Doctor Who ... Dame Crusty Reflects.

One has been a fan of the hero of time, Doctor Who, for many years now; ever since one was a small Damelette, in fact. There were, of course, the bleak and troubled years when the nation was subjected to Sylvester McCoy and Colin Baker, but one found the on/off switch a suitable tool against that unnecessary suffering.

In the 21st century, the hands of the gorgeous Russell T. Davies brought us incredible storylines, tension that gripped one by one’s slender, deliciously smooth neck and characters that clicked as delightfully as Dame Burley Chassis’ hips. However, since dear Russell’s departure as captain of the ship, one must confess one is slightly concerned about the latest series.

Matt Smith, clearly, is quite splendid as the new Doctor and seems to have slipped in to David Tennants socks very easily. Amelia Pond also appears to be proving the perfect companion (if not a little of a … smart arse (?) … there, one said it!). Yet it is the writing that causes the bubbles of doubt to pop inside one’s slender frame. The new writer, Steven Moffat – whom, from watching Doctor Who: Confidential is certainly not unsure of his own talents – is, one feels, trying too hard.

The first episode was a wonderful introduction to our new cast. A young Amelia Pond sitting in her bedroom praying for someone to come and help tend to her mysteriously glowing crack, only for our regenerated hero to come across her in her nightdress, then venture downstairs to spit out everything she had to offer him onto the kitchen floor. The rest – as they say – is history.

The aliens of this episode were adequately frightening until the large eyeball, suspended from a giant snowflake, entered; it all seemed a little too Sarah Jane Adventures for prime time Saturday evening televisualisation.

The third episode saw the return of the Daleks. Even here – and not content with changing the sumptuous simplicity of the TARDIS – the long running enemy of the Doctor were apparently not good enough for Monsieur Moffat and he felt the Earth’s arch nemesis required (one believes the phrase is) ‘pimped up', to the point of complete and utter campness.

Indeed, when the super multi-primary-coloured Daleks came onto our screens and spread out into their sinister formation in front of the Jammy Dodger yielding Doctor, they looked like a giant Freedom Flag. All that was missing from the scene was a glitterball, Hi-NRG music pounding out in the background, a slight aroma of Amyl Nitrate and the Doctor in a pair of backless leather chaps serving cocktails and the scene would have been complete. Aside from that, the script, again, was over worked and despite a cast of superb actorial poppets, there just didn’t seem to be a fluidity to the storyline.

The most recent episode has seen the return of the Weeping Angels (no doubt weeping more after a shufty at the script). Not only that, but we have a woman with a very tight perm acting very familiar with the Doctor. While the lovely Russell introduced a character subtly, as in the Face of Boe, Steven introduces us to this woman and by the end of the episode, one is still no further forward as to knowing who on earth she is. It is all a little off putting and certainly gives a metallic aftertaste to a perfectly poured glass of gin while watching.

Anyhoo … all said and done, one certainly approves, on the whole, of the new TARDIS interior, but do we really need taps, typewriters and sex toys to be part of the control panels? Yes … sex toys, poppets! Surely one is not the only one who has witnessed the ribbed glass penetrating device in the centre of the craft forcing itself up and down, up and down, up and down … [Chu Me! Iced water … quickly! … and one’s fan!!]

The BBC prop poppet in the first Confidential told Matt, “We had to look high and low for that new centre piece.” Chu Me told one if he’d looked at page 24 of one of his specialist catalogues, he could have picked one up for £32.95 with Next Day delivery. He could have saved himself so much time.

Still, one must keep an open mind and see how the stories develop. Rome wasn't built in a day, after all.

Chu Me Learns To Swim

Over recent weeks one has been giving Chu Me lessons on how to swim. There was never any need to learn when he was a child, in that land far, far away. His village was surrounded by flooded fields and all the residents were traditionally content skimming across the surface in plastic flip-flops, propelled by large wooden poles. So, since taking him under one’s wing, it has long been on the cards for me to teach him this valuable skill.

Anyhoo … we were in the pool yesterday morning. One was elegantly contained in a ravishing aubergine Gucci swimsuit and matching cap, while Chu Me had his favourite pair of Hom budgie-smugglers on with a bright orange pair of inflatable water wings.

It would be wrong, one suspects, to say he ‘found his feet’, therefore we shall say he ‘found his flippers’ very quickly in our lesson. Within an hour he had grasped the technique of the front crawl. Even with his water wings, he managed to accomplish a satisfying speed up and down the length and one was delighted.

Bobbing majestically at the deep end of the pool – one treading water like an aquatic ballerina and Chu Me paddling his hands to stabilise his inflatables - one congratulated him on his efforts.

