Claire's Balding Nipples

Because of my ongoing struggle coping with sanity, commuting to Manchester, and the most recent unfortunate development with Clarkson and his facelift, I’ve not been giving proper attention to my blogging duties. It’s all well and good that I’ve written some lengthy posts recently but I recognise that many of you have neither the time nor the inclination to read them. You’re here for the cheap laughs and pictures of the smooth-jowled Clarkson. I know that. And knowing that, I thought you are probably missing the only part of this blog not written by me. I mean, of course, the Google Search Terms.

It seems like months since I last gazed on my stats, having decided that if I am going to blog, I’ll blog for my own amusement. Now that I look, however, I find that in the last month, there have been some genuinely disturbed people visiting this blog. Hats off to you, ladies and gentlemen. I couldn't have done better myself. I suggest you look no further than the first search term for proof.

“claire balding nipples”

I don't even know how to parse this, let alone answer it. Is there a woman called Claire who happens to have hairy nipples which are now balding? Is there an equivalent to an Afghan merkin for the nipple that’s going a little thin? Perhaps a form of nipple toupee? Alternatively, do they mean ‘Claire Balding’, she of the biceps and horses? That she has nipples is as certain as she's got a small Willie Carson. I’d even hazard a guess and say that they’re probably two in number. To say more, however, would be conjecture. If there are pictures, I really don’t want to see them. After all, she’s no Vanessa Feltz!

“Verses for birthday for your deceased mother”

This one struck me as odd. I don’t mean to be heartless about it, but I would think that verses written for somebody’s dead mother on her birthday will probably go unread. There are probably better things you can do with your time.

“Will gnats bother an African grey parrot?”

Now we get down to the serious business and why many people come here. They want to call on my expertise on most matters and my friendship with Oddie for anything I don’t know about our flighty feathered friends. Gnats will indeed bother African grey parrots. In turn, African grey parrots will bother the Peruvian Snow Gibbon, who have been known to pester the rare Arctic kangaroo which is now almost extinct in the Northern hemisphere due to many of them missing their footing while jumping between icebergs.

“Does prune juice act as stool softner?”

The old favourite and I again call on personal experience to answer this one. Yes, prune just does a fine job in softening stools. And speaking of which, the prune giveaway is proving a success but I’ve still got a sizable supply left. You need only send me postal address and you’ll get a signed tin of prunes ASAP.*

“Recipe for frog froth”

Dare I suggest: a frog and an electric whisk?

“Are pistachios combustible?”

Bloody good question. Pistachios are indeed combustible. In fact, Italian fighters during World War 2 would pack grenades with pistachios for use as a makeshift incendiary device. The so called ‘Pistatchio Partisans' were also famous for discovering that you could cripple a Tiger tank with a handful of beer nuts.

“Shaved head twitch”

I’ve not seen the Twitch around the blog latterly. Perhaps he has indeed shaved his head and we don’t recognise him.

“Sir Richard Madeley”

A little bit premature but certain bound to happen.

“Is Charlie Sheen circumsized?”

Circumcised? I should say he should be bloody castrated.

* Offer limited to the UK and only while stocks last. I reserve the right to change my mind about going to the post office should it be raining when I put my shoes on.

How To Love Bill Oddie? I Thought I'd Count The Ways…

Following on from this morning’s post and the recent discovery of this blog by the world's most authoritative expert on Bill Oddie, I’ve compiled my list of fifty ways to love the man. I now hope that Mrs. Featheringham is satisfied and will decamp from the bottom of our drive.

But before you read my list, I want to ask any of you out there if there is another blog that gives you this kind of information? Honestly, I don’t think you appreciate me half as much as you should. I see plenty of you dropping by, sometimes reading dozens of pages at a time, yet not enough of you email me or leave a comment to say: ‘Well done, Richard! I’ve been looking for a list of ways to love Bill Oddie for years, but I’ve never found one. Your blog is becoming a regular stop on my daily browse of the internet and I couldn't live without you.’ I need encouragement, people, and I don’t see it. Perhaps one of you might care to write a list of '50 Ways To Love Richard Madeley'? Just a suggestion...

