled, Chu Me pushed me the entire length of the airport. With one’s umbrella in one’s right hand and one’s handbag in one’s left, one felt like Britannia herself as one glided through the airport – passengers gasping as one passed - to the security gates at the other side.

A few hours later and one was back in Her Majesty’s realm. GUSSET 3 pulled into the wide gravel drive of Crusty Hall and, as Chu Me stopped to wait until the gates closed behind us, one saw Crotchet sitting by the old, moss covered bird table. He turned and his little eyes widened when one tapped against the car window. As we crunched along the drive towards the residence, Crotchet bounded likes a gazelle up the lawn and through the shrubbery to the steps outside the main door, where one’s good friend Fanny O’Dour was waiting (Fanny, Landlady of the Badger’s Snatch, always tends to my dear pussy when one is on holiday). Alighting from the GUSSET 3, Fanny ran towards one and we embraced.

“Crusty, I’ve missed you so much.” She said.

“Goodness, poppet, it’s only been a week! Tell me …Crotchet … has he behaved himself?”

“He’s been an absolute joy to look after … as always.”

One turned to look at Crotchet, who was now sitting erect and proud by the large plant pot by the door. The look on his face telling me he thought he was the cat’s whiskers. Indeed he was.

How wonderful it is to be back home.

Valencia 2010 - Elegance, Rain and Fluttering Flaps.

2010-03-23T19:36:00.002Z

One’s visit to Crusty Towers, in the heart of Valencia, was just as relaxing as one had anticipated.

From the first night, when one went out for a spot of dinner, one felt welcomed and loved by the locals of this beautiful city. Sashaying majestically along Calle Caballeros, with Chu Me close behind, one passed by the crowded bars and cafes near the corner of Calle Baja. There, large windows displayed the gorgeous people inside enjoying their evening’s frivolities.

At one point one was almost moved to tears, as the revellers in two establishments all stopped and turned to look at one – one’s beaded gown shimmering in the street lighting and a mesmerising and multicoloured discharge exploded from one’s baubles; the shafts of bejewelled light ricocheting off the walls of the surrounding buildings.

In an instant, they had whipped up there serviettes, scarves and other garmentry adornments and had raised them high into the air; circling their hands, they twirled them enthusiastically as one passed by. The Barrio del Carmen momentarily rang out with their voices.

“Guapa!! Guapa!!”

One nodded humbly to the masses and waved elegantly, before heading to Cafe San Miguel to gorge oneself on the delicious delicacies served within.

Despite Mother Nature insisting on sprinkling her tears over the city for one’s arrival and the following day, one managed to tolerate the unexpected moistness without any great problem. After that, Señor Sol returned and, although he did not have his hat on, he certainly managed to warm the skies to an agreeable level.

There was one particular night, however, when one got a terrible shock. One had taken a small cat-nap in the lounge, when suddenly one woke up with a severe wind blasting under one’s canopy. Urgent attention was required and one called for Chu Me to spring into action. Within seconds, he had hoisted one’s canopy to its uppermost; nevertheless, for another hour, one had to endure further fierce flutterings of one’s flaps until, with the aid of some velcro and an elastic band, Chu Me restored penthouse tranquillity.

Sadly, one had to leave before the start of the fiesta of Las Fallas – one shall return to that next year, one thinks; it seems an age since one was absorbed in the excitement of it all and one misses it so.

Valencia 2010 - Crusty Takes A Pit Stop.

2010-03-18T22:32:00.007Z

Whenever one has time to spare on a long journey in España, one likes nothing better than taking advantage of the food on offer in the location one is visiting. This was certainly the case when one found oneself at Barcelona Sants train station during the recent trip to Valencia.

As Chu Me tended to the luggage from the metro train, one ascended the narrow escalatorial mechanism into the bustling heart of the station and immediately made one’s way to the ARS over in the corner. It is, by no means, the biggest ARS one has come across, however, its wide entrance makes it ideal for pushing your luggage up and once inside yourself, one can feast on the fresh and tasty morsels packed within.

A gin, a filling tortilla Española sandwich and a few glasses of delicious Pere Ventura Cava later and one was refreshed and ready for the next stage of our journey on the 4 o’clock Euromed.

The usual 1st class service was provided by the two delicious young attendants. One in particular caught one’s eye; 6ft 3, slim and dressed in shirt, waistcoat and teasingly tight trousers. As the train got up to speed, he came into the carriage offering his tray of delights; Cava, orange juice or sherry. The liquids rippling in their chilled glasses as the hunky hombre swayed with the motion of the carriage.

One watched his glinting smile as he served the other passengers and one’s heart began to beat swiftly as he moved toward one’s seat.

“Buenas tardes, Dame Crusty. ¿Toma Cava? ¿Zumo? ¿Jerez?”

“One thinks a glass of Cava, dear” One replied in velvety tones.

“I have nuts too.” He continued in his delightful broken English.

One’s eyes rolled downward (like an off-licences security shutter after a quick yank) and focused briefly - and scandalously - on his downstairs area.

“Indeed you do, dear!” One flirted, leaning towards him. ”One will most definitely have a nibble on those.”

Imagine one’s surprise – and disappointment – when one was handed a rather nondescript, air-tight, foil bag of peanuts and dried fruit.

Anyhoo … the remainder of the journey was extremely pleasant, to say the least, and once the train had settled in Valencia Nord station, the delightful young attendant took one’s hand to help one step from the 1st class carriage onto the tiles surface of the platform. Standing erect, he continued to hold one’s hand before bowing in a gentlemanly fashion and kissed the back of one’s hand, “It was a pleasure, Dame Crusty.”

“And it could have be far more so, had it not been for the shrivelled up raisins.”

Taking a deep breath of the moist Valencian air, a smile emerged on one’s face when one thought a short distance by taxi and one would once again be in the penthousal perfection of Crusty Towers with those two magnificent erections standing proud outside one’s window.

Valencia 2010 (Part 2)– VIP Lounge or Private Party for Undesireables.

2010-03-13T15:50:00.006Z

Some moments had passed and the VIP lounge at Newcastle International Conservatory was gloriously quiet.

As one sipped a rather pleasant gin - Chu Me standing at the window in awe at the big, metal birds - one could see and hear the sensual vocal chords of Colin his-twinkle-makes-me-tingle Briggs giving the region its daily roundup of news.

A small droplet forced itself from one’s tear duct as one realised one would not see one’s delicious poppet while one was away and, for a moment, one was plunged into a gaping crack of sadness. The recollection that one was only away for a week was the key to snap one back up again, as if on a bungee cord of anticipation.

Spirits lifted, one began to notice a party of four people – 3 men and a possible woman - who, though remaining respectfully quiet, were consuming copious quantities of alcoholic beverages from the drinks section. Every 15 minutes one of the relatively young men would walk over, collect an arm full of beer cans and return to his seat. Moments later another would stand and collect glasses filled with wine. As the men-folk sat supping their beverages, the suspected female would then rise up regularly and retrieve bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale – for herself - only to take them back and drink them directly from the bottle.

For over an hour their scavenging trips rapidly began to deplete the stocks of the lounge. Yet, the poor solitary attendant felt she was not in a position to object and no doubt feared the response she would receive from the Brown Ale binging buffalo even if she did.

On one of the trips by the male members, the attendant was cleaning the service area and as he went to fill a further 3 glasses of wine, she said to him, “Why not take a bottle? It’ll save you getting up all the time.”

One leaned over the side of one’s chair, “Indeed, why not take the whole lot, dear! One may even have a bottle in Chu Me’s bag if you run short!”

