The heavy wood door of Crusty Hall slowly opened, as one grabbed the immaculately buffed knob and twisted it to the left. Señor Sol’s tentacles of light burst through the opening and bounced off the reflective surfaces of the tiled vestibule and ricocheted off the walls of the Great Hall.
At the foot of the steps outside, one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, had prepared GUSSET 2 for one’s excursion into the village. With one thing and another, it seemed like an age since one had ventured out of the grounds of one’s exquisite residence. One had decided that a blast down the country lanes, into the heart of the village, to partake of a snifter or two with one’s dear friend, Fanny O’Dour, at The Badger’s Snatch, would be the perfect opportunity to catch up.
Chu Me held the driver’s door open on the glistening silver Aston Martin as one elegantly plonked oneself into the leather seat. Once settled into position, he clicked the door shut. Blowing him a kiss with one’s glove-covered hand, one pushed the gear stick into first and sped off down the drive. In less than 5 minutes, one was pulling up at the front of The Badger’s Snatch.
Sashaying majestically into the front entrance once saw Fanny’s husband, Willy O’Dour, standing behind the bar. It was very quiet. The musical ping-ponging of the fruit machine in the far corner echoed out spasmodically; Veronica Mantrapp was sitting in a booth with a bottle of Brown Ale, a straw and a copy of the latest Hello! Magazine (you wouldn’t think she was a model!) and a pair of ramblers had stopped by for a sandwich and a cup of coffee to rest from their pointless journey.
Willy had his laptop on the bar and seemed engrossed in whatever he was looking at. So much so, that he hadn’t even noticed one enter.
”Good morning, Willy dear!”
“Ah! Morning Crusty.” Willy looked up, “We’ve missed you!”
“One must apologise, poppet. Things have been rather hectic at Crusty Hall. One has felt like a prisoner in one’s own home. But, at last, one is free!” Removing one’s gloves and resting them on the bar, one continued, “One thought one would nip down and catch up on all the gossip with Fanny. Is she in?”
“She’s out I’m afraid, Crusty. Daphne Dewdrop was in last night and asked her if she fancied seeing the new Sarah Jessica Parker movie today (one shuddered … naturally), so they’ve both nipped into town.”
“A new movie you say? With Sarah Jessica Parker?” One enquired, trying to control one’s gag reflex.
“Yes. It’s called I Don’t Know How She Does It, I think. Can I get you a drink?”
“A glass of Pere Ventura Cava, if you will, Willy dear.” One replied, sitting on the supportive bar stool.
Willy placed the chilled glass of golden, bubbling elixir in front of one. He picked up a brown bag by his laptop and lifted it towards one, “Would you like a barbeque Hula Hoop, Crusty?”
“Very kind, dear!” One said, taking one from the packet and settled back with one’s drink.
Willy leant over the bar and continued scanning his laptop screen while one played with his meaty ring with one’s forefinger and thumb, before navigating it between one’s lips and enjoying a good munch.
I Don’t Know How She Does It, one thought.
She’ll certain never know the heartache of losing her good looks … but she must have all the best stylists at her disposal … she must have accumulated a sizeable fortune from her moderately successful career. Furthermore, she must have a plethora of designers flinging their outfits in her direction, to hang lifelessly upon her skeletal frame… yet she still looks like that?!!
One doesn’t know how she does it either, dear!
Tuesday, 11 October 2011
Wednesday, 5 October 2011
The Golden Twit Awards 2011 - Chu Me Nominates His Mistress.
One was surprised, yet humbled to the core of one's bosom, to discover that one's faithful houseboy, Chu Me, had put one forward for this years Golden Twit Awards.
He decided to select one for the categories of Humour (one does like to spread a little love, joy and laughter), Writing (one does offer one's scribblings on this very blogette) and ... Fake Celebrity (for which one held him by the neck and gave him a good slap across the dish!).
Anyhoo ... if you are fellow Twitterees and have leanings to place your vote for one, then you may navigate to the appropriate voting booth in a jiffy by clicking the image below. On arrival at the page, simply sign in with your Twitter details and off you go!
