Chiles and Bleakley To Bring Us Face-Ache On ITV.

It has one quite baffled, all of this hoo-har surrounding the signing up to ITV of Adrian Chiles and Christine the-water-skiing-WAG Bleakley.

For those poppets who are unaware, the long running (and extremely bright) breakfast show, GMTV, is being revamped into a new show called ‘Face Ache’ ….[sorry Chu Me? … are you sure, dear?] … apparently it’s ‘Daybreak’ (Though, quite frankly, one fancies the former is more apt where Mr Chiles is involved).

Recently, everybody at the current GMTV show has been resigning at a rate of knots; first Penny Smith, then Andrew Castle (one doubts whether the cogs will turn so smoothly once his oily-slickyness has oozed out of the building) and, as yet, one is unclear what will happen with intrepid reporter John Stapleton – the Jason King of morning news; he’s certainly not getting any younger, so it would be tragic for him to have to hang up his jacket and ties and the Marks and Spencer poly-blend sand safari suit we have come to know and love, whenever he is reporting from a sun-drenched, war-torn country.

But still this frenzy over the new co-hosts is quite unexpected and totally unnecessary. One certainly didn’t find anything special about them on the BBC’s ‘The One Show’. Indeed, the first evening dear Christine was on, one just caught a momentary glimpse of her after hearing the voice and for a moment thought it was Ian Paisley in a summer dress and lipstick. Of course, after an hour of looking much closer, one realised this was not the case.

As for Adrian, one thought the mask of misery etched across his dish was due to the aftermath of saddle sores from his charity bike ride with Alan Shearer. However, one has been assured that this is his natural look (poor poppet!).

Anyhoo … One may have a shufty once the show starts, to acquire a taste of how terrible it all is, but as a rule one tends not to watch ITV in the morning now; ever since the Tyne Tees division cruelly ripped one’s angelic, charismatic poppet, Mark make-my-mouth-water Warr, from one’s pixels during cut backs … only to immediately replace him with an eardrum-piercing Harpy with an appalling wardrobe.

© DCG 2010

Jonathan Morrell Evokes A Crusty Memory.

Jonathan Morrell: A North East icon pictured in front of a North East landmark.

It was about a week ago and Chu Me and I had finished the delicious breakfast Chef had prepared, rather later than usual. Mr. Peppercorn, the butcher, had been kind enough to call up to the residence early morning, carrying a length of sausage on him that was simply mouth-watering. Once Chef got his hands on it and gave it his special treatment, the result was pure meaty luxuriousness, which melted in one’s mouth and slid effortlessly down the throat.

Sausagely satisfied, Chu Me excused himself and went out to check on his hens and to release Dribble into the paddock. One rang the bell for a member of household staff to clear the breakfast room of dishes etc. and made one’s way to the Doctor Christian Room. Opening the door, one heard a loud purring; it was one’s pussy, Crotchet. Sashaying further in, one could see him resting like a sphinx – his front paws folded – with the line of his fluffilicious body pointing towards the Bang & Olufsen.

“Goodness, Crotchet, what has attracted your fancy so?” One asked.

He turned his head to look at one, his eyes bright as buttons, then turned back to face the audio equipment, adjusted his folded paws and continued to purr loudly. Turning the volume up a smidgen, one realised instantly what was causing this strange behaviour. The velvety vocal vibrations of one’s dear poppet, Jonathan Morrell, were oscillating from Real Radio Towers and out of one’s exquisitely expensive woofers and tweeters.

This particular day, Jonathan was asking his adoring listeners for a favourite holiday song and the memory that went with it. One immediately thought of Mariah Carey (though heaven only knows why) and a memory of a balmy night in Barcelona, while Chu Me and I were holidaying at one’s beach house on the outskirts.

We had travelled into the centre to dine at one of one’s favourite eateries; El Barkito in Carrer Còsega. Both Chu Me and I adore popping in of an evening for the set menu - entremeses marineros - where a caravan of oceanic cuisine is brought to the table in stages; each contains a selection of cooked, fresh shellfish and fish. This combined with a bottle of wine, a chilled bottle of Cava and coffee cortado to finish … well, bliss springs to mind.