He walked to the party table. Half way there he turned back and looked. One raised one’s tumbler and gave a contemptible smile, then one returned to a state of sedate sippage.

Moments later, the she-creature stood up and walked to the refrigeration unit to claim her next bottle of Brown Ale. Her nail-bitten mitten was just about to grab the neck of the bottle when one interjected.

“One understands now why they say 'having a bottle of dog', dear!” A sip of gin followed.

The hand stopped short of the bottle and she stood up and turned in the direction of one’s chair. “Eh?”

“Eloquently put, dear! No ... one was just commenting; one understands why they say 'having a bottle of dog' … your appearance, dear." One said. waving one's finger up and down her length. "One suspects split ends and the facial aspect of the north face of the Eiger wouldn’t have been the result were you to have succumbed to … let’s say … a life of white wine spritzers.”

Her jaw tightened as she spun round to face the fridge. Her hand moved towards the bottle of Brown Ale, then hovered momentarily before moving to the side and reaching for a bottle of mineral water instead. She stood up as straight as she could with appalling posture and held her head up in a pseudo-snooty fashion and began to walk back to her seat.

“One suspects it’s a little late for hydration, poppet … nevertheless … Bravo!”

Finally, the gold ingot that broke the lid of the antique mahogany casket occurred.

One did not wish to disturb Chu Me. He was engrossed in jumping towards the window and clapping his hands in an attempt to chase the big metal birds away and relishing his lack of success (One feels he doesn’t yet grasp the wonder of the aeroplane), so one went to refill one’s tumbler with a further pre-holiday gin and tonic. One of the alcohol-fueled sump-brigade appeared at one's side

“We thought we’d have another drink before the flight … if that’s ok with you?!” He said sarcastically.

“Well, if there’s anything left, dear.”

His hairy, unmoisturised right hand rose up. It was then, as if one had obtained Spiderman’s ‘spidey-sense’, one sensed danger. Something was vibrating inside one as the realisation dawned he was heading for the half filled bottle of gin in front of us. With cat-like reflexes one whisked up one of the plastic picnic folks – ridiculously laid out to give the impression of acceptable cutlery – and stuck it in the back of his hand. As he reeled back in pain, one grabbed the body of the bottle, picked it up and turned to go back to one’s silk covered chair.

“There are boundaries in life, dear, and you very nearly crossed a very dangerous one.”

At that moment, they were called for their flight and normality was restored; the remaining three assisting their blood-soaked team mate out into the main building. The attendant thanked one for the assistance one had provided and went to clean up the mess that had been left.

Soon after, the embarkation of Easyjet flight 6401 was announced and we were underway on the next leg of our journey; beautiful Barcelona beckoned (one’s second home and a place that holds a very special place in one's heart).

Valencia 2010 – Crusty Prepares to Leave Her Beloved North East

2010-03-13T15:03:00.002Z

It was a crispy Friday morning when Chu Me and I left one’s beloved Crusty Hall for the joys of Newcastle International Airport and our journey beyond; a weeks break at Crusty Towers, right in the heart of beautiful Valencia.

My dear pussy, Crotchet was well catered for during our holiday. Fanny would pop up regularly from the Badger’s Snatch to give him a little company, while the household staff were not in residence, and ensure his food requirements were maintained.

The mode of transport one had chosen to take us to the airport was GUSSET 3 (One does not wish to take the Bentley or the Aston to a car park that does not appear to have been swept regularly, does one?). Chu Me had loaded the luggage beautifully and ensured we were fully fuelled. Locking to great door behind us, one blew a kiss to Crotchet as he looked out from the Drawing Room window and we were on our way.

Entering the terminal building, we headed for the Easyjet desks and one began to search for the ‘dedicated’ check-in desk one had been notified of on the paperwork for our Speedy Boarding; a desk sprinkled with a little glitter perhaps, maybe a candelabra set to the side or a red carpet and cordon and a sign saying 'WELCOME, DAME CRUSTY'. But there was nothing; they all looked the same.

One asked a young gentleman on a car hire desk nearby and apparently, the term ‘dedicated’ means that it is available to everybody who has selected the Speedy Boarding option and not per individual. “How outrageous!” one said.

“I couldn’t agree more, Dame Crusty.” The charming young thing replied.

“You’re clearly a very sensitive young man, dear.” With that, one bid him farewell.

Gliding up to the not-in-the-slightest–bit dedicated desk, one was confronted by a pleasant enough young girl, looking very smart in her uniform but with a rather sour face hanging from beneath her hairline.

“Have you booked Speedy Boarding?” She enquired, in a rather direct fashion.

“One’s wearing Versace, dear, of course one has booked Speedy Boarding, unless of course you confuse delicious hand-stiched designer fabrics for an acrylic football strip or shellsuit ensemble?”

She immediately went red with embarrassment (Well, one presumes she did, there was so many layers of foundation applied to her facial epidermis one could only see a change in colour on the tips of her ears, so one took it as read).

Boarding passes dispensed, Chu Me and I made our way to the most joyous part of the Newcastle International Airport experience … security. Sashaying the two and a half mile of zig-zagging pens – crammed into a floor area that is only 2 metres in length - one drew closer to the x-ray machines and the slack-jowled staff that lay there in wait; their faces grimacing at the business people and holiday makers that kept them in employment. Honestly poppets, one appreciates the safety and security of Her Majesty’s realm is of the utmost importance but the old crack your face and make your arse jealous certainly applies here and, most certainly, wouldn’t go amiss.

A middle aged creature demanded one place one’s belongings on the conveyor belt for x- ray. One snapped one’s fingers and Chu Me jumped onto the belt and went through first. One placed one’s small clutch purse on next and then began to disrobe. A male security guard leapt over as one was just slipping off the strap of one’s gown.

“That’s not necessary, Dame Crusty!” he shouted, waving his hands.

“One must to be sure, dear,” continuing to undress. “One doesn’t want people running away screaming should one activate your equipment and get your bells clanging.”

Finally, having passed through the detector and after insisting the young security guard frisk one a third time (in case he missed something), one re-dressed and adorned oneself in the stunning selection of jewels one had chosen from the Gusset collection. Chu Me handed over one’s purse and we made our way past two very aggressive Credit Card representatives to the VIP lounge. (I’ve seen mature panthers take longer to pounce on their pray than those two and indeed, their aged, leatherette complexion made one wonder how their hips and knees even allowed them to spring at all .. especially in heels!).

Once in the VIP lounge, Chu Me moved a chair within view of the notice screen and placed a hand-embroidered silk throw over it. Placing a small, rectangular piece of sheepskin at the foot, he headed to the drinks section to tend to gin duties. It was then, that one could finally sit and relax, scrunching one’s toes in the soft, fluffy, cream fur beneath.

One took a sip of one's gin, sighed. The journey had begun!

Gold Medals Required, One Feels.

2010-03-07T19:34:00.003Z

Well, poppets, the Winter Olympics has passed now, but everyone who participated seems to have had the most splendid time and medals were dished out in ribbon-festooned abundance to our refrigerated Olympians.

However, one was slightly puzzled when one heard that someone had won the gold medal for going down on a skeleton.

I'm quite sure the love interest of Jarvis Cocker does the very same thing at least a couple of times a week but they aren't awarded a medal ... though, in fairness, they should be.

Very peculiar, is it not poppets?

Doctor Christian Will See You Now.

2010-03-07T14:39:00.007Z

It was a quiet night and one was sitting in the Aubergine Room at Crusty Hall. One’s dear friend Kitty had called by to celebrate the return of local news reading hero, Colin his-twinkle-makes-me-tingle Briggs, to our screen in the morning.

