Masterchef: The Professionals - Burhan, Baby Burhan

Often of an evening, one finds oneself alone in the residence. The household staff have scuttled back from whence they came and one's faithful houseboy, Chu Me is regularly up in his quarters watching his specialist nature DVDs.  From the sounds one can hear, he clearly enjoys mimicking the creatures he is watching, judging by the panting, groans and screams one can hear oscillating down the corridors.

In such circumstances, if one is not in the Holly Johnson Room running one's perfectly manicured digits over the ivories of the old Joanna, one reclines elegantly on the chaise, by the well-packed drawers of the bow-legged tallboy in the Dr Christian Room with one's eyes  glued to one's 42 incher. One says glued ... with the nonsense they have been putting on while Rona has been ravaging the world, the attention has only been slightly tacky at best.

One of the programmes that one has taken a fancy to, in our pandemic gripped world, is Master Chef: The Professionals. First of all, it's refreshing not to have John Turd accompanying Greg.  Previously, in his chef's challenges it always astounded me when he would cook something and say, "It's important that the ingredients can be tasted and identified. That's the secret of a great chef", as he looked smugly towards Wallace.

Greg would then sit, with eyes and mouth open wide, as Turd went about his culinary expertise; "Wow" ..."Phwoar!" ..."You know how to make my mouth water John ... apples and pears" (or some such fancy). Then, without fail, if he had cooked fish the contestants would say "Definitely chicken". Likewise, some piece of meat would be artistically arranged one a plate with vegetable fanciness and glossy droplets and it would be, "I can taste the cod... definitely cod".

One has a confession. One was never a great fan of Marcus Waring or Monica Galetti in the past, however one must say that one adores them both now. Monica is simply delicious and now that one has seen Marcus smile, the world seems in balance again and they certainly know their onions, do they not.

In this current series we've certainly had our fair share of hotties. One immediately thinks of the delicious Burhan. A stunningly gorgeous poppet who, with one pout to camera, has one's undergarments dissolving like the finest meringue upon a eager tongue. 

An array of skilled chefs are filling our screens as the competition unfolds and those less so. One, poor poppet attacked the Chef's challenge quite unexpectedly. One lost interest after a short time, so cannot recall his name but one's quite sure he had one. The challenge? Crepes Suzette. Experienced in making just such fayre on cruise ships, he proceeded to annihilate the dish with gusto  for our expert judges. Each crepe was more with an 'a' and without the last 'e' and one never new segments of oranges could be cremated in a pan in such a short space of time. Needless to say, in the next round,  Signature Dishes", when Sean I-can-give-a-nation-of-women-and-men-an orgasm-with-my-voiceovers Pertwee purred, "For his main, [whatever his name was], has served ..."

One looked up form one's Wordsearch, "... A can of beans, dear?"

To cut a long story short, it wasn't a great success. The traditional 12-long list of flavours in his dish ended up as two slabs of meat and a chunk of sweet potato, accompanied by a bit of green dust and a plate.  As you may have already guessed Monica already had his taxi booked as he went back to his workstation.

In critics corner most recently, the Marmite of critics Jay Rayner and his fellow critic Tracey MacLeod. Both clearly affected by the pandemic, in that they had no access to a hair brush prior to filming. That or they had stumbled across a hedge on the way in and were brutally dragged backwards through it. Sitting stuffing their faces with the product of our chefs, both, on the whole, surprisingly positive about all of the dishes, which , let's face it, makes a change from the usual scornful sarcasm oozing from their lips.

One of course shall continue to watch but, alas, without the knicker-crumbling deliciousness of Burhan, will it ever be the same?

The Pandemic at Crusty Hall - Asa Saves The Day

As one sits in Litten's - the oak panelled bar in one's beloved Crusty Hall - sipping a rather pleasing gin, expertly poured by one's faithful houseboy Chu Me, one reflects on the travesty that 2020 has become.  Who knew as we all recovered from our New Year's celebrations that, only a few months later, the world would be very different. All locked away in our homes and not having the ability to be with - and embrace - the ones we love.

