Wildlife at Breakfast

The fire cracked in the hearth like Dame Birley Shassey’s hips. The flickerations of orangey-yellow light danced across the walls of the room and glistened off one’s epidermal moisture. The gentle sounds of one’s dear twitterchum Holly Johnson’s voice filled the air from the Bang & Olufsen music system and a feeling of pure paradise welled up inside one’s elegant frame. One rubbed one’s oily palms together contentedly. Then, leaning forward and… just as one began to rub the warmed baby oil into the tanned, pert buttocks of one’s most treasured poppet, Jake Canuso … one woke up!

Chu Me had knocked on the door of one’s bedroom to bring one breakfast and this noise, that of his small hand upon one’s wooden door, had plucked one from one’s dreamy paradise.

One adjusted oneself into a seated position while Chu Me placed the breakfast tray on the table to the side of the bed. He plumped up one’s pillows so maximum comfort could be enjoyed. One settled back into their downy plumptiousness and looked at the exquisite array of bacon, sausage and egg one’s faithful houseboy had placed before one. Delicious!

One had just picked up one’s knife and fork when Chu Me shouted, “Peacock!”

Cutting through the thick rasher bacon one replied, “No, thank you dear. One doesn’t need one at the moment. Perhaps after some food and a cup of tea.”

He tugged at the sleeve of one’s nightdress. “Good Lord, Chu Me! One is not a machine. One can not just go at your beck and call!” It was then that one  looked at him and saw him  pointing – with his other hand – toward the window. There, behind the pane of glass, was indeed the face of one of the estate’s peacocks. It was quite amazing. 

One has often seen a peahen but ...goodness ... it has been a while since once saw a cock outside one's bedroom window!

Benidorm Series 4 - You Say Mateo, One Says Potato

It was Friday afternoon and one had taken GUSSET 2 for a spin down to the village. One had arranged to meet one’s dear friends Fanny O’Dour and Kitty at the Badger’s Snatch for a chilled glass of Pere Ventura Nature Tresor and to catch up on the recent local gossip.

As one pulled up outside the front of the village pub, life seemed to be going on as usual. Daphne Dewdrop had clearly enjoyed herself the night before. All the evidence was there; slumped back asleep on the bench in the corner of the village green, a bottle of 20/20 gripped in her mitten, lipstick smudged all over her face and her knickers apparently being warn as an off-white cotton anklet. In the distance, one could see Mr Peppercorn preparing his sausage meat through the window of his butcher’s emporium and Annelise Stules-Hoffen, the village chemist, was out cleaning her windows with a quick squirt and a follow through with a rubberised length.

Getting out of the Aston and locking the door, one heard a thunderous voice shouting, “Good Morning, Dame Crusty!” One turned one’s head to the right to see a large muscular drayman standing by the side of his vehicle yanking off his kegs and emptying his weekly load into the cellar below.

“Good morning, poppet! Goodness, you’re grip is vice-like.” One shouted back.

Entering the Badger’s Snatch with an elegant sashay, one joined Kitty and Fanny at a window table. Fanny’s husband Willy had already been kind enough to lay out some nibbles and, upon one’s arrival, brought an ice bucket containing the chilling bottle of Pere Ventura Cava we were to consume during our gossipfest.

It was towards the end of our meeting when we had a visitor. Annelise Stules-Hoffen had seen one pull up and had walked across – squeegee in hand – to invite us to her home that very evening. She was holding a skin awareness evening where she was going to explain various skin conditions with the aid of a selection of pastries, followed by suggested remedies using some of the many concoctions a person could buy over her counter. All-in-all, it sounded quite revolting, so one interjected speedily.

“Annalise dear, your invitation is very thoughtful but alas this evening there is something of such importance that even an invitation to dine at Buck House would be turned down. Tonight we see the return of Benidorm to our screens and it would be deeply unfair if one did not support one’s gorgeous poppet, Derren, after all the work he has put into it. There are also rumours that one’s treasured poppet Jake Canuso is to be caught without a stitch on, so you will appreciate one will need to be present when it happens to ascertain the most fitting moments to freeze frame.”

Though she had a look of confusion on her face (no more so than one did when she got to the ‘selection of pastries’ bit of her invitation) she quite understood and returned to the chemist shop, where she had left the village teacher, Molly Coddle, searching for a corn plaster.