One feels for the other parts of Her Majesty’s realm that are unable to bathe in Colin’s deliciousness each morning. One often feels it is like lying naked in a warmed room while being wrapped in a sumptuously soft blanket of chinchilla fur (Though one must stress, fur from Chinchillas that have passed away due to natural causes or that have carried a donor card, of course). However, though one feels that pain, one must stress, one’s special poppet is not for sale and anyone who tries to take him from us shall feel the full wrath of the Gusset.

Anyhoo … Kitty was reclining on the sofa by the Royal Worcester display cabinet reading her latest imported copy of Casa y Campo and I was on the sofa opposite with a book of Sudoku. A regular at the Badger’s Snatch had recommended it as a wonderful way to relax, however, after 3 minutes and 21 seconds, one didn’t feel relaxed in the slightest. One’s muscle network felt tighter than Vanessa Feltz’s knicker elastic and thus, with an elegant movement of one’s arm, one projected the book across the room and into the open fire. Kitty looked up from her magazine, “What’s the matter, Crusty?”

“Sudoku, poppet! It’s utterly nonsensical!”

“Would you like me to have Chu Me bring another gin for you?”

“No, thank you, dear.”

Kitty returned to her article and one switched on the television, selecting Channel 4 and Embarrassing Bodies. One began to relax, then suddenly, after an introduction from the gorgeous Doctor Pixie, one felt one’s entire body become as limp and lifeless as Cheryl y-nailed it Cole. One slid from the sofa and down onto the floor like a sack of diamonds and ended up in an unsightly – yet elegantly positioned – heap.

Kitty sprang gazelle-like across the narrow expanse between sofas. “Crusty! Crusty! What’s the matter?” She screamed.

One could see her gorgeous face etched with concern but one was unable to speak. One’s tongue was hanging out the right side of one’s mouth and one felt cross-eyed and delirious.

“Crusty?!” With her medical training taking charge, Kitty lifted the Baccarat crystal tumbler from the coffee table and held it under one’s nose. The magical properties of the medicinal liquid penetrated one’s nasal passage and one began to come round.

“Zogzur Kriz dee un, zear!“ One mumbled.

“What?”

She placed the tumbler to one’s mouth and tipped in a little of the crystal clear elixir. Pulling oneself round, one blurted out, “Doctor Christian, dear! Isn’t he just a dreamy dimpled dollop of doctorial deliciousness?”

“He is indeed. Quite the hotty.” Kitty agreed.

”Do you know, dear, one marvels at how a man so utterly gorgeous, with a body like the statue of David – apart from one small area – can find the time to care and heal the nation’s sick. He’s a blessing to us all.”

And, upon reflection poppets, this is certainly true. This towering mountain of medicinal muscle and his colleagues have done more for the health and sexual education of our nation than any Government over recent decades. Though it is quite easy to find sadistic entertainment in the televised suffering of the masses, one important point is brought home to us; our bodies are unique and we must cherish that uniqueness.

It is expected that most people will suffer problems throughout their lives; some serious; some mild and many embarrassing. Yet, we must always feel perfectly at ease discussing these things with our local medical professional. Why, when one visits the village doctor – Arthur Pedic – one has no hesitation in removing one’s clothes, even when just popping in for a chat … and despite him insisting it isn't necessary.

Having said that, if one were to walk into Doctor Christian's surgery and enter his consultation room, one glinting smile from him would undoubtedly and instantaneously rip the designer fabrics from one's shapely frame in an instant.

“Kitty, dear,” one said, “One has made a decision. One shall rename the Aubergine Room the Doctor Christian Room. After all, aubergines are a colour that symbolizes quality; they have a firm, meaty flesh with a velvety texture and are, most certainly, good for one’s health. One can think of nothing more appropriate.”

“How wonderful!” Kitty cried, “Actually, when you think about it … DCG (Dame Crusty Gusset) … DCJ (Doctor Christian Jessen) … you’re practically related!”

“Quite, dear!” one concurred, “One shall have Chu Me get some wood and whip out his little tool in the morning.”

Farewell Kristian.

2010-03-01T22:09:00.004Z

June 1977 - March 2010

One was devastated to hear the news that television presenter and gorgeous poppet Kristian Digby had been found dead in his London home. A young talent taken from us far too early.

One's thoughts are with his family and friends at this very sad time.

Let's Have a Look What You Could've Won! The Election?

2010-02-25T23:06:00.003Z

"I'm proud of you, Bully!"

Chu Me's DIY Dislodges Crusty's Drawers.

2010-02-22T23:05:00.007Z

Recently, one was sat at one's desk in the private office, positioned near the large window.

One had taken a short break and was looking out across the grounds and contemplating the joys of ones life and admiring the breathtaking beauty of the flora and fauna that surrounds Crusty Hall .

Out of the corner of one's eye, one saw a Baccarat tumbler descending towards the corner of the desk. It was Chu Me with a replenishment of gin.

“Thank you, dear.” One said, placing one’s beautifully manicured hand around it, “What is that in your hand, dear?”

He lifted up a copy of a magazine and pointed to an advert on one of its pages. It was an advert for James Tudor. This great British company design and manufacture the most gorgeous briefs to comfortably hold the man-biscuit and jam donuts, while offering a sexually charged style to our men folk. Chu Me’s eye had been drawn to their latest offering; the magnetic brief. (How wonderful, one thought).

The price, however, had put him off (he's very careful you know) so he decided he was going to make his own. One was not convinced it was to be a success. Nevertheless, one took a sip of ones medicinal liquid and acknowledged his potential resourcefulness with a loving wink. He smiled and headed off out of the office and to the small box room in the east wing, where he had his workshop.

Next day, one was pondering a problem from a trouble poppet in Staffordshire. She had emailed to say she had recently had her nipple pierced and it had turned septic: 'What should I do?" she pleaded.

In response, one had just typed, 'Apologise immediately, dear! You've just put one off one's fondant fancy!", when Chu Me walked in. He walked to one's side and placed a refill on the corner of the desk, as per usual.

“Thank you, Chu Me.”

As he walked towards the door one’s heart began pounding at the most horrendous noise that filled the room: Then silence: Then the noise again. This time from one's peripheral vision, one saw the filing cabinet moving - like an non-aerodynamic Darlek – out from it's nesting place at the side of the desk.

Startled, one spun around in one’s Captain’s chair. Chu Me was stood, as if frozen, in a half-step motion pointing toward the door.

Curiosity tenderly cupped one's imagination. One lifted one's fountain pen upward and tapped it against ones lips to analyse the situation. Within seconds there was a tug at one's hand and the pen shot across the room, landed on Chu Me’s right buttock, stayed there for a fraction of a second before rolling round to the front and clamping to his crotch.

Still frozen in his half-step position, his face - now red with embarrassment – turned slowly toward his mistress.

“Wh …..what on earth is going on, dear? You’re dragging one’s drawers off and leaving the most unsightly gash on display at the back.”

It was then that he explained he had constructed his magnetic briefs in his workshop and had decided to wear them this very day.

"Poppet, this will not do. One's oak flooring will not survive the day and one can't have office furniture roaming around the residence."

The look of disappointment was too much to bear. There was only one thing for it. One immediately went on line and purchased 5 pairs of James Tudor quality undergarments for one's faithful houseboy. He jumped up and down, clapping his hands and his face lit up like a paparazzi flash bulb.

In true great British style, the goods arrived the very next day by courier. Each finely crafted item stored in its own cotton, drawstring pouch. The most delicious under-crackers one had ever seen.

One urges all one's poppets to invest in at least a pair. Your downstairs areas will feel as though they are wrapped in the feathers of an angel's wing.

