Project: Richard Hammond

The huge disappointment I feel every Sunday evening cannot be easily put into words of less than nineteen syllables. When eight o’clock arrives, my intense hostility towards Richard Hammond becomes a quite evident fury towards anything or anyone that might get in my way.

‘Goddamnmotherfreakingcelebritymyarsefreakshowuntalentedhack’ is often heard over the ‘Jessica’ theme tune that should otherwise make me excited in many mysterious (and sometimes sexual) ways.

‘It’s only Richard watching "Top Gear"’ is what you’ll then usually hear Judy say to visitors unfortunate enough to have arrived at the house during the hour of the show.

It was during the show, a week last Sunday, that Sue Lawley became the latest innocent victim of my Hammond wrath. I had been walking to the kitchen to top up on nacho cheese for my dips when I lashed out at a plant pot which took an unexpected rebound off Sue’s chin. It was then that Judy took me to one side and told me that I needed to sort out my ‘issues’.

‘You can’t go kicking every plant pot you see,’ she said as Sue sat sobbing in the kitchen with a bag of frozen king prawns held to her rapidly Bruciefying chin. ‘Have a word with Jeremy and find out if he can do anything to help. Because, quite frankly, Richard, this can’t go on. And I wouldn’t blame Sue if she changes her mind about inviting you onto Desert Island Discs.’

Judy was right and Sue did have a change of heart. Spite was the only reason she had to ask Richard Hammond to choose his favourite songs instead of me. It’s not the insult to the Madeley name that bothers me as much as my concern for the wellbeing of the Radio 4 audience who aren’t ready for a whole show dedicated to the boys from Westlife. And that’s why I decided to say something when Clarkson made his regular trip over to the house last week to play our usual games with petrol and gas canisters.

‘Jeremy, I want a word in your ear,’ I said to him after I was done filling milk bottles with lighter fluid. ‘You’re recording the new series of Top Gear on Wednesday?’

‘We are indeed,’ he said as he lit a canister of Judy’s favourite underarm deodorant. I watched from the recliner as he hurled the deodorant into the shrubs. The dumb sound of the detonation was followed by the heavy scent of lilac. ‘I love the smell of lilac in the morning,’ said Jeremy, topless but wearing his favourite US Cavalry hat. ‘You know that smell? That light lilac smell... It smells like Judy.’

‘Indeed it does, Jeremy. Now tell me this: is there any chance that there might be room for one more on that Top Gear sofa? I hear that a few contracts are about to expire...’

He looked at me surprised. ‘You surely don’t mean you?’

‘Of course I mean me. I’ve always wanted to host a show with men of similar intellects.’ I shrugged. ‘But I can tell you think it’s a stupid idea. You wouldn’t want me on the show...’

‘No, no,’ replied Jeremy. ‘I think it’s a great idea. Only...’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I know James would welcome you with open arms. In fact, I’d have to warn you about that before you came on. You shouldn’t wear any strong aftershaves otherwise he might get excited and try to get you involved in a run to Brighton. It’s just that Richard might be a problem.’

‘You mean the Hamster? Can’t you just put him in a wheel? I’m sure I have a cardboard box he’d fit into.’

‘I wish it were that simple,’ said the Great Clarkson. ‘You see, he seems to think that he’s now the star of the show.’

I laughed one of those scoff-shaped laughs, all scoff and very little chuckle. ‘That’s crazy,’ I said as I felt my ill feelings towards Hammond take hold of my mouth. ‘You’re the only star of “Top Gear”, Jeremy. James is the foil to your mannish silliness and Richard is only there for the ladies who like small unthreatening men with mild narcissism issues. I have to tell you, Jeremy, but Hammond is letting the side down. All that looking towards the camera isn’t the way we professionals do it. I’d call him "Richard Hammy", if I were you. He's more gonk than man and an insult to petrolheads. And I don’t know if you notice this but he’s started to wear a necklace. A necklace on “Top Gear”! I thought the hair gel was bad enough but now he’s got a child’s activity set hung around his neck.’

