The Real Story Behind Yesterday's Richard&Judy Announcement

Stretched out on her La-z-Boy recliner about a month ago, my dear wife, Judy, switched off the vibrating headrest for a moment and turned to me with a quizzical look chevroned between her brows.

'You know,' she said, gesturing with her bar of the dark yet milky towards her favourite film playing on our 72 inch plasma widescreen, 'how on earth are we meant to compete with this?'

I looked up over my book and dragged my spectacles to the end of my slender and twin nostrilled Julius Caesar.

'Compete?' I asked, following the aim of her Whispa bar to the sight of Bruce Willis' first and best bloody vest staining the screen red. 'What makes you think we need to compete?'

Judy shrugged. 'Look at the time, Richard. It's on at the same hour as our show would be playing on Watch.'

'So?' I asked softly, never one to take Judy's worries too seriously.

'They work by different rules on satellite TV,' she replied. 'Unless you're going to start wearing vests and shooting terrorists in your bare feet, we're never going to attract a big enough audience on Watch.'

I could see her point. With bloody violence oozing out of Sky Movies pre-watershed, why would anybody choose to sit down and watch Judy and myself interviewing Simon Le Bon about his new apple orchard in Herefordshire?

'You worry too much,' I said, bringing the conversation to premature close. Judy shrugged and pressed the big red button the recliner's arm. The room was quickly filled with the sound of electric motors and chattering teeth, and I went back to my monograph on sub-atomic physics.

I thought no more about Judy's fears until last week when she was out leading her brass band in a spot of light regimental parading around the neighbourhood.

I'd come in after a hard day covering for Sarah Kennedy down at the BBC. I had the house to myself so I naturally slipped off my trousers and fed myself into my favourite dressing gown. Not only did the silk feel good against my skin but the ermine trim tickled my thighs in a manner both pleasant and relaxing.

It was around eight o'clock and I had punched in the code for Sky Movies. Alien3 was just coming on and, being a huge admirer of Sigourney Weaver, I decided to spend the rest of the night in her company. Soon I was sitting with a tub of Ben & Jerry's pistachio ice cream in my lap and was I tutting at the bit where the late dear Brian Glover disappears through the ceiling in the spray of an arterial fountain. That's when the phone rang.

I picked it up, slipped it beneath my chin and carried on scooping the cold stuff.

'Madeley,' I said.

'Dickie!' cried a voice.

A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with either Ben or Jerry wedged between my thighs. It was The Agent.

'I'm a bit busy,' I explained. 'Sigourney's down to just her underwear and a flame thrower.'

'I'm ringing with some bad news,' he said. 'Watch are having second thoughts about your Twittering.'

'My Twittering?'

'They think you're doing too much of it and you're being far too interesting.'

'Pah!' I spat. A pistachio arced across the room and stuck to the end of Charles Dance's proboscis.

'I know,' said The Agent. 'Rather foolish of them but they feel it might look a bit odd if your followers on Twitter got any bigger than the average audience watching you on Watch.'

'I see,' I said. 'So, you want me to quit?'

'Not quit,' said The Agent. 'They just want you to be a little less entertaining. You know… Take a leaf out of Philip Schofield's book. Make lots of meaningless statements like: "oh, that sounds interesting" and "I haven't thought of that but is it purple?"'

'Is it purple?'

'That's the sort of the thing they're after,' he said. 'Listen, I've emailed you a few suggestions. Give it some thought and tell me what you think. But you've got to change your ways Dickie. The people at Watch won't stand for any more of your nonsense.'

Well, after this conversation, my mind couldn't rest. With Sigourney still battling men in latex suits, I dragged my new laptop to my lap and powered it up.

It's Dell XPS Studio 13, which meant that my lap went from about -5% to something in the high scorching. Frankly, I was glad that my thighs didn't shatter like a red-hot alien under a sudden shower of cold water.

Date: Thu, 29 April 2009 21:29:11 +0000

From: ************** <*******@**********.co.uk>

To: dickmadeley@yahoo.co.uk

Message-Id: <4a065b155c354b3f9d41453f@*****.co.uk>

Subject: Your bloody Twittering

Mime-Version: 1.0

Dear Dick,

When are you going to learn? I've just come off the phone with the people from Watch. They are very displeased with you, Dickie, dear boy. They've been reading your Twitter account and think it's most inappropriate. They want to know why you can't be this entertaining on the show! Can't you at least get a few of your Twitter followers to 'follow' you onto Watch?

So, we've been banging a few ideas around and we think it's best if you stop being so damn interesting on Twitter. It looks bad for the show. Look at how Schofield does it. Can't you Twitter like him? He never once outdoes his show. Remember, Dickie, that banality is the key. That's why we want you to try a few of these @Schofe-like 'tweets'.

