The Pandemic at Crusty Hall - Asa Saves The Day

As one sits in Litten's - the oak panelled bar in one's beloved Crusty Hall - sipping a rather pleasing gin, expertly poured by one's faithful houseboy Chu Me, one reflects on the travesty that 2020 has become.  Who knew as we all recovered from our New Year's celebrations that, only a few months later, the world would be very different. All locked away in our homes and not having the ability to be with - and embrace - the ones we love.

The media has certainly relished in the reporting of the pandemic and one believes many will join one in acknowledging just how piss-poor that has been. Laura my-reports-should-come-with-a-Hans-Zimmer-score Kuenssberg asking the most inane questions after press conferences; the woman from Sky who resembles Edna from The Incredibles (and infinitely more snooty) terrifying small children and family pets with her webcam closeups and, of course, Robert Peston, whose questions take longer to ask than it takes to discover a vaccine.  The sense of relief is palpable on their withered faces; the frenzy of Brexit dissipated and their lives looked bleak but thank goodness something new came along that they could gorge themselves on and spew out their scaremongering to the masses while scavenging the gutter for titbits, sensation and leaks.  Here at Crusty Hall, all such reports and news broadcasts are switched off as soon as they came on and, one must say, life has been utterly delicious as a result. 

Anyhoo ... one trusts all of one's poppets have kept themselves busy over the lockdown months. As a great person once said, "One should never be bored if one has intelligence and an imagination" and here at Crusty Hall we have always found something to do.  Only yesterday one walked into the library to find Chu Me mountain climbing up a section of bookcase! Crotchet was sitting looking up with intrigue from a small, deep-buttoned pouffe, flicking his tail and chattering gleefully, as the crampons attached to Chu Me's flipflops clung to the shelving as he hammered his peg deep into Jane Eyre.

One is pleased to say one's trusty steed is still part of the household and one still likes nothing better than nipping out first thing, squeezing Dribble between one's thighs and shooting off over the grass.  Often with one's pussy Crotchet springing along on his velvety paws behind.

One of the highlights of lockdown has been the entertainment that has been accessible. At the weekends Chu Me, Crotchet and I make our way to the ballroom. There, we switch on the disco lights and shake a tailfeather into the early hours to the musical wonders of Glen Horsborough, the outrageously talented Gok Wan and the exquisitely formed and thoroughly lickable Melvo Baptiste (one can feel one's undergarments begin to disintegrate just typing his name!). 

One's friend Daphne Dewdrop often flouts restrictions and leaves her cottage in the village, not far from the Badger's Snatch to make her way to the residence. One can see her through the mighty window, out on the gravel drive, clutching her bottle of Diamond White and swaying to the pounding rhythms from the building within. Honestly, it could be minus twenty out there but in true North East style she'll still have only her short skirt and sequinned boob tube on and a look of semi-hammered contentment on her face until the music stops.

But one must say that the episodes of Lockdown TV brought to the pages of Facebook by one's beloved poppet Asa Elliott have been an absolute joy! Not only does he have a voice that feels like velvet mittens massaging y' earlobes but there is chat, video clips, a sense of community between those who tune in and, of course, updates on his gorgeous son. One recommends one and all to nip along for a shufty when one gets the chance. He also brings us his own Christmas CD!! It's available now and, naturally, one has one's copy already ... and it is glorious!

If one thing is certain, the horrors of this pandemic have, in many instances, brought us closer together and, always remember, despite the best efforts of the media shit-shower to strike fear into your heart and tell you this is our future, things will get better and normality will be resumed. Then we can all be unleashed into the wild, stampede to our friends and family and hug and kiss them within an inch of their lives.

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.

A Morning of Chaos at Crusty Hall

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When?” The vicar asked.

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

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

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

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

© Copyright DCG 2010

One Year On - Crusty Remembers Michael Jackson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crusty's Tucker Trial ... Without The Bush.

Sitting with my pussy - Crotchet - fast asleep on one’s lap, one took a half-hearted look up and down the televisual menu, trying to find something that might take one’s interest.

One came across the channel called Fiver. As one examined the listed content, one agreed that if the channel was to be the only reason for paying the licence fee, then a fiver would be about all one would agree to pay.

Anyhoo … although it had already started one opted for the program ‘Everybody Hates Chris’.

One must say, poppets, that after watching only four and half minutes worth and enduring the excruciating whiny voice, one could quite easily see why.