Save Me The Hairy One, Norman!

‘Hey Dick! Long time no see!’

I looked up and saw the postman’s face peering through the hedge. I just waved and hurried back into the house, conscious that my Mediterranean tan might look a tad decadent on a dreary North London morning in the middle of March.

‘You know, you wouldn’t feel so out of place if you put on some clothes,’ said Judy when I happened to mention this incident over our smoothie-maker a few minutes later. ‘Lord knows what the neighbours think when they look out to see you bending down to pick up the milk.’

‘Oh, you’re only jealous because I sing the body electric,’ I replied, quoting my favourite poem by Walt Whitman, written shortly before he took up yodelling and changed his name to ‘Slim’.
Judy snorted a laugh but I could tell she was rattled. She might mock my youthful energy and zest for free living but she also knew I couldn’t help it. The moment we’d arrived in Sardinia, naturism had become my new thing. Now that we’re back, I’m finding it hard to adjust. Frankly, a man spends so much time under that hot sun that his body learns to hate the restrictions of jollies and vest. And when a man has a body such a mine, one has an obligation to treat it well, polish it daily, and to show it off whenever possible. It’s a bit like owning an Audi.

‘You know,’ I said, sitting down at the breakfast table with my red meat and muffin smoothie, ‘I wonder if we’ve done the best thing. I know you wanted to come back, Jude, but I could have retired out there under the Sardinian sun, just you, me and the friendly goat herders.’

‘The only reason you liked it there was the fact that you could talk to those herders for hours and they’d never tell you to shut up.’

‘What can I say? Sardinians are a pleasant people. They have all the ebullience of the Italians but without the prostitution rings in the corridors of power.’

‘They also didn’t understand a word of English. What you wouldn’t accept was that they’d never debate the fluid dynamics of the sun’s core no matter how many times you tried to explain nuclear fusion. No, Richard, you are better here where we can put your energies to some use devising some new ground-breaking talk show format based around obesity, gypsies and/or weddings.’

I suppose she had a point, which I expect you to agree with. Yes, I’m talking to you, Norman.

Norman, you are the reader who waited for my return and I’m sorry that you’ve had to wait so long. Sardinia was my idea of heaven minus the afternoon slot on Channel 4 and too little choice in the range of soft cheeses. But now that I’m back, I intend to breathe new life into this blog. A hot spicy breathe, Norman, fragrant with salsa and beans and maybe a little truffle. And I’m doing it all for you.

You see, my old friend, I did receive all the emails you sent me and I’m sorry that I ignored you for so long. But I now I’m back and ready to tell you the truth. So, no, I’ve never shaved my armpits except for a brief period in 1973 during the Yom Kippur War when it was all the rage. Yes, we do intend to attend the London Olympics but only in a sporting capacity. I hope to qualify for the marathon now that my giant transparent jelly costume has arrived. As you know, Judy will be dressed as a custard.

As to your other questions, I’m afraid I’ll have to be quick: a) Formica, b) Lewisham, c) cheese pizzas, d) a big Hungarian, e) squirrels, and f) never in goggles except once on my honeymoon.

Finally, you ask me I’d like to adopt one of your kittens. Such a generous offer and I’d be a fool to refuse. So, save me the hairy one, Norman. Let’s call it ‘Hope’, for that’s the new theme of this blog. I return to you a changed man. Positive outlook, clean smile, and buttocks browned and blessed by the warm Sardinian hills and ready to blog again.

As I used to tell my friends up Punta La Marmora where the goats roam free: I’ll see you all tomorrow when I’ll explain the basic logical operations of semi-conductors, eleven ways to sex a mollusc, and how to do CPR using a couple of jumper cables and a bag of lemons.

My Letter To The Organizers of the Cheltenam Literary Festival

Being in the public eye means that I occasionally have to bow to the wishes of the people in marketing and promote products. I received a helpful reminder from the people at the Cheltenham Festival and reproduce the details here along with my reply.

Richard Madeley
Sun 19 Oct

"TV presenter Richard Madeley explores how being a father has changed over the last four generations in his uniquely honest and touching book Fathers and Sons. He joins expert and author Frank Furedi to discuss the speed of change in family life and the challenges facing fathers today".

