Having regained a very slight interest in the shenanigans of X Factor following the vicar’s wise words one decided to proceed cautiously and watch Week 6's stage from the comfort of one’s Drawing Room. There was to be no nibbles, Chu Me was in his quarters, watching one of his specialist nature videos and one only had a bottle of the finest Pere Ventura Brut Nature Tresor Cava in an ice-bucket by one’s side for company.
Though Chu Me was not to enjoy the evening with his mistress, he had asked earlier in the day what the theme de jour was. “Queen night.” One had said.
His eyebrows raised as he pointed out that even though controversy reigned, at least there would be an overwhelming feeling of glamour, colour co-ordination, well manicured nails and a delicate hint of Kouros in the air. It was at this juncture that one had to clarify that the evening was actually surrounding a legendary pop group called Queen.
Anyhoo … the show finally started and one forced one’s self to be interested. Queen’s ‘Flash’ blasted out and our judges appeared. Simon comfortably wearing the same outfit he had been wearing the week before, Louise accessorising with a narrow black tie (almost as if he was in mourning for the death of the show’s integrity). Danniiiii Minge (sorry, my keyboard’s sticking) was, for once, dressed quite pleasantly and there were definitely no signs of moth holes in the glittering fabric.
Cheryl y’-nailed-it Cole had clearly confused ‘Flash’ with domestic cleaning duties and had draped a sequined bin bag around her spindles and buffed up her legs to a shimmering shine.
Simon gave a patronising and worthless apology at the storm he had caused the week before, then threw down his gauntlet to Sting after his comments on the karaoke style feel of the show.
Anyhoo … act one was Jamie Aerosmith Archer. Dressed smartly in shiny pantloons, with no sign of table cloths hanging from his rear buttocks and his afro treated to the Cleo Lane treatment, one expected a lot from his performance of ‘Radio Ga Ga’. Sadly, it was not to be and perhaps it was over-confidence but in the quieter moments of the song, hitting the right notes was not something he managed to achieve.
Our little Welsh poppet, Lloyd no-relation-to-Paul Daniels, was to follow Jamie. Yoda Friendman had managed to find a way to get everything inside of him and it certainly made something wonderful happen, as Lloyd’s lungs produced a little extra umph throughout his rendition of ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love’. Simon wasn’t too impressed and suggested he was like “a puppy in the Grand National” (where as Simon is a knackered old mare in a paddock of young equestrian wonderment).
An injury had occurred during the week for our next turn. It was Oily Mares. He had apparently been fooling around in the gym at the house the contestants share and managed to break a bone in his hand. Though he acted as the perfect gentleman and didn’t say it himself, Crusty knew it was because he had punched the Brothers Grime. As one took a sip of one’s Pere Ventura, one raised one's glass and whispered, “Good show, dear!"
His version of ‘Don't Stop Me Now’ was quite acceptable and even Dannniiiii said it “brought a smoil to moi fice.” (and with the botox involved, dears, that’s quite an accomplishment).
Delicious Dermott (so much more that just a presenter, Ms Walsh!!) then introduced the heavenly Joe McElderry. One grabbed the arm of the sofa with one’s right hand, bit the index finger on one’s left and squealed with excitement as he took to the stage with ‘Somebody to Love’. It was as if he was singing it directly to Crusty and one’s heart was all a pitter-patter.
Louise for some reason was not happy with the choir that was behind Joe, but considering his remaining ‘act’ (though one prefers ‘travesty’) has been drowned out by the volume of their backing singers since the start, everyone else brushed off the old, grey-haired man in the corner and gave more enlightened comments.
Coincidentally, after Ms Walsh’s comments about the choir behind juicy Joe, Satan’s children took to the stage with an entourage of backing singers performing a Vanilla Ice number. Poor Louise confused Movie week with ‘Movies that Louis Walsh Has Seen” and this week he confused Queen week with “Sampled Queen Songs Within Other Artist's Songs”. Sufficed to say the performance was appalling and the only joy one obtained from it was when one of the little dears nearly tripped arse-over-tit when he ripped through the paper back drop at the start.
The fabulous Stacey Solomon glided on to centre stage after our visit to the depths of Hell. This week performing ‘Who Want To Live Forever’ (a personal favourite of Crusty’s). Dressed in a stunning copper coloured dress, she certainly was a conductor of vocal power and as the sparkling light cascaded, like a diamond curtain, behind her one almost thought one’s knicker elastic was about to snap. A triumph!
Smoulderingly, sexy Danyl Johnson was our next course (he who has a penchant for the man-biscuit as well as the lady-trifle) and the song of choice? ‘We Are The Champions’. One must say one enjoyed his performance and certainly the crowd seemed to also.
Though one had watched the evenings proceedings, one still wasn’t back to 100% interested but when the results show came on Sunday one felt stirrings. The final two were Lloyd and Jamie.
For their sing-off songs, Lloyd sang something awful and Jamie gave us ‘The Show Must Go On’ (well, not for you, dear!) for as the show went to deadlock, Jamie was ejected from the competition.
As Simon Cowell’s jaw dropped to the floor like a cowpat splatting to a farmyard floor from its orifice of origin, one squealed with delight and applauded loudly, and do you know poppets, one thinks one has gained one’s interest back again. Quite the result!
As Dermott closed the show, he broke the news that the hideous Mariah Scarey is returning next week. Still, one's interest has been rejuvenated, so let's not allow that to spoil things. There is the blessing that the lovely Susan Boyle is also performing, so maybe she can teach Mariah a little humility.
Saturday, 21 November 2009
Reflection During Afternoon Tea.
After the farcical goings on that occurred on Week 5 of the X Factor competition, Crusty had lost her interest in the whole proceedings. One had posted one’s review and thought, “That’s it! This piss-poor excuse for a talent competition does not deserve the attention one is giving it.”
However, later that week one had a spot of afternoon tea at Crusty Hall and it appeared things were about to change.
It was held in the conservatory and one’s dear friend Fanny O’Dour – landlady of The Badger’s Snatch – was in attendance, as was the vicar.
