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.

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.