The media has certainly relished in the reporting of the pandemic and one believes many will join one in acknowledging just how piss-poor that has been. Laura my-reports-should-come-with-a-Hans-Zimmer-score Kuenssberg asking the most inane questions after press conferences; the woman from Sky who resembles Edna from The Incredibles (and infinitely more snooty) terrifying small children and family pets with her webcam closeups and, of course, Robert Peston, whose questions take longer to ask than it takes to discover a vaccine.  The sense of relief is palpable on their withered faces; the frenzy of Brexit dissipated and their lives looked bleak but thank goodness something new came along that they could gorge themselves on and spew out their scaremongering to the masses while scavenging the gutter for titbits, sensation and leaks.  Here at Crusty Hall, all such reports and news broadcasts are switched off as soon as they came on and, one must say, life has been utterly delicious as a result. 

Anyhoo ... one trusts all of one's poppets have kept themselves busy over the lockdown months. As a great person once said, "One should never be bored if one has intelligence and an imagination" and here at Crusty Hall we have always found something to do.  Only yesterday one walked into the library to find Chu Me mountain climbing up a section of bookcase! Crotchet was sitting looking up with intrigue from a small, deep-buttoned pouffe, flicking his tail and chattering gleefully, as the crampons attached to Chu Me's flipflops clung to the shelving as he hammered his peg deep into Jane Eyre.

One is pleased to say one's trusty steed is still part of the household and one still likes nothing better than nipping out first thing, squeezing Dribble between one's thighs and shooting off over the grass.  Often with one's pussy Crotchet springing along on his velvety paws behind.

One of the highlights of lockdown has been the entertainment that has been accessible. At the weekends Chu Me, Crotchet and I make our way to the ballroom. There, we switch on the disco lights and shake a tailfeather into the early hours to the musical wonders of Glen Horsborough, the outrageously talented Gok Wan and the exquisitely formed and thoroughly lickable Melvo Baptiste (one can feel one's undergarments begin to disintegrate just typing his name!). 

One's friend Daphne Dewdrop often flouts restrictions and leaves her cottage in the village, not far from the Badger's Snatch to make her way to the residence. One can see her through the mighty window, out on the gravel drive, clutching her bottle of Diamond White and swaying to the pounding rhythms from the building within. Honestly, it could be minus twenty out there but in true North East style she'll still have only her short skirt and sequinned boob tube on and a look of semi-hammered contentment on her face until the music stops.

But one must say that the episodes of Lockdown TV brought to the pages of Facebook by one's beloved poppet Asa Elliott have been an absolute joy! Not only does he have a voice that feels like velvet mittens massaging y' earlobes but there is chat, video clips, a sense of community between those who tune in and, of course, updates on his gorgeous son. One recommends one and all to nip along for a shufty when one gets the chance. He also brings us his own Christmas CD!! It's available now and, naturally, one has one's copy already ... and it is glorious!

If one thing is certain, the horrors of this pandemic have, in many instances, brought us closer together and, always remember, despite the best efforts of the media shit-shower to strike fear into your heart and tell you this is our future, things will get better and normality will be resumed. Then we can all be unleashed into the wild, stampede to our friends and family and hug and kiss them within an inch of their lives.

The Gusset Is Back! .... (maybe)

Life has been a little curious, has it not, throughout this Coronavirus malarkey? As one has been unable to meet one's dear friend, Fanny O'Dour for a stiff one down the Badger's Snatch, one was having a shufty through one's electronic device and saw that it was some time ago that one scribbled ramblings on one's blog! Good Lord! One feels that must change!

In the meantime, one trusts one's readers are safe and well? Stay tuned ...

Love, joy & laughter and happiness forever after,

Dame Crusty

Mmmwah mmmwah 

Dame Crusty Takes Barry Manilow in the Holly Johnson Room

The 5^th of April 2017 will be one of those days when, one thinks, we will all remember where we were when the devastating and unexpected news was unleashed to the world, without warning.

