The Gaviscon Fireman - Advertising Genius?

One has just spent a very emotional weekend in Great Malvern, where one was saying a final farewell to a very dear friend who had left us long before his time was due. One thing is for sure, since his passing ‘Great’ Malvern will no doubt be downgraded to ‘Quite Agreeable’ Malvern, as all of its greatness left when my poppet’s fingers of life began to tinkle the piano keys of eternity. One has sent an email suggesting the name change to the local town council, in case it hadn’t been realised.

Anyhoo … it was while Chu Me – my faithful houseboy – and I were cruising down Her Majesty’s motorways in GUSSET 3 - on our way to Malvern - that one started to think of the wonders of the advertising world. As Chu Me drove beautifully – in truth, he always does – one sat in the luxurious splendour of the back seat listening to the soothing, musical wonderment of Classic FM and during the small advertising section I heard the closing lines, ‘…because I’m the Gaviscon fireman.”

It was at this very point one began to realise just how far advertising has come over recent years. As I took the Pere Ventura Cava from the ice bucket and refilled my flute, one remembered it was not that long ago that, to advertise a product, one would have a very upstanding gentleman smoking a woodbine in his favourite armchair, relaxing after a busy day at the office while his delightfully loving lady wife would enter and hold the product up to the camera – a sparkly glintiness emanating from her eyes and pearly white teeth as she told the audience this product was the one for them. Back then it was oh so simple and straight forward.

Yet, as we have sashayed into the 21st Century, it’s all highly technical now with computerised graphical representations and small cartoon characters – the Gaviscon fireman being a case in point. As a result of this hi-tech cleverness, the advertising industry is now worth almost as much as Dame Crusty.

In Gaviscon’s case, who would have thought that the idea of a well equipped fireman, entering one’s mouth and sliding his hose down the back of one’s throat ... only then to release it’s contents into the lining of one’s stomach with a soothing stroke of the inner wall, would have graphically shown how easy it was to remedy the problem of indigestion … quite remarkable is it not, poppets?

One thinks one shall begin to appreciate the work that is put into these pieces of micro-genius a little more in future.

A Joke To Exercise the Chuckle Muscles.

One awoke this morning and the weather was glorious! Señor Sol was definitely showering Crusty Hall with rays of his warmth and one felt alive!

Chu Me had clearly been up much earlier and as I sat up to watch my gorgeous little poppet Colin his-twinkle-makes-y'-tingle Briggs appear on my 28 incher with his regional update, one could see my faithful houseboy out of the window - by the stables - fussing over his hens and stroking his proud cock.

After Chu Me brought breakfast to my bed chamber, I suggested it would be a wonderful idea to take the Aston for a spin into the village and have a lunchtime snifter at the Badger's Snatch. Now, I do not want my readers to think Crusty is in the habit of frequenting drinking establishments; the Badger's Snatch is a public house steeped in history and is therefore acceptable to be seen there. It has a charm that has been unchanged for many years. Furthermore, since the new owners have taken charge - Fanny and Willy O'Dour - it's popularity has increased significantly and it has now replaced the village hall as the central meeting point for our delightful little community (much to the annoyance of the vicar).

Anyhoo ... around 11.45am Chu Me and I were speeding down the drive on our way to our lunchtime venue. On arrival, Chu Me naturally went to the counter to order our drinks while one sashayed elegantly through to the beer garden detras. It was here that one got quite a start when one saw a Rash; it was Ivor.

The Rash triples (Ida, Ivor and Hedda) run the village charity shop and are forever doing good throughout our community. Ivor Rash has a wicked sense of humour and one always looks forward to him recounting one of his marvellous jokes. Today was no different.

As we joined his two sisters in a shady corner of the beer garden, we popped open the bottle of ice cold Pere Ventura Brut Cava that Chu Me had brought (Fanny always keeps a case on hand for my visits) and awaited Ivor's little gem:

A man who just died is delivered to a local mortuary wearing an expensive, expertly tailored black suit.

The rather unintelligent mortician asks the deceased's wife how she would like the body dressed. She points out that the man does look good in the black suit he is already wearing.

The widow, however, says that she always thought her husband looked his best in blue, and that she wants him in a blue suit. She gives the mortician a blank cheque and says, "I don't care what it costs, but please have my husband in a blue suit for the viewing."

The woman returns the next day for the wake. To her delight, she finds her husband dressed in a gorgeous blue suit with a subtle chalk stripe; the suit fits him perfectly.

She says to the mortician, "Whatever this cost, I'm very satisfied. You did an excellent job and I' m very grateful. How much did you spend?" To her astonishment, the mortician presents her with the blank cheque

"There's no charge,"she says.

"No, really, I must compensate you for the cost of that exquisite blue suit!'"she says.

"Honestly, madam' the mortician says, 'it cost nothing. You see, a deceased gentleman of about your husband's size was brought in shortly after you left yesterday, and he was wearing an attractive blue suit. I asked his wife if she minded him going to his grave wearing a black suit instead, and she said it made no difference as long as he looked nice…so I just switched the heads."

Well! One thought this was knicker-wetingly funny and just had to share it with my poppets.

CAVA - Simple Enough To Pronounce...Or Not?

It has long been a source of irritation to Crusty the way that people insist on mispronouncing the word CAVA; Cava, of course, is the gorgeous Spanish equivalent of Champagne (although technically it is Catalan) - it is certainly not merely a cheap sparkling white wine as many Lambrini girls would think.

There are many fabulous brands of Cava, such as Mestres and Codorníu, but Dame Crusty's particular favourite is that which is produced by Pere Ventura. This relatively small producer makes the most fabulous, crisp Cavas I have ever tasted - even surpassing the quality of many of the famous Champagne houses. If any of my Crustettes are in the area, I would strongly recommend you arrange a tour.

Anyhoo..enough about my cellar. I recently took my faithful houseboy Chu Me out for a spot of dinner to celebrate another loyal year of service to his mistress; we were walking through the local restaurant, where the annual celebration is religiously held, when a rather shiny, pimply young man, who was clearly trying to impress his orange, ringlet-festooned lady friend, tried to attract the attention of the waiter. As Chu Me and I walked past the table I heard him shout, "Waiter, can you bring us a bottle of CARVA?"

Dame Crusty's diamond encrusted shoes screeched to a halt by his side and poor Chu Me simply ran for cover. I turned to face him, smiled at the orange ringlet stand, picked up his near empty plate and smashed it over the top of his head.

"Do not ask for things one is unable to correctly pronounce, dear!"

Dame Crusty would like to advise all her Crustettes that the gorgeous nectar of Cataluyna is not pronounced CARVA or CARVAR as the toffee nosed "experts" and chefs would have you believe; this may have already been noticed if one has tried to order a bottle while in Spain and the waiter has given that look of what are you talking about, you stupid Englishman?

It is simply pronounced CABA - CA (as in CAT)BA (as in BAT - although the B must be soft), even CA(CAT)VA(VAT) would show more respect than that given by the "professionals" who bastardise the word on a regular basis.

Though Crusty has never wanted to preach to anyone, there are certain things that simply must be! Spread the words, my darling Crustettes...make Crusty proud!