The Times Cheltenham Literature Festival 2008

10 - 19 October

With its signature blend of award winning writers, world-renowned thinkers and international star names The Times Cheltenham Literature Festival is a hotbed of debate and discussion with a unique regency style. In this year’s literary line-up Man Booker Prize winners rub shoulders with the finest classically trained actors, whilst top class comedians appear alongside leading political figures. With more than 450 writers and over 350 events this promises to be an exhilarating ten day celebration of the written word.

For more information visit http://cheltenhamfestivals.com

Or call the box office on 0844 576 7979

And my reply:

Dear Organizers of the Cheltenam Literary Festival,

It’s so good to hear from you again. I can’t believe that the moment is so nearly upon us. I’m honoured to be headlining your festival and the thought of standing up there on the world famous Pyramid Stage leaves me quivering with excitement. And if you would like me to hang around after the festival and help you milk your cows, you need only ask. I know my way around an udder and have been fully trained in teat management.

As you know, ‘Fathers and Sons’ has taken remarkably little time to write. One moment I was writing a comedy about the Cornish herring fleet and then, lo and behold, out pops an autobiography I knew nothing about! Once I'd borrowed the title from Turgenev, the thing was done. You might say that it happened overnight and I would be very grateful if you could snag me a complimentary copy. You probably know that my debut novel was cancelled a month before publication so this time I’m certainly doing my very best to advertise your festival. There will be no repeat. Dick Madeley will see print! Even as I speak, Judy is training her troop of midget Shetland ponies to perform an interpretive dance routine based around Faulkner’s ‘As I Lay Dying’, with Denise Robertson playing the corpse of Addie Bundren. I swear that there won’t be a dry eye in the house by the time I run out on stage wearing my spandex cycling shorts. I’m also delighted that Pam Ayres has now confirmed that she’s available for the duet.

Your news about Oddie does disappoint. He was recently boasting that he attends your festival every year and was there when Shirley Bassey read from her autobiography whilst wearing Wellington boots. It is, however, very gratifying to hear that his stand selling ornamental owl jewellery is so popular with the hippies.

I hope that you and yours are well and that the current dry weather hasn’t affected milk production. Both Judy and I feel that it’s so important that we support a festival in which lactation plays such a vital role.

Best wishes,

Dick Madeley.

PS. Is it too late to change the promotional literature to include some puff about my being the spiritual successor to Conrad, a modern Nabokov, and literary heir to P.G. Wodehouse? At the very least, can you mention that my wife plays bridge with Jilly Cooper?

PPS. I’ve just visited your website and I’m astonished to find that I’m not listed on the front page. Roger Moore is a saint, a real mensch, but has he or Ben Okri ever discussed a particularly painful vasectomy on live TV? I think not. Did all my swelling mean nothing to you?

PPPS. You wouldn’t do this to Clive James.

The Real Story of Judy’s Knee

The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, War and Peace, The History of the English Speaking Peoples, Jeffrey Archer’s Kane and Abel: it always takes time before all the great stories are told in a way that does them justice. Days have now passed since the news broke that, for at least a fortnight, I’ll be presenting the Richard&Judy show without the right side of the ampersand to keep my hormones in balance. Only now am I in a position to tell you the full tale of Judy’s knee and how this magnificent specimen of Dame Womanhood was brought (or, should I say, dragged down) to her one good knee and glorious shin.

As you probably know, Judy has had problems with her knee for some time. Years of climbing ladders with a hod of bricks on her back haven’t helped. Even after she’d finished building our house, the toil on her legs continued as she set about laying seven miles of crazy paving around our expansive estate here in our undisclosed location in the South East of England. Yet the decision to finally have the knee operated upon only came as late as last Sunday when I was blessed with a visit by Bill Oddie.

