Crusty's Unexpected Night Out.

It was an unexpected invitation one received that morning. One had planned to spend the evening in the bar at Crusty Hall, watching a little television in the company of some of one’s most delicious poppets (Colin his-twinkle-makes-y’-tingle Briggs, Mark makes-my-mouth-water Warr, Sir Derren it’s-an-outrage-he-isn’t-already Litten, Jake a-God-in-gossamer-thin-black-budgie-smugglers Canuso and one’s doctorially delicious dreamboat, Dr. Christian Jessen). All of them around the wood panelled walls of the bar and all of them exquisitely hung.

However, just as a member of the household staff was chiming ten bells, Chu Me ran to inform one that Claudia Shaver was having a soirée at her flat to celebrate the success – thus far – of the village model agency. As we had not seen eye to eye for some years and only recently cleared the air, one naturally agreed; if for no other reason than to see if her cooking had improved since the manky mollusc incident of ’87.

Dinner was at 8pm but drinks were being served from seven. Chu Me made ready GUSSET 1 and, adorned in a stunning Versace evening gown, a luxurious contrasting wrap and a selection of glistening diamonds from the Gusset Collection, one sashayed out of the main entrance into the chilly evening air, with one hands squeezed comfortably inside one’s muff.

The hand-built magnificence of the Bentley bobbed majestically along the winding roads – Chu Me driving perfectly as always – still giving one enough time to partake of a small snifter from the drinks cabinet in front of one.

The lights were burning brightly inside Claudia’s flat. When Chu Me opened the door to allow one to alight, one could hear the forced laughter of the vicar and his wife, Marjorie. One turned to look at one’s faithful houseboy; a look of horror set upon both our faces. A few seconds past , then one threw the remainder of one chilled, crystal clear elixir down the back of one’s throat (elegantly, of course!).

“Well, too late to turn back now, dear! Mistress must do her duty!” Handing the empty Baccarat receptacle to him, one straightened oneself and glided toward the door, where one waited for Chu Me to ring the bell before watching him head back to GUSSET 1 and the palatial serenity of Crusty Hall.

“Dame Crusty!” screamed Claudia, with her arms extended.

“Good evening, poppet. [mwah mwah]” one replied. Gliding over the threshold, she grabbed one’s muff and stuck it aggressively on a hook to the side of the door before we ventured upstairs. At the top, one could see Marjorie Flecks, the vicar’s wife, sitting in her usual floral explosion ensemble, clinging onto her sherry glass as if about to take communion. Entering the lounge one saw the vicar, who one had heard earlier, as well as Daphne Dewdrop and Pat Tissery, from the village bakers.

“Goodness … an all ladies night!” one commented.

“Not quite, Dame Crusty … [guffaw] … what about me?”

“Indeed, vicar!”

Daphne Dewdrop, for those unfamiliar, has long been known as the village … how can one put it? … slapper (easier than one thought!). After tipping a couple of Bailey’s Orgasms down her throat, she’d drop her knickers to stop a bus. Indeed she used this very trick some years ago with our local driver, Mr. Treehorn; just as he was about to come upon her under the Post Office security light, he turned and shot off in the opposite direction. In the end she was forced to hoist her undergarments back up and make her way home on foot.

Anyhoo … the evening was a pleasant enough affair and the conversation flowed satisfactorily. Claudia’s cooking had improved slightly, thanks to the Delia Smith bible one could see lying on the kitchen bench. One did, however, feel the mutton was a little tough. As with any kind of old meat, it is important to tenderise it with, perhaps a quick bash, or a long soak before putting into one’s mouth. Altogether more pleasant to swallow, thereafter.

Leaving the dining table and retiring to the lounge for post dinner coffee, one’s worst fears were realised. The vicar – during a conversation on whether Heaven truly exists – suggested Marjorie sang a couple of numbers from her Brittle Spears repertoire (If Heaven did indeed exist, it appeared we were not going to be fortunate enough to go there; instead, we were to be sent to Hell). Needless to say, quick thinking was on the cards and, discretely, one sent a priority text to Chu Me back at the Hall.

