Diamond Jubilations - Dame Crusty Reflects.

As a nation, we have long been associated with a reputation for exquisite pomp and pageantry. Our long and ancient history and our traditions have made it impossible for anyone to match us in that regard. That was certainly the case over the recent Diamond Jubilee celebrations held in honour of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

An entire nation of patriotic poppets came together down The Mall (and that’s quite an accomplishment, one can assure you!) over four days of regal festivities.

On the Sunday, the armada of aquatic vessels on the Thames was magnificent, despite the horrendous weather conditions. As the troop of operatic singers sang their tribute to Her Majesty on the orchestral barge, mascara trickling down their cheeks and their hair sodden, one squealed with glee at their sacrifice.

The day after, Monday, saw the long awaited and much hyped Diamond Jubilee Concert, organised by the Take Thatularly delicious Gary Barlow. He certainly had his work cut out for him, trying to please a population with such diverse tastes in musical entertainment but if anyone was able to accomplish the task, it was he.

Here at one’s beloved Crusty Hall, one reclined elegantly on the faux fur covered chaise in Litten’s (the bar at Crusty Hall). The walls were festooned with Union Jacks and Bunty was hanging from every picture. The scene was set for one to enjoy the star-studded extravaganza. Chu Me was armed with a bottle of gin behind the bar and on standby to satisfy one’s needs for the crystal clear elixir while one’s pussy, Crotchet, lay against ones left thigh looking completely disinterested by all the fuss and licking his … (oh dear!)… well … let’s just say he was cleaning himself.

As the Royal Family settled in their seats and the crowd, gathered around them, cheered, we were off!

A rather portly Robbie Williams opened the show with ‘Let Me Entertain You’ (One thought, it’s a little bit late in your career to be starting now, dear). He was being flanked by a line of Coldstream Guards blowing their long and slender horns. We were also tret to a small pianotic interlude from the highly digitally dextrous Lang Lang. His addition was most welcome but upon seeing him Chu Me’s face dropped.

“One feels your pain, dear. If only Gary Barlow knew how well you played chopsticks, one suspects you would have been asked instead.”

Then slight glimmer of what might have been brought a smile back to his face, despite the fact one was talking nonsense. Needless, to say it was all going rather well. Rob Brydon began the hosting of the show and was a good choice. He’s of that neutral variety is he not? He can be funny and … cannot be funny … but he is of sufficiently impish appeal that … well … you’d forgive him anything, simply tilt the head with a slight smile and say, “Bless!”

When the leg-bucklingly gorgeous legend Tom Jones took to the stage, one could feel every natural fibre of one’s undergarments disintegrate with each note that exploded from his voice box. This tsunami of pleasurable oscillations lapping over one’s epidermal expanse was brought to an abrupt halt, however, when one was more than a little disturbed and caught off guard with the control of one’s gag reflex when one saw Cheryl y’-nailed-it-Tweedypie Cole standing aside Gary Barlow in an over-the-top synthetic frock. Was she there to clean up after everyone was finished, one wondered? Was she serving bags of chips to the audience, perhaps? No … one’s worst fears were realised when the music started and one realised she was going to “sing”.

As she started screeching the first lines of the forgettable song, one held one’s throat to keep at bay the rising bile. One wondered how many witches tits there must have been, throughout our land, that were envious at just how flat she was. Had she been a Michelin tyre one suspects even ATS would have been unable to seal her hole.

Dame Elton John was quite magnificent, though when he walked on stage with his little buttocks clenched, in his pink sequinned jacket one did have to send one’s faithful houseboy to one’s dressing room to ensure one’s own was still there. As the sound of Chu Me’s flip-flops slapped with increasing repetition, one shouted, “He only wanted to borrow it for a sample pot from B&Q, dear. One never said he could keep it!”

The legendary, iconically delicious Grace Jones was breathtaking! Singing an all time favourite of the Crusty residence, one could feel one’s foot tap against the parquet flooring as one fixed one’s eyes on her hoop.

