Dame Crusty And A Stiffened Package In Her Box

The day had started delightfully. After waking from a most dreamy slumber, one sashayed elegantly down the grand staircase. Once at the bottom, one gasped when one found one's front flap being prized open and a lengthy package being pushed carefully within its tight confines.

Grabbing the invading package with both hands one began to peel back the outer layer. Pulling it off with one's right hand, one squealed with ecstasy as one saw the contents covering the palm of one's left ... a Jake Canuso 2014 calendar!!! Not only that but affectionately signed by one's beloved poppet. 

He had even placed a kiss over a rather intimate area of his gorgeous anatomy, covered only by red gossamer-thin budgie-smugglage. Naturally, one felt it necessary to plant one's own kiss just next to it (...purely for luck, you understand).

Later that day one's levels of excitement grew further still. One had taken GUSSET 2 for a spin into the village and as one showed the precious item to one's dear friend Fanny O'Dour, landlady of the Badger's Snatch, one sat opened mouthed at what she suggested.

"I think he actually delivered it personally, Crusty." Fanny said.

One squealed. "No! One can't believe it! What makes you say that?"

"When I got up this morning, I looked out of the bedroom window and looking up towards your place I saw a large chopper ...."

"Well, it certainly sounds like him, dear" One interrupted.

" ...er...flying over Crusty Hall ... and there was someone hanging from the underneath."

One took a sip of chilled Pere Ventura Cava from the - less than -  sparkly flute, filled by Fanny's Willy and imagined the scene of one's delicious example of manly tottyness dropping on a zipwire, like a scene from Mission Impossible, stopping just above the gravel drive then slowly hovering forth to the letter box, to insert his stiffened package into one's box.

"Do you know, Fanny, you may be right. One knows he was flying into the loving arms of Mama Canuso. Perhaps he did stop en route.A detour if you will."

Anyhoo ... sadly, one found out later it was not, in fact, him. It appears the local police helicopter had swept a little low over a tree and caught Mr Craddick's braces as he was bird watching (or so he told the pilot when they eventually landed after a 20 minute flight. However, one knows his "bird watching" is merely watching Veronica Mantrapp doing her naked Zumba session in her spare room).

Nevertheless, one is delighted to announce that everybody can share in the joys of a well hung Jake on their wall, to enjoy every day of 2014 ... and trust one ...with his well balanced proportions, it will hang beautifully. Simply pop along to www.jakecanusoshop.co.uk  where one can be ordered and delivered in only a matter of days, arriving in plenty time for the new year. 

Furthermore, worry not if you are in a foreign land, as there are options for all international poppets too.

Crusty Examines Big Brother's Opening

One was sitting in Litten's - the oak panelled bar at Crusty Hall - enjoying a stiff one. One's faithful houseboy, Chu Me had plonked into one's hand moments earlier. It was a little cold, nevertheless, was sliding down the back of one's throat in the most pleasing manner (as, indeed, all glasses of gin should).

As Chu Me fought off one's pussy, Crotchet, while he was trying to munch on the sole of his evening flip- flops, one squealed with delight to see one's treasured poppet, Louie Spence appear on one's 32 incher! What was this programme that was bringing one one's dear twitterchum into one's home over the televisular airwaves? It was, of course, Celebrity Big Brother 2013.

Louie looked utterly delicious as he entered the monitored dwelling, in glistening sequinned jacket. My goodness, his attire almost sparkled as brightly as his infectious personality and one thought the entire show was going to be worth watching even if he was in there alone. Who else was to enter this years competition, one wondered?

In previous years, that awful word "celebrity" had been used in various programmes with a little too much poetic licence; a little like those profiles on dating website and chatrooms where people describe themselves as "cute" ... yet, they very seldom are. In the past, we had people that were aspiring to a 10 year wait to reach the double Z list of celebritism and occasionally even those, a nation sat in the comfort of their sumptuous home furnishings, pointing at the screen and exclaiming, "I thought they were dead". Needless to say, with the injection of dear Louie one began to think it was to be a bumper year.