Chef had prepared his special scones and a rather delicious sponge cake. He had also ensured that we had copious quantities of clotted cream and strawberry jam on hand so that one’s guests could over indulge in scone heaven, should they be so inclined. As a special treat a mountainous plate of egg and cress sandwiches was also provided, with delicious homemade mayonnaise and took pride of place in the centre of the table.
One’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, naturally attended and ensured that tea was maintained at adequate levels and then kindly tickled his ivories in the corner (one always thinks background music is a must when entertaining, don’t you?).
“So Crusty,” said Fanny, “You’re not going to be writing your weekly review of the X Factor anymore?”
The shock caused the vicar to swallow his refreshment the wrong way and he began choking on his mouthful of tea. As he began to turn (a rather stunning shade of) red, he rattled his tea cup onto its saucer, clutched his chest while gaining his composure and managed to croak, “What!?”
“No, vicar,” one replied,”one has decided that it’s all a terrible fix; one week it’s a singing competition, another week it’s a popularity contest and then it’s a soft-core porn movie week with Oily Mares exposing his fuzzy pectoral expanse without warning; for goodness sake, one had something small at the back of one’s throat at the time and one could have quite easily choked! Olives can be deadly! No, it is a competition of depravity. There are potential jewels of the popworld’s tiara waiting to be placed in there settings but it is clearly about keeping the acts in that generate the most votes and, therefore, the most money for the ‘judges’ (and that is using the term very loosely). One only hopes one’s South Shields sexpot Joe can survive the whole tawdry experience, win the competition and set off on a journey of uber-stardom with his outstanding vocal oscillations….”
Tears forced their way from one’s tear ducts as one continued,” …and one feels so helpless and unable to protect him so far away.”
Chu Me rushed to one’s side with a handkerchief and as one blotted the small droplets of moisture from one’s velvety smooth cheeks, Fanny took control.
“It’s utter madness vicar! Tell Sebastian what your Twitterchums and Facebook friends said. Go on, Crusty! Tell him!”
One placed the sodden handkerchief up one’s sleeve and picked up a scone and prepared to butter it,” Well, they all know how furious one is at the whole affair but have sent kind messages asking me to continue, and now one finds oneself in a terrible pickle.”
“Then, Crusty my dear lady,“ the vicar said, “ you must do the right thing and listen to those who love you. Yes, of course, to watch this tawdry nonsense may bring you pain and discomfort but think of the people out there who rely on the wisdom of the Gusset. Why, my own wife Marjorie is always coming home after choir practice in floods of tears from your pearls of wisdom to her.”
“Well,” one sniffed delicately, “she does squeal like a banshee and none of the others will say anything!”
“And what about Joe McElderry? How will he get through his experience in such a den of deceit without you being there for him? Furthermore, how will he know you are there for him, if you do not write your reviews and share them with the world?”
One grew weary of one’s company and asked Chu Me to take them home in GUSSET 1 and as the gleaming Bentley drove off down the gravel drive one closed the main door and keeping tight hold of the glistening knob realised the matter needed more thought.
One sashayed to the ballroom to replay previous weeks of the competition and reflect on what had happened and what one must do going forward.
As my darling poppet Joe appeared to sing, one felt like Sigourney Weaver when she’d had enough of the slime-dribbling aliens and it was at that very moment one realised one's reviews must go on.
Joe McElderry, Crusty is with you once more!
However, later that week one had a spot of afternoon tea at Crusty Hall and it appeared things were about to change.
It was held in the conservatory and one’s dear friend Fanny O’Dour – landlady of The Badger’s Snatch – was in attendance, as was the vicar.
Chef had prepared his special scones and a rather delicious sponge cake. He had also ensured that we had copious quantities of clotted cream and strawberry jam on hand so that one’s guests could over indulge in scone heaven, should they be so inclined. As a special treat a mountainous plate of egg and cress sandwiches was also provided, with delicious homemade mayonnaise and took pride of place in the centre of the table.
One’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, naturally attended and ensured that tea was maintained at adequate levels and then kindly tickled his ivories in the corner (one always thinks background music is a must when entertaining, don’t you?).
“So Crusty,” said Fanny, “You’re not going to be writing your weekly review of the X Factor anymore?”
The shock caused the vicar to swallow his refreshment the wrong way and he began choking on his mouthful of tea. As he began to turn (a rather stunning shade of) red, he rattled his tea cup onto its saucer, clutched his chest while gaining his composure and managed to croak, “What!?”
“No, vicar,” one replied,”one has decided that it’s all a terrible fix; one week it’s a singing competition, another week it’s a popularity contest and then it’s a soft-core porn movie week with Oily Mares exposing his fuzzy pectoral expanse without warning; for goodness sake, one had something small at the back of one’s throat at the time and one could have quite easily choked! Olives can be deadly! No, it is a competition of depravity. There are potential jewels of the popworld’s tiara waiting to be placed in there settings but it is clearly about keeping the acts in that generate the most votes and, therefore, the most money for the ‘judges’ (and that is using the term very loosely). One only hopes one’s South Shields sexpot Joe can survive the whole tawdry experience, win the competition and set off on a journey of uber-stardom with his outstanding vocal oscillations….”
Tears forced their way from one’s tear ducts as one continued,” …and one feels so helpless and unable to protect him so far away.”
Chu Me rushed to one’s side with a handkerchief and as one blotted the small droplets of moisture from one’s velvety smooth cheeks, Fanny took control.
“It’s utter madness vicar! Tell Sebastian what your Twitterchums and Facebook friends said. Go on, Crusty! Tell him!”
One placed the sodden handkerchief up one’s sleeve and picked up a scone and prepared to butter it,” Well, they all know how furious one is at the whole affair but have sent kind messages asking me to continue, and now one finds oneself in a terrible pickle.”
“Then, Crusty my dear lady,“ the vicar said, “ you must do the right thing and listen to those who love you. Yes, of course, to watch this tawdry nonsense may bring you pain and discomfort but think of the people out there who rely on the wisdom of the Gusset. Why, my own wife Marjorie is always coming home after choir practice in floods of tears from your pearls of wisdom to her.”
“Well,” one sniffed delicately, “she does squeal like a banshee and none of the others will say anything!”
“And what about Joe McElderry? How will he get through his experience in such a den of deceit without you being there for him? Furthermore, how will he know you are there for him, if you do not write your reviews and share them with the world?”
