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!]

Hillary Clinton - Dame Crusty Calms Her Fears.

Dame Crusty ... arrrr... I ... arrrr ... salute you!

Dearest Hillary,

One never likes to step into the world of politics – especially in this rather exquisite pair of Gucci pumps – but one felt one had to express opinion at your rather tawdry, public criticism of Her Majesty’s new government and their impending defence spending review.

Not so very long ago, a bunch of bankers (are one’s keys sticking?... ah no!) from your fair land were rather naughty and began a trickle – later turning into a tsunami - of devastation throughout the financial sectors of the entire western world and beyond. As a result, the world economy was brought to its knees … in a rather unpleasant Lewinski-esque fashion, if you will. There were bodily excretions hitting fan blades in every corner of our globe.

You must, therefore, forgive some of one’s European family while they attempt to adjust their monetary britches and support the countrymen held within the fabric of their nations boxers (while still fighting in battles - we can never hope to win - started by our very own Tony I’m-a best-selling-author-because-I-said-I’d-give-all-the-profits-from-my-book-to-the-Help-the-Heroes-Charity Blair and your Bush).

Even Great Britain – and one must emphasise Great with vigour and pride – finds itself in a terrible predicament, scraping along a plateau of broken glass on a rather bony expanse of buttock. This was made all the worse by your chums, in our previous government who were a little irresponsible with Her Majesty’s savings account, including the rather curious looking piece of eye-candy you became fond of, David Miliband, who I understand – since his defeat in the party elections – is now selling household cleaning products from a basket - door to door - in allocated streets of a North East town (though, quite frankly, even Cillit Bang couldn’t clean the hands of that last lot!). One believes his chamois leathers are selling like hotcakes, if you’re interested!

Anyhoo …they squandered the nation’s finances with gay abandon (and that does not solely relate to Peter Peggy-on-a-Sunday Mandelson). To put it simply, it was like going to the hairdressers, spending an absolute fortune on a new ‘do’ and getting something of very little value or consequence in return. One is sure you can relate to that scenario only too well, having blatantly exposed dark rootage on the international stage and – on occasion – picking ill-advised fights with hedges before televised press conferences.

One can assure you that the British nation is more than prepared to defend itself and its allies. Goodness, try and infiltrate the North East with a terrorist cell and there will be many a bloody nose in the streets of the quayside and Bigg Market, as those responsible will be battered to a state of poo, by locals wielding kebabs, cans of K cider and protected by Stand&Tan leatherette skin which, one can assure you, is impenetrable.

So please don’t worry about us and feel free to keep your proportionately stubby nasal formation out of our business. As one emailed one of your Texas judges only yesterday over this farcical Liverpool FC malarkey “You have no jurisdiction here, so bog off poppet!”

Hope you and the family are well,
Love, joy and laughter,

Dame Crusty
xxxx

Fascinating Aida's Report Into Cheap Flights

While relaxing with a glass of chilled Fonpinet Cava on the terrace in sun-drenched Málaga, one received a message from one's dear friend, Nigel, via the magnificent twitterverse. Something had tickled his fancy and wondered if one wanted one's tickled too. How could one refuse, poppets?

He had sent one a indepth study by Fascinating Aida of the workings of the low-cost airlines. The investigation below if both interesting and sets out all of the hidden costs in an easy to follow way.

Easyjet - Enemy At The Gates

Chu Me and I had left the comfort of the Executive Lounge in Newcastle International Airport and were heading, in an elegant fashion, towards the announced gate. Gliding effortlessly down the corridor, each time one passed by a window the light of Señor Sol’s tentacles would catch the simple selection of diamonds one was wearing and blast a brilliant explosion of light throughout the passageway. One young lady with fake Louis Vuitton hand-luggage and inappropriate footwear asked her companion, ”Was that lightening?!” Concerned, one put one’s right hand on her shoulder and reassured her, “No dear, just flawless diamonds,” and walked on.

