The Brit Awards 2011 - Crusty Reflects

It’s certainly been a year for award ceremonies, has it not poppet? We’ve had the Glamour Awards, the BAFTAs, the National Telelvision Awards (in which one’s delicious twitterchum Sir Derren Litten was victorious), the Golden Globes and the Most Shapely Ankle of the Village 2011 (which one has won for 10 consecutive years).

On Wednesday evening, one entered Litten’s bar – the gorgeous oak panelled room in one’s beloved Crusty Hall – to sit and enjoy a Mojito or two. As one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, poured one’s intoxicating minty mixture into a glistening Baccarat tumbler, one glided effortlessly to the television and switched it on. Imagine one’s glee when one saw Take That, writhing their manly hips on one’s 32 incher. Excited by their gyrations on the long – almost phallic – stage, one checked the guide on the television and saw it was the Brit Awards 2011.

The five pulsatingly popular poppets sang their little hearts out backed by a dance troupe kitted out in, what looked like, riot gear. The music took them over in a moment of frenzied madness and the dance troupe, thrusting their shields in front of them, grabbed their thick black truncheons and began whacking their helmets with vigour, before whipping off their riotesque garmentry and stripping down to their under-crackers for the climax. Take That’s opening had left one breathless and moist!

Dear James Corden did a magnificent job of hosting the proceedings and managed to get through everything without any controversy (Clearly Sir Patrick Stewart hadn’t been invited - or given permission from his nurse to attend - after the infamous Glamour Award debacle). One did think one small child … Justin Beaver, or some such fancy …was going to wet his undergarments at the comedic flirtatiousness from the host but after several minutes and giggles from the audience, realised the attentions were for comic effect and joined in.

It was also nice to see all the acts behaving themselves. None of the usual alco-pop fuelled tom-foolery that one normally sees at the event; every one trying to be as obnoxious as the last or asking for a bit of rough-and-tumble outside in the foyer because “my eyebrows are bushier than yours!” nonsense, as witnessed between Robbie Williams and Liam needs-a-good-slap-across-the-dish Gallagher some years ago.

The performances were impressively staged; Adele sang her little emotionally-laden heart out accompanied only by a pianist …[Stop giggling, Chu Me! …P-I-A-N-I-S-T! … For goodness sake!], Rihanna expelled a ripple of raunchiness across the auditorium as she swung her surprisingly ample hippage up and down the catwalk and Plan B brought us a melodic medley of their hits, while re-enacting the court case of a rather naughty chav.

The down side to the evening - for there must always be one – was the introduction of award presenter Cheryl y-nailed-it Tweedy-pie Cole. As she clomped her way down the runway in her off-the-peg ensemble, she smiled at the crowd and greeted everyone with her best telephone voice – suitable for any number of the call centres residing in our region. Indeed, it may well have been the case that her frock was acquired from just such an call centre … a catalogue, perhaps.

Anyhoo … one suspects it was in preparation for her possible move to the land of our American poppets. While talks have been going on for her involvement in the US X-Factor, there were concerns the Americans may not understand her (one fears, it’s a given!)

One noted she was up for an award herself, but by then one had completely lost interest in for what. However, they did show a snippet of her video for Parachute, where she sings those well penned lines, ‘I don’t need no parachute’. Apart from correcting her grammar, one was always tempted to take her to 33,000ft and test her theory. Alas, social engagements prevented one from doing so, so we shall never know.

 All in all it was a wonderful night. It appeared all the people who deserved awards won them and there was none of the jiggery-pokery going on as in years gone by. And the show was ended with a duet with the beautifully packaged plumptiousness of Cee Lo Green and our very own, exquisitely delicious Paloma Faith.

Despite one’s VIP invite not having arrived in time, one sat back and sipped from the tumbler of minty mojitoness and felt quite content. Bravísimo to all of the winners.

A Certain Chord Plucks Crusty's Strings

 Chord Overstreet *squeal*!!