'Interesting. I like pudding.'
'I think that's currently unlikely.'
'Chicken? LOL. I'd rather have feathers.'
'I don't. Judy has the bigger thumb.'
'Yes but sometimes no. Other times: maybe.'
'I had one. I fell off and I couldn't glue it back on.'
'Ditto.'
'Perhaps.'
'Too soon.'

The list went on for page after page of this tedious stuff and, when Judy got home at ten, she found me blubbering in front of the TV, a bucket of melted ice cream at my side and the large shaved head of Ms. Sigourney Weaver looking down on my from the TV.

'When will you learn that she only ever goes as far as her knickers in these films?' Judy mocked as she dropped her trombone case by the door.

'It's not that,' I said and explained about The Agent's phone call and Watch's concern at my Twittering.

Judy's face hardened like she was trying to blow the high C at the end of 'The Thunderbird's March'.

'Well, that's it,' she said, coming to put a consoling arm around my shoulder. 'If it's a choice between your Twittering and our show on an obscure satellite channel, I choose your Twittering.'

I wiped away a tear or possibly even two.

'Really?' I gasped. To say I was shocked would be an understatement. Judy has often expressed how she frowns upon my involvement with social networking, comparing it with the time I took an interest in amateur operatics in order to wear lederhosen.

'Richard. You have to do what your heart tells you. If you really want to waste your time and talent making glib comments to thousands of strangers, then that's what you should do. I will not stand in your way.'

'Jude,' I said, pulling her towards me. 'You've made the happiest man in the mid-five thousand followers.'

And that's why, yesterday, we made the announcement that the show will be ending on Watch. To be honest, it's something of a relief. I won't have to endure constant questions about viewing figures and I will have time to explore new avenues. Watch will miss us more than we will miss Watch and our future is now an open book of our own writing. In Judy's case, it's an erotic novel based around her heroine, the buxom eighteen-century courtesan, Jemima Flirt.

I, on the other hand, will continue to Twitter, continue to update this occasional blog, and continue to explore the vastness of this island Earth, cloaked in the moonlight of opportunity, the heat of circumstance, and the twilight of accomplishment.

Or, as I put it so eloquently in my official statement, 'We will be doing stuff together and stuff apart'. And I hope you will continue to be with me as I do that stuff.

God bless you. God bless Richard & Judy. And God bless all who sail in us.

Preparing To Do Some Serious Elf Harm

It’s now late Friday night and I’m sitting here feeling quite perplexed as to why Cactus TV have failed to send me their Christmas greetings. At the very least, I thought I’d be invited to their Christmas party tonight. They forget me each year, yet here I’ve sat, all night, dressed as a Christmas elf packing a bottle of Blue Nun. I suppose their party is now drawing to an inebriated close with Dr. Raj’s doing his Britney Spears impression with a couple of finger rolls.

I'm also perplexed by the first results of the new poll. Only two votes are encouraging me to write my autobiography, nobody has requested more of my celebrated poetry, and one of you have suggested that I should give up blogging. The only consolation is that the majority of you feel that 2008 will be a year of celebrity nuptials.

Such disappointments perhaps accounts for why I’m posting something brief tonight. But it’s not the only reason. ‘Operation Elbow ’goes into operation at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Judy and I are already girding ourselves for a lighting raid on London’s shops to finalise the Christmas gifts. We’ll be first through the doors when the stores open at nine and we should hopefully be home before the crowds descend. It leaves me with this brief window of opportunity to ask you all what you want. Get your requests in now and I’ll see what we can do. There aren’t many of you, so I’m looking to spend no more than a couple of hundred pounds on each of you.

If you're lost for ideas, why not ask me for an electronic toothbrush or the new Charlie Brown DVD?

My Letter To Cactus TV

Much to my horror, I've today realised that I haven't thanked the good people at Cactus TV for all the work they've put in over the last twelve months, making the show the success it is. I've hastily dispatched the following email to them, along with my official Christmas card.


Hi Guys!

Many years ago, a star shone brightly over Romford, East London, and a baby boy was born. That child grew up and, yay, how the people loved him! Well now that boy is a man and he wants to wish you all a very merry Christmas.

Speaking for all of us at ‘The Richard Madeley Appreciation Society’, I just wanted to say that ‘The Richard&Judy Show’ is a success because of the little people. And by little people, I don’t mean nanuses.* I mean you guys at Cactus TV. You are the people who put the shows together and it wouldn’t be the same without your input.