Now, in times gone by when one has used the services of Easyjet, one has normally found oneself at the same gate as one found oneself on this particular day. Two departure gates, hidden down a set of stairs, almost in the bowels of the airport, where everyone would previously congregate until they heard the bing-bong and then it was like the opening of a cut price Burberry outlet near a housing estate of chavs; the stampede would begin in earnest. (Still, after all these years, passengers with Boarding Group E think for some inexplicable reason that they can board when Boarding Group A is announced. Then when turned away, stand blocking the thoroughfare, scratching their heads like chimpanzees wondering what to do next.)

Recently, however, someone of limited intelligence has decided it would be far better to create an enormous queue by checking passports etc. at the bottom of the stairwell. To make matters worse, this particular trip saw a rather saggy-jowelled individual standing at the right of the stairs, at the bottom, leaning against the wall like a badly dressed hooker and clinging to a hand-luggage cage with her right hand. She was insisting passengers put their bags inside.

She was a well rounded creature, with blonde hair pulled back in an aubergine coloured scrunchy and her trousers were clinging on to her thighs for dear life. She had, one supposes, what Gok Wan would describe as an hour-glass figure. If that was the case, she was certainly containing more than her fair share of sand.

Anyhoo … one neared the lair of the dragon and she pointed at the aperture. One stood motionless, save one’s eyes looking down at the cage, then up at her face, then down to the cage, then up at her face.

“Could you put your bag in there?” She asked.

“More than likely, dear.” Then one turned to walk to a seat.

“Excuse me! All bags need to be checked for size.”

“Are we expecting the bag to have transformed into a suitcase since check-in, dear?” One said, finally sitting in a seat near the entrance to the gate.

On five occasions people put their hand luggage in and with handles, wheels etc. they proved difficult to remove; the light-weight structure of the tubular template lifted as they tried harder and harder to pull them back out. The Easyjet dragon, nevertheless, continued to hold the apparatus with her right hand. Well, after 5 minutes one stood and sashayed across to her. “For the love of God! Assist them dear! The contraption clearly needs a hefty weight to hold it down while they pull! Stick your hoof on it to give them a chance!”

The result was a resounding success and bags began popping out with gay abandon.

Finally, the flight was announced. Bing-bong and everyone rose to block the entrance of the embarkation aisle as normal. ‘Passengers with Speedy Boarding only please.’ However, one found oneself boxed in. Chu Me slipped through the legs of the blockade and turned to face one with a distressed look on his face.

“EXCUSE ME!!” One shouted. A row of heads turned. “Speedy Boarding does not function efficiently if one is stopped from doing so by a wall of insipid flesh and unnaturally bright fabrics!”

Like the parting of the Red Sea, a channel appeared and one sashayed through onto the aircraft. Chu Me selected a perfect position and covered the seating with the velvet throw. He then placed the small piece of sheepskin rug on the floor and placed a hand-embroidered scatter cushion against the back of the window seat. Just before take-off a woman appeared at the side of our row of seats with the stewardess.

“I think that’s the last seat.” She said, smiling and pointing at the seat in the centre, “May I?”

“You may not, dear!” One replied.

“The lady does need to be secured in a seat for take off and landing, Dame Crusty.” Said the stewardess in a rather condescending tone of voice.

One clapped one’s hands twice and Chu Me jumped up and grabbed hold of the woman and took her up the rear. Then in the toilet, he removed some gaffa tape from his leather man-bag and managed to secure her beautifully to the seat in there. Returning to the side of his mistress, one looked at the now open-mouthed stewardess.

“That should do it poppet! Now … be a dear and inform the Captain we’re ready to leave.”

Crusty Prepares To Depart The North East On Tour

On arrival at – for want of a better phrase - Newcastle International Airport, the commuters were already bustling around departures. Their despondent faces growing ever more so as they drew closer to the check-in desks for the usual uppity member of staff to check them in with a face as motionless as that of Dannniiiiiii Minge (sorry, my keyboard’s sticking).