Sunday, as you know, is normally a day of rest in the Madeley household. By the early evening, the adventures of the previous week had caught up with me and I was dozing on the sofa ahead of my weekly chuckle at my old friend Clarkson on ‘Top Gear’. Such happy dreams I was having. Vanessa Feltz wore something light and breezy as she played air hockey with Jeremy Paxman who was getting thoroughly outclassed. I watched from on high, lounging in the umpire’s chair and laughing manically as I awarded every contentious decision to the woman in the see-through chiffon.
I didn’t, at first, hear the doorbell ring and when it did wake me, I arrived at the front door still thinking of air hockey. I was certainly not prepared to see Bill Oddie standing there carrying a large suitcase.

‘Bill? What you doing here at this hour?’ I asked.

‘Ha!’ said Bill as he dragged the suitcase into the hall and dumped it at my feet. He turned his back and went outside, only pausing on the doorstep to gaze back at me and say ‘ha!’ again.

He returned a moment later with another suitcase which was even bigger than the first.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said as he set the case down. ‘You’ll soon see what I’ve brought. This will all begin to make perfect sense in just a moment.’

‘Thank God for that,’ I replied. ‘I thought you were about to say “ha!” to me for no apparent reason.’

‘Ha!’ said Bill and with that he turned back to his car. I followed to watch him drag a third suitcase from the boot that was even bigger than the first two and probably exceeded the capacity of the word ‘suitcase’ and should more rightly be described as a ‘travel trunk’.

‘This is what you’ve been asking to see for nearly three years,’ said Bill. ‘And now is the moment when you get to see it.’

My heart soared over eighteen metres of beats like an Olympic standard triple jumper on methamphetamines.

‘You haven’t?’ I asked.

Bill smiled and it was that rarity in all men with beards: a smile full of grace and beneficence.

I helped him drag all three suitcases/trunks into the living room, though I wouldn’t have done this had I not known that Judy would be out until well after midnight. Bill knew it too since the local newspapers have been reporting nothing else but the East of England snooker tournament at Judy’s local Snooker & Billiards Association. Judy was due to play Barbara Winsor at eight in what was sure to be a nine frame thriller. I knew it would go on until late and I intended to make the most of my time along with Bill and his suitcases.

‘I don’t know what to say, Bill,’ I said as I watched him begin to push the sofa back so we’d have plenty of floor space. ‘This really is an honour.’

‘The honour is all mine,’ answered Oddie, now unlatching the smallest of the cases. ‘There aren’t many men who’d get to see this but you, Richard, you have always been good to me. You are one of the few celebrities to treat me with dignity and I appreciate that. I wouldn’t do this for Clarkson. Not after that business with the mask.’

‘I’m sure you wouldn’t,’ I said, trying to peer into the case.

Slowly the lid opened and I saw them all lying there in a heap. The case was packed with thousands upon thousands of glistening polly pockets. Now, for those of you without stationary experience (and, I assure you, I have plenty of that after my two day stint in Manchester), a poly pocket is a plastic envelope for A4 paper, usually punched along one edge for putting inside a ring folder. Only these poly pockets were loose inside the suitcase and inside each pocket was a sheet of A4 white card onto which Bill had attached a single feather. In the corner of each card, written in Bill’s neat if slightly florid hand, were the details of the bird that had donated the feather.

He pushed the suitcase to me. ‘The entire bird kingdom if yours for the night,’ he said.

Well, the next three hours were an education as we began to lay out Bill’s feather collection on the floor. The whole of the house was soon covered with poly pockets, spreading from the front door, around the living room, through the dining hall, round the back skirting the conservatory, through the utility rooms, past my office, into the kitchen and finishing at the back door. The whole thing was laid out in strict classification of birds across the globe. I was naturally in my element because, though not technically a bird watcher myself, I am a man who likes to collect knowledge and has an excessive facility for showing off .

‘I wish Nige were here now,’ I said as Bill lay the final few poly pocketed feathers around the potted plants in the front room and thereby closed the loop of plastic envelopes that now ran a full circuit around the house.

‘This is your moment,’ said Bill, finally standing up. ‘Nige will get his chance when the time’s right.’

I nodded as I wiped away a tear. ‘The Crested Sand Shrike has a distinctive whistle,’ I said, to cover my slight embarrassment at getting so emotional over a million feathers. ‘And did you know that the East European Potato Shrike has a whistle inspired Mozart to write the Magic Flute?’