One must say one has began making preparations should one be victorious. One has set aside an exquisite outfit, designed by the fashion-powerhouse Masato (Beverley Knight's not the only one to buy his elegant designs, you know?).
Also, one has had Chu Me send scented invitations to some of one's most treasured poppets; Jake Canuso, Derren Litten, Holly Johnson, Christian Jessen, Louie Spence, Dan Brocklebank, John Mason and Alex Nicolaou.
One thought they could dress in black Hom budgie-smugglers for the occasion - with bow ties (naturally!) - and be glistening in a fine film of baby oil, massaged carefully in to every nook and cranny of their epidermal expanse (one thinks it best if one sees to that part personally, Chu Me), then they can all take one up the aisle, help one onto the stage, where one can use one's oral skills to show one's gratitude - with one's poppets surrounding one in a semi-circle of oiled up deliciousness - before pulling them off one by one, to a ripple of applause and returning to our table to enjoy the rest of the evening with some bottles of bubbly and a few nibbles.
Goodness! One has rather enjoyed the evening already ... and it hasn't even arrived yet!!
Thursday, 15 September 2011
UK Deploys Weapon of Mass Destruction in Afghanistan
One awoke this morning to the wonderful – and long awaited – news that the Ministry of Defence had finally chosen to deploy our most heinous, lethal and abhorrent weapon into the heart of Afghanistan, in an attempt to bring the eternal battle there to an end; Cheryl y’nailed-it Cole.
While munching on a length of Mr. Peppercorn’s meaty sausage in the sumptuous comfort of one’s bed, one nodded approvingly at the decision that had been made. One’s faithful houseboy Chu Me attempted to tell one that she had gone there to motivate the troops, however, having burst into a state of hysterical laughter, with glistening droplets of joyous tears streaming down one’s face for 22½ minutes, one assured him his interpretation of the news was quite ludicrous. One still suffers a tad gigglelicious moistness at the thought even now.
Anyhoo … one is quite confident that, with the aid of some loud speakers strategically placed throughout the country and an impromptu concert where she sings a short (the shorter the better, dear!) medley of her hit, we will soon see the Taliban insurgents willingly jumping onto their own roadside IEDs and swan-diving majestically from the roof tops of tall buildings into the most densely packed areas of their deadly minefields with a overwhelming sense of urgency and purpose.
Once they have been taken care of, there is no reason, that one can see, why we can’t have all our brave troops back home with their loved ones by teatime on Saturday.
While munching on a length of Mr. Peppercorn’s meaty sausage in the sumptuous comfort of one’s bed, one nodded approvingly at the decision that had been made. One’s faithful houseboy Chu Me attempted to tell one that she had gone there to motivate the troops, however, having burst into a state of hysterical laughter, with glistening droplets of joyous tears streaming down one’s face for 22½ minutes, one assured him his interpretation of the news was quite ludicrous. One still suffers a tad gigglelicious moistness at the thought even now.
Anyhoo … one is quite confident that, with the aid of some loud speakers strategically placed throughout the country and an impromptu concert where she sings a short (the shorter the better, dear!) medley of her hit, we will soon see the Taliban insurgents willingly jumping onto their own roadside IEDs and swan-diving majestically from the roof tops of tall buildings into the most densely packed areas of their deadly minefields with a overwhelming sense of urgency and purpose.
Once they have been taken care of, there is no reason, that one can see, why we can’t have all our brave troops back home with their loved ones by teatime on Saturday.
Sunday, 14 August 2011
A Benidorm Guide to a Happy Holiday - A Must Have!
It has long been recognised that one has some very special men in one’s life; none more so, than the exquisitely delicious and award-winning, comedy genius that is Derren Litten.
For many years, Derren has brought laughter into our lives, whether through his comedy acting or through his wonderful writing. His partnership with his school friend - the gorgeous Catherine Tate - brought us the sublimely gigglicious 'Catherine Tate Show' and without him, we would not have had the pleasure of the wonderful ‘Benidorm’ (The television series, not the town, dear. …He’s not a construction worker!).