One grew weary of one’s company and asked Chu Me to take them home in GUSSET 1 and as the gleaming Bentley drove off down the gravel drive one closed the main door and keeping tight hold of the glistening knob realised the matter needed more thought.
One sashayed to the ballroom to replay previous weeks of the competition and reflect on what had happened and what one must do going forward.
As my darling poppet Joe appeared to sing, one felt like Sigourney Weaver when she’d had enough of the slime-dribbling aliens and it was at that very moment one realised one's reviews must go on.Joe McElderry, Crusty is with you once more!
Saturday, 14 November 2009
X Factor (Week 5) - Farce Makes Crusty Lose Interest
Week 5 of the competition arrived on our screens and this week was all about Movies.
The Ballroom was an inappropriate choice to watch such an extravaganza. As one has a 20 seat cinema in Crusty Hall itself, one thought there could be no better place in which to soak up the cinemalicious performances from our potential superstar poppets; nibbles were laid out and bottles of delicious Pere Ventura Cava was put on ice to enjoy throughout.
As the theme to Star Wars echoed out across the studio, the hangar doors opened and out stepped our four judges. Simon and Louise were well turned out again. Danniiiiii opted for the Princess Leia look without the oatmeal baps stuck to each side of her head and Cheryl y-nailed-it Cole successfully pulled off Chewbacca in black cocktail dress and heels.
As the judges were helped to their seats, the competition started and first on stage was Dolly Dagenham singing ‘Son of a Preacher Man’. Due to the nature of song - and the iconic stamp placed on it by Dusty Springfield - it was important for Stacey to become sexy and - despite not having achieved this himself - Yoda Friedman gave her a appropriately choreographed routine and wardrobe poured her into, what looked like, a PVC cat suit. With the accompanying cardigan draped provocatively down one arm she sizzled like a piece of sirloin steak on a George Forman grill, with equally delicious lines.
Oily Mares filled the stage next with an entourage of dancers, for the ‘Ferris Bueller’s Day Off’ song ‘Twist and Shout’, by the Beatles. As he belted out a comfortable interpretation of this well covered classic his little turkey legs were working overtime, like a pair of pinball machine flappers in leather upper footwear.
After the strong vocals of Oily, it was the time for he who hits 7½ on the tottyometer, Lloyd no-relation-to-Paul Daniels.
Chewbacca’s song choice for him was ‘Stand by Me’ and initially one thought it would be perfect for his vocal range and tone. However, Crusty was wrong and despite a valiant effort the song seemed flat and soulless. During the song, one saw him walk from the stage towards Cheryl and one shouted, in increasing crescendo,” Don’t you dare hold her hand, dear! DON’T YOU DARE! DOOOOONNN’T ….” And then he did! At that all important point of bile-wrenching, artificial sentimentality one is quite sure one felt a little bit of sick in the back of one’s throat.
Dannnniiiiii Minge (sorry, my keyboard’s sticking) pointed out that Lloyd had a certain range he could sing in (after that performance, dear the only range one could think of was a one with rifles in it).
Jamie Archer performed next with the Roy Orbison and Joe Melson classic ‘Crying’ from the films ‘Gummo’ (1997) and David Lynch’s ‘Mulholland Drive’ (though in the latter it was translated to Spanish and titled ‘Llorando’). An adequate Aerosmith performance was produced (and minus table wear dragging along behind, which was a boon). Sadly, Louise thought the theme of the week was Movies that Louis Walsh Has Seen and accused Simon of cheating as he hadn’t seen the movies in question.
Our blossoming pop vixen of the valleys, Lucie Jones, was on stage next and gave an outstanding performance of a song from the film ‘Camp Rock’ (No, one hasn’t hear of it either, dear). She was totally at ease with herself and her voice was pop perfection. Even Simon told her it was the first time she had made herself relevant in the contest.
In the introduction to our next act, Simon told us, “It’s about time this got back to being a singing competition”; Danyl Johnson (he with a penchant for man-biscuit as well as lady-trifle) was up.
One has never particularly liked ‘Purple Rain’ when it has been sung by Prince (Thimble Jean, or whatever he’s calling himself these day) but one must say Danyl – dressed in his tight fitting black ensemble and his new short cropped haircut – gave Crusty a rather pleasing leg-buckler as one sat enthralled by his slot.
The Brothers Grime were on next and after murdering so many well known favourites over the weeks since the competition started, it was appropriate that they sang ‘Ghostbusters’. In true Jedward style, they failed to hit the cue for the start of the song, their voices never seemed to meet up at the cocktail party of harmony and it was quite hilarious watching them as they jerked to a pause to make sure both were at the correct marker before embarking on their next collection of Yoda-inspired dance steps. All with an albino Mr Blobby boogieing on down in the background.
As Daannniiiii gave her judgement over the noise of the audience, “You either sing or you’re crap”, she said.
One shouted, “Well, they’re quite obviously crap, dear!” Then Chu Me pointed out she’d actually said, “…or you rap.” Nevertheless, one still stands by one’s original verdict.
Suddenly, one began to feel a little warm and one was aglow with perspiration; one’s heart began to beat faster. One made a quick grab for one’s fan and cooling down, one wondered what on earth was happening. Then it all became clear … the final act of the evening was our gorgeous South Shields sexpot, Joe McElderry. During the video sequence he had visited – as had the others – the premier of ‘A Christmas Carol’ and as he stood on the red carpet, it was difficult to tell which was the brighter; the thousands of photographer’s flashbulbs or juicy Joe’s smile.
His interpretation of ‘Circle of Life’ was sublime and even my pussy, Crotchet, sitting in the chair at one’s side was flicking his tail in time to the music and purring loudly with contentment.
Louise was confused because it was a song from musical theatre (another film he clearly hadn’t seen, bless him). Then as the delicious Dermott responded to Louise’s comment, Ms Walsh threw her clutch purse to the floor and shouted, “You’re not a judge. I’m a judge and you’re a presenter!”
Outrageous!! Indeed he is a presenter, but I think Ms Walsh will find it is Dermott’s skill in that field that is keeping this rather piss-poor attempt at a talent competition from sinking into the abyss of poo it is sailing over. One can go to any bingo hall in England and drag out four people who could jibber-jabber and talk utter bollocks on a weekly basis and I think Louise should remember that or go back to reading Kerrang.
