Masterchef: The Professionals - Burhan, Baby Burhan

Often of an evening, one finds oneself alone in the residence. The household staff have scuttled back from whence they came and one's faithful houseboy, Chu Me is regularly up in his quarters watching his specialist nature DVDs.  From the sounds one can hear, he clearly enjoys mimicking the creatures he is watching, judging by the panting, groans and screams one can hear oscillating down the corridors.

In such circumstances, if one is not in the Holly Johnson Room running one's perfectly manicured digits over the ivories of the old Joanna, one reclines elegantly on the chaise, by the well-packed drawers of the bow-legged tallboy in the Dr Christian Room with one's eyes  glued to one's 42 incher. One says glued ... with the nonsense they have been putting on while Rona has been ravaging the world, the attention has only been slightly tacky at best.

One of the programmes that one has taken a fancy to, in our pandemic gripped world, is Master Chef: The Professionals. First of all, it's refreshing not to have John Turd accompanying Greg.  Previously, in his chef's challenges it always astounded me when he would cook something and say, "It's important that the ingredients can be tasted and identified. That's the secret of a great chef", as he looked smugly towards Wallace.

Greg would then sit, with eyes and mouth open wide, as Turd went about his culinary expertise; "Wow" ..."Phwoar!" ..."You know how to make my mouth water John ... apples and pears" (or some such fancy). Then, without fail, if he had cooked fish the contestants would say "Definitely chicken". Likewise, some piece of meat would be artistically arranged one a plate with vegetable fanciness and glossy droplets and it would be, "I can taste the cod... definitely cod".

One has a confession. One was never a great fan of Marcus Waring or Monica Galetti in the past, however one must say that one adores them both now. Monica is simply delicious and now that one has seen Marcus smile, the world seems in balance again and they certainly know their onions, do they not.

In this current series we've certainly had our fair share of hotties. One immediately thinks of the delicious Burhan. A stunningly gorgeous poppet who, with one pout to camera, has one's undergarments dissolving like the finest meringue upon a eager tongue. 

An array of skilled chefs are filling our screens as the competition unfolds and those less so. One, poor poppet attacked the Chef's challenge quite unexpectedly. One lost interest after a short time, so cannot recall his name but one's quite sure he had one. The challenge? Crepes Suzette. Experienced in making just such fayre on cruise ships, he proceeded to annihilate the dish with gusto  for our expert judges. Each crepe was more with an 'a' and without the last 'e' and one never new segments of oranges could be cremated in a pan in such a short space of time. Needless to say, in the next round,  Signature Dishes", when Sean I-can-give-a-nation-of-women-and-men-an orgasm-with-my-voiceovers Pertwee purred, "For his main, [whatever his name was], has served ..."

One looked up form one's Wordsearch, "... A can of beans, dear?"

To cut a long story short, it wasn't a great success. The traditional 12-long list of flavours in his dish ended up as two slabs of meat and a chunk of sweet potato, accompanied by a bit of green dust and a plate.  As you may have already guessed Monica already had his taxi booked as he went back to his workstation.

In critics corner most recently, the Marmite of critics Jay Rayner and his fellow critic Tracey MacLeod. Both clearly affected by the pandemic, in that they had no access to a hair brush prior to filming. That or they had stumbled across a hedge on the way in and were brutally dragged backwards through it. Sitting stuffing their faces with the product of our chefs, both, on the whole, surprisingly positive about all of the dishes, which , let's face it, makes a change from the usual scornful sarcasm oozing from their lips.

One of course shall continue to watch but, alas, without the knicker-crumbling deliciousness of Burhan, will it ever be the same?

The Gusset Is Back! .... (maybe)

Life has been a little curious, has it not, throughout this Coronavirus malarkey? As one has been unable to meet one's dear friend, Fanny O'Dour for a stiff one down the Badger's Snatch, one was having a shufty through one's electronic device and saw that it was some time ago that one scribbled ramblings on one's blog! Good Lord! One feels that must change!

In the meantime, one trusts one's readers are safe and well? Stay tuned ...

Love, joy & laughter and happiness forever after,

Dame Crusty

Mmmwah mmmwah 

Dame Crusty Takes Barry Manilow in the Holly Johnson Room

The 5^th of April 2017 will be one of those days when, one thinks, we will all remember where we were when the devastating and unexpected news was unleashed to the world, without warning.

As for onself, one was in the village pub; The Badger’s Snatch.

One had been sitting for a short time in a freshly upholstered booth reading through a discarded Daily Mail left on the table. It was then one’s dear friend - and owner of the aforementioned drinking emporium - Fanny O’Dour approached.

“Like a refill, Crusty?” Fanny said, while hovering the deliciously designed bottle of Pere Ventura Tresor above one’s crystal flute.

“How delightful, dear. Let’s!”

“You found anything interesting?”

Looking briefly at her, then briefly at the Daily Mail, then back at her one replied, “Good Lord! In this dear?! No, just checking the state of the pages. It’s a perfect publication for lining the bottom of Crotchet’s litter tray.”

Fanny smiled and turned to walk away. Suddenly, she stopped.

“Oh! By the way, did you hear the news earlier? Barry Manilow’s come out.”

“In a rash, dear?” One replied inquisitively.

“No. Come out … of the closet.”

