Wednesday 24 September 2008

Not Making The Grade

The fates mock me. I’m in Manchester again and who do I see on Piccadilly Station at 7.50? Michael Grade. I gave him a nod, a smile, a flash of my cufflinks but he refused to shake my hand. I would have said something but I was rushing for the office.

But is this a sign of what I've become? A pariah, shunned by the very men that once begged me on their knees to adorn their morning sofa? Is this the fate of all handsome talent consigned to satellite?

4 comments:

Lola said...

He didn't recognise you, dork-brain, you had the beret and the false moustache on, never mind the comedy limp. He probably thought you were about to blow yourself up to make a point about religion in the centre of Manchester.

Uncle Dick Madeley said...

How stupid of me! Of course! It was the comedy limp that misled him into thinking I was a nobody.

Welsh Girl said...

Alternatively he did recognise you but felt too shy to come over and bow before you now that you have moved onto bigger and better things......

Uncle Dick Madeley said...

Possibly not, Welsh Girl. He said 'taste leather' and promptly booted me in the shins. This leads me to believe that he didn't know it was me.