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.

Daphne Dewdrop's Brush With The Law

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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