As for onself, one was in the village pub; The Badger’s Snatch.

One had been sitting for a short time in a freshly upholstered booth reading through a discarded Daily Mail left on the table. It was then one’s dear friend - and owner of the aforementioned drinking emporium - Fanny O’Dour approached.

“Like a refill, Crusty?” Fanny said, while hovering the deliciously designed bottle of Pere Ventura Tresor above one’s crystal flute.

“How delightful, dear. Let’s!”

“You found anything interesting?”

Looking briefly at her, then briefly at the Daily Mail, then back at her one replied, “Good Lord! In this dear?! No, just checking the state of the pages. It’s a perfect publication for lining the bottom of Crotchet’s litter tray.”

Fanny smiled and turned to walk away. Suddenly, she stopped.

“Oh! By the way, did you hear the news earlier? Barry Manilow’s come out.”

“In a rash, dear?” One replied inquisitively.

“No. Come out … of the closet.”

“It must have had very loose hinges, dear. Just now?”

“Yes. I was shocked? Who knew?” She added.

“Not everyone, it seems.” One replied, looking her up and down and slowly sipping one’s Cava.

“Of course, reading the articles over the years about his private life, he’s always been very tight-lipped.”

“Quite, dear and from recent TV appearances, he’s also been very tight-eyed, tight-eared, tight-chinned, tight-cheeked and tight-necked. The last time one saw him hit a high note during Copacabana, his eyes shut and his toes curled up!”

“Crusty! You’re terrible. He has said his fans have been very supportive, which is nice.”

“In fairness, Fanny dear, they have had over 40 years to prepare for the revelation.”

Sometime later and ready to leave, one glided elegantly to the bar to hand Fanny one’s flute.

“Do you know, Fanny, you’ve made one remember something.”

“Really?”

“Yes, one remembers a time when Barry Manilow stayed at one’s beloved Crusty Hall.”

“Stayed with you?! You never brought him down?” Fanny exclaimed, a little miffed.

“Oh, it was a whistle-stop visit, dear. Mr Peppercorn had asked him to judge his prized sausage in the back room of the village butchers and the guesthouse was out of bounds because it had just been fumigated. Anyhoo … one had offered him a suite in the east wing for the night before he flew off to America. We had had dinner and one was reclining divinely on the chaise on the Holly Johnson room …”

“The music room?” Fanny clarified.

“Quite, you gorgeous thing. Barry had just sung a medley of hits, while one fingered through a gents quarterly …Suddenly, his fingers lifted from the keys and the music stopped. One felt a little tension in the air. Chu Me was rigid and his eyes had widened. Nevertheless, one continued fingering one’s flaps and humming Could It Be Magic. One could see him from one’s peripheral vision, walking towards one. He sat next to one and took one’s hand. One could feel him shaking and beads of sweat began to cascade down his face – quicker than one would expect as there were no wrinkles to slow them down – and there was a raspy pant in his voice. “Dame Crusty, there’s something I need to tell you.” He said. “I see.” One said. “It’s something I’ve never told a soul but I feel I can confide in you.” After moment one said, “Don’t feel you need to, dear.””

“Oh my God! What happened?!” Fanny squealed.

“After what seemed like the length of an X-Factor result, complete with the sound of his pounding heart to add suspense, he stood up and said, “I can’t. I can’t. I’m so sorry.” Then off he went to his quarters with one’s pussy, Crotchet, close behind. One looked at Chu Me. Chu Me looked at one, shrugged his shoulders and left the Holly Johnson room with a steady slap of flip-flop.”

“Do you think he was going to tell you?”

“Goodness dear, one thought he was going to tell one he was a vegetarian!! The other wouldn’t have mattered a jot, as one believes his legion of fans will concur.”

With that, one bid Fanny farewell with a kiss on each cheek, headed out of the Badger’s Snatch, into a waiting GUSSET 1 outside, where Chu Me had prepared a selection of nibbles in the armrest and one headed off back to the residence.

