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.

Celebrity Big Brother 2012 - Julian Clary; Last One Tossed Off

As one reclined on the leather couch in Litten’s – the bar here at one’s beloved Crusty Hall - the lush natural fabrics of one’s Masato ensemble draped deliciously over the rich, soft hide and one’s back supported adequately by the plumptiously filled Jake Canuso embroidered scatter cushions, one - for some inexplicable reason - pondered the events of the Celebrity Big Brother house.

One cast one’s mind back to when this season all started and recalled when the celebrities (‘celebrities’ being used in its broadest sense, of course) entered the infamous reality house for their period of televisual incarceration. The customary insistence when such programmes are created - and the dreaded word ‘celebrity’ is used - to pluck any old duffer, that has had so much as one column inch in a tawdry periodical, out of the ether had certainly been maintained .

Prince Lozenge Bolognese – a rather fragrant and delicious poppet - being the perfect example of this ongoing practice. Apparently, from what one has heard, he has appeared on our television screens before! One is sure he has … and how very nice for him. However, Chu Me’s former love interest, Tess Tickle, has also appeared on television (a local news report, where she was seen buying a nit comb from the village chemist, Annelise Stules-Hoffen, in a rather unflattering pair of dungarees, tan brogues and gingham) but make a celebrity of her it most certainly does not!

Enticed further, one was horrified at one stage of the inaugural extravaganza when one sat open-mouthed - a crystal clear meandering of gin flowing down one’s chin as a result of the dropping of one’s jaw - and dripping upon one’s exposed bosom, “Jimmy Saville?!! In a leopard skin print??!! Good Lord! One thought he was dead … and wore nylon?!”

It was then that one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, informed one it was actually Coronation Street’s Julie Goodyear. Upon closer inspection one realised Chu Me was, in fact, correct; the sagging bags under the eyes, the hair with the texture of Hessian wallpaper and her mouth masticating a large ball of gum as if her life depended on it (one has read chewing of gum is a good way to maintain the tautness of the jaw line … looking at the Bulldog-esque jowls of our leopard skin print diva, she clearly needed to chew a lot harder … and purchase significantly more gum).

Other celebrities – worthy of the title – were introduced one by one; the lovely Coleen Nolan, the delicious Martin Kemp, the glamorous  Julian Clary, the adorably delicious Cheryl they’ve-killed-‘Ev Fergison … and the rather tottylicious TeamGB Ashley McKenzie who, after the performance of the British team at this year’s Olympics, is not a mere celebrity but a Judotastic star!

Then, as one feared, it all started going down hill.

A young, handsome poppet called Mike Sorrentino, who had opted to refer to himself as The Shituation, or some such fancy. An abdominal expanse you could bounce a conker off but all the personality and appeal of overcooked pasta.

A rather odd looking poppet, called Jasmine Lennard, who if the Daily Mail is ever to believed is 27 (however, her face, bony lallies and the overall appearance of a lanky streak of piss in designer frockage, suggested a typo had occurred and those two digits were, in fact, destined to be reversed). Jasmine is apparently a lover of both the man-biscuit and lady-garden and she has even dated Simon Cowell (which has certainly drained the life from her, poor thing). She also has a son to American musician Seth Shift y’binz. (however, if Seth put his bins out after 9pm, then I for one would wholly support him in leaving them where they were until they’d been emptied!)

An attempt at glamour was made with the introduction of Danica, who as one understands it is an ‘international lingerie model’ (Essentially meaning she flashes her knickers to the world).

Danica (which sounds more like the brand name for a range of kitchen units) clomped enthusiastically into the house, as did another model, Rhian no-relation-to-Percy Sugden. Rhian has been a page three girl and has flashed her baps over many a glossy, such as Zoo … indeed, many Nuts have been grabbed (in more ways than one, one suspects) by young heterosexual males wishing to finger through the pages until they come upon her picture, in the privacy of their bedrooms.

Finally, Samantha Brick (who, coincidentally, from what one has observed, has the complexion of a breeze block). Samantha was the journalist who claimed her life was difficult because she was so beautiful. Having seen the amount of spottage on her facial epidermis, her crooked mouth and gammy eye, one fears her case is rapidly being lost in the law courts of aesthetic appeal. Many gentlemen who have come upon her in bars, restaurants and even the streets of our bustling metropolis have whipped out their wallets and insisted on paying for her, simply because she is earth-shatteringly gorgeous. If any of those men have been watching Celebrity Big Brother, there is sure to be a line longer than any Marks & Spencer returns queue, with all of them having an eager desire to have their money refunded, without so much as a quibble.