“Bravísimo, Chu Me! That was perfect!”

With a gleaming smile arcing across his proud-as-punch face he shouted, “Breast stroke?”

“Well, as you’ve done so well, why not.”

No sooner had I said those words, one felt Chu Me’s hand brush against one’s right hooter. One’s cat-like reflexes took a hold; kicking harder with one’s feet, one raised further from the water, raising one’s arms into the air and making pincers from one’s hands. Like a Praying Mantis, one’s pincers shot down and with a nip of stunningly manicured nails, one burst his inflatable water wings. The air rapidly squeaked out of the puncture holes as Chu Me looked on in horror. His head slowly starting to sink below the surface, one turned and propelled oneself to the ladder at the side. Exiting, one picked up the towel that lay on the lounger and stormed off elegantly to the steam room, “Outrageous!! Naughty Chu Me … Crusty is shocked!”

The window cleaner had passed by moments later. He saw the bubbles on the surface of the pool, bursting to emit small yelps and he dived in to pull one’s faithful houseboy from the crystal clear depths.

“What on earth is all this noise?” One shouted, as one left the steam room to investigate. Before me, one saw Chu Me lying on a lounger, panting heavily. The window cleaner was sitting in a chair, saturated and removing his shirt. The disrobing revealed a muscled, tanned torso with a six-pack stomach; tiny droplets of water falling from his jaw line and landing on his pectorial plane, creating tiny rivers that meandered down his body to the belt above his downstairs area.

Sahaying towards him, he stood up and one grabbed the back of his head and pushed one’s lips on his. After a few seconds, he began to struggle and our lips were released.

“Dame Crusty, what are you doing?”

“The kiss of life, dear! You’ve had a terrible trauma”

“But I’m fine…”

“Better make sure, dear” and with that one planted one’s lips upon him again. Finally, releasing him from one’s vice-like medical grip, Chu Me explained he had not intentionally brushed one’s bosom. It had been the ripples of the pool that had turned him towards me. He was simply trying to stabilise himself.

One looked at him briefly before the pieces all fell into place. Turning to head towards the door of the main residence, one chuckled loudly thinking how easy it is for misunderstandings to happen.

Chelsea Leaves Walford.

News has filtered through to one's private office at Crusty Hall, that stunningly delicious Eastenders actress Tiana Benjamin is set to leave the long running soap after 4 years.

This will cause the show untold damage, being the only knee-tremblingly beautiful member of the female cast (except Dame Barbara Windsor, the exquisite legend that she is).

It is understood that it has been a difficult choice for the actress to make, but she feels it is time to move on.

One doesn't know what she will do, but hopes she was advised The Bill has been axed. Nevertheless, one wishes her gorgeousness all the luck in the future.

One thing is for sure, her happiness levels with soar - like the birds above the clouds - when she finally leaves that depressing square.

Crusty Rides with the Rowing Team.

After a dreadful bout of rain, the morning was bright and sunny and one felt the need to get out into the open air. One looked down from one’s bedroom window and saw the horses in the stable. One’s favourite stood proud with the sunshine on his face, as he looked across the Gusset estate. A morning ride! A splendid idea!

One mounted Dribble in one’s riding finery and raced off across the grounds towards the River Pees Burn. The feeling of the fresh air whooshing past one’s face as one went was exquisite and Dribble was in his element.

Approaching the cinder track by the side of the river, one came across the village rowing team. They were out on a team practice and looked magnificent suspended in their Lycra bodysuits. Rowing has been a blessing for the entire team, the majority of who used to pass their time on the village green drinking bottles of peach Schnapps and being generally disagreeable. That is, all apart from one; Robin Gett.

Robin was notorious in the surrounding area for petty theft. One night, one stumbled across him trying to grab one’s jugs in the hallway . It was this incident that prompted one to suggest rehabilitation on the rowing team and since joining, he has become a changed character and a totally delightful young man.

“Morning, Dame Crusty!” They all shouted.

“Good morning, boys!” one replied as Dribble nodded his head and stamped his right front hoof.

“We’re going to try for a personal best, but Sammy was on the hoy last night, so we’re not hopeful.”

“It’s all a matter of focus, poppets! If you think you can achieve it, then so shall it be.”

Robin shouted from the middle of the boat, “Will you time us Dame Crusty?”

“Of course, poppet!” One shouted back.

To start them off one took the whip from the side of the saddle, drew it back and flicked it forward quickly; one’s crack pierced the air. At the very same moment, one pressed the start button on the chronograph one has on one’s Bvlgari watch. They huffed, puffed and heaved as they put all their strength into the acceleration of their canoe. The bow of the craft sliced through the glistening ripples of the Pees Burn; each stroke of the oars leaving a trail of tiny whirlpools of power in their wake.