The next two contestants were Lauren Harries and Sophie Anderton. The former, Lauren, has always been a most interesting creature. One remembers Lauren appearing on Wogan (the television show ... not the man himself) many years ago, when she was a young boy called James. He was always a very interesting, if not slightly precocious, child back then, so now with gender reassignment, one is quite sure she will be a one to watch. Her entrance wasn't as glamorous as it should have been, however; one fancies the overly high heels and incorrect poise resulted in a uncomfortable clomp, rather than an elegant sashay. The frock also looked, perhaps, a size too small, judging by the overflow of body fat and the two highly compressed hooters attempting to escape at the front. Neck up she had achieved the look of a genetic merging of a young Barbara Cartland and Myra Hindley, had she discovered back combing.

As for Sophie Anderton, one must admit one has never heard of her. Apparently, she is a model who became famous ( if indeed she ever did) for having pictures taken in the grass, or some such fancy. Well, we've all done that on a hot Summer day, have we not? ... only one had the foresight to have the negatives destroyed afterwards and the midge bites treated with Savlon as soon as one returned to the car. Before entering the house she revealed that her drug addiction was well documented; quite a pity she is of such insignificance or it may have proved interesting reading. "Believe it or not, I can be quite boring", she said ...after only 1½ minutes of her introductory interview, one was entirely convinced.

In the usual twist, our first three house mates were taken to another room. From that point, there was the steady influx of the remaining participants. Predominantly, poppets who could carry the title of celebrity; there was Ron Atkinson, Vicki Entwistle, Carol McGiffin and Bruce Jones. Sadly, however, there was a further injection of those not so worthy ... the "I thought they'd died" ... and a couple who were only feeding around the anal sphincter of celebrity, praying for a life of fame and fortune in return for offering very little, if no, talent at all, such as Charlotte Crosby and Courtney Stodden.

As a native resident of the utterly gorgeous North East of Her Majesty's realm (What? You've never been?! Goodness ...come at once, you'll adore the hospitality and friendliness!), one must first apologise for Charlotte Crosby. She has received notoriety from being part of a most embarrassing programme called Geordie Shore. You can remain quite certain - and safe in the knowledge - that she, with the large head in relation to her frame and the pre-middle-age bingo wings - is not a typical example of North East ladyism and that most in one's beloved region can communicate orally without shouting louder than a back-firing Fiat Punto.

When one saw Courtney Stodden one must admit one was horrified! Having just emptied one's Baccarat crystal tumbler of liquid refreshment, one screamed to have Chu Me filled it at once. He slapped hurriedly across the parquet flooring in his half eaten flip-flops (Crotchet, still running after him) and began to pour, "Don't bother about the tonic, dear! One'll take it neat! Have you seen what has just appeared on screen?"

Chu Me stood by one's side, dibbling at the sight of this breastular-inflated individual.

"Stop dribbling at once! Furthermore, never trust a woman whose breasts are the size of two Pacific islands and whose hair will not move in a force 8 gale!"

Indeed, looking at her hair a little closer, one realised the last time one had saw anything with a texture like that, it was being rolled up and tied by our local farmer's combine harvester! In the outrageously high heels she was wearing and her spindly legs, she resembled two cocktails sticks that had been plucked from a mutually pierced cheese and pickled onion hedgehog at an inferior evening buffet.As house mate after house mate entered and one saw her leaning against the kitchen counter, one wondered if she'd ever been on her feet that long before!

Coming up the behind, there was Abz from Five (one's not sure he could count any higher, dear), Mario my-manbiscuit-has-its-own-postcode Falcone, Dustin "Screech" Diamond who claims to have slept with over 200 women (one wonders if they knew) and Danielle Marr. Danielle said "You'll know me best for Dublin Wives", to which one replied, "Then one doesn't know you at all, dear."