Anyhoo … we had finished our meal and Chu Me, decided it would be a good idea if he returned to the beach house. He had spent the afternoon playing volleyball with a group of bikini-clad Catalan lovelies and though he had appeared all right when he had returned home, it appeared the siesta he had passed in his quarters had brought with it an aching wrist (too much batting of the balls with the palm of his hand, one suspects). Analysing the situation, one agreed this was the best course of action. One patted him on his head and sent him on his way.

One, however, had the urge to walk the streets (though not in a professional capacity, you understand). As one sashayed along the Gaudilicious carrers one came across an establishment vibrating with rhythm. Naturally, one’s curiosity was prodded and one decided to investigate further.

It was bursting with energy, packed to the rafters and delicately lit - save some ultraviolet tubing - and a heady scent of Kouros filled the air. It appeared to be a workingmen’s club, as there were very few females; indeed, one could see only two at the end of the bar dressed in faded jeans and lumberjack checked shirts (though, quite frankly, they looked as if they had not the slightest interest in holding a chopper).

Well, after two mojitos and a tequila shot, given gratis by the muscular barman, one was overcome by the atmosphere and was soon up shaking a tail-feather on the smoke-filled dance floor with a rather hirsuit young man, dressed in a leather waistcoat and trouser ensemble (an odd mode of attire for such warm temperatures one thought, but he wore no shirt or vest and his trousers were backless, so at least air was managing to circulate around his downstairs area … one imagines there is nothing worse than a sweaty man-biscuit).

One’s dancing prowess was an instant hit, especially when one’s slender hips gyrated gorgeously to the more Latin rhythms, and very soon one’s dance card was full. One’s new chums and I danced until our legs buckled and the bar ran out of gin. A truly magical night!

Jonathan’s question of the day had certainly stirred something within one and a vivid recollection of Ms Carey’s “I’ll Give My All” (and after a couple of Bacardi Breezers, one is quite sure you would, dear!) attached itself, like a limpet, to one’s memory pathways. But that woman is exposed enough as it is; one only thinks back to the Michael Jackson memorial concert, when she still managed to hoist up her hooters before murdering ‘I’ll Be There’ (Take your time, dear … there’s no rush!).

In the end one sent a message to one’s North East iconic poppet to suggest an altogether more appropriate number; Londonbeat’s ‘You Bring On The Sun’. While one was dancing with another of one’s chums, Raul, one recalled a rather interesting bit of hip thrusting in the middle of the song. Furthermore, far more appropriate for dear Jonathan because each time he’s on the radio, he does just that … bring out the sun, that is … not indulge in outrageous hip thrustage!

Then, curiously enough, that very same day, while having a rummage through the well filled draws of one’s bow-legged tallboy, one came across the leather clad hombre’s photograph with the message he had left for one as we waved buenas noches at the end of the night:

For Crusty, I had a good crack tonight!
Love
Ricardo

Indeed, dear, and mercifully, in those leather chaps, it was slightly less off-putting when you weren’t spinning round!

© DCG 2010

Rent a Friend - A Warning From Crusty Hall!

Chu Me had been out early to collect some eggs. As he entered the coop, his cock was standing proud near the gate and he knew, instantly, that a successful cache lay in wait. Sure enough, as he checked the chickens, each one had produced at least two delicious ellipsoids of egginess.

As a result, when one awoke and glided down the grand staircase to the Breakfast Room there was a heavenly plate of scrambled eggs set down in front of one. The television in the corner was already on and BBC Breakfast was in full swing. Looking at the clock on the fire place, one had just missed the first instalment of one’s delicious poppet, Colin his-twinkle-makes-y’-tingle Briggs on the local news round-up so, while awaiting his next bulletin, one passed the time watching Charlie Stayt and Suzanna I-have-a-scary-expression-for-every-occasion Reid. One of the stories du jour was that of a new idea which had recently crossed the Atlantic Ocean from our American brothers and sisters … “Rent a Friend”.