So, have a great holiday and a spirited New Year,

Hugs, squiggles, and kisses,

Dick

* I don’t mean to jump to any conclusions. If you do employ any people of diminutive size, then it’s quite clear that they also contribute to your much deserved success. Granted, they probably don’t do any heavy lifting work, like shifting scenery or moving the sofa, but I’m sure they do work that’s commensurable with their size and I would want to send them my suitably proportioned best wishes for the festive season.

Lost in the Shade of Russell Brand's Periwinkles

The generosity of spirit you know as Madeley, that handsome bundle of bone and nerve you like to call Dick, believes that he always knows if he’s going to take to a person. I remember the very moment I first met Stephen Fry. I ran across him outside a TV executive’s office, gazing into a pool of koi carp. Tapping him on the shoulder had not roused him from his meditation so I gently blew in his ear. The first words out of his mouth were: ‘a rather frigid member of the family Cyprinidae and not too distant a cousin of the minnow.’ I knew then and there that I had found a kindred spirit of great craft and imagination wandering this void of emptiness we know as fame. I’m pleased to say that, since that day, rarely has a week passed without my taking time to blow into the great man’s ear.

The encounter of this afternoon was not, however, as edifying. If the above anecdote is a perfect illustration of what can go right in a first encounter, this afternoon is a remedy for that optimism one feels towards humanity in general, but in particular, towards those men and women of the light entertainment industry.

With Judy still making preparations for Christmas, I’d gone into London to have lunch with the geniuses at Cactus TV. I thought it about time that I sat down with the ‘cacti’ and went over the ideas I’ve been having for the shows I wanted to make after the Channel 4 contract came to an end in the summer.

‘Mingers’ is one of the city’s newest eating holes among those people who think that hair gel and fringes set at funny angles amount to a personality. I’d got there early and I’d sat down to have something to eat while I waited for the team to arrive. There’s an unwritten agreement in every TV contract that means that those behind the cameras can look how they want and act how they want. You can’t find a more creative or professional team in the UK but you wouldn’t want them as relatives. Talk about being a clash with the curtains, these young people could go to war with a basket of mixed laundry…

My first course had been delivered to my table and I’d started to stir my bowl of leak soup when I heard some terrible slurping noises coming from the adjacent booth. At first, I tried to ignore it. But when it persisted, I waved the waitress over.

‘What can I do for you, Mr. Madeley?’ she asked, full of that good favour you get when the service is young, impressionable, and prone to the charms of a television smile.

‘I don’t mean to cause any trouble,’ I began, though actually I didn’t give a damn what trouble I caused so long as the slurping was dealt a mortal blow, ‘there seems to be a terrible noise coming from the next booth.’

The waitress’ face flushed.

‘Would you like to move to another part of the restaurant?’ she asked.

I thought it an odd thing to say. I’m what’s known in the TV trade as ‘A’ list material. I don’t get moved. The world gets moved before I even have to shift a toe or bestir a fingernail.

‘I’d rather you would just go and stop that slurping,’ I replied.

She looked towards the back of the restaurant and made a funny gesture with her hand. I knew it for the universal distress call of waitresses in difficult positions. I just couldn’t see what was so difficult.

A moment later, the manager arrived and I proceeded to explain why my leak soup was being disturbed by the sound of slurping. I honestly thought I’d get some movement on the issue with this penguin being in his full body armour and with a thin moustache like a slipped eyebrow.

‘I’m afraid we can’t move the gentleman at the next table,’ said the manager. He lowered his voice and leaned towards me to speak in that confidential tone they sometimes adopt when they’re being particularly spineless. ‘He’s famous.’

I did a double take. ‘And what am I? A Krankie?’

‘Oh, of course, you’re famous too, Mr. Madeley, only…’ He shrugged and gestured towards the next booth. ‘He’s a rising star.’

‘I’ll give you rising star!’ I said, throwing down my napkin and standing up.

I pushed the manager out of the way and headed in the direction of the slurping.

The sight that greeted me at the end of my search was not of this world. I can only describe it as teeth, hair, elbows, more hair, a touch of hair, more teeth, and the whole mixture of teeth, hair, and elbows wrapped in beads and ribbons. A more notable example of trying too hard to look eccentric there has never been. No doubt you know this monstrous spectacle by the name Russell Brand. I’d only heard the name mentioned a few times and for most of that time I’d just thought it a type of toaster.

‘Oh, ’ello,’ he squealed. ‘You’re Madeley ain’t you?’

‘I am,’ I said, ‘and you’re slurping.’