The latter has introduced us to a plethora of characters that we have grown to know and love; the Garvey family with the sun-drenched, chain-smoking matriarch, Madge; the wonderfully sarcastic Gavin and Troy; the swinging shenanigans of Donald and Jacqueline and the saucy antics of the Solana’s very own Mateo (played by one’s treasured poppet, Jake Canuso).
Derren has proved that, not only can he write fabulous comedy lines but also bring us story lines filled with emotion and sentiment. In Series 4 of the show one had many a droplet force itself from one’s tear ducts at the story line he brought us, which paid perfect homage to the late, great Geoffrey Hutchings.
Anyhoo … one was in Litten’s this afternoon – the oak-panelled bar at Crusty Hall. Chu Me had just poured one a tumbler of gin but was having considerable problem trying to get some ice cubes from a clump in the ice bucket that had frostily welded themselves to one another. One was standing behind the bar and gazing upon the picture framed magnificence of one’s comedy poppet and wondering whether to re-apply a lipstick imprint of one’s kiss upon his cheek when, suddenly, one felt an intense and very pleasurable vibration round one’s downstairs area; it was one’s mobile device.
As Chu Me, gripped his weapon of choice and managed - with a quick bash and a degree of panting – to get his rocks off, one read the screen while he deposited a handful into one’s glass. One squealed loudly.
Apparently, not only had one’s dearest poppet, Derren, been locked in a room, beavering away furiously on Benidorm Series 5 …but he had also been writing a book!!!! Good Lord, he never stops!!! Sufficed to say his work is complete and is available to pre-order from our wonderful Amazonians. One has already made one’s reservation and urge all of one’s poppets to do the same. It is guaranteed to exercise your chuckle-muscles and provide hints and tips from Madge on the art of tanning, from Donald and Jacqueline on getting into the 'swing' of things and advice from Mateo on holiday romances (oh yes, it's not all down to pert buttocks and gossamer thin budgie-smugglers, I can tell you!)
It will be the most delicious read and the sort of thing you can always give a quick fingering every now and then. You’ll also find it’s currently a hard one (and who can resist one of those), so reserve it now before it goes soft. Simply click on the image below to get your copy from Amazon!
For many years, Derren has brought laughter into our lives, whether through his comedy acting or through his wonderful writing. His partnership with his school friend - the gorgeous Catherine Tate - brought us the sublimely gigglicious 'Catherine Tate Show' and without him, we would not have had the pleasure of the wonderful ‘Benidorm’ (The television series, not the town, dear. …He’s not a construction worker!).
The latter has introduced us to a plethora of characters that we have grown to know and love; the Garvey family with the sun-drenched, chain-smoking matriarch, Madge; the wonderfully sarcastic Gavin and Troy; the swinging shenanigans of Donald and Jacqueline and the saucy antics of the Solana’s very own Mateo (played by one’s treasured poppet, Jake Canuso).
Derren has proved that, not only can he write fabulous comedy lines but also bring us story lines filled with emotion and sentiment. In Series 4 of the show one had many a droplet force itself from one’s tear ducts at the story line he brought us, which paid perfect homage to the late, great Geoffrey Hutchings.
Anyhoo … one was in Litten’s this afternoon – the oak-panelled bar at Crusty Hall. Chu Me had just poured one a tumbler of gin but was having considerable problem trying to get some ice cubes from a clump in the ice bucket that had frostily welded themselves to one another. One was standing behind the bar and gazing upon the picture framed magnificence of one’s comedy poppet and wondering whether to re-apply a lipstick imprint of one’s kiss upon his cheek when, suddenly, one felt an intense and very pleasurable vibration round one’s downstairs area; it was one’s mobile device.
As Chu Me, gripped his weapon of choice and managed - with a quick bash and a degree of panting – to get his rocks off, one read the screen while he deposited a handful into one’s glass. One squealed loudly.
Apparently, not only had one’s dearest poppet, Derren, been locked in a room, beavering away furiously on Benidorm Series 5 …but he had also been writing a book!!!! Good Lord, he never stops!!! Sufficed to say his work is complete and is available to pre-order from our wonderful Amazonians. One has already made one’s reservation and urge all of one’s poppets to do the same. It is guaranteed to exercise your chuckle-muscles and provide hints and tips from Madge on the art of tanning, from Donald and Jacqueline on getting into the 'swing' of things and advice from Mateo on holiday romances (oh yes, it's not all down to pert buttocks and gossamer thin budgie-smugglers, I can tell you!)
