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.

Rent a Friend - A Warning From Crusty Hall!

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!

© DCG 2010

Crusty's Unexpected Night Out.

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.

An Early Night and Crusty Misses It All.

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.

Doctor Christian Will See You Now.

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.”

Confused By Confused.com

It was one of those mornings when one was at a loss as to what to do. More so, because of the wild, wintry weather that had descended on this beautiful region and one’s beloved Crusty Hall.

Chu Me had already rose from his slumbers very early to ensure the horses were warm in their stables; he had cracked the ice on the pond to allow the swans access, had fed one’s pussy, Crotchet, fed the chickens and put a small winter coat on his cock. Then, a quick wash of his hands and he even prepared me the most delicious fresh omelette from the morning’s plunder.

After breakfast, one took a little exercise and sashayed along the numerous hallways and corridors of one’s family home until one finally arrived at the top of the Grand Staircase.

Though it was subzero temperatures outside, there was a pleasing warmth that ascended one’s elegant frame as one took hold of the balustrade. Caused not only by the effective central heating but also by one’s two special poppets looking down at one from their picture frames; Mark makes-my-mouth-water Warr and Colin his-twinkle-makes-you-tingle Briggs.


Chu Me had done a magnificent job of mounting them; a quick bang here, a quick bang there, and one’s special poppets were swinging weightily in front of one’s beaming face. One could not have been more pleased.

“They are both well hung indeed, Chu Me! Good show!” One acknowledged.

Below me, one notice Janet – one of the household staff – cleaning the floor, while listening to a program on the radio.

Janet came into one’s service from the village undertakers, Diggett & Buryham; It was quite clear she was not cut out for work in such a sensitive environment especially after … the “incident”.

She had wanted to give one of the floors a good clean but there was a gentleman ‘resting’ in the centre of the parlour in question. Small but strong, she lifted the coffin off its easel and stood it up in a stationery cupboard, out of the way. A fabulous job was done of the floor but by the time she had finished, she had completely forgotten about the item she had moved. Sufficed to say, later that same day, the receptionist’s screams could be heard for miles when she went to get a paperclip to remove a foreign body from her stapler and instead caught a frighteningly stiff one in her hands.

Anyhoo … as one was admiring the shine Janet was achieving on one's nic-nacs, an advertisement was broadcast for confused.com and one must say one was quite concerned at the intelligence of their target audience.

“Yeah, it was really easy,” said a young man, “I just put confused.com into the search engine … and it found it straight away!”

You could have found it even quicker if you’d just typed it into the address line, dear! (the clue is in the name!) …For goodness sake!

Crusty On Tour - The Holiday Begins.

September each year is a special time for Crusty; it is the time of year when one locks up Crusty Hall securely and takes a relaxing break under Señor Sol, allowing his lips of bronzing warmth to kiss one´s velvety soft flesh as one relaxes by a pool or on a sun-drenched terrace somewhere.

This year a long awaited visit to one´s dear, dear Catalan friends in the beautiful city of Barcelona and the gorgeous town of Palafrugell, near Girona; following that, a quick flight to Granada to spend 10 days of reflection and tranquility at Crusty Villa.

Some months prior to one´s departure, one was sitting enjoying a chat and small libation in The Badger´s Snatch with landlady Fanny O´Dour and one of the village triplets, Ida Rash. We began to talk about holidays and Fanny remembered it was nearing the time of one´s annual big trip.

It was at this point during our intercourse that the Vicar came behind me. He had overheard our conversation and suggested one´s private jet should remain grounded - owing to the current economic climate - and that one should use a budget airline instead, as I had earlier in the year (One asks ... what is the point of having one´s own plane if one does not use it?). After a lengthy, heated discussion and the Vicar´s promise that his wife, Marjorie Flecks, would not sing at the Christmas concert, one yielded.

Anyhoo ... One must say that the Easyjet flight out from Newcastle International Conservatory was a rather perculiar experience. On the 9th September, Chauffer dropped one at the enterance of Newcastle International Conservatory, along with my faithful houseboy, Chu Me. Everything, so far, was going smoothly. One was expected the security experience to be unpleasant - it always is at Newcastle International; one understands the importance of security but one can still be vigilante and pleasant at the same time. Each time one sashays through the detectors and one is approached by a member of the security staff, one feels like shouting, "Crack your face and makes your arse jealous, dear!"