One suspects it came as no surprise to anyone when Dame Birley Shassey was wheeled out. She looked quite remarkable for her age. Her hair was coiffured into a pleasant style and she complemented her white ensemble with a sheer cape; an ideal choice of garment to disguise the bingo wings as she belted out ‘Diamonds Are Forever’ (they certainly are, dear, but a taut upper arm, alas, is not).

Anyhoo … as well as the acts being diverse, so too were the presenters. Naturally, Rolf Harris was invited along and for his segments one felt he couldn’t have fawned over Her Majesty to any greater extent. Just one gnat’s testicle more and he would have been either arrested for performing an indecent act on royalty or be starring in a black market XXX-rated DVD for the top shelves of a local sex emporium. Still, he is an icon of our nation and one must say, one was rather alarmed when Lenny I-was-funny-once-on-a-talent-show-in-1975 Henry, interrupted Rolf as he performed with Two Little Boys. Needless to say, the crowd turned and Mr. Henry realised the error of his ways. As Lenny withdrew from behind, Rolf continued to finish off Two Little Boys in front of a mesmerised audience.

One was certainly enjoying it all. So much so, before one knew it, while munching on a Mediterranean nibble, the last act of the night was coming on. The levels of excitement welled up inside one. For several seconds one was convinced one’s hooters were going to explode with pounding exhilaration.

“Who could it be?!” One squealed, gripping the arm of the chaise.

One could not find the words to express one’s utter disappointment and devastation when one discovered it was … Sir Paul McCartney.

“Dear Lord!!” One cried, “He couldn’t sing at the last one! There’s very little chance he’ll be able to now!” Even Crotchet jumped down from the chaise and walked out of the bar giving a little pump of disgust as he walked into the adjoining room.

As one feared, the performance was terrible and as one watched him sitting at the piano singing ‘Live & Let Die’, one looked at his jowelled face – the appearance of which resembled a toothless hobo sucking on an onion – and wondered if his memory was fit enough to take him back to a time when he could actually hit a note.

Thankfully, the myriad of exploding fireworks that accompanied the performance drowned out the squeaks and croaks (croaks so regular they would have given a whole new dimension to The Frog Chorus). One should warn the world that he is booked to sing at the closing ceremony of the London Olympics. One apologises on behalf of Her Majesties realm now.

All in all, the extended Bank Holiday fiesta was a roaring success and one fancies it brought a new sense of pride and unity to our great nation … and one is all for that! And one must say Her Majesty looked utterly delicious throughout the celebrations! Bravísima, dear!

Samantha Brick - Beauty or a Beast? Dame Crusty Ponders.

One was perched elegantly on the edge of a bar stool in the Badger’s Snatch, catching up on the local gossip in the village with the landlady; one’s dear friend Fanny O’Dour.

All appeared to be well and all of the local businesses were avoiding the recession that we are constantly being told we are on the cusp of; Mr. Peppercorn’s butcher emporium was certainly thriving. This came as no surprise, as he has the most meaty, mouth-watering sausage one has ever set one’s eyes upon; encapsulated in a gossamer thin sheath. One can chomp on it for an age without feeling so much as a hint of gristle between one’s teeth. Seasoned deliciously, it always leaves just a hint of saltiness as it slides down the back of one’s throat.

Pat Tissery’s bakery establishment had also seen a surge of eager shoppers grabbing her crusty bloomers while they were still warm; sniffing them, blatantly, as they rush down the street to hide them in their pantries.

The only piece of scandal was that Mr. Craddick had escaped from his cottage in his pyjamas again. Due to a catastrophic failure of drawstring knottage, his bottoms had dropped round his ankles while he was buying a head of broccoli at the village greengrocers. A charge of exposure was averted (thankfully) when the local magistrate explained that by the time any passers by had made the effort to look at what was desperately trying to “hang there”, the outcome would have simply been a case of public exhaustion, of which there were no appropriate statutes. Mr. Craddick’s only defence was that it was a very cold day.