‘Oy! That’s Mr. Slurping to you,’ he replied and giggled like a one stoke engine fed on helium. He then looked puzzled and turned his eyes to his plate. ‘Oh, yea! Slurping. I’m actually eating my periwinkles. Lovely items of crustacean, the periwinkle. ’Ere, you want one?’

‘A periwinkle? I don’t think so.’

‘Oh, they’re very good for keeping you going, if you know what I mean. Smashing delicacies if you’re needing a bit of extra focus during those long and mysterious adventures that lead our souls to soar into the heavens and consummate our spirits with another beautiful example of God’s creative genius.’ He brushed his hair from his eyes as he looked up to the ceiling and considered his next words. ‘You know, they help you have a good shag. Shellfish in general, I think, are God’s way of telling us to keep going with the procreation and that we’re doing a bang up job. Keep it up, he said, if indeed he would say anything. He’d probably just take pictures.’

‘Isn’t that a little blasphemous?’ I asked.

‘Don’t worry yourself about that, Richard. I’ll make my peace with God when the time is right. To be quite frank, I don’t think it’s your place to judge. When the call comes, I’ll take the big fellow into a corner and have a good shufty about my misdeeds as numerous and varied as they are.’

‘I should imagine there are quite a few,’ I said, feeling a bit isolated in this conversation with a madman.

‘Oh I’ve got a lot of ’em, haven’t I?’ he said in a voice I was beginning to recognise as being like that of Kenneth Williams from ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’. ‘Course, I’ve given most of my bad habits up on account of my sexual disfunction.’

‘Sexual disfunction?’ It’s not, I admit, a phrase that one likes to hear oneself using in a public restaurant.

‘I can’t get enough of it,’ he giggled.

‘Which is why you’re slurping shellfish?’

He looked at his bowl as though it were suddenly alive with contradictions. ‘As a hugely asexual man, I’ve got to ensure that, should I be called on – and it’s only natural that I should – I’ll be able to fulfil my duties as God intended, vis-à-vis, my loins should be ready for the clarion call.’

‘Right,’ I said, ‘but you see, far be it for me to get in the way of God’s plans, but I was wondering if you could stop slurping. I’m trying to eat my soup.’

‘Course, and I don’t intend to be rude, Richard, but you look like a man who should ingest more of the periwinkle. It is, to me, the heroin of the sea floor. I used to indulge myself a little too heavily in the brown sugar but, now that I’m clean, I’m hooked on my little friends, the shellfish. Which is a good fing when you fink of it.’

‘A very good fing,’ I replied and turned away as though returning to my cold soup.

‘No, don’t go!’ cried Russell, growing agitated. ‘I had summink to say to you. I wanted to ask you you’re opinion. You know, as one man who has made it in the field of light and popular entertainment. Though, of course, you’ve done it without any discernable talents…’

I was so shocked I couldn’t speak.

‘Which is impressive in itself when you fink about it. I mean, if it weren’t for this foppish demeanour of an average Restoration cad, married to the quick and ready with of a modern Moliere, and accompanied by a brain the size of a watermelon, then I don’t fink I’d stand a chance in TV. You’d done it with next to nofink. That’s even more genius that what I am, that is.’

‘Is it?’

‘Oh, not ’alf. Proper good it is!’

I gave a small wave of my hand. ‘I really need to get back to my soup,’ I said and quickly walked back to my booth where I started to spoon leak to my grateful lips.

‘The fing is,’ said Russell, slipping into the seat across the booth from me, his bowl of winkles in his hand, ‘I want some advice about my next career move.’

‘I’m no comedian,’ I said.

‘Cor, I know that,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen your shows and I’ve read your blog. You’re about as funny as an addiction to hard drugs. Though I could tell you some funny tales. Made my career by telling funny tales of the world everybody wonders about but cares not to investigate too closely. I fink I’m sort of a David Attenborough of that dark underbelly of drug culture only I don’t go near any hairy baboons.’

I dropped my spoon and pushed my plate away.

‘You should have ordered winkles,’ said Brand.

‘I’m not hungry,’ I answered, ‘and I really have to leave.’

He shuffled around the booth and put his hand on my knee. ‘Can’t I persuade you to stay?’

I lifted his hand and dropped it on the table. ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you,’ I said and managed to get to my feet before he could reply.

‘Oi,’ he shouts as I’m halfway across the restaurant, ‘I didn’t tell you about my renowned sexual prowess. Perhaps next time?’

I waved my had as I reached the door. Across the road, the team from Cactus were weaving their uneasy way through the London traffic. ‘Change of plans,’ I shouted. ‘We’re eating at McDonald's. The food’s crap but they don’t serve periwinkles.’

They thought I was mad but I think you can see, I’m the only sane one in this crazy industry of ours.