All in all, the show was reasonably entertaining and if viewers didn’t know that Julie no-I’m-not-Jimmy-Saville-in-a-leopard-skin-print  Goodyear was a national icon, famous for being the landlady of the Rovers Return for 25 years, 70 and disabled, then they certainly do now … the woman never shut up about it!

One also understands from newspaper reports that, since the show has ended,  Danica Knicker-flasher Thrall has had blazing rows with her boyfriend but, thankfully, the model, who apparently has made her name taking money and gifts from rich men, is receiving consolation from multi-millionaire hotty Prince Lozenge Bolognese. One suspects the words ‘ching’ and ‘ker’ have been involved, though not necessarily in that order.

Anyhoo … one was rather delighted to see that the very elegant Julian Clary was victorious. Though one was quite surprised Martin Kempt didn’t win, one was chuffed as punch Julian came first. Bravo dear!

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.

Crusty Reflects On Jungle Shenanigans

Reality television seems to have taken over our lives once more, has it not? It seems wherever one goes one can’t avoid it and every member of the village, that is beneath one’s beloved Crusty Hall, wishes to discuss dancing-Xfactorial-Jungular shenanigans at every available opportunity.

It was only yesterday that one visited the village hardware emporium. Chu Me had watched an excessive number of his old specialist nature videos and was in need of something to clean a rather worn out head. One, on the other hand, was in desperate need of a screw.

One had to secure a picture on the oak panelled wall of Litten’s - the bar at Crusty Hall. One’s most treasured poppet Jake Canuso – beautifully hung, with a magnificent frame – kept coming off and dropping heavily on one’s forearm. It was not right that such a delicious creature should suffer in such a outrageously gravitorial manner, so action was required.

Now, you would have thought that at least one member of household staff would have had a screw somewhere on the premises, but it was sadly not to be (although, there is an unidentified stain on the carpet in the library. One is led to believe that the heady scent of a mixture of Cillet Bang and Brasso can be a potent aphrodisiac to those in service ... but that's a matter for another time.)

Anyhoo …While one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, waited outside in GUSSET 1, one entered the hardware shop to find Felicity Flakes standing behind the counter. It was clearly a slow morning, as she stood there with a look of pure boredom on her face, trimming the ends of her nail extensions with a pair of rubber-grip secateurs over the waste paper basket. With each spring-loaded snip, shards of painted plastic ricocheted off the small packets of drain cleaner displayed at the side of the 1960’s cash register, missing the receptacle below entirely.

Even here, among the myriad of tools and utensils of do-it-yourself manufacture and productivity, one was still confronted by the banality of it all.

”Good morning, Dame Crusty. Nice to see you again.” Then with not so much a second’s breath, continued “Did you see I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here last night? Wasn’t it really exciting?!”

One reflected for a moment. One had indeed seen the show, though one thought a more appropriate title would have been I’m A Celebrity Watch Me Almost Chuck My Ring Up. For on the first instalment one had seen, one witnessed the comedic legend Freddie Starr and Mark Wright, from a Channel 4 fly-on-the-wall series, sitting down to enjoy a feast – if indeed ‘enjoy’ is the right word – of strange fayre and animals body parts.

First a fermented egg. Chu Me sat at the far corner of the Doctor Christian Room salivating; this delicacy was much sought after in his village, in a place far, far away. The odious elliptical item did not go down well with Mark Wright … indeed, it almost came up more times than it went down. Next on the menu was a pair of testicles (and one does not refer to one’s gorgeous North East poppets, Ant and Dec!), followed by the unimaginable treat of a kangaroo’s anus. Thankfully, that particular offering had been removed from the creature before eating took place, or the trial could have taken on an altogether more sinister tone.

To finish, our daring duo sat and munched on a Camel toe … and do you know poppets, since witnessing that, one fears one shall never be able to look at a person wearing hot-pants in quite the same way again!

However, the show is bringing us a plethoratorial infestation of celebs feeling their way around Ant and Dec’s humid bush. The Hollywoodian big hitter this year is – or rather was - Stephanie Powers …and one must say having watched only a couple of episodes with her behaviour being scrutinised, one can quite understand why, in Hart to Hart, so many people tried to moider her! What a controlling woman!