One's only complaint was the young creature whom was presenting the opening extravaganza; Emma Willis. Certainly pleasing to eye but, my goodness, when trying to speak over the crowds, one thought Dino from the Flintstones had come out of retirement. Not only do we have a "Screech" inside the house ...Channel 5 have given us one outside too!!

Anyhoo ... the house it filled it is now only a matter of time before the ..[no, not ejeculations, Chu Me ... that's something altogether different] ... evictions begin. One prays, however, that one's twitterchum Louie is victorious. One thing is for sure ... he will bring a burst of sunshine and joy into our lives each day he is in there.

Dame Crusty: "There Shall Be No Balls For Breakfast"

It was only but a week or so ago when one awoke from a deep sleep, in the sumptuous snuggly softness of one’s nightly retreat. The curtains were drawn and, though one’s bed chamber was filled with a low level of natural lightage, one of Señor Sol’s tentacles of light had found its way through a small opening between the lush, heavy hanging fabric to land on the wall above the fireplace. The grounds of Crusty Hall seemed silent, save the gentle chirrup coming from a feather congregation.

One’s eyes were still heavy and one thought one could quite easily fall back to sleep. In an attempt to raise oneself from one’s semi-tired state one leant over to the radio on one’s mahogany bedside table and switched it on. A bit of the delicious Chris Evans would surely to the trick.

It was rather disappointing, however, when one entered a conversation with some poor individual who, evidently, had terrible health problems; words rattling out at a rate of knots with a frequent audible gasp for breath. One bit one’s lip in sympathy at this poor poppet who, one could only assume, suffered her difficulty acquiring oxygen from something as ghastly as a collapsed lung perhaps. With one’s levels of sympathy rising with every gasp, one was rather horrified at the distasteful insertion of popular musicality. This was too serious a moment to be putting toe-tapping ditties on!

As one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, turned the knob on one’s bedroom door and entered with a squeak (coming from the hinges of the door, or course, and not from Chu Me), he made his way – in a rather dashing pair of flip-flops – to the side of one’s bed with a tray of breakfast goodies. One turned down the volume on the radio slightly and relayed a summary of this poor creature. Chu Me looked a little puzzled and placed the breakfast tray across the mound of duvetliciousness that covered one’s lallies and reached over to the radio to turn up the volume.

He listened for only matter of seconds and then – with a totally unnecessary and unbecoming tut – advised me the person was not an oxygen-deficient lung collapsee, but was in fact Zoe Ball!! Good Lord!

Anyhoo … as soon as one realised who it was, one has to say all levels of sympathy evaporated and she simply became increasingly annoying and totally unsuitable for early morning airage. Particularly with her recounting the story of when she was walking down the street with last night’s G-string stuck to her face without her knowing … or some such fancy.

Chu Me withdrew and one was left with the voice of old-gaspy-knickers unpleasantly oscillating through the air molecules of one’s bed chamber.As one concentrated on the gargantuan intakes of breath, one began to grow weary. One’s eye lids became heavy and one found oneself slipping off. Before one knew it one was in the production studio of Radio 2.

Looking through the misty haze one could see the figure of old-gaspy sitting there. Clicking on a button, from which one could establish communication with her, one offered direction.

“You’re coming through rather loud, dear. One fears you may need to step back a little from the microphone.” She rose from her seat and took a step back. “Will this do, Dame Crusty? >gasp<”

“A little further, dear.”

“>gasp< Will this do?”

“One fancies a little further.”

“That ok?”

“A little further?”

A distant voice said, “It that – erm – ok now? >gasp<”

"A few steps more, dear?"

“Is that ok now?” The voice was faint but one was still not satisfied.

“One thinks just a couple more steps back and we’ll have it, poppet.”

The distant mumble came immediately back. “I can’t go any further back, Dame Crusty, my backs against the wall of the stationery cupboard”

“Can you manage to kick the door shut, dear?”

There was the far off sound of her hoof catching the side of the door and eventually there was a click as the door closed and the catch secured itself. After several minutes there was nothing but silence. “Ah! Now that’s much better!”

