The morning of the 15th September arrived and inside one was squealing with excitement; the Crusty Tour September 2010 was about to begin. Its commencement was met with a blustery introduction; clearly, Mother Nature had been on the flageolet beans again and the resulting wind was literally breathtaking when one awoke and popped one’s head out of the bedroom window. One’s beloved Crusty Hall was being battered from all sides but there was a particularly strong concentration coming from the rear.
Preparations had been completed over the weekend and the household staff – with the assistance of Chu Me – had ensured one’s trunks were packed beautifully (though, not quite as beautifully packed as the trunks of one’s treasured poppet Jake Canuso, but that’s a matter for another time). So, on this morning of departure all that was left for one to do was adorn oneself in an utterly stunning ensemble made of entirely natural fibres and accessorise with a simple selection of diamonds from the Gusset Collection.
The week previous, while enjoying a moment of relaxation in the Badger’s Snatch, with Fanny O’Dour – the landlady and one’s good friend – her husband came into the bar area. He had just been out the back helping yank off the Drayman’s kegs, so he could empty his load and shoot off a little quicker than normal. Willy remembered one was off on holiday and immediately offered to give Chu Me and I a lift.
“Willy, dear, you’re a gentleman!” One said, “You must use GUSSET 1.”
The morning we left, one took a look back at one’s beloved Crusty Hall and saw one’s pussy, Crotchet, sat on the windowsill in the bar. His poor little face was etched with sadness as his ears and whiskers drooped.
“Don’t worry, Crusty.” Willy said, “Once my Fanny comes and give him something to munch on, he’ll forget you’ve even left.”
It was all too much to bear, so one clung on to the words Willy had said, waved at Crotchet and blew him a kiss and the Bentley pulled away.
Monday, 27 September 2010
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
Rooney Causes Contemplation at Crusty Hall.
One was shocked recently when one saw the headlines relating to the alleged Rooney sex scandal. Quite frankly, poppets, who wouldn’t be?
At first one thought, this Hollywood great must be older than Tutankhamun himself by now; if his circulatory system still pumps blood into his man-biscuit for a little how’s-your-father, then more power to his elbow.
Indeed, one had just made that very point to Kitty, who had stopped by for a spot of tea and cake in the conservatory, when she clarified it was Wayne Rooney all the fuss was about and not Mickey Rooney, as one had assumed.
This, of course, threw a completely different light on the subject.
“Ah! You know, one finds it incomprehensible why that rather peculiar looking sportsman need look further than his adequately attractive lady-wife to satisfy his yearnings. Further more, Kitty, one believes – if the stories are to be taken as gospel – that he had his hanky-panky during the motherly incubation period, post breeding process.”
Sipping her tea, Kitty nodded and made a rather delightful ‘mmmm ‘ sound. “That’s men all over, Crusty” she said.
“Quite, dear!”
We sat in a relaxing silence for a few minutes, before one continued after a moment of contemplation
“Footballers seem to be a blessed section of our society, do they not? Take the delicious David Beckham for instance. He just has to walk past a young lady – and many a man - and they can feel their undergarments dissolve immediately as a volcanic surge of sexual desire wells up inside them. Even Peter Crotch, Couch, or some such fancy has managed to acquire love in his life with just such a reaction… and he’s like an albino Pepperami.”
“Which one is Rooney again. I heard the name but wasn’t sure?” Kitty asked.
“You must have seen the advert, poppet. The one where he’s running around in slow motion with his top off and whacking his balls off the end of his boot; rivers of sweat trickling down his hairy frontage in the most unsightly manner (One’s always compelled to throw a napkin over the screen to stop one’s nibbles shrivelling up and to avoid the almost certain gag reflex). Do you remember, dear? A sort of Shrek in monochrome, if you will.”
“Ah yes, I know who you mean now!”
“If it comes out in the laundry that these allegations are true, one suspects Mrs. Rooney will take him to task over his shenanigans and it will be her who is whacking his balls off the end of her Hush-Puppies. Anyhoo … it surely couldn’t be true that such a famous footballer would have to pay someone to have sex with them, could it? That would be highly embarrassing for them to live down, would it not?”
Kitty shrugged her shoulders and went in for another slice of Lemon Fancy.
At first one thought, this Hollywood great must be older than Tutankhamun himself by now; if his circulatory system still pumps blood into his man-biscuit for a little how’s-your-father, then more power to his elbow.
