Valencia 2010 - Elegance, Rain and Fluttering Flaps.

One’s visit to Crusty Towers, in the heart of Valencia, was just as relaxing as one had anticipated.

From the first night, when one went out for a spot of dinner, one felt welcomed and loved by the locals of this beautiful city. Sashaying majestically along Calle Caballeros, with Chu Me close behind, one passed by the crowded bars and cafes near the corner of Calle Baja. There, large windows displayed the gorgeous people inside enjoying their evening’s frivolities.

At one point one was almost moved to tears, as the revellers in two establishments all stopped and turned to look at one – one’s beaded gown shimmering in the street lighting and a mesmerising and multicoloured discharge exploded from one’s baubles; the shafts of bejewelled light ricocheting off the walls of the surrounding buildings.

In an instant, they had whipped up there serviettes, scarves and other garmentry adornments and had raised them high into the air; circling their hands, they twirled them enthusiastically as one passed by. The Barrio del Carmen momentarily rang out with their voices.

“Guapa!! Guapa!!”

One nodded humbly to the masses and waved elegantly, before heading to Cafe San Miguel to gorge oneself on the delicious delicacies served within.

Despite Mother Nature insisting on sprinkling her tears over the city for one’s arrival and the following day, one managed to tolerate the unexpected moistness without any great problem. After that, Señor Sol returned and, although he did not have his hat on, he certainly managed to warm the skies to an agreeable level.

There was one particular night, however, when one got a terrible shock. One had taken a small cat-nap in the lounge, when suddenly one woke up with a severe wind blasting under one’s canopy. Urgent attention was required and one called for Chu Me to spring into action. Within seconds, he had hoisted one’s canopy to its uppermost; nevertheless, for another hour, one had to endure further fierce flutterings of one’s flaps until, with the aid of some velcro and an elastic band, Chu Me restored penthouse tranquillity.

Sadly, one had to leave before the start of the fiesta of Las Fallas – one shall return to that next year, one thinks; it seems an age since one was absorbed in the excitement of it all and one misses it so.

Valencia 2010 - Crusty Takes A Pit Stop.

Whenever one has time to spare on a long journey in España, one likes nothing better than taking advantage of the food on offer in the location one is visiting. This was certainly the case when one found oneself at Barcelona Sants train station during the recent trip to Valencia.

As Chu Me tended to the luggage from the metro train, one ascended the narrow escalatorial mechanism into the bustling heart of the station and immediately made one’s way to the ARS over in the corner. It is, by no means, the biggest ARS one has come across, however, its wide entrance makes it ideal for pushing your luggage up and once inside yourself, one can feast on the fresh and tasty morsels packed within.

A gin, a filling tortilla Española sandwich and a few glasses of delicious Pere Ventura Cava later and one was refreshed and ready for the next stage of our journey on the 4 o’clock Euromed.

The usual 1st class service was provided by the two delicious young attendants. One in particular caught one’s eye; 6ft 3, slim and dressed in shirt, waistcoat and teasingly tight trousers. As the train got up to speed, he came into the carriage offering his tray of delights; Cava, orange juice or sherry. The liquids rippling in their chilled glasses as the hunky hombre swayed with the motion of the carriage.

One watched his glinting smile as he served the other passengers and one’s heart began to beat swiftly as he moved toward one’s seat.

“Buenas tardes, Dame Crusty. ¿Toma Cava? ¿Zumo? ¿Jerez?”

“One thinks a glass of Cava, dear” One replied in velvety tones.

“I have nuts too.” He continued in his delightful broken English.

One’s eyes rolled downward (like an off-licences security shutter after a quick yank) and focused briefly - and scandalously - on his downstairs area.

“Indeed you do, dear!” One flirted, leaning towards him. ”One will most definitely have a nibble on those.”

Imagine one’s surprise – and disappointment – when one was handed a rather nondescript, air-tight, foil bag of peanuts and dried fruit.

Anyhoo … the remainder of the journey was extremely pleasant, to say the least, and once the train had settled in Valencia Nord station, the delightful young attendant took one’s hand to help one step from the 1st class carriage onto the tiles surface of the platform. Standing erect, he continued to hold one’s hand before bowing in a gentlemanly fashion and kissed the back of one’s hand, “It was a pleasure, Dame Crusty.”

“And it could have be far more so, had it not been for the shrivelled up raisins.”

Taking a deep breath of the moist Valencian air, a smile emerged on one’s face when one thought a short distance by taxi and one would once again be in the penthousal perfection of Crusty Towers with those two magnificent erections standing proud outside one’s window.

