On arrival at – for want of a better phrase - Newcastle International Airport, the commuters were already bustling around departures. Their despondent faces growing ever more so as they drew closer to the check-in desks for the usual uppity member of staff to check them in with a face as motionless as that of Dannniiiiiii Minge (sorry, my keyboard’s sticking).
Not only that, but the worry welling up inside them, knowing they were involuntarily entering the Newcastle International Airport Lottery. This is a most exciting game where one never knows if one is going to be charged for excess baggage or not.
This happened to Crusty one year when travelling to the utterly scrumptious Bilbao for a short getaway. A young girl, with a complexion as smooth as a page of Braille and ‘blonde hair’ with unattended roots, charged one for an additional 4kg. This baffled one as Chu Me had already weighed them in advance. Nevertheless, one sent him to pay the £24 or so and we left for Gatwick to make our connection.
Sashaying elegantly to the check-in desk at the connecting airport one was naturally expecting further payment to be made. But no, poppets, the trunks were under the required weight!! One later complained, in the most strongest terms, to the service provider but they wrote back to say after an investigation, the scales in question had been checked by Weights & Measures. One naturally wrote back immediately;
Dear Poppet,
Thank you for your letter, which arrived at an opportune time, as one had just ran out of cat litter for Crotchet. One takes on board your comments but, quite frankly dear, would not take anything Weights & Measures say as of any consequence; they have been telling us for years that 25ml is sufficient for a single measure of spirit … however, as you will be well aware one can never put a measurement on such things, as it all depends on one’s mood at the time.
Love & cuddles,
Dame Crusty
Check-in over and the horror of Newcastle International Airport security was thrust upon the now exhausted travellers. If ever one wished to empathise with the cattle world, then one could find no better place; herded into the cordoned corridors, one minute walking left the next minute walking right, zigzagging backwards and forwards (not the most ideal scenario when one has indulged in the odd glass of gin and is wearing heels) only to reach the end to find the sour-faced employees waiting to greet you at the X-Ray machines.
When we arrived at the gates of Hell, a rather heavy set young man approached one with a look of panic on his face; “Just walk through Dame Crusty! There’s no need to undress like last year.” (How splendid one thought, though one must admit one rather enjoyed the disrobing experience last time). Instead, one clapped one’s hands; Chu Me jumped up onto the machine and began to glide through the dangling leatherette strips in one of the large plastic trays. The security man seemed a little caught off guard as he saw one’s faithful houseboy moving past the X-ray screen.
“Er…all, er, seems to be ok with your companion.” He said.
“Hmmmm … Not so, dear,” One said, pointing at the screen, “One thinks he will need a filling in his upper first premolar when we return! Alas, and despite many warnings from his mistress, he just loves chewing his nuts a little too much.”
Anyhoo … Chu Me surfed to the end of the inspection channel in the plastic tray and jumped down to the floor. Our items collected, one sashayed elegantly past an entirely aggressive woman. She darted forward and one stepped back quickly. One could not see any chain around her neck as she began to ask the most invasive questions with a growl at the back of her throat; “Do you have a loyalty card? Do you have a Credit Card?”
All that was missing from the scene was a leather collar with a bone shaped metal tag with Gripper carved into it, along with her address and telephone number should she go missing. Needless to say, one’s self-defence training kicked in immediately and from the top of one’s bag one grabbed a small bottle of Chanel Nº 5 and sprayed her in the face. She recoiled back spitting and spluttering like an angry viper.
“Good Lord, dear, that’s none of your business, one is quite sure!!” and walked on leaving her in a heap with her eyes streaming; the tears meandering down the cheeks of her over made-up face, splashing down upon her Poly-cotton blouse.
The executive lounge was very pleasing and certainly infinitely quieter than last time, when a bleached haired Rotwieller and her friends were draining the bar dry of every drop of alcohol it held. Chu Me found one a comfortable seat, threw over the velvet throw and placed the small square of sheepskin rug on the floor upon which one’s feet would rest. The peace and quiet was wonderful until an older gentleman entered with a highly polished head and sat to one’s left. He had already caught one’s attention at the sign in desk when he started talking quite loudly to the hostess about what flights he normally took. One could feel oneself saying under one’s breath,” She really isn’t interested in the slightest, dear.”