To make matters worse, the most recent additions to the camp were Sinitta who, for some reason, was being described as an ‘80’s pop star’. Though one fears ‘pop’ is a little exaggerated … and ‘star’ is certainly a little too strong … but at least they got her age right, so 1 out of 3 isn’t too bad, is it?

The other addition was Pat Sharpe. He was a disc-jockey, of some description, from the 80s or some such fancy. He was known for a rather ridiculous hairstyle that never took on – save on farms in the southern American states … where farm animals pray for a sip of Rohypnol when they know their owners have been out for a spot of line dancing and moonshine and return with an amorous glint in their eye.

Needless to say, he has - for some time – bobbed deep beneath the diaphragm of celebrityism and has, by good fortune, been plucked from his bobbings to make up numbers. Thankfully, his hair has improved …slightly … but sadly, his body and attitude have not. He may have an ability to put a record onto a turntable and stick a stylus in the groove, but his manner and personality one finds highly objectionable and one suspects a revival of whatever career he had will remain out of reach when he is finally tossed off by the viewers.

Antony Cotton is proving a valuable member of the jungle with his adept cooking skills and Lorraine Chase still maintains an exquisite elegance. Delight was the word du jour when one saw the gorgeous Crissy Rock participating, hot footing it from the set of one’s most treasured poppet, Derren Litten’s, filming of Series 5 of Benidorm, due for screening in 2012.

We even have a rather focused inclusion of former Olympic athlete … the mighty Fatima Whitbread; most recently seen walking through the foliage with Pat singing “I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts” …(was there ever any doubt, dear.)

One looked at Felicity, “No dear. One doesn’t watch it.”

She looked deflated. “Pray forgive one, dear, one must away. One needs to screw a gorgeous poppet against the wall of the bar before he comes off again.”

Turning like a ballerina on point, in one’s Gucci stilettos, one took one’s purchases and sashayed majestically back to GUSSET 1, while Felicity returned to the mutilation her artificial claws with her garden clippers.

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!!

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

It has long been recognised that one has some very special men in one’s life; none more so, than the exquisitely delicious and award-winning, comedy genius that is Derren Litten.

For many years, Derren has brought laughter into our lives, whether through his comedy acting or through his wonderful writing. His partnership with his school friend - the gorgeous Catherine Tate - brought us the sublimely gigglicious 'Catherine Tate Show' and without him, we would not have had the pleasure of the wonderful ‘Benidorm’ (The television series, not the town, dear. …He’s not a construction worker!).

The latter has introduced us to a plethora of characters that we have grown to know and love; the Garvey family with the sun-drenched, chain-smoking matriarch, Madge; the wonderfully sarcastic Gavin and Troy; the swinging shenanigans of Donald and Jacqueline and the saucy antics of the Solana’s very own Mateo (played by one’s treasured poppet, Jake Canuso).

Derren has proved that, not only can he write fabulous comedy lines but also bring us story lines filled with emotion and sentiment. In Series 4 of the show one had many a droplet force itself from one’s tear ducts at the story line he brought us, which paid perfect homage to the late, great Geoffrey Hutchings.

Anyhoo … one was in Litten’s this afternoon – the oak-panelled bar at Crusty Hall. Chu Me had just poured one a tumbler of gin but was having considerable problem trying to get some ice cubes from a clump in the ice bucket that had frostily welded themselves to one another. One was standing behind the bar and gazing upon the picture framed magnificence of one’s comedy poppet and wondering whether to re-apply a lipstick imprint of one’s kiss upon his cheek when, suddenly, one felt an intense and very pleasurable vibration round one’s downstairs area; it was one’s mobile device.

As Chu Me, gripped his weapon of choice and managed - with a quick bash and a degree of panting – to get his rocks off, one read the screen while he deposited a handful into one’s glass. One squealed loudly.

Apparently, not only had one’s dearest poppet, Derren,  been locked in a room, beavering away furiously on Benidorm Series 5 …but he had also been writing a book!!!! Good Lord, he never stops!!! Sufficed to say his work is complete and is available to pre-order from our wonderful Amazonians. One has already made one’s reservation and urge all of one’s poppets to do the same. It is guaranteed to exercise your chuckle-muscles and provide hints and tips from Madge on the art of tanning, from Donald and Jacqueline on getting into the 'swing' of things and advice from Mateo on holiday romances (oh yes, it's not all down to pert buttocks and gossamer thin budgie-smugglers, I can tell you!)