Valencia 2010 (Part 2)– VIP Lounge or Private Party for Undesireables.

Some moments had passed and the VIP lounge at Newcastle International Conservatory was gloriously quiet.

As one sipped a rather pleasant gin - Chu Me standing at the window in awe at the big, metal birds - one could see and hear the sensual vocal chords of Colin his-twinkle-makes-me-tingle Briggs giving the region its daily roundup of news.

A small droplet forced itself from one’s tear duct as one realised one would not see one’s delicious poppet while one was away and, for a moment, one was plunged into a gaping crack of sadness. The recollection that one was only away for a week was the key to snap one back up again, as if on a bungee cord of anticipation.

Spirits lifted, one began to notice a party of four people – 3 men and a possible woman - who, though remaining respectfully quiet, were consuming copious quantities of alcoholic beverages from the drinks section. Every 15 minutes one of the relatively young men would walk over, collect an arm full of beer cans and return to his seat. Moments later another would stand and collect glasses filled with wine. As the men-folk sat supping their beverages, the suspected female would then rise up regularly and retrieve bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale – for herself - only to take them back and drink them directly from the bottle.

For over an hour their scavenging trips rapidly began to deplete the stocks of the lounge. Yet, the poor solitary attendant felt she was not in a position to object and no doubt feared the response she would receive from the Brown Ale binging buffalo even if she did.

On one of the trips by the male members, the attendant was cleaning the service area and as he went to fill a further 3 glasses of wine, she said to him, “Why not take a bottle? It’ll save you getting up all the time.”

One leaned over the side of one’s chair, “Indeed, why not take the whole lot, dear! One may even have a bottle in Chu Me’s bag if you run short!”

He walked to the party table. Half way there he turned back and looked. One raised one’s tumbler and gave a contemptible smile, then one returned to a state of sedate sippage.

Moments later, the she-creature stood up and walked to the refrigeration unit to claim her next bottle of Brown Ale. Her nail-bitten mitten was just about to grab the neck of the bottle when one interjected.

“One understands now why they say 'having a bottle of dog', dear!” A sip of gin followed.

The hand stopped short of the bottle and she stood up and turned in the direction of one’s chair. “Eh?”

“Eloquently put, dear! No ... one was just commenting; one understands why they say 'having a bottle of dog' … your appearance, dear." One said. waving one's finger up and down her length. "One suspects split ends and the facial aspect of the north face of the Eiger wouldn’t have been the result were you to have succumbed to … let’s say … a life of white wine spritzers.”

Her jaw tightened as she spun round to face the fridge. Her hand moved towards the bottle of Brown Ale, then hovered momentarily before moving to the side and reaching for a bottle of mineral water instead. She stood up as straight as she could with appalling posture and held her head up in a pseudo-snooty fashion and began to walk back to her seat.

“One suspects it’s a little late for hydration, poppet … nevertheless … Bravo!”

Finally, the gold ingot that broke the lid of the antique mahogany casket occurred.

One did not wish to disturb Chu Me. He was engrossed in jumping towards the window and clapping his hands in an attempt to chase the big metal birds away and relishing his lack of success (One feels he doesn’t yet grasp the wonder of the aeroplane), so one went to refill one’s tumbler with a further pre-holiday gin and tonic. One of the alcohol-fueled sump-brigade appeared at one's side

“We thought we’d have another drink before the flight … if that’s ok with you?!” He said sarcastically.

“Well, if there’s anything left, dear.”

His hairy, unmoisturised right hand rose up. It was then, as if one had obtained Spiderman’s ‘spidey-sense’, one sensed danger. Something was vibrating inside one as the realisation dawned he was heading for the half filled bottle of gin in front of us. With cat-like reflexes one whisked up one of the plastic picnic folks – ridiculously laid out to give the impression of acceptable cutlery – and stuck it in the back of his hand. As he reeled back in pain, one grabbed the body of the bottle, picked it up and turned to go back to one’s silk covered chair.

“There are boundaries in life, dear, and you very nearly crossed a very dangerous one.”

At that moment, they were called for their flight and normality was restored; the remaining three assisting their blood-soaked team mate out into the main building. The attendant thanked one for the assistance one had provided and went to clean up the mess that had been left.

Soon after, the embarkation of Easyjet flight 6401 was announced and we were underway on the next leg of our journey; beautiful Barcelona beckoned (one’s second home and a place that holds a very special place in one's heart).