Once up to speed, one squeezed Dribble between one’s thighs and we, too, were off. Galloping along side them on the cinder track, one could see they were putting everything they had into it; their faces contorting with the effort and the pain running through their muscles. Dribble and I raced past the finish marker and when one turned to see the crew cross it too, the button on the stopwatch was pressed once more.

Each of them let out an enormous puff to allow their lungs to draw in a gulp of fresh air to fill and rejuvenate them.

Dribble turned and cantered to the side of the river, by the old moss covered jetty. The boys pulled up alongside and lifted themselves out.

“How did we do, Dame Crusty?” asked Robin.

While they lifted their vessel from the water, one looked down to consult one’s timepiece.

“And what’s your fastest time for that distance so far, poppets?” One enquired.

“Four and a half minutes” said Robin.

One left a dramatic pause, as is befitting on such occasions (though not quite as long as the pause taken on American Idol to give a result or goodness knows, one could still be there now) then revealed the answer.

“Four minutes … and five seconds!! Bravísimo!”

Well, they were of course thrilled. They jumped up and down, joyously clapping their blistered hands before grabbing their cox and heading into the boathouse to express their joy by getting a couple down their necks.

Closing the boathouse door behind them, one patted the neck of one’s trusty steed; “Do you know, Dribble, I think we may have potential Olympians there.”

With that, we trotted off back to the Crusty Hall estate.

Crusty Cuts Claudia Shaver's Ribbon.

One shuddered recently when one entered one’s private office to consult the daily appointments in one’s diary.

The day in question was to be free and filled with fun and frivolity, save for one appointment. Despite knowing full well one has no particular fondness for her, Chu Me had pencilled one in for an opening and ribbon cutting at a new business venture on the outskirts of the village. The venture was being set up by aging former village beauty queen, Claudia Shaver.

Claudia was a svelte creature in her younger days. She received many opportunities to model in such popular 70s publications as Cogs & Wheels Monthly, Electric Bulbs & Filaments and Bunty. Yet, Father Time had sadly not been kind, and that, combined with gravity, proved too much for her frame to bear.

In the early days she attempted to mimic one’s own elegant sashay, in a cunning plot to take international fashion runways by storm. However, owing to an unpleasant incident with a Qualcast lawn mower and an over indulgence of Strawberry Rose 20/20s, she was unable to achieve success … even when she wedged a folded odour eater into the heel of her right shoe.

As her figure plummeted towards earth, so did the number of offers for work. Her marriage to her husband, Klaus Shaver – which had been the envy of many in the village for some time – ended suddenly, when Klaus developed a love of gingham and ran off with his personal assistant, Tristan, to open a florist shop in the Yumbo Centro on Gran Canaria.

Anyhoo … Claudia seems to have spent the majority of money she had from the marriage break up and had taken the decision to open a model agency – something she knew about - in order to maintain a suitable income … and one supposes one must commend her for her initiative.

So, the time came to leave; Chu Me brought GUSSET 1 to the front of Crusty Hall and once settled in the back seat, one poured a small tumbler of gin, took a quick snifter and waved one hand so Chu Me could begin to pull off slowly.

Driving down the narrow country lanes, one certainly wasn’t expecting wonders from the occasion; one knew that Claudia was putting everything together on a very tight budget, so one focused on being utterly enchanting throughout … as always.

As the Bentley pulled up outside, there was a small crowd assembled – none of whom one would expect to see anywhere near a model agency - and even the vicar and his wife had turned up to bless the endeavour. Mr. Peppercorn the butcher too - rather strangely - could be seen at the back of the gathered mass, eager to get involved.

After the cutting of the ribbon and a ripple of applause from the onlookers, Claudia invited us all inside to mingle and christen the new offices. She came over, immediately, as one was scanning the buffet table.

“Champagne, Crusty? I don’t have any Cava.” She asked.

“Champagne would be splendid, Claudia dear.”

Filling one’s flute, she put the bottle down on the table beside us and turned to welcome a villager. Taking a small sip of the liquid, one’s face contorted as if one had just sucked an overly juicy lemon. Looking down to check the bottle, one was horrified to discover one was, in actual fact, drinking Babycham! One immediately, poured the contents of one’s glass back into the neck of the bottle.

Turning in one’s direction, Claudia asked, “So … is Kitty coming?”

“Goodness no, dear! She has far more important things to do with the day.”

”Ah! Well … at least you’re here.” She said smiling.

“In body, if not in spirit, dear: in body, if not in spirit.”

Her eyes caught the empty flute one was holding and she picked up the bottle to refill it.