It will be the most delicious read and the sort of thing you can always give a quick fingering every now and then. You’ll also find it’s currently a hard one (and who can resist one of those), so reserve it now before it goes soft. Simply click on the image below to get your copy from Amazon!
Rained In With Jordan.
The weather outside was horrendous! Mother Nature certainly appeared to have a lot of angst that she wished to rid herself of. The heavy, swollen liquidity of her tears plummeted from the heavens and exploded violently upon the grounds here at Crusty Hall. One stood with a Baccarat tumbler of gin at the Study window watching this heavy curtain of water fall upon the day’s production and random droplets ricocheting from the lush green foliage of gardener’s borders.
From behind, one could hear the slapping sound given off by the flip-flops of one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me. As he came up one’s rear, one sighed and said, “One fears today is not a day to venture outside, dear.”
One had no appetite to go into the Library; by the time one had searched through the immense catalogue of books on the shelves, it would be quite possible that the day would be over. What could one do with the day? One placed the glistening crystal tumbler on the corner of one’s desk.
“Chu Me, dear, ask one of the household staff to come in, would you?”
Within a few minutes a small, slender girl entered, grabbed the sides of her skirt and curtsied, “Ma’am.”
“Ah! You there … run down to the village would you, and nip into the newsagent and bring one back some interesting reading. One is becoming extremely bored.”
The young creature looked towards the rain battered windows then back to her mistress with sad puppy-esque eyes. “Run along, dear!” One shooed with the back of one’s hand.
Following her to the front door she extended her, almost skeletal, arm towards the umbrella stand. One let out a shriek. “Good Lord! Those umbrellas are antiques, dear! You mustn’t touch them. Honestly, you shall be quite safe. Your uniform is made of synthetic fabrics so you shall be adequately protected against the rain. Now, hurry along.” Chu Me opened the great oak door and we watched her – her hand held out in front of her to shield her face from the rain – run down the saturated drive.
An hour later, one was sashaying from Litten’s – the oak-panelled bar at Crusty Hall – towards the little Dame’s room. Someone lifted one of one’s knockers and whacked it against the door. Opening it, one saw what looked like a drowned rat with the made-up face of Alice Cooper standing in front of one, shivering and clutching a sealed plastic bag. It was the member of household staff that had ran one’s errand. She handed the bag to one, to the almost Salsa-esque sound of her chattering teeth (and one must confess one felt a little shake of one’s tail-feather at the hypnotic rhythm). Then, completely unexpectedly and quite outrageously, the creature made a move to put her foot over the threshold! With the protection of the plastic bag, one propelled her back with a mighty push to her chest. One looked at her sitting there looking up at one, “Not this way, dear!” One said, closing the door, “you’ll play havoc with the parquet flooring.”
Anyhoo … One made one’s way to the Doctor Christian Room and fingered through the selection of magazines in the bag. One of the glossies that the girl had brought back was the recent edition of Closer. Reclining back on one’s chaise, one was immediately drawn – for some inexplicable reason – to the never ending, self-promoted troubles of Katie Jordan Price. It would seem that she is having a few problems with her latest beau, Leandro Penna. (Oh Lord! Here we go again!)
She has apparently told friends she feels “empty and lost”, which is quite coincidental because one has long since thought the same; one has always considered her vacuous … and … as for the point of her … one could never find it.
The report by Amy Swales, tells us she is suffering mood swings and is constantly arguing with poor Leandro about his behaviour in public and what he wears (He’s of Latin extraction, dear, he could be wearing cowbells and a smile and he’d still be stunning …whereas, if you were wearing cowbells you'd be ….well …quite at home, one fancies). The man is a successful model. One is quite sure he is highly knowledgeable about style and fashion. That is worlds apart from Katie Jordan Price who – though she may be referred to as a ‘model’ – would not have absorbed the same expertise from kneeling in a skimpy pair of pants, arching her back and thrusting forth her mammoth hooters.
