Tight

I can’t write today. My brain wheezes along like a wheelbarrow full of asthmatics and it feels like we’re approaching a hill.

Dave Gorman is on tonight’s show so I’m gripped by this morbid fear that he’s going to outshine me. I had the same worry when Aled Jones came in the studio and we sang hymns together. Of course, on that occasion, my fears were groundless. Since his testicles dropped, Aled’s not been the singer he once was, while I’ve developed quite a fine voice which some compare with that of Pavarotti in his prime.

My fears that day were also related to my phobia of the Welsh, but, today, it’s my fear of comedians. I have the same problem when Charlie Brooker’s in the building. My sphincter goes so tight that I can’t even get a pencil up there. Luckily, I can think of only three reasons why I’d want to put a pencil up there and none of them involve either Judy or the sofa.

In order to get my brain working, I’m going to go and have a warm bath. It should relax me before the show. I’ll try to write you something for later on.