This time one was asked to remove one´s jewel encrusted footwear (one doesn´t remember diamonds or rubies ever being used by terrorists before) and then a lady - for want of a better word - ran her hands up and down one´s legs. When she had finished, she looked up with a face like a dockworker´s daughter. One looked down on her ... smiled ... and said, " I wonder, dear! While you´re down there would you mind refitting one´s shoes? ... Hmmm?"

That was the worst part over, one could now relax in the VIP lounge until called.

Eventually we boared the plane and Chu Me covered three seats with a thick velvet throw and scatter cushions; he hung one´s framed pictures of Mark Makes-my-mouth-water Warr and Colin his-twinkle-make-y´tingle Briggs over the seats in front (they travel everywhere with me). One reclined and fastened a seatbelt around one´s slender waist and watched as chaos ensued. It would appear that the majority of passengers had never flown Easyjet before ... if flown at all. Six people! .... Six people approached Crusty! All waving boarding cards," Do you know where the seat number is on here?"

"Goodness, dear! Does one look like staff? It´s free seating ... anywhere ... ANYWHERE!" I replied, waving them away with the back of one´s right hand.

Finally, all passengers were settled and a rather hard-faced stewardess (genes or an over excessive application of make-up, one is uncertain) greeted us with rapid succession of words that would have surely confused the foreign passengers on board; in the event of an emergency, we purr ??!!

Still, the rest of the flight was acceptable, or at least until we approached the magnificence of Barcelona´s El Prat airport. After such a silky smooth flight, it would appear that the pilot had not seen the rather large length of rapidly approaching tarmac beneath us. After an initial whack against the runway, the scream from the passengers and a spillage of gin, the plane bounced twice before the brakes were applied fiercley and all on board were propelled forward towards the seat in front. The remainder of one´s gin flew over the woman in front but, frankly, her split ends were annoying one intensely and the liquid managed to produce a far more appealing result.

The drama over, it was now time for Crusty´s holiday to begin.

Iceland Put Kerry Katona Out To Defrost.

One was sitting in one’s bed watching BBC Breakfast this morning, waiting for the George Clooney of regional news to pop on my 28 incher; Colin his-twinkle-makes-y’tingle Briggs.

Now, normally one enjoys the professionalism of young Bill Turnbull and the simply delicious Kate Silverton as they fill in between the north east’s news slots but one had to find a distraction this morning when some woman - being interviewed about the benefits of attending university – was shouting at the two presenters as they sat right next to her. Honestly, if one wanted to hear a shrill, eardrum piercing harpy at that time of the morning one would have turned to the GMTV regional news.

Anyhoo ... one let one’s digits glide over the nodules of the remote and selected the teletext option.

Despite multiple snippets of doom and gloom, there was some happy news amongst the day’s headlines. It would appear that Iceland (the frozen food emporium and not the bankrupt country) has decided to sack Kerry Katona from their advertising campaign. The company said the contract could simply not go on following News of the World stories of her indulging in Class A drugs and being all together beastly in public (one is unclear whether the latter is a recent revelation).

Kerry, a former ‘singer’ with Atomic Mutton, has had her fair share of problems over recent years – one of which was stringing a coherent sentence together on This Morning with the scrumptious Philip Schofield – and it appears they are to continue for the poor poppet.

A spokesman for Iceland said they would be supporting her should she wish to seek help … so one can expect a hefty rise in the price of - what I understand is - the famous prawn’s ring and fish fingers.

A Joke To Exercise the Chuckle Muscles.

One awoke this morning and the weather was glorious! Señor Sol was definitely showering Crusty Hall with rays of his warmth and one felt alive!

Chu Me had clearly been up much earlier and as I sat up to watch my gorgeous little poppet Colin his-twinkle-makes-y'-tingle Briggs appear on my 28 incher with his regional update, one could see my faithful houseboy out of the window - by the stables - fussing over his hens and stroking his proud cock.