‘Really?’ said Bill, impressed. ‘Amazing.’

I was about to tell him how the Shrike is a close relative to a chicken and has often been seen crossing roads for no other reason than getting to the other side but, at that moment, there was a rattle of keys in the door. I couldn’t understand it since it was not yet ten thirty.

‘Only me,’ shouted Judy from in the hall. ‘Barbara Windsor cancelled and I ended up playing Julie Walters. I didn’t stand a chance. She’s playing Jenifer Saunders in the final after Jennifer beat Joanna Lumley in the semi. I couldn’t bear to watch...’

That’s when I heard the fateful sound of Judy kicking off her shoes.

‘Hold it right there!’ I shouted, looking for a way to the hall that avoided the thousands of feathers on the floor. ‘There are bloody poly pockets everywhere,’ I said and thought I should explain just in case Judy was without the required stationary experience. ‘Poly pockets are plastic envelopes that protect pieces of paper up to A4 size. Or in this case, Bill’s feather collections.’

But it was too late. Through the door leading into the hall, I saw Judy pass by at approximately forty miles an hour and gathering speed as she slid in her slick silk stockings on a floor made lethal by a layer of polythene.

‘CCcccccciiiiiiiiiilllllllllllllllaaaaaaaaaaaaa....’ screamed Judy as she headed into the dining room and the Eastern European Swallowtails, round the back of the Chinese Mud Skippers skirting the conservatory, through the utility rooms full of North American eagles, past my office full of the tits of the Rockies, and finally into the kitchen where the South American songbirds ran up against the parrots at the back door.

We followed as quickly as we could, Bill the nimblest picking out the fastest route through the bird kingdom.

‘Best to avoid the peckers, said Bill, heading towards the kitchen. ‘We’ll take a short cut through the cuckoos.’

‘I’m following you,’ I replied, nearly coming a cropper on the tricky plume of a Great Reed Warbler.

We found Judy deep amongst the Amazonian parrots, groaning where she’d come to rest against the tumble dryer and the Crested Banana Macaw.

‘My leg,’ she said.

‘My purple eaglet wing!’ said Bill picking up a heavily battered feather wedged in the ruined stocking around Judy’s toes.

I lifted my wife to a seat at the breakfast bar and, other than a few bruises, I was relieved to see that she seemed perfectly well.

‘So, how was the snooker?’ I asked trying to keep her distracted as Bill set about picking up thousands of poly pockets.

‘Richard Madeley,’ said Judy, standing up. ‘If you think...’ She winced and sat back down again. ‘Ooh,’ she said, and lifted her leg onto the table. ‘It’s my knee. I’ve done my knee again!’

‘Hang on,’ I said and called Bill back into the room.

Bill was the model of professionalism as he slipped on the pair of reading glasses that always hang around his neck on a chain. He took a look at the leg and prodded the sort spot. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘My vast experience examining sick and injured birds tells me that you’ve got twisted ligaments in your knee.’ He tried to bend the leg but unfortunately forgot that the human leg went the other way. Judy winced. I gave a cough. ‘Oh yes,’ said Bill. ‘Wrong species. Legs bend the other way. Always forget that...’

And without another word he took a roll of metal tape from his pocket and began to wrap it loosely once around Judy’s ankle. He fastened it with a pair of pliers from another of the many pockets in the world’s most ironically named ‘hunting vest’.

‘How’s that doing to help my knee?’ asked Judy.

He laughed as soon as Judy spoke.

‘So sorry,’ he said. ‘There I go again! Force of habit. I was ringing you just in case I run into you again. This way, I would see how far you’ve travelled.’

‘Get out,’ muttered Judy, who I could see was in some pain and not a little indignation. ‘Get out of this house now, Bill Oddie, or knee or no knee, I’ll throw you out myself.’

Bill paled and I gave him the old raised eyebrow signal that he probably should go and hide before things turned ugly.

I then helped Judy to the car and took her to the local A&E where doctors diagnosed twisted ligaments. I told them that Bill Oddie had already told us that but they didn’t seem