Indeed, one had just made that very point to Kitty, who had stopped by for a spot of tea and cake in the conservatory, when she clarified it was Wayne Rooney all the fuss was about and not Mickey Rooney, as one had assumed.
This, of course, threw a completely different light on the subject.
“Ah! You know, one finds it incomprehensible why that rather peculiar looking sportsman need look further than his adequately attractive lady-wife to satisfy his yearnings. Further more, Kitty, one believes – if the stories are to be taken as gospel – that he had his hanky-panky during the motherly incubation period, post breeding process.”
Sipping her tea, Kitty nodded and made a rather delightful ‘mmmm ‘ sound. “That’s men all over, Crusty” she said.
“Quite, dear!”
We sat in a relaxing silence for a few minutes, before one continued after a moment of contemplation
“Footballers seem to be a blessed section of our society, do they not? Take the delicious David Beckham for instance. He just has to walk past a young lady – and many a man - and they can feel their undergarments dissolve immediately as a volcanic surge of sexual desire wells up inside them. Even Peter Crotch, Couch, or some such fancy has managed to acquire love in his life with just such a reaction… and he’s like an albino Pepperami.”
“Which one is Rooney again. I heard the name but wasn’t sure?” Kitty asked.
“You must have seen the advert, poppet. The one where he’s running around in slow motion with his top off and whacking his balls off the end of his boot; rivers of sweat trickling down his hairy frontage in the most unsightly manner (One’s always compelled to throw a napkin over the screen to stop one’s nibbles shrivelling up and to avoid the almost certain gag reflex). Do you remember, dear? A sort of Shrek in monochrome, if you will.”
“Ah yes, I know who you mean now!”
“If it comes out in the laundry that these allegations are true, one suspects Mrs. Rooney will take him to task over his shenanigans and it will be her who is whacking his balls off the end of her Hush-Puppies. Anyhoo … it surely couldn’t be true that such a famous footballer would have to pay someone to have sex with them, could it? That would be highly embarrassing for them to live down, would it not?”
Kitty shrugged her shoulders and went in for another slice of Lemon Fancy.
Friday, 27 August 2010
Rudi Douglas - All The Lovers
One was chatting to some chums in the land of Twitter today and one's dear friend Mikey Walsh (Writer of the astoundingly brilliant and magically moving Gypsy Boy) suggested one took a little shufty of a twitteree's video on YouTube.
One was intrigued and navigated there immediately. What one found was simply gorgeous! The talented and delicious poppet, Rudi Douglas, singing an acoustic version of a recent Kylie Minogue hit, All The Lovers. One felt one had to share his talent with you all (Goodness, they'll have one as a judge of X-Factor next!)
Incidentally, if you have not already bought Mikey's book, Gypsy Boy - and one cannot recommend it highly enough - have a pop along to Amazon via the link on the right and you will not be disappointed.
Friday, 13 August 2010
Note To Self: READ THINGS CAREFULLY, DEAR!
“Good morning, Marjorie Flecks speaking.”
“Good morning, poppet. I caught a quick glimpse of your advert and thought I’d call and perhaps get the ball rolling. One had an accident recently – which was most certainly not one’s fault – where a member of the household staff bumped into one with the Dyson. One, of course, does not need the money but would be interested to know how much one would receive.”
There was a short silence at the other end of the line. “Erm … I think you may have the wrong number … Is that Dame Crusty?”
“It is indeed, Marjorie dear, and one is quite sure one has the correct number! Now are you going to take on the case or not?”
“But this is the vicarage, Dame Crusty, we don’t deal with insurance. Oh, Sebastian ensures salvation with his sermons [snort], if you’ll forgive the joke?”
There was another lengthy pause. “Dame Crusty, are you still there?”
“One is, dear; one's waiting for the joke.”
“That was it; ‘ensures salvation with his sermons’ …’ensures’, ‘insures’? That was the joke.”
“Very nearly, dear. Honestly Marjorie with such a lack-lustre attempt at humour, you could do nothing but give Patrick Kielty a run for his money, nothing more. Now, are you going to take up one’s case?”
“Dame Crusty, you must have it wrong!” She insisted.