The idea is that when you’re sitting at home – lonely, with an element of social ineptness and the inability to communicate successfully with your fellow human beings – you can simply pay for someone to like you … and be your friend.

As one understands it, poppets may already enjoy such a service on many an inner city street corner and in certain ‘select’ establishments where foisty bodily aromas linger in the air - partially camouflaged by a toilet block - and carpet stainage is hidden with subdued lighting. However, a young man who had started a pimping organisation for just such pay-as-you-go friends assured us, in a rather wishy-washy-not-entirely-convinced-himself fashion, that this was not the case.

Having pondered the situation carefully, one would sincerely advise all of one’s poppets not to get involved in such a sinister arrangement and certainly not prostitute themselves so. Goodness, it’s bad enough when one goes to a restaurant; “I didn’t have the wine”, “I only had a main course”, “I’m a vegan”.

Heaven only knows if this took off and groups were involved; “I only said hello but paid for an hour”, “We’ve been talking all night! Do you take Chip ‘n’ Pin?” and “Ooh! You brushed my hooter; that’ll be £16.50 and a white wine spritzer”.

It would be absolute pandemonium!! Should such poor poppets exist, they’d still feel utterly uncomfortable had they left their reclusive cocoon and actually met someone new naturally, but simply be out of pocket doing it.

Instead, come join one and one’s chums on Twitter, Facebook or indeed, stop by here at one's website for a coffee from time to time - and you will always have a friend in Crusty. What’s more, one’s friendship is free!

© DCG 2010

A Morning of Chaos at Crusty Hall

It promised to be a glorious day: Crusty Hall – indeed, the entire estate - was saturated with the rippling rays of Señor Sol’s glowing sunlight as one walked out onto the steps of the main entrance to take in the sumptuous summer air.

Inhaling deeply – with one’s bosom expanding as one did so – one had just reached the point of fullness – when one spluttered (elegantly, of course) when one noticed a young, half-naked, muscular gentleman to one's left. He was delivering some hay for one’s dear horse, Dribble, but one could do nothing other than stand open mouthed as he began emptying his load right by the side of the conservatory. This was quite outrageous!

It was not customary for those who provided a service to the estate to come up the front. One always insisted they use the back entrance to ensure they can complete their duties without being seen. After all, one never knows when one will have an unexpected visitor, does one?

“Morning!” Shouted the young man, grabbing one of his bales and giving it a yank to the floor.

Dumfounded, one turned into the house and shouted for one’s faithful houseboy; “CHU ME! Hurry, dear!”

Like a flip-flop gilded gazelle he sprang out from the inside of the house and landed at one’s side. “Chu Me, dear,” one continued, pointing at the bare chested workman,”this is quite unacceptable. Please tend to the matter at once!”

Efficient as ever, he took charge of the situation and within a few moments, he was successfully taking the hayman up the rear. Slowly, one began to relax and enjoy the morning once more. Until, that is, one looked down and saw Crotchet padding across the drive. He had clearly been rolling around the dewy foliage and his fur was dripping wet. Trying to act oblivious to it all, he came closer. Folding one’s arms one moved to block him, “Crotchet, dear, where do you think you are going in that state?”

He stopped to look up at his displeased mistress, “You are not entering our home like that, poppet. One will not tolerate a wet pussy rubbing against one’s antique fabrics! You shall stay in the grounds until you are dry, dear. Now … off you go!” He turned and headed off, his tail shaking upright like that of a rattlesnake, show ing his annoyance and – one believes - a small pump of disgust was expelled to emphasise his point.

One simply couldn’t believe it. The morning was becoming a disaster. One felt one was in the middle of a scene from 2012, only blessed by the fact that the situation was – frankly – more believable.

Anyhoo … Just as one was about to return indoors, one felt the vicar’s horn pierce one’s eardrum. Sure enough, turning on the heel of one’s Gucci slipper, one saw his head whizzing past the bush at the bottom of the drive. He was panting furiously as he tried to make the entire uphill journey without stopping for a breather. One called for a member of the household staff to bring a glass of water and we waited …and waited … and waited. Eventually, he pulled up outside the steps, his face a very peculiar colour, and the small urchin in one’s employ ran to his aid with the water.