Dame Crusty Oils Dr Christian

One was sitting, in one’s painting studio at one’s beloved Crusty Hall in a state of deep reflection. Adorned in one’s Vivienne Westwood painting ball gown, one stared out of the window and across the top of gardener’s greenhouse.

The previous night, whilst deep in slumber, one was embroiled in a hot and steamy session with one’s most gorgeous of poppets, Dr Christian Jessen (Mother always said never eat a block of cheese before bedtime and how right she was!).

Needless to say, one shall spare readers the full and graphic details of the Pere Ventura Cava fuelled dreamy encounter but sufficed to say, there was an urgent need for a member of household staff to replace one’s Egyptian cotton sheeting once one arose, slipped on one’s dressing gown and sashayed downstairs to the breakfast room.

As one sat there, munching on a thick, meaty pork sausage in a most undamely-like manner, one's faithful houseboy, Chu Me fussed about pouring tea , buttering one’s buns and banging his coarse, hairy nuts on a sharp point. The latter, in order for one to enjoy a pleasing mouthful of fresh milk for the day ahead. One read somewhere coconut milk every morning was good for one. Who was one to argue?

Anyhoo … still holding the length of sausage between one’s clenched hand and nibbling the end delicately with one’s teeth, the image of Dr Christian remained in one’s mind; standing by the side of the open fire, the orange and yellow light from the flickering flames dancing across the surface of his naked, muscular frame and refracted, like the light through a thousand diamonds, from the myriad beads of sweat droplets coating his epidermal expanse after our torrid entanglement in this ethereal locale. At his feet, one found oneself lying spent and undone on a silky soft sheepskin rug with just a Gucci pump, carefully placed, to keep one’s lady-garden out of sight and a sand filled length of draught excluder across one’s hooters to maintain one’s post-coital dignity (one did say it was a dream!).

Needless to say, one was eager to recapture the image in oils.

One had spent several hours of that day painting the majority of the body. His velvety-soft skin was looking rather good; one had managed to get his chiselled pectoral expanse just right and one clearly had success replicating the undulating 6-pack (one began to feel as if one was on a rollercoaster ride as one’s eyes followed the ebb and flow of undulationess). One was rather pleased with the effect I had created for the marble fire surround and one had also stuck a bowl of ripe fruit on the mantel shelf as part of one’s five a day. 

His legs were coming along magnificently; firm, muscular and looking like they could crack a walnut with one flex.

When the time came to complete the painting and concentrate on the … shall we say … centre of the piece, one closed one’s eyes to refresh oneself of the image held in one’s mind's eye, looked back at one’s paint pallet and after circling one’s index finger several times around one’s rusty box, realised one would need significantly more paint. One tube of each primary colour would certainly not be sufficient for the task in hand.

Deeply frustrated, one glided elegantly down the corridor in search of a solution. As one passed by Chu Me’s room, one could hear heavy panting. One knew he had just received a new exercise video from his cousin, sent express post from his village in a land far away. It was nice that his cousin took the time to copy such DVDs for Chu Me but one does wish he would pay more attention to his English and spelling. That being said, Quim Buddies II was clearly on and Chu Me was, evidently, having a thorough workout.

Not wishing to disturb him, one made one’s way to the garage and took the keys to GUSSET 2. The power of the Aston engine, throbbing under one’s shapely thighs, brought back happy memories of my dream that previous night and within minutes one arrived at the centre of the village and pulled up outside the Badger’s Snatch with a satisfied smile on one’s face and fresh nail indentations on the steering wheel.

As one clenched one’s knees together and swung one’s legs out to the side, one exited GUSSET 2 with grace and an expected demeanour. 

One heard a sudden knocking. Looking down at one’s knees, all appeared in order but after another, one looked up to see one’s dear friend, Fanny O’Dour, at the window of the our much loved public house waving out at one. She looked angelic in the crystal clear lead-lined window. Honestly, what that woman can do with a bottle of Windolene and a lint free cloth is the stuff of legend!

Minutes later, one was standing at the counter in the village arts and crafts shop, facing the wonderfully flamboyant owner, Abby Stract.