“Shall we all have our coffee first?” Claudia asked.

“A wonderful idea,” one added, “it will give us time to prepare ourselves for this unexpected ….treat. I’m quite sure we’ll have heard nothing quite like it before.”

Coffee finished and our moment of torture had arrived, Gargling on a cap full of Listerine, Marjorie prepared her, alleged, vocal cords. One felt the chill rise up through one’s spinal column and into the base of one’s neck. She took her place in front of the fire, cupped her hands together and took a deep breath with her mouth open …

DING DONG

“Right! That’s me, poppets!” one said, rising from one’s chair and in a tone that was mixed with a little too much glee and a huge sigh of relief. Daphne made a quick grab for one’s wrist and squeezed tightly as she uttered desperately, ”Please stay. Pleeeeaase!”

“One would like nothing better than to sit and listen to Marjorie sing beautifully, but alas … somethings are not possible.”

Eventually, one managed to reach the front door. One straightened one’s wrap, while Claudia plumped up one’s muff with a quick shake and a slap.

“Did you enjoy the evening, Dame Crusty?”

“It was quite splendid” one replied heading out to GUSSET 1. Chu Me opened the rear door and one slithered into the back seat and lowered the window. Chu Me took his place in the driver’s seat and Claudia approached and held one’s hand at the car window.

“It was really wonderful that you came. I can’t tell you what it means after … well, after what’s happened in the past. Incidentally, how was the mutton?”

Banging one’s foot on the floor, Chu Me started the engine as one started raising the window. “Fine, dear … until she got up to sing!”

With that we sped off to the comfort of one’s beloved Crusty Hall and the love and adoration of my dear pussy, Crotchet.

Confusion for Crusty: Horror for Fanny.

Chu Me had prepared GUSSET 2 for one’s morning’s trip into Newcastle City Centre. The thriving metropolis is not somewhere one ventures to often because of the horrendous road markings designed by someone obsessed with yellow boxes. Plus, one can find most of one’s requirements in the village retail outlets.

Just as one was about to leave, the telephone rang. Chu Me answered it and told me it was my good friend Fanny O’Dour from the Badger’s Snatch.

“Fanny dear! One was just on one’s way out to the city. You’ve just caught me.”

“I know, Willy told me you were going in today. I was wondering if you could do me a small favour?”

“Of course, poppet! Name it and it shall be done?”

She was looking to make things a little more fun on her days off. Normally, Willy would still be working downstairs in the bar and she often got a little bored by herself, so had wanted something she could play with. It’s quite understandable and when she told me what she wanted one knew the very shop from which to buy it.

Later that evening, after returning from the bustling metropolis and after a spot of dinner (Chef insisted it was fish but one was not convinced and sent a piece to Annelise Stules-Hoffen, the village chemist, for analysis) one left one’s faithful pussy, Crotchet, and Chu Me engrossed in one of his specialist DVDs in his quarters and headed off into the village.

Walking into the residential section of the pub, Fanny greeted one and removed one’s coat.

“Did you manage to get one?” She asked excitedly.

“One did indeed, dear. Give Crusty a mission and she shall complete it.”

One lifted the box out of the bag in one’s right hand and began to open the top. There was a puzzled look on Fanny’s face. As one finished opening the box, Fanny’s puzzled look turned to a one of horror.

"Mm, that's not the type of rabbit I was looking for!" She said.

“Well, granted it’s probably a little bigger than you had expected, dear, but one’s quite sure you can accommodate it. You’ve plenty room downstairs and when you’re working you can always stick it round the back of the Snatch, where no one will be able to see it.”

Anyhoo ... it turns out that Fanny had been referring to a battery operated, vibrating device with speed settings and not a furry creature with floppy ears and a twitching nose!