As one awoke from one’s dream, one felt a warm feeling at one’s accomplishment … or so one thought until one realised one had knocked the teapot over from the breakfast tray and it was soaking through one’s bed clothes. Still, it certainly put a spring in one’s step for the remainder of the day.

Celebrity Big Brother 2012 - Julian Clary; Last One Tossed Off

As one reclined on the leather couch in Litten’s – the bar here at one’s beloved Crusty Hall - the lush natural fabrics of one’s Masato ensemble draped deliciously over the rich, soft hide and one’s back supported adequately by the plumptiously filled Jake Canuso embroidered scatter cushions, one - for some inexplicable reason - pondered the events of the Celebrity Big Brother house.

One cast one’s mind back to when this season all started and recalled when the celebrities (‘celebrities’ being used in its broadest sense, of course) entered the infamous reality house for their period of televisual incarceration. The customary insistence when such programmes are created - and the dreaded word ‘celebrity’ is used - to pluck any old duffer, that has had so much as one column inch in a tawdry periodical, out of the ether had certainly been maintained .

Prince Lozenge Bolognese – a rather fragrant and delicious poppet - being the perfect example of this ongoing practice. Apparently, from what one has heard, he has appeared on our television screens before! One is sure he has … and how very nice for him. However, Chu Me’s former love interest, Tess Tickle, has also appeared on television (a local news report, where she was seen buying a nit comb from the village chemist, Annelise Stules-Hoffen, in a rather unflattering pair of dungarees, tan brogues and gingham) but make a celebrity of her it most certainly does not!

Enticed further, one was horrified at one stage of the inaugural extravaganza when one sat open-mouthed - a crystal clear meandering of gin flowing down one’s chin as a result of the dropping of one’s jaw - and dripping upon one’s exposed bosom, “Jimmy Saville?!! In a leopard skin print??!! Good Lord! One thought he was dead … and wore nylon?!”

It was then that one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, informed one it was actually Coronation Street’s Julie Goodyear. Upon closer inspection one realised Chu Me was, in fact, correct; the sagging bags under the eyes, the hair with the texture of Hessian wallpaper and her mouth masticating a large ball of gum as if her life depended on it (one has read chewing of gum is a good way to maintain the tautness of the jaw line … looking at the Bulldog-esque jowls of our leopard skin print diva, she clearly needed to chew a lot harder … and purchase significantly more gum).

Other celebrities – worthy of the title – were introduced one by one; the lovely Coleen Nolan, the delicious Martin Kemp, the glamorous  Julian Clary, the adorably delicious Cheryl they’ve-killed-‘Ev Fergison … and the rather tottylicious TeamGB Ashley McKenzie who, after the performance of the British team at this year’s Olympics, is not a mere celebrity but a Judotastic star!

Then, as one feared, it all started going down hill.

A young, handsome poppet called Mike Sorrentino, who had opted to refer to himself as The Shituation, or some such fancy. An abdominal expanse you could bounce a conker off but all the personality and appeal of overcooked pasta.

A rather odd looking poppet, called Jasmine Lennard, who if the Daily Mail is ever to believed is 27 (however, her face, bony lallies and the overall appearance of a lanky streak of piss in designer frockage, suggested a typo had occurred and those two digits were, in fact, destined to be reversed). Jasmine is apparently a lover of both the man-biscuit and lady-garden and she has even dated Simon Cowell (which has certainly drained the life from her, poor thing). She also has a son to American musician Seth Shift y’binz. (however, if Seth put his bins out after 9pm, then I for one would wholly support him in leaving them where they were until they’d been emptied!)

An attempt at glamour was made with the introduction of Danica, who as one understands it is an ‘international lingerie model’ (Essentially meaning she flashes her knickers to the world).