After Chu Me brought breakfast to my bed chamber, I suggested it would be a wonderful idea to take the Aston for a spin into the village and have a lunchtime snifter at the Badger's Snatch. Now, I do not want my readers to think Crusty is in the habit of frequenting drinking establishments; the Badger's Snatch is a public house steeped in history and is therefore acceptable to be seen there. It has a charm that has been unchanged for many years. Furthermore, since the new owners have taken charge - Fanny and Willy O'Dour - it's popularity has increased significantly and it has now replaced the village hall as the central meeting point for our delightful little community (much to the annoyance of the vicar).

Anyhoo ... around 11.45am Chu Me and I were speeding down the drive on our way to our lunchtime venue. On arrival, Chu Me naturally went to the counter to order our drinks while one sashayed elegantly through to the beer garden detras. It was here that one got quite a start when one saw a Rash; it was Ivor.

The Rash triples (Ida, Ivor and Hedda) run the village charity shop and are forever doing good throughout our community. Ivor Rash has a wicked sense of humour and one always looks forward to him recounting one of his marvellous jokes. Today was no different.

As we joined his two sisters in a shady corner of the beer garden, we popped open the bottle of ice cold Pere Ventura Brut Cava that Chu Me had brought (Fanny always keeps a case on hand for my visits) and awaited Ivor's little gem:

A man who just died is delivered to a local mortuary wearing an expensive, expertly tailored black suit.

The rather unintelligent mortician asks the deceased's wife how she would like the body dressed. She points out that the man does look good in the black suit he is already wearing.

The widow, however, says that she always thought her husband looked his best in blue, and that she wants him in a blue suit. She gives the mortician a blank cheque and says, "I don't care what it costs, but please have my husband in a blue suit for the viewing."

The woman returns the next day for the wake. To her delight, she finds her husband dressed in a gorgeous blue suit with a subtle chalk stripe; the suit fits him perfectly.

She says to the mortician, "Whatever this cost, I'm very satisfied. You did an excellent job and I' m very grateful. How much did you spend?" To her astonishment, the mortician presents her with the blank cheque

"There's no charge,"she says.

"No, really, I must compensate you for the cost of that exquisite blue suit!'"she says.

"Honestly, madam' the mortician says, 'it cost nothing. You see, a deceased gentleman of about your husband's size was brought in shortly after you left yesterday, and he was wearing an attractive blue suit. I asked his wife if she minded him going to his grave wearing a black suit instead, and she said it made no difference as long as he looked nice…so I just switched the heads."

Well! One thought this was knicker-wetingly funny and just had to share it with my poppets.

Colin Briggs - Welcome Back

Crusty awoke this morning - very early, I hasten to add – to prepare oneself for the moment one had been anticipating for two very long weeks; the return of the George Clooney of breakfast news, Colin his-twinkle-makes-y’tingle Briggs. He had been on a well deserved holiday for a fortnight and despite the prescribed medication I had received from the village doctor, Arthur Pedic and a little something obtained from a youth in the village pub, The Badger’s Snatch, I still felt I had a hole that had been unfilled for the duration.

Anyhoo … this morning, I reclined on one’s bed, with freshly plumped pillows supporting me (thank you, my dearest Chu Me) and a chilled bottle of Pere Ventura Cava in an ice bucket to the right of me. As the time drew ever closer to his returning bulletin, I took a glassful down the hatch in one go, set my flute to one side – this was no time for music - and clapped my hands with glee. The moment arrived and …Goodness me!

Never mind the George Clooney of news, he had returned as the George Hamilton of news! As he sat there in his beautifully colour co-ordinated apparel looking like a Chippendale with beautiful hand made drawers against the bright red background of the BBC North East newsroom. One thing is for certain, Señorita Sun had certainly been kissing his flesh while he was taking time off and his subsequent tanned epidermis made his famous twinkle almost hazardous!

As his first slot ended at 6.30am, he smiled straight to camera – I swear, he was undressing Crusty with his sparkling eyes – and said, “and isn’t it nice to be back?”

It’s not only nice , it’s glorious having you back, dear!

One Wants Colin Briggs - One Gets A Banana!