“Good morning, Dame Crusty! What a lovely surprise! What can I do for you?” Abby said.

“Good morning, Abby dear! One’s in the midst of an oil piece and need a few more colours to achieve flesh tone”.

“Oooo! A portrait. How exciting.”

“Of sorts, dear.” One clarified.

“Will one tube of each be enough? Is it a large piece?” Abby enquired.

“It would certainly make y’ eyes water, dear. You’d better give me a box of each.”

Soon after, one was back at one’s easel and painting furiously to finish. However, you can imagine one’s utter disbelief when after using up 8½ tubes of paint one realised one didn’t have enough canvas!!

An unrolled off cut of anaglypta stapled to the bottom (of the artwork and not Christian’s … or, indeed, one’s own) allowed one to complete the piece. Though it added a recollected stiffness and pleasing texture, it wasn’t the look one was going for.However, as it was for one’s private collection it was enough to record the memory.

Is Twitter Going Down The Shitter?

One could hear the rapid tapping of the hailstone ricocheting off the windows of The Badger’s Snatch. Outside it was freezing. Yet, inside the entire lounge area was warm and toasty. One’s dear friend, Fanny O’Dour, had lit a roaring fire earlier in the morning and, after taking a firm grip of Willie’s poker an hour earlier and inserting it forcibly into the depths of her glowing mound, achieved optimum heat.

“Another glass of Pere Ventura cava, Crusty?”

“One shouldn’t, Fanny dear but as the bottle’s open.”

Perched elegantly on the leather upholstered bar stool, one took a sip of the crisp, bubbly elixir of Catalunya and looked about one. The fruit machine was flashing its lights blissfully, along with the infuriating tune forcing itself from within. Daphne Dewdrop, significantly tanked up on Diamond White, was leaning upon a rather portly trucker, who’d only stopped off for a cheese and jalapeño Panini.  As he tried, awkwardly, to eat the contents of his lunch, Daphne rested her chin on the top of his protruding stomach, and looked up at him with her bloodshot eyes

.

“I think you could be the one,” she slurred several times.

The words didn’t make any connection with the gentleman; no doubt due to the fact Daphne was drooling from the right-hand side of her mouth, leaving a damp patch on his sweatshirt, ever increasing in size, that was well on its way to make connection with the sweat patches he had under each arm.

Fanny placed a plate of tapas assortments next to one’s glass and one sighed.

“That’s a deep sigh, Crusty!”

“Hmmm?” One replied. “Oh, forgive one, Fanny dear. One finds oneself a little flat from the world of Twitter.”

“Twitter?! What’s wrong? You love tweeting with everyone.”

“Not recently, dear. Yes, one has a pod of precious poppets who one nuzzles to one’s loving bosom but … dear Lord … there are some rather unpleasant scrapings of a mangy dog’s anal area on there too.”

“How so?” Fanny enquired, putting down a 3-colour pack of bingo cards she was preparing for that night’s entertainment.

“Take one’s delicious morsel of gorgeousness, Doctor Christian Jessen.”

“Right.”

“The man is Heaven sent! Every particle of his frame has been crafted by the hands of angels. A smile that could disintegrate one’s most high-tensile strength undergarments with just one glint off his molars. Goodness knows how many times one has seen him in one’s mind's eye, in varying states of undress, with one battling one’s mind to remove the remaining items of clothing without success but people are vile to him!”

“Vile? Why?”

“One suspects Stephen Fry was right, dear. A swarm of people getting twinges and lady-stiffies from thinking they have got one up on a highly trained professional, who just happen to be in the public eye. Take for example one creature; a female with an unnaturally pointy face; the type that could pass through a set of period railings without her ears touching the metal. To make matter worse, a rather piss-poor sense of fashion give her the motivation to top it off with an unflattering hat. She describes herself as a ‘bitchcake’, whatever such a thing is.”

“What did she say?”

“One’s blocked much of her nonsense from one’s mind, dear. Sufficed to say she had children, had read an article in Take a Break, or some such fancy, under a competition for knitwear and claimed to know more than Christian about vaccination. The woman is an airhead!”