Danica (which sounds more like the brand name for a range of kitchen units) clomped enthusiastically into the house, as did another model, Rhian no-relation-to-Percy Sugden. Rhian has been a page three girl and has flashed her baps over many a glossy, such as Zoo … indeed, many Nuts have been grabbed (in more ways than one, one suspects) by young heterosexual males wishing to finger through the pages until they come upon her picture, in the privacy of their bedrooms.

Finally, Samantha Brick (who, coincidentally, from what one has observed, has the complexion of a breeze block). Samantha was the journalist who claimed her life was difficult because she was so beautiful. Having seen the amount of spottage on her facial epidermis, her crooked mouth and gammy eye, one fears her case is rapidly being lost in the law courts of aesthetic appeal. Many gentlemen who have come upon her in bars, restaurants and even the streets of our bustling metropolis have whipped out their wallets and insisted on paying for her, simply because she is earth-shatteringly gorgeous. If any of those men have been watching Celebrity Big Brother, there is sure to be a line longer than any Marks & Spencer returns queue, with all of them having an eager desire to have their money refunded, without so much as a quibble.

All in all, the show was reasonably entertaining and if viewers didn’t know that Julie no-I’m-not-Jimmy-Saville-in-a-leopard-skin-print  Goodyear was a national icon, famous for being the landlady of the Rovers Return for 25 years, 70 and disabled, then they certainly do now … the woman never shut up about it!

One also understands from newspaper reports that, since the show has ended,  Danica Knicker-flasher Thrall has had blazing rows with her boyfriend but, thankfully, the model, who apparently has made her name taking money and gifts from rich men, is receiving consolation from multi-millionaire hotty Prince Lozenge Bolognese. One suspects the words ‘ching’ and ‘ker’ have been involved, though not necessarily in that order.

Anyhoo … one was rather delighted to see that the very elegant Julian Clary was victorious. Though one was quite surprised Martin Kempt didn’t win, one was chuffed as punch Julian came first. Bravo dear!

Karl Lagerfeld Let's Rip ... Again! ... [Nurse!!!!!]

The Metro periodical was lying open on the workbench of gardener’s greenhouse. He was in the far corner, somewhat preoccupied with pulling off Basil, so had left it unattended. Naturally, one felt drawn to read the words scattered within the pages. As one did, one was flabbergasted at what one read, as one focused in on the typeset! So much so, one had to put one’s binoculars down and sit back in the studded leather captain’s chair of one’s study to reach an acceptable level of damely composure.

"Kate Middleton has a nice silhouette and she is the right girl for that boy (by ‘that boy’ one assumes you mean Prince William, our future King, dear). I like that kind of woman, I like romantic beauties. On the other hand, her sister struggles. I don't like the sister's face. She should only show her back."

One was outraged!

Even the slapping of a member of household staff, as she picked up remnants of Chu Me’s flip-flops from a rough section of the parquet flooring, could one release the pure anger one felt at such a revolting comment about the utterly gorgeous sister of our future queen.

“Who made this comment, Dame Crusty?” One hears you ask.

One’s gag reflex is held at bay as one mentions his name … Karl Lagerfeld.

One acknowledges that this member of the fashion community has been around for … well, goodness … it would seem like centuries (something certainly backed up by the way he dresses; wearing his usual high collar shirts, black suits and thigh length boots … often resembling a 17^th century hooker with a vampire fetish). As for the best sides to be taken from (especially where the rear is concerned), one suspects he speaks from significant experience.

If you are still unsure, picture the same outfit as one has previously described in your mind’s eye; black suit, high collared white shirt (one fancies to hide the turkey-neck at which even Coronation Street’s Audrey Roberts would grimace), thigh high leather boots (and one’s talking heels here), a face with the complexion of a pensioner’s left testicle and with white wiry hair plonked on top of said teste-face (akin to that of the pubic foliage surrounding that very same pensioner’s downstairs area) brushed back into a ponytail. Finish that image off with a pendulous pair of ears, a pair of Mick Jagger-esque lips which haven’t seen lip salve in a month and a pair of sunglasses … et voila! 

