Sunday, 9 December 2007

Sunday Morning

It’s the seventh day and, as you’re probably aware, Madeley’s day of rest. I hope you haven’t come here expecting a post containing any significant events. This is just about waking up on a Sunday morning in bed next to Judy. Or not next to Judy, as happened to be the case.

I was awoken in the middle of the night by the sound of a Mexican band. I’ve been woken by some pretty odd things in my life: burglars, racing pundits, hairless Armenian car salesmen. But never by a Mexican band, not even during Judy’s marimba period. It’s why I thought it odd enough to get out of bed to investigate. I stuffed my toes into my slippers, wrapped myself in my dressing gown, and emerged on the landing ready to complain about catchy South American rhythms in the small hours. The band was somewhere downstairs and it wasn’t going to be hard to find them. They were sitting in the living room, the light of our huge TV creating a false dawn.

My body woke up a little more as I took in the scene. Judy was sitting on the sofa with her trombone in her hands. In the other chairs were Denise Robertson with a tupperware tub and Judith Chalmers playing castanets made from a couple of spoons.

‘What the hell is going on?’ I asked.

The three women looked at me and then burst into laughter.

Then Denise began to smack her makeshift drum. ‘There’s only one Ricky Hatton!’ she sang as Judy accompanied her on the brass, Judy on the tablespoons. ‘There’s only one Ricky Hatton! One Ricky Hatton!’

‘Ah,’ I said, looking up at the screen at where the old man in the Stella Artois had shuffled off and we were back in Los Vegas for a Sky Box Office presentation. ‘I forgot that tonight’s the night for the sport of kings. Or, at least, Kings who can afford to cough up fifteen quid for something they should really be getting as part of their subscription package.’

‘I thought horse-racing was the sport of kinds,’ said Judith.

‘I was thinking of the more bloodthirsty kings who are almost tyrants,’ I answered as I watched Sky’s coverage of the big fight continue. ‘So how long is it before our boy arrives to get knocked out?’

‘I didn’t think you wanted to watch it,’ said Judy, taking a rest from her trombone.

‘I don’t. Who’d choose to watch a horrible sport that’s sure to end with the combatants coved in blood? The only way I’d want to watch a man from the North West being beaten to a pulp is if that man were Paul O’Grady. But that’s never going to happen… Never going to happen…’

‘So you’re not a sporting man, then, Richard?’ asked Denise.

‘I wouldn’t say that. I just to prefer to watch my beach volleyball. The worst thing you can say about that is that the ladies sometimes suffer mild sand chafing and the occasional gathering of the bikini between their cheeks.’

‘Sexist pig,’ I thought I heard Denise mutter, though it was hard to tell. Judy had chosen that moment to clear the trombone’s valves with a gust from her lungs.

As the girls launched into another verse and chorus I waved them my goodbye and climbed back up the stairs. I slipped between my sheets and set the ‘Z’ button to repeat. I had a wonderful sleep as, in the room below, three blood crazed women began to call for Mayweather’s blood.

Seven hours later, I was awake again. The same could not be said for my wife, Madame Defarge, nor her twin sisters. The scene in the living room this morning was one of small scale devastation. Judy was sleeping in the middle of the floor while Denise had the sofa and Judith was out in my favourite lounger.

I put toe to wife who woke with a snort.

‘Knock his bloody block off!’ she yelled before shrugged off my slipper and rolled over.

‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘Did he win?’

Judy groaned. It was the only answer I needed. I took off my dressing gown and threw it over my wife who had sank back into a deep sleep. I went to the kitchen and produced a large pot of coffee, a generous stack of toast, before adding them all to a tray with a jar of marmalade. With the newspaper tucked under my arm, I climbed the stairs and went back to bed. It’s from where I’m writing this and this is where I shall stay until the house stops shaking to the sound of Denise Robertson’s snoring.

Boxing matches can be vile, animalistic contests. And what goes on inside the ring can almost be as bad.


Selena Dreamy said...

The only way I’d want to watch a man from the North West being beaten to a pulp is if that man were Paul O’Grady.