One has been thoroughly enjoying season two of the ear-poppingly, leg-bucklingly entertaining Glee.

The characters are a wonderfully eclectic mix and one is particularly fond of the incredibly talented and angelically voiced Chris Colfer (Kurt Hummel) and the utterly gorgeous Amber Riley (Mercedes Jones). Amber's vocal vibrations constantly rip the tights from one's shapely thighs when ever she belts out a number and Chris ... well, everytime he sings a song one is consumed by the overwhelming passion and feeling his voicebox projects, through the speakers at either side of one's 32 incher. Utterly exquisite!!

Strangely enough, the delicious Jane Lynch (Sue Sylvester) reminds one of oneself in one's younger years; always thinking of others, always polite and never offensive ... and, indeed, the only difference one can find is that one never had the experience of wearing a tracksuit having never lived in local authority housing. Other than that we could almost be twins!

Recently, however, one's eyes have been drawn to a rather slurpalicious piece of eye-candy that has joined the talented cast. One, of course, refers to the blonde beau of breathtakenness, Chord Overstreet.

One shall watch with interest his progression through the series and the development as the character Sam Evans. One shall also remain hypnotised by those rather cupidesque lips ... so full and plumptious they could suck the catalytic converter from a tail pipe!

Santa Litten Fills Crusty's Stocking.

A rather special event occurred here at Crusty Hall over the recent festive season, when Santa Litten slipped something a little special inside one’s stocking. Who is his Santa Litten? One hears you ask.

Many readers from Her Majesty’s realm will, of course, recognise the name immediately … it is the utterly delicious comedic poppet, Derren Litten, who not only – and among other things – co-wrote The Catherine Tate Show, but also is the master behind the hugely popular series Benidorm. For international poppets, this is a masterpiece observation of British families and friends holidaying under the tentacles of Señor Sol in the holiday resort of the very same name.

One has often campaigned for one’s dear Derren to be knighted and, quite frankly, one thinks it is outrageous that it has not already taken place. After all, they gave a knighthood to John Prescott and what has he ever accomplished? Save standing in as a stunt double for the Churchill insurance mascot while he is away getting his nails clipped and his anal glands cleaned!

One is quite sure, that with a sustained campaign, young Derren will receive his reward soon enough; kneeling to feel a heavy weapon bounce off each shoulder to shoot off to the side once done for a spot of tea and nibbles.

The show itself is jam-packed with talent; the delicious Dame Sheila Reid, who casts aside her natural elegance to portray a hard-talking, cigarette-puffing woman of little patience for her family; One’s leg-bucklingly gorgeous twitterchum Jake he-of-the-gossamer-thin-budgie-smuggler Canuso … (one feels quite giddy just mentioning his name) … and the further deliciousness of regulars Steve Pemberton, Tim Healy (a monument of North East manliness), Siobhan Finneran, the charming Hugh Sachs and the teasingly titterlicious Janine Duvitski and Kenny Ireland.

Goodness, one could go on and on, could one not? The show is well endowed indeed with British talent!

Anyhoo … it was the week before Christmas and one was in one’s study writing out a card for Derren’s birthday. By chance, one's pussy, Crotchet, was wandering annoyingly across the keys of one’s laptopular device and activated the favourite icon for one’s poppet’s blog. There in front of one was an invitation to submit an email to him, as part of a competition, to say why one liked Benidorm.

One immediately felt a tingle oscillate up one’s inners thighs, around one’s downstairs area and shoot up to one’s perky bosom where it lingered momentarily. How wonderful!! One had been set a challenge and one was determined to rise up to it.

Setting the card aside, one picked up a quality piece of writing paper and one’s trusty fountain pen and got to work. After 7¼ hours, 6 gins, a small plate of boquerones en vinagre and a furball (the latter from Crotchet, incidentally) one sat back elated at one’s efforts:

The 21^st of December,

Is a very special occasion,

For an undervalued treasure

Of our ever glorious nation.

