Tuesday, 16 October 2007

Cobbling With Louis Walsh

Along with a few other celebrities, I spent my Monday doing a sponsored hike around Kent on behalf of the Queen Alexandra Hospice’s Prosthetics Appeal. Not only was it an extremely good cause but a fun time was had by all. Afterwards, a very relaxed group of celebrities retired to the pub where we all proceeded to get legless.

It’s not really like me to enjoy other people’s company. Madeleys aren’t great socialisers, or at least, I’m not. I’m not a people person. I’d much rather be on my own, researching some new subject, discovering a new element, working on my cold fusion reactor. It’s why I’m not a man to be bullied. I don't care what people think. If anybody tries to intimidate me, I’ll show them the stern side of my face and if they continue they get the even sterner side of my fist.

Which is my long-winded way of explaining how I came to punch Louis Walsh.

Now, I know what you’re going to say, you Swearing Mothers, you Glamourpusses, you… Well, anybody else who bothers to read this post. You’re going to say that Louis Walsh is an inoffensive little Irish love puppet, that there’s not a hair on his cheeky little body that would wish anybody any harm. Only you’d be wrong. Halfway through the ten kilometer walk, I come across Walsh sitting by the side of the road. He seemed to be having a problem with his shoes.

‘Lousy fecking cheap hiking boots,’ he explained, holding up a shoe with a six inch gash in the side. ‘I paid a hundred quid for these off that feckin Sharon “I’ve contacts in retail” Osbourne.’

I dropped my rucksack by the side of the road and took out my tupperware box into which Judy had that morning placed a pile of tuna sandwiches.

‘Have some tuna, Louis old chap,’ I said. ‘And let me have a look at that shoe. Little do you know but this is your lucky day. I am an expert cobbler.’

He looked at me. ‘I believe that,’ he said and seemed to mean it.

So, while he muched on my sandwiches, I took my ubiquitous needle and thread from my bag and proceeded to do him a tip-top service on his shoe. When I was done, it looked as good as new. In fact, I’d say it looked even better than ‘tip top’ on account of the way I’d cleverly stitched his name into the leather.

‘That’s amazing!’ said Louis, handing me back my empty lunchbox. He slipped the shoe on his foot and began to dance around. (I was about to type that he began to dance around like a Leprachaun, but that sounds a bit non-PC, even if it is bloody accurate.)

‘Yippee!’ he said, raising his little green hat off his head as he continued to dance a jig. ‘Tipperary, here I come!’

I smiled, rubbed his shock of hair that’s redder in real life than you realise from the TV, and I packed up my bags. I was about to head off when I felt something tugging on my trouser leg. I looked down and there was little Louis, on the floor and a slightly unfamiliar shade of green.

After about a minute of laughing at what I thought was another example of Gaelic wit, I realised that the poor little mite was choking. I did what only trained medics can do. I began to kick him where he lay. Eventually he gave a cough and whatever was stuck in his throat came free. He rolled over, regaining his breath, and then he held out his hand. In it sat the largest fish bone I’ve ever seen.

‘Those feckin sandwiches,’ he gasped, standing up and raising himself to his full height. My kneecaps have never had such a staring down.

‘Don’t blame me for that,’ I said. ‘I didn’t ask you to eat all my lunch.’

To that he said something which I wouldn’t like to repeat in a place where Judy might be listening. Needless to say, when Diana Rigg came waltzing imperiously along five minutes later, she found the two of us scuffling in the dirt. Though Louis isn’t a great fighter, he does play dirty. But I’ve not gained a black belt in Judo for nothing. I had him in a headlock and was planning to let him to pass out so I could make my getaway. Only, in the end, I didn’t have to worry. Diana lifted him from me and carried Louis away on her back. I watched in some relief as they went off, with him waving his fist at me from her rucksack and swearing that he’d have his revenge.

By the late afternoon, the little fellow seemed to have calmed down. When I entered the pub, he was the first person to come up and offer to buy me a drink. I sat with him for the rest of the evening, drinking my stout and singing songs about the old country.

It was during this drinking session that I discovered some interesting facts about Louis Walsh. Did you know, for example, that he is one of twenty seven brothers, all of whom are record producers? They account for nearly ninety seven percent of the middle-of-the-road music produced in the UK. Louis has made a fortune from Boyzone but has promised to rectify the harm he has done by leaving his fortune to charities working with the terminally tone-deaf.


Glamourpuss said...

Well that explains the litter this weekend. Bloody London celebrities - no respect for the countryside.


Mopsa said...

Now, somewhere I am missing the Diana Rigg connection - but I am much impressed by your embroidery skills. Perhaps a stand showing your cobbling and stitching could be added to the Frieze exhibition?

debio said...

Every time I visit, you appear to have engaged in physical abuse with another celebrity; this is a surprise to me as I had you down as an all-round civilised fellow with an intellectual streak......

Which pub, by the way? I know Kent quite well - not the Medway towns, you understand.

Richard Madeley said...

Every time? I don't think I've laid a finger on a celebrity since my bust up at the comedy awards and even then I wasn't fighting back.

I think the last fight I had with a celebrity was when I gave a good kicking to Dot Cotton.

Swearing Mother said...

Lovely to read you talking cobblers again Richard, have been away again briefly and really missed it.

Was that fish bone meant for you, do you think? Done anything to upset the missus recently by any chance?

Sir Philip Johnston-Higham said...

...Louis Walsh is an inoffensive little Irish love puppet...

With a brickable smile.

Richard, I've been meaning to ask - you don't feel the total number of labels on each post a trifle ... well ... excessive?

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