Anyhoo … as one sat sipping a rather refreshing flute of chilled Pere Ventura Tresor Nature, Fanny was wiping the rim of her bucket when she suddenly asked, “Oh, and what about that Samantha Brick, Crusty? Can you believe it?!”

“One has heard her name mentioned, Fanny dear, but one couldn’t tell you who on earth she is.”

“Hang on! I’ve got some copies of the Daily Mail under the bar that need to be thrown out.”

“Only some, dear?” one questioned.

Fanny opened the pages and showed one the pictures of the woman that was creating such an international storm.

“There. That’s that Brick woman.” Fanny said, as she pointed at the images.

“Goodness!” one replied, “Brick, you say? Are you sure her surname isn’t double-barrelled … and Shithouse hasn’t been removed from the end of it? Quite a sturdy girl, is she not?”

One’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, sat next to one, licking the crust of a, particularly large and hairy pork scratching. He glanced across at the photographs and sniggered, hunching his shoulders as he did so.

“Now, now, Chu Me! Let us not pre-judge. Let us first examine the extent of this individual’s self-professed outer deliciousness.”

Reading the article, it seems Samantha feels women hate her for no other reason than her ‘lovely looks’. She is of the opinion that her beauty is so intense that it has caused men to rush up to her with flowers, offer to pay her taxi fares at the drop of a hat and waiters to refuse to allow her to pay her bar bill; all because of her self-proclaimed gorgeousness.

One sat and gazed upon the pictures laid out on the bar counter as the golden bubbling elixir of Catalonia passed one’s lips.

At first one thought there was a look of Anneka Rice about Samantha. The sort of look that may have been achieved had Anneka let herself go. There wasn’t the same delicious smile, clearly, and she appeared to have split-ends any diviner would have been desperate to get their hands on to start dowsing for water immediately. Nevertheless, squinting one’s eyes and turning one’s head from side to front, side to front … very quickly, the resemblance was there.

The body – in unflattering clothes – certainly didn’t support her case of womanly beautifulness and with her kite (a Geordie phrase for stomach) expanding underneath her mid-riffular section of fabric, one couldn’t help remind oneself that one must catch up on the goings-on in Eastenders, since the malicious murder of Heather Trott.

The rather ample and mighty oak-like lower limbs protruding from below the hemline of her frockage almost led one to believe she was an athlete, or some such fancy … a shot-putter perhaps?

Then one’s eyes lowered to, what one thought were, a pair of club feet, before one realised that there were just an unfortunate choice of chunky shoes that the poor poppet had mistaken for fashion (if only she had had the foresight to consult one’s gloriously talented fashion powerhouse Masato, she may have learnt a valuable lesson).

All in all, the assembled package was not in the slightest bit desirable.

Furthermore, she had claimed that at soirées, men would flock to her; enchanted by her beautiful looks. Having looked at the evidence, one would suggest this has nothing to do with her looks at all. One knows only too well, when the gin-goggles are on … it’s any port in a storm for most men. Plus, we have all been to such functions and we all know just how warm these occasions can be. Judging by the armless frock she was wearing in one shot - one could not forgive any man, woman … or, indeed, family pet for trying to be within range of her bingo wings, in order to get the chance of a cooling breeze each time her arms stretched out for an oven-warmed vol au vent.

Needless to say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder and, as our poor poppet Samantha looks into her opaque mirror, one can offer only sympathy to her for the fight she so clearly has against her cataracts.

Eurovision - Chu Me Takes The Hump

Hump for Great Britain.

One’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, entered the breakfast room with a puzzled look on his face. This, combined with the erratic slapping of his flip-flops, and the history that he normally bumps into things when such puzzlement takes hold, one thought one had better investigate. One finished munching on the tip of Mr. Peppercorn, the Butcher’s, meaty sausage; swallowed; placed the silver fork on one’s plate and dabbed one’s mouth with the starched, white cotton serviette lifted from one’s lap.