“It must have had very loose hinges, dear. Just now?”

“Yes. I was shocked? Who knew?” She added.

“Not everyone, it seems.” One replied, looking her up and down and slowly sipping one’s Cava.

“Of course, reading the articles over the years about his private life, he’s always been very tight-lipped.”

“Quite, dear and from recent TV appearances, he’s also been very tight-eyed, tight-eared, tight-chinned, tight-cheeked and tight-necked. The last time one saw him hit a high note during Copacabana, his eyes shut and his toes curled up!”

“Crusty! You’re terrible. He has said his fans have been very supportive, which is nice.”

“In fairness, Fanny dear, they have had over 40 years to prepare for the revelation.”

Sometime later and ready to leave, one glided elegantly to the bar to hand Fanny one’s flute.

“Do you know, Fanny, you’ve made one remember something.”

“Really?”

“Yes, one remembers a time when Barry Manilow stayed at one’s beloved Crusty Hall.”

“Stayed with you?! You never brought him down?” Fanny exclaimed, a little miffed.

“Oh, it was a whistle-stop visit, dear. Mr Peppercorn had asked him to judge his prized sausage in the back room of the village butchers and the guesthouse was out of bounds because it had just been fumigated. Anyhoo … one had offered him a suite in the east wing for the night before he flew off to America. We had had dinner and one was reclining divinely on the chaise on the Holly Johnson room …”

“The music room?” Fanny clarified.

“Quite, you gorgeous thing. Barry had just sung a medley of hits, while one fingered through a gents quarterly …Suddenly, his fingers lifted from the keys and the music stopped. One felt a little tension in the air. Chu Me was rigid and his eyes had widened. Nevertheless, one continued fingering one’s flaps and humming Could It Be Magic. One could see him from one’s peripheral vision, walking towards one. He sat next to one and took one’s hand. One could feel him shaking and beads of sweat began to cascade down his face – quicker than one would expect as there were no wrinkles to slow them down – and there was a raspy pant in his voice. “Dame Crusty, there’s something I need to tell you.” He said. “I see.” One said. “It’s something I’ve never told a soul but I feel I can confide in you.” After moment one said, “Don’t feel you need to, dear.””

“Oh my God! What happened?!” Fanny squealed.

“After what seemed like the length of an X-Factor result, complete with the sound of his pounding heart to add suspense, he stood up and said, “I can’t. I can’t. I’m so sorry.” Then off he went to his quarters with one’s pussy, Crotchet, close behind. One looked at Chu Me. Chu Me looked at one, shrugged his shoulders and left the Holly Johnson room with a steady slap of flip-flop.”

“Do you think he was going to tell you?”

“Goodness dear, one thought he was going to tell one he was a vegetarian!! The other wouldn’t have mattered a jot, as one believes his legion of fans will concur.”

With that, one bid Fanny farewell with a kiss on each cheek, headed out of the Badger’s Snatch, into a waiting GUSSET 1 outside, where Chu Me had prepared a selection of nibbles in the armrest and one headed off back to the residence.

Dame Crusty Oils Dr Christian

One was sitting, in one’s painting studio at one’s beloved Crusty Hall in a state of deep reflection. Adorned in one’s Vivienne Westwood painting ball gown, one stared out of the window and across the top of gardener’s greenhouse.

The previous night, whilst deep in slumber, one was embroiled in a hot and steamy session with one’s most gorgeous of poppets, Dr Christian Jessen (Mother always said never eat a block of cheese before bedtime and how right she was!).

Needless to say, one shall spare readers the full and graphic details of the Pere Ventura Cava fuelled dreamy encounter but sufficed to say, there was an urgent need for a member of household staff to replace one’s Egyptian cotton sheeting once one arose, slipped on one’s dressing gown and sashayed downstairs to the breakfast room.

As one sat there, munching on a thick, meaty pork sausage in a most undamely-like manner, one's faithful houseboy, Chu Me fussed about pouring tea , buttering one’s buns and banging his coarse, hairy nuts on a sharp point. The latter, in order for one to enjoy a pleasing mouthful of fresh milk for the day ahead. One read somewhere coconut milk every morning was good for one. Who was one to argue?

Anyhoo … still holding the length of sausage between one’s clenched hand and nibbling the end delicately with one’s teeth, the image of Dr Christian remained in one’s mind; standing by the side of the open fire, the orange and yellow light from the flickering flames dancing across the surface of his naked, muscular frame and refracted, like the light through a thousand diamonds, from the myriad beads of sweat droplets coating his epidermal expanse after our torrid entanglement in this ethereal locale. At his feet, one found oneself lying spent and undone on a silky soft sheepskin rug with just a Gucci pump, carefully placed, to keep one’s lady-garden out of sight and a sand filled length of draught excluder across one’s hooters to maintain one’s post-coital dignity (one did say it was a dream!).

Needless to say, one was eager to recapture the image in oils.

One had spent several hours of that day painting the majority of the body. His velvety-soft skin was looking rather good; one had managed to get his chiselled pectoral expanse just right and one clearly had success replicating the undulating 6-pack (one began to feel as if one was on a rollercoaster ride as one’s eyes followed the ebb and flow of undulationess). One was rather pleased with the effect I had created for the marble fire surround and one had also stuck a bowl of ripe fruit on the mantel shelf as part of one’s five a day. 