Eastenders - Underneath the Archies.

2010-02-22T20:38:00.008Z

Well, poppets, on the 25th anniversary of Eastenders and after a storyline that seemed to have taken just as long to reach its climax, the nation discovered the identity of Archie Mitchell's murderer.

As one pondered the question our glorious BBC posed - Archie's Dead, Whodunnit? - and saw that poor homeless couple drawing attention to themselves on their park bench with over accentuated scarvalwear in a adequately affluent area of our capital, one thought that, in actual fact, the question should've been What did it? To paraphrase the delicious Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady, 'It was the script what done him in.'

Yet ... no ... 'twas not. 'Twas the young lady, Stacey (she with the face like a young Les Dawson). Of course one had experienced a bubbling in one's bladder region which suggested she was responsible; the entire square dragged in to the police station to help Walford's Angie Dickinson with her enquiries except her. It was an elementary deduction. Indeed, one's delicious twitterchum Beth even won money after a little flutter! (Our minds were clearly one.)

On the whole, the show was certainly better than one has witnessed before. The live broadcast appeared to have kept the cast on their toes and there seemed something a little special in the air ... other than Bradley.

The uberlicious Barbara Windsor looked stunning and was the consumate professional and all-in-all things seemed to fall into place ... including Bradley.

Dot and Ian Beale shared a moment of reflection after Phil not-now-right-I-said-not-now Mitchell had thrown a tantrum in Beale's bijou living area. Sitting watching a video the editing suite had flung together from episodes of years gone by, Ian turned to Dot and said, "I wish I could go back, Dot: Do things right." (Starting with the acting, dear).

We can only imagine what poignant moments are to pixelate into our home over the coming months, however, one is quite sure it will involve a lot of shouting.

2010-02-12T22:49:00.000Z

Crusty's Cure For Constipation.

2010-02-10T18:29:00.001Z

There seems to be an increasing amount of attention being focused on the nation’s bowel movements over recent months.

Wherever one looks, whether it be magazines, newspapers, radio or television advertising etc., we appear to be encouraged to buy such products that ease our motions.

Products such as DulcoEase , which softens one stools (although why there is a connection to soft furnishings, is unclear) and the more yoghurty solutions, such as Activia; Activia, contains polyprostate peptide squitalots, or some such fancy, that biff your digestive tract and improve the flow of a Ford Transit.

Anyhoo …To me this is absolute madness! One wonders how much money is being spent on these ludicrous potions and remedies, when it could be redirected elsewhere. There are far simpler answers already available.

One had never considered this issue in depth until a chance tweeting session with one’s uber-gorgeous twitterchum, Katrina.

It is certainly true, that many people suffer the discomfort of a bloated bowel and back passage blockage. One doesn’t suffer such ailments oneself, as one mainly sticks to a liquid diet. That, and the food Chef and Chu Me prepare is full of healthy and wholesome properties that keep one as regular as a Katie Price exclusive in a tabloid newspaper. Still one can empathise with those that do.

This is partly due to the care that one seldom shows towards one’s household staff. If any of them are feeling bloated (‘Feeling’ because one is unable to go by looks alone, or one would be seeking a remedy every minute of service for some of them) or if any are finding it difficult to carry out their duties effectively due to a degree of constipation, one has had a long standing, simple solution to get things moving and get them back to work in a jiffy.

All one does is lead the afflicted individual to the kitchen, have a root around my pussy Crotchet’s cupboard and feed them an out of date prawn … then wait.

Within a matter of minutes they are back on their feet and, though one has not conducted any scientific experiments, one is convinced that they move a little faster as they work.

Trouble At The Badger's Snatch

2010-02-07T18:52:00.001Z

One was involved in a rather alarming experience this morning.

It was a misty morning in the village and the myriad of moisture droplets were hanging over the grounds here at Crusty Hall. They looked saturated, sad and as though the colour had been drained from them by Mother Nature’s vaccum cleaner.

Chu Me had arisen early and tended to the fires in the principle rooms. Exiting the rear of the residence, he made his way to the side of the stables where he kept his hens. His little eyes had opened to the size of small saucers when he saw the handsome harvest of eggs his girls had produced. Collecting them in his cotton handkerchief, he thanked the hens and patted the head of his cock and made his way back to the house.

Half an hour later, one was sat in the breakfast room enjoying the fayre that he had collected; dunking one’s soldiers into the golden creamy yolks and watching Nicky No-one-can-love-me-more-than-me Campbell on the piss-poor Big Question. One’s faithful houseboy was munching away at the opposite end of the table, having to witness the usual barrage of Sunday morning abuse;

“Why an earth doesn’t he let the woman finish her sentence, for goodness sake?!”

“Could you be and more smarmy, Nicky dear?!”

“Why on earth doesn’t his face move when he speaks? Have you had bollocks … Botox (thank you, Chu Me) injected to stiffen it up, dear?”

(Poppets may conclude from this that dear Nicky is not Crusty’s favourite … you would be correct in your conclusions.)

Anyhoo … just as one was nibbling the end of one’s last soldier, the telephone rang. Chu Me had egg all over his fingers so one picked up the receiver:

“You may speak.” One greeted.

It was my dear friend Fanny O’Dour , landlady of the village pub. The Badger’s Snatch. As she spoke one sensed an unusual tone in her voice.

“Crusty, I’m beside myself. I know I’m being stupid but …. Oh, it’s nothing. Forget it … it’s just …”

“Goodness Fanny dear, what on earth is the matter?!” one exclaimed.

“I think Willy may be having an affair!”

With that, and before one could utter another word, she whimpered like an unloved puppy and hung up.

“Chu Me! The Bentley. We have an emergency at the Snatch”

Like a gorgeous, small but well-formed panther he sprang towards the door and headed for GUSSET 1. Within minutes we were racing out of the drive and on our way to the village.

The village was deserted, the residents clearly opting to stay indoors in the horrendous weather, save for Mr. Craddick who had ventured out in his pyjamas once more. He was sitting on the bench on the village green, protected from the elements only by a dark blue kagool and his copy of the Evening Chronicle.

Chu Me pulled into the entrance of the carpark to the Badger’s Snatch and as the Bentley purred to the rear of the premises, one could see Willy yanking off his kegs and helping the drayman empty his load.

“Good morning, Willy dear.” One said as one sashayed past the two. Willy replied and the drayman tipped his hat.

Inside, one found fanny in the kitchen with red, bloodshot eyes and tear–soaked cheeks: it wasn’t a good look. She ran toward me with her arms open.

As she began to wrap her arms around one’s frame I held her head firmly in one’s hands … for no other reason than to avoid the moisture of her tears from coming into contact with the rather stunning Stella McCartney jacket one was wearing.

Over a cafetiere of strong coffee and a packet of chocolate hobnobs we discussed the situation. It appears Willy has not been acting within normal parameters.

“He’s behaving very secretive and he can’t look me in the eye. Haven’t you noticed anything strange in his behaviour, Crusty?” She enquired.

“Well … one did see him in the bakers, earlier in the week. He’s always had a fancy for Pat Tissery’s crusty baps and one did think it suspect when he seemed to be taking an unusually long time sniffing the yeasty aroma of her bloomers. Having said that, she had just taken them out of the oven. No, Fanny, it’s nonsense! You must cast the idea from your head immediately; he wouldn’t do anything so horrid to you and certainly not with anyone in the village. There is clearly an innocent explanation to all this.”

A further cup of coffee and two and a half hobnobs later, one had managed to calm her down and reassure her that she was just overreacting to something that didn’t exist. Nevertheless, because of all the excitement, Crusty felt she, herself, was on the edge.