The results show arrived on Sunday evening and the acts in the bottom two were The Brothers Grime and the lovely Lucie Jones. An ideal opportunity to rid the nation of the Bill and Ben of pop had arrived. Simon assured the nation that they would forget everything that had happened previously and they would decide from their performances in the sing off.
Lucie sang a Whitney the Poo number absolutely beautifully and Jedward decided on Robbie Williams ‘Rock DJ’. They bounced annoyingly around the stage, their vocals being drowned out/camouflaged* (* - delete as appropriate) by the backing track and singers. Judges were fooled; “You vocals really came together”.
For some obscure reason the judgements followed in the same order; Louise, Dannniiiii, Cheryl then Simon. Then, for some even more obscure reason our mulit-million pound, musical, cut-throat genius Simon couldn’t decide between the fabulous voice of Lucie (‘it’s about time it got back to becoming a singing competition’ [Simon Cowell]) and The Brothers Grime (‘We’ve established you can’t sing’[Simon Cowell]), so put it to the public vote and DEADLOCK. Outrageous!!!
It was at that moment, Lucie realised what was about to happen and covered her beautiful face with her hands. Lucie was out of the competition!
The audience were incensed and so was Crusty. Indeed, Chu Me is still cleaning the residue of the thirteen smoked salmon and cream cheese vol-au-vents one catapulted at Simon’s face from one’s seat from the cinema screen.
Later, on X Factor Extra, Simon tried to justify his decision to Holly Wobbley in a smarmy, patronising manner attempting to make the audience believe if he had had money on it, he really thought it was going to go the other way. As voting had effortlessly kept Satan’s sons in the competition so far, one thinks he is either extremely naïve or not the music genius we have all been led to believe.
The Ballroom was an inappropriate choice to watch such an extravaganza. As one has a 20 seat cinema in Crusty Hall itself, one thought there could be no better place in which to soak up the cinemalicious performances from our potential superstar poppets; nibbles were laid out and bottles of delicious Pere Ventura Cava was put on ice to enjoy throughout.
As the theme to Star Wars echoed out across the studio, the hangar doors opened and out stepped our four judges. Simon and Louise were well turned out again. Danniiiiii opted for the Princess Leia look without the oatmeal baps stuck to each side of her head and Cheryl y-nailed-it Cole successfully pulled off Chewbacca in black cocktail dress and heels.
As the judges were helped to their seats, the competition started and first on stage was Dolly Dagenham singing ‘Son of a Preacher Man’. Due to the nature of song - and the iconic stamp placed on it by Dusty Springfield - it was important for Stacey to become sexy and - despite not having achieved this himself - Yoda Friedman gave her a appropriately choreographed routine and wardrobe poured her into, what looked like, a PVC cat suit. With the accompanying cardigan draped provocatively down one arm she sizzled like a piece of sirloin steak on a George Forman grill, with equally delicious lines.
Oily Mares filled the stage next with an entourage of dancers, for the ‘Ferris Bueller’s Day Off’ song ‘Twist and Shout’, by the Beatles. As he belted out a comfortable interpretation of this well covered classic his little turkey legs were working overtime, like a pair of pinball machine flappers in leather upper footwear.
After the strong vocals of Oily, it was the time for he who hits 7½ on the tottyometer, Lloyd no-relation-to-Paul Daniels.
Chewbacca’s song choice for him was ‘Stand by Me’ and initially one thought it would be perfect for his vocal range and tone. However, Crusty was wrong and despite a valiant effort the song seemed flat and soulless. During the song, one saw him walk from the stage towards Cheryl and one shouted, in increasing crescendo,” Don’t you dare hold her hand, dear! DON’T YOU DARE! DOOOOONNN’T ….” And then he did! At that all important point of bile-wrenching, artificial sentimentality one is quite sure one felt a little bit of sick in the back of one’s throat.
Dannnniiiiii Minge (sorry, my keyboard’s sticking) pointed out that Lloyd had a certain range he could sing in (after that performance, dear the only range one could think of was a one with rifles in it).
Jamie Archer performed next with the Roy Orbison and Joe Melson classic ‘Crying’ from the films ‘Gummo’ (1997) and David Lynch’s ‘Mulholland Drive’ (though in the latter it was translated to Spanish and titled ‘Llorando’). An adequate Aerosmith performance was produced (and minus table wear dragging along behind, which was a boon). Sadly, Louise thought the theme of the week was Movies that Louis Walsh Has Seen and accused Simon of cheating as he hadn’t seen the movies in question.
Our blossoming pop vixen of the valleys, Lucie Jones, was on stage next and gave an outstanding performance of a song from the film ‘Camp Rock’ (No, one hasn’t hear of it either, dear). She was totally at ease with herself and her voice was pop perfection. Even Simon told her it was the first time she had made herself relevant in the contest.
In the introduction to our next act, Simon told us, “It’s about time this got back to being a singing competition”; Danyl Johnson (he with a penchant for man-biscuit as well as lady-trifle) was up.
One has never particularly liked ‘Purple Rain’ when it has been sung by Prince (Thimble Jean, or whatever he’s calling himself these day) but one must say Danyl – dressed in his tight fitting black ensemble and his new short cropped haircut – gave Crusty a rather pleasing leg-buckler as one sat enthralled by his slot.
The Brothers Grime were on next and after murdering so many well known favourites over the weeks since the competition started, it was appropriate that they sang ‘Ghostbusters’. In true Jedward style, they failed to hit the cue for the start of the song, their voices never seemed to meet up at the cocktail party of harmony and it was quite hilarious watching them as they jerked to a pause to make sure both were at the correct marker before embarking on their next collection of Yoda-inspired dance steps. All with an albino Mr Blobby boogieing on down in the background.
As Daannniiiii gave her judgement over the noise of the audience, “You either sing or you’re crap”, she said.
One shouted, “Well, they’re quite obviously crap, dear!” Then Chu Me pointed out she’d actually said, “…or you rap.” Nevertheless, one still stands by one’s original verdict.