“What troubles you so, poppet? You look a little distressed.” One enquired.

“Bumpy dick” He replied.

“Goodness! Have you caught it in something, dear? ”

“No! Any dirt bumpy dick!”

One slumped back in one’s chair and look at him completely dumbfounded.

“What on earth are you talking about, dear?! Have you had a stroke this morning? (he blushed) Do you wish one to call Dr. Pedic … and more importantly, after the reaction to the previous question - and bearing in mind we are taking breakfast – have you scrubbed your hands with Swarfega?”

The puzzled look on his face changed to one of frustration. His flip-flops carried him, like a soldier marching on parade, across the floor to the television in the corner of the room. Switching it on to BBC1, he skilfully navigated to the text page to clarify the confusion, by pointing at the screen.

“Ah! Engelbert Humperdinck, dear! Goodness, has he died? … again?”

Reading further into the story one discovered that Humpy was, in fact, very much alive! Nevertheless, one could not believe what one’s eyes were digesting as they scanned the lines of summarised text. At 76 years of age, it had been decided that he would be the person to represent Her Majesty’s realm in the upcoming Eurovision Song Contest on the 26th May.

Chu Me and I looked at each other … then to the screen … then to each other … then to the screen … then when we faced each other once more, he simply held out his hands at the side of him, shrugged his shoulders, turned and left the room shaking his head. The power of his silent gesticulation summed up the situation beautifully.

Only this week, on BBC Breakfast, one had heard the gorgeous Sian Williams and the delicious Bill Turnbull tell of a recent independent report that said our elderly were not being cared for as they should be. One hadn’t realised that the solution was to put them on a stage in an international song competition in front of millions! What next? Wheeling Dame Vera Lynn out on a pallet truck, getting her to sing There’ll Always Be An England, then reversing back during the applause with a rhythmic warning-beep-beep-beep-pallet truck reversing-beep-beep-beep to then take her back for tea, biscuits and a game of Whist before bath time?! One thinks not!

This year’s contest is being held in Baku, in Azerbaijan. This must not, of course, be confused with Ba’ku; the M-class planet from the Briar (no relation to Richard) Patch in Star Trek. That, you will all remember, was the planet that had a ring saturated with metaphasic radiation and kept the populous from aging a single day. One fancies Humpy’s ring has been saturated with an altogether different type of radiation (possibly sunbeds) and alas the secret of eternal youth has eluded him.

Humpy rehearsing: "Stop! Let's not do close ups, guys!

Though quite the hotty in his youth (one suspects making many a lady-fan’s undergarments disintegrate with admirational pleasure) he has sadly fallen into a state of disrepair. In some recent library pictures one has even noticed the waistband of his trousers resting higher than that of Simon Cowell! What will the world think of us? All the world’s yoof parading around with their low swinging gussets and buttocks hanging over their jeans and we’re doing the very opposite with the belt loops practically being slotted over an aging man’s ears! Is it the right contrast of styles one wonders?

Anyhoo …the BBC have decided on Humpy for his appeal throughout the world and the chance that the realm of Her Majesty may be saved from disgrace with all the Euro shenanigans and global interference that are currently going on. Let us pray they are right!

There is no information, as yet, as to the song that our veteran crooner will be performing, but let us hope it is nothing too racy; one over-eager thrust of his pelvis may result in an embarrassing onset of hip dysplasia … and that is most definitely not what one wants to see on the international stage from an icon of yesteryear.

Further more, unless the song is of a Latin nature, one would recommend he stands very still while performing. Too much movement may reproduce an unacceptable sound of castanets from the clicking of his knees and may very well penalise us on points.

Needless to say, our gladiator has been chosen and one wishes Humpy good luck. The nation is behind you offering their support ... and a chair should you need to have a sit down.

Dame Crusty Ponders - Marsh or Quagmire?