He took up residence in a seat very near and there was silence once more. Then several minutes later he put his hands in his trouser pocket and began to rummage around. There was no look of ecstasy on his face so one realised he was searching for something. He pulled out his mobile device. In a voice that could only resemble that of God in a Charlton Heston movie he bellowed forth into the tiny mouthpiece.
“Hi Paul, it’s me. You’re obviously not up yet. I’m in the airport lounge. Just wanted to know if you wanted to meet up for lunch on Monday? I’m out of the country until then but we can meet up. Give me a call when you get up, mate.”
After what seemed like a lifetime of shouting, there was peace and quiet once more. However, poppets, it was not to last. Again this person, with the lovely head of skin, whipped out his device. He was ‘phoning Paul again (though one doubted the poor poppet would be up considering he wasn’t 2 minutes and 12 seconds ago). However, to one’s surprise he was ... and the lounge pest could now hold a dialogue. From the start of his conversation one concluded he was a referee of some description from his observations of 16 year old boys who could hold their balls well in varying positions.
One stood and glided towards him while he was in mid conversation.
“Hang on, Paul, there’s a lady who wants to talk to me.” He covered the mouthpiece with his left hand.
“Excuse me, poppet. One knows a place which is infinitely better for such a conversation. May I?”
He got up out of his seat and followed one to a double doorway at the far end of the lounge. One opened the door and as he leant forward to see what lay beyond, one grabbed his lapel and flung him out the door and closed it behind him. Seconds later Chu Me had arrived behind one with the gentleman’s hand luggage. Taking the handle, one opened the door once more and threw it onto the tiled floor ahead. He was now in the main departure lounge and there he would stay (One had rolled up a copy of Cosmopolitan and wedged it in the handles).
Turning to return to one’s seat, Chu Me noticed it was time for us to board. Velvet throw, sheep skin rug and hand luggage gathered, we headed to the required gate while the rather shocked face of an unknown referee pressed against the window of the door behind us, could only see us disappear into the distance.
Barcelona was fingering us enticingly into its welcoming bosom.
Showing posts with label Newcastle International Airport. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Newcastle International Airport. Show all posts
Monday, 27 September 2010
Saturday, 13 March 2010
Valencia 2010 (Part 2)– VIP Lounge or Private Party for Undesireables.

As one sipped a rather pleasant gin - Chu Me standing at the window in awe at the big, metal birds - one could see and hear the sensual vocal chords of Colin his-twinkle-makes-me-tingle Briggs giving the region its daily roundup of news.
A small droplet forced itself from one’s tear duct as one realised one would not see one’s delicious poppet while one was away and, for a moment, one was plunged into a gaping crack of sadness. The recollection that one was only away for a week was the key to snap one back up again, as if on a bungee cord of anticipation.
Spirits lifted, one began to notice a party of four people – 3 men and a possible woman - who, though remaining respectfully quiet, were consuming copious quantities of alcoholic beverages from the drinks section. Every 15 minutes one of the relatively young men would walk over, collect an arm full of beer cans and return to his seat. Moments later another would stand and collect glasses filled with wine. As the men-folk sat supping their beverages, the suspected female would then rise up regularly and retrieve bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale – for herself - only to take them back and drink them directly from the bottle.
For over an hour their scavenging trips rapidly began to deplete the stocks of the lounge. Yet, the poor solitary attendant felt she was not in a position to object and no doubt feared the response she would receive from the Brown Ale binging buffalo even if she did.
On one of the trips by the male members, the attendant was cleaning the service area and as he went to fill a further 3 glasses of wine, she said to him, “Why not take a bottle? It’ll save you getting up all the time.”
One leaned over the side of one’s chair, “Indeed, why not take the whole lot, dear! One may even have a bottle in Chu Me’s bag if you run short!”
He walked to the party table. Half way there he turned back and looked. One raised one’s tumbler and gave a contemptible smile, then one returned to a state of sedate sippage.
Moments later, the she-creature stood up and walked to the refrigeration unit to claim her next bottle of Brown Ale. Her nail-bitten mitten was just about to grab the neck of the bottle when one interjected.
“One understands now why they say 'having a bottle of dog', dear!” A sip of gin followed.
The hand stopped short of the bottle and she stood up and turned in the direction of one’s chair. “Eh?”