‘You don’t need to tell me,’ said Jeremy. ‘Isambard Kingdom Brunel never wore a necklace, not even a child’s activity set made of iron bolts. But what will little Richard do if another Richard came on and showed him up for what he is? You’d out-tan him, out-smart him, out-handsome him, and you can reach to the top of the cool wall.’

‘Which reminds me that I wanted a word about that cool wall,’ I said. ‘I think you should move BMWs back into the cool category. All the cocks who used to drive beemers are now driving Audis...’

He looked at me, shocked for a moment, and then nodded. ‘You know, I think you’re right.’

‘And that’s what I can bring to the show,’ I said. ‘I have so many ideas, Jeremy, I could help take Top Gear to the next level. Have you thought about doing a regular feature called “Reasonably Priced Stars in Expensive Cars”?’

‘We haven’t but how would it work?’

‘It’s quite simple,’ I said. ‘Instead of paying a fortune to get these Hollywood types to drive a crap car around the track, you pay cheap celebrities nothing to drive high performance racers.’

‘Can’t see how that’s interesting for the viewers,’ said Jeremy.

‘And there you go. You lack the Madeley imagination and that’s why the show is stagnating. Which would you rather watch? Bill Oddie drive a reasonably priced Suzuki Liana around a test track or one of the Nolan Sisters driving a dragster around Alpine roads littered with deep ravines? How about Charlotte Church in a Ferrari hitting a crash barrier at a hundred and forty?’

Jeremy was clearly overwhelmed by the possibilities. He dropped his Molotov cocktail to the ground unlit. ‘I’ll speak to the producers immediately and I’ll get back to you on this, Richard,’ he said.

That was over a week ago. Plant pots throughout the house were feeling uneasy last night as I watched Hammond move BMWs into the cool category. Jeremy still hasn’t got back to me about my proposed move from Channel 4 and into the ‘Top Gear’ offices but I don’t expect to be asked to appear until the next series. I’ve already suggested to Judy that she might be happier with a slightly smaller Richard joining her on the sofa on UKTV Living. She sounded quite excited by the prospect of my losing weight. I haven’t the heart to let her in on all my real plans.

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.

On The Nature of All Things Mirren

We had a little party at our house tonight for close friends. Nothing special, it was a time for old faces and well worn anecdotes. It was livened up a little after dinner when, having invested a little too heavily in the grape, Nigel Havers challenged Wendy Craig to a fist fight. Of course, I stepped between them but only after Havers had been laid out on the lawn, the merest tap of Wendy’s knuckle having drawn blood from his nose. How were any of us to know that she’d learned her unarmed combat skills with the RSC?

But this was another example of how celebrities never fail to surprise me. You normal people – and by ‘normal’ I only mean unknown, talentless and generally feckless – can never imagine how those of us born to this life have a surfeit of skills. Jack Osbourne isn’t a prodigiously annoying young man with fewer talents than he has wits. He’s actually a classically trained oboist and has written two books on the symbolic language used in eighteenth century Italian libretti. His sister has so many charms that I wouldn’t know where to begin. Kelly’s work to negotiate a peace treaty between East African nations has been unfairly ignored by the media who insist on portraying her as the spawn of a village idiot and a succubus. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Jumping to conclusions is a fault we all share. Whether vastly blessed with ability and TV contracts, or struggling to pay off credit card bills amassed in the local off-licence, we are all occasionally prone to grasping the wrong end of the stick. My post, yesterday, has been wrongly interpreted as a moan about my readership. Such a conclusion can hardly be further from the truth.

My wishing for more readers would be like complaining that the membership of the local heath club was too low and we want more colonic irrigators pumping out large-hipped shop assistants. Do we go to the golf club and decry the lack of imbecilic bus conductors or witless manual workers? Of course we don’t. And the same is true of my blog. I’m glad that it’s exclusive. Keeps out the undesirables. And before you take offence, that doesn’t mean you, but it does mean the person following you. Yes, you!

