Hillary Clinton - Dame Crusty Calms Her Fears.

Dame Crusty ... arrrr... I ... arrrr ... salute you!

Dearest Hillary,

One never likes to step into the world of politics – especially in this rather exquisite pair of Gucci pumps – but one felt one had to express opinion at your rather tawdry, public criticism of Her Majesty’s new government and their impending defence spending review.

Not so very long ago, a bunch of bankers (are one’s keys sticking?... ah no!) from your fair land were rather naughty and began a trickle – later turning into a tsunami - of devastation throughout the financial sectors of the entire western world and beyond. As a result, the world economy was brought to its knees … in a rather unpleasant Lewinski-esque fashion, if you will. There were bodily excretions hitting fan blades in every corner of our globe.

You must, therefore, forgive some of one’s European family while they attempt to adjust their monetary britches and support the countrymen held within the fabric of their nations boxers (while still fighting in battles - we can never hope to win - started by our very own Tony I’m-a best-selling-author-because-I-said-I’d-give-all-the-profits-from-my-book-to-the-Help-the-Heroes-Charity Blair and your Bush).

Even Great Britain – and one must emphasise Great with vigour and pride – finds itself in a terrible predicament, scraping along a plateau of broken glass on a rather bony expanse of buttock. This was made all the worse by your chums, in our previous government who were a little irresponsible with Her Majesty’s savings account, including the rather curious looking piece of eye-candy you became fond of, David Miliband, who I understand – since his defeat in the party elections – is now selling household cleaning products from a basket - door to door - in allocated streets of a North East town (though, quite frankly, even Cillit Bang couldn’t clean the hands of that last lot!). One believes his chamois leathers are selling like hotcakes, if you’re interested!

Anyhoo …they squandered the nation’s finances with gay abandon (and that does not solely relate to Peter Peggy-on-a-Sunday Mandelson). To put it simply, it was like going to the hairdressers, spending an absolute fortune on a new ‘do’ and getting something of very little value or consequence in return. One is sure you can relate to that scenario only too well, having blatantly exposed dark rootage on the international stage and – on occasion – picking ill-advised fights with hedges before televised press conferences.

One can assure you that the British nation is more than prepared to defend itself and its allies. Goodness, try and infiltrate the North East with a terrorist cell and there will be many a bloody nose in the streets of the quayside and Bigg Market, as those responsible will be battered to a state of poo, by locals wielding kebabs, cans of K cider and protected by Stand&Tan leatherette skin which, one can assure you, is impenetrable.

So please don’t worry about us and feel free to keep your proportionately stubby nasal formation out of our business. As one emailed one of your Texas judges only yesterday over this farcical Liverpool FC malarkey “You have no jurisdiction here, so bog off poppet!”

Hope you and the family are well,
Love, joy and laughter,

Dame Crusty
xxxx

An Early Night and Crusty Misses It All.

Last night was a warm and balmy night here at one’s beloved Crusty Hall. The excitement – or is that exhaustion – of how long it takes to put a government together had taken its toll. It certainly causes many problems when our Parliamentarians find themselves hung. Even the crude-oilesque, slicky, greasiness of Peter Peggy-on-a-Sunday Mandelson was unable to shift the tectonic plates of coalitionism for an alternative or speedier result. Chu Me suggested one have an early night and one agreed it was the best course of action.

After a relaxing bath in rose scented water one staggered one’s way to the bed and flopped elegantly onto Mark makes-my-mouth-water Warr’s face (emroided onto one’s quality Egyptian cotton duvet cover). One immediately fell into a deep, deep sleep ... dressed only in a simple diamond necklace and a film of moisturiser over one’s entire epidermal expanse.

Then this morning, one awoke abruptly to the noise of the household staff going about their daily routine, in the dim light of the window covered boudoir, Colin his-twinkle-makes-y’-tingle Briggs exploded on one’s 28 incher giving the full regional roundup of news for the day. Sashaying barefoot through the deep sumptuous shag pile carpet to his velvety tones, one arrived at the heavy curtains keeping the main thrust of Señor Sol’s rays at bay, one reached up, grabbed the delicious fabric and thrust the curtains open.

Looking down, one saw Dribble walking around the paddock and Gardener losing momentary control of his petrol powered lawnmower and crashing into a small tree (Perhaps it may have been prudent to have put on a robe before introducing oneself to the day through clear glass). His front end was clearly not hard enough and suffered some buckling as he banged the wood, but one is quite sure by pulling it off and giving it a good beating in his greenhouse, he will accomplish a smooth finish.