That’s right … that’s the one.

Karl dear, you are no oil painting yourself ... if oil was involved, however, one suspects it would be crude.

Crusty, Fanny and the Tale of the Creamy Fingers

One awoke that morning feeling a little bloated. Though still maintaining an agreeable level of elegance (naturally), one felt one had mysteriously gained a little more weight through one’s slumbers; yes, one had enjoyed a rather erotic time in one’s dreams sharing some bowls of whipped double cream and sticky toffee pudding with one’s delicious poppet Jake Canuso … and in various positions … but one knew it wasn’t possible to increase one’s weight as a result. This is not Elm Street after all.

It was all highly bizarre and, naturally, it turned one’s mood.

One’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, acutely aware of one’s morning bout of sadness, tried to do what he could to cheer one up. He tried to mount one’s pussy, Crotchet, and ride him side saddle along the corridor outside one’s quarters; one could not even raise a smile. Even when Crotchet repaid the compliment by clawing at Chu Me’s clothing with short, sharp blows of his curled up, claw-extended paws and hissing wildly, one still took no interest.

The two walked off slowly, Chu Me’s shoulders slumped with disappointment and Crotchet’s tail dragging lifelessly along the carpet behind him.

As one dressed in appropriate attire for breakfast, one could see from one’s dressing room window that Chu Me had decided to make a special trip to the side of the stables to collect some fresh eggs from his hens. One caught sight of him as he picked up the elliptical shells of creamy yolkiness and put them in his wicker basket - his hens scurrying around his feet with pride and joy at a job well done. Bending down to cup his hand around the underside of his cock, he squeezed it lovingly to his chest and kissed it on the head before he released it, setting it back on the ground next to his feet (one could almost hear the thud through the double glazing … it is a mighty beast indeed). Leaving the coop, he secured the padlock on the door and headed back toward the residence.

A small glistening droplet of ocular liquid forced itself from one’s right tear duct as one realised the love he had for these creatures and indeed for ensuring one had the best of everything. It was clearly one’s weakened state that caused such an unnecessarily emotional reaction at such an early hour of the day. Taking a deep breath and clenching one’s hands into stylish and epidermally soft fists, one established composure once more and made one’s way down the staircase of the Great Hall to the breakfast room. The household staff were busying away with their chores while trying to be inconspicuous. The one brushing the stairs was, however, certainly not. One did not have the energy to say anything and decided the kick one executed to her right thigh would have to be enough.

Sat in the breakfast room with one’s gorgeous North East legend Colin his-twinkle-makes-me-tingle Briggs relaying the local news on BBC Breakfast, one settled down for something to fuel one for the day. One put Chu Me’s eggs into one’s mouth and found them extremely creamy - with just the right amount of saltiness. Yet despite this,  one’s mood did not improve. The lightweight Masato ensemble of natural fabrics one had chosen, along with diamond mounted accessories should have made one feel utterly fabulous most certainly, yet one could not help but feel a little uncomfortable as the gorgeous fabric clung a little too tightly to one’s shapely frame.

Checking one’s social calendar, one noted one had arranged to meet one’s dear friend Fanny O’Dour – landlady of the Badger’s Snatch – for some refreshment. We had agreed to visit the local coffee shop rather than attend her own watering hole. One often felt she spent her life there and it was always nice to have a change of surroundings. Her husband, Willy O’Dour, was more than capable of running the show for a few hours … and quite right too.

At 11.04am, one set off in GUSSET 2 from the crunching gravel drive of one’s beloved Crusty Hall and sped down the winding country lanes towards the heart of the village, the delicious sounds of one’s treasured and iconic poppet, Holly Johnson filling the cabin with melodious joy.

Fanny was waiting on the bench at the corner of the village green when one arrived, reading (with alarm, one imagined) a pamphlet that looked suspiciously like the ones handed out by the vicar’s wife, Marjorie Flecks, whenever she had a singing recital planned. One parked the Aston in one’s usual place and sashayed elegantly across the black and glistening tarmac of the road to join her.  Despite the inclement weather, there was a warmth in the air and a breeze that brushed one’s soft cheeks like that one enjoyed annually on the shores of one’s beloved Montgat.