“Good … morning …Dame Cru …Crusty!” The vicar said, trying to catch his breath. “I was passing … and thought I’d … thought I’d pop by.”

“Had you taken any longer, vicar, you would have been passing by. I was about to close the door!

“I know. I must apologise, I’m having terrible problems. I think my sprocket may have gone.”

“Nothing a good rest and a bag of ice wouldn’t cure, I’m sure. Now … a spot of tea?”

One sashayed into the house with the vicar close behind, his bicycle clips clanging as we went. We took tea in the Drawing Room where one is convinced he was trying to tell me something, but the chaos of the morning had put my mind on another track and one simply sat and looked past him the whole time.

From the window, one could see the hayman and Chu Me down by the stables. Dribble was just starting to come out while Chu Me was trying desperately to prove himself, by helping with the unloading. He was simply too small resulting in the hayman having to drop his own handful and grab Chu Me’s bale to do the humping himself, while Chu Me, precariously, sat on top. Finally, his job done, the hayman shot off leaving Chu Me to clean up the mess. One sighed with relief as one began to see order was being restored to the day.

One turned one’s attention back to the vicar, who was still rambling on. By this point, one had missed what he’d already said so thought it best not to waste the energy listening to the conclusion, so smiled delightfully and injected the odd “Oh!”, “I see!” and “Well, of course” in what seemed like appropriate moments.

After a further cup of tea and six milk chocolate digestives, the vicar gave his leave. As he mounted his bicycle at the steps he turned, “Oh! By the way, Marjorie said she may call by later for a chat about the school sports day.” A shiver went up one’s spine.

“Oh no! One fears one will be out poppet” One said.

“When?” The vicar asked.

“Whenever she calls, dear! No doubt I’ll see her in the village at some point.”

“Very well, Dame Crusty. Must dash! So much more pleasurable going down, isn’t it?.”

“Quite, dear!” One replied with a shocked look on one’s face.

And with that one waved him goodbye as he set off down the drive. One waited several minutes on the step. No more emergencies seemed to be rearing their heads, so one headed into the bar for a gin.

© Copyright DCG 2010

Jonathan Ross - Wolls Over For A Million.

News has reached one's office, here at Crusty Hall, that the lecherous Jonathan Ross will be moving to ITV late next year with a new prime time chat show.

When asked about it by members of the media, he was enthusiastic about bringing us something 'fast and funny'

One is delighted he's making a departure from his current format. One wishes him well ...and that he gets that folicularly floppy hair cut once and for all!

One Year On - Crusty Remembers Michael Jackson.

Mother Nature had been kind and the day had been glorious! Señor Sol had extended his tentacles of warming sunlight across the region and one had even managed to allocated three hours to recline on the terrace, adorned only in Factor 30, a wide brimmed hat, several diamonds and a mental image of Dr. Christian Jessen in a pair of skimpy, gossamer thin budgie-smugglers.

The evening proved to be just as warm but there was still a pleasant, summery silence in the residence that evening, despite the windows being opened, letting the breeze from the estate circulate around the principal rooms.

Chu Me had joined forces with one’s pussy, Crotchet, in an attempt to catch a moth that had penetrated one’s inner sanctum and as they ran off down the endless corridors, one was left alone.

Ficking up and down the listings on one’s Sky+ system one came across the filmumentary This Is It; the snippets edited together from the rehearsals of Michael Jackson’s last tour, before he sadly moonwalked into the afterlife and left his fans inconsolably bereft of his dancing deliciousness. One was about to … to use a technical term …’page down’ … when one remembered it had just passed the anniversary of his death. How rather fitting it would be for one to pay one’s own homage to him and watch the piece; absorbing his musical mastery. This Is It it was and that was that.