Anyhoo … the news filtered through that Her Majesty had mustered up a new Prime Minister – David Cameron. The one evening one decides on a early night, the nation changes hands; one may never sleep again!

It appears Mr. Cameron and Mr. Tarty-pants Clegg (who has flirted outrageously on both sides of the fence) managed to sit down and reach a compromise to unite as a powerful force indeed.

Though one does not step into the world of politics - especially in Gucci pumps - one hopes the boys can work well together and manage to get our great nation back on its feet again.

Are The Labour Party Revolting?

Crusty understands there were shifty shenanigans going on in the House of Commons yesterday after Gordon Brown had, allegedly, performed well in the week’s session of Prime Minister’s Questions, or PMQs as it is annoyingly referred to by the media (their parents spend all that money on an education and they start speaking in abbreviations! It’s outrageous!).

Anyhoo …according to Peter Peggy-on-a-Sunday Mandelson, it appears Geoff Hoon and Patricia Hewitt were misjudging the mood of the Labour party and were revolting.

One tries not to step into the world of politics (one simply does not have the correct shoes) so one can not comment on their mood perception but as for them being revolting … well, one would concur wholeheartedly, poppets.

Dame Crusty Solves The Postal Strike

As readers will know, Crusty does not normally like to step in to the world of politics; one simple doesn't have the right shoes. Nevertheless, while one has been absorbing the daily news bulletins, one sees that the Post Office workers have gone on strike under the direction of their union, the CWU.

All in all it seems the union leaders and the Royal Mail managment have got themselves in a right old pickle. Peter Peggy-on-a-Sunday Mandelson's name has been dragged up but he, quite frankly, doesn't want to get involved.

As a result, the Royal Mail has had to take on casual staff ... and 'casual' certainly applies to the young man who delivers to Crusty Hall; long unkempt hair, baseball cap, shorts and sports pumps; honestly, one feels one has Rafa Nadal forcing his package into one's slot each morning! What ever happened to starched uniforms, polished brogues and a tip of the hat to say Good Morning?

Anyhoo ... having seen interviews with both sides, one can just imagine how the meetings that have been held have played out;

CWU: We're not going to ACAS until you drop your preconditions! [sticking out of tongues]

RM: Well, we're not going to ACAS until you stop your strike! [two fingers stuck up in an erect fashion]

CWU: No! We're not going to ACAS until you drop your preconditions! [lengthy rasp]

RM: We don't care - [pulling of funny face] - because we're not going to ACAS until you call of your strike!

CWU: So what? If you don't drop your preconditions, we'll give you a wedgy.

etc., etc., etc.

Having analysed the whole situation and observed how each party has been dealing with this dispute, one thinks the most appropriate solution to the whole affair is for them to go out into the playground and settle it with a game of Conkers!

Goodness, poppets! You are grown men and women and there are people's livelihoods at stake.

Peter Mandelson Fails to Diffuse Expenses Row.

Crusty never likes to step into the world of politics too often - well, one simply doesn't have the correct shoes - but our MPs are certainly in a pickle at the moment, aren't they?

I recall some weeks back, when the furore first started, Lord Peter Lady-Peggy-on-a-Sunday Mandelson was being interviewed on television in an attempt to diffuse the allegations being made by the Daily Telegraph.

Crusty always feels uneasy about that one, poppets; each time he appears on one of my many flat screen T.V.s here at Crusty Hall (all paid for by me, incidentally), one can hear the holy water in the font of the Chapel at Crusty Hall bubbling violently...and has one noticed, over the years, how his mannerisms and tone of voice are morphing into those of Lady Thatcher's?

In some respects he reminds me of dear Dannniiiiiii Minge (sorry-my-keyboard's-sticking), that is to say very little facial animation north of the lip line. Crusty always wonders of he has had bollocks in his face? Perhaps receipts will be found amongst his expenses.

(Oh! Chu Me has informed me it is actually pronounced Botox!)

Peter Mandelson - Covered in Gunk!

Though Crusty has never had a liking of environmental protesters - emphasis, Crusty feels, should always be on mental - one would like to thank the lady who threw green custard over the Darth Vader of politics; Peter Mandelson.

It's not the first time someone has held something in their hand, shook it and splattered him with gunk and I dare say it won't be the last.