Walking back to the Bentley and, as Chu Me opened the door for one to exit, Willy was coming back in after helping the drayman shoot off a little quicker.

He give a brief smile before one thrust one’s knee into his downstairs area. He hit the floor moaning in agony.

“What was that for?” He moaned.

“You’re a disgrace Willy. Poor Fanny is distraught with all your secret shenanigans. Well, you have been exposed. She knows of your affair!”

“Affair? Affair! What affair? I can’t look her in the eye because I’m taking her to Paris for Valentine’s day. You know I can’t keep anything from her.”

One giggled gleefully, “How marvellous!” one cried, clapping one’s hands, “Although why on earth you would want to take her to a place like that, one has no idea. You’ll both have a wonderful time. ”

Half way across the carpark one was still giggling with excitement; one turned and still seeing Willy’s head wedged in the bottom of the door shouted, “And make sure you pack ice on those, dear. You’ll need to be in full working order for your romantic break.”

“Chu Me? Our work here is done. Let us make haste to Crusty Hall.”

Crusty's Favourite "Duff-Duff" Moment.

2010-02-06T21:39:00.005Z

This year, the BBC soap opera Eastenders is celebrating its 25th birthday.

Can you believe it’s really been that long? (It seems sooooooo much longer).

For those of one’s poppets who are not familiar with the programme, all of the excitement takes place in a fictional, small part of the East End of London - the capital (although heaven only knows why) of Her Majesty’s realm - known as Walford.

There is a resplendent representation of all religious and ethnic backgrounds and a gargantuan splatteration of people of a rather gangstertorial nature. Indeed, when one is flitting though the newspapers and magazines and sees that a new character is about the emerge in the square, one often wonders how long it will be before they are selling drugs, plotting a take over of the local nightclub (where the music of such a volume, one could hear a nun speak) or dismembering an enemy in the back yard with a butter knife and a piece of tarpaulin.

Only recently, an older gentleman appeared, in very dandy attire, I must say. After a couple of episodes one thought one may have been wrong. There were no threats being issued. No one had been harmed in any way. Then, his true colours were shown in the local garage, the Arches, when we discovered he was not only a gangster, but one of the more sinister variety; one that wore hand-made shoes!

To break the monotony, there is often the announcement that a new piece of lady-totty or man-hunk is to enter the arena, although after their first appearance on screen, it is quite clear that the casting director has been devoid of understanding the meaning of the terms “totty” and “hunk”. The last great hunk addition was Scott Maslen. He’d tossed off his helmet in The Bill on ITV and decided to bat for the other side.

Now, though one admits he is quite the buff, little stud-muffin, one does wish he would keep his hair short. When it reaches a longer length one can’t help but see Odd Bod from Carry on Screaming in front of one.

Albert Square families are certainly not like normal ones either. The residents of Albert Square are breeding more successfully than rabbits. Another new member turns up … “Oh, it’s so-and-so’s long lost brother.” .. and another … “Oh, it’s Mr. Poppadopulus’s estranged daughter.

Having said that, it certainly seems to be the place to live. Though the locals never seem to have much money, they are still fortunate enough to have 3 & 4 bedroom houses that can comfortably accommodate 22 people and still have enough room for further visiting relatives, who decide to stay indefinitely … until they too are killed off or relocated on Witness Protection.

Not the quietest of locales either, everyone is screaming and shouting at one another. One is forever having to grab one’s device to turn up, then turn down, then turn up, then turn down the volume. Poor Crotchet – one’s pussy – wastes no time and simply pushes his head behind a scatter cushion, as a precaution, the minute the theme begins. He’s very wise and recently one has wondered if it would wiser still to follow his example.

Indeed, the only quiet moments are when burley Phil Mitchell opens his mouth to speak to simply utter, “Not now right! … I said, not now!” I believe that’s the only lines he’s ever had to work with, save for the odd time he’s snuck a “Billy” in.

As well as trying to maintain the storylines of the characters, the writers also have their work cut out for them trying to inject their important “messages”. For example, one would recommend a regular shufty around the Christmas period, when many references will be made about the little baby Jesus and loving one’s neighbour etc., before a leading character is killed with a quick bludgeon or mown down by Charlie’s taxi.

Anyhoo … the question, it would seem, that is being put to the British public is What is your favourite Duff-Duff moment?

Well, one would have to say the end of every episode, dear! When all that depressing, noisy nonsense has finished.

Not even the inclusion of national icon and legend Barbara Windsor has managed to make it anymore endurable. To think they axed Eldorado for this rubbish!

Weather Forecasts and Mono-brows.

2010-02-06T12:58:00.004Z

One was dipping one’s bejewelled slipper into the twitterverse last night and enjoying a terrific tweetfest with one’s twitterchums.

Reclined on the sofa, in the warmth of the Drawing Room and tweeting merrily away with one’s good friend, NikkiG, one’s eyes were mysteriously drawn past the screen of one’s laptop.

It was there that one saw BBC weatherman Rob McElwee on one’s 32 incher.

One watched and listened, politely, to his forecast for the duration; he certainly has a soft and gentle vocal delivery. However, regardless of his warming tones and smart appearance, can one really be expected to accept the weather predictions of a man with a mono-brow?

Further more, after two and half minutes, one was not at all comfortable with the way his left hand was fondling Lands End.

It was only last month that the exquisite boys and girls at Attitude towers had provided us with an insight into the delicious Tomasz Schafernaker – adorned, on the cover of their Attitude Active supplement, in only a pair of short, black Aussi Bums, with his rippling six pack hovering above the waistband and his pectorals protruding from their taught epidermal terrain like a muscled mountain range (Chu Me! A glass of iced water and one’s fan, dear! ... Hurry!)

Every time one now sees a towering cumulus one thinks of dear Tomasz fondly (sigh).

Anyhoo …though poor Rob may not posses the smouldering deliciousness of his colleague, one feels a little attention to detail is essential. Predominantly, a small and painless waxing of his browal border to improve his facial fancy.

Crusty can then, and only then, hold him in higher regard and, quite frankly, he can fondle any part of our nation how so ever he pleases.

Supermarkets - A Place for Pyjamas?

2010-02-01T23:37:00.004Z

Tesco announced this week that they are to ban people, of the lady variety, from wearing pyjamas when they go out shopping at their stores.

One must say, one agrees wholeheartedly. There have been a couple of occasions when one has been perusing the produce of the day at our local supermarket and been shocked at what one has witnessed.

Well, perhaps supermarket is too strong a description; it’s more like a mediocremarket, if the truth be known. The shelves are very nearly always empty; stock rotation appears to mean the staff turn the product round to hide the label and one’s supply of gin is only guaranteed by the ‘Reserved’ sign one had Chu Me stick on discretely.

Anyhoo … twice, one has seen young ladies wandering around the aisles in multicoloured cotton pyjama bottoms; one in a pair of bunny slippers and the other in a rather ragged pair of green flip-flops (which oddly enough, matched the colour of her feet).

Neither of these individuals were wearing appropriate undergarments and the latter had thought it a good idea to don a G-string; the poor device had been hoisted to an unslightly height between her buttocks and was clinging on for dear life to the ring of fat flesh that was hovering over the elasticated waistband.

Gliding elegantly up the aisle behind her, one’s attention was glued to the hypnotic swaying of her ample buttocks and the vertical rippling of posterior after each heel made contact with the tiled floor.

Though these sights concerned me greatly, one must confess that they were nothing compared to that of seeing old Mr. Craddick as he passed through the tills last Friday evening. He had obviously been out to replenish his stock of Whisky and he too was wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms; the only problem was his front flappage was open and ….well, poppets can only imagine what was peering out at the poor check-out operator and the world beyond.