Suddenly, one began to feel a little warm and one was aglow with perspiration; one’s heart began to beat faster. One made a quick grab for one’s fan and cooling down, one wondered what on earth was happening. Then it all became clear … the final act of the evening was our gorgeous South Shields sexpot, Joe McElderry. During the video sequence he had visited – as had the others – the premier of ‘A Christmas Carol’ and as he stood on the red carpet, it was difficult to tell which was the brighter; the thousands of photographer’s flashbulbs or juicy Joe’s smile.
His interpretation of ‘Circle of Life’ was sublime and even my pussy, Crotchet, sitting in the chair at one’s side was flicking his tail in time to the music and purring loudly with contentment.
Louise was confused because it was a song from musical theatre (another film he clearly hadn’t seen, bless him). Then as the delicious Dermott responded to Louise’s comment, Ms Walsh threw her clutch purse to the floor and shouted, “You’re not a judge. I’m a judge and you’re a presenter!”
Outrageous!! Indeed he is a presenter, but I think Ms Walsh will find it is Dermott’s skill in that field that is keeping this rather piss-poor attempt at a talent competition from sinking into the abyss of poo it is sailing over. One can go to any bingo hall in England and drag out four people who could jibber-jabber and talk utter bollocks on a weekly basis and I think Louise should remember that or go back to reading Kerrang.
The results show arrived on Sunday evening and the acts in the bottom two were The Brothers Grime and the lovely Lucie Jones. An ideal opportunity to rid the nation of the Bill and Ben of pop had arrived. Simon assured the nation that they would forget everything that had happened previously and they would decide from their performances in the sing off.
Lucie sang a Whitney the Poo number absolutely beautifully and Jedward decided on Robbie Williams ‘Rock DJ’. They bounced annoyingly around the stage, their vocals being drowned out/camouflaged* (* - delete as appropriate) by the backing track and singers. Judges were fooled; “You vocals really came together”.
For some obscure reason the judgements followed in the same order; Louise, Dannniiiii, Cheryl then Simon. Then, for some even more obscure reason our mulit-million pound, musical, cut-throat genius Simon couldn’t decide between the fabulous voice of Lucie (‘it’s about time it got back to becoming a singing competition’ [Simon Cowell]) and The Brothers Grime (‘We’ve established you can’t sing’[Simon Cowell]), so put it to the public vote and DEADLOCK. Outrageous!!!
It was at that moment, Lucie realised what was about to happen and covered her beautiful face with her hands. Lucie was out of the competition!
The audience were incensed and so was Crusty. Indeed, Chu Me is still cleaning the residue of the thirteen smoked salmon and cream cheese vol-au-vents one catapulted at Simon’s face from one’s seat from the cinema screen.
Later, on X Factor Extra, Simon tried to justify his decision to Holly Wobbley in a smarmy, patronising manner attempting to make the audience believe if he had had money on it, he really thought it was going to go the other way. As voting had effortlessly kept Satan’s sons in the competition so far, one thinks he is either extremely naïve or not the music genius we have all been led to believe.
Monday, 9 November 2009
Sven Advertising Helps Crusty.
Crusty awoke this morning with a slight sniffle but one couldn’t find a tissue anywhere. A building the size of Crusty Hall, with so many rooms, and not a sumptuously soft nasal-residue remover to hand. Would you believe it?
One remembered Chu Me is very meticulous about keeping his collection of specialist nature DVDs in tip-top shape, so one suspected he had used them all in order to give a quick squirt and a wipe to his pride and joy.
Never mind, one continued with one’s morning routine then, after breakfast, one dressed for the icy winds outside and took GUSSET 2 down to the village chemist to replenish one’s stocks.
As one’s gleaming Aston pulled up outside the doorway, one completely forgot the quality brand of tissues one normally procures for the main household.
As one locked the car door, entered the shop and walked towards the counter, one saw the village Chemist, Annelise Stules-Hoffen, stood attentively behind the counter.
“Good morning, Dame Crusty.” She said, dressed in her crisp white coat and decorated with a welcoming smile.
“Good morning, dear!” One replied, before continuing on one's quest, “Annelise, poppet, one seems to have ran out of tissues at Crusty Hall and one has an frightful sniffle starting, but one can’t remember the quality brand one normally purchases.”
It was at that moment one remembered the advert on television one had seen only the night before.
“Ah, wait one moment, dear! They’re the ones where that rather chunky gentleman sits weeping on the settee stroking his furry, wrinkled friend and his fiancé gives him one from behind.”
Annelise’s eyes widened and then a frown appeared on her gorgeously smooth forehead as she tried to solve the puzzle.
“You know, dear, the one where saucy Sven-Goran Eriksson is dribbling over the player’s wash basket in the changing room; the door opens and that rather hunky sportsman slips in to grab his balls … then when he shoots off, he leaves Sven on his knees with his back arched, he arms outstretched and a satisfied smile on his face.”
It was as if our minds had connected telepathically and a box of Kleenex was lifted from underneath the counter.
“Splendid! Better take two, poppet, just in case Chu Me’s in buffing mode again.”
With that, one headed back to the warmth of one’s home thinking how remarkable it was that the world of advertising helps us so much in our daily interaction with one another!
One remembered Chu Me is very meticulous about keeping his collection of specialist nature DVDs in tip-top shape, so one suspected he had used them all in order to give a quick squirt and a wipe to his pride and joy.
Never mind, one continued with one’s morning routine then, after breakfast, one dressed for the icy winds outside and took GUSSET 2 down to the village chemist to replenish one’s stocks.
As one’s gleaming Aston pulled up outside the doorway, one completely forgot the quality brand of tissues one normally procures for the main household.
As one locked the car door, entered the shop and walked towards the counter, one saw the village Chemist, Annelise Stules-Hoffen, stood attentively behind the counter.
“Good morning, Dame Crusty.” She said, dressed in her crisp white coat and decorated with a welcoming smile.
“Good morning, dear!” One replied, before continuing on one's quest, “Annelise, poppet, one seems to have ran out of tissues at Crusty Hall and one has an frightful sniffle starting, but one can’t remember the quality brand one normally purchases.”
It was at that moment one remembered the advert on television one had seen only the night before.