I think this all came into focus a few months ago. I was at the premier of some film – I can’t remember the title because we slipped out the back once we’d been photographed on the red carpet – where I got chatting to its star. Helen Mirren radiates beauty, talent, and charm on screen but she’s an intense ball of eroticism in the flesh She’s an actress I’ve always admired from afar for a couple of reasons. I said as much to her as I cornered her outside the ladies in the Odeon.

‘Looking forward to seeing the film enormously, Helen,’ I said. ‘But since I won’t be staying around to watch it tonight, can you tell me: when if finally comes to DVD, can I expect to see the unubiquitous topless shot?’

She pulled in her chin, as though a little started by my honesty. ‘I’m playing the Queen,’ she replied.

‘Yes, but isn’t it a matter of artistic interpretation and what’s right for the role?’ I asked. ‘And given that you’re playing the Queen, who is, I believe, a woman, God bless her, wouldn’t it only be right to portray her in her natural habitat, i.e., strap free and swinging loose? I mean, she is part German. That makes it continental film. You know… Like the French.’

‘Richard, I think you’re being rather rude,’ said Helen. ‘I don’t know if you’re trying to be amusing or trying to annoy me.’

‘Hey!’ I said. ‘I’m not the one who can’t keep my nipples in my dress!’

She thrush a glass of champagne into my hand and backed away. ‘I’m sure we’re all glad about that,’ she replied. ‘And for what it’s worth, I think people get naked in modern films far too often. Sometimes it’s sexier if it’s left to the imagination.’

And with that, she began to retreat towards the bathroom. I was left there, holding her glass in my hand, and feeling the eyes of celebrities staring at me. I couldn’t let them think that TV’s greatest talker had been outfoxed by a mere actress.

‘So,’ I shouted to Helen’s back, ‘where does that leave those of us who don’t have an imagination? That’s what I’ve always loved about your work, Helen. I didn’t have to imagine a thing. It was all there. Up on the screen. In glorious colour. Looking down on me…’

A moment later, a guard arrived and asked me to accompany him to the stage door where I happily met up with Judy who had been escorted there after having an argument of her own. She’s apparently had a furious row with ‘Handy Andy’ who she’d taken to task about the right way to put up shelves on a studded wall. And that’s when I fist came to realise that the celebrity mind is a hugely complicate and often contradictory thing.

We all want to be loved and we crave attention. Yet we also hide ourselves away and seek solitude. We’re eager to get naked on the screen, yet become little puritans when people say they admire our jugs, cherries, onions, or, indeed, our slightly bent bread sticks. So, when I say I want lots of readers, know that I’m happy with what I’ve got. And when I say that I’m happy with what I’ve got, know that I want more… many, many more.

Could it be any simpler than that? I think not.

Stephen Fry Poem Attracts Fry Fanatics, Cultists, and Imposters

Exciting news, guys. Last night’s fiendishly clever poem I wrote for Stephen Fry has resulted in not one but two requests from other celebrities whose names I’ve mentioned in passing on this blog and who now want to be commemorated in the same unique way. That's right. I'm now official poet to the stars and you'll read all my latest compositions here on my official blog.

I was really, really flattered that Bill Bryson emailed me to ask if I could pen a sequence of sonnets in his honour (I’m working on them Bill). And I’m only a little less flattered by Jeremy Paxman’s request for a nine hundred line mock-heroic epistle set in the murky world of his sock drawer. I can only assure him that I will get around to it in good time. I’m a simple man with simple wants. Give me a biro and a sheet of paper and I can knock this stuff out, a page an hour. I don’t know how the great poets did it, but I'd be surprised if it was any different. Paxman should be satisfied with that.