His legs were coming along magnificently; firm, muscular and looking like they could crack a walnut with one flex.

When the time came to complete the painting and concentrate on the … shall we say … centre of the piece, one closed one’s eyes to refresh oneself of the image held in one’s mind's eye, looked back at one’s paint pallet and after circling one’s index finger several times around one’s rusty box, realised one would need significantly more paint. One tube of each primary colour would certainly not be sufficient for the task in hand.

Deeply frustrated, one glided elegantly down the corridor in search of a solution. As one passed by Chu Me’s room, one could hear heavy panting. One knew he had just received a new exercise video from his cousin, sent express post from his village in a land far away. It was nice that his cousin took the time to copy such DVDs for Chu Me but one does wish he would pay more attention to his English and spelling. That being said, Quim Buddies II was clearly on and Chu Me was, evidently, having a thorough workout.

Not wishing to disturb him, one made one’s way to the garage and took the keys to GUSSET 2. The power of the Aston engine, throbbing under one’s shapely thighs, brought back happy memories of my dream that previous night and within minutes one arrived at the centre of the village and pulled up outside the Badger’s Snatch with a satisfied smile on one’s face and fresh nail indentations on the steering wheel.

As one clenched one’s knees together and swung one’s legs out to the side, one exited GUSSET 2 with grace and an expected demeanour. 

One heard a sudden knocking. Looking down at one’s knees, all appeared in order but after another, one looked up to see one’s dear friend, Fanny O’Dour, at the window of the our much loved public house waving out at one. She looked angelic in the crystal clear lead-lined window. Honestly, what that woman can do with a bottle of Windolene and a lint free cloth is the stuff of legend!

Minutes later, one was standing at the counter in the village arts and crafts shop, facing the wonderfully flamboyant owner, Abby Stract.

“Good morning, Dame Crusty! What a lovely surprise! What can I do for you?” Abby said.

“Good morning, Abby dear! One’s in the midst of an oil piece and need a few more colours to achieve flesh tone”.

“Oooo! A portrait. How exciting.”

“Of sorts, dear.” One clarified.

“Will one tube of each be enough? Is it a large piece?” Abby enquired.

“It would certainly make y’ eyes water, dear. You’d better give me a box of each.”

Soon after, one was back at one’s easel and painting furiously to finish. However, you can imagine one’s utter disbelief when after using up 8½ tubes of paint one realised one didn’t have enough canvas!!

An unrolled off cut of anaglypta stapled to the bottom (of the artwork and not Christian’s … or, indeed, one’s own) allowed one to complete the piece. Though it added a recollected stiffness and pleasing texture, it wasn’t the look one was going for.However, as it was for one’s private collection it was enough to record the memory.

Simon Cowell Takes The Pith Over Cheryl

One was reclining elegantly on the leather sofa in Litten’s – the oak panelled bar at Crusty Hall – perusing the interwebular, while Chu Me prepared a rather delightful gin at the bar.

By chance, one came across an article by Jack White on the Closeronline site, which provided very little interest but, nevertheless, one read the words within. The story related to the relationship between Simon when-I-walk-I-can’t-move-my-arms Cowell and Cheryl y’nailed-it Cole.

One must admit one’s interest was poked, a smidgen, when one got past the rather poor grammar of the article and discovered that ageing mogul had taken Cheryl out to dinner before “offering her a chance to appear on the X Factor judge again”. Good Lord! It’s one thing for her to appear on the judging panel but we don’t want to see her on top of him, riding him like sweaty cowboy on prime time television!

Simon praised Cheryl’s ability to stay in the public eye (while the rest of a nation, one suspects, condemned and cursed her ability to do the very same thing).

“She’s still in the papers …”(so’s the piece of cod I bought from the fish shop next to the Badger’s Snatch last Tuesday, dear) … “that’s the interesting thing about her”  …(like the cod, it’s probably the only interesting thing).

He also claims that, having not been on our screen for three years if she so much as peels an orange, she’s in the papers. (Now that is just taking the pith!).

Anyhoo … Simon makes it quite clear that their relationship is strong (should anyone out there be shallow enough to care)

Simon says, “We need each other.” (Isn't it normally, “… put your right hand on your head”?)

One must say that brings one question into one’s own mind … “Yes, dear, but do we need either of you?” One fears not.

Dame Crusty And A Stiffened Package In Her Box

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A little further, dear.”

“>gasp< Will this do?”

“One fancies a little further.”

“That ok?”

“A little further?”

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

"A few steps more, dear?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Karl Lagerfeld Let's Rip ... Again! ... [Nurse!!!!!]

The Metro periodical was lying open on the workbench of gardener’s greenhouse. He was in the far corner, somewhat preoccupied with pulling off Basil, so had left it unattended. Naturally, one felt drawn to read the words scattered within the pages. As one did, one was flabbergasted at what one read, as one focused in on the typeset! So much so, one had to put one’s binoculars down and sit back in the studded leather captain’s chair of one’s study to reach an acceptable level of damely composure.

"Kate Middleton has a nice silhouette and she is the right girl for that boy (by ‘that boy’ one assumes you mean Prince William, our future King, dear). I like that kind of woman, I like romantic beauties. On the other hand, her sister struggles. I don't like the sister's face. She should only show her back."