Sipping the last bubblicious drops of one’s Cava, one set down the flute on the table and checked one’s Cartier watch. “Fanny? Kitty? Always a pleasure never a chore, but pray excuse one as one must away to make preparations for this evening.”

By 8.52pm Crusty Hall and its grounds were secure. The drive gates were locked, the telephones had been take off the hook, a selection of mouth-watering tapas had been placed in the Doctor Christian Room of the residence, along with several bottles of chilled Cava (naturally) and a pitcher of gin for emergencies. One reclined elegantly back on one’s chaise and clutched the framed, lipstick covered photograph of dear Derren that one had Chu Me bring in from the oak-panelled bar here at Crusty Hall. One cuddled it to one’s heaving bosom with affection and anticipation. One’s pussy Crotchet settled in his faux leopard skin and cream fur bed and one let out a small squeal of delight as it dawned on one… 9pm …the time had come!

One realised the new series would have a different feel. Last year the deliciously talented and well respected Geoffrey Hutchings – who played Mel - passed away and our writing poppet dwelled on whether a replacement should be sought. In the end he made the perfect decision and wrote an emotional Christmas special where the cast and viewer could say goodbye to him affectionately. Thankfully, however, due to the medium of film his memory will endure for generations to come.

And so the story starts; the Garvey family arrive at the airport; the start of their holiday and they are in search of their hire car (One only hopes it wasn’t from Europcar; if one could steer one’s poppets away from any holiday hire company it would be they. Recently, after Chu Me and I had used their services 'sin problemas' for an eternity, they decided to withdraw further money after the rental and when one complained most strongly … their customer service skills and focus on assisting a long running customer were non existent. By the end of several items of correspondence, it was clear that they cared as much about one as one cared for them.)

Anyhoo …. The comfortable feeling of being among one’s long participating Benidorm chums made one relax immediately and within minutes we were by the poolside of the Solana. It was here we began to be introduced to the new characters; the holidaying friends Natalie and Sam, the delicious Adam Gillen, playing Liam  - Tim the-roller-skating-tranny Healy’s son – and the beguiled Kenneth, friend and work colleague of the gorgeous Gavin, played by Hugh Sachs. One often thinks new characters can knock a programme off kilter but Derren’s exquisite writing solved that and they were like the knickers of a five legged woman … fitting snuggly like a glove.

As if the new characters were not enough, it was in the Altea Hills we come upon a British legend. One screamed as Mick and Janice were confronted by the utterly divine Cilla Black who had taken over Janice’s mother’s villa. One would never have envisaged a swinging Cilla but when the naughty Donald and Jacquline appeared on the scene it left a moment of comedic perfection in the annals of televisual history. The mental images one has of Donald, Jacqueline and Cilla naked in the Jacuzzi with bubbles blasting up between their buttocks under the Benidorm sun will stay with one for some time. The question the nation was faced with, however, was … where was Madge?

Not knowing what to expect and feeling quite concerned for her well-being, one was relieved the camera located her in a rundown caravan, as Janice frantically called her mobile when she found her mother’s electric scooter for sale in the local second hand market. Madge was in hiding. Keeping out of sight her scruffy, dishevelled state and before we knew where we were, The Garveys discover poor Madge has been left with huge debts after some unsuccessful investments by her late husband and she is being hunted down for settlement by the local villains.

This dramatic tale was a perfect contrast against the comedy of the other characters and one must confess a droplet pushed itself up from one’s right tear duct at the scene and wonderful connection between Dame Sheila Reid ( Madge) and the gorgeous Hugh Sachs (Gavin) by the poolside; Gavin recognises the scruffy Madge and gets up to say hello. Turning round he asks her "Where's Mel?", only to be told, “He died! On Christmas Day!” One could feel the emotion and sadness between them, heightened further by the camp interjections from Kenneth from his sunbed. Wonderful!

One was, of course, delighted to see one’s most treasured poppet, Jake ­he-of-the-gossamer-thin-budgie-smuggler Canuso appear on one’s 32 incher throughout, and one roared with laughter when a regional icon from one’s own locale, Tim Healy, stepped behind the poolside bar of the resort and called our dear Mateo …Potato. One still giggles now when one recalls it.

To top off this opening episode of joy, we have a Jackie Chanesque fight sequence between the Garveys, Madge, Lesley (the roller skating transvestite), Mateo-Potato and gangster’s moll, Scary Mary – played beautifully by a further regional icon of the North East Riviera, Denise Welch.