As one sashayed past till number 4 - Chu Me close behind with our trolley of replenishments - the supervisor Doreen approached the offending party.

“Mr. Craddick” She cried, “You’re exposing yourself!”

He turned to her in his unshaven state - with bodily bouncing occurring at his downstairs area – and shouted, “What y’ talkin’ about your stupid woman! Exposing mesel’ to what?”

One was just passing him at that point and he caught one’s eye. My eyes dropped downward toward his exposed wrinkled man-biscuit.

“To ridicule, dear, if that shrivels up any more!”

Immediately, he looked down and tucked what little he had back into its cotton housing and his face went a shade of red one had always sought for a hearth rug.

Crisis averted, one made one’s way to the carpark outside.

One thinks the lesson has been learned that it is not only the lady variety who offend one’s eye in such garmentry; the threat of an unleashed man-biscuit over the fish counter can be equally discerning.

Tess Tickles - Chu Me's Successful Massage?

2010-01-23T15:40:00.003Z

Chu Me has lately been taking a keen interest in the art of massage.

It has long been the tradition in the village he was born in – in a land far, far, away – that the men-folk are highly adept at the technique, to maintain a relaxed and happy atmosphere throughout the community while – during intimate moments - providing unsurpassed sexual pleasure to their mates.

Unfortunately, Chu Me has been separated from this communal college of learning and his village elders. Nevertheless, there was clearly something welling up in his genes and, as a result, he ordered a Teach Yourself Massage book from the internet.

For the last week and a half he has been dividing his free time equally between his long running interested of watching specialist nature DVDs (his latest purchase is a documentary about the weekend existence of water animals, I believe; Saturday Night Beaver) and his massage studies.

As one sashayed past his room of an evening, he was certainly putting plenty of effort into his training as one could clearly hear the panting going on behind his door, as he no doubt practiced on his pillow.

Anyhoo … last night, something appears to have gone terribly wrong.

The household staff had all left for the day. It was my intention to pass the evening watching television and to simply relax. Chu Me, however, felt he had learned sufficient technique from his massage book and was eager to try it out on Tess Tickles, his lady-friend from the village.

One gave him the keys to the Aston and waved him off down the drive. Closing the door securely, one returned to the Drawing Room to settle down for the evening: Pitcher of gin full, ice bucket filled, nibbles delightfully arranged, flickering fire cracking in the fireplace and my pussy, Crotchet, snuggled up in his bed, snoring as he dreamt. One was set for the evening.

Half an hour had passed and one felt completely limp and relaxed as I watched the magnificent Stephen Fry educate and entertain the nation with the hugely successful QI.

Just as the credits began rolling up the screen and one topped up one’s glass of gin, one heard a door bang open. ‘What on earth was that?’ One thought.

My heart was thumping as I imagined one’s inner sanctum being invaded by a stranger. One leapt to one’s feet and slipped my feet into my trusty Chanel house shoes. I armed myself with a poker from the side of the fire and headed out into the corridor. Nothing!

One continued elegantly - with poker in right hand and tumbler of gin in left hand – to the Great Hall. It was here that one saw one’s faithful houseboy running up the Grand Staircase.

“Chu Me, dear!” One shouted, “ You nearly gave Crusty a heart attack! What on earth are you doing back home so soon?”

He stopped and looked at me for a moment, his eyes all puffy from crying and a face that resembled the mottled redness of a cox’s pippin. He turned and ran down to stop in front of me. Without a word he opened his massage book – sniffling and making strange squeaking noises – and thrust it up toward one’s face.

“What, dear? What?” I asked.

His little index finger poked at the bottom of the right-hand page with a frantic stabbing motion; one looked closer ….

Towards the end of your massage when your subject is on their back and completely relaxed and you have successfully massaged the muscles over their entire body, you can be proud of your achievement …

One turned the page,

…. Now, simply finish off on their face.

“What is it you’re trying to say poppet, was the massage a success? Was Tess surprised?”

He stabbed at the page again, then looking up towards the ornately painted ceiling, rolled his eyes; then covering his face with the book, he squealed like a small rodent, spun round on his heels and ran, crying, up the Grand staircase to his room. One hasn’t heard a peep from him since.

Sometimes, you know poppets, he can be highly sensitive and has very little faith in his abilities, however, one is quite sure he pulled it off beautifully.

Dancing On Ice Slides Into Our Lives.

2010-01-18T21:45:00.006Z

It has not gone unnoticed at Crusty Hall that Dancing on Ice has returned to our screens. Once again, the nation’s favourite silver fox, Philip Schofield, presents us with a frozen-fest of skating entertainment, assisted by the bountifully busty Holly Wobbley.

2010 has brought a change of celebrities ranging from a couple on the cusp of the C list, a few T listers, some Z listers and Heather Mills (although one almost wishes it was ‘Dancing on Thin Ice’ with that one … and during an unexpected thaw).

Before the sequinned extravaganza hit our primetime pixels, comments were abound on the inclusion of the former Mrs McCartney in such a dangerous competition. Indeed, a poppet commenting on Closer Online pointing out that Heather had fallen on several occasions while participating in Dancing with the Stars; surely, this new challenge would be far too dangerous for her.

Well, indeed; ice skating – with dangerous spins, bone breaking jumps and razor sharp blades - is infinitely more dangerous … so we must not dissuade her in her endeavours. Nobody knows what is around the corner; we can only hope for the best outcome … or, that she manages to skate successfully.

The judging panel remains more or less the same; the delightful Robin Cousins, Nicky Slater etc but a metamorphosis has taken place elsewhere; Ruthie eyes-and-teeth-darling Henshall – the Jane McDonald of the West End - has been changed for the bubbly, smiley former Spice rack, Emma Bunton.

Mr/Miss* Nasty (*- delete as appropriate), Jason Gardiner, is still seated in middle position and spewing out his poison in a failed attempt to impress the nation. In previous series one absolutely loathed this shrew-faced prima Dona. Now in 2010, one must confess that absolutely nothing has changed.

Jason Gardiner shows a dancer
the importance of hold.

It is highly unnatural for any one to have teeth that white, unless they are delivered on a daily basis after a 24 hour soak in bleach. One feels so sorry for the contestants as the lights go down and they begin their routines; shafts of light from the suspended glitterball exploding through the atmospheric studio air, ricocheting off Miss Gardiner's incisors and blinding them like a rabbit caught between the headlights of an old Princess.

Anyhoo ... one tuned into the first results show and was surprised to see that the British public had kept Mills in but had voted for British swimming legend Sharron Davies and 'So Macho' Sinitta to face each other in the skate-off.

Well, if the viewers can't make the right decisions, Crusty will certainly not be wasting one's time watching it.

Crusty On The Piste.

2010-01-09T14:22:00.003Z

The north east of England is the most gorgeous of places. Recently, however, its gorgeousness has been severely affected by a horrendous flutteration of heavy snow. To make matters worse, it has also had to endure temperatures as low as -10ºC!

It was Tuesday morning and one was at a loss as to what to do. Chu Me was clearly bored as one caught him in the Breakfast Room playing with something; something a faithful houseboy should not be caught playing with … his sausage.

Mr. Peppercorn, the village butcher, would not be at all pleased if he knew that, after kneading his meat to the point of total tenderisation, that his sausage would be played with in such a disrespectful manner.

“Chu Me!” One shouted, “Stop that at once!”

He continued eating but had a pathetic look on his face. He was bored. But what could we do? One certainly did not want to venture out onto the local roads ; they were pure ice; even the Range Rover would struggle.

