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!

X Factor (Week 8) - Take That Elton John!

This week the long running saga of X Factor had a refreshing difference to the normal format. Week 8 was to challenge our popstar hopefuls by performing two songs each; one was from the successful catalogue of those talented towers of tottyness, Take That and a second song from the monumental list of hits of Her Serene Majesty (and Godmother to us all) Sir Elton John.

Chef had finished early and had raced out for a game of bingo in the back room of The Badger’s Snatch, so Chu Me took charge of nibbles for the evening and, One must say, he did us proud; a mouth-watering selection of dishes (inspired from his village in a land far, far away) were spread the full length of the large table set in the corner of the Ballroom. The screen on the giant Bang & Olufsen - hanging above the fireplace - had been cleaned beautifully and he had positioned seats, for both he and I, next to the back wall, leaving more than adequate floor space at one’s disposal should the contestants compel one to shake a tail feather or two.

The show began … and the delicious Dermott O’Leary took to the stage. The crowd erupted in frenzied screaming. He strutted to the side of the set and introduced the X Factor judges.

Simon and Louise, again, opted for black attire and maintained their dapper appearance.

Danniiiii Minge (sorry my keyboard’s sticking) was – though it chokes one to admit it – dressed in a rather elegant flowing number, and just as one thought she had finally cracked it, one noticed one minor problem. It appeared that while sitting in makeup, the applicator had put on the usual Alice band to lift her hair from her face but had completely forgotten to remove it before Dannnniiii took to the stage; so we can only guess what the intended hairstyle should have looked like?

Cheryl y’-nailed-it Cole stood alongside Danniiiiiiii in an explosion of gold and black … and, believe me poppets, when one says ‘explosion’, one quite literally means ‘explosion’.

It is rumoured that there is a rivalry between Cheryl and Victoria Beckham in the fashion stakes. However, where vivacious Victoria would adorn herself in magnificence and say, “I just got this from the latest Gucci collection”, one feels the example slung on by Cheryl would suggest, “I found this in a heap, like, under the 95% Off rail in Primark and, like, stuck a bow on it.” (Ever the resourceful one).

One was always led to believe the term W.A.G. was associated with being the wife or girlfriend of a famous footballer. Clearly, in Mrs Coles’ case it simply means Wears Attrocious Garments.

Anyhoo … Back to the competition and first to sing this week was puppy-eyed Danyl Johnson (He who has a penchant for the man-biscuit as well as the lady-trifle). His first song was the huge Take That hit ‘Relight My Fire’. A wonderful performance, save for the rather camp top. Nevertheless, Yoda Friedman did an adequate job of the dance routine and as the natural heat of Danyl’s smouldering features seeped out of ever inch of one’s equipment, one was convinced the antique wall panelling of the Ballroom was about to ignite. As an aside, he may not have thought anyone noticed, but one particularly liked his little Lulu in the middle.

Our Welsh heartthrob, Lloyd no-relation-to-Paul Daniels was second on stage and this week he was given ‘A Million Love Songs’. A fairly straight forward song to sing but sadly one feels the Greyhound bus to Pitchville suffered a puncture and never quite reached its destination (One feels that Lloyd’s time is drawing rapidly to a close).

The first of Simon’s flock was up next. Oily Mares, singing a simple ballad; ‘Love Ain’t Here Anymore’. An altogether wonderful performance with some lucky little nymphette in the front row being sung to directly by our waist-coated warbler. (One suspects a little seepage of excitement occurred).

As Cheryl revealed to us the next act, one jumped to one’s feet applauding rapidly and squealing with excitement. It was our South Shields stud-muffin, Joe McElderry. His first song was ‘Could It Be Magic’.

His performance was knicker-wettingly good and it would seem all four judges were equally as moist. Do you know, poppets, if Crusty was of adequate years, one is quite convinced one would like to bear his children. By the end of the performance one was on the cusp of hysterics. Thankfully, a member of kitchen staff entered with a replacement tray of nibbles. As one grabbed her by her apron and slapped her face, one managed to return to a state of calm.

Dolly Dagenham – was the last in the Take That line up, with her cover of ‘Rule the World’. Quite frankly, with a set of lungs like that, I dare say she could, poppets. She made the song her own and Chu Me, a rather bruised member of kitchen staff and I swayed in unison with flickering candles in our right hands.

A short break from the proceedings and it was time for the Sir Elton John songs (One bows in the shadow of his fabulousness).

Lloyd was first in this section and his rendition of ‘I’m Still Standing’. As we witnessed a glimpse of the dance training at Yoda’s School of Dance, Lloyd revealed a little something to the viewer; he was not looking forward to the climax of the routine because he was afraid of heights. What death defying feat was our little poppet going to attempt? Is it really worth risking life and limb for a talent show?

As one sat with one’s twinkling blue eyes fixed to the screen, the moment came. One gasped and clenched Chu Me’s wrist firmly …another gasp … and then ……oh! … he sat on the shoulders of a couple of dancers! … Hmmm! … hardly the same as abseiling Big Ben but, thankfully, he managed to finish the performance without a nosebleed.

The second song on Danyl’s playlist was ‘Your Song’. Now, normally one does like his performances but one found oneself humming along until one line in particular where one felt compelled to join in, ‘…and you can tell everybody, this ain’t your song; It may be quite simple but, you’re getting it wrong”. Enough said!

Oily Mares’ second piece was a butching up of ‘Saturday Night’s (Alright for Fighting)’, though one could still see an element of campness sneaking back in. Cheryl couldn’t believe that Oily had managed to concentrate ‘with all those beautiful, sexy girls around you’ (one suspects he used Cheryl as an antidote to help keep it real).

One’s Geordie Jewel was to perform next with ‘Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word’. AN ABSOLUTE TRIUMPH! As one started to shake with excitement, the bruised member of kitchen staff sensed danger and shot out into the main hall, Chu Me whipped his arms behind him and locked them in place. With no other options available, one ran to the doors, flung them open and screamed across one’s grounds.

Limp as ten day old asparagus from all the excitement, one couldn’t even concentrate on the lovely Stacey singing the ultimate song; ‘Something About The Way You Look Tonight’. She was, however, a powerhouse of vocal dreaminess.

The following night – Sunday – was results night. No interference from our judges (one wishes it could always be like that), just the public vote. The person with the least votes? …get your hat and coat, dear!

The special guests were introduced; Alicia Keys screeched like a mating vixen rummaging through overturned bins in a suburban alleyway and as for Rihanna … there was something about her performance that one simply adored… the chair that was revolving centre stage. Other than that, highly repetitive nonsense.

Needless to say, one’s mystical powers had proved themselves once more and poor Lloyd was no more. He was given the ceremonial clap and shown his video montage.

The end is in sight, poppets and one is looking forward to what is in store next week