By the time one saw Janice head-butting Scary Mary to a state of unconsciousness, one was well and truly satisfied and applauded loudly. Even one’s pussy, Crotchet, banged his right paw against the parquet flooring with purring-padded approval.

As the credits began, one took a sip of from a Baccarat flute of Cava and reflected. Is it any wonder Derren and his chums won the National Television Award? One thinks not!

Amazingly, there are some people who do not “get” the show. Not appreciating its qualities and it’s modern day homage to some of the great comedies of our proud past; Are You Being Served? Carry Ons etc. Indeed, after the National Television Awards one “critic” from the Guardian – Vicky Frosty-knickers – seemed to scorn the presented award when there were "better" programs out there. Clearly, the brain the good Lord gave her behind her chubby cheeks didn’t understand the who premise of the awards. That winner was chosen by those whose opinion counts; the people who watch and adore the show.

Needless to say we shall not dwell on her. When one investigated her futher and found a photograph on Google, Crotchet immediately coughed up a furball on the blotting paper upon one’s writing desk. Sufficed to say, should Vicky Frosty-knickers discover anything that she has a talent for, one prays people are a little kinder to her … or, then again, not.

For Crusty, the show is exquisitely delicious and one cannot wait for the coming episodes. One must cast aside the sadness that one's poppet has decided this will be his last series. There may be others that take Derren's baby and take it further, but one only need look at Ronnie Mitchell and Kat Slater to see how that one turns out.

In the meantime, one raises one’s glass to a script writing wonder …. Ladies and gentlespoons …Sir Derren Litten …Chin, chin *clink*

The Brit Awards 2011 - Crusty Reflects

It’s certainly been a year for award ceremonies, has it not poppet? We’ve had the Glamour Awards, the BAFTAs, the National Telelvision Awards (in which one’s delicious twitterchum Sir Derren Litten was victorious), the Golden Globes and the Most Shapely Ankle of the Village 2011 (which one has won for 10 consecutive years).

On Wednesday evening, one entered Litten’s bar – the gorgeous oak panelled room in one’s beloved Crusty Hall – to sit and enjoy a Mojito or two. As one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, poured one’s intoxicating minty mixture into a glistening Baccarat tumbler, one glided effortlessly to the television and switched it on. Imagine one’s glee when one saw Take That, writhing their manly hips on one’s 32 incher. Excited by their gyrations on the long – almost phallic – stage, one checked the guide on the television and saw it was the Brit Awards 2011.

The five pulsatingly popular poppets sang their little hearts out backed by a dance troupe kitted out in, what looked like, riot gear. The music took them over in a moment of frenzied madness and the dance troupe, thrusting their shields in front of them, grabbed their thick black truncheons and began whacking their helmets with vigour, before whipping off their riotesque garmentry and stripping down to their under-crackers for the climax. Take That’s opening had left one breathless and moist!

Dear James Corden did a magnificent job of hosting the proceedings and managed to get through everything without any controversy (Clearly Sir Patrick Stewart hadn’t been invited - or given permission from his nurse to attend - after the infamous Glamour Award debacle). One did think one small child … Justin Beaver, or some such fancy …was going to wet his undergarments at the comedic flirtatiousness from the host but after several minutes and giggles from the audience, realised the attentions were for comic effect and joined in.

It was also nice to see all the acts behaving themselves. None of the usual alco-pop fuelled tom-foolery that one normally sees at the event; every one trying to be as obnoxious as the last or asking for a bit of rough-and-tumble outside in the foyer because “my eyebrows are bushier than yours!” nonsense, as witnessed between Robbie Williams and Liam needs-a-good-slap-across-the-dish Gallagher some years ago.

The performances were impressively staged; Adele sang her little emotionally-laden heart out accompanied only by a pianist …[Stop giggling, Chu Me! …P-I-A-N-I-S-T! … For goodness sake!], Rihanna expelled a ripple of raunchiness across the auditorium as she swung her surprisingly ample hippage up and down the catwalk and Plan B brought us a melodic medley of their hits, while re-enacting the court case of a rather naughty chav.

The down side to the evening - for there must always be one – was the introduction of award presenter Cheryl y-nailed-it Tweedy-pie Cole. As she clomped her way down the runway in her off-the-peg ensemble, she smiled at the crowd and greeted everyone with her best telephone voice – suitable for any number of the call centres residing in our region. Indeed, it may well have been the case that her frock was acquired from just such an call centre … a catalogue, perhaps.