Increasingly frustrated, one picked up the newspaper. Licking the tip of one’s index finger, one began to violently search the pages. “Right! Here we are … oh! … Marjorie dear … it appears one has indeed made an error. One should have read it more carefully. I naturally thought of you when one saw Bigger Bloomers and simply pressed the speed dial for the vicarage … but upon closer inspection, I have noticed it is BGR Bloomer. I’ll give them a call.”
One couldn’t hear exactly what the vicar’s wife was saying, as one put down the phone, but the inflection in her voice certainly didn’t befit the wife of a man of the cloth.
As it turned out, one didn’t need to call them anyway. The folloing morning, while returning from the village, the very same member of household staff was riding up the drive on her bicycle. As one passed by her, one simply lowered the window and pushed her into the box hedging.
One felt as if an exquisite balance had been restored.
“Good morning, poppet. I caught a quick glimpse of your advert and thought I’d call and perhaps get the ball rolling. One had an accident recently – which was most certainly not one’s fault – where a member of the household staff bumped into one with the Dyson. One, of course, does not need the money but would be interested to know how much one would receive.”
There was a short silence at the other end of the line. “Erm … I think you may have the wrong number … Is that Dame Crusty?”
“It is indeed, Marjorie dear, and one is quite sure one has the correct number! Now are you going to take on the case or not?”
“But this is the vicarage, Dame Crusty, we don’t deal with insurance. Oh, Sebastian ensures salvation with his sermons [snort], if you’ll forgive the joke?”
There was another lengthy pause. “Dame Crusty, are you still there?”
“One is, dear; one's waiting for the joke.”
“That was it; ‘ensures salvation with his sermons’ …’ensures’, ‘insures’? That was the joke.”
“Very nearly, dear. Honestly Marjorie with such a lack-lustre attempt at humour, you could do nothing but give Patrick Kielty a run for his money, nothing more. Now, are you going to take up one’s case?”
“Dame Crusty, you must have it wrong!” She insisted.
Increasingly frustrated, one picked up the newspaper. Licking the tip of one’s index finger, one began to violently search the pages. “Right! Here we are … oh! … Marjorie dear … it appears one has indeed made an error. One should have read it more carefully. I naturally thought of you when one saw Bigger Bloomers and simply pressed the speed dial for the vicarage … but upon closer inspection, I have noticed it is BGR Bloomer. I’ll give them a call.”
One couldn’t hear exactly what the vicar’s wife was saying, as one put down the phone, but the inflection in her voice certainly didn’t befit the wife of a man of the cloth.
As it turned out, one didn’t need to call them anyway. The folloing morning, while returning from the village, the very same member of household staff was riding up the drive on her bicycle. As one passed by her, one simply lowered the window and pushed her into the box hedging.
One felt as if an exquisite balance had been restored.
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
A Gross Occasion At Crusty Hall.
The 12th August is an important date in the diary for any so-inclined poppets who are into hunting down a game bird or two. It is, of course, the date upon which the Grouse shooting season starts.
Here at Crusty Hall preparations are underway to mark the occasion, but as many of you will know, one is a lover of all Mother Nature’s creatures …well, perhaps not wasps … or bluebottles … or Esther Rantzen … (well we shall settle on a lover of most of her creatures) and so one does things a little differently on one’s magnificent estate; One uses the 12th of August to celebrate a one day festival which has traditionally been known as Gross Shooting Day.
Each year, a week before the special day, one assembles the household staff in one of the outbuildings and with the assistance of one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, one peruses the mob of depravity to find those that have not worn well over the previous year: This can be because of many different reasons; the sun being kept off their sallow complexions through duty expectations, an appalling bone structure, a lack of fruit consumption leading to inadequate Vitamin C absorption or simply because they are hereditarily hideous and one has just been too preoccupied to notice.
Anyhoo … the chosen few that one finds the most gross – hence Gross Shooting Day - are then issued with a ticket, a pair of goggles and some shin pads and, as they stand with excited faces ( … yes, I’m sure it’s excitement) one leaves, so that Chu Me can give them their instructions in private.
Then early morning, on the 12th, one dons one’s shooting jacket and heads down for a hearty breakfast. After which, one arms oneself with one’s trusty paintball rifle and heads out into the grounds, with a hip flask of gin to accompany one on the safari ahead.
In an overgrown field at the back of estate, one stands upon Gusset Clump and waits (Gusset Clump is a small mound of earth that elevates one sufficiently above the height of the long, unkempt grass to give one an advantageous vista). Then for the rest of the morning, Chu Me scurries through the grass coaxing the chosen participants out into the open with a wooden stick; this is when the fun begins!