The relationship situation has been made all the worse – Amy reveals - because our morsel of Argentine tottyness’ English has been improving and he’s now beginning to understand what the unnaturally blonde abomination is saying. Now … one would always urge any person one meets to learn a second language but one is saddened that one never met Leandro prior to his meeting the gutter-press goddess to whisper, “Stick with what you know, dear!” (and after all, who doesn’t adore the Spanish tongue?)
It may well be (as if one even cared) that her moodiness is being caused by the liquid diet she is on. She’s off to Marbella for a holiday and wants to lose some weight. (Holidaymakers, if you’re reading this, you still have time to pack and run ... now!). As an aside, one remmbers when one enjoyed a liquid diet some years ago. When one told the local Slimming World rep that one had lost just over a stone on it in a week, she mocked and demanded, “ What proof do you have?”
“38.5% ,dear, unless Fanny’s got an imported bottle in behind the bar.” One told her, while slapping her across the dish for her rudeness.
Having reflected upon this article, it would seem that the ceaseless stories and updates of this over-exposed eyesore are to continue. There will be a well publicised split, then when some other poor victim is drawn into the Katie Jordan Price Circus, we will be deluged with the stories of her heart-to-hearts with, not only Peter you-can-scrub-y’-washing-on-my-6-pack André, and Alex I’ll-fight-you-but-don’t-ladder-me-tights Reid but now the smoulderingly sexy deliciousness of Leandro too.
Will it ever end?! Alas, one fears not!
From behind, one could hear the slapping sound given off by the flip-flops of one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me. As he came up one’s rear, one sighed and said, “One fears today is not a day to venture outside, dear.”
One had no appetite to go into the Library; by the time one had searched through the immense catalogue of books on the shelves, it would be quite possible that the day would be over. What could one do with the day? One placed the glistening crystal tumbler on the corner of one’s desk.
“Chu Me, dear, ask one of the household staff to come in, would you?”
Within a few minutes a small, slender girl entered, grabbed the sides of her skirt and curtsied, “Ma’am.”
“Ah! You there … run down to the village would you, and nip into the newsagent and bring one back some interesting reading. One is becoming extremely bored.”
The young creature looked towards the rain battered windows then back to her mistress with sad puppy-esque eyes. “Run along, dear!” One shooed with the back of one’s hand.
Following her to the front door she extended her, almost skeletal, arm towards the umbrella stand. One let out a shriek. “Good Lord! Those umbrellas are antiques, dear! You mustn’t touch them. Honestly, you shall be quite safe. Your uniform is made of synthetic fabrics so you shall be adequately protected against the rain. Now, hurry along.” Chu Me opened the great oak door and we watched her – her hand held out in front of her to shield her face from the rain – run down the saturated drive.
An hour later, one was sashaying from Litten’s – the oak-panelled bar at Crusty Hall – towards the little Dame’s room. Someone lifted one of one’s knockers and whacked it against the door. Opening it, one saw what looked like a drowned rat with the made-up face of Alice Cooper standing in front of one, shivering and clutching a sealed plastic bag. It was the member of household staff that had ran one’s errand. She handed the bag to one, to the almost Salsa-esque sound of her chattering teeth (and one must confess one felt a little shake of one’s tail-feather at the hypnotic rhythm). Then, completely unexpectedly and quite outrageously, the creature made a move to put her foot over the threshold! With the protection of the plastic bag, one propelled her back with a mighty push to her chest. One looked at her sitting there looking up at one, “Not this way, dear!” One said, closing the door, “you’ll play havoc with the parquet flooring.”
Anyhoo … One made one’s way to the Doctor Christian Room and fingered through the selection of magazines in the bag. One of the glossies that the girl had brought back was the recent edition of Closer. Reclining back on one’s chaise, one was immediately drawn – for some inexplicable reason – to the never ending, self-promoted troubles of Katie Jordan Price. It would seem that she is having a few problems with her latest beau, Leandro Penna. (Oh Lord! Here we go again!)
She has apparently told friends she feels “empty and lost”, which is quite coincidental because one has long since thought the same; one has always considered her vacuous … and … as for the point of her … one could never find it.