Valencia 2010 – Crusty Prepares to Leave Her Beloved North East

It was a crispy Friday morning when Chu Me and I left one’s beloved Crusty Hall for the joys of Newcastle International Airport and our journey beyond; a weeks break at Crusty Towers, right in the heart of beautiful Valencia.

My dear pussy, Crotchet was well catered for during our holiday. Fanny would pop up regularly from the Badger’s Snatch to give him a little company, while the household staff were not in residence, and ensure his food requirements were maintained.

The mode of transport one had chosen to take us to the airport was GUSSET 3 (One does not wish to take the Bentley or the Aston to a car park that does not appear to have been swept regularly, does one?). Chu Me had loaded the luggage beautifully and ensured we were fully fuelled. Locking to great door behind us, one blew a kiss to Crotchet as he looked out from the Drawing Room window and we were on our way.

Entering the terminal building, we headed for the Easyjet desks and one began to search for the ‘dedicated’ check-in desk one had been notified of on the paperwork for our Speedy Boarding; a desk sprinkled with a little glitter perhaps, maybe a candelabra set to the side or a red carpet and cordon and a sign saying 'WELCOME, DAME CRUSTY'. But there was nothing; they all looked the same.

One asked a young gentleman on a car hire desk nearby and apparently, the term ‘dedicated’ means that it is available to everybody who has selected the Speedy Boarding option and not per individual. “How outrageous!” one said.

“I couldn’t agree more, Dame Crusty.” The charming young thing replied.

“You’re clearly a very sensitive young man, dear.” With that, one bid him farewell.

Gliding up to the not-in-the-slightest–bit dedicated desk, one was confronted by a pleasant enough young girl, looking very smart in her uniform but with a rather sour face hanging from beneath her hairline.

“Have you booked Speedy Boarding?” She enquired, in a rather direct fashion.

“One’s wearing Versace, dear, of course one has booked Speedy Boarding, unless of course you confuse delicious hand-stiched designer fabrics for an acrylic football strip or shellsuit ensemble?”

She immediately went red with embarrassment (Well, one presumes she did, there was so many layers of foundation applied to her facial epidermis one could only see a change in colour on the tips of her ears, so one took it as read).

Boarding passes dispensed, Chu Me and I made our way to the most joyous part of the Newcastle International Airport experience … security. Sashaying the two and a half mile of zig-zagging pens – crammed into a floor area that is only 2 metres in length - one drew closer to the x-ray machines and the slack-jowled staff that lay there in wait; their faces grimacing at the business people and holiday makers that kept them in employment. Honestly poppets, one appreciates the safety and security of Her Majesty’s realm is of the utmost importance but the old crack your face and make your arse jealous certainly applies here and, most certainly, wouldn’t go amiss.

A middle aged creature demanded one place one’s belongings on the conveyor belt for x- ray. One snapped one’s fingers and Chu Me jumped onto the belt and went through first. One placed one’s small clutch purse on next and then began to disrobe. A male security guard leapt over as one was just slipping off the strap of one’s gown.

“That’s not necessary, Dame Crusty!” he shouted, waving his hands.

“One must to be sure, dear,” continuing to undress. “One doesn’t want people running away screaming should one activate your equipment and get your bells clanging.”

Finally, having passed through the detector and after insisting the young security guard frisk one a third time (in case he missed something), one re-dressed and adorned oneself in the stunning selection of jewels one had chosen from the Gusset collection. Chu Me handed over one’s purse and we made our way past two very aggressive Credit Card representatives to the VIP lounge. (I’ve seen mature panthers take longer to pounce on their pray than those two and indeed, their aged, leatherette complexion made one wonder how their hips and knees even allowed them to spring at all .. especially in heels!).

Once in the VIP lounge, Chu Me moved a chair within view of the notice screen and placed a hand-embroidered silk throw over it. Placing a small, rectangular piece of sheepskin at the foot, he headed to the drinks section to tend to gin duties. It was then, that one could finally sit and relax, scrunching one’s toes in the soft, fluffy, cream fur beneath.

One took a sip of one's gin, sighed. The journey had begun!

Gold Medals Required, One Feels.

Well, poppets, the Winter Olympics has passed now, but everyone who participated seems to have had the most splendid time and medals were dished out in ribbon-festooned abundance to our refrigerated Olympians.

However, one was slightly puzzled when one heard that someone had won the gold medal for going down on a skeleton.

I'm quite sure the love interest of Jarvis Cocker does the very same thing at least a couple of times a week but they aren't awarded a medal ... though, in fairness, they should be.

Very peculiar, is it not poppets?

Doctor Christian Will See You Now.