Clearly there is a cross section of ages and one is disappointed that older members simply jump out in front of one in the first 20 minutes, panting heavily as I blast them with aubergine paint pellets. They paint-splatteredly return to the kitchen where Chef always prepares an elaborate array of nibbles and refreshments to reward participation.
Some of the younger one’s, however, are significantly more competitive. Only last year Gardener’s useless apprentice managed three and a half hours on the run. It was like a scene from a Sir David Attenborough documentary watching this horticulturally challenged poppet spring from the tall grass like a young Gazelle, running for its life from the jaws of a ravenous tiger (Honestly, poppets, Grouse can fly at speeds of up to 80mph, but point a paintball gun at a healthy member of staff and one really does get the same affect).
One’s aim was unable to find him and pellets fell, defeated, to the ground. In the end one had to mount one’s trusty steed and, as he hid behind the distant hedgerow, one galloped towards him with the reigns gripped between one’s teeth in true cowgirl style. With a powerful squeeze of one’s inner thighs, Dribble shot over the hedgerow, straight over the pray’s head and landed four feet away from him. Pulling on the reigns, Dribble rose up on his hind legs. One turned and fired two pellets into the buttocks of one’s Titchmarchesquian quarry. After one shot one's load, the hunted down poppet fell to his knees and wept … exhausted!
All in all, it’s a wonderful way of establishing team work amongst the household staff; it gets them out into the fresh air, gives them a little cardio-vascular exercise … and reminds them of their position within the estate.
Quite exhilarating, one can assure you!
Here at Crusty Hall preparations are underway to mark the occasion, but as many of you will know, one is a lover of all Mother Nature’s creatures …well, perhaps not wasps … or bluebottles … or Esther Rantzen … (well we shall settle on a lover of most of her creatures) and so one does things a little differently on one’s magnificent estate; One uses the 12th of August to celebrate a one day festival which has traditionally been known as Gross Shooting Day.
Each year, a week before the special day, one assembles the household staff in one of the outbuildings and with the assistance of one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, one peruses the mob of depravity to find those that have not worn well over the previous year: This can be because of many different reasons; the sun being kept off their sallow complexions through duty expectations, an appalling bone structure, a lack of fruit consumption leading to inadequate Vitamin C absorption or simply because they are hereditarily hideous and one has just been too preoccupied to notice.
Anyhoo … the chosen few that one finds the most gross – hence Gross Shooting Day - are then issued with a ticket, a pair of goggles and some shin pads and, as they stand with excited faces ( … yes, I’m sure it’s excitement) one leaves, so that Chu Me can give them their instructions in private.
Then early morning, on the 12th, one dons one’s shooting jacket and heads down for a hearty breakfast. After which, one arms oneself with one’s trusty paintball rifle and heads out into the grounds, with a hip flask of gin to accompany one on the safari ahead.
In an overgrown field at the back of estate, one stands upon Gusset Clump and waits (Gusset Clump is a small mound of earth that elevates one sufficiently above the height of the long, unkempt grass to give one an advantageous vista). Then for the rest of the morning, Chu Me scurries through the grass coaxing the chosen participants out into the open with a wooden stick; this is when the fun begins!
Clearly there is a cross section of ages and one is disappointed that older members simply jump out in front of one in the first 20 minutes, panting heavily as I blast them with aubergine paint pellets. They paint-splatteredly return to the kitchen where Chef always prepares an elaborate array of nibbles and refreshments to reward participation.
Some of the younger one’s, however, are significantly more competitive. Only last year Gardener’s useless apprentice managed three and a half hours on the run. It was like a scene from a Sir David Attenborough documentary watching this horticulturally challenged poppet spring from the tall grass like a young Gazelle, running for its life from the jaws of a ravenous tiger (Honestly, poppets, Grouse can fly at speeds of up to 80mph, but point a paintball gun at a healthy member of staff and one really does get the same affect).
One’s aim was unable to find him and pellets fell, defeated, to the ground. In the end one had to mount one’s trusty steed and, as he hid behind the distant hedgerow, one galloped towards him with the reigns gripped between one’s teeth in true cowgirl style. With a powerful squeeze of one’s inner thighs, Dribble shot over the hedgerow, straight over the pray’s head and landed four feet away from him. Pulling on the reigns, Dribble rose up on his hind legs. One turned and fired two pellets into the buttocks of one’s Titchmarchesquian quarry. After one shot one's load, the hunted down poppet fell to his knees and wept … exhausted!