On Thursday evening, one was reclining on the chaise in the conservatory watching one’s weekly mental injection of political shenanigans on the glorious BBC; Question Time and This Week.

One normally doesn’t step into the world of politics. One does not possess shoes of adequate dullness, which could be deemed appropriate enough to step into the cess pit of self importance and spin-laden nonsense offered by our MPs.

Anyhoo … having watched a less than eventful Question Time and while waiting for the commencement of the Dame Crusty Follow Friday Frenzy in the Twitterverse, Chu Me poured one a Baccarat tumbler of gin and one settled back to view This Week. There is always a little game Chu Me and I like to play. We see who can guess the colour of Andrew Neil’s hair … against those set out on the Cuprinol colour card. This week he had opted for a dark mahogany (and by the looks of it, one was unclear if he had had it applied with a brush or if he had, instead, been dipped).

During the introduction of this week’s guests, one found a vaporised spray of gin exploding from one’s lips as Andrew described Jodie Marsh as “a bodybuilding glamourpuss”!

One was astounded!

One was not quite sure if “glamourpuss” was the correct descriptive. Yes, the ending could certainly be “uss” … but with a nose that even Michael Jackson would have laughed at and returned for a full refund, one fancies a far more appropriate stem would’ve been “hiddy”.

Crusty Reflects On Jungle Shenanigans

Reality television seems to have taken over our lives once more, has it not? It seems wherever one goes one can’t avoid it and every member of the village, that is beneath one’s beloved Crusty Hall, wishes to discuss dancing-Xfactorial-Jungular shenanigans at every available opportunity.

It was only yesterday that one visited the village hardware emporium. Chu Me had watched an excessive number of his old specialist nature videos and was in need of something to clean a rather worn out head. One, on the other hand, was in desperate need of a screw.

One had to secure a picture on the oak panelled wall of Litten’s - the bar at Crusty Hall. One’s most treasured poppet Jake Canuso – beautifully hung, with a magnificent frame – kept coming off and dropping heavily on one’s forearm. It was not right that such a delicious creature should suffer in such a outrageously gravitorial manner, so action was required.

Now, you would have thought that at least one member of household staff would have had a screw somewhere on the premises, but it was sadly not to be (although, there is an unidentified stain on the carpet in the library. One is led to believe that the heady scent of a mixture of Cillet Bang and Brasso can be a potent aphrodisiac to those in service ... but that's a matter for another time.)

Anyhoo …While one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, waited outside in GUSSET 1, one entered the hardware shop to find Felicity Flakes standing behind the counter. It was clearly a slow morning, as she stood there with a look of pure boredom on her face, trimming the ends of her nail extensions with a pair of rubber-grip secateurs over the waste paper basket. With each spring-loaded snip, shards of painted plastic ricocheted off the small packets of drain cleaner displayed at the side of the 1960’s cash register, missing the receptacle below entirely.

Even here, among the myriad of tools and utensils of do-it-yourself manufacture and productivity, one was still confronted by the banality of it all.

”Good morning, Dame Crusty. Nice to see you again.” Then with not so much a second’s breath, continued “Did you see I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here last night? Wasn’t it really exciting?!”

One reflected for a moment. One had indeed seen the show, though one thought a more appropriate title would have been I’m A Celebrity Watch Me Almost Chuck My Ring Up. For on the first instalment one had seen, one witnessed the comedic legend Freddie Starr and Mark Wright, from a Channel 4 fly-on-the-wall series, sitting down to enjoy a feast – if indeed ‘enjoy’ is the right word – of strange fayre and animals body parts.

First a fermented egg. Chu Me sat at the far corner of the Doctor Christian Room salivating; this delicacy was much sought after in his village, in a place far, far away. The odious elliptical item did not go down well with Mark Wright … indeed, it almost came up more times than it went down. Next on the menu was a pair of testicles (and one does not refer to one’s gorgeous North East poppets, Ant and Dec!), followed by the unimaginable treat of a kangaroo’s anus. Thankfully, that particular offering had been removed from the creature before eating took place, or the trial could have taken on an altogether more sinister tone.