One was outraged!

Even the slapping of a member of household staff, as she picked up remnants of Chu Me’s flip-flops from a rough section of the parquet flooring, could one release the pure anger one felt at such a revolting comment about the utterly gorgeous sister of our future queen.

“Who made this comment, Dame Crusty?” One hears you ask.

One’s gag reflex is held at bay as one mentions his name … Karl Lagerfeld.

One acknowledges that this member of the fashion community has been around for … well, goodness … it would seem like centuries (something certainly backed up by the way he dresses; wearing his usual high collar shirts, black suits and thigh length boots … often resembling a 17^th century hooker with a vampire fetish). As for the best sides to be taken from (especially where the rear is concerned), one suspects he speaks from significant experience.

If you are still unsure, picture the same outfit as one has previously described in your mind’s eye; black suit, high collared white shirt (one fancies to hide the turkey-neck at which even Coronation Street’s Audrey Roberts would grimace), thigh high leather boots (and one’s talking heels here), a face with the complexion of a pensioner’s left testicle and with white wiry hair plonked on top of said teste-face (akin to that of the pubic foliage surrounding that very same pensioner’s downstairs area) brushed back into a ponytail. Finish that image off with a pendulous pair of ears, a pair of Mick Jagger-esque lips which haven’t seen lip salve in a month and a pair of sunglasses … et voila! 

That’s right … that’s the one.

Karl dear, you are no oil painting yourself ... if oil was involved, however, one suspects it would be crude.

Crusty, Fanny and the Tale of the Creamy Fingers

One awoke that morning feeling a little bloated. Though still maintaining an agreeable level of elegance (naturally), one felt one had mysteriously gained a little more weight through one’s slumbers; yes, one had enjoyed a rather erotic time in one’s dreams sharing some bowls of whipped double cream and sticky toffee pudding with one’s delicious poppet Jake Canuso … and in various positions … but one knew it wasn’t possible to increase one’s weight as a result. This is not Elm Street after all.

It was all highly bizarre and, naturally, it turned one’s mood.

One’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, acutely aware of one’s morning bout of sadness, tried to do what he could to cheer one up. He tried to mount one’s pussy, Crotchet, and ride him side saddle along the corridor outside one’s quarters; one could not even raise a smile. Even when Crotchet repaid the compliment by clawing at Chu Me’s clothing with short, sharp blows of his curled up, claw-extended paws and hissing wildly, one still took no interest.

The two walked off slowly, Chu Me’s shoulders slumped with disappointment and Crotchet’s tail dragging lifelessly along the carpet behind him.

As one dressed in appropriate attire for breakfast, one could see from one’s dressing room window that Chu Me had decided to make a special trip to the side of the stables to collect some fresh eggs from his hens. One caught sight of him as he picked up the elliptical shells of creamy yolkiness and put them in his wicker basket - his hens scurrying around his feet with pride and joy at a job well done. Bending down to cup his hand around the underside of his cock, he squeezed it lovingly to his chest and kissed it on the head before he released it, setting it back on the ground next to his feet (one could almost hear the thud through the double glazing … it is a mighty beast indeed). Leaving the coop, he secured the padlock on the door and headed back toward the residence.

A small glistening droplet of ocular liquid forced itself from one’s right tear duct as one realised the love he had for these creatures and indeed for ensuring one had the best of everything. It was clearly one’s weakened state that caused such an unnecessarily emotional reaction at such an early hour of the day. Taking a deep breath and clenching one’s hands into stylish and epidermally soft fists, one established composure once more and made one’s way down the staircase of the Great Hall to the breakfast room. The household staff were busying away with their chores while trying to be inconspicuous. The one brushing the stairs was, however, certainly not. One did not have the energy to say anything and decided the kick one executed to her right thigh would have to be enough.

Sat in the breakfast room with one’s gorgeous North East legend Colin his-twinkle-makes-me-tingle Briggs relaying the local news on BBC Breakfast, one settled down for something to fuel one for the day. One put Chu Me’s eggs into one’s mouth and found them extremely creamy - with just the right amount of saltiness. Yet despite this,  one’s mood did not improve. The lightweight Masato ensemble of natural fabrics one had chosen, along with diamond mounted accessories should have made one feel utterly fabulous most certainly, yet one could not help but feel a little uncomfortable as the gorgeous fabric clung a little too tightly to one’s shapely frame.

Checking one’s social calendar, one noted one had arranged to meet one’s dear friend Fanny O’Dour – landlady of the Badger’s Snatch – for some refreshment. We had agreed to visit the local coffee shop rather than attend her own watering hole. One often felt she spent her life there and it was always nice to have a change of surroundings. Her husband, Willy O’Dour, was more than capable of running the show for a few hours … and quite right too.

At 11.04am, one set off in GUSSET 2 from the crunching gravel drive of one’s beloved Crusty Hall and sped down the winding country lanes towards the heart of the village, the delicious sounds of one’s treasured and iconic poppet, Holly Johnson filling the cabin with melodious joy.