The report by Amy Swales, tells us she is suffering mood swings and is constantly arguing with poor Leandro about his behaviour in public and what he wears (He’s of Latin extraction, dear, he could be wearing cowbells and a smile and he’d still be stunning …whereas, if you were wearing cowbells you'd be ….well …quite at home, one fancies). The man is a successful model. One is quite sure he is highly knowledgeable about style and fashion. That is worlds apart from Katie Jordan Price who – though she may be referred to as a ‘model’ – would not have absorbed the same expertise from kneeling in a skimpy pair of pants, arching her back and thrusting forth her mammoth hooters.
The relationship situation has been made all the worse – Amy reveals - because our morsel of Argentine tottyness’ English has been improving and he’s now beginning to understand what the unnaturally blonde abomination is saying. Now … one would always urge any person one meets to learn a second language but one is saddened that one never met Leandro prior to his meeting the gutter-press goddess to whisper, “Stick with what you know, dear!” (and after all, who doesn’t adore the Spanish tongue?)
It may well be (as if one even cared) that her moodiness is being caused by the liquid diet she is on. She’s off to Marbella for a holiday and wants to lose some weight. (Holidaymakers, if you’re reading this, you still have time to pack and run ... now!). As an aside, one remmbers when one enjoyed a liquid diet some years ago. When one told the local Slimming World rep that one had lost just over a stone on it in a week, she mocked and demanded, “ What proof do you have?”
“38.5% ,dear, unless Fanny’s got an imported bottle in behind the bar.” One told her, while slapping her across the dish for her rudeness.
Having reflected upon this article, it would seem that the ceaseless stories and updates of this over-exposed eyesore are to continue. There will be a well publicised split, then when some other poor victim is drawn into the Katie Jordan Price Circus, we will be deluged with the stories of her heart-to-hearts with, not only Peter you-can-scrub-y’-washing-on-my-6-pack André, and Alex I’ll-fight-you-but-don’t-ladder-me-tights Reid but now the smoulderingly sexy deliciousness of Leandro too.
Will it ever end?! Alas, one fears not!
Monday, 18 July 2011
Outrage on the Village Green.
One was gliding elegantly along the pavement by the village green the other day, in a stunning pair of Gucci pumps and gorgeous trouser suit. The air was moist with an agreeable level of humidity and a warm breeze brushed one’s velvety cheeks like that given off from the exhaust pipe of a Harrier jump jet.
In the far corner of the green, one could see Mrs. Tickles, with her daughter Tess, planting an array of floral delights. To one’s right the row of picturesque cottages with their gardens in resplendent bloom. The heady scent of Mr. Craddick’s sweet peas filled one’s nasal passages with molecules of odorous splendour as it drifted heavenly across the narrow road. It was a most fragrant morning indeed.
Just as one began to take a deep and lung-bulging sniff, one stopped suddenly when one noticed a small dog squatting down to one’s left, making ready to leave a little parcel for Mother Nature.
One looked down in total disbelief. At that same moment, the village school teacher, Molly Coddle, strolled by reading her weekly glossy magazine and stopped for a chat.
“Morning Dame Crusty. It’s a beautiful day isn’t it?”
One was forced to hold out one’s exquisitely manicured hand and shake it to command silence.
The little creature completed its task, held its front paws steady and scratched its back legs through the grass; then with a half turn, looked up at one, wagged its tail and shot off with a yapping noise towards a car belonging to a visitor to our sleepy hamlet.
“Good boy!” the woman shouted in a child-like manner, as she lifted the tailgate of her Vauxhall Corsa. “Mummy’s very happy you had poo-poo! Yezzz she is; yezzz she is!”
Looking down at the small deposit squidged on top and between the blades of grass, one wondered if the owner was intending to bring her legging-clad, gladiator-sandaled self over to remove the offending mass. Instead, she bent down and kissed her Shih-tzu (quite a trick in anyone’s book), closed the tailgate to secure her inside and walked towards the driver’s door. It was all quite outrageous!!