I was munching on Chu Me’s deliciously succulent eggs this morning and I turned on my 28 incher in the bedroom waiting for my daily injection of news.

As I looked down to smother a soldier in Chu Me’s golden creamy yolks I heard, “ …here's the news from your region”; I felt a quiver of excitement as I waited for the George Clooney of breakfast news, Colin ­his-twinkle-makes-y’tingle Briggs (Last night, the North East was privileged enough to have him presenting the evening news. I swear he looked as if he’d just walked off an Armani fashion shoot and into the BBC studios!)

Anyhoo …when I heard a high pitched whine, saw the remainder of my breakfast shrivel up to nothing and saw Crotchet roll onto his back, cover his ears with his paws and hiss, I realised I had accidentally switched to ITV and not the BBC.

When I looked up - while frantically trying to get my finger upon the number “1” button - I caught a brief glimpse of Helen Peengpong(or some such fancy) clad in an eye-scorching yellow summer frock.

Really, dears, when I want to be brought up to date with my beloved region’s news, one doesn’t want to hear it from a giant squeaking banana with a squint!

Thankfully, Armani Briggs was at hand 20 minutes later to soothe my burning retinas... he's marvellous!

Carol Kirkwood - Slip, Slap, Slop

Crusty was watching BBC Breakfast news this morning, waiting for the George Clooney of news, Colin his-twinkle-makes-y’tingle Briggs to update one on the regional stories

As I sat drinking a rather fragrant cup of tea in my magnificent four-poster bed, the studio presenters linked to the Blue Peter garden and to the delicious Carol Kirkwood for the weather forecast.

One doesn’t normally listen intently to the national forecast as it doesn’t have the same resonance to that of the summary from our own marvellous North East weather team and, in particular, from Tingle Briggs himself (When he fires a Nor’westerly across the bows one simply becomes a pleasurable pool of molten flesh on a layer of Egyptian cotton).

Anyhoo … as I sat looking out of the bedroom window pondering the day ahead, my ears pricked up and my attention was drawn back to my 28 incher.

“…so don’t forget the slip, slap, slop …” Carol advised.

How eerie it felt that someone so far away, in the land of television - surrounded by the noble majesty of the newly refurbished sunken garden - could know so much about the goings on at Crusty Hall; indeed, one did slip in the bathroom most mornings; one did slap a member of the household staff as one descended the great staircase and chef’s assistant did, indeed, serve slops for breakfast…..regularly! Uncanny!!

Ah, once again I seem to have misinterpreted things. My faithful houseboy, Chu Me, has advised me her slip, slap, slop referred to sun cream.

Vicar Searches for Mrs Tickles' Clematis

The Bank Holiday weekend and Crusty was at a loss as to what to do.

My little poppet, Colin his-twinkle-makes-y’-tingle Briggs, had announced he was attending the Northumberland Show...what a wonderful idea, I thought; I could present him with the special diamond encrusted rosette I had made for him for being Best at Show but then I remembered that the smell of animals and manure would remind me too much of the household staff's quarters here at Crusty Hall, so eventually decided against it. My darling Colin can be awarded his rosette another time.

Anyhoo.... in the end I thought I would pay a visit to the village garden centre - owned by Mr. and Mrs. Tickles - to see if there was anything interesting to buy for gardener to plant this Summer.

Walking past the fuchsias I saw a rather striking Coachman; floral tentacles hanging beautifully from the surrounding velvety plants...but it wasn't quite the show I was looking for. Instead, I made my way to Mrs Tickles' famous bush section. It was here - while standing gazing in awe at her Dusky Beauties - I saw the vicar rummaging near her Little Scamp.

"You look lost, vicar." I said, "are you looking for something in particular?"

"I'm looking for the Clematis." He replied exasperated.

"Most men are, dear! Try a little further up ... past the water feature."

I finally managed to see a couple of items I liked but feel it would be better to check with gardener first. One would hate to disrupt his horticultural balance.

Au Revoir Carol Malia - 8 months and counting!

I have no shame in making public the fact that Crusty was distraught this evening as BBC North East's priceless jewel, Carol Malia, give her last bulletin before going on maternity leave. The tears were streaming down my cheeks as I watch her presented with a boquet of flowers from Jeff Brown.