“Eloquently put, dear! No ... one was just commenting; one understands why they say 'having a bottle of dog' … your appearance, dear." One said. waving one's finger up and down her length. "One suspects split ends and the facial aspect of the north face of the Eiger wouldn’t have been the result were you to have succumbed to … let’s say … a life of white wine spritzers.”
Her jaw tightened as she spun round to face the fridge. Her hand moved towards the bottle of Brown Ale, then hovered momentarily before moving to the side and reaching for a bottle of mineral water instead. She stood up as straight as she could with appalling posture and held her head up in a pseudo-snooty fashion and began to walk back to her seat.
“One suspects it’s a little late for hydration, poppet … nevertheless … Bravo!”
Finally, the gold ingot that broke the lid of the antique mahogany casket occurred.
One did not wish to disturb Chu Me. He was engrossed in jumping towards the window and clapping his hands in an attempt to chase the big metal birds away and relishing his lack of success (One feels he doesn’t yet grasp the wonder of the aeroplane), so one went to refill one’s tumbler with a further pre-holiday gin and tonic. One of the alcohol-fueled sump-brigade appeared at one's side
“We thought we’d have another drink before the flight … if that’s ok with you?!” He said sarcastically.
“Well, if there’s anything left, dear.”
His hairy, unmoisturised right hand rose up. It was then, as if one had obtained Spiderman’s ‘spidey-sense’, one sensed danger. Something was vibrating inside one as the realisation dawned he was heading for the half filled bottle of gin in front of us. With cat-like reflexes one whisked up one of the plastic picnic folks – ridiculously laid out to give the impression of acceptable cutlery – and stuck it in the back of his hand. As he reeled back in pain, one grabbed the body of the bottle, picked it up and turned to go back to one’s silk covered chair.
“There are boundaries in life, dear, and you very nearly crossed a very dangerous one.”
At that moment, they were called for their flight and normality was restored; the remaining three assisting their blood-soaked team mate out into the main building. The attendant thanked one for the assistance one had provided and went to clean up the mess that had been left.
Soon after, the embarkation of Easyjet flight 6401 was announced and we were underway on the next leg of our journey; beautiful Barcelona beckoned (one’s second home and a place that holds a very special place in one's heart).
Valencia 2010 – Crusty Prepares to Leave Her Beloved North East

It was a crispy Friday morning when Chu Me and I left one’s beloved Crusty Hall for the joys of Newcastle International Airport and our journey beyond; a weeks break at Crusty Towers, right in the heart of beautiful Valencia.
My dear pussy, Crotchet was well catered for during our holiday. Fanny would pop up regularly from the Badger’s Snatch to give him a little company, while the household staff were not in residence, and ensure his food requirements were maintained.
The mode of transport one had chosen to take us to the airport was GUSSET 3 (One does not wish to take the Bentley or the Aston to a car park that does not appear to have been swept regularly, does one?). Chu Me had loaded the luggage beautifully and ensured we were fully fuelled. Locking to great door behind us, one blew a kiss to Crotchet as he looked out from the Drawing Room window and we were on our way.
Entering the terminal building, we headed for the Easyjet desks and one began to search for the ‘dedicated’ check-in desk one had been notified of on the paperwork for our Speedy Boarding; a desk sprinkled with a little glitter perhaps, maybe a candelabra set to the side or a red carpet and cordon and a sign saying 'WELCOME, DAME CRUSTY'. But there was nothing; they all looked the same.
One asked a young gentleman on a car hire desk nearby and apparently, the term ‘dedicated’ means that it is available to everybody who has selected the Speedy Boarding option and not per individual. “How outrageous!” one said.
“I couldn’t agree more, Dame Crusty.” The charming young thing replied.
“You’re clearly a very sensitive young man, dear.” With that, one bid him farewell.
Gliding up to the not-in-the-slightest–bit dedicated desk, one was confronted by a pleasant enough young girl, looking very smart in her uniform but with a rather sour face hanging from beneath her hairline.
“Have you booked Speedy Boarding?” She enquired, in a rather direct fashion.
“One’s wearing Versace, dear, of course one has booked Speedy Boarding, unless of course you confuse delicious hand-stiched designer fabrics for an acrylic football strip or shellsuit ensemble?”
She immediately went red with embarrassment (Well, one presumes she did, there was so many layers of foundation applied to her facial epidermis one could only see a change in colour on the tips of her ears, so one took it as read).
