Noel Edmonds Marries New Lady-wife.

Congratulations must be passed on Noel Edmonds' nuptials – the third one to be precise.

Apparently Noel – made famous by his Crinkly Bottom and his glistening chopper – tied the knot with his third lady-wife this week; the beautiful Liz Davies.

The lovers of our scene met across a crowded lip gloss tray in the make-up room of Deal or No Deal and Crusty can almost picture the scene:

Potential Lady-wife: “Oh Noel, won’t you marry me?”

Edmonds: “No deal.”

Potential Lady-wife: “Marry me, or I’ll make you look your age!”

Noel: “Deal!”

The couple enjoyed a joint Hen and Stag party on Wednesday evening in the grounds of the Lower Slaughter House in the Cotswolds, where fancy dress was the word de jour; the ladies dressed in white bridal gowns and the gorgeous Liz dressed in a nun’s habit (cheeky!). Noel, on the other hand, was attired in a white embroidered Bishop’s gown - complete with mitre – while the other males came as clergymen (one suspects that involves panting, high pitched muffled moaning and rapid signs of the cross)

And so – soon after - their love was officially sealed and they are now planning to spend their lives together as perfect soul mates. Let us hope that our little Noel has opened the right box.

Swine Flu Comes to the Village

The teacher of our village school - Miss Molly Coddle - has heard on BBC Breakfast news this morning that it is children who will be passing the current plague of Swine Flu to all and sundry. (One almost wishes the 4-5-6 in the recent Torchwood series had taken the little incubi of disease, then we wouldn’t have to worry).

The children are Super-carriers! (well they have to be good at something)

As a result she has taken the necessary precautions to protect herself - though one would suggest she has gone a little far with the contamination suit and oxygen tank.

Helping Those In Need.

I took a gentle saunter,
Along the cliffs last night,
When I came across a gentleman,
He gave me quite a fright.

I thought I was alone up there,
Just me and a star-filled sky,
Until I saw his silhouette
Out of the corner of my eye.

He was standing very near the edge,
Motionless and looking down
And as I sashayed to the side of him
I made out his troubled frown.

As the lighthouse, not so far away
Did its duty and proudly flashed,
The angry waves beneath us,
Against the jagged rocks, they crashed.

“Goodness, poppet, what’s on your mind?
You’re risking life and limb!
You’re standing too close to the edge of the cliff
And the ground here’s very thin.”

It was then there was a reaction
- And much to my surprise -
He turned his head toward me,
With sad, tear-sodden eyes.

Then he poured his heart out to me
-It must have been an hour -
His divorce … the child with ASBOs
And his lack of pulling power.

The car he’d had for just a month,
That had now been repossessed …
(One was beginning to wish one hadn’t asked
As I too, was becoming depressed.)

…The job he had excelled at,
Now gone … he was on the dole,
His entire life oh so meaningless,
Disappearing down life’s plughole.

After one heard the poor man’s problems,
One didn’t know what to say.
So, instead I smiled … gave him a gentle push
And helped him on his way.

© DCG

Brittle Spears - Her True Voice?

Crusty’s chuckle-muscle was exercised recently by some information passed to one by one of my Facebook chums. The information came by way of a video extract and claimed to be a sound technician’s secret recording of pop pile-up Brittle Spears while she was performing at recent concerts.

While Brittle clops around the stage with a gyratory lower abdominal expanse, the crowd hear pitch perfect melodies and enjoy the show. However, it would appear the poor dears who manage the sound back stage have to suffer a far more distressing evening.

Such vital information should have been dispersed to my loyal Crustettes as a matter of urgency – one must apologise for the delay in one’s report – but one has only stopped laughing since returning from Count Everard’s.

The question is, of course, are the suggestions that Brittle sings like a donkey with the pitch of a medieval harpy real?

Well, Crusty is certainly convinced there’s been no tommery-jiggery-pokery involved, however, ultimately it is for my poppets to decide for themselves. One thing Crusty knows is that by the time she comes to sing Hit Me Baby One More Time one thought, "there's never a frying pan around when one needs one".

Please click on the picture of dearest Brittle above, to study the evidence ... oh dear, I've just started giggling again.

Torchwood - Captain Jack's Back!

Crusty is a loyal fan of the glorious Torchwood from Aunty Beeb; one always feels it has slightly more hair on its cojones than its sister show Dr Who - though both are equally brilliant.

In the last series, one was in floods of tears as two valiant members of the Torchwood team died after a heroic battle to save earth. I was desperate to see the remainder of the team on one's screen, so I could be sure they were all bearing up after such tragedies.