Yet yesterday’s display of my poetic gifts has not been a total success. It has led me to stumble into murky water of unknown depths. I have today been contacted by dozens of members of The Priory of Fry, a secretive cult of Stephen Fry worshippers. Members from across the globe have been attracted to my blog by this week’s unusual level of Stephen Fry related activity. What began as a few small anecdotes about my private life has turned this site into the world’s foremost place for Fry cultists to gather. They’ve been hitting the site all day, with many of them reloading the page forty or fifty times per hour. I have lost count of the number of emails I have received that only contain the word 'Baaah'.

The cult’s mysterious leader, Mrs. Janine Rogers of 43 Pringle Row, Glasgow, emailed me around 2pm to ask if I would write more poems in praise of Mr. Fry and if she can include them in a volume of celebratory verse she’s putting together for publication in the New Year. Initially, I said 'yes' but I’m beginning to think that Mrs. Roger’s threat, involving cultists molesting me with an oddly shaped ceremonial parsnip, may have swayed my decision.

So now, after consultation with Judy, I’ve changed my mind. I will make no special case for Fry and his many followers. He can stand in line behind Bryson and Paxman, who aren't without acolytes of their own. Tomorrow, normal service will be resumed on this blog and any cultists found loitering here will be dealt with in the severest manner.

This blog celebrates only one man. It recognises only one god. And the name of that god begins with a 'Richard' and it ends, most firmly, with a ‘Madeley’.

Good day.

The Tramp Called Dodger

The plans for the new series get more exciting by the day and I’m pleased to announce that our’s will be the first UK show to provide regular jobs for some of London’s thousands of tramps. I admit that this was my little brainwave. I notice on the drive to the studios that London has an abundance of homeless vagrant types, wandering the streets with nothing else to do. ‘Untapped potential’ thought I as my eyes narrowed and my brain went into overdrive. This morning I asked my driver to slow down next to one of the ugliest, smelliest, and most violent individuals we could find to see if he'd be interested in filling in while Denise Robertson goes on her spiritual quest to find herself up the Andes.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, through the window’s one inch gap. ‘Are you interested in a job?’

‘A job?’ repeated the man slowly as though the word once held meaning for him. ‘Ay, I’m interested. What doing?’

‘I thought general chat about weekly new items seen from the perspective of the slightly deranged and possibly sociopathic.’

‘Sociopathic? I could do that,’ he said, fingering the knife he’d take from his pocket. ‘When would I have to do this?’

‘Possible twice a week,’ I said, ‘depending on the number of guests we have on the show. You’d probably be on the sofa between Kim Wilde and Dr. Raj. You’d provide an alternative point of view.’

‘I like the sound of that,’ said the man as he began to scratch his initials into the door of the limo.

‘Well, that’s that,’ I said. ‘Hop in and I’ll take you to the studio.’

The production meeting went fine, except for the ten minutes we spent at the end trying to get my friend to release his hostage. A half-consumed box of Jammie Dodgers seemed to pacify him and all was settled when we promised him a weekly supply of his very own.

I personally think that Dodger (as we've now christened him) is going to be a huge star for Channel 4. We’re already thinking about producing his own series. We just have to find the right vehicle for him. Perhaps something to do with home improvements. I like the ironic twist it gives to a well worn genre.

Since I’ve been light on facts the last couple of days, here’s some facts about Jammie Dodgers. They are the world’s most popular biscuit, though in American they’re known as St. James Dodgers. In Japan, they have a wing of their biscuit museum dedicated to the dodger. The jam in a dodger isn’t actually jam but a syrup. It’s specially formulated to keep the two halves of the biscuit together and is actually stronger the rubber cement. Too many jammie dodgers eaten in a day can clog up the digestion, producing dodgeritus, which is a real medical condition, the remedy of which is to gorge on fig rolls. Conversely, eating too many fig rolls can produce a condition known as figrolltiddilyitus, the cure of which is – you’ve guessed it – eating plenty of Jammie Dodgers. But once you start, you will find it hard to reach a balance. You have been warned.