A Year On

For a year, I’ve been sitting here sat at my keyboard, fashioning my thoughts into meaningful posts. Only today the words have dried up. Tomorrow marks the one year anniversary of the Richard Madeley Appreciation Society and I still haven’t had a single card.

A year older and 365 days wiser, I now look back on a year of wasted opportunities and failed ambitions. I intended to write the finest blog around but have failed miserably. The world may now have an official resource for people with two rectums and I have become a quoted authority on the history of custard creams, my own dreams remain unfulfilled. However, I don't want you to feel sorry for me. Instead, I want you all to do at least one thing tomorrow to make the day special. Whether that’s breaking out the bunting, wrapping yourself in the Union Jack, or having an underwear free day, please make the statement to the world that ‘Richard Madeley is a vital part of this nation’s culture and it would be wrong to send him off into the backwaters of satellite TV’.

After a year, I hope you’ve come to know me a little better. You’ve seen me on good days and bad. I’ve not hidden my occasional moods from you, nor the disappointments that have dogged me all year. You have come to know the real me. And the blog is also become a sizable chunk of prose. 250,000 words on, I feel like my job isn’t anywhere near complete. The Madeley name is not yet synonymous with wit and subtlety. My novel remains unpublished (technically, the term is ‘cancelled’) and my autobiography still isn’t complete. At 30,000 words, ‘Madeley: Summoned To Greatness’ is the publishing sensation yet to be finished, published, or a sensation. However, The Richard&Judy Foundation’s official publication of ‘Fathers&Sons’ will come out in the Autumn, written by a talented guy on the Richard&Judy payroll but not, unfortunately, by these fingers. I doubt if there are many laughs in it but I hope it does well.

Tomorrow is a new day and a new year on this blog. We'll have to do something special to celebrate.

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.