What Not To Watch!

Though the world economy is falling to its knees and sobbing uncontrollably at its losses and our own British people are wondering what horrors lie in wait for them around the corner of life, Crusty was flitting through the internet and came across news that should - if only temporarily - lift the spirits of the nation and give them something to celebrate.

Mediocre makover monsters Tranny and Susannah have been given the thigh-length, pointy-toed boot from ITV; their contract has been terminated, shredded, stuck back together and shredded again (just to make sure), and incinerated.

But that is not all, my little Crustettes; they will be moving to America; clearly are condolences lie with our American friends but to quote the marvellous Martin Luther King "Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

But we do not have time to be complacent and rest on our laurels; we must now turn our attentions to Colin and Justin!

BAFTA - Where Are You Stephen Fry?

On Sunday night, Dame Crusty settled in the television room to watch this years BAFTA awards.

I was in awe at some of the fabulous frocks that all the movie star were sashaying up the red carpet in; our own Kate Winslett looked gorgeous as ever and proved she is an up and coming jewel in the crown of our nations crown and Penelope Cruz was just dripping heavenliness.

But as I sat stroking Crotchet, my pussy, with my tray of nibbles and a jug of Gordon's at my side my heightened sense of glee went down quicker than a kiss-and-tell-slapper at a nightclub full of premier footballers. Yes, although Mickey Rourke turned the air of the Royal Opera House blue, the presenter, Jonathon Ross, turned the whole evening grey; if he'd had a clipboard in his hand, I swear I would have thought it was Dennis Norden!

BAFTA ... Dame Crusty is very cross with you; for such a stylish event we really need to have the wonderful, intelligent and articulate Stephen Fry back. Please see to it!

Answers To Last Weeks Emails

In answer to the emails seeking advise last week, I have summarised the answers as follows;

Darren from Portsmouth - No, I certainly wouldn't!

Michael from Aberdeen - Yes, but you must make sure you wash it thoroughly afterwards.

Jenny from Jesmond - You could try throwing some sand up for grip.

And, more specifically, in answer to the email received from Samantha, 36 , from Gateshead -My partner's breath smells of poo. What could it be? - if the other end smells of mint, dear, you are sniffing the wrong end and I would clean the lenses of your glasses at your earliest convenience!

Dame Crusty - A Mystical Agony Aunt for the 21st Century.

I've known for some time that many of my Crustettes look upon me as a sort of mother figure.

One girl, recently, even said she looked upon me as a grandmother figure, until a swift application of the heel of my hand to her nose made her change her opinion rather quickly. Many believe with my wealth of worldly experience and, some say, mystical powers I am the ideal person from whom to seek advice and one has no problems – time permitting – to act as mystical agony aunt to my loyal followers.

Anyhoo ….I was shredding some Crustette correspondence the other yesterday and came across the very email that got me started on my journey to Agony Auntdom; A little poppet – I shall call her Virginia - from down south wrote;

Dear Dame Crusty,
My fiancé walked out of my life for no reason. I’m devastated and don’t think I can go on. I’d like to know if we’ll ever get back together again?

I pondered for a long time over this question before preparing my lengthy response to my troubled poppet;

My Dearest Virgina,
No.

DCG

I haven’t heard from Virginia since sending her answer, so I trust all is well.

Chu Me Finds A Secret Chamber at Crusty Hall

Regular readers of Dame Crusty’s internet postings – and I’m sure there must be some – will already know my faithful houseboy, Chu Me, has began a hobby of keeping hens in the grounds of Crusty Hall.

At first I assumed the reason for it was to rekindle memories of his life back in his village back home, in a land far, far away. However, one afternoon as we sat by the side of the heated indoor pool playing an interesting game of Backgammon, I felt something something stirring inside me that urged me to probe deeper.

I asked him why, all of a sudden, he had wanted to keep these birds when he had never shown interest before. His answer surprised me, my Crustettes, I can tell you.