Not only that, but the worry welling up inside them, knowing they were involuntarily entering the Newcastle International Airport Lottery. This is a most exciting game where one never knows if one is going to be charged for excess baggage or not.

This happened to Crusty one year when travelling to the utterly scrumptious Bilbao for a short getaway. A young girl, with a complexion as smooth as a page of Braille and ‘blonde hair’ with unattended roots, charged one for an additional 4kg. This baffled one as Chu Me had already weighed them in advance. Nevertheless, one sent him to pay the £24 or so and we left for Gatwick to make our connection.

Sashaying elegantly to the check-in desk at the connecting airport one was naturally expecting further payment to be made. But no, poppets, the trunks were under the required weight!! One later complained, in the most strongest terms, to the service provider but they wrote back to say after an investigation, the scales in question had been checked by Weights & Measures. One naturally wrote back immediately;

Dear Poppet,

Thank you for your letter, which arrived at an opportune time, as one had just ran out of cat litter for Crotchet. One takes on board your comments but, quite frankly dear, would not take anything Weights & Measures say as of any consequence; they have been telling us for years that 25ml is sufficient for a single measure of spirit … however, as you will be well aware one can never put a measurement on such things, as it all depends on one’s mood at the time.

Love & cuddles,
Dame Crusty

Check-in over and the horror of Newcastle International Airport security was thrust upon the now exhausted travellers. If ever one wished to empathise with the cattle world, then one could find no better place; herded into the cordoned corridors, one minute walking left the next minute walking right, zigzagging backwards and forwards (not the most ideal scenario when one has indulged in the odd glass of gin and is wearing heels) only to reach the end to find the sour-faced employees waiting to greet you at the X-Ray machines.

When we arrived at the gates of Hell, a rather heavy set young man approached one with a look of panic on his face; “Just walk through Dame Crusty! There’s no need to undress like last year.” (How splendid one thought, though one must admit one rather enjoyed the disrobing experience last time). Instead, one clapped one’s hands; Chu Me jumped up onto the machine and began to glide through the dangling leatherette strips in one of the large plastic trays. The security man seemed a little caught off guard as he saw one’s faithful houseboy moving past the X-ray screen.

“Er…all, er, seems to be ok with your companion.” He said.

“Hmmmm … Not so, dear,” One said, pointing at the screen, “One thinks he will need a filling in his upper first premolar when we return! Alas, and despite many warnings from his mistress, he just loves chewing his nuts a little too much.”

Anyhoo … Chu Me surfed to the end of the inspection channel in the plastic tray and jumped down to the floor. Our items collected, one sashayed elegantly past an entirely aggressive woman. She darted forward and one stepped back quickly. One could not see any chain around her neck as she began to ask the most invasive questions with a growl at the back of her throat; “Do you have a loyalty card? Do you have a Credit Card?”

All that was missing from the scene was a leather collar with a bone shaped metal tag with Gripper carved into it, along with her address and telephone number should she go missing. Needless to say, one’s self-defence training kicked in immediately and from the top of one’s bag one grabbed a small bottle of Chanel Nº 5 and sprayed her in the face. She recoiled back spitting and spluttering like an angry viper.

“Good Lord, dear, that’s none of your business, one is quite sure!!” and walked on leaving her in a heap with her eyes streaming; the tears meandering down the cheeks of her over made-up face, splashing down upon her Poly-cotton blouse.

The executive lounge was very pleasing and certainly infinitely quieter than last time, when a bleached haired Rotwieller and her friends were draining the bar dry of every drop of alcohol it held. Chu Me found one a comfortable seat, threw over the velvet throw and placed the small square of sheepskin rug on the floor upon which one’s feet would rest. The peace and quiet was wonderful until an older gentleman entered with a highly polished head and sat to one’s left. He had already caught one’s attention at the sign in desk when he started talking quite loudly to the hostess about what flights he normally took. One could feel oneself saying under one’s breath,” She really isn’t interested in the slightest, dear.”