“How are you finding the champagne?” She said, pouring carefully.

“It seems to be finding me, dear and one can’t get it down the neck quick enough. It’s like nothing one has tasted before.”

“I know! I got it from the cellar at the Badger’s Snatch. Willy let me have it for a very reasonable price. The bottles are 30 years old you know?” (The taste certainly suggested as much).

She seemed impressed with how long the bottles lasted, not knowing that every time she filled one’s glass and turned around one simply kept pouring it back in.

Anyhoo … one survived the rest of the soirée, though one didn’t feel up to indulging in anything from the buffet. Her prawn ring looked as if it had seen better days; reports were filtering back to warn her cheesy wotsits had been left out too long and had gone soft and one certainly didn’t want to chance the vol au vents after she told me her eczema had flared up again after her big opening had stressed her out.

It was all such a shame. For, though the food was well presented, the problem, one feels, was that nothing was fresh and one would not have been at all surprised if the supermarket had seen a peak in turnover the day before when the entire selection had been grabbed from the freezer section and purchased with the Nectar points she had accumulated at Christmas.

Or at least, that is what one thought, until one got chatting to Mr. Peppercorn. Pointing to Claudia’s brown baps in the corner, he whispered he’d proved the saviour of the day when he’d snuck round earlier to give her some tongue.

One turned to him and gazed upon him adoringly, “The village would be lost without you, dear! The epitome of kindness, you truly are.”

Ricky Martin - A Proud & Gay Poppet.

an utterly delicious poppet!

One was lying in bed this morning, wrapped warmly in exquisite white Egyptian cotton sheets and engaged in the most delightful dream.

Doctor Christian Jessen and I were alone on a beach in a deserted cove, with the waves gently lapping against the pebbly shore. While he lay there - soaked in Factor 20, absorbing Señor Sol’s rays in a teasingly tight pair of swim-shorts and listening to his i-pod - one was sitting beside him in a charming one-piece bathing suit and wide-brimmed sunhat, busying oneself with smothering his muscled torso with dark chocolate body paint and sliced strawberries.

Just as one was about to feast upon him, with a bottle of chilled Pere Ventura cava, one sensed the giant hand of reality enter one’s state of wistful bliss only to pluck one quickly from within.

The explanation for this unwanted plucking was the revelation on the radio news that lip-dribblingly, Latin-lovely Ricky Martin has confirmed to the world he is gay on his website.

One doesn’t know about one’s poppets, but there was very little doubt in Crusty’s mind anyway. The way this delicious poppet dances is a major giveaway. One has attended many a dreaded “wedding do” and other breed of social function and one has never seen a heterosexual man who can rattle his hips like that. If they even tried it would be a taxi ride to A & E and 3 months in a body cast.

One swears to this day, while watching a performance of 'Livin’ La Vida Loca' on one’s 32 incher, one suffered a black eye when raunchy Ricky thrust his groin forward and let out a guttural “Huh”. The man oozes sexuality from every pore of his epidermal layer.

One, however, is delighted at the news and, now that he has got this off his smooth, muscled pectoral expanse, he can now enjoy an unburdened future with his partner and their adorable children.

May his hips swivel with happiness and contentment for all eternity and the oscillations of his vocal chords resonate beyond time itself.

The Queen of Regional News Returns.

Walking past the breakfast room this morning, one heard a strange noise which aroused one’s curiosity.

Pushing the door open slowly, in case anyone unsavoury had violated one’s inner sanctum, one found Crotchet rubbing the sides of his face against the side of the television in the corner. He was purring furiously and his tail was quivering as he conducted his rubbing ritual.

“Crotchet dear!” One shouted, “What on earth are you doing? Stop that at once!”

He immediately, jumped down from the table but weaved and turned frantically below it.

“What’s the matter, dear? Tell mummy.”

He sat and fixed his gaze upon the screen, which was showing some piece of Sunday nonsense. Well it couldn’t be that; the few minutes one saw were as absorbing as one of the vicar’s sermons. Picking up the remote one remembered the wonders of Sky+ and rewound the channel. It was then that all became clear.

The queen of North East evening news (and one suspects national news also … but you can’t have her), Her Serene Highness Carol Malia, is returning to our screens after her time off to give birth to her delicious baby daughter, Anna Margaret. One squealed with joy and lifting Crotchet into one’s arms. We danced around the breakfast table in celebration.


As a distant fairy godmother, one has arranged for the Doctor Christian Room to be cleaned thoroughly, then sealed until tomorrow evening. A bottle of Pere Ventura is being chilled and Chef has promised a delicious selection of nibbles so Chu Me and I can savour every minute of her return.