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.

Doctor Who ... Dame Crusty Reflects.

One has been a fan of the hero of time, Doctor Who, for many years now; ever since one was a small Damelette, in fact. There were, of course, the bleak and troubled years when the nation was subjected to Sylvester McCoy and Colin Baker, but one found the on/off switch a suitable tool against that unnecessary suffering.

In the 21st century, the hands of the gorgeous Russell T. Davies brought us incredible storylines, tension that gripped one by one’s slender, deliciously smooth neck and characters that clicked as delightfully as Dame Burley Chassis’ hips. However, since dear Russell’s departure as captain of the ship, one must confess one is slightly concerned about the latest series.

Matt Smith, clearly, is quite splendid as the new Doctor and seems to have slipped in to David Tennants socks very easily. Amelia Pond also appears to be proving the perfect companion (if not a little of a … smart arse (?) … there, one said it!). Yet it is the writing that causes the bubbles of doubt to pop inside one’s slender frame. The new writer, Steven Moffat – whom, from watching Doctor Who: Confidential is certainly not unsure of his own talents – is, one feels, trying too hard.

The first episode was a wonderful introduction to our new cast. A young Amelia Pond sitting in her bedroom praying for someone to come and help tend to her mysteriously glowing crack, only for our regenerated hero to come across her in her nightdress, then venture downstairs to spit out everything she had to offer him onto the kitchen floor. The rest – as they say – is history.

The aliens of this episode were adequately frightening until the large eyeball, suspended from a giant snowflake, entered; it all seemed a little too Sarah Jane Adventures for prime time Saturday evening televisualisation.

The third episode saw the return of the Daleks. Even here – and not content with changing the sumptuous simplicity of the TARDIS – the long running enemy of the Doctor were apparently not good enough for Monsieur Moffat and he felt the Earth’s arch nemesis required (one believes the phrase is) ‘pimped up', to the point of complete and utter campness.

Indeed, when the super multi-primary-coloured Daleks came onto our screens and spread out into their sinister formation in front of the Jammy Dodger yielding Doctor, they looked like a giant Freedom Flag. All that was missing from the scene was a glitterball, Hi-NRG music pounding out in the background, a slight aroma of Amyl Nitrate and the Doctor in a pair of backless leather chaps serving cocktails and the scene would have been complete. Aside from that, the script, again, was over worked and despite a cast of superb actorial poppets, there just didn’t seem to be a fluidity to the storyline.

The most recent episode has seen the return of the Weeping Angels (no doubt weeping more after a shufty at the script). Not only that, but we have a woman with a very tight perm acting very familiar with the Doctor. While the lovely Russell introduced a character subtly, as in the Face of Boe, Steven introduces us to this woman and by the end of the episode, one is still no further forward as to knowing who on earth she is. It is all a little off putting and certainly gives a metallic aftertaste to a perfectly poured glass of gin while watching.

Anyhoo … all said and done, one certainly approves, on the whole, of the new TARDIS interior, but do we really need taps, typewriters and sex toys to be part of the control panels? Yes … sex toys, poppets! Surely one is not the only one who has witnessed the ribbed glass penetrating device in the centre of the craft forcing itself up and down, up and down, up and down … [Chu Me! Iced water … quickly! … and one’s fan!!]

The BBC prop poppet in the first Confidential told Matt, “We had to look high and low for that new centre piece.” Chu Me told one if he’d looked at page 24 of one of his specialist catalogues, he could have picked one up for £32.95 with Next Day delivery. He could have saved himself so much time.

Still, one must keep an open mind and see how the stories develop. Rome wasn't built in a day, after all.

Chu Me Learns To Swim

Over recent weeks one has been giving Chu Me lessons on how to swim. There was never any need to learn when he was a child, in that land far, far away. His village was surrounded by flooded fields and all the residents were traditionally content skimming across the surface in plastic flip-flops, propelled by large wooden poles. So, since taking him under one’s wing, it has long been on the cards for me to teach him this valuable skill.

Anyhoo … we were in the pool yesterday morning. One was elegantly contained in a ravishing aubergine Gucci swimsuit and matching cap, while Chu Me had his favourite pair of Hom budgie-smugglers on with a bright orange pair of inflatable water wings.

It would be wrong, one suspects, to say he ‘found his feet’, therefore we shall say he ‘found his flippers’ very quickly in our lesson. Within an hour he had grasped the technique of the front crawl. Even with his water wings, he managed to accomplish a satisfying speed up and down the length and one was delighted.

Bobbing majestically at the deep end of the pool – one treading water like an aquatic ballerina and Chu Me paddling his hands to stabilise his inflatables - one congratulated him on his efforts.

“Bravísimo, Chu Me! That was perfect!”

With a gleaming smile arcing across his proud-as-punch face he shouted, “Breast stroke?”

“Well, as you’ve done so well, why not.”

No sooner had I said those words, one felt Chu Me’s hand brush against one’s right hooter. One’s cat-like reflexes took a hold; kicking harder with one’s feet, one raised further from the water, raising one’s arms into the air and making pincers from one’s hands. Like a Praying Mantis, one’s pincers shot down and with a nip of stunningly manicured nails, one burst his inflatable water wings. The air rapidly squeaked out of the puncture holes as Chu Me looked on in horror. His head slowly starting to sink below the surface, one turned and propelled oneself to the ladder at the side. Exiting, one picked up the towel that lay on the lounger and stormed off elegantly to the steam room, “Outrageous!! Naughty Chu Me … Crusty is shocked!”

The window cleaner had passed by moments later. He saw the bubbles on the surface of the pool, bursting to emit small yelps and he dived in to pull one’s faithful houseboy from the crystal clear depths.

“What on earth is all this noise?” One shouted, as one left the steam room to investigate. Before me, one saw Chu Me lying on a lounger, panting heavily. The window cleaner was sitting in a chair, saturated and removing his shirt. The disrobing revealed a muscled, tanned torso with a six-pack stomach; tiny droplets of water falling from his jaw line and landing on his pectorial plane, creating tiny rivers that meandered down his body to the belt above his downstairs area.

Sahaying towards him, he stood up and one grabbed the back of his head and pushed one’s lips on his. After a few seconds, he began to struggle and our lips were released.

“Dame Crusty, what are you doing?”

“The kiss of life, dear! You’ve had a terrible trauma”

“But I’m fine…”

“Better make sure, dear” and with that one planted one’s lips upon him again. Finally, releasing him from one’s vice-like medical grip, Chu Me explained he had not intentionally brushed one’s bosom. It had been the ripples of the pool that had turned him towards me. He was simply trying to stabilise himself.

One looked at him briefly before the pieces all fell into place. Turning to head towards the door of the main residence, one chuckled loudly thinking how easy it is for misunderstandings to happen.

Chelsea Leaves Walford.

News has filtered through to one's private office at Crusty Hall, that stunningly delicious Eastenders actress Tiana Benjamin is set to leave the long running soap after 4 years.

This will cause the show untold damage, being the only knee-tremblingly beautiful member of the female cast (except Dame Barbara Windsor, the exquisite legend that she is).

It is understood that it has been a difficult choice for the actress to make, but she feels it is time to move on.

One doesn't know what she will do, but hopes she was advised The Bill has been axed. Nevertheless, one wishes her gorgeousness all the luck in the future.

One thing is for sure, her happiness levels with soar - like the birds above the clouds - when she finally leaves that depressing square.