On a roll, one continued, ”It’s like those ‘Ya! I wanked off in a porn cinema and wiped it on the hood of the guy in front and that Doctor Christian thinks he knows more than me about sperm donation?”

One knocked back the cava contents of one’s glass. Fanny obliged with a refill.

"Then, this week, an attack on one’s most treasured poppet, Derren Litten! Some woman, who – honestly Fanny, should never have a profile photo taken in close-up, without soft lighting or a veil – decided to advise him his show was on its last legs! Quite frankly, from the look of her, one’s surprised she lasted to the end of her first bile-drenched tweet! Apparently, he ‘writ’ 6 fantastic series. Writ?! Dear God! The woman casts aspersions on the comedy genius of one’s dear friend and can’t string 140 characters together to form a coherent tweet?! Clearly she only attended school on the days they were focusing on consonants. She finished by stating she won’t be watching Series 9. One thinks at that stage, an entire legion of Benidorm fans breathed a sigh of relief  and cracked one off … er … open to celebrate the knowledge she would be steeping in her own poison elsewhere.”

One was increasingly outraged but continued, “Then, to top it all, some vile former member of UKIP, Julia Gasper – you know the one, looks like she’s left her dentures out and her tonsils are sucking her lips in - called one a troll?”

“You?! A troll?!”

“Quite, you gorgeous thing. All because, while she was spouting her venom of anti-LGBT opinion, she directed one detractor to read her book and one, quite rightly, said one would rather read tea leaves.”

“I take it another glass is in order?” Fanny asked with the exquisite bottle of Pere Ventura lifting in her hand to the rim of one’s glass.

“No thank you, Fanny. One’s going to head off back to Crusty Hall.”

As one dropped from the stool, took the last mouthful of cava and sashayed elegantly towards the door one heard Fanny’s voice.

“You know what you should do?”

One turned. The trucker was now attempting to make an exit past one, with Daphne Dewdrop embracing the calf of his left leg, being dragged along with each step. “I think he’s the one, Crusty.” She said, trying to keep her tights from rolling down with the friction as she moved towards the door. One looked back towards one’s dear Fanny.

“Write your blog again.”

Outside, clipping oneself into the driving seat of GUSSET 2 and switching on the finely tuned Aston engine one thought, “you know, Fanny, you may be right.”

Simon Cowell Takes The Pith Over Cheryl

One was reclining elegantly on the leather sofa in Litten’s – the oak panelled bar at Crusty Hall – perusing the interwebular, while Chu Me prepared a rather delightful gin at the bar.

By chance, one came across an article by Jack White on the Closeronline site, which provided very little interest but, nevertheless, one read the words within. The story related to the relationship between Simon when-I-walk-I-can’t-move-my-arms Cowell and Cheryl y’nailed-it Cole.

One must admit one’s interest was poked, a smidgen, when one got past the rather poor grammar of the article and discovered that ageing mogul had taken Cheryl out to dinner before “offering her a chance to appear on the X Factor judge again”. Good Lord! It’s one thing for her to appear on the judging panel but we don’t want to see her on top of him, riding him like sweaty cowboy on prime time television!

Simon praised Cheryl’s ability to stay in the public eye (while the rest of a nation, one suspects, condemned and cursed her ability to do the very same thing).

“She’s still in the papers …”(so’s the piece of cod I bought from the fish shop next to the Badger’s Snatch last Tuesday, dear) … “that’s the interesting thing about her”  …(like the cod, it’s probably the only interesting thing).

He also claims that, having not been on our screen for three years if she so much as peels an orange, she’s in the papers. (Now that is just taking the pith!).

Anyhoo … Simon makes it quite clear that their relationship is strong (should anyone out there be shallow enough to care)

Simon says, “We need each other.” (Isn't it normally, “… put your right hand on your head”?)

One must say that brings one question into one’s own mind … “Yes, dear, but do we need either of you?” One fears not.