Crusty's life has been disjointed since her gorgeous poppet Mark makes-my-mouth-water Warr was so brutally made redundant from GMTV regional news. The channel has now been left with an empty void in the mornings....and she's tried her best but really isn't worth watching. As a result, I have transferred 100% loyalty to BBC North East and Cumbria. With out MW you really cannot find better than Lady Carol of Malia and the George Clooney of breakfast news, Colin His-twinkle-makes-y'-tingle Briggs and the team.

Anyhoo.....Carol has looked radiant over recent months while she draws closer to becoming a mother. I had hoped that Chu Me's own mother would have had time to knit some baby clothes, while residing at the Haitian government's pleasure but unfortunately there's been an "incident" and all sharp items have been confiscated.

In my dreams I had wished the executives of our regional television would have envisaged the Utopian ideal of having Colin stand in for Carol and employing my poppet, Mark Warr, for the breakfast slot but sadly they must not crave the same things Crusty does.

Crusty wishes Carol and her husband well and the sentiment is echoed by all at Crusty Hall.

Morning News - The Balance is Restored!

Mark Warr (left) & Colin Briggs (right) - Newsroom Perfection

My darling Mark Warr, had left information last night, via the Gussetphone, that I may want to adjust my knobs to pick up GMTV straight after the George Clooney of regional news, Colin his-twinkle-makes-y'tingle Briggs had given us his bulletin on the BBC. I may be pleasantly surprised he hinted.

I was intrigued; what on earth was my little poppet asking me to watch that dreadful woman that had replaced him after the Tyne Tees Newsroom Massacre. This individual, Helen PeedOn (or some such fancy) - the person who Crotchet, my pussy, aptly calls Hisssssssss - has blighted our screens for over a month.

I sat in my bed and listened intently as Colin gave us his wonderful bulletin. As he spoke Chef entered and discretely walked to the side of my bed. I took his eggs in my hand and started to bang them on my breakfast tray until I heard them crack. Then I spread soft golden butter on my baps and dismissed him.

Colin, after an effortless performance, said au revoir until his next broadcast and I reluctantly turned to ITV as instructed.

As Penny Smith (a name that's ironic as it appears the poor dear spent the same amount on her new haircut) passed us over to Tyne Tees, I started to feel nauseous. Then a nipple-tweekingly, joyous moment; there in front of me splashed over my 28 incher was my poppet!!!!!

What a stunning performance. He had clearly relaxed in his time away from our screens and Smooth Radio must certainly have been looking after him while he's been filling their slots in the early hours of the morning. It was so refreshing to hear his velvety tones and not that other creature - one is convinced there is a man standing next to a blackboard with a steel gauntlet and running the finger nails down it when she's on ... toying with the North East people.

I now have an understanding of how those people on Cilla Black's Surprise Surprise felt when they were reunited with long lost loved ones.

Balance is restored to the North East - Long may it continue!

Nana Mouskouri Does GMTV Local News?!

My darling Crustettes, as your mistress sits in her beautifully decorated private office, she feels she needs to share her thoughts with those she loves.

Yesterday I arose around 7.01 in the morning. I brought my 28 incher to life and enjoyed a spattering of BBC Breakfast before my hand, as a matter of instinct, picked up the remote and switched the channel to GMTV (the set colours of which remind one of a children's nursery, although that explains the way they talk to their viewers). Anyhoo ... my hand action was occurring at the very time of the morning when my little Marky would normally appear in front of me and get to work giving me the low down on the region I love best.

Though I was thinking "No! No!", I could hear my inner voice slurring, "it might not be that bad. " and I braced myself for our local bulletin; I was still praying that at the eleventh hour a reprieve had been granted and I could see my gorgeous, tanned, shimmering Adonis greeting me with his, "Hello...Good Morning."

Instead, I was shocked to see a rather pale and knackered looking Nana Mouskouri sitting in front of a sunny, blue, cloudyesque back drop (one imagines taken from the 70s section of the archive department); her hair not the vibrant example of bounce we know and love but lank and seemingly set not in a cloud of hairspray but, evidently, with a gentle application of Fry Light. Then several seconds later, I was shocked and relieved to find it wasn't the lovely Nana but, in fact, a girl called Helen Peedon or some such fancy.