Anyhoo … one suspects it was in preparation for her possible move to the land of our American poppets. While talks have been going on for her involvement in the US X-Factor, there were concerns the Americans may not understand her (one fears, it’s a given!)

One noted she was up for an award herself, but by then one had completely lost interest in for what. However, they did show a snippet of her video for Parachute, where she sings those well penned lines, ‘I don’t need no parachute’. Apart from correcting her grammar, one was always tempted to take her to 33,000ft and test her theory. Alas, social engagements prevented one from doing so, so we shall never know.

 All in all it was a wonderful night. It appeared all the people who deserved awards won them and there was none of the jiggery-pokery going on as in years gone by. And the show was ended with a duet with the beautifully packaged plumptiousness of Cee Lo Green and our very own, exquisitely delicious Paloma Faith.

Despite one’s VIP invite not having arrived in time, one sat back and sipped from the tumbler of minty mojitoness and felt quite content. Bravísimo to all of the winners.

A Certain Chord Plucks Crusty's Strings

 Chord Overstreet *squeal*!!

One has been thoroughly enjoying season two of the ear-poppingly, leg-bucklingly entertaining Glee.

The characters are a wonderfully eclectic mix and one is particularly fond of the incredibly talented and angelically voiced Chris Colfer (Kurt Hummel) and the utterly gorgeous Amber Riley (Mercedes Jones). Amber's vocal vibrations constantly rip the tights from one's shapely thighs when ever she belts out a number and Chris ... well, everytime he sings a song one is consumed by the overwhelming passion and feeling his voicebox projects, through the speakers at either side of one's 32 incher. Utterly exquisite!!

Strangely enough, the delicious Jane Lynch (Sue Sylvester) reminds one of oneself in one's younger years; always thinking of others, always polite and never offensive ... and, indeed, the only difference one can find is that one never had the experience of wearing a tracksuit having never lived in local authority housing. Other than that we could almost be twins!

Recently, however, one's eyes have been drawn to a rather slurpalicious piece of eye-candy that has joined the talented cast. One, of course, refers to the blonde beau of breathtakenness, Chord Overstreet.

One shall watch with interest his progression through the series and the development as the character Sam Evans. One shall also remain hypnotised by those rather cupidesque lips ... so full and plumptious they could suck the catalytic converter from a tail pipe!

Santa Litten Fills Crusty's Stocking.

A rather special event occurred here at Crusty Hall over the recent festive season, when Santa Litten slipped something a little special inside one’s stocking. Who is his Santa Litten? One hears you ask.

Many readers from Her Majesty’s realm will, of course, recognise the name immediately … it is the utterly delicious comedic poppet, Derren Litten, who not only – and among other things – co-wrote The Catherine Tate Show, but also is the master behind the hugely popular series Benidorm. For international poppets, this is a masterpiece observation of British families and friends holidaying under the tentacles of Señor Sol in the holiday resort of the very same name.

One has often campaigned for one’s dear Derren to be knighted and, quite frankly, one thinks it is outrageous that it has not already taken place. After all, they gave a knighthood to John Prescott and what has he ever accomplished? Save standing in as a stunt double for the Churchill insurance mascot while he is away getting his nails clipped and his anal glands cleaned!

One is quite sure, that with a sustained campaign, young Derren will receive his reward soon enough; kneeling to feel a heavy weapon bounce off each shoulder to shoot off to the side once done for a spot of tea and nibbles.

The show itself is jam-packed with talent; the delicious Dame Sheila Reid, who casts aside her natural elegance to portray a hard-talking, cigarette-puffing woman of little patience for her family; One’s leg-bucklingly gorgeous twitterchum Jake he-of-the-gossamer-thin-budgie-smuggler Canuso … (one feels quite giddy just mentioning his name) … and the further deliciousness of regulars Steve Pemberton, Tim Healy (a monument of North East manliness), Siobhan Finneran, the charming Hugh Sachs and the teasingly titterlicious Janine Duvitski and Kenny Ireland.

Goodness, one could go on and on, could one not? The show is well endowed indeed with British talent!

Anyhoo … it was the week before Christmas and one was in one’s study writing out a card for Derren’s birthday. By chance, one's pussy, Crotchet, was wandering annoyingly across the keys of one’s laptopular device and activated the favourite icon for one’s poppet’s blog. There in front of one was an invitation to submit an email to him, as part of a competition, to say why one liked Benidorm.