All in all, it’s a wonderful way of establishing team work amongst the household staff; it gets them out into the fresh air, gives them a little cardio-vascular exercise … and reminds them of their position within the estate.
Quite exhilarating, one can assure you!
© DCG 2010
Monday, 2 August 2010
Chiles and Bleakley To Bring Us Face-Ache On ITV.
It has one quite baffled, all of this hoo-har surrounding the signing up to ITV of Adrian Chiles and Christine the-water-skiing-WAG Bleakley.
For those poppets who are unaware, the long running (and extremely bright) breakfast show, GMTV, is being revamped into a new show called ‘Face Ache’ ….[sorry Chu Me? … are you sure, dear?] … apparently it’s ‘Daybreak’ (Though, quite frankly, one fancies the former is more apt where Mr Chiles is involved).
Recently, everybody at the current GMTV show has been resigning at a rate of knots; first Penny Smith, then Andrew Castle (one doubts whether the cogs will turn so smoothly once his oily-slickyness has oozed out of the building) and, as yet, one is unclear what will happen with intrepid reporter John Stapleton – the Jason King of morning news; he’s certainly not getting any younger, so it would be tragic for him to have to hang up his jacket and ties and the Marks and Spencer poly-blend sand safari suit we have come to know and love, whenever he is reporting from a sun-drenched, war-torn country.
But still this frenzy over the new co-hosts is quite unexpected and totally unnecessary. One certainly didn’t find anything special about them on the BBC’s ‘The One Show’. Indeed, the first evening dear Christine was on, one just caught a momentary glimpse of her after hearing the voice and for a moment thought it was Ian Paisley in a summer dress and lipstick. Of course, after an hour of looking much closer, one realised this was not the case.
As for Adrian, one thought the mask of misery etched across his dish was due to the aftermath of saddle sores from his charity bike ride with Alan Shearer. However, one has been assured that this is his natural look (poor poppet!).
Anyhoo … One may have a shufty once the show starts, to acquire a taste of how terrible it all is, but as a rule one tends not to watch ITV in the morning now; ever since the Tyne Tees division cruelly ripped one’s angelic, charismatic poppet, Mark make-my-mouth-water Warr, from one’s pixels during cut backs … only to immediately replace him with an eardrum-piercing Harpy with an appalling wardrobe.
For those poppets who are unaware, the long running (and extremely bright) breakfast show, GMTV, is being revamped into a new show called ‘Face Ache’ ….[sorry Chu Me? … are you sure, dear?] … apparently it’s ‘Daybreak’ (Though, quite frankly, one fancies the former is more apt where Mr Chiles is involved).
Recently, everybody at the current GMTV show has been resigning at a rate of knots; first Penny Smith, then Andrew Castle (one doubts whether the cogs will turn so smoothly once his oily-slickyness has oozed out of the building) and, as yet, one is unclear what will happen with intrepid reporter John Stapleton – the Jason King of morning news; he’s certainly not getting any younger, so it would be tragic for him to have to hang up his jacket and ties and the Marks and Spencer poly-blend sand safari suit we have come to know and love, whenever he is reporting from a sun-drenched, war-torn country.
But still this frenzy over the new co-hosts is quite unexpected and totally unnecessary. One certainly didn’t find anything special about them on the BBC’s ‘The One Show’. Indeed, the first evening dear Christine was on, one just caught a momentary glimpse of her after hearing the voice and for a moment thought it was Ian Paisley in a summer dress and lipstick. Of course, after an hour of looking much closer, one realised this was not the case.
As for Adrian, one thought the mask of misery etched across his dish was due to the aftermath of saddle sores from his charity bike ride with Alan Shearer. However, one has been assured that this is his natural look (poor poppet!).
Anyhoo … One may have a shufty once the show starts, to acquire a taste of how terrible it all is, but as a rule one tends not to watch ITV in the morning now; ever since the Tyne Tees division cruelly ripped one’s angelic, charismatic poppet, Mark make-my-mouth-water Warr, from one’s pixels during cut backs … only to immediately replace him with an eardrum-piercing Harpy with an appalling wardrobe.