Fifty Ways to Love Bill Oddie

1. Groom him. Bill is the only genuinely bearded celebrity in the UK.
2. Cuddle him. His height to width ratio cannot be beat.
3. Pat the top of his head. It’s only waist height.
4. Tickle his feet. He has two and, yes, they are soft and furry.
5. Rub his tummy. He has two and, yes, they are soft and furry.
6. Make him laugh. He loves a good owl joke.
7. Whistle to him. He’ll whistle back in the fashion of a lesser mottled bill shafter.
8. Make duck calls. He has webbed toes.
9. Sing the Funky Gibbon. He wrote it, sang it, but did you know that he is a funky gibbon?
10. Buy him a mobile phone. He refuses to have one because of the bees.
11. Varnish his knees. They get terribly scuffed twitching in the scrub.
12. Get him monstrously drunk in Chinatown. Again.
13. Roll him down a hill. He’s guaranteed to keep going.
14. Put him in the bank. Oddie is a high yield investment opportunity.
15. Buy him a puppy. His poodle juggling record has yet to be beat.
16. Feed him peanuts. He loves all nuts except for pecan.
17. Put him in a bird box. Make his dream come true.
18. Yank his chain. He wears one around his neck that keeps his flies up.
19. Pick cocoa pops from his beard. They rustle and frighten away the birds.
20. Humble him with Katie. Katie Humble is Bill’s kind of woman.
21. Hang him upside down from a coconut. He has special toes that can hold him there.
22. Reunite him with his earlobes. He has them but hasn’t seem them since 1968.
23. Feel his pain. Tell him not to worry. He is odd but oddly odd. He is oddly Oddie.
24. Follow his winter migration. He heads south, then a bit east.
25. Destroy the BT tower with a mutant kitten. He’s done it before.
26. Support Ipswich Town. They are his team and play his sort of football.
27. Buy him an illegally imported parrot. He’ll complain but grow to love it.
28. Wear a sleeveless jacket. He owns twelve of them and some even have sleeves.
29. Chase him. Poke him with a stick and call him ‘a custard’. He’ll thank you.
30. Tar and feather him. And then call him ‘sexy’.
31. Take the creases from his trousers. He is the most ruffled man in the UK.
32. Take him on holiday. He tans nicely.
33. Nuzzle his neck. But beware the burn.
34. Make him a brew. Biscuit on the side. Warm fireplace. Lovely.
35. Call him ‘Billy’. All his friends do. You can be his friend.
36. Buy him odd socks. Since he has very odd feet.
37. Threaten to trade him in for a Tim Brooke-Taylor. Just to make him love you more.
38. Cheer him up. He feels sad when he sees the last geese fly off for the winter.
39. Put a ring on his ankle with ‘Oddie 1’ written on it. Just in case he gets lost.
40. Build him a badger set. Oddie loves nothing more than a badger.
41. Pre-scuff his shoes. He hates polish and shine.
42. Rut with him in the fashion of deer. Aim low.
43. Clone him. We could all do with more Oddie.
44. Divest him of his illusions. He has many. Divest him of them! Divest him!
45. Put squirrels in his trousers. They can bury his nuts for winter.
46. Stick him up a tree. He hangs quite well and won’t drop in the cold.
47. Watch him through binoculars. He likes to be watched from a distance.
48. Sing light Italian opera to him. He won’t understand the words but he’ll enjoy the tune.
49. Budget for more little Oddies in the spring. Then put cameras in the nest to watch them hatch.

Or

50. Just love him like he was your own special little fellow. He deserves it.

The Deckchair On The Drive

The old woman was sitting on a deckchair at the bottom of the drive. I’d spotted her when I opened the curtains this morning.

‘There’s an old woman sitting on a deckchair at the bottom of the drive,’ I said to Judy, who was buried nose to pillow beneath the duvet.

‘Is there?’ she mumbled.

‘And she appears to be unpacking her bags,’ I said. There was no real reply and, judging from the snoring, Judy had gone back to sleep, no doubt dreaming of DIY, Jeremy Clarkson, and needlenosed pliers.

No more was said about the old woman sitting on a deckchair at the bottom of the drive until after breakfast. I’d invested heavily in marmalade and toast, and felt like I was on unbelievably good terms with the world.

‘I don’t believe this,’ I said, looking out of the living room window. A tent had been erected and the old lady was sitting before it stirring something in a pot heating over a Calor gas cooker.