To finish, our daring duo sat and munched on a Camel toe … and do you know poppets, since witnessing that, one fears one shall never be able to look at a person wearing hot-pants in quite the same way again!

However, the show is bringing us a plethoratorial infestation of celebs feeling their way around Ant and Dec’s humid bush. The Hollywoodian big hitter this year is – or rather was - Stephanie Powers …and one must say having watched only a couple of episodes with her behaviour being scrutinised, one can quite understand why, in Hart to Hart, so many people tried to moider her! What a controlling woman!

To make matters worse, the most recent additions to the camp were Sinitta who, for some reason, was being described as an ‘80’s pop star’. Though one fears ‘pop’ is a little exaggerated … and ‘star’ is certainly a little too strong … but at least they got her age right, so 1 out of 3 isn’t too bad, is it?

The other addition was Pat Sharpe. He was a disc-jockey, of some description, from the 80s or some such fancy. He was known for a rather ridiculous hairstyle that never took on – save on farms in the southern American states … where farm animals pray for a sip of Rohypnol when they know their owners have been out for a spot of line dancing and moonshine and return with an amorous glint in their eye.

Needless to say, he has - for some time – bobbed deep beneath the diaphragm of celebrityism and has, by good fortune, been plucked from his bobbings to make up numbers. Thankfully, his hair has improved …slightly … but sadly, his body and attitude have not. He may have an ability to put a record onto a turntable and stick a stylus in the groove, but his manner and personality one finds highly objectionable and one suspects a revival of whatever career he had will remain out of reach when he is finally tossed off by the viewers.

Antony Cotton is proving a valuable member of the jungle with his adept cooking skills and Lorraine Chase still maintains an exquisite elegance. Delight was the word du jour when one saw the gorgeous Crissy Rock participating, hot footing it from the set of one’s most treasured poppet, Derren Litten’s, filming of Series 5 of Benidorm, due for screening in 2012.

We even have a rather focused inclusion of former Olympic athlete … the mighty Fatima Whitbread; most recently seen walking through the foliage with Pat singing “I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts” …(was there ever any doubt, dear.)

One looked at Felicity, “No dear. One doesn’t watch it.”

She looked deflated. “Pray forgive one, dear, one must away. One needs to screw a gorgeous poppet against the wall of the bar before he comes off again.”

Turning like a ballerina on point, in one’s Gucci stilettos, one took one’s purchases and sashayed majestically back to GUSSET 1, while Felicity returned to the mutilation her artificial claws with her garden clippers.

James Naughtie Sours Crusty's Eggs.

One was sitting in the Breakfast Room in one's beloved Crusty Hall this morning, enjoying a sumptuous selection of morning fayre prepared by Chef.

One's faithful houseboy, Chu Me, had been up early to pay a visit to his chicken coup at the side of the stables. His cock was standing proud as he collected a selection of the eggs the chickens had produced for the household overnight.

Munching on a delicious serving of Eggs Benedict, one drifted slightly as Radio 4’s Today programme droned on in the background.

Suddenly, one’s munching ceased in horror as one briefly caught a short extract of an interview being conducted by James Knockedknees. He was discussing some topic or other (the length of his questions often makes it impossible to remember what on earth he's talking about) but one nearly choked when the interviewee kept mentioning vaginal deliveries.

As Chu Me nibbled the end of a buttered up soldier, one swallowed one’s mouthful and turned to the radio simply saying, “If it’s all the same to you, dear, one would still prefer to have one’s mail delivered by hand!”

Strictly Come Dancing 2011 - A Crusty Review

Well, this year’s glitterlicious dancefest, Strictly Come Dancing, is underway!

