Though I’m usually a defender of Mr Crouch (or 'Crouchy' as he has just been renamed. Good old Crouchy), I confess that I spent 83 minutes yelling “you big fucking useless carthorse” at a TV screen (in a pub full of people doing the same).
I’d now like to make clear that it is not, and never was, my intention to imply that Mr Crouch is anything other than the embodiment of virtue. A man who’s flatulence carries a faint but noticeable hint of lavender.
I hope this clears everything up.