It was a quiet night and one was sitting in the Aubergine Room at Crusty Hall. One’s dear friend Kitty had called by to celebrate the return of local news reading hero, Colin his-twinkle-makes-me-tingle Briggs, to our screen in the morning.

One feels for the other parts of Her Majesty’s realm that are unable to bathe in Colin’s deliciousness each morning. One often feels it is like lying naked in a warmed room while being wrapped in a sumptuously soft blanket of chinchilla fur (Though one must stress, fur from Chinchillas that have passed away due to natural causes or that have carried a donor card, of course). However, though one feels that pain, one must stress, one’s special poppet is not for sale and anyone who tries to take him from us shall feel the full wrath of the Gusset.

Anyhoo … Kitty was reclining on the sofa by the Royal Worcester display cabinet reading her latest imported copy of Casa y Campo and I was on the sofa opposite with a book of Sudoku. A regular at the Badger’s Snatch had recommended it as a wonderful way to relax, however, after 3 minutes and 21 seconds, one didn’t feel relaxed in the slightest. One’s muscle network felt tighter than Vanessa Feltz’s knicker elastic and thus, with an elegant movement of one’s arm, one projected the book across the room and into the open fire. Kitty looked up from her magazine, “What’s the matter, Crusty?”

“Sudoku, poppet! It’s utterly nonsensical!”

“Would you like me to have Chu Me bring another gin for you?”

“No, thank you, dear.”

Kitty returned to her article and one switched on the television, selecting Channel 4 and Embarrassing Bodies. One began to relax, then suddenly, after an introduction from the gorgeous Doctor Pixie, one felt one’s entire body become as limp and lifeless as Cheryl y-nailed it Cole. One slid from the sofa and down onto the floor like a sack of diamonds and ended up in an unsightly – yet elegantly positioned – heap.

Kitty sprang gazelle-like across the narrow expanse between sofas. “Crusty! Crusty! What’s the matter?” She screamed.

One could see her gorgeous face etched with concern but one was unable to speak. One’s tongue was hanging out the right side of one’s mouth and one felt cross-eyed and delirious.

“Crusty?!” With her medical training taking charge, Kitty lifted the Baccarat crystal tumbler from the coffee table and held it under one’s nose. The magical properties of the medicinal liquid penetrated one’s nasal passage and one began to come round.

“Zogzur Kriz dee un, zear!“ One mumbled.

“What?”

She placed the tumbler to one’s mouth and tipped in a little of the crystal clear elixir. Pulling oneself round, one blurted out, “Doctor Christian, dear! Isn’t he just a dreamy dimpled dollop of doctorial deliciousness?”

“He is indeed. Quite the hotty.” Kitty agreed.

”Do you know, dear, one marvels at how a man so utterly gorgeous, with a body like the statue of David – apart from one small area – can find the time to care and heal the nation’s sick. He’s a blessing to us all.”

And, upon reflection poppets, this is certainly true. This towering mountain of medicinal muscle and his colleagues have done more for the health and sexual education of our nation than any Government over recent decades. Though it is quite easy to find sadistic entertainment in the televised suffering of the masses, one important point is brought home to us; our bodies are unique and we must cherish that uniqueness.

It is expected that most people will suffer problems throughout their lives; some serious; some mild and many embarrassing. Yet, we must always feel perfectly at ease discussing these things with our local medical professional. Why, when one visits the village doctor – Arthur Pedic – one has no hesitation in removing one’s clothes, even when just popping in for a chat … and despite him insisting it isn't necessary.

Having said that, if one were to walk into Doctor Christian's surgery and enter his consultation room, one glinting smile from him would undoubtedly and instantaneously rip the designer fabrics from one's shapely frame in an instant.

“Kitty, dear,” one said, “One has made a decision. One shall rename the Aubergine Room the Doctor Christian Room. After all, aubergines are a colour that symbolizes quality; they have a firm, meaty flesh with a velvety texture and are, most certainly, good for one’s health. One can think of nothing more appropriate.”

“How wonderful!” Kitty cried, “Actually, when you think about it … DCG (Dame Crusty Gusset) … DCJ (Doctor Christian Jessen) … you’re practically related!”

“Quite, dear!” one concurred, “One shall have Chu Me get some wood and whip out his little tool in the morning.”

Farewell Kristian.

June 1977 - March 2010

One was devastated to hear the news that television presenter and gorgeous poppet Kristian Digby had been found dead in his London home. A young talent taken from us far too early.

One's thoughts are with his family and friends at this very sad time.