One speaks of one’s dear poppet -

For whom one is slightly smitten -

The utterly delicious … talented

Soon(?), Sir Derren Litten.

He’s witty and outspoken,

And, often, very naughty,

And this particular cumpleaños

Tickles the very toes of 40.

And to celebrate his birthday,

He’s set himself a mission,

To put a Christmas Card and DVD

Up for competition!

The DVD is of Benidorm,

His comedy masterpiece,

A series which keeps one’s chuckle-muscles

In ever such a crease.

His writing is simply exquisite,

His characters sublime,

All enjoying the Solana Resort

Under Señor Sol’s sunshine.

But though comedy is the theme throughout,

We can bathe in other things,

And the sentimental moments

Gently tug at one’s heart strings.

Like the continuing troubled saga

Of dear Martin and wife Kate,

Riding life’s roller-coaster

Of drama, love and hate;

The Oracle on his search for love,

With his mum, Noreen … who’s canny

But the only girl he ends up with

Is a Healy-esque Geordie tranny.

And the complicated goings on

Of the infamous Garvey clan;

Chantelle, with baby Coolio and

A chain-smoking, sun-drenched Nan.

Janice with her smitten beau,

Desperate for a snog,

While poor Mick can do nothing more

Than sit there all agog.

Sadly, the family was broken up

With the devastating loss of Mel,

After Geoffrey Hutchings left us

After he’d spent a time unwell.

An actor of pure quality,

Who we will never see again,

Who always gave a performance

That was, by far, ten out of ten!

And of course, the oooofalicious dreamboat …

Mateo, is his name,

A smouldering package of chunkiness

With his smooth and muscular frame

Who uses his sexual prowess

To seduce his chosen pray,
(Well, if one were at the Solana Resort,

He could certainly have his way!

One would gladly spend an afternoon

Rubbing oil into his back,

And maybe let one’s hand slip down

And rest between his cr …[cough]);

So, one thinks it would be quite wonderful -

If not a little shocking -

If Santa Litten came and dumped his prize

Inside one’s stocking

So when one woke up on Christmas morning,

One could untie the festive wrapper -

Before even getting out of bed

And heading for the cra … toilet -

And squeal, if it were possible

For one’s misty eyes to see,

An autographed, glistening copy

Of the box set of series three!

So, as one sashays into Litten’s,

The bar in one’s beloved Crusty Hall,

One always takes a little gasp,

Seeing his deliciousness upon the wall,

With a little smudge of lipstick

Pressed against his upper cheek,

(One likes to re-apply the lippy

T’ freshen up the smudge each week.)

One raises one’s glass in honour

To a man one just adores,

From the top of his highest follicle,

To the tip of his very toes.

From where he’s elegantly mounted,

 He watches over every tipple

And it never fails to bring to one

An epidermal ripple

Of dreamy pleasure that oscillates

Through every nerve and pore,

And continues through one’s skeleton

Then onto one’s very core.

May your birthday be filled with wonderment

And with all that you desire,

May the drink flow oh so generously,

And may you never tire.

Have a very Merry Christmas,

With friends and family near,

I’m sure you’ll enjoy every minute of it

(You’re very popular, dear.)

 And may 2011 be saturated

With love, with joy, with laugher

And happiness for now, tomorrow

And then for ever after.

One typed up the short verse as quickly as one’s beautifully manicured nails could manage and sent it off without delay. A few days later (one screams aloud just recalling it) one received a delightful Christmas card from the delicious Derren himself. This naturally took pride of place in Litten’s, which is the recently renamed bar here at one’s beloved Crusty Hall.

Not only that, but one had been triumphant at one’s attempt to win the competition and a week later the DVD arrived! One is quite sure one felt a surge of genius ripple through one’s fingers as one ripped opened his package and ran one’s fingers slowly over his thick, black moniker.