Judy came over and had a look through a gap in the curtain.

‘What’s that sign propped against the tent?’ she asked. ‘It looks like a hedgehog… Oh, Richard, you’ve not been advocating death to all hedgehogs have you?’

‘Not after last time,’ I replied. ‘Do you think I should go and have a word?’

Judy dropped the curtain. ‘You have a way with old ladies, so perhaps you should.’

Never one to put potential confrontation on a back burner, I was immediately out the front door. The gravel crunched crisply beneath my heels as I walked down the long drive leading to the gates of the Madeley residence, my guidance system set on OAP.

‘Hello,’ I said, as I approached the old woman who was busy sprinkling herbs into a pot of broth. ‘Something smells good.’

The old woman looked to be in her eighties, red cheeked, wild hair beneath a green woollen hat. She was dressed for the elements in a deep green anorak, with a pair of binoculars hanging around her neck.

‘Richard!’ she exclaimed. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

‘Didn’t you?’ I replied. ‘That’s a surprise. After all, you are holidaying at the bottom of the driveway to my house.’

‘Oh, I’m not on holiday,’ she laughed, quite lightly. ‘I’m protesting.’

‘Protesting? What could you possibly be protesting about at the bottom of my drive?’

‘I am on public land,’ she said. ‘And I’ve not trespassed. This is a peaceful protest.’

‘Excellent news,’ I replied. ‘But can I ask what your protest is about?’

She turned and picked up the sign that the wind had knocked over beside her tent. I gave an involuntary chirp of fear when she turned it to face me.

‘Isn’t he lovely?’ she asked as she stroked the larger-than-life photograph of Bill Oddie stuck to the sign. ‘I’m protesting against your treatment of Bill and the things you’ve been saying about him.’

I was too dumbstruck to answer the charge. ‘Is that real hair you’ve used on the sign?’ I asked, the full horror having only struck me once I’d noticed that Oddie’s beard and fringe were moving with the wind.

‘I know Bill’s barber,’ explained the woman. ‘He gives me the odd clipping.’

‘Bill Oddie has a barber!’ I replied, astonishment now added to my copious supply of disgust.

‘He has a barber and a fan club,’ said the woman. ‘My name is Clarice Featheringham and I’m deputy chairwoman of The Bill Oddie Twitchers Alliance.’

‘Well Clarice, I don’t know what I’ve done to upset you but you can be sure that you have my support. As you might now, I’m a huge Bill Oddie fan.’

‘I’ve heard you claim that but I think it’s a lie,’ she answered as she went back to stirring the soup. ‘Why else would you make such horrible comments about Bill?’

I couldn’t immediately think of any bad things I’ve ever said about Bill Oddie. In fact, the opposite is closer to the truth. My admiration for Stephen Fry might know no limits, especially after he so kindly written a piece of my blog about his meeting with Chuck Norris, but I have genuine affection for Bill Oddie that goes deeper than mere admiration. I am part Oddie and I would hope that he is part Madeley. I like to think that we are actually more like brothers.

‘If you mean that,’ said Ms. Featheringham after I’d explained it all to her, ‘I suppose it means I don’t have to spend the next month sitting here. But how am I to be sure you’re going to change your ways? How am I to be certain that you’ll be kinder to Bill in the future?’

‘Certain?’ I laughed. ‘How can I prove I love Bill Oddie? Let me count the ways…’

‘You’d do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘Count the ways? On your blog?’

‘Er,’ I said, ‘I suppose I could… It was really only a turn of phrase. You know, like the Paul Simon song. 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover?’

‘So you should write 50 Ways to Love Your Oddie!’ She dropped the spoon with a splash. ‘A wonderful idea,’ she said and, with that, picked up the pot from her stove and poured the soup into two mugs. She handed me the one with Bill’s face on the side. ‘We’ll drink soup to our deal. I’ll pack up and go home and you can go and count the ways you love Bill Oddie on your blog.’

And there you have it. I’m now engaged in the task of writing ‘50 Ways I Love Bill Oddie’. I’ve found it easy to write the first five or six, but fifty seems quite a lot. I better get back to it.

As usual, advice welcome, suggestions sought for man who seeks Oddie love.