I could not watch any longer; after only 32½ seconds I screamed and threw the remote at Chu Me, who had just entered for my breakfast order. He kindly turned the channel back to little Billy Turnbull.

I shall NEVER watch that pile of poo again and I can only pray my loyal Crustettes do not inflict this unnecessary suffering on themselves; be enveloped in the warmth of Colin his-twinkle-makes-y'-tingle Briggs until Mark returns to our screens and then we can enjoy both and balance will be restored.

Give A Cow A Name

There was an interesting news story from my little poppet, Colin his-twinkle-makes-y'-tingle Briggs this morning on BBC Breakfast.

Research has shown that if you give a cow a name and treat it like an individual it will produce more milk and be more productive generally.

This has certainly proved the case with Chef’s assistant. Before when I called her the generic name for my staff, You there!, my morning tea was the colour of tar and her breakfast portions would not have even filled Chu Me.

Now that I have halved her salary and call her You there! Ermentrude! (that’s not her name but it is as good a name as any), I have the most perfect cups of tea and she often pours a generous helping of red hot beans over my bangers.

I wonder if my little poppet, Colin, knew there was also a human side to his story?

Mark Warr - A Regional Emergency!

My darling Crustettes, as she types this post to her public, you find Dame Crusty a distressed and shattered wreck.

I have learned that my little poppet, Mark makes-my-mouth-water Warr, has only 7 weeks …. 7 WEEKS …before he eloquently reads his last news summary on our screens, gives a little sparkle out of the corner of his eye and sashays elegantly out of the Tyne Tees studios for the very last time.

Chu Me has had to arrange for staff to work overtime to mop up the tears that have fallen, like an Indian monsoon, from Crusty’s eyes and onto my beautiful oak flooring. For the first time in my life I have bags under my eyes; Crusty looks like John Prescott with his hands being prized from the edge a buffet table…yes…it really is that bad! (Although, of course, Crusty has still maintained her figure).

The thought that one morning soon, lying in my bed and watching my 28 incher rise before me, I will not be able to see my little Marky on it, fills me with dread. Oh yes, I have the snippets Chu Me has saved for me on my enhanced box, my stunning silk hand-embroidered Mark Warr nightdress (daily wrapped warmly in my towelling Colin Briggs dressing gown) and of course I’ll always have my memories. But this is simply not enough!

This is now a regional emergency!

Dame Crusty sends out a plea to all those Crustettes in power within our television and radio industries to save this little studmuffin and provide him with the work he deserves; serving the people of our region -standing proudly alongside those other pillars of our community Colin his-twinkle-makes-y’-tingle Briggs and Her Serene Highness Carol of Malia.

ITV, do not tell me you have insufficient funds for a valuable news department then gouge my eyes out with the heel of my Jimmy Choo’s this evening with those tacky tartlets of tailoring, Tranny and Susannah…I think we deserve better, dears, don’t you?

Colin Briggs & Mark Warr - Filling Crusty's Stockings

After breakfast on Christmas morning, Chu Me brought two sacks full of presents to my bedside. The sacks were filled to the brim of gifts from all the staff at Crusty Hall to their mistress.

I was shocked and surprised as Chu Me dragged them across the floor; more so because last year there were three! I could see some of the gifts were wrapped with silver paper, adequate enough for presentation to ones employer; others items, from the junior staff, were wrapped in pages from glossy magazines and tied up with shoelaces.

Oh God! It was going to be like a scene from Catherine Cookson's Rag Nymph (thankfully, the one and only time Jimmy Nail dragged up as bag lady Aggie Winkovski).

Still, I said nothing and thought that the staff have probably spent a little more of their wages on more lavish gifts, rather than presentation, hence the reduced number of sacks.

Crusty was wrong!

As I sat in my bed, opening parcel after parcel and hurling them, effortlessly, across the room into the large crackling fire, I began to feel no one understood Dame Crusty's needs at all.

Chu Me must have noticed me slipping into an abyss of misery. He gently placed his little hands on my own and asked me to lie back, close my eyes and relax; he wanted to show me something he thought I would love to have.