Then it came to me! One had a little flurry at the front but had a good seven inches round the back.

“One has the most wonderful idea, poppet. Let’s go out on the piste!”

His eyes lit up and he clapped his little hands. There was a spring in his step as he skipped to the garages to locate our skis.

Dressed in a stunning aubergine ski-suit and armed with a planished, sliver hipflask of gin, we headed to Mount Gusset – at the rear of one’s estate - to take advantage of the fresh, virgin snow.

We spent five glorious hours swishing through the fluffy blanket of snowflakes to the bottom before having the button-tow take us back up to the top again.

Well … one says button-tow; it’s actually a rather burly member of the household staff with a pair of crampons and a rope, but the result if just as affective. One forgets her name but she certainly responds well to ‘Mush!’

Exhilarated and exhausted, we returned to Crusty Hall’s kitchen, where Chef had prepared a large glass of Torres Jaime I brandy to warm our cockles and a deliciously warming bowl of hot vegetable soup with some homemade crusty buns.

Though one is growing tired of the appalling Siberian weather we are being battered with, at least it brought a spell of exercise and fun. That said, one hopes all one’s poppets keep safe and warm during this arctic spell.

Are The Labour Party Revolting?

2010-01-07T22:30:00.004Z

Crusty understands there were shifty shenanigans going on in the House of Commons yesterday after Gordon Brown had, allegedly, performed well in the week’s session of Prime Minister’s Questions, or PMQs as it is annoyingly referred to by the media (their parents spend all that money on an education and they start speaking in abbreviations! It’s outrageous!).

Anyhoo …according to Peter Peggy-on-a-Sunday Mandelson, it appears Geoff Hoon and Patricia Hewitt were misjudging the mood of the Labour party and were revolting.

One tries not to step into the world of politics (one simply does not have the correct shoes) so one can not comment on their mood perception but as for them being revolting … well, one would concur wholeheartedly, poppets.

Crusty's Christmas Day

2010-01-07T22:20:00.003Z

Preparations began early for one of the busiest days of the year at Crusty Hall.

It is usual for Wing Commander Bertie of Chipmunk Squadron, at any dining event and after a few glasses of wine, to remove his dentures for comedic and general attention seeking purposes. As poppets will imagine, this is not what one wants to see around a dinner table, especially when - after the removal has been executed - his face implodes like the back end of a happy cat.

This year proactive action was required, so one had Chu Me sneak into the Wing Commander’s bedroom during the early hours of the morning and replace his denture fixative with No More Nails.

Mission accomplished, it was on to the preparations for the festive feast.

Chef was already busying himself with the delicious four course meal he had planned. Chu Me was using his artistic flair to arrange the dining table with one’s Baccarat crystal and Royal Doulton Harlow dinner service as one went into the Music Room to have a tinkle on the ivories in a moment of musical madness.

By mid-day, everything was ready and the Wing Commander and I met in the bar for a celebratory gin and tonic as we waited for the other guests to arrive; Willy and Fanny O’Dour from The Badger’s Snatch, Mr Peppercorn the village butcher and our village GP, Dr. Arthur Pedic.

As usual, Chef’s selection of Christmas cuisine was quite delicious; everyone certainly seemed to tuck in and enjoy it and thankfully, the only things that popped out were the Wing Commanders eyes when he tried to remove his top set without success (much to Chu Me’s amusement as he sniggered at the far end of the dining table).

The mood was made perfect by the accompaniment of some new music one had recently downloaded from the gargantuan archive of iTunes.

First in the Bang & Olufsen was Doris Day and her Christmas Collection; her voice lends itself beautifully to festive melody and with snow falling outside in the grounds and the roaring fire cracking away, one felt we were all sitting in a Hollywood Christmas Special waiting for Andy Williams to shuffle through the door.

As we reached our intercourse break between main course and dessert, Doris sang her last note.

“Chu Me, dear, would you be kind enough to put the other disc on? One thinks we should enjoy a bit if swinging, don’t you?”

To my left one could see the Wing Commander rummaging in his jacket pocket. He pulled out his car keys and tossed them on to the centre of the table. Fanny went beetroot red and Dr. Pedic coughed into his clenched hand.

One handed him his keys back immediately with a gentle pat on his hand, ”One refers to Ella Fitzgerald, Bertie dear!”

As the legendary voice belted out her jazzed up numbers of Christmas cheer, we tucked into our Christmas pudding complete with a decadent drizzle of Bailey’s Irish Cream poured over to enhance the nutty, fruity flavour.

Afterwards, we retired back to the bar where Fanny suggested a game of Hide and Seek. This provided the surprise of the year when Bertie tried to hide in a cupboard in the West Wing. The door was jammed and after a hefty push it finally opened. Out popped Carmen – a member of one’s household staff. One actually thought she had left one’s service last Christmas but apparently the door had closed and jammed behind her when she nipped in for a pillow case. If it wasn’t for a three quarter full packet of hob-nobs and a bottle of Evian, her traumatic experience would have been far worse.

Anyhoo … one gave her the weekend off and suggested she start a little later on the Monday morning.

Hide and Seek finished soon after as were all getting slightly tipsy and couldn’t be bother trailing around such an enormous residence, so guests reunited in the bar once more and we decided on a game of Charades to end our most splendid day.

Mr Peppercorn was the star of the evening, completing all of his given titles effortlessly; poor Fanny fell foul of the drink and accidentally used her mouth to finish off 12 Angry Men, whereas one’s success in brining off An Officer and a Gentleman with only one’s index finger and thumb met with rapturous applause.

All in all, a delightful time was had by all and as one waved the Wing Commander off on Boxing Day morning, one reflected on how wonderful it was to spend such a special time of year with one’s dear friends.

In actual fact, this year was made all the more special by the wonderful Christmas wishes and messages from one’s dear Twitterchums.

Crusty feels truly blessed.

Ashley Cole - A Troubled Poppet.

2010-01-04T23:10:00.006Z

One was saddened to see the smolderingly-sexilicious Ashley Cole - footballing husband to Cheryl y'-nailed-it Cole - back in the news today. It appears our tormented poppet has had another spot of bad luck.

While out for a discrete drive in his shiny Lamborghini, the local constabulary allegedly caught him doing 105 m.p.h. in a 50 m.ph zone.

A statement was read out in court that Ashley was attempting to evade prying paparazzi and this was the reason for his naughtiness. Mrs Lady Judge was not impressed (and frankly, who could blame her?) She warned that, at sentencing, his punishment may be stiff.

However, time is still on his side and one feels, if he changed his statement and appealed to the Judge's heartstrings and better nature, he could sway her to be understanding and lenient.

He only need tell her he was trying to get out of earshot of his wife's singing practice and one is sure the case would be dismissed immediately.

Let us hope, perchance, he stumbles across one's wise typlings.

Christmas Eve at Crusty Hall - Mischief, Laughter and Visitors.

2009-12-31T17:47:00.002Z

It was Christmas Eve morning and as one walked down the Grand Staircase for breakfast, one could hear sniggering coming from the reception room to the right of the main door. One’s curiosity was ignited and one sashayed to the room to investigate.

Opening the door carefully until one could see one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, with his head hidden behind the luxurious gold-braded, red velvet curtains, and his shoulders jerking up and down with every snigger.

“Chu Me, dear, you sound like Muttley! What on earth is tickling your fancy so?” One asked.

He withdrew his head from behind its thick velvet wrap and, with tears cascading down his little face, beckoned one to the window. He slid his head back into its velvety hiding place and one took up position to his side. Peering out of the window, it all became clear.