What happened next was like the superhuman combat precision one only sees in Hollywood blockbusters such as the Matrix. In what seemed like slow motion, one turned; the previously fluttering hand now reached out to grab Molly’s magazine – opened on the page where Katie Price stated she felt fat and ugly (for a brief moment one thought, 'if it’s any consolation, dear, you look it too!') – and in a wide arc-like scooping movement, shovelled the faecal matter onto the pages and with a fairy godmother like flick, fired the bullet of botty business across the street to land with a thud against the rear panel of the escaping car.
The woman drove off without knowing, while the little pooch recoiled back from the window with the shock of the thud. One turned to hand Molly her magazine back.
“No time to stop and chat now, dear. Off to the Badger’s Snatch for a coffee with Fanny.”
One had only made a couple of steps when one heard Molly shouting from behind.
“Dame Crusty?!”
One turned, “Yes, dear?”
“My magazine?! The pages are covered in shit!”
“Oh I know dear! … and to think they call themselves journalists!”
With that, one turned and picked up one’s pace (naturally, maintaining elegance at all times) to arrive at the Badger’s Snatch on time.
One was not all sure what Molly was shouting as one gained a greater distance from her, but by her inflection one feels it was certainly not befitting an educator of young children.
In the far corner of the green, one could see Mrs. Tickles, with her daughter Tess, planting an array of floral delights. To one’s right the row of picturesque cottages with their gardens in resplendent bloom. The heady scent of Mr. Craddick’s sweet peas filled one’s nasal passages with molecules of odorous splendour as it drifted heavenly across the narrow road. It was a most fragrant morning indeed.
Just as one began to take a deep and lung-bulging sniff, one stopped suddenly when one noticed a small dog squatting down to one’s left, making ready to leave a little parcel for Mother Nature.
One looked down in total disbelief. At that same moment, the village school teacher, Molly Coddle, strolled by reading her weekly glossy magazine and stopped for a chat.
“Morning Dame Crusty. It’s a beautiful day isn’t it?”
One was forced to hold out one’s exquisitely manicured hand and shake it to command silence.
The little creature completed its task, held its front paws steady and scratched its back legs through the grass; then with a half turn, looked up at one, wagged its tail and shot off with a yapping noise towards a car belonging to a visitor to our sleepy hamlet.
“Good boy!” the woman shouted in a child-like manner, as she lifted the tailgate of her Vauxhall Corsa. “Mummy’s very happy you had poo-poo! Yezzz she is; yezzz she is!”
Looking down at the small deposit squidged on top and between the blades of grass, one wondered if the owner was intending to bring her legging-clad, gladiator-sandaled self over to remove the offending mass. Instead, she bent down and kissed her Shih-tzu (quite a trick in anyone’s book), closed the tailgate to secure her inside and walked towards the driver’s door. It was all quite outrageous!!
What happened next was like the superhuman combat precision one only sees in Hollywood blockbusters such as the Matrix. In what seemed like slow motion, one turned; the previously fluttering hand now reached out to grab Molly’s magazine – opened on the page where Katie Price stated she felt fat and ugly (for a brief moment one thought, 'if it’s any consolation, dear, you look it too!') – and in a wide arc-like scooping movement, shovelled the faecal matter onto the pages and with a fairy godmother like flick, fired the bullet of botty business across the street to land with a thud against the rear panel of the escaping car.
The woman drove off without knowing, while the little pooch recoiled back from the window with the shock of the thud. One turned to hand Molly her magazine back.
“No time to stop and chat now, dear. Off to the Badger’s Snatch for a coffee with Fanny.”
One had only made a couple of steps when one heard Molly shouting from behind.
“Dame Crusty?!”
One turned, “Yes, dear?”
“My magazine?! The pages are covered in shit!”
“Oh I know dear! … and to think they call themselves journalists!”
With that, one turned and picked up one’s pace (naturally, maintaining elegance at all times) to arrive at the Badger’s Snatch on time.
One was not all sure what Molly was shouting as one gained a greater distance from her, but by her inflection one feels it was certainly not befitting an educator of young children.
Thursday, 30 June 2011
Barry Manilow - Odo Know Better.
One was reclining on the chaise in the Doctor Christian Room last Friday, while indulging in a small plate of Mediterranean nibbles and a glass of chilled Pere Ventura Cava.