He told me of an evening not so long ago; I was in my bedroom, lying face down on a tear soaked bed, surrounded by sodden tissues I had used to wipe my bloodshot – yet stunning – blue eyes; I was in one of my “zones” (I believe the sportsmen call it), where the thought of me losing the daily dose of my little Mark Warr had welled up inside of me to such a bursting point that tears, wailing and tearing at Egyptian Cotton sheets with my beautifully manicured fingernails was my only release.

On that night, Chu Me, feeling completely unable to comfort me, had gone for a walk around the corridors of Crusty Hall. He came across a room that had not been used for many years; it was a room I had used as a small Damelette, when I had started to collect stuffed birds. I had completely forgotten about it!!

We stood and he led me to the room. As we walked, I cast my mind back; I had not been collecting long and only managed a few pieces before I got bored with the idea – in truth, I had searched high and low for a Shag but it wasn’t to be. Chu Me told me when he opened the door to my dusty chamber, he saw my magnificent pair of Tits resting on two rosewood plinths and his jaw dropped open.

Sure enough we entered the room and my Tits (Great Tits, actually dear) were standing proud in front of me. I turned to him and grinned excitedly, “well if you like these, dear, you will love what else I have to show you!”

I immediately pulled back the covers and let him feast his eyes on my Malay Cock ... Pullet … and Swallow.

As we closed the door and headed for the pool once more, I do believe we were both satisfied and I began to understand the birth of his recent hobby.

Spears - New Autobiography in the Pipeline

I was reading the other day that Brittle Spears has been offered $10m to write her autobiography! Her new book is in the pipeline as we speak (Crusty has the ideal pipe in mind).

What an incredible amount of money!

Having seen her miming performances (cast your minds back to the X-Factor performance of "One Potato, Two Potato"), let us pray she can remember enough words to fill the pages of this literary masterpiece!

CAVA - Simple Enough To Pronounce...Or Not?

It has long been a source of irritation to Crusty the way that people insist on mispronouncing the word CAVA; Cava, of course, is the gorgeous Spanish equivalent of Champagne (although technically it is Catalan) - it is certainly not merely a cheap sparkling white wine as many Lambrini girls would think.

There are many fabulous brands of Cava, such as Mestres and Codorníu, but Dame Crusty's particular favourite is that which is produced by Pere Ventura. This relatively small producer makes the most fabulous, crisp Cavas I have ever tasted - even surpassing the quality of many of the famous Champagne houses. If any of my Crustettes are in the area, I would strongly recommend you arrange a tour.

Anyhoo..enough about my cellar. I recently took my faithful houseboy Chu Me out for a spot of dinner to celebrate another loyal year of service to his mistress; we were walking through the local restaurant, where the annual celebration is religiously held, when a rather shiny, pimply young man, who was clearly trying to impress his orange, ringlet-festooned lady friend, tried to attract the attention of the waiter. As Chu Me and I walked past the table I heard him shout, "Waiter, can you bring us a bottle of CARVA?"

Dame Crusty's diamond encrusted shoes screeched to a halt by his side and poor Chu Me simply ran for cover. I turned to face him, smiled at the orange ringlet stand, picked up his near empty plate and smashed it over the top of his head.

"Do not ask for things one is unable to correctly pronounce, dear!"

Dame Crusty would like to advise all her Crustettes that the gorgeous nectar of Cataluyna is not pronounced CARVA or CARVAR as the toffee nosed "experts" and chefs would have you believe; this may have already been noticed if one has tried to order a bottle while in Spain and the waiter has given that look of what are you talking about, you stupid Englishman?

It is simply pronounced CABA - CA (as in CAT)BA (as in BAT - although the B must be soft), even CA(CAT)VA(VAT) would show more respect than that given by the "professionals" who bastardise the word on a regular basis.

Though Crusty has never wanted to preach to anyone, there are certain things that simply must be! Spread the words, my darling Crustettes...make Crusty proud!