“Ah, wait one moment, dear! They’re the ones where that rather chunky gentleman sits weeping on the settee stroking his furry, wrinkled friend and his fiancé gives him one from behind.”
Annelise’s eyes widened and then a frown appeared on her gorgeously smooth forehead as she tried to solve the puzzle.
“You know, dear, the one where saucy Sven-Goran Eriksson is dribbling over the player’s wash basket in the changing room; the door opens and that rather hunky sportsman slips in to grab his balls … then when he shoots off, he leaves Sven on his knees with his back arched, he arms outstretched and a satisfied smile on his face.”
It was as if our minds had connected telepathically and a box of Kleenex was lifted from underneath the counter.
“Splendid! Better take two, poppet, just in case Chu Me’s in buffing mode again.”
With that, one headed back to the warmth of one’s home thinking how remarkable it was that the world of advertising helps us so much in our daily interaction with one another!
Friday, 6 November 2009
X Factor (Week 4) - What a Malarkey!
This week the nation was to be subjected to Rock Week. Due to the very nature of the genre, Crusty opted not to use the Ballroom to enjoy this stage of the competition. Naturally, one didn’t want such powerful vibrations rattling though one’s crystal chandeliers. So, instead, one settled oneself in the Drawing Room.
Simon and Louise were – as always – dapperly dressed in black suits with their poppies poignantly placed in their button holes.
Dannnniiiiiii Minge (sorry my keyboard’s sticking) opted for a full length gown with an over-locked slit up the side of the skirtal area and a bare shoulder brazenly being displayed. Sadly, she appeared not to have hung her balls in the closet and, as a result, a flutter of moths had stopped off to feast on the glittering fabric; there were holes munched out of the entire area located north of the waistline.
Cheryl – by no means an icon of fashion – chose an utterly ridiculous black mini affair accessorised with a pair of Simon’s thigh length, poly-blend winter socks. The garment was extremely tight and highly inappropriate but – whether by luck or by good management – she managed to find time to stop by a Spanish funeral and pinch two of the lady-mourner’s abanicos (fans) and glue them to her hooters in order to finish the ensemble.
Just as one thought one wouldn’t enjoy an hour and three quarters of ‘Rock’, one’s heart was lifted above the clouds when one’s South Shields Sexpot, Joe McElderry was introduced. One dug one’s fingernails into Chu Me’s arms and screamed until the Royal Worcester collection rattled in its display cabinet. As one saw him gyrating away on one’s 32 incher, he certainly managed to rock one’s box, I can tell you, despite a pair of lead-hoofed dancers flinging themselves around behind him.
Lucie Jones metamorphosised into a vixen from the valleys this week, to give us Guns ‘n’ Roses ‘Sweet Child of Mine’. She stormed around the glitterlicious stage like a true rock princess. Cheryl was certainly impressed and as she gave her comments her voice reached harpy-esque levels only the canine world could hear.
The third rocker of the night was Danyl Johnson (he who has a penchant for man-biscuit as well as lady-trifle). Danyl had a bit of a blow last week (but not in that way) after finding himself in the bottom two. Crusty was outraged, however, that our gorgeous puppy-eyed pop-hopeful had been branded more hated than Hitler by our nation’s media. This is absolute nonsense when there are people like Jan Moir (the manly-shouldered Daily Mail ‘journalist’ with the broad facial expanse of a Bull Mastiff), Peter Peggy-on-a-Sunday Mandelson and Nick Griffin.
Yoda Friedman offered Danyl his support during the week of rehearsals – for what that was worth - and as Danyl took to centre stage it was as if he had walked into the newsagents of music but all his notes were placed on the top shelf and, despite valiant efforts, he was just a little too short to reach them. All in all, he seemed lost. One feels we need a Hi-NRG week: get Danyl to sing an Eartha Kitt number in a pair of sequined black budgie-smugglers and one is quite sure his popularity would be resurrected.
Next we saw Lloyd no-relation-to-Paul Daniels sitting centre stage on a golden throne, singing Kate Perry’s ‘I Kissed A Girl’. As he performed it, it seemed his entire epidermal expanse was covered with lipstick kisses and at one point a cheeky little dancing minx appeared to grab his crotchal area. Thankfully the protection of his denimwear protected him and a shocked slip into a high C was avoided.
Danniiiii thought his voice was drowned out by the track and one thought what a shame the track wasn’t playing when she was giving us her opinion. What a boon that would have been!
Dolly Dagenham was contestant number 5; This week Yoda used his creative skills to give Stacey a choreographed routine to satisfy Simon. However, as her glorious voice pierced the aural canals of the audience, we discovered Yoda’s routine comprised of her putting one foot in front of the other … walking, in actual fact!
Jamie Archer wanted to give something a little special and not the normal pub-rocker performance. At the last minute, however, nerves must have got the better of him and it was the latter that he delivered. As he ‘got his rocks off’ in front of the audience, one noticed the return of the table cloth hanging from his buttock pocket and wondered how many more he could possibly have to display from his rectal region.
For some inexplicable reason Dannnniiiiiiiiii decided to bring the tempo down for the delicious Rachel Adedeji this week. A dreadful song choice – U2’s ‘One Love’ – which Rachel managed to salvage with her fabulous vocal interpretation; a soulful sea of sumptuousness, one must say.
Then, one was troubled as one prepared oneself for the next act. One could hear the music but for some reason – as one banged the remote control against one’s bow-legged tall boy – one appeared to be watching David Attenborough’s ‘Life’ and footage of two Giant Pandas. As one wondered where they had hidden their bamboo canes, Chu Me informed me it was, in reality, the Brothers Grime on screen.
As the leather-clad Pop-Pandas stomped around the stage, frantically grasping for a note they could hit, one noticed the arc of flames at the back of the stage and the bursts of fire shooting out from the front. It was then one realised one was in Hell.
During her comments, Danniiiiii revealed she looked forward to seeing the twins each week (try carrying a photo, dear!) and when the delicious Dermott asked how they were coping with the bad press, they told us they just took it on the chin (Chu Me! One’s boxing gloves and a horseshoe, if you please!).