One immediately felt a tingle oscillate up one’s inners thighs, around one’s downstairs area and shoot up to one’s perky bosom where it lingered momentarily. How wonderful!! One had been set a challenge and one was determined to rise up to it.

Setting the card aside, one picked up a quality piece of writing paper and one’s trusty fountain pen and got to work. After 7¼ hours, 6 gins, a small plate of boquerones en vinagre and a furball (the latter from Crotchet, incidentally) one sat back elated at one’s efforts:

The 21^st of December,

Is a very special occasion,

For an undervalued treasure

Of our ever glorious nation.

One speaks of one’s dear poppet -

For whom one is slightly smitten -

The utterly delicious … talented

Soon(?), Sir Derren Litten.

He’s witty and outspoken,

And, often, very naughty,

And this particular cumpleaños

Tickles the very toes of 40.

And to celebrate his birthday,

He’s set himself a mission,

To put a Christmas Card and DVD

Up for competition!

The DVD is of Benidorm,

His comedy masterpiece,

A series which keeps one’s chuckle-muscles

In ever such a crease.

His writing is simply exquisite,

His characters sublime,

All enjoying the Solana Resort

Under Señor Sol’s sunshine.

But though comedy is the theme throughout,

We can bathe in other things,

And the sentimental moments

Gently tug at one’s heart strings.

Like the continuing troubled saga

Of dear Martin and wife Kate,

Riding life’s roller-coaster

Of drama, love and hate;

The Oracle on his search for love,

With his mum, Noreen … who’s canny

But the only girl he ends up with

Is a Healy-esque Geordie tranny.

And the complicated goings on

Of the infamous Garvey clan;

Chantelle, with baby Coolio and

A chain-smoking, sun-drenched Nan.

Janice with her smitten beau,

Desperate for a snog,

While poor Mick can do nothing more

Than sit there all agog.

Sadly, the family was broken up

With the devastating loss of Mel,

After Geoffrey Hutchings left us

After he’d spent a time unwell.

An actor of pure quality,

Who we will never see again,

Who always gave a performance

That was, by far, ten out of ten!

And of course, the oooofalicious dreamboat …

Mateo, is his name,

A smouldering package of chunkiness

With his smooth and muscular frame

Who uses his sexual prowess

To seduce his chosen pray,
(Well, if one were at the Solana Resort,

He could certainly have his way!

One would gladly spend an afternoon

Rubbing oil into his back,

And maybe let one’s hand slip down

And rest between his cr …[cough]);

So, one thinks it would be quite wonderful -

If not a little shocking -

If Santa Litten came and dumped his prize

Inside one’s stocking

So when one woke up on Christmas morning,

One could untie the festive wrapper -

Before even getting out of bed

And heading for the cra … toilet -

And squeal, if it were possible

For one’s misty eyes to see,

An autographed, glistening copy

Of the box set of series three!

So, as one sashays into Litten’s,

The bar in one’s beloved Crusty Hall,

One always takes a little gasp,

Seeing his deliciousness upon the wall,

With a little smudge of lipstick

Pressed against his upper cheek,

(One likes to re-apply the lippy

T’ freshen up the smudge each week.)

One raises one’s glass in honour

To a man one just adores,

From the top of his highest follicle,

To the tip of his very toes.

From where he’s elegantly mounted,

 He watches over every tipple

And it never fails to bring to one

An epidermal ripple

Of dreamy pleasure that oscillates

Through every nerve and pore,

And continues through one’s skeleton

Then onto one’s very core.

May your birthday be filled with wonderment

And with all that you desire,

May the drink flow oh so generously,

And may you never tire.

Have a very Merry Christmas,

With friends and family near,

I’m sure you’ll enjoy every minute of it

(You’re very popular, dear.)

 And may 2011 be saturated

With love, with joy, with laugher

And happiness for now, tomorrow

And then for ever after.

One typed up the short verse as quickly as one’s beautifully manicured nails could manage and sent it off without delay. A few days later (one screams aloud just recalling it) one received a delightful Christmas card from the delicious Derren himself. This naturally took pride of place in Litten’s, which is the recently renamed bar here at one’s beloved Crusty Hall.

Not only that, but one had been triumphant at one’s attempt to win the competition and a week later the DVD arrived! One is quite sure one felt a surge of genius ripple through one’s fingers as one ripped opened his package and ran one’s fingers slowly over his thick, black moniker.