It will be the most delicious read and the sort of thing you can always give a quick fingering every now and then. You’ll also find it’s currently a hard one (and who can resist one of those), so reserve it now before it goes soft. Simply click on the image below to get your copy from Amazon!

Wildlife at Breakfast

The fire cracked in the hearth like Dame Birley Shassey’s hips. The flickerations of orangey-yellow light danced across the walls of the room and glistened off one’s epidermal moisture. The gentle sounds of one’s dear twitterchum Holly Johnson’s voice filled the air from the Bang & Olufsen music system and a feeling of pure paradise welled up inside one’s elegant frame. One rubbed one’s oily palms together contentedly. Then, leaning forward and… just as one began to rub the warmed baby oil into the tanned, pert buttocks of one’s most treasured poppet, Jake Canuso … one woke up!

Chu Me had knocked on the door of one’s bedroom to bring one breakfast and this noise, that of his small hand upon one’s wooden door, had plucked one from one’s dreamy paradise.

One adjusted oneself into a seated position while Chu Me placed the breakfast tray on the table to the side of the bed. He plumped up one’s pillows so maximum comfort could be enjoyed. One settled back into their downy plumptiousness and looked at the exquisite array of bacon, sausage and egg one’s faithful houseboy had placed before one. Delicious!

One had just picked up one’s knife and fork when Chu Me shouted, “Peacock!”

Cutting through the thick rasher bacon one replied, “No, thank you dear. One doesn’t need one at the moment. Perhaps after some food and a cup of tea.”

He tugged at the sleeve of one’s nightdress. “Good Lord, Chu Me! One is not a machine. One can not just go at your beck and call!” It was then that one  looked at him and saw him  pointing – with his other hand – toward the window. There, behind the pane of glass, was indeed the face of one of the estate’s peacocks. It was quite amazing. 

One has often seen a peahen but ...goodness ... it has been a while since once saw a cock outside one's bedroom window!

Benidorm Series 4 - You Say Mateo, One Says Potato

It was Friday afternoon and one had taken GUSSET 2 for a spin down to the village. One had arranged to meet one’s dear friends Fanny O’Dour and Kitty at the Badger’s Snatch for a chilled glass of Pere Ventura Nature Tresor and to catch up on the recent local gossip.

As one pulled up outside the front of the village pub, life seemed to be going on as usual. Daphne Dewdrop had clearly enjoyed herself the night before. All the evidence was there; slumped back asleep on the bench in the corner of the village green, a bottle of 20/20 gripped in her mitten, lipstick smudged all over her face and her knickers apparently being warn as an off-white cotton anklet. In the distance, one could see Mr Peppercorn preparing his sausage meat through the window of his butcher’s emporium and Annelise Stules-Hoffen, the village chemist, was out cleaning her windows with a quick squirt and a follow through with a rubberised length.

Getting out of the Aston and locking the door, one heard a thunderous voice shouting, “Good Morning, Dame Crusty!” One turned one’s head to the right to see a large muscular drayman standing by the side of his vehicle yanking off his kegs and emptying his weekly load into the cellar below.

“Good morning, poppet! Goodness, you’re grip is vice-like.” One shouted back.

Entering the Badger’s Snatch with an elegant sashay, one joined Kitty and Fanny at a window table. Fanny’s husband Willy had already been kind enough to lay out some nibbles and, upon one’s arrival, brought an ice bucket containing the chilling bottle of Pere Ventura Cava we were to consume during our gossipfest.

It was towards the end of our meeting when we had a visitor. Annelise Stules-Hoffen had seen one pull up and had walked across – squeegee in hand – to invite us to her home that very evening. She was holding a skin awareness evening where she was going to explain various skin conditions with the aid of a selection of pastries, followed by suggested remedies using some of the many concoctions a person could buy over her counter. All-in-all, it sounded quite revolting, so one interjected speedily.

“Annalise dear, your invitation is very thoughtful but alas this evening there is something of such importance that even an invitation to dine at Buck House would be turned down. Tonight we see the return of Benidorm to our screens and it would be deeply unfair if one did not support one’s gorgeous poppet, Derren, after all the work he has put into it. There are also rumours that one’s treasured poppet Jake Canuso is to be caught without a stitch on, so you will appreciate one will need to be present when it happens to ascertain the most fitting moments to freeze frame.”