© DCG 2010
Jonathan Morrell Evokes A Crusty Memory.
 |
| Jonathan Morrell: A North East icon pictured in front of a North East landmark. |
Sausagely satisfied, Chu Me excused himself and went out to check on his hens and to release Dribble into the paddock. One rang the bell for a member of household staff to clear the breakfast room of dishes etc. and made one’s way to the Doctor Christian Room. Opening the door, one heard a loud purring; it was one’s pussy, Crotchet. Sashaying further in, one could see him resting like a sphinx – his front paws folded – with the line of his fluffilicious body pointing towards the Bang & Olufsen.
“Goodness, Crotchet, what has attracted your fancy so?” One asked.
He turned his head to look at one, his eyes bright as buttons, then turned back to face the audio equipment, adjusted his folded paws and continued to purr loudly. Turning the volume up a smidgen, one realised instantly what was causing this strange behaviour. The velvety vocal vibrations of one’s dear poppet, Jonathan Morrell, were oscillating from Real Radio Towers and out of one’s exquisitely expensive woofers and tweeters.
This particular day, Jonathan was asking his adoring listeners for a favourite holiday song and the memory that went with it. One immediately thought of Mariah Carey (though heaven only knows why) and a memory of a balmy night in Barcelona, while Chu Me and I were holidaying at one’s beach house on the outskirts.
Anyhoo … we had finished our meal and Chu Me, decided it would be a good idea if he returned to the beach house. He had spent the afternoon playing volleyball with a group of bikini-clad Catalan lovelies and though he had appeared all right when he had returned home, it appeared the siesta he had passed in his quarters had brought with it an aching wrist (too much batting of the balls with the palm of his hand, one suspects). Analysing the situation, one agreed this was the best course of action. One patted him on his head and sent him on his way.
One, however, had the urge to walk the streets (though not in a professional capacity, you understand). As one sashayed along the Gaudilicious carrers one came across an establishment vibrating with rhythm. Naturally, one’s curiosity was prodded and one decided to investigate further.
It was bursting with energy, packed to the rafters and delicately lit - save some ultraviolet tubing - and a heady scent of Kouros filled the air. It appeared to be a workingmen’s club, as there were very few females; indeed, one could see only two at the end of the bar dressed in faded jeans and lumberjack checked shirts (though, quite frankly, they looked as if they had not the slightest interest in holding a chopper).
Well, after two mojitos and a tequila shot, given gratis by the muscular barman, one was overcome by the atmosphere and was soon up shaking a tail-feather on the smoke-filled dance floor with a rather hirsuit young man, dressed in a leather waistcoat and trouser ensemble (an odd mode of attire for such warm temperatures one thought, but he wore no shirt or vest and his trousers were backless, so at least air was managing to circulate around his downstairs area … one imagines there is nothing worse than a sweaty man-biscuit).
One’s dancing prowess was an instant hit, especially when one’s slender hips gyrated gorgeously to the more Latin rhythms, and very soon one’s dance card was full. One’s new chums and I danced until our legs buckled and the bar ran out of gin. A truly magical night!
Jonathan’s question of the day had certainly stirred something within one and a vivid recollection of Ms Carey’s “I’ll Give My All” (and after a couple of Bacardi Breezers, one is quite sure you would, dear!) attached itself, like a limpet, to one’s memory pathways. But that woman is exposed enough as it is; one only thinks back to the Michael Jackson memorial concert, when she still managed to hoist up her hooters before murdering ‘I’ll Be There’ (Take your time, dear … there’s no rush!).
In the end one sent a message to one’s North East iconic poppet to suggest an altogether more appropriate number; Londonbeat’s ‘You Bring On The Sun’. While one was dancing with another of one’s chums, Raul, one recalled a rather interesting bit of hip thrusting in the middle of the song. Furthermore, far more appropriate for dear Jonathan because each time he’s on the radio, he does just that … bring out the sun, that is … not indulge in outrageous hip thrustage!
Then, curiously enough, that very same day, while having a rummage through the well filled draws of one’s bow-legged tallboy, one came across the leather clad hombre’s photograph with the message he had left for one as we waved buenas noches at the end of the night:
For Crusty, I had a good crack tonight!
Love
Ricardo
Indeed, dear, and mercifully, in those leather chaps, it was slightly less off-putting when you weren’t spinning round!
© DCG 2010
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