Fanny was waiting on the bench at the corner of the village green when one arrived, reading (with alarm, one imagined) a pamphlet that looked suspiciously like the ones handed out by the vicar’s wife, Marjorie Flecks, whenever she had a singing recital planned. One parked the Aston in one’s usual place and sashayed elegantly across the black and glistening tarmac of the road to join her.  Despite the inclement weather, there was a warmth in the air and a breeze that brushed one’s soft cheeks like that one enjoyed annually on the shores of one’s beloved Montgat.

“Crusty!” She squealed and extended her arms. We kissed each other affectionately on each cheek, linked arms and made our way towards the coffee shop. Telling her of one’s misery at feeling a little plumper today she attempted to cheer one up.

“Don’t talk nonsense, Crusty! You look as radiant as ever and you have a figure to die for.”

It certainly seemed to help. As she pressed the latch of the coffee shop door and we entered to the sound of the bell suspended above, one’s spirits did indeed lift, even in the face of resting one’s eyes on the horrendously long queue of people at the counter.  Perhaps one wasn’t as temporarily overweight as one had thought.

Anyhoo … eventually, a rather sorry looking individual got round to serving us.

“Good morning, Dame Crusty. Sorry about your wait” she announced.

“Sorry about one’s weight?!”  One screeched. One was outraged!

“And one’s sorry about your saggy tits, fat arse and rather unkempt yellow hair, dear! Now, two creamy fingers and a pot of tea if you please!!”

As the embarrassed individual curtsied and turned quickly to tend to one’s needs, Fanny leant forward and whispered in one’s ear. “I think she was referring to the queue, Crusty.”

One stopped and thought for a moment. Ah, the wonders of the English Language. As soon as one realised, Fanny and I giggled like schoolgirls at the misunderstanding, carrying our fayre to our usual table.

Later, as Fanny and I prepared to leave the coffee shop the servant girl came to our table to collect the cups and payment. It was here, one fancies, she tried to get some level of revenge for one’s tiny little mix-up earlier.

“What?! No tip?!” She said, with a hint of venom wisping from her unpleasant breath.

“Oh sorry, poppet” one replied.

Holding her coarse hand with one’s left, one covered the back of it with one’s right and patted it gently. Looking endearingly into her bloodshot eyes one said, “Yes of course, dear … a longer tabbard to cover your arse, a pair of chicken fillets to lift your bangers … oh … and a hat … to hide y’ tatty hair. Good day to you.”

With that, Fanny and I walked out – to the sound of smashing tea cups and a scream - and made our way down the street to the Badger’s Snatch, where we had planned to sneak in through the back but when we came across the drayman pulling off his kegs at the entrance of the beer garden, we instead entered through the lounge entrance and partook of a refreshing glass of Pere Ventura Tresor Reserva Cava before one set off home to the opulent comfort of one's beloved Crusty Hall.

Daphne Dewdrop's Brush With The Law

One had just visited Mr Peppercorn’s butchery emporium for some supplies for the kitchen at one's beloved Crusty Hall. Cook will normally order items to be delivered, however, one always likes the ability to grab some local meat. There’s nothing worse, one finds, than nibbling on a gristly sausage that’s travelled half way around the country ... or getting one’s hands on a hunk of beef that is inadequately hung. One always feels so let down.

Plus – of course - Mr. Peppercorn has been servicing one well for many years; one wouldn’t dream of taking one’s business elsewhere. Whenever cook has a tasty pie on the menu, for example, Mr. Peppercorn always gives one a good filling and when he slips one some of his tongue as an extra … well … let one just say, one takes a little step closer to heaven.

Anyhoo … it was this very morning and he had wrapped up his meat in some greaseproof paper. One grabbed his bulging packet and put it in one’s shopping basket, bid him farewell and headed off to the local bakers, ran by the delightful Pat Tissery. One knew if one could get there early enough, one could beat the queue and be able to get one’s hands on a pair of her crusty bloomers; the yeasty aroma that emanates from them is heavenly and one can never resist holding them up to one’s nasal passages and giving them a good sniff.

Just as one sashayed to the threshold of the traditional purveyor of bready products, one’s glisteningly youthful eyes fell upon local model Veronica Manntrapp; she was just leaving, with a rather unbecoming bag full of cream cakes (One wonders how on earth she maintained her figure! She has the appetite of a farm animal).

“Oh Crusty, I’m glad I’ve seen you. You must go and console Daphne. She’s distraught. She’s been given a police caution by WPC Hel Mett.”

“Goodness! What on earth has happened?!” One exclaimed.

“She was caught driving with her top down. She’s round the corner outside the Chemist, crying her eyes out.”

“One shall tend to it at once.” One reassured her.

Continuing one’s sashay hurriedly, with one’s shopping basket swinging pendulously on one’s forearm, one couldn’t help but be mystified by the predicament that Daphne Dewdrop found herself in. She had always been the village member with the loosest of morals … a party-girl if you will. Often, after a Saturday night out, she could be found slumped back on the wooden bench on the corner of the village green, her knickers round her ankles like an off-white cotton anklet, clutching an almost empty bottle of Diamond White like a much loved kitten. But how on earth could she have found herself receiving a caution for something that wasn’t even illegal! For heaven’s sake, millions of people must be driving round like that when the weather is of agreeable conditions!