Though she had a look of confusion on her face (no more so than one did when she got to the ‘selection of pastries’ bit of her invitation) she quite understood and returned to the chemist shop, where she had left the village teacher, Molly Coddle, searching for a corn plaster.

Sipping the last bubblicious drops of one’s Cava, one set down the flute on the table and checked one’s Cartier watch. “Fanny? Kitty? Always a pleasure never a chore, but pray excuse one as one must away to make preparations for this evening.”

By 8.52pm Crusty Hall and its grounds were secure. The drive gates were locked, the telephones had been take off the hook, a selection of mouth-watering tapas had been placed in the Doctor Christian Room of the residence, along with several bottles of chilled Cava (naturally) and a pitcher of gin for emergencies. One reclined elegantly back on one’s chaise and clutched the framed, lipstick covered photograph of dear Derren that one had Chu Me bring in from the oak-panelled bar here at Crusty Hall. One cuddled it to one’s heaving bosom with affection and anticipation. One’s pussy Crotchet settled in his faux leopard skin and cream fur bed and one let out a small squeal of delight as it dawned on one… 9pm …the time had come!

One realised the new series would have a different feel. Last year the deliciously talented and well respected Geoffrey Hutchings – who played Mel - passed away and our writing poppet dwelled on whether a replacement should be sought. In the end he made the perfect decision and wrote an emotional Christmas special where the cast and viewer could say goodbye to him affectionately. Thankfully, however, due to the medium of film his memory will endure for generations to come.

And so the story starts; the Garvey family arrive at the airport; the start of their holiday and they are in search of their hire car (One only hopes it wasn’t from Europcar; if one could steer one’s poppets away from any holiday hire company it would be they. Recently, after Chu Me and I had used their services 'sin problemas' for an eternity, they decided to withdraw further money after the rental and when one complained most strongly … their customer service skills and focus on assisting a long running customer were non existent. By the end of several items of correspondence, it was clear that they cared as much about one as one cared for them.)

Anyhoo …. The comfortable feeling of being among one’s long participating Benidorm chums made one relax immediately and within minutes we were by the poolside of the Solana. It was here we began to be introduced to the new characters; the holidaying friends Natalie and Sam, the delicious Adam Gillen, playing Liam  - Tim the-roller-skating-tranny Healy’s son – and the beguiled Kenneth, friend and work colleague of the gorgeous Gavin, played by Hugh Sachs. One often thinks new characters can knock a programme off kilter but Derren’s exquisite writing solved that and they were like the knickers of a five legged woman … fitting snuggly like a glove.

As if the new characters were not enough, it was in the Altea Hills we come upon a British legend. One screamed as Mick and Janice were confronted by the utterly divine Cilla Black who had taken over Janice’s mother’s villa. One would never have envisaged a swinging Cilla but when the naughty Donald and Jacquline appeared on the scene it left a moment of comedic perfection in the annals of televisual history. The mental images one has of Donald, Jacqueline and Cilla naked in the Jacuzzi with bubbles blasting up between their buttocks under the Benidorm sun will stay with one for some time. The question the nation was faced with, however, was … where was Madge?

Not knowing what to expect and feeling quite concerned for her well-being, one was relieved the camera located her in a rundown caravan, as Janice frantically called her mobile when she found her mother’s electric scooter for sale in the local second hand market. Madge was in hiding. Keeping out of sight her scruffy, dishevelled state and before we knew where we were, The Garveys discover poor Madge has been left with huge debts after some unsuccessful investments by her late husband and she is being hunted down for settlement by the local villains.

This dramatic tale was a perfect contrast against the comedy of the other characters and one must confess a droplet pushed itself up from one’s right tear duct at the scene and wonderful connection between Dame Sheila Reid ( Madge) and the gorgeous Hugh Sachs (Gavin) by the poolside; Gavin recognises the scruffy Madge and gets up to say hello. Turning round he asks her "Where's Mel?", only to be told, “He died! On Christmas Day!” One could feel the emotion and sadness between them, heightened further by the camp interjections from Kenneth from his sunbed. Wonderful!

One was, of course, delighted to see one’s most treasured poppet, Jake ­he-of-the-gossamer-thin-budgie-smuggler Canuso appear on one’s 32 incher throughout, and one roared with laughter when a regional icon from one’s own locale, Tim Healy, stepped behind the poolside bar of the resort and called our dear Mateo …Potato. One still giggles now when one recalls it.