Boarding passes dispensed, Chu Me and I made our way to the most joyous part of the Newcastle International Airport experience … security. Sashaying the two and a half mile of zig-zagging pens – crammed into a floor area that is only 2 metres in length - one drew closer to the x-ray machines and the slack-jowled staff that lay there in wait; their faces grimacing at the business people and holiday makers that kept them in employment. Honestly poppets, one appreciates the safety and security of Her Majesty’s realm is of the utmost importance but the old crack your face and make your arse jealous certainly applies here and, most certainly, wouldn’t go amiss.
A middle aged creature demanded one place one’s belongings on the conveyor belt for x- ray. One snapped one’s fingers and Chu Me jumped onto the belt and went through first. One placed one’s small clutch purse on next and then began to disrobe. A male security guard leapt over as one was just slipping off the strap of one’s gown.
“That’s not necessary, Dame Crusty!” he shouted, waving his hands.
“One must to be sure, dear,” continuing to undress. “One doesn’t want people running away screaming should one activate your equipment and get your bells clanging.”
Finally, having passed through the detector and after insisting the young security guard frisk one a third time (in case he missed something), one re-dressed and adorned oneself in the stunning selection of jewels one had chosen from the Gusset collection. Chu Me handed over one’s purse and we made our way past two very aggressive Credit Card representatives to the VIP lounge. (I’ve seen mature panthers take longer to pounce on their pray than those two and indeed, their aged, leatherette complexion made one wonder how their hips and knees even allowed them to spring at all .. especially in heels!).
Once in the VIP lounge, Chu Me moved a chair within view of the notice screen and placed a hand-embroidered silk throw over it. Placing a small, rectangular piece of sheepskin at the foot, he headed to the drinks section to tend to gin duties. It was then, that one could finally sit and relax, scrunching one’s toes in the soft, fluffy, cream fur beneath.
One took a sip of one's gin, sighed. The journey had begun!
My dear pussy, Crotchet was well catered for during our holiday. Fanny would pop up regularly from the Badger’s Snatch to give him a little company, while the household staff were not in residence, and ensure his food requirements were maintained.
The mode of transport one had chosen to take us to the airport was GUSSET 3 (One does not wish to take the Bentley or the Aston to a car park that does not appear to have been swept regularly, does one?). Chu Me had loaded the luggage beautifully and ensured we were fully fuelled. Locking to great door behind us, one blew a kiss to Crotchet as he looked out from the Drawing Room window and we were on our way.
Entering the terminal building, we headed for the Easyjet desks and one began to search for the ‘dedicated’ check-in desk one had been notified of on the paperwork for our Speedy Boarding; a desk sprinkled with a little glitter perhaps, maybe a candelabra set to the side or a red carpet and cordon and a sign saying 'WELCOME, DAME CRUSTY'. But there was nothing; they all looked the same.
One asked a young gentleman on a car hire desk nearby and apparently, the term ‘dedicated’ means that it is available to everybody who has selected the Speedy Boarding option and not per individual. “How outrageous!” one said.
“I couldn’t agree more, Dame Crusty.” The charming young thing replied.
“You’re clearly a very sensitive young man, dear.” With that, one bid him farewell.
Gliding up to the not-in-the-slightest–bit dedicated desk, one was confronted by a pleasant enough young girl, looking very smart in her uniform but with a rather sour face hanging from beneath her hairline.
“Have you booked Speedy Boarding?” She enquired, in a rather direct fashion.
“One’s wearing Versace, dear, of course one has booked Speedy Boarding, unless of course you confuse delicious hand-stiched designer fabrics for an acrylic football strip or shellsuit ensemble?”
She immediately went red with embarrassment (Well, one presumes she did, there was so many layers of foundation applied to her facial epidermis one could only see a change in colour on the tips of her ears, so one took it as read).
Boarding passes dispensed, Chu Me and I made our way to the most joyous part of the Newcastle International Airport experience … security. Sashaying the two and a half mile of zig-zagging pens – crammed into a floor area that is only 2 metres in length - one drew closer to the x-ray machines and the slack-jowled staff that lay there in wait; their faces grimacing at the business people and holiday makers that kept them in employment. Honestly poppets, one appreciates the safety and security of Her Majesty’s realm is of the utmost importance but the old crack your face and make your arse jealous certainly applies here and, most certainly, wouldn’t go amiss.