Well, you can't really disagree with that, except, of course, so far as I am concerned, I want to see the street-brawler Jeremy Clarkson fight his old sparring partner, the hoodie. The only thing you’d remember about that fight is counting the seconds. But when I turned to your blog this afternoon, I found that further analysis reinforced my conviction that your particular type of humour deserves serious attention, but that - in view of the sensitivities arising from your celebrity status - there is no such thing as a gratuitous remark.

The three women looked at me and then burst into laughter.

That was, in fact, my first indication that some double-crossing was in progress and that the situation was going pearshape. How did this happen? That is the problem with derision, once you've experienced it, it's so much harder to get back on top. They are taking liberties, and you bear the brunt.

I put toe to wife who woke with a snort.

Now that’s real class! It's not just that it's superior - it's so much superior. I personally approve of this, because here is marital affection as nature intended; lean, muscular and brawny. By retaining the initiative, you make it difficult for anyone to distinguish what they are actually intended to criticize. (Except for the Missus, of course). You see, a publishing deal for comedy is not like winning literary prizes. It’s a bit like working on the hydrogen bomb. In the first you’ve got to be deadly, in the second you need connections. How they differentiate that from being a jackass, I can't say, but the Man Booker usually makes an excellent case study in this brand of suicide literature.

Be that as it may, I think I have a solution. Truth to tell, I believe I may assert that in the not-too-distant future the Richard Mandeley Appreciation Society (RMAS) will receive a feedback that will inevitably make the rest of the bloggers break out in a cold sweat.

For this purpose, here is a number of questions you will be required to answer. And I would just like to say, try and give as honest an account of each subject as you can:

1.) are Bryan Appleyard and Bill Oddie about to get engaged?

2.) What exactly did you mean when you were overheard saying to Elberry: “I get plenty of it and can supply it for you?”

3.) Have you ever been convicted for stalking The Honourable Nigel Havers?

4.) Have you ever heard voices urging you to run for post of Vollsachverständiger für Konspirazionstheorie?

5.) Is it true, to the best of your knowledge, that Jeremy Clarkson was seen out dining with a man wearing a skirt while claiming he was AA Gill. Or that the Daily Mail thought it was so good they wanted it done again? And what do you imagine Stephen Fry thinks about that? I certainly do not trust the manhood of either. In fact, I rang Jeremy and tried to hide my disappointment, but he suggested, against my better knowledge, that he might just appear on this blog.

What good is the word of a man with a predilection for skirts?

P.S.: All readers of this blog are urged to add and amplify the questionnaire!!

Selena Dreamy said...

the Richard Mandeley Appreciation Society (RMAS)

Ooops, that ought to read Richard Madeley, of course!

Misssy M said...

Not having been round here of late (for which I am eternally sorry) I see that it's business as usual in the Madeley/Finnigan household and all is well with the world!

Craig Burgess said...

I find it absolutely bizarre that nobody has discovered you yet 'Richard'. I've clearly overestimated how well people use their eyes, or how far people are willing to scroll down a page.

However, I have to hand it to you - this is a parody masterclass. For that I congratulate you.

Richard Madeley said...

Selena, as you can see, I've replied in length in a post.

Misssy, I'm glad you're back but where have you been? There's so much to tell you, especially about David Dickinson's crotch.

Craig, very kind of you to say so. A 'masterclass'. I like the sound of that. Of course, I'm not sure about the word 'parody'. Parody of what? My own life? This is just the diary of an ordinary man but with many celebrity friends. I think of it as the blog you'd have got if James Boswell and Samuel Johnson inhabited a single body and had their own teatime slot on Channel 4.

Craig Burgess said...

So the disclaimer is an accidental mishap then?

Richard Madeley said...

Craig, ah, I see... Well it's nothing to do with me. In fact, until you mentioned it, I didn't realise it was there. I think it a 'joke' by the man I pay to create my website. He clearly doesn't have enough to do writing his technology column for the Guardian and doing the Harry Potter audio books.

Craig Burgess said...

Haha...Nicely done son.

Either way, you've got a very interesting blog and an amazing imagination.

Bookmarked and talked about.

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Anonymous said...

Thanks for this - am doing a chemo session at the moment and feeling like death warmed up...was looking for something entirely different on me laptop and saw this site.

Great laugh. Everyone in the ward is passing it around now and all having a good chuckle.

Some of the images you created though will give me a few uneasy nights later on.