He took up residence in a seat very near and there was silence once more. Then several minutes later he put his hands in his trouser pocket and began to rummage around. There was no look of ecstasy on his face so one realised he was searching for something. He pulled out his mobile device. In a voice that could only resemble that of God in a Charlton Heston movie he bellowed forth into the tiny mouthpiece.

“Hi Paul, it’s me. You’re obviously not up yet. I’m in the airport lounge. Just wanted to know if you wanted to meet up for lunch on Monday? I’m out of the country until then but we can meet up. Give me a call when you get up, mate.”

After what seemed like a lifetime of shouting, there was peace and quiet once more. However, poppets, it was not to last. Again this person, with the lovely head of skin, whipped out his device. He was ‘phoning Paul again (though one doubted the poor poppet would be up considering he wasn’t 2 minutes and 12 seconds ago). However, to one’s surprise he was ... and the lounge pest could now hold a dialogue. From the start of his conversation one concluded he was a referee of some description from his observations of 16 year old boys who could hold their balls well in varying positions.

One stood and glided towards him while he was in mid conversation.

“Hang on, Paul, there’s a lady who wants to talk to me.” He covered the mouthpiece with his left hand.

“Excuse me, poppet. One knows a place which is infinitely better for such a conversation. May I?”

He got up out of his seat and followed one to a double doorway at the far end of the lounge. One opened the door and as he leant forward to see what lay beyond, one grabbed his lapel and flung him out the door and closed it behind him. Seconds later Chu Me had arrived behind one with the gentleman’s hand luggage. Taking the handle, one opened the door once more and threw it onto the tiled floor ahead. He was now in the main departure lounge and there he would stay (One had rolled up a copy of Cosmopolitan and wedged it in the handles).

Turning to return to one’s seat, Chu Me noticed it was time for us to board. Velvet throw, sheep skin rug and hand luggage gathered, we headed to the required gate while the rather shocked face of an unknown referee pressed against the window of the door behind us, could only see us disappear into the distance.

Barcelona was fingering us enticingly into its welcoming bosom.

Crusty Tour Sept 2010 - The Journey Begins

The morning of the 15th September arrived and inside one was squealing with excitement; the Crusty Tour September 2010 was about to begin. Its commencement was met with a blustery introduction; clearly, Mother Nature had been on the flageolet beans again and the resulting wind was literally breathtaking when one awoke and popped one’s head out of the bedroom window. One’s beloved Crusty Hall was being battered from all sides but there was a particularly strong concentration coming from the rear.

Preparations had been completed over the weekend and the household staff – with the assistance of Chu Me – had ensured one’s trunks were packed beautifully (though, not quite as beautifully packed as the trunks of one’s treasured poppet Jake Canuso, but that’s a matter for another time). So, on this morning of departure all that was left for one to do was adorn oneself in an utterly stunning ensemble made of entirely natural fibres and accessorise with a simple selection of diamonds from the Gusset Collection.

The week previous, while enjoying a moment of relaxation in the Badger’s Snatch, with Fanny O’Dour – the landlady and one’s good friend – her husband came into the bar area. He had just been out the back helping yank off the Drayman’s kegs, so he could empty his load and shoot off a little quicker than normal. Willy remembered one was off on holiday and immediately offered to give Chu Me and I a lift.

“Willy, dear, you’re a gentleman!” One said, “You must use GUSSET 1.”

The morning we left, one took a look back at one’s beloved Crusty Hall and saw one’s pussy, Crotchet, sat on the windowsill in the bar. His poor little face was etched with sadness as his ears and whiskers drooped.

“Don’t worry, Crusty.” Willy said, “Once my Fanny comes and give him something to munch on, he’ll forget you’ve even left.”

It was all too much to bear, so one clung on to the words Willy had said, waved at Crotchet and blew him a kiss and the Bentley pulled away.