One found it very poignant indeed. Here one was, sitting in the luxurious splendour of Crusty Hall, dressed in natural designer fabrics, a few diamonds and holding a beautiful Baccarat crystal tumbler of gin against one’s shapely thigh and there was a iconic poppet preparing for his tour; not knowing, that in a very short space of time, he would be no more; that rumours would be abound at the cause of his departure; that the 2 minute silence at his memorial concert would be completely ruined by the annoying voiceover of Paul Gambaccini until he realised 12 seconds from the end … and that Mariah Scary would still manage to hoist her puppies up – inappropriately so – at the very same event before murdering his classic ‘I’ll Be There’ (one could almost hear muffled shouting from the coffin that afternoon yelling, “For the love of God, woman!!!).

Anyhoo … Throughout the entire film, one squealed with excitement and awe at his voice and his delicious dance moves. On several occasions one felt the urge to set down the crystal tumbler and applaud gleefully with the odd shout of ¡Bravísimo, guapo!. He was simply magnificent … except for the ‘I Just Can’t Stop Loving You’ segment, which one fears was all a little Child-Catcher-Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang. Had Crusty been the one he was singing to, one thinks one would have been urged to tell him to try and stop – especially if he continued to dance in that fashion - otherwise one would be forced to get a court injunction.

There was one thing, however, that truly amazed one as the show finished and one had a moment of reflection. Here was a slim – yet, muscled – individual, bursting with talent from every atom of his being. Due to his frame executing years of breathtaking gyration, he had maintained a small, dainty and pleasantly pert buttock region. How utterly astounding it was that for such a small arsal expanse, so many of the entourage were able to kiss it simultaneously!

Glamour Awards 2010 - Nothing Glamorous About Them, Dear!

One was reminded, recently, of the disgraceful shenanigans that went on at this year’s Glamour Women of the Year Awards in London, hosted by James Corden.

One is unclear of the credence that one can give to these particular awards, particularly when you consider Cheryl y’nailed-it Cole was voted Woman of the Year and Dannniiiiiii Minge (sorry, my keyboard’s sticking) won Personality of the Year, despite never actually showing us she has one. To rub a further palm full of Maldon salt flakes into the gaping sore, Christine Bleakley – a recent addition to the WAG club (her mother must be so proud) – was named Presenter of the Year. One would have liked to have seen the quality of the other nominees in that category to conclude piss-poor Christine was the best! She may have crossed the English Channel on water-skis but one crossed the River Pees Burn in a badly lubricated pedalo and one never received the slightest bit of recognition, just the clap that Chu Me gave me as one disembarqued!

The outfits worn were certainly proof it wasn't a necessarily plush affair. Many of the celebrities snapped in the traditional photos had clearly been dressing in porta-loos without the blessing of a mirror. The ensembles were like that of holiday makers …the things you’d never wear on a night out at home, but in a country two thousand miles away you could get away with because no one knew you. Coincidentally, looking at the stills from the event, one didn't know 95.35% of them.

Anyhoo … the most shocking moment of the proceedings took place during the presentation of the Film Actress of the Year award, won by Zoe Saldana of Avatar fame (though in truth it was the acting of the CGI representation of her that did all the work). Master of ceremonies James Corden introduced the person to present the award, Sir Patrick Stewart and well … what followed wasn’t pretty...



Now, one knows James Corden is like something strange you find in your mouth; you can either swallow it or have a compelling urge to spit it out caused by a natural gag reflex, but on the whole he is quite harmless and apart from the rather irritating false laugh he insists on using, he can be relatively entertaining. However, I do feel that the diplomatic qualities of the former captain of the Starship Enterprise were taking a small holiday when he thought his Shakespearean wit and delivery could attack and embarrass a ‘comedian’ (for want of a better word) in such a public setting.

Nevertheless, the damage is done and poor comedic poppet, James, must battle on despite having his fatulage attacked so publicly by a knight of Her Majesty’s realm. As for Sir Patrick … he must now Troy to engage his fans and Klingon to his reputation, hoping that he can make the incident blow over without being reported. There is no Data, at this stage, to suggest he can make it so.