Well, this week saw the return of our magnificent British masterpiece and this time in a 5 part story, over consecutive nights. A story about the mysterious 4-5-6 (possibly similar to the horrors of 3-2-1 but without Dusty Bin ... and Ted Rogers); The story planted its roots in the ground by children all over the world shouting in unison, "We are coming; we are coming!". I have to say it made one feel a little uncomfortable hearing that sort of thing from ones so young, until I realised that all children are evil anyway, so continued to watch.

Anyhoo .... last night, Crusty fell off the end of her chaise! At the end of our first episode we heard all the alarm bells go off when our dashing hero, Captain Jack (John sizzles Barrowman) held Gwen's hand as she searched for comfort after discovering she was pregnant. It was at this point that Jack realised there was something of considerable size inside him too. Government assassins had slipped it in him while he was unconscious and now it was about to explode. As Gwen and Ianto ran for their lives, the device went off and Torchwood was gone ... or was it?

Tonight's gripping follow up showed Captain Jack's severed hand sticking elegantly out of the resulting rubble (honestly! Even when he's in pieces he's still trying to cop a feel of passing tottie!). The enemy de jour picked up all the pieces of Jack they could find and carried him off to their headquarters in a plastic sack. By this time I was inconsolable; how would poor Ianto and Gwen save the day without our immortal love god.

I needn't have worried; back at the lair of the Government's assassins, I squealed with delight when I saw the CCTV image from his cell showing Captain Jack's sack starting to stir and the saggy sections inflate to semi plumptiouness. He was alive!! Our baddies realised the same thing and my theory of life was confirmed when a soldier entered the cell and pulled down Jack's zip. The guey mess inside wasn't particularly pleasing to the eye but at least there was growth occurring. Crusty Hall was shook by one's screams of delight.

Then - later - one's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets and one had a slight spillage when the security screen in the baddies lair showed our hero chained to his bed NAKED!!! Yes ... completely and totally in the nuddy! His finely toned, well proportioned, velvety soft frame writhed from side to side as he tried to escape his shackles. Naturally, one's eyes were drawn to his downstairs area and frustration grew as the graphics on the screen had conveniently put an "X" over his sacred spot. All Crusty could cry to her inner self was "X? X? W-h-y?!!"

Only freeze framing my Sky+ and getting right up to the screen with a powerful magnifying glass helped. It was then that I made a mental note to oneself; The next time John Barrowman and his lovely husband are in the Newcastle area and come to stay at Crusty Hall, I'll need to give them a much bigger room ... if you catch my drift, poppets?

Then ... and Crusty doesn't normally use such language, but ... the bitch ... who "killed him", poured concrete into his prison cell and all over him to lock him in a solid tomb. Fortunately Gwen and the long suffering Rhys arrived on the scene. Through a miscalculation or misfortune things went wrong and just as both were about to be shot, Ianto turned up to pull Jack's concrete box out into the open, allowing our two love birds to run to their saviour and escape via a clearly very fast digger - concrete block still firmly attached to the front.

It was not until Ianto had the foresight to get Gwen and Rhys into the safety of a waiting car, that he dropped his load over the edge of a quarry and our timeless hunk was released from his concrete prison. As he rose from the shattered pieces, all one could see was Mr Barrowman's delightfully pert buttocks, jiggling about on my 32 incher. They were so magnificent that I have instructed Chu Me to be creative in his workshop and copy the design for the airbags in the main fleet of vehicles; GUSSET 1, GUSSET 2 and GUSSET 3.

Dangerous, I know; one would almost feel the urge to have an accident if one was slamming oneself face first into such cushioned buttockplumtiousness ... but what a way to go!!

Needless to say, Crusty is hooked and cannot wait for the third instalment.

Good Bye Mrs Slocombe - A Legend Leaves Us

July 1922 - July 2009

Jeff Goldblum - He's Alive!!

Apparently, there have been rumours circulating recently that Hollywood heart-throb Jeff Goldblum has died.

What with Farah Fawcett and Michael Jackson, I heard of these rumours and thought, “Goodness me! They’re all dropping like flies over there!”

Coincidentally, that very analogy reminds Crusty of the time she went to the opening of Goldblum’s Fly

What one’s eyes saw that night was magnificent; not too long, had twists here and there and was beautifully cut. Naturally, one recoiled back in horror when the scaly bits started to show though I suspect that would be a normal reaction for anyone. Yet, Crusty felt utter compassion when one saw Goldblum’s monster hanging in the bedroom – slimy mucus oozing out of it; one felt the urge to hold the beast, stroke it’s head and just let it know it was loved before the inevitable climax.

Anyhoo … I am pleased to be able to tell my Crustettes that one has received accurate information via the Twitterverse that our Independence Day hunk is still very much ALIVE!!

Phew!!