One shall of course watch it several times before it is put safely in the family vault, where it can be added to all the other valuables that make up the Gusset estate.

Eastenders Brings Star Trek A Little Closer.

One had just finished rubbing warm baby oil up the muscular inner thighs of Dr. Christian Jessen, when one suddenly awoke.

As the sleepy mistiness lifted from one’s eyes, one realised one was alone. Crotchet was no where to be seen and must have decided to utilise his cat-flap to explore the grounds; Chu Me had mentioned earlier that he had something that was in need of a quick rub, so one suspected he was still ensconced in his urgent rubbage, judging by the faint and distant panting one could hear from the corridor beyond.

One’s 32 incher had been on in the background as one dozed and as one looked towards its twinkling pixels one saw that a further depressing instalment of Eastenders was underway. One had been watching it recently in the hope of seeing one's delicious twitterchum Dan Brocklebank but it was not to be.

As one was drawn into the action, while trying to blot out the shape of Ian Beale with the aid of a mother of pearl coaster over one’s left eye, one’s mind began to whir. In particular, over the antics of Janine Butcher; Quite a nasty piece of works that one … and more so in this episode where her plan to poison her enemies was beginning to be acted out.

In an earlier scene, when she moved from room to room with Pat in tow – dragging her primary coloured danglies along with her – she was acting out every possible state of distress, anger, confusion and laughter. One realised one had saw something as vicious and vengeful as this before … but where?

After a sip from one’s Baccarat tumbler of gin and a shot of her lying with her crazed head on a pillow, scrunching up her rather high brow, a thought began to cross one’s mind ….’yIDoqhQo!’ One thought to oneself.

Goodness, one seemed to have been infiltrated by a strange tongue! …and then the penny well and truly plunged from a heavenly heights and clattered to stillness in the bottom of the terracotta pot of thought! She’s a Klingon!!

The reality of Star Trek, poppets, is a little closer than we think, one fancies!

Farewell Leslie Nielsen - Dame Crusty Mourns.

 1926 - 2010

As one sat in the Morning Room taking a pot of tea and a spot of crumpet with one’s good friend Fanny O’Dour - from the Badger’s Snatch - one was devastated to hear the very sad news that an actorial poppet - who had long been a comedic genius - had passed away.

One, of course, refers to the great Leslie Nielsen.

Born in 1926 he achieved a highly successful career in the early days as a serious actor before thrusting to meteoric stardom through his comedy roles. In particular, one thinks of the hit series Police Squad – in which he played Detective Frank Drebin - the film Airplane and the wonderful Naked Gun series of films, where Frank Drebin was revived for the big screen.

Leslie always made one titter uncontrollably, especially with his expressionless face as chaos erupted all around him. In the Naked Gun films, he teamed up with Priscilla Presley. This, at the time, was considered an unexpected pairing, however the two made a laughaliciously pleasing double act and his silver fox looks contrasted perfectly with Priscilla’s dark striking beauty. Indeed, Priscilla’s own expressionless face proved perfect for the comedy performance too.

Having said that, one recently saw a couple of old episodes of the US show Dancing with the Stars in which Priscilla was participating. Close ups suggested she had not so much had a Nip and Tuck but more a Grab and Stuff. Honestly, poppets, at first one thought one was watching Jacqui Stallone shaking her tail-feather on stage …until one realised there was no dribbling! Perhaps the lack of facial expression was not her comedy acting …perhaps it simply wasn’t humanly possible for the poor poppet!

Anyhoo … as one’s treasured poppets will know, the Gusset motto is Love, Joy and Laughter and Leslie certainly had, and gave, all three in gargantuan proportions. Though he may have left us, from the sun tickled shores of Fort Lauderdale at the rather impressive age of 84, we are truly blessed that his work is left for future generations to enjoy and, indeed, for his current legion of admirers to revisit  his gorgeousness whenever they so wish.