The television was on in the background but one was not paying a great deal of attention to it. One’s pussy, Crotchet, had decided to have a mad half-hour with a paperclip he had came across on the parquet flooring; watching him spring forward with this paws pushed together and outstretched and jumping somersaults around the room had proved far more interesting than what our broadcasters had to offer. Indeed, an extended broadcast of Wimbledon had caused havoc with one’s Friday routine of titterlicious comedy programmes.
Anyhoo … A momentary distraction drew one away from one’s feline fascination when one heard rapturous applause. Looking up, one saw that an episode of Star Trek was on. Police constable Odo was singing Karaoke in the bar on Deep Space 9. He’d dispensed with the slicked back hair and had gone for a much softer style with highlights. It was certainly less severe but one couldn’t help thinking it was highly unusual for the character to be performing in such a flamboyant manner; he was usually so reserved.
At first one couldn’t believe it, however, looking at the dancing technique with the Big Bird-esque legs and the shipyard constructed shoes, one soon realised it was indeed the velvety-voiced, Copacabanial poppet.
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Sitting on the guests sofa, he turned frequently to talk to the host – Paul O’Grady – and as he did so one moved closer to the screen to see if one could catch a glimpse of a bulldog clip clamped onto the back of his neck, but there was no evidence to support one’s suspicions. Something must have happened for him to, seemingly, have the need to put so much effort into blinking his eye-lids. And when he sang a line that required lipular rounding, the words tried their utmost to tease his lips into movement but one was on the edge of one's chaise expecting his cheeks to split open like the knicker elastic around a fat man’s thigh.
One’s faithful houseboy entered the room at that point, exhausted after watching one of his specialist nature DVDs in his quarters – ‘Dirty Mares In The Paddock II’ (something about horses, one imagines) - and declared Mr. Manilow had had a facelift.
“Goodness, dear, one’s never seen Clingfilm pulled that tight …let alone skin!” (Yes, one knows one rarely cooks oneself, but one does occasionally stretch a piece across the household staff’s toilet bowl for a bit of a giggle.)
One honestly does not know why people do it! … And do you know, poppets, one is convinced every time he closed his mouth one saw his toes curl up!
The television was on in the background but one was not paying a great deal of attention to it. One’s pussy, Crotchet, had decided to have a mad half-hour with a paperclip he had came across on the parquet flooring; watching him spring forward with this paws pushed together and outstretched and jumping somersaults around the room had proved far more interesting than what our broadcasters had to offer. Indeed, an extended broadcast of Wimbledon had caused havoc with one’s Friday routine of titterlicious comedy programmes.
Anyhoo … A momentary distraction drew one away from one’s feline fascination when one heard rapturous applause. Looking up, one saw that an episode of Star Trek was on. Police constable Odo was singing Karaoke in the bar on Deep Space 9. He’d dispensed with the slicked back hair and had gone for a much softer style with highlights. It was certainly less severe but one couldn’t help thinking it was highly unusual for the character to be performing in such a flamboyant manner; he was usually so reserved.
Barry Manilow
Curious to see the synopsis of the episode one found oneself pressing the information button on one’s remote. One squealed with surprise when one discovered one was, in fact, watching Paul O’Grady Live … and it was not the interstellar changeling,Odo, as one had thought but , in actual fact, Barry Manilow!At first one couldn’t believe it, however, looking at the dancing technique with the Big Bird-esque legs and the shipyard constructed shoes, one soon realised it was indeed the velvety-voiced, Copacabanial poppet.
Odo
(oh dear, do you know, one's not
quite sure now!)
One’s faithful houseboy entered the room at that point, exhausted after watching one of his specialist nature DVDs in his quarters – ‘Dirty Mares In The Paddock II’ (something about horses, one imagines) - and declared Mr. Manilow had had a facelift.
“Goodness, dear, one’s never seen Clingfilm pulled that tight …let alone skin!” (Yes, one knows one rarely cooks oneself, but one does occasionally stretch a piece across the household staff’s toilet bowl for a bit of a giggle.)
One honestly does not know why people do it! … And do you know, poppets, one is convinced every time he closed his mouth one saw his toes curl up!
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