Anyhoo … all became clear when one turned the corner and saw her Renault Clio parked outside the Chemist. She has not been stopped for driving in a convertible state, as one had initially thought; WPC Hel Mett had, in fact, given her a warning for driving with her top down, that is to say … her boob-tube pushed down around her waist. It was therefore, hooter exposure that had resulted in her brush with the law and the subsequent stern words from our member of the local constabulary.

Leaning against the sill of the open window on the near side, while maintaining a ballerina-like posture, one attempted to cheer up poor Daphne.

She was sat there with tears streaming down her overly made-up face; mascara was oozing down her rosy cheeks in such meandering swathes it gave her the appearance of a slightly sun-kissed Alice Cooper - only without the wrinkles and unnaturally white teeth. Across the exposed boobage WPC Mett had stuck a parking notice pouch across each of her areas of nipplage to make her a tad more decent than she had been found. A little severe one thought, but when one notices a young boy who had obviously hit a bin and flew over the handlebars to end up head first in the very same refuse receptacle – his legs kicking and his muffled cries for help being ignored - one thought it was, perhaps, the better thing to do.

“Come along, Daphne dear!!” One said heartily. “Stiff upper lip and all that, old thing!”

“I’ve never been so ashamed, Dame Crusty.” She sobbed.

“Now, now … let us consider it a lesson learnt."

“I s’pose” she sniffed, wiping her blackened eyes with a McDonald’s serviette (still encrusted with a piece of fried onion and smear of ketchup from the time it was purchased).

“Incidentally, dear, that yellow in the parking notice pouch suits your colouring magnificently!”

“She looked down towards her hooters and with her chin gathering together like an epidermal concertina, she made an approving, “Mmmm … Do you think?”

“Oh yes! Quite delightful, dear! So, though you may have been in danger of the full force of Her Majesty’s justice being thrust upon you, at least you’ve found another colour for your wardrobe … so every cloud and all that.”

Her spirits visibly lifted, one turned and glided away elegantly along the pavement, humming a adhoc assemblage of notes. A visitor to our charming village heard one as one passed.

" Oooo! That sounds like Cheryl Cole's new song!" She said.

One stopped ... looked at the woman right in her eyes (although it was quite difficult with her right one as it wouldn't rest in one place), looked down at her synthetic attire, back up to her eyes, then slapped her across the dish and stormed off. Outrageous, one thought!

After a few steps, one turned for one last time, to reassure oneself that one’s friend was well. Looking past the unpleasant individual who had insulted one so, as she bent over clutching her left cheek, one saw Daphne. She seemed engrossed in the lifting of her right book to the side of her face to analyse the colour complementation of the sticky pouch in her rear view mirror.

A crisis averted, one placed one's shopping in the back of GUSSET 2 and headed off to the beer garden of the Badger's Snatch for a stiff one with Fanny O'Dour.

X Factor Returns - Poppets Prepare!

Opening the pages of our local daily newspaper The Evening Chronicle, - a pillar of truth, justice and community news – one squealed with a mixture of delight and dread when one read the X-Factor is returning to our televisual pixels, with auditions being held - possibly - as one writes this fluidic wordage.

A Caravan of judges (and one refers to the line-up and their entourage flooding in, rather than them being towed about in a 4-berth box on two wheels and a porta-loo) had descended onto the North East Riviera to assess the acceptability of the tsunami of talented poppets that attended the aforementioned auditions from one’s beloved region.

Gary Barlow OBE had snuck into the region without even advising Crusty Hall.  Quite outrageous and one naturally advised cook and one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, that if a call comes from the cusp-of-chubby poppet for tea and biscuits, he is to be rejected without delay and given an explanation that one is busy taking Boyzone up the rear for 'One Kiss At A Time' by the indoor pool.

Tuloola Popadopalous was back in her judging role and going down well (from the images glimpsed from her “special tape” one can hardly say one is surprised) and crowds were screaming at the arrival of that rather peculiar creature, Nicole Shitslinger.

Louis Walsh was of course on hand; the 4th judge added to the panel to make up the numbers. He was proving himself very brave visiting our region, as only weeks earlier it was reported, in the very same periodical, that he had got into a bit of a slanging match with Cheryl y’nailed-it-Tweedy-Pie Cole.

Apparently, it all began after Cheryl had attacked Louis claiming, as a manager, had had done very little for Girls Aloud (it was only fair when they, in turn, had done very little for music lovers around the world). Our hair dyed vixen (and one refers to Louis Walsh and not our screeching Geordie Harpy) hit back claiming Cheryl was in desperate need of singing lessons (hear, hear, dear!) and was just a clotheshorse.

Anyhoo … One pondered this for a while and looked through a back catalogue of pictures of Girls Aloud’s biggest member; creased, crumpled and, occasionally, damp clothing hanging loose and lifeless upon a wiry frame? … Now that one comes to think of it … our little Irish imp of a poppet may have hit the nail on the head!

Bravo dear!

Diamond Jubilations - Dame Crusty Reflects.

As a nation, we have long been associated with a reputation for exquisite pomp and pageantry. Our long and ancient history and our traditions have made it impossible for anyone to match us in that regard. That was certainly the case over the recent Diamond Jubilee celebrations held in honour of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

An entire nation of patriotic poppets came together down The Mall (and that’s quite an accomplishment, one can assure you!) over four days of regal festivities.