To top off this opening episode of joy, we have a Jackie Chanesque fight sequence between the Garveys, Madge, Lesley (the roller skating transvestite), Mateo-Potato and gangster’s moll, Scary Mary – played beautifully by a further regional icon of the North East Riviera, Denise Welch.

By the time one saw Janice head-butting Scary Mary to a state of unconsciousness, one was well and truly satisfied and applauded loudly. Even one’s pussy, Crotchet, banged his right paw against the parquet flooring with purring-padded approval.

As the credits began, one took a sip of from a Baccarat flute of Cava and reflected. Is it any wonder Derren and his chums won the National Television Award? One thinks not!

Amazingly, there are some people who do not “get” the show. Not appreciating its qualities and it’s modern day homage to some of the great comedies of our proud past; Are You Being Served? Carry Ons etc. Indeed, after the National Television Awards one “critic” from the Guardian – Vicky Frosty-knickers – seemed to scorn the presented award when there were "better" programs out there. Clearly, the brain the good Lord gave her behind her chubby cheeks didn’t understand the who premise of the awards. That winner was chosen by those whose opinion counts; the people who watch and adore the show.

Needless to say we shall not dwell on her. When one investigated her futher and found a photograph on Google, Crotchet immediately coughed up a furball on the blotting paper upon one’s writing desk. Sufficed to say, should Vicky Frosty-knickers discover anything that she has a talent for, one prays people are a little kinder to her … or, then again, not.

For Crusty, the show is exquisitely delicious and one cannot wait for the coming episodes. One must cast aside the sadness that one's poppet has decided this will be his last series. There may be others that take Derren's baby and take it further, but one only need look at Ronnie Mitchell and Kat Slater to see how that one turns out.

In the meantime, one raises one’s glass to a script writing wonder …. Ladies and gentlespoons …Sir Derren Litten …Chin, chin *clink*

Santa Litten Fills Crusty's Stocking.

A rather special event occurred here at Crusty Hall over the recent festive season, when Santa Litten slipped something a little special inside one’s stocking. Who is his Santa Litten? One hears you ask.

Many readers from Her Majesty’s realm will, of course, recognise the name immediately … it is the utterly delicious comedic poppet, Derren Litten, who not only – and among other things – co-wrote The Catherine Tate Show, but also is the master behind the hugely popular series Benidorm. For international poppets, this is a masterpiece observation of British families and friends holidaying under the tentacles of Señor Sol in the holiday resort of the very same name.

One has often campaigned for one’s dear Derren to be knighted and, quite frankly, one thinks it is outrageous that it has not already taken place. After all, they gave a knighthood to John Prescott and what has he ever accomplished? Save standing in as a stunt double for the Churchill insurance mascot while he is away getting his nails clipped and his anal glands cleaned!

One is quite sure, that with a sustained campaign, young Derren will receive his reward soon enough; kneeling to feel a heavy weapon bounce off each shoulder to shoot off to the side once done for a spot of tea and nibbles.

The show itself is jam-packed with talent; the delicious Dame Sheila Reid, who casts aside her natural elegance to portray a hard-talking, cigarette-puffing woman of little patience for her family; One’s leg-bucklingly gorgeous twitterchum Jake he-of-the-gossamer-thin-budgie-smuggler Canuso … (one feels quite giddy just mentioning his name) … and the further deliciousness of regulars Steve Pemberton, Tim Healy (a monument of North East manliness), Siobhan Finneran, the charming Hugh Sachs and the teasingly titterlicious Janine Duvitski and Kenny Ireland.

Goodness, one could go on and on, could one not? The show is well endowed indeed with British talent!

Anyhoo … it was the week before Christmas and one was in one’s study writing out a card for Derren’s birthday. By chance, one's pussy, Crotchet, was wandering annoyingly across the keys of one’s laptopular device and activated the favourite icon for one’s poppet’s blog. There in front of one was an invitation to submit an email to him, as part of a competition, to say why one liked Benidorm.

One immediately felt a tingle oscillate up one’s inners thighs, around one’s downstairs area and shoot up to one’s perky bosom where it lingered momentarily. How wonderful!! One had been set a challenge and one was determined to rise up to it.

