Saturday, 13 November 2010

A Big Issue in The Big Issue

Hello fans of Uncle Dick and casual internet lurkers brought here looking for pictures of Clare Balding's nipples (yes, you know who you are Mr. BT Broadband from Chipping Norton)...

This is Stan Madeley still here, with Uncle Dick currently investigating reports of phantom moles in the area of his potting shed and refusing to blog until he's give his own show on Channel 4 (after the watershed).

However, on this chilly morning in November, it gives me chance to promote myself a little more and ask you to point your eyes in the direction of the 'Big Issue' where my latest diktat to the nation was to be found last week.

The piece was titled 'King for a Day' and outlined my plans for the nation should the constitution get a rewrite to include mention of a handsome chisel thrower from Luton. I encourage you to read it, especially if you're of a political bent and wish to understand this exciting new ideology from the man who made gourd swallowing a family friendly act.

Need I add that more of the same can be found in Second-Class Male, my book of misguided letters to famous strangers.

As Uncle Dick said to me this very morning:

'I hope that all my readers buy Second-Class Male, your book of misguided letters to famous strangers, Stan, but could you just grab Judy's legs and pull her out of the hole? I think she's shouting something about being attacked by moles.'

And with an endorsement like that, what kind of man wouldn't pull?

Wednesday, 20 October 2010

It's Competition Time

Greetings my friends, colleagues, and fellow adventurers in the world of cabaret! Stan Madeley here, sitting in for Uncle Dick who is currently away in France where he’s hunting truffles with his pet pig, Snouty.

Having the keys to his domain, I thought I’d do something a little different to keep this slumbering beast of a blog going. In fact, when he handed me this great responsibility, Dick’s last words to me were ‘have fun, keep out of trouble, and never mention that Michael MacIntyre has only slits for eyes’.

Frankly, I hadn’t noticed that Michael MacIntyre has only slits for eyes and, if I had, I certainly wouldn’t mention this fact on the internet. Who knows where such things might lead?

So, instead, I’ve decided to liven things up with a little audience participation. It always works at the Gormfield Old Folks home and I don’t see why it won’t work with you, men and women under ninety years of age and in full control of your bladders. I won’t ask you to wave your hands in the air as I play Vera Lynn classics on my harmonica but I will ask you to participate in a competition!

Yes, I said: we’re going to have a competition! You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

So, sorry… Slipped into my nursing-home mode for a moment…

I have a signed copy of my new book, Second-Class Male, sitting here on my lap and I’m willing to send it (the book, not my lap, though perhaps both if you’re lucky) to the person who can tell me the name of my favourite Norwegian fjord. That’s right: my favourite Norwegian fjord.

Just email me your answers at and the winner will be the first correct entry that my wife Sandra (54) retrieved from down my pair of oversized comedy trousers.

Closing date for the competition is Friday, 29th October and the draw will be held during our performance at the Wittling Cross Social Club on the following Saturday night. It should be an exciting evening as I’ll be attempting to become the first man to glue himself to a bassoon in the cause of light entertainment whilst attempting to advance rectal science.

Tickets are available at the door but please be advised: anybody sitting in the first three rows might be asked to assist in the case of a medical emergency.

Monday, 20 September 2010

Second-Class Male

I’m breaking my self-imposed blog silence to point you in the direction of this book, which many have compared favourably to this blog.

Ah! But do I hear you cry: 'Hold on, Uncle Dick! How is that possible? Surely you've not had a hand in this book's conception? Have you been lying to us when you said you’ve been busy combating pirates in Somali waters?'

Well, I’ll tell you the truth: it beats me! However, I’m not ashamed to admit that Stan Madeley is my kind of man: fearless when the circumstances call for it but with a dash of the romantic when his wife Sandra (54) hits the dimmer switch. He’s also the UK’s top Richard Madeley lookalike and a trained cabaret chisel thrower to boot, so you don’t need me to point out that he’s blessed on more than one front.