“Crusty!” She squealed and extended her arms. We kissed each other affectionately on each cheek, linked arms and made our way towards the coffee shop. Telling her of one’s misery at feeling a little plumper today she attempted to cheer one up.

“Don’t talk nonsense, Crusty! You look as radiant as ever and you have a figure to die for.”

It certainly seemed to help. As she pressed the latch of the coffee shop door and we entered to the sound of the bell suspended above, one’s spirits did indeed lift, even in the face of resting one’s eyes on the horrendously long queue of people at the counter.  Perhaps one wasn’t as temporarily overweight as one had thought.

Anyhoo … eventually, a rather sorry looking individual got round to serving us.

“Good morning, Dame Crusty. Sorry about your wait” she announced.

“Sorry about one’s weight?!”  One screeched. One was outraged!

“And one’s sorry about your saggy tits, fat arse and rather unkempt yellow hair, dear! Now, two creamy fingers and a pot of tea if you please!!”

As the embarrassed individual curtsied and turned quickly to tend to one’s needs, Fanny leant forward and whispered in one’s ear. “I think she was referring to the queue, Crusty.”

One stopped and thought for a moment. Ah, the wonders of the English Language. As soon as one realised, Fanny and I giggled like schoolgirls at the misunderstanding, carrying our fayre to our usual table.

Later, as Fanny and I prepared to leave the coffee shop the servant girl came to our table to collect the cups and payment. It was here, one fancies, she tried to get some level of revenge for one’s tiny little mix-up earlier.

“What?! No tip?!” She said, with a hint of venom wisping from her unpleasant breath.

“Oh sorry, poppet” one replied.

Holding her coarse hand with one’s left, one covered the back of it with one’s right and patted it gently. Looking endearingly into her bloodshot eyes one said, “Yes of course, dear … a longer tabbard to cover your arse, a pair of chicken fillets to lift your bangers … oh … and a hat … to hide y’ tatty hair. Good day to you.”

With that, Fanny and I walked out – to the sound of smashing tea cups and a scream - and made our way down the street to the Badger’s Snatch, where we had planned to sneak in through the back but when we came across the drayman pulling off his kegs at the entrance of the beer garden, we instead entered through the lounge entrance and partook of a refreshing glass of Pere Ventura Tresor Reserva Cava before one set off home to the opulent comfort of one's beloved Crusty Hall.

Daphne Dewdrop's Brush With The Law

One had just visited Mr Peppercorn’s butchery emporium for some supplies for the kitchen at one's beloved Crusty Hall. Cook will normally order items to be delivered, however, one always likes the ability to grab some local meat. There’s nothing worse, one finds, than nibbling on a gristly sausage that’s travelled half way around the country ... or getting one’s hands on a hunk of beef that is inadequately hung. One always feels so let down.

Plus – of course - Mr. Peppercorn has been servicing one well for many years; one wouldn’t dream of taking one’s business elsewhere. Whenever cook has a tasty pie on the menu, for example, Mr. Peppercorn always gives one a good filling and when he slips one some of his tongue as an extra … well … let one just say, one takes a little step closer to heaven.

Anyhoo … it was this very morning and he had wrapped up his meat in some greaseproof paper. One grabbed his bulging packet and put it in one’s shopping basket, bid him farewell and headed off to the local bakers, ran by the delightful Pat Tissery. One knew if one could get there early enough, one could beat the queue and be able to get one’s hands on a pair of her crusty bloomers; the yeasty aroma that emanates from them is heavenly and one can never resist holding them up to one’s nasal passages and giving them a good sniff.

Just as one sashayed to the threshold of the traditional purveyor of bready products, one’s glisteningly youthful eyes fell upon local model Veronica Manntrapp; she was just leaving, with a rather unbecoming bag full of cream cakes (One wonders how on earth she maintained her figure! She has the appetite of a farm animal).