A middle aged creature demanded one place one’s belongings on the conveyor belt for x- ray. One snapped one’s fingers and Chu Me jumped onto the belt and went through first. One placed one’s small clutch purse on next and then began to disrobe. A male security guard leapt over as one was just slipping off the strap of one’s gown.
“That’s not necessary, Dame Crusty!” he shouted, waving his hands.
“One must to be sure, dear,” continuing to undress. “One doesn’t want people running away screaming should one activate your equipment and get your bells clanging.”
Finally, having passed through the detector and after insisting the young security guard frisk one a third time (in case he missed something), one re-dressed and adorned oneself in the stunning selection of jewels one had chosen from the Gusset collection. Chu Me handed over one’s purse and we made our way past two very aggressive Credit Card representatives to the VIP lounge. (I’ve seen mature panthers take longer to pounce on their pray than those two and indeed, their aged, leatherette complexion made one wonder how their hips and knees even allowed them to spring at all .. especially in heels!).
Once in the VIP lounge, Chu Me moved a chair within view of the notice screen and placed a hand-embroidered silk throw over it. Placing a small, rectangular piece of sheepskin at the foot, he headed to the drinks section to tend to gin duties. It was then, that one could finally sit and relax, scrunching one’s toes in the soft, fluffy, cream fur beneath.
One took a sip of one's gin, sighed. The journey had begun!
Sunday, 20 September 2009
Crusty On Tour - The Holiday Begins.
September each year is a special time for Crusty; it is the time of year when one locks up Crusty Hall securely and takes a relaxing break under Señor Sol, allowing his lips of bronzing warmth to kiss one´s velvety soft flesh as one relaxes by a pool or on a sun-drenched terrace somewhere.
This year a long awaited visit to one´s dear, dear Catalan friends in the beautiful city of Barcelona and the gorgeous town of Palafrugell, near Girona; following that, a quick flight to Granada to spend 10 days of reflection and tranquility at Crusty Villa.
Some months prior to one´s departure, one was sitting enjoying a chat and small libation in The Badger´s Snatch with landlady Fanny O´Dour and one of the village triplets, Ida Rash. We began to talk about holidays and Fanny remembered it was nearing the time of one´s annual big trip.
It was at this point during our intercourse that the Vicar came behind me. He had overheard our conversation and suggested one´s private jet should remain grounded - owing to the current economic climate - and that one should use a budget airline instead, as I had earlier in the year (One asks ... what is the point of having one´s own plane if one does not use it?). After a lengthy, heated discussion and the Vicar´s promise that his wife, Marjorie Flecks, would not sing at the Christmas concert, one yielded.
Anyhoo ... One must say that the Easyjet flight out from Newcastle International Conservatory was a rather perculiar experience. On the 9th September, Chauffer dropped one at the enterance of Newcastle International Conservatory, along with my faithful houseboy, Chu Me. Everything, so far, was going smoothly. One was expected the security experience to be unpleasant - it always is at Newcastle International; one understands the importance of security but one can still be vigilante and pleasant at the same time. Each time one sashays through the detectors and one is approached by a member of the security staff, one feels like shouting, "Crack your face and makes your arse jealous, dear!"
This time one was asked to remove one´s jewel encrusted footwear (one doesn´t remember diamonds or rubies ever being used by terrorists before) and then a lady - for want of a better word - ran her hands up and down one´s legs. When she had finished, she looked up with a face like a dockworker´s daughter. One looked down on her ... smiled ... and said, " I wonder, dear! While you´re down there would you mind refitting one´s shoes? ... Hmmm?"
That was the worst part over, one could now relax in the VIP lounge until called.
Eventually we boared the plane and Chu Me covered three seats with a thick velvet throw and scatter cushions; he hung one´s framed pictures of Mark Makes-my-mouth-water Warr and Colin his-twinkle-make-y´tingle Briggs over the seats in front (they travel everywhere with me). One reclined and fastened a seatbelt around one´s slender waist and watched as chaos ensued. It would appear that the majority of passengers had never flown Easyjet before ... if flown at all. Six people! .... Six people approached Crusty! All waving boarding cards," Do you know where the seat number is on here?"
"Goodness, dear! Does one look like staff? It´s free seating ... anywhere ... ANYWHERE!" I replied, waving them away with the back of one´s right hand.