Our final performance of the evening was the broad-shouldered Oily Mares. Yoda had concerns about his timidity, but as he took to the stage, with his muscular, manly shoulders straining against his denim shirt and his legs flapping about in his Marcel Marceau tribute pants, his performance of a Beatles classic was quite superb. Though, one doesn’t know if Oily has the X Factor, when he ripped open his shirt to expose his pectoral plane, he certainly developed the Oooohhh Factor here at Crusty Hall.
The result on the following day surely came as a blow to the entire nation. Chi Chi and Chan Chan got through and it was the lovely Lloyd and raunchy Rachel who were to face the judges decision to eliminate. Lloyd tried his best during the sing-off, despite a sore throat and croaking in the middle of his lines, while Rachel sang sublimely. However, although Simon had the deciding vote and had not been greatly impressed with Lloyd since the start, he put the vote to the public and it was good-bye Rachel!! What on earth is going on?!
One is now of the opinion the whole malarkey is becoming ridiculous and is proving to be only on our screen to generate money for the Cowell empire and not to give Her Majesty’s realm a true talent to proudly hold to its bosom.
This is a talent competition ! We are to find someone who can blow one’s tights off ! Trust Crusty's wisdom when one tells you the Dung Poo Pandas do not fall into that category.
Simon and Louise were – as always – dapperly dressed in black suits with their poppies poignantly placed in their button holes.
Dannnniiiiiii Minge (sorry my keyboard’s sticking) opted for a full length gown with an over-locked slit up the side of the skirtal area and a bare shoulder brazenly being displayed. Sadly, she appeared not to have hung her balls in the closet and, as a result, a flutter of moths had stopped off to feast on the glittering fabric; there were holes munched out of the entire area located north of the waistline.
Cheryl – by no means an icon of fashion – chose an utterly ridiculous black mini affair accessorised with a pair of Simon’s thigh length, poly-blend winter socks. The garment was extremely tight and highly inappropriate but – whether by luck or by good management – she managed to find time to stop by a Spanish funeral and pinch two of the lady-mourner’s abanicos (fans) and glue them to her hooters in order to finish the ensemble.
Just as one thought one wouldn’t enjoy an hour and three quarters of ‘Rock’, one’s heart was lifted above the clouds when one’s South Shields Sexpot, Joe McElderry was introduced. One dug one’s fingernails into Chu Me’s arms and screamed until the Royal Worcester collection rattled in its display cabinet. As one saw him gyrating away on one’s 32 incher, he certainly managed to rock one’s box, I can tell you, despite a pair of lead-hoofed dancers flinging themselves around behind him.
Lucie Jones metamorphosised into a vixen from the valleys this week, to give us Guns ‘n’ Roses ‘Sweet Child of Mine’. She stormed around the glitterlicious stage like a true rock princess. Cheryl was certainly impressed and as she gave her comments her voice reached harpy-esque levels only the canine world could hear.
The third rocker of the night was Danyl Johnson (he who has a penchant for man-biscuit as well as lady-trifle). Danyl had a bit of a blow last week (but not in that way) after finding himself in the bottom two. Crusty was outraged, however, that our gorgeous puppy-eyed pop-hopeful had been branded more hated than Hitler by our nation’s media. This is absolute nonsense when there are people like Jan Moir (the manly-shouldered Daily Mail ‘journalist’ with the broad facial expanse of a Bull Mastiff), Peter Peggy-on-a-Sunday Mandelson and Nick Griffin.
Yoda Friedman offered Danyl his support during the week of rehearsals – for what that was worth - and as Danyl took to centre stage it was as if he had walked into the newsagents of music but all his notes were placed on the top shelf and, despite valiant efforts, he was just a little too short to reach them. All in all, he seemed lost. One feels we need a Hi-NRG week: get Danyl to sing an Eartha Kitt number in a pair of sequined black budgie-smugglers and one is quite sure his popularity would be resurrected.
Next we saw Lloyd no-relation-to-Paul Daniels sitting centre stage on a golden throne, singing Kate Perry’s ‘I Kissed A Girl’. As he performed it, it seemed his entire epidermal expanse was covered with lipstick kisses and at one point a cheeky little dancing minx appeared to grab his crotchal area. Thankfully the protection of his denimwear protected him and a shocked slip into a high C was avoided.
Danniiiii thought his voice was drowned out by the track and one thought what a shame the track wasn’t playing when she was giving us her opinion. What a boon that would have been!
Dolly Dagenham was contestant number 5; This week Yoda used his creative skills to give Stacey a choreographed routine to satisfy Simon. However, as her glorious voice pierced the aural canals of the audience, we discovered Yoda’s routine comprised of her putting one foot in front of the other … walking, in actual fact!
Jamie Archer wanted to give something a little special and not the normal pub-rocker performance. At the last minute, however, nerves must have got the better of him and it was the latter that he delivered. As he ‘got his rocks off’ in front of the audience, one noticed the return of the table cloth hanging from his buttock pocket and wondered how many more he could possibly have to display from his rectal region.
For some inexplicable reason Dannnniiiiiiiiii decided to bring the tempo down for the delicious Rachel Adedeji this week. A dreadful song choice – U2’s ‘One Love’ – which Rachel managed to salvage with her fabulous vocal interpretation; a soulful sea of sumptuousness, one must say.
Then, one was troubled as one prepared oneself for the next act. One could hear the music but for some reason – as one banged the remote control against one’s bow-legged tall boy – one appeared to be watching David Attenborough’s ‘Life’ and footage of two Giant Pandas. As one wondered where they had hidden their bamboo canes, Chu Me informed me it was, in reality, the Brothers Grime on screen.
As the leather-clad Pop-Pandas stomped around the stage, frantically grasping for a note they could hit, one noticed the arc of flames at the back of the stage and the bursts of fire shooting out from the front. It was then one realised one was in Hell.
During her comments, Danniiiiii revealed she looked forward to seeing the twins each week (try carrying a photo, dear!) and when the delicious Dermott asked how they were coping with the bad press, they told us they just took it on the chin (Chu Me! One’s boxing gloves and a horseshoe, if you please!).