The vicar’s wife, Marjorie Flecks, had decided to pay one an unexpected visit (No doubt trying to lure a Christmas Lunch invitation … but the Dame was not for luring). She was desperately attempting to make her way up the footpath from the main gates. The thick, untreated ice was making her trek treacherous and it was this that was pushing Chu Me past the point of hysterics.

Dressed in yet another floral ensemble, accessorised with a grey duffle coat and navy blue moon boots, she was devoting complete concentration to each step she made. Often her arms flung themselves outward and flapped like chicken wings as she attempted to maintain balance on the glistening surface.

Five minutes had passed and, by this time, Chu Me’s sniggers were becoming infectious and Crusty too began tittering at the morning’s unexpected entertainment.

Halfway to the house she must have made contact with a particularly slipper patch; it was as though Mother Nature’s children had grabbed the DVD remote control of life and were alternately pressing fast forward and rewind, just to annoy their matriarch. Marjorie’s right moon boot hit the surface but she clearly realised balance was to be lost and immediate action was required. She brought her left boot forward but sadly at that point the right one shot back. Within a matter of seconds she was sprinting faster than Hussain Bolt, yet not actually moving from her current location.

She slowly managed to regain her composure then, almost at the point of rest, the rewind button was pressed and she began flapping her arms and sprinting backwards … then forward … then backward. The speed of her movement was so fast, she took on the appearance of a large, rather plumb, floral butterfly hovering above one’s grounds highlighted by the wonderful winter sun.

Finally, close to exhaustion and clouds of breath bellowing out of her mouth and nostrils like a stoked up steam train, she crashed to the ground. Chu Me and I were screaming with laughter.

She managed to position herself on all fours and like a plump panther padding its way towards it pray, she managed to reach an altogether more agreeable surface and raised herself, gingerly, to her feet.

Eventually, she reached the safety of the gritted steps in front of one’s residence and staggered to the main door. Her exhaustion could be heard clearly through the window as she pushed the button to ring the bell. One looked at Chu Me and we both had pools of mischief rippling in our eyes. We pressed ourselves against the ornately papered walls, like spies on a delicate mission, so we were completely out of sight.

The bell rang again … and again … finally a five second blast filled with fury and frustration. One could hear Marjorie clearly but it would be unwise to print her words here; let us just say that sort of language is not what one expects to hear from a vicar’s wife.

After five minutes of waiting she turned, defeated, and prepared for her journey back to the gates, though one felt it would be infinitely simpler as it was all down hill. If she was unfortunate enough to fall and duffle coat friction proved less than adequate, one was quite sure she would at least toboggan towards the gates relatively quickly.

As one took up one’s viewing position once more, with Chu Me at one’s side, Marjorie managed fifty yards from the Hall when, coincidentally, this is exactly what happened. As the screams dissipated and she shot off into the distance, we wiped the tears of laughter from our eyes until we saw Marjorie’s head disappear down to incline near the gates. At that very moment one saw the grill of Wing Commander Bertie of Chipmunk Squadron’s Bristol Brigand appearing.

“Chu Me!” One said, clapping one’s palms twice, “We must welcome the Wing Commander.”

Hearing the powerful engine of the Bristol coming up the drive took one’s mind back to happy days; days when one would spend delightful summer weekends with Bertie and his late wife, Agnes at their delightful country cottage. The Bristol Brigand was the only thing he had left – apart from his memories – of his childhood sweetheart.

Agnes was a strong woman who had a passion for these luxury motorcars and had managed to acquire two of them. One recalls those sun-soaked summer weekends when one would be lying on their sun terrace with a gin and tonic and the weeks glossies - allowing Señor Sol to kiss one’s exposed epidermis – while the Wing Commander would sit on the lawn, in his Air Force budgie-smugglers, lubricating his prop shaft and Agnes would be perspiring like a racehorse, between the open garage doors, lovingly polishing her Bristols. Halcyon days indeed, poppets ... halcyon days indeed.

Anyhoo … he was the only visitor for Christmas to travel any great distance, so Chu Me escorted him to the Warr Room. This is a bedroom inspired by one’s special poppet Mark makes-my-mouth-water Warr. It is full of delicious soft furnishings, immaculately crafted furniture, a breathtaking view of one’s enchanted garden and cushions embroidered with one's poppets dreamy face. It is altogether warm and welcoming; perfect for the Wing Commander’s short stay.

It suddenly dawned on one Christmas had arrived. One was as excited as one was when one was but a little Damelette

The Big Flop - 17th Century Meets 21st Century.

2009-12-31T00:57:00.006Z

One has been interested in the new, revamped series of Time Team, which appears to have move to the wonderful BBC.

While out on one of his field expeditions, it appears Tony Robinson – he who is famous for Black Adder and …. Black Adder – has been fortunate enough to dig up the scripts of a series of comedy plays from the 17th century. He has then managed to entice an array of television celebrities and Amanda Holden to take part in their re-enactment.

The series of plays, entitled The Big Top, has been commissioned by the BBC and is shown on Wednesday evenings.

Though it is an insight into our history and would have certainly entertained a nation that had nothing better to do than to watch weeping sores and the local witch being burnt alive, one feels the comedy does not cross over well into the 21st century. It is certainly not assisted by its ‘sexing up’, with Miss Holden sporting black hotpants, sheer hosiery and hair like C. S. Lewis’s Aslan with nits.

Furthermore, one appreciates that in comedy a straight man is important, however Robinson’s attempts to carry the weekly pieces as the character Anusmist, or some such fancy, does not succeed. One has never seen such a total lack of effort by an actor since that of Dexter Fletcher in Hotel Babylon.

Thankfully the performances have not been filmed in front of a live audience otherwise one suspects the description ‘live’ would be redundant and plenty more digging would be required by the archaeological team… along with mourning and multiple burials.

It is unclear how many of the plays were discovered but let us keep our digits crossed it was few rather than many.

Had it been a recent comedy offering it would most certainly have been entitled The Big Flop rather than The Big Top, but clearly as a historic piece it is acceptable as an example as to how much we have evolved over the centuries.

A Christmas Poem From Crusty

2009-12-18T19:48:00.003Z

All that I remember
From that freezing Christmas Eve,
Was standing at the window,
In a dressing gown, I believe.
As I released the tied back curtains
And closed the vertical blind,
There was only one important question
Running through my mind.
Is there really such a person
As the legend, Santa Claus?
Does he really come down chimneys?
… Does he never use the doors?
Then suddenly, there came a crash and
I was knocked towards the floor,
I didn’t know what on earth it was
But I really was quite sore.
I sat there limp and slightly dazed
Propped against the bedroom wall,
When my hand fell down between my legs
On something round and small;
I tried to focus, with concussed eyes,
On where my hand had led
But I couldn’t make out what was stuck down there
…it was certainly glowing red.
Then suddenly, up my inner thigh
I felt something hard and furry.
Moving up towards my underwear
…Though not in any hurry.
I grabbed the mystery object
Before it reached my lady-garden
And mustered up the vocal strength
To shout, “I BEG YOUR PARDON!”
All my concentration,
It’s literally what it took,
To raise the object higher
So I could take a closer look.
I blinked my eyes, looked straight ahead
Consumed with dread and fear
But was rather shocked, yet quite surprised
To see a red-nosed, bruised reindeer.
Two huge hands, with sparkling nails,
Pulled the reindeer back, quite slow,
And throughout my destroyed bedroom
Echoed a thunderous, ”Ho! Ho! Ho!”
It was then that I finally realised
That what had happened was quite amazing;
Santa hadn't used a chimney …a door
He’d crashed through my double-glazing!!