One shall of course watch it several times before it is put safely in the family vault, where it can be added to all the other valuables that make up the Gusset estate.

Eastenders Brings Star Trek A Little Closer.

One had just finished rubbing warm baby oil up the muscular inner thighs of Dr. Christian Jessen, when one suddenly awoke.

As the sleepy mistiness lifted from one’s eyes, one realised one was alone. Crotchet was no where to be seen and must have decided to utilise his cat-flap to explore the grounds; Chu Me had mentioned earlier that he had something that was in need of a quick rub, so one suspected he was still ensconced in his urgent rubbage, judging by the faint and distant panting one could hear from the corridor beyond.

One’s 32 incher had been on in the background as one dozed and as one looked towards its twinkling pixels one saw that a further depressing instalment of Eastenders was underway. One had been watching it recently in the hope of seeing one's delicious twitterchum Dan Brocklebank but it was not to be.

As one was drawn into the action, while trying to blot out the shape of Ian Beale with the aid of a mother of pearl coaster over one’s left eye, one’s mind began to whir. In particular, over the antics of Janine Butcher; Quite a nasty piece of works that one … and more so in this episode where her plan to poison her enemies was beginning to be acted out.

In an earlier scene, when she moved from room to room with Pat in tow – dragging her primary coloured danglies along with her – she was acting out every possible state of distress, anger, confusion and laughter. One realised one had saw something as vicious and vengeful as this before … but where?

After a sip from one’s Baccarat tumbler of gin and a shot of her lying with her crazed head on a pillow, scrunching up her rather high brow, a thought began to cross one’s mind ….’yIDoqhQo!’ One thought to oneself.

Goodness, one seemed to have been infiltrated by a strange tongue! …and then the penny well and truly plunged from a heavenly heights and clattered to stillness in the bottom of the terracotta pot of thought! She’s a Klingon!!

The reality of Star Trek, poppets, is a little closer than we think, one fancies!

Farewell Leslie Nielsen - Dame Crusty Mourns.

 1926 - 2010

As one sat in the Morning Room taking a pot of tea and a spot of crumpet with one’s good friend Fanny O’Dour - from the Badger’s Snatch - one was devastated to hear the very sad news that an actorial poppet - who had long been a comedic genius - had passed away.

One, of course, refers to the great Leslie Nielsen.

Born in 1926 he achieved a highly successful career in the early days as a serious actor before thrusting to meteoric stardom through his comedy roles. In particular, one thinks of the hit series Police Squad – in which he played Detective Frank Drebin - the film Airplane and the wonderful Naked Gun series of films, where Frank Drebin was revived for the big screen.

Leslie always made one titter uncontrollably, especially with his expressionless face as chaos erupted all around him. In the Naked Gun films, he teamed up with Priscilla Presley. This, at the time, was considered an unexpected pairing, however the two made a laughaliciously pleasing double act and his silver fox looks contrasted perfectly with Priscilla’s dark striking beauty. Indeed, Priscilla’s own expressionless face proved perfect for the comedy performance too.

Having said that, one recently saw a couple of old episodes of the US show Dancing with the Stars in which Priscilla was participating. Close ups suggested she had not so much had a Nip and Tuck but more a Grab and Stuff. Honestly, poppets, at first one thought one was watching Jacqui Stallone shaking her tail-feather on stage …until one realised there was no dribbling! Perhaps the lack of facial expression was not her comedy acting …perhaps it simply wasn’t humanly possible for the poor poppet!

Anyhoo … as one’s treasured poppets will know, the Gusset motto is Love, Joy and Laughter and Leslie certainly had, and gave, all three in gargantuan proportions. Though he may have left us, from the sun tickled shores of Fort Lauderdale at the rather impressive age of 84, we are truly blessed that his work is left for future generations to enjoy and, indeed, for his current legion of admirers to revisit  his gorgeousness whenever they so wish.

Back at one’s home and upon hearing the news one sashayed with sombre steps, with Fanny and Chu Me in tow, to the bar in Crusty Hall – recently renamed Litten’s after one’s delicious poppet Derren Litten. There we popped open a bottle of Pere Ventura, filled the Baccarat flutes and toasted his life, his accomplishments and his towering titterliciousness. Even one’s pussy, Crotchet maintained his ears at half mast as a mark of respect to the great man.

Chin, chin, Leslie dear, you'll never be forgotten, surely! *clink* 

[Stop calling me Shirley!]