Second-Class Male contains the letters Stan has been written to the great and the good of showbiz, politics, and high street retail. He even butters up old General Noriega with only a second-class stamp, so why not buy a copy of the publishing sensation of the year (excluding Paul O’Grady’s collector's guide to SAS Land Rovers).

In summary: please make your old friend, Uncle Dick, very happy and buy Stan’s book. I’m giving it two thumbs up, a high five, and one shin slightly inclined towards the perpendicular. It’s impossible to give it more praise than that.

Thursday, 13 May 2010

Am I Crazy?

Okay, it’s official. I’m crazy. I’ve now updated the Richard Madeley Appreciation Society three times in a day. I'm now getting emails and comments from people who still think I'm a full time blogger. Apparently, I've also got a programme on ITV tonight, 9pm, called All At Sea. I encourage you to watch it. It’s quality entertainment.

But let me repeat: don’t get it into your head that I’ll be blogging here again soon.

I have things to do. I still haven’t finished creating my giant Judy made entirely from candle wax.

A Birthday Treat

The surprise wasn't that I've returned to blogging because I haven't except for this one special day. The surprise was awaiting me when I slid down the banister this morning and did my customary somersault onto the hall rug.

'Happy birthday!' cried Judy, emerging from the kitchen with a pile of laundry in her arms.

'Oh, Judy!' I cried out in surprise. 'What on earth have you done?'

'Well, it is your special day,' she said. 'And I know how much you've wanted one...'

I pushed her to one side to look at my present parked squarely beside the antique hat stand holding my collection of wide-brimmed fedoras and false moustaches.

'And bright pink is my favourite colour!' I said, slipping out of my dressing gown and throwing it over Judy's head. Unfortunately, my pockets were full of my usual morning walnuts so she took a few cracking against her chin. But even that couldn't ruin the moment.

'Have you filled it?' I asked.

'Of course,' she said, watching as I jumped into the seat and turned on the engine.

It has been one of my ambitions since we gave up the show to take up go-carting and this was just the sort of go-cart I've been eyeing: sleek, powerful, and pimped out in a luminous pink with fur trim. Even though I was still only wearing my underpants and socks, I couldn't resist revving the engine.

'Sounds great,' I shouted, as exhaust fumes filled the hall.

From off somewhere in the toxic cloud, Judy mumbled something about feeling dizzy but I wasn't about to allow my day to be ruined by my wife's complaints or the sound of something heavy dropping to the floor. I suppose my excitement got the better of because, without a thought, I gave the accelerator some toe and set off down the hall leading to the house's east wing where Judy keeps her collection of antique spigots. Turning right at the library, I sped down past the gallery containing our priceless collection of portraits of Yours Truly, and past the swimming pool which we've recently had mosaicked with the R and J united by ampersand. I was carrying too much speed when I reached the locked utility room where we now keep the feral Fred, so I threw the back end out and drifted around the rear of the house, past the kitchen, wood shed, Judy's meditation suite, the hydrotherapy spa, the pet closet, the cinema, and finally turning the last corner to come back past the indoor arboretum back to where Judy was on her back but slowly coming around.

'That's fantastic,' I said.

Judy sat up and frowned at the seventeen feet of tyre marks I'd made under braking.

'It will take some scrubbing to get that off the carpet,' she remarked.

I jumped out and grabbed my dressing gown, wrapping it tightly around my body which looks no older than it did when I was a strapping twenty four year old, now nearly eleven summers ago.

'Forget the carpet, Jude,' I cried, reaching into my pocket for my first walnut of the morning. 'Finish off your washing and I'll race you around the block.'

Judy sighed. I could see she was in no mood for running.

'Come on, Jude,' I said, helping her to her feet. 'It's my birthday. I'll give you're a head start of half mile.'

She smiled. 'Okay, Richard, but only because it's your birthday. After all, you only turn thirty five once…'

'You say that every year,' I replied, 'but you've never been right yet!'

Happy birthday me!

Happy Birthday

Happy Birthday to me!
Happy Birthday to me!
Happy Birthday Uncle Richard!
Happy Birthday to me!