Finally, all passengers were settled and a rather hard-faced stewardess (genes or an over excessive application of make-up, one is uncertain) greeted us with rapid succession of words that would have surely confused the foreign passengers on board; in the event of an emergency, we purr ??!!
Still, the rest of the flight was acceptable, or at least until we approached the magnificence of Barcelona´s El Prat airport. After such a silky smooth flight, it would appear that the pilot had not seen the rather large length of rapidly approaching tarmac beneath us. After an initial whack against the runway, the scream from the passengers and a spillage of gin, the plane bounced twice before the brakes were applied fiercley and all on board were propelled forward towards the seat in front. The remainder of one´s gin flew over the woman in front but, frankly, her split ends were annoying one intensely and the liquid managed to produce a far more appealing result.
The drama over, it was now time for Crusty´s holiday to begin.
This year a long awaited visit to one´s dear, dear Catalan friends in the beautiful city of Barcelona and the gorgeous town of Palafrugell, near Girona; following that, a quick flight to Granada to spend 10 days of reflection and tranquility at Crusty Villa.
Some months prior to one´s departure, one was sitting enjoying a chat and small libation in The Badger´s Snatch with landlady Fanny O´Dour and one of the village triplets, Ida Rash. We began to talk about holidays and Fanny remembered it was nearing the time of one´s annual big trip.
It was at this point during our intercourse that the Vicar came behind me. He had overheard our conversation and suggested one´s private jet should remain grounded - owing to the current economic climate - and that one should use a budget airline instead, as I had earlier in the year (One asks ... what is the point of having one´s own plane if one does not use it?). After a lengthy, heated discussion and the Vicar´s promise that his wife, Marjorie Flecks, would not sing at the Christmas concert, one yielded.
Anyhoo ... One must say that the Easyjet flight out from Newcastle International Conservatory was a rather perculiar experience. On the 9th September, Chauffer dropped one at the enterance of Newcastle International Conservatory, along with my faithful houseboy, Chu Me. Everything, so far, was going smoothly. One was expected the security experience to be unpleasant - it always is at Newcastle International; one understands the importance of security but one can still be vigilante and pleasant at the same time. Each time one sashays through the detectors and one is approached by a member of the security staff, one feels like shouting, "Crack your face and makes your arse jealous, dear!"
This time one was asked to remove one´s jewel encrusted footwear (one doesn´t remember diamonds or rubies ever being used by terrorists before) and then a lady - for want of a better word - ran her hands up and down one´s legs. When she had finished, she looked up with a face like a dockworker´s daughter. One looked down on her ... smiled ... and said, " I wonder, dear! While you´re down there would you mind refitting one´s shoes? ... Hmmm?"
That was the worst part over, one could now relax in the VIP lounge until called.
Eventually we boared the plane and Chu Me covered three seats with a thick velvet throw and scatter cushions; he hung one´s framed pictures of Mark Makes-my-mouth-water Warr and Colin his-twinkle-make-y´tingle Briggs over the seats in front (they travel everywhere with me). One reclined and fastened a seatbelt around one´s slender waist and watched as chaos ensued. It would appear that the majority of passengers had never flown Easyjet before ... if flown at all. Six people! .... Six people approached Crusty! All waving boarding cards," Do you know where the seat number is on here?"
"Goodness, dear! Does one look like staff? It´s free seating ... anywhere ... ANYWHERE!" I replied, waving them away with the back of one´s right hand.
Finally, all passengers were settled and a rather hard-faced stewardess (genes or an over excessive application of make-up, one is uncertain) greeted us with rapid succession of words that would have surely confused the foreign passengers on board; in the event of an emergency, we purr ??!!
Still, the rest of the flight was acceptable, or at least until we approached the magnificence of Barcelona´s El Prat airport. After such a silky smooth flight, it would appear that the pilot had not seen the rather large length of rapidly approaching tarmac beneath us. After an initial whack against the runway, the scream from the passengers and a spillage of gin, the plane bounced twice before the brakes were applied fiercley and all on board were propelled forward towards the seat in front. The remainder of one´s gin flew over the woman in front but, frankly, her split ends were annoying one intensely and the liquid managed to produce a far more appealing result.
The drama over, it was now time for Crusty´s holiday to begin.
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