“Oh Crusty, I’m glad I’ve seen you. You must go and console Daphne. She’s distraught. She’s been given a police caution by WPC Hel Mett.”

“Goodness! What on earth has happened?!” One exclaimed.

“She was caught driving with her top down. She’s round the corner outside the Chemist, crying her eyes out.”

“One shall tend to it at once.” One reassured her.

Continuing one’s sashay hurriedly, with one’s shopping basket swinging pendulously on one’s forearm, one couldn’t help but be mystified by the predicament that Daphne Dewdrop found herself in. She had always been the village member with the loosest of morals … a party-girl if you will. Often, after a Saturday night out, she could be found slumped back on the wooden bench on the corner of the village green, her knickers round her ankles like an off-white cotton anklet, clutching an almost empty bottle of Diamond White like a much loved kitten. But how on earth could she have found herself receiving a caution for something that wasn’t even illegal! For heaven’s sake, millions of people must be driving round like that when the weather is of agreeable conditions!

Anyhoo … all became clear when one turned the corner and saw her Renault Clio parked outside the Chemist. She has not been stopped for driving in a convertible state, as one had initially thought; WPC Hel Mett had, in fact, given her a warning for driving with her top down, that is to say … her boob-tube pushed down around her waist. It was therefore, hooter exposure that had resulted in her brush with the law and the subsequent stern words from our member of the local constabulary.

Leaning against the sill of the open window on the near side, while maintaining a ballerina-like posture, one attempted to cheer up poor Daphne.

She was sat there with tears streaming down her overly made-up face; mascara was oozing down her rosy cheeks in such meandering swathes it gave her the appearance of a slightly sun-kissed Alice Cooper - only without the wrinkles and unnaturally white teeth. Across the exposed boobage WPC Mett had stuck a parking notice pouch across each of her areas of nipplage to make her a tad more decent than she had been found. A little severe one thought, but when one notices a young boy who had obviously hit a bin and flew over the handlebars to end up head first in the very same refuse receptacle – his legs kicking and his muffled cries for help being ignored - one thought it was, perhaps, the better thing to do.

“Come along, Daphne dear!!” One said heartily. “Stiff upper lip and all that, old thing!”

“I’ve never been so ashamed, Dame Crusty.” She sobbed.

“Now, now … let us consider it a lesson learnt."

“I s’pose” she sniffed, wiping her blackened eyes with a McDonald’s serviette (still encrusted with a piece of fried onion and smear of ketchup from the time it was purchased).

“Incidentally, dear, that yellow in the parking notice pouch suits your colouring magnificently!”

“She looked down towards her hooters and with her chin gathering together like an epidermal concertina, she made an approving, “Mmmm … Do you think?”

“Oh yes! Quite delightful, dear! So, though you may have been in danger of the full force of Her Majesty’s justice being thrust upon you, at least you’ve found another colour for your wardrobe … so every cloud and all that.”

Her spirits visibly lifted, one turned and glided away elegantly along the pavement, humming a adhoc assemblage of notes. A visitor to our charming village heard one as one passed.

" Oooo! That sounds like Cheryl Cole's new song!" She said.

One stopped ... looked at the woman right in her eyes (although it was quite difficult with her right one as it wouldn't rest in one place), looked down at her synthetic attire, back up to her eyes, then slapped her across the dish and stormed off. Outrageous, one thought!

After a few steps, one turned for one last time, to reassure oneself that one’s friend was well. Looking past the unpleasant individual who had insulted one so, as she bent over clutching her left cheek, one saw Daphne. She seemed engrossed in the lifting of her right book to the side of her face to analyse the colour complementation of the sticky pouch in her rear view mirror.

A crisis averted, one placed one's shopping in the back of GUSSET 2 and headed off to the beer garden of the Badger's Snatch for a stiff one with Fanny O'Dour.