Our final performance of the evening was the broad-shouldered Oily Mares. Yoda had concerns about his timidity, but as he took to the stage, with his muscular, manly shoulders straining against his denim shirt and his legs flapping about in his Marcel Marceau tribute pants, his performance of a Beatles classic was quite superb. Though, one doesn’t know if Oily has the X Factor, when he ripped open his shirt to expose his pectoral plane, he certainly developed the Oooohhh Factor here at Crusty Hall.
The result on the following day surely came as a blow to the entire nation. Chi Chi and Chan Chan got through and it was the lovely Lloyd and raunchy Rachel who were to face the judges decision to eliminate. Lloyd tried his best during the sing-off, despite a sore throat and croaking in the middle of his lines, while Rachel sang sublimely. However, although Simon had the deciding vote and had not been greatly impressed with Lloyd since the start, he put the vote to the public and it was good-bye Rachel!! What on earth is going on?!
One is now of the opinion the whole malarkey is becoming ridiculous and is proving to be only on our screen to generate money for the Cowell empire and not to give Her Majesty’s realm a true talent to proudly hold to its bosom.
This is a talent competition ! We are to find someone who can blow one’s tights off ! Trust Crusty's wisdom when one tells you the Dung Poo Pandas do not fall into that category.
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Rosemary Shrager Goes Too Far.
One has always been a great supporter of the wonderful array of cookery programmes we enjoy on our televisions and the very channels that specialise in such culinary education. Instructing us all how to eat well and healthily is a must.
Over the years one has adored the gorgeous Jeni Barnett on Good Food Live; one's temperature soars at the very sight of the delicious Matt Tebbutt and the bundle of Yorkshire butchness James Martin and as for Delia Smith ... well, the woman is simply an idolised goddess in oven mitts and a pinny.
But it seems that televisual cooking classes are now penetrating the world of advertising and one wonders if this is not going a little too far.
For example, does one really need to see Rosemary Shrager's breasts - in their crispy skin - being pulled apart only to see runny cream cheese oozing out and dripping all over her work surfaces?
One thinks not!
Over the years one has adored the gorgeous Jeni Barnett on Good Food Live; one's temperature soars at the very sight of the delicious Matt Tebbutt and the bundle of Yorkshire butchness James Martin and as for Delia Smith ... well, the woman is simply an idolised goddess in oven mitts and a pinny.
But it seems that televisual cooking classes are now penetrating the world of advertising and one wonders if this is not going a little too far.
For example, does one really need to see Rosemary Shrager's breasts - in their crispy skin - being pulled apart only to see runny cream cheese oozing out and dripping all over her work surfaces?
One thinks not!
Crusty and the Safari That Never Was.
Crusty always finds that our glorious nation’s makers of television programmes can be highly misleading when it comes to titles they give their containers of creativity.
For example, one was watching a Channel 4 programme the other evening and was completely and utterly bored with it. One perused the listings on one’s Sky guide and saw that the programme following the drivel on screen was entitled Shooting Cheryl Cole.
Well, there was a surge of excitement that oscillated through one’s skeletal structure: one utilised the Sky Plus pause button and sprang, like a gazelle, up the grand staircase to one’s dressing room. Once there, one pulled out a rather fetching kaki number from the walk-in wardrobe – last used on a Kenyan safari in 2001 – donned a matching kaki hat with corks hanging from the rim and one’s pair of handmade snakeskin cowboy boots. Dressed for the imminent hunt, one headed off back to the Drawing Room.
Chu Me had read one’s mind and prepared a pitcher of Gin and obtained one’s paint-ball gun (one always has it at hand to enthuse the household staff in their duties) and set it at the side of one’s chaise and he had stood two Yucca plants next to the screen to give a more authentic safari feel. Crotchet, my pussy, also appeared dressed for the occasion with his leopard skin collar. Purring contentedly he nuzzled down on one’s lap and we were set for our adventure.
Imagine one’s mammoth disappointment when one released the pause facility and discovered that the program was actually about her shooting a music video for her new and rather piss-poor single.
Crusty’s jaw dropped, as did one’s shoulders; Chu Me gave a tut, took the weapon back to the gun cupboard, disappointedly dragging his feet as he went and Crotchet padded out of the room with his head and tail lowered – indeed, one swears he let out a little pump of disgust as he turned left at the doorway and headed into the main hall.
Crusty felt betrayed and immediately sent an email of complaint to the company in question to change the title for future broadcasts to Watching Cheryl Cole Make A Music Video (But If You Have Something More Interesting To Do, You’re Not Missing Much).
One shall advise you, poppets, when one receives a reply
For example, one was watching a Channel 4 programme the other evening and was completely and utterly bored with it. One perused the listings on one’s Sky guide and saw that the programme following the drivel on screen was entitled Shooting Cheryl Cole.
Well, there was a surge of excitement that oscillated through one’s skeletal structure: one utilised the Sky Plus pause button and sprang, like a gazelle, up the grand staircase to one’s dressing room. Once there, one pulled out a rather fetching kaki number from the walk-in wardrobe – last used on a Kenyan safari in 2001 – donned a matching kaki hat with corks hanging from the rim and one’s pair of handmade snakeskin cowboy boots. Dressed for the imminent hunt, one headed off back to the Drawing Room.
Chu Me had read one’s mind and prepared a pitcher of Gin and obtained one’s paint-ball gun (one always has it at hand to enthuse the household staff in their duties) and set it at the side of one’s chaise and he had stood two Yucca plants next to the screen to give a more authentic safari feel. Crotchet, my pussy, also appeared dressed for the occasion with his leopard skin collar. Purring contentedly he nuzzled down on one’s lap and we were set for our adventure.
Imagine one’s mammoth disappointment when one released the pause facility and discovered that the program was actually about her shooting a music video for her new and rather piss-poor single.
Crusty’s jaw dropped, as did one’s shoulders; Chu Me gave a tut, took the weapon back to the gun cupboard, disappointedly dragging his feet as he went and Crotchet padded out of the room with his head and tail lowered – indeed, one swears he let out a little pump of disgust as he turned left at the doorway and headed into the main hall.
Crusty felt betrayed and immediately sent an email of complaint to the company in question to change the title for future broadcasts to Watching Cheryl Cole Make A Music Video (But If You Have Something More Interesting To Do, You’re Not Missing Much).
One shall advise you, poppets, when one receives a reply
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