One must confess one gets a warm feeling in one’s lady-garden when one sees the wrinkled, sun-kissed face of Sir Bruce Forsythe and – to some extent - his co-host Tess Daly; the latter normally adorned in an array of ill-fitting gowns and bizarre hairdos. One recalls her wearing something on the cusp of sexy two weeks ago, when her bottle-blonde hair was set in waves down the both sides of her face, like something from the early part of the 20th century. She looked adequately pleasing to the eye (if you turned your head quickly from side to front, side to front, side to front and squinted) but with her rocket-red mouth ... one couldn’t help thinking there was a hooker on the hunt for her missing lipstick.

Another time, the wardrobe department had advised Tess that bright yellow frockage would be a crowd pleaser. Alas, with her statuesque height, it only made her look like Sesame Street’s Big Bird in a pair of matching stilletoes and a platinum rinse. Then last week, the armless metallic number she wore served no other purpose than to remind one to have Chu Me remove the foil wrapped chicken wings from the Aga.

Anyhoo … there is an impressive line-up of celebrity fodder aiming to shake a tail-feather in front of the nation and the panel of judges; the ageless Lulu, the One Show’s Alex Jones, the gargantuanly gorgeous Audley Harrison, Nancy Dill’y’Dall’io and Holly Valance to name but a few.

It was also revealed that Holly had a fellow Australian to support her through the season’s shenanigans. Indeed, on the opening show, one’s jaw dropped and one’s inner thighs tightened when one saw Jason Donovan on one’s 32-incher with a smile - as bright as sunlight itself - beaming across his little face. He’s certainly aged well, has he not? Yet, one always recalls him at the height of his fame, having shoes that appeared to have been put together in a North East shipyard … great big hoofers they were! Now, however, his feet appear to have shrunk to a more agreeable size, which appear to be helping him float gracefully across the floor, consumed by the story behind the dance.

One’s dear twitterchum Russell Grant has signed up too. Now, many laughed at the delicious Russell, thinking he was going to be awful but one knew there was nibble footwork dangling from the end of those legs and, true to form, his nibble danglies have had one mesmerised.

The world of sport is represented by football bad-boy Robbie Savage.

During one video clip it was explained he’s known for being rather naughty and often dropping his shorts in public and, in case we viewers were not able to imagine such a sight, we were treated to a photograph of Robbie (who was showing an unnecessary amount of nipplage in this particular episode, one felt) standing on a pitch, being flanked by officials (No, Chu Me … ‘Flanked’ dear!) and exhibiting himself in a skimpy pair of white undercrackers, with his defiant arms stretched aloft. The visible lack of man-biscuit was disappointing but one took comfort in knowing that if football became too much and he didn’t win the Strictly Come Dancing competition, at least he had a successful career as a lady-boy ahead of him.

Before the series actually started, one was transfixed by the trailers for the show. Particularly, by a pretty young thing, strutting down a fictional BBC street, music playing, with an overly jiggly bosom. It was, of course, Chelsee Healy from Waterloo Road. However, ‘bosom’ doesn’t quite accurately describe a set of hooters like that! Especially when they look like a couple of activated airbags from the dashboard of 18-tonne truck!

As for the oddment of the line up, well this had to be the unveiling of Edwina Currie (and if anyone should be wearing a veil –and a very heavy one at that - it is she). Edwina, during a promotional video, told the viewers that she was really worried about doing the show in case she got egg on her face. Goodness! Through the Major years one fancies she had much worse on it!

As it turned out, however, she was the first to be voted off. One suspects it was due to her lying on her back at the end of her routine and kicking her legs in the air to a ripple of applause, while flashing her expansive buttock region. Having said that, the ripple of applause did stop when her feet returned to the floor, so it may actually have been airborne thigh-slappage that had created the ripple and not the audience, as one had first thought.

So with one down the show must go on and the competition must continue for the winner to be awarded the prized glitterball trophy, though one suspects it is all in the bag for either the taught-torsoed Harry He-can-beat-one’s-bongo’s-anytime Judd or Jason he’s-still-very-big-down-under Donovan.