A tingle ran up my spine at the thought of what my faithful houseboy was going to reveal to me.

When I was instructed to do so, I opened my eyes slowly and there, upon my 28 incher, was my darling Mark makes-my-mouth-water Warr!!

What manner of magic was this? It wasn't the right time of day!

Chu Me told me I could turn over if I wanted; he demonstrated, letting his little fingers push my buttons, and then ... Colin his-twinkle-makes-y'-tingle Briggs!!

My body quivered like Dame Birley Shassey's upper arms, as Chu Me explained that since having my box enhanced, he had taken the liberty of recording the news segments from breakfast TV; providing me with an on-demand facility to watch my favourite presenters where and when I wanted. He had even used a clever facility where the recordings could not be deleted accidentally.

He did apologise as he had accidentally recorded another presenter in error, but as he took me to the snippet I discovered it was little Richard Thomas; I forgave him immediately. Though, Richard will never replace my affections for my two little poppets, he is what the children of the street call ... buff ... and one can never have too much eye-candy around one.

I felt like embracing Chu Me to show my appreciation, but he's staff and one mustn't do that sort of thing - it's just not good breeding - so instead, I promised him another two chickens for his coop and a blanket for his cock and sent him away, instructing him to cancel all my public engagements for the next week so I could bathe in the glory of my presenter pin-ups.

Mark Warr - His light will shine for ever!

My darling Crustettes, you find Dame Crusty in a very distressed state this evening - I have been in a gin-soaked state of devastation since news filtered back.

Undercover members of my organisation have informed me, via Chu Me - they wear man-made fibres, therefore, are not permitted to enter Crusty Hall - that Tyne Tees Totty, Mark Warr, has been thrown under the axe of fate and has become a victim of the ITV cut backs!!!!

Each morning, as I prepare myself for the public duties I am obliged to endure each day, I glide between the pleasures of the Andy Williams of breakfast news - Sir Colin Briggs - and the Brad Pitt of Tyne Tees, Mark makes-y-mouth-water Warr. They are the Yin and Yang of morning television; Mark, the relaxed, casual informer on the events of the day and Colin providing the same but with a cheeky little glint in his eye and an air of mischief about him. Without one, there is simply no balance!

A member of my cleaning staff said to me, when I found out this crushing news,"Don't worry Mistress, there are plenty other presenters out there"; she tilted her head and smiled, ever so delicately.

Naturally, I slapped her across the dish with all the force I could muster and then sat her down by the dumb waiter - he stood up and went into the ballroom, clearly sensing trouble.

I placed my tumbler on the table at my side.

"Let me explain the world to you, my dear. Mr. Warr is a professional, with the striking good looks of a Jean Paul Gautier eau de toilette advertisement; to try and enlighten you on what he does for Dame Crusty...well...it's... just...so hard! Sir Colin is ...well ...imagine, if you will, a bitterly cold morning; one wakes up freezing, with your teeth (and then I looked closer)...your tooth ... chattering. The ice is covering the ground outside like an Ikea perspex coaster and the frost is clinging to the council estate's roof tops just as your uniform clings to you. Sir Colin's spot, on the half hour, transports your mistress in front of a magical fireplace, where flames lick away in front of her, wrapping her in a faux-fur blanket of luxuriousness and just makes her feel warm and snuggly and prepared for her day."

I could see she didn't comprehend the gravity of the situation and, taking my tumbler back in my hand, instructed Chu Me to take her away and find her a position more suitable outside in the grounds.

So now we have the slick, natty delivery on the BBC of Sir Colin twinkle-and-y-tingle Briggs, but have to endure the Tyne Tees update with presenters who look like they are just about to be hit by a Hummer and do not have Mark's finesse. From this point forth, my public duties will be hell; however, I will continue, as I must, with a spring in my step and a smile on my face and only reveal my true pain behind the closed doors of my boudoir.

Tyne Tees executives....may your Christmas turkeys be undercooked and may Santa never fill your stockings. You have made an enemy of Crusty and one day I will let you feel my wrath.

Sir Colin... darling Mark... may you both prosper and soon bring harmony to our screens again.