Back at one’s home and upon hearing the news one sashayed with sombre steps, with Fanny and Chu Me in tow, to the bar in Crusty Hall – recently renamed Litten’s after one’s delicious poppet Derren Litten. There we popped open a bottle of Pere Ventura, filled the Baccarat flutes and toasted his life, his accomplishments and his towering titterliciousness. Even one’s pussy, Crotchet maintained his ears at half mast as a mark of respect to the great man.

Chin, chin, Leslie dear, you'll never be forgotten, surely! *clink* 

[Stop calling me Shirley!]

Hillary Clinton - Dame Crusty Calms Her Fears.

Dame Crusty ... arrrr... I ... arrrr ... salute you!

Dearest Hillary,

One never likes to step into the world of politics – especially in this rather exquisite pair of Gucci pumps – but one felt one had to express opinion at your rather tawdry, public criticism of Her Majesty’s new government and their impending defence spending review.

Not so very long ago, a bunch of bankers (are one’s keys sticking?... ah no!) from your fair land were rather naughty and began a trickle – later turning into a tsunami - of devastation throughout the financial sectors of the entire western world and beyond. As a result, the world economy was brought to its knees … in a rather unpleasant Lewinski-esque fashion, if you will. There were bodily excretions hitting fan blades in every corner of our globe.

You must, therefore, forgive some of one’s European family while they attempt to adjust their monetary britches and support the countrymen held within the fabric of their nations boxers (while still fighting in battles - we can never hope to win - started by our very own Tony I’m-a best-selling-author-because-I-said-I’d-give-all-the-profits-from-my-book-to-the-Help-the-Heroes-Charity Blair and your Bush).

Even Great Britain – and one must emphasise Great with vigour and pride – finds itself in a terrible predicament, scraping along a plateau of broken glass on a rather bony expanse of buttock. This was made all the worse by your chums, in our previous government who were a little irresponsible with Her Majesty’s savings account, including the rather curious looking piece of eye-candy you became fond of, David Miliband, who I understand – since his defeat in the party elections – is now selling household cleaning products from a basket - door to door - in allocated streets of a North East town (though, quite frankly, even Cillit Bang couldn’t clean the hands of that last lot!). One believes his chamois leathers are selling like hotcakes, if you’re interested!

Anyhoo …they squandered the nation’s finances with gay abandon (and that does not solely relate to Peter Peggy-on-a-Sunday Mandelson). To put it simply, it was like going to the hairdressers, spending an absolute fortune on a new ‘do’ and getting something of very little value or consequence in return. One is sure you can relate to that scenario only too well, having blatantly exposed dark rootage on the international stage and – on occasion – picking ill-advised fights with hedges before televised press conferences.

One can assure you that the British nation is more than prepared to defend itself and its allies. Goodness, try and infiltrate the North East with a terrorist cell and there will be many a bloody nose in the streets of the quayside and Bigg Market, as those responsible will be battered to a state of poo, by locals wielding kebabs, cans of K cider and protected by Stand&Tan leatherette skin which, one can assure you, is impenetrable.

So please don’t worry about us and feel free to keep your proportionately stubby nasal formation out of our business. As one emailed one of your Texas judges only yesterday over this farcical Liverpool FC malarkey “You have no jurisdiction here, so bog off poppet!”

Hope you and the family are well,
Love, joy and laughter,

Dame Crusty
xxxx

Fascinating Aida's Report Into Cheap Flights

While relaxing with a glass of chilled Fonpinet Cava on the terrace in sun-drenched Málaga, one received a message from one's dear friend, Nigel, via the magnificent twitterverse. Something had tickled his fancy and wondered if one wanted one's tickled too. How could one refuse, poppets?

He had sent one a indepth study by Fascinating Aida of the workings of the low-cost airlines. The investigation below if both interesting and sets out all of the hidden costs in an easy to follow way.