On the Sunday, the armada of aquatic vessels on the Thames was magnificent, despite the horrendous weather conditions. As the troop of operatic singers sang their tribute to Her Majesty on the orchestral barge, mascara trickling down their cheeks and their hair sodden, one squealed with glee at their sacrifice.

The day after, Monday, saw the long awaited and much hyped Diamond Jubilee Concert, organised by the Take Thatularly delicious Gary Barlow. He certainly had his work cut out for him, trying to please a population with such diverse tastes in musical entertainment but if anyone was able to accomplish the task, it was he.

Here at one’s beloved Crusty Hall, one reclined elegantly on the faux fur covered chaise in Litten’s (the bar at Crusty Hall). The walls were festooned with Union Jacks and Bunty was hanging from every picture. The scene was set for one to enjoy the star-studded extravaganza. Chu Me was armed with a bottle of gin behind the bar and on standby to satisfy one’s needs for the crystal clear elixir while one’s pussy, Crotchet, lay against ones left thigh looking completely disinterested by all the fuss and licking his … (oh dear!)… well … let’s just say he was cleaning himself.

As the Royal Family settled in their seats and the crowd, gathered around them, cheered, we were off!

A rather portly Robbie Williams opened the show with ‘Let Me Entertain You’ (One thought, it’s a little bit late in your career to be starting now, dear). He was being flanked by a line of Coldstream Guards blowing their long and slender horns. We were also tret to a small pianotic interlude from the highly digitally dextrous Lang Lang. His addition was most welcome but upon seeing him Chu Me’s face dropped.

“One feels your pain, dear. If only Gary Barlow knew how well you played chopsticks, one suspects you would have been asked instead.”

Then slight glimmer of what might have been brought a smile back to his face, despite the fact one was talking nonsense. Needless, to say it was all going rather well. Rob Brydon began the hosting of the show and was a good choice. He’s of that neutral variety is he not? He can be funny and … cannot be funny … but he is of sufficiently impish appeal that … well … you’d forgive him anything, simply tilt the head with a slight smile and say, “Bless!”

When the leg-bucklingly gorgeous legend Tom Jones took to the stage, one could feel every natural fibre of one’s undergarments disintegrate with each note that exploded from his voice box. This tsunami of pleasurable oscillations lapping over one’s epidermal expanse was brought to an abrupt halt, however, when one was more than a little disturbed and caught off guard with the control of one’s gag reflex when one saw Cheryl y’-nailed-it-Tweedypie Cole standing aside Gary Barlow in an over-the-top synthetic frock. Was she there to clean up after everyone was finished, one wondered? Was she serving bags of chips to the audience, perhaps? No … one’s worst fears were realised when the music started and one realised she was going to “sing”.

As she started screeching the first lines of the forgettable song, one held one’s throat to keep at bay the rising bile. One wondered how many witches tits there must have been, throughout our land, that were envious at just how flat she was. Had she been a Michelin tyre one suspects even ATS would have been unable to seal her hole.

Dame Elton John was quite magnificent, though when he walked on stage with his little buttocks clenched, in his pink sequinned jacket one did have to send one’s faithful houseboy to one’s dressing room to ensure one’s own was still there. As the sound of Chu Me’s flip-flops slapped with increasing repetition, one shouted, “He only wanted to borrow it for a sample pot from B&Q, dear. One never said he could keep it!”

The legendary, iconically delicious Grace Jones was breathtaking! Singing an all time favourite of the Crusty residence, one could feel one’s foot tap against the parquet flooring as one fixed one’s eyes on her hoop.

One suspects it came as no surprise to anyone when Dame Birley Shassey was wheeled out. She looked quite remarkable for her age. Her hair was coiffured into a pleasant style and she complemented her white ensemble with a sheer cape; an ideal choice of garment to disguise the bingo wings as she belted out ‘Diamonds Are Forever’ (they certainly are, dear, but a taut upper arm, alas, is not).

Anyhoo … as well as the acts being diverse, so too were the presenters. Naturally, Rolf Harris was invited along and for his segments one felt he couldn’t have fawned over Her Majesty to any greater extent. Just one gnat’s testicle more and he would have been either arrested for performing an indecent act on royalty or be starring in a black market XXX-rated DVD for the top shelves of a local sex emporium. Still, he is an icon of our nation and one must say, one was rather alarmed when Lenny I-was-funny-once-on-a-talent-show-in-1975 Henry, interrupted Rolf as he performed with Two Little Boys. Needless to say, the crowd turned and Mr. Henry realised the error of his ways. As Lenny withdrew from behind, Rolf continued to finish off Two Little Boys in front of a mesmerised audience.

One was certainly enjoying it all. So much so, before one knew it, while munching on a Mediterranean nibble, the last act of the night was coming on. The levels of excitement welled up inside one. For several seconds one was convinced one’s hooters were going to explode with pounding exhilaration.

“Who could it be?!” One squealed, gripping the arm of the chaise.

One could not find the words to express one’s utter disappointment and devastation when one discovered it was … Sir Paul McCartney.

“Dear Lord!!” One cried, “He couldn’t sing at the last one! There’s very little chance he’ll be able to now!” Even Crotchet jumped down from the chaise and walked out of the bar giving a little pump of disgust as he walked into the adjoining room.