One shall never watch Watership Down in the same way again ... if ever!

Kerry Katona Disrupts An Intimate Moment.

Chu Me had went outside early to see to his hens and reward his proud cock with a pat on the head. Dribble also required letting out of his stable so he could wander into the paddock for his morning frolic.

One had sought sanctuary in the Doctor Christian Room and found oneself gazing at the corner of the room upon the tapestry of the dimpled, dollop of doctorial deliciousness one had completed some weeks previous.

The lack of sound was magnificent.

One was drifting further and further into the wool-stitched eyes of one’s medical marvel when, suddenly, a terrifying sound pierced one’s eardrum like the stab from a rusty, blunt pin. The intimate moment with one’s poppet was destroyed by something that sounded like two speaker wires being crossed with the volume set on full. One jumped up from one’s chaise to investigate immediately.

In one’s peripheral vision, one witnessed former queen of Iceland (that’s the prawn ring emporium, not the bankrupt country), Kerry Katona, advertising yet another newspaper exclusive about her umpteenth ‘successful’ rehabilitation from her vices and from the evil enchantment of the Doner Kebab.

“I’m Kerry Katona” She said, “I was a mess …”

Yes you were, dear, but yellow greasy hair, an overly tight silver frock and your puppies popping out does not exactly tidy you up!

SATC2 - Crusty's Eureka Moment!

It would appear the nation’s press has gone sex mad with regard to the imminent release of Sex and the City 2, the [it says here] long awaited sequel to Sex and the City 1.

The cast of the film, of course, remains the same; the uber-gorgeous Kim Cattrall, the stunning Kristin Davis, the delicious Cynthia Nixon … and she who will never know the pain of losing her looks, Sarah Jessica Parker (a woman whom Mother Nature has balance beautifully by putting knobbly knees on her legs as well as her face).

Sitting in the Drawing Room and watching the BBC Breakfast interview - with the rather scary Susanna Reid (she with an extreme expression for any occasion) – one noted to oneself the natural elegance of Kim, Kristin and Cynthia yet was slightly put off by the intense, heavy analytical ramblings of Sarah. One took a sip of some chilled Pere Ventura Chu Me had poured for one and it was at that very moment when one had a Eureka moment!

Yes, the more one looked at SJP in her emerald green frock, the more one was convinced one’s discovery was accurate; bony face, small shifty eyes, the spectacles on/off routine to maintain a Superman-Clark-Kentesque anonimity. Furthermore, one has certainly never seen a photograph of them in the same room.

Could one’s suspicions be true? Could Sarah Jessica Parker be Mr. Woody Allen in lippy and designer frock?

One shall of course monitor the situation and report to one’s poppets as soon as investigations are complete.

Anyhoo … the premier has already been held in the capital, with one’s very own oofalicious poppet, Jake Canuso in attendance along with his good friends Louie the-poppet-is-elastic Spence and the sublimely gorgeous Emma Bunton. The crowds turned up in their thousands – as they often do for such events - and there was a cornucopia of national treasures (including one's Jakey) gliding up the red carpet with an air of glitterliciousness about them.

One must admit one shall no doubt sashay down to one’s private cinema here a Crusty Hall to watch the offering at some point. One certainly managed to get through the last one despite the long drawn out marriage-nonmarriage-get-together-split-up-get-back-together-marry carry on between Mr. Big and Woody Parker. It is clear that any relationship that has to endure that amount of nonsense will be destined to fail and result in a lifetime of lying on a psychiatrists couch (psychiatrists couch?!!! Another link … uncanny!)

Crusty Returns From Death’s Door.

If ever one was in need of the muscular, yet velvety soft, healing hands of Doctor Christian Jessen it would have most certainly been this week.

One was going about one’s daily business - in an elegant fashion (naturally) - on Monday when at 21:32 - and while passing a moment of mediocrity with the vicar playing Connect 4 in the conservatory - one began to feel something a little strange at the back of one’s throat. One thought nothing of it, thinking Chu Me had acquired a little more “knock awf” gin from Robin Gett in the village. Perhaps he had tried to slip it in on the sly for our visitor, so as not to waste the good stuff.