Setting the card aside, one picked up a quality piece of writing paper and one’s trusty fountain pen and got to work. After 7¼ hours, 6 gins, a small plate of boquerones en vinagre and a furball (the latter from Crotchet, incidentally) one sat back elated at one’s efforts:

The 21^st of December,

Is a very special occasion,

For an undervalued treasure

Of our ever glorious nation.

One speaks of one’s dear poppet -

For whom one is slightly smitten -

The utterly delicious … talented

Soon(?), Sir Derren Litten.

He’s witty and outspoken,

And, often, very naughty,

And this particular cumpleaños

Tickles the very toes of 40.

And to celebrate his birthday,

He’s set himself a mission,

To put a Christmas Card and DVD

Up for competition!

The DVD is of Benidorm,

His comedy masterpiece,

A series which keeps one’s chuckle-muscles

In ever such a crease.

His writing is simply exquisite,

His characters sublime,

All enjoying the Solana Resort

Under Señor Sol’s sunshine.

But though comedy is the theme throughout,

We can bathe in other things,

And the sentimental moments

Gently tug at one’s heart strings.

Like the continuing troubled saga

Of dear Martin and wife Kate,

Riding life’s roller-coaster

Of drama, love and hate;

The Oracle on his search for love,

With his mum, Noreen … who’s canny

But the only girl he ends up with

Is a Healy-esque Geordie tranny.

And the complicated goings on

Of the infamous Garvey clan;

Chantelle, with baby Coolio and

A chain-smoking, sun-drenched Nan.

Janice with her smitten beau,

Desperate for a snog,

While poor Mick can do nothing more

Than sit there all agog.

Sadly, the family was broken up

With the devastating loss of Mel,

After Geoffrey Hutchings left us

After he’d spent a time unwell.

An actor of pure quality,

Who we will never see again,

Who always gave a performance

That was, by far, ten out of ten!

And of course, the oooofalicious dreamboat …

Mateo, is his name,

A smouldering package of chunkiness

With his smooth and muscular frame

Who uses his sexual prowess

To seduce his chosen pray,
(Well, if one were at the Solana Resort,

He could certainly have his way!

One would gladly spend an afternoon

Rubbing oil into his back,

And maybe let one’s hand slip down

And rest between his cr …[cough]);

So, one thinks it would be quite wonderful -

If not a little shocking -

If Santa Litten came and dumped his prize

Inside one’s stocking

So when one woke up on Christmas morning,

One could untie the festive wrapper -

Before even getting out of bed

And heading for the cra … toilet -

And squeal, if it were possible

For one’s misty eyes to see,

An autographed, glistening copy

Of the box set of series three!

So, as one sashays into Litten’s,

The bar in one’s beloved Crusty Hall,

One always takes a little gasp,

Seeing his deliciousness upon the wall,

With a little smudge of lipstick

Pressed against his upper cheek,

(One likes to re-apply the lippy

T’ freshen up the smudge each week.)

One raises one’s glass in honour

To a man one just adores,

From the top of his highest follicle,

To the tip of his very toes.

From where he’s elegantly mounted,

 He watches over every tipple

And it never fails to bring to one

An epidermal ripple

Of dreamy pleasure that oscillates

Through every nerve and pore,

And continues through one’s skeleton

Then onto one’s very core.

May your birthday be filled with wonderment

And with all that you desire,

May the drink flow oh so generously,

And may you never tire.

Have a very Merry Christmas,

With friends and family near,

I’m sure you’ll enjoy every minute of it

(You’re very popular, dear.)

 And may 2011 be saturated

With love, with joy, with laugher

And happiness for now, tomorrow

And then for ever after.

One typed up the short verse as quickly as one’s beautifully manicured nails could manage and sent it off without delay. A few days later (one screams aloud just recalling it) one received a delightful Christmas card from the delicious Derren himself. This naturally took pride of place in Litten’s, which is the recently renamed bar here at one’s beloved Crusty Hall.

Not only that, but one had been triumphant at one’s attempt to win the competition and a week later the DVD arrived! One is quite sure one felt a surge of genius ripple through one’s fingers as one ripped opened his package and ran one’s fingers slowly over his thick, black moniker.

One shall of course watch it several times before it is put safely in the family vault, where it can be added to all the other valuables that make up the Gusset estate.

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.

SATC2 - Crusty's Eureka Moment!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crusty Returns From Death’s Door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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