As one feared, the performance was terrible and as one watched him sitting at the piano singing ‘Live & Let Die’, one looked at his jowelled face – the appearance of which resembled a toothless hobo sucking on an onion – and wondered if his memory was fit enough to take him back to a time when he could actually hit a note.

Thankfully, the myriad of exploding fireworks that accompanied the performance drowned out the squeaks and croaks (croaks so regular they would have given a whole new dimension to The Frog Chorus). One should warn the world that he is booked to sing at the closing ceremony of the London Olympics. One apologises on behalf of Her Majesties realm now.

All in all, the extended Bank Holiday fiesta was a roaring success and one fancies it brought a new sense of pride and unity to our great nation … and one is all for that! And one must say Her Majesty looked utterly delicious throughout the celebrations! Bravísima, dear!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only some, dear?” one questioned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eurovision - Chu Me Takes The Hump

Hump for Great Britain.

One’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, entered the breakfast room with a puzzled look on his face. This, combined with the erratic slapping of his flip-flops, and the history that he normally bumps into things when such puzzlement takes hold, one thought one had better investigate. One finished munching on the tip of Mr. Peppercorn, the Butcher’s, meaty sausage; swallowed; placed the silver fork on one’s plate and dabbed one’s mouth with the starched, white cotton serviette lifted from one’s lap.

“What troubles you so, poppet? You look a little distressed.” One enquired.

“Bumpy dick” He replied.

“Goodness! Have you caught it in something, dear? ”

“No! Any dirt bumpy dick!”

One slumped back in one’s chair and look at him completely dumbfounded.

“What on earth are you talking about, dear?! Have you had a stroke this morning? (he blushed) Do you wish one to call Dr. Pedic … and more importantly, after the reaction to the previous question - and bearing in mind we are taking breakfast – have you scrubbed your hands with Swarfega?”

The puzzled look on his face changed to one of frustration. His flip-flops carried him, like a soldier marching on parade, across the floor to the television in the corner of the room. Switching it on to BBC1, he skilfully navigated to the text page to clarify the confusion, by pointing at the screen.

“Ah! Engelbert Humperdinck, dear! Goodness, has he died? … again?”

Reading further into the story one discovered that Humpy was, in fact, very much alive! Nevertheless, one could not believe what one’s eyes were digesting as they scanned the lines of summarised text. At 76 years of age, it had been decided that he would be the person to represent Her Majesty’s realm in the upcoming Eurovision Song Contest on the 26th May.

Chu Me and I looked at each other … then to the screen … then to each other … then to the screen … then when we faced each other once more, he simply held out his hands at the side of him, shrugged his shoulders, turned and left the room shaking his head. The power of his silent gesticulation summed up the situation beautifully.

Only this week, on BBC Breakfast, one had heard the gorgeous Sian Williams and the delicious Bill Turnbull tell of a recent independent report that said our elderly were not being cared for as they should be. One hadn’t realised that the solution was to put them on a stage in an international song competition in front of millions! What next? Wheeling Dame Vera Lynn out on a pallet truck, getting her to sing There’ll Always Be An England, then reversing back during the applause with a rhythmic warning-beep-beep-beep-pallet truck reversing-beep-beep-beep to then take her back for tea, biscuits and a game of Whist before bath time?! One thinks not!

This year’s contest is being held in Baku, in Azerbaijan. This must not, of course, be confused with Ba’ku; the M-class planet from the Briar (no relation to Richard) Patch in Star Trek. That, you will all remember, was the planet that had a ring saturated with metaphasic radiation and kept the populous from aging a single day. One fancies Humpy’s ring has been saturated with an altogether different type of radiation (possibly sunbeds) and alas the secret of eternal youth has eluded him.

Humpy rehearsing: "Stop! Let's not do close ups, guys!

Though quite the hotty in his youth (one suspects making many a lady-fan’s undergarments disintegrate with admirational pleasure) he has sadly fallen into a state of disrepair. In some recent library pictures one has even noticed the waistband of his trousers resting higher than that of Simon Cowell! What will the world think of us? All the world’s yoof parading around with their low swinging gussets and buttocks hanging over their jeans and we’re doing the very opposite with the belt loops practically being slotted over an aging man’s ears! Is it the right contrast of styles one wonders?

Anyhoo …the BBC have decided on Humpy for his appeal throughout the world and the chance that the realm of Her Majesty may be saved from disgrace with all the Euro shenanigans and global interference that are currently going on. Let us pray they are right!

There is no information, as yet, as to the song that our veteran crooner will be performing, but let us hope it is nothing too racy; one over-eager thrust of his pelvis may result in an embarrassing onset of hip dysplasia … and that is most definitely not what one wants to see on the international stage from an icon of yesteryear.

Further more, unless the song is of a Latin nature, one would recommend he stands very still while performing. Too much movement may reproduce an unacceptable sound of castanets from the clicking of his knees and may very well penalise us on points.

Needless to say, our gladiator has been chosen and one wishes Humpy good luck. The nation is behind you offering their support ... and a chair should you need to have a sit down.

James Naughtie Sours Crusty's Eggs.

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

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

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

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

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

A Moment of Reflection Munching a Meaty Ring.

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

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

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

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

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

”Good morning, Willy dear!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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