Tuesday came and one’s throat was a tad worse, plus one seemed to have a slight fluidic cascade from one’s nasal passages: One was beginning to get slightly alarmed as this Dame is most definitely not for sniffing.

By Wednesday, the flood gates of … not to put too fine a point on it … nasal residue were well and truly opened. One’s throat felt as rough as Anne Robinson’s heels and temperature-wise, one was as hot as the sight of Jake Canuso in a pair of skimpy, skin-tight, budgie-smugglers, smothered in baby oil and lying back with a red rose gripped between his teeth.

As one sat in one’s private office on the Wednesday morning, attempting to reply to the myriad of agony emails from troubled poppets, Chu Me entered. He was about to put the Baccarat tumbler of medicinal gin on the coaster by one’s diary, when he caught sight of one still adorned in one’s silk, embroidered Mark makes-my-mouth-water Warr bathrobe. Unkempt hair (still clinging to a hint of gorgeousness), a face like Margaret Lockwood made up in the style of a teenage Goth and coughing like a docker on 80-a-day made Chu Me whisk away the tumbler and demand one went to bed immediately.

When one saw his little face, saturated with concern, one could not have argued (plus, in fairness, one didn’t have the strength). The rest of the day was spent with complete and utter bed rest. Chu Me would pop in from time to time with a cup of Miso soup, dressed alarmingly in fishing waders, a surgical gown, face mask and marigold gloves. Poppets would be right to imagine the scene as one from Holby City.

One’s pussy, Crotchet, loyal as ever, remained by his mistress’s side throughout, adopting the deportment of the Sphinx at the bottom right hand corner of one’s bed.

One managed to find the strength to use one’s laptopular device briefly and one must say one was pleased one did. The combination of Chu Me’s care, Crotchet’s protection and the abundance of love and concern from one’s Twitterchums allowed one to awake - after a restful nights sleep - refreshed and running at 92.3% of optimum elegance.

Crusty Hall has now been wiped down thoroughly with disinfectant, including the household staff, in an attempt to rid the residence of the any further sniff-inducing germs, so fingers cross, one has seen the last of it.

An Early Night and Crusty Misses It All.

Last night was a warm and balmy night here at one’s beloved Crusty Hall. The excitement – or is that exhaustion – of how long it takes to put a government together had taken its toll. It certainly causes many problems when our Parliamentarians find themselves hung. Even the crude-oilesque, slicky, greasiness of Peter Peggy-on-a-Sunday Mandelson was unable to shift the tectonic plates of coalitionism for an alternative or speedier result. Chu Me suggested one have an early night and one agreed it was the best course of action.

After a relaxing bath in rose scented water one staggered one’s way to the bed and flopped elegantly onto Mark makes-my-mouth-water Warr’s face (emroided onto one’s quality Egyptian cotton duvet cover). One immediately fell into a deep, deep sleep ... dressed only in a simple diamond necklace and a film of moisturiser over one’s entire epidermal expanse.

Then this morning, one awoke abruptly to the noise of the household staff going about their daily routine, in the dim light of the window covered boudoir, Colin his-twinkle-makes-y’-tingle Briggs exploded on one’s 28 incher giving the full regional roundup of news for the day. Sashaying barefoot through the deep sumptuous shag pile carpet to his velvety tones, one arrived at the heavy curtains keeping the main thrust of Señor Sol’s rays at bay, one reached up, grabbed the delicious fabric and thrust the curtains open.

Looking down, one saw Dribble walking around the paddock and Gardener losing momentary control of his petrol powered lawnmower and crashing into a small tree (Perhaps it may have been prudent to have put on a robe before introducing oneself to the day through clear glass). His front end was clearly not hard enough and suffered some buckling as he banged the wood, but one is quite sure by pulling it off and giving it a good beating in his greenhouse, he will accomplish a smooth finish.

Anyhoo … the news filtered through that Her Majesty had mustered up a new Prime Minister – David Cameron. The one evening one decides on a early night, the nation changes hands; one may never sleep again!

It appears Mr. Cameron and Mr. Tarty-pants Clegg (who has flirted outrageously on both sides of the fence) managed to sit down and reach a compromise to unite as a powerful force indeed.

Though one does not step into the world of politics - especially in Gucci pumps - one hopes the boys can work well together and manage to get our great nation back on its feet again.

Humiliation for Veronica Manntrapp.

Since the opening of the village model agency, it would appear the differences Claudia Shaver and I have let fester over the years, now seem to have been put to rest.

It was Tuesday morning and one had arranged the usual Ladies-Who-Brunch meet at the village coffee shop. Kitty, Fanny and I always like to have a weekly meet to put the world to rights over a length of Mr. Peppercorn’s prize sausages stuffed between Pat Tissery’s buttered baps (one feels strongly that local businesses should always be loyal to their community and use the local fayre).

Anyhoo … Kitty was running late so Fanny – landlady of the Badger’s Snatch – and I had ordered our sandwiches and were sipping our coffees when Claudia walked through the door. The bell ring dissipated as she closed the door behind her.

“Dame Crusty!” She said, with an air of surprise in her voice.

“Claudia dear,” One acknowledged, “one trusts the model agency is proving a success?”

“Oh yes, Dame Crusty, things are going great. Only this week, I’ve signed up Veronica Manntrapp. She’s got a lucrative advertising job already with Les Gumbres, the Greengrocer.”

“Splendid, dear!” One said. “Well … one would like to invite you to join us, dear, but one doesn’t want too. We shall catch up again soon.”

Claudia made her way to a table for one in the back of the coffee shop. Turning to the young woman standing by the window and gaining her attention by throwing a small sachet of sweetener at her head one said, “ Could you bring one another pot of coffee, dear, and perhaps a couple of hobnobs?”

“Oh… I don’t work here, I’m just waiting for my daughter.”

“Then you have ample time on your hands, poppet. Two sugars with milk please. Fanny? Another?”

Fanny declined and the rather sour faced woman made her way to the counter. Suddenly, there was a strange vibration against one’s right hooter. It was a text from Kitty advising she would be unable to attend. Her C.P.R. class had turned into chaos after a pair of adolescents had used a little licence in their interpretation of mouth-to-mouth. Thankfully, she managed to stop things before babies were born.

Fanny and I decided to take a gentle stroll back to the Badger’s Snatch, where one had parked the Aston. Getting up from our seats, the sour faced woman returned with a pot of coffee and a plate of biscuits. “No thank you, dear. One couldn’t manage another thing!”

We were approaching Mr. Peppercorn’s butchery emporium and saw him come out of the Greengrocer shop next door and go into his own – he was taking a leek inside – and one thought no more about one’s encounter with Claudia. It was not until passing the shop window that Fanny nudged one’s arm and pointed.

There stood Veronica Manntrapp doing her advertising campaign. When she saw us, her poor face said it all. She was devastated. Her elegant Marks & Spencer ensemble did not compliment the full length sandwich board she had been contracted to don and her angst had clearly caused her to grip Mr. Gumbres’ onions a little too hard resulting in the skin flaking off. Both he and Veronica had tears in their eyes. Poor Les couldn’t even see his scales and Veronica looked like a young Alice Cooper but with better skin tone. All in all it sort of distracted one from the advertising message regarding the low price on Les’s full length sheathed cucumber. Fanny and I made haste back to the Snatch to lessen Veronica’s humiliation.

Anyhoo … one later found out that the days work had brought £129.52 into the modelling agency and 2 weeks worth of free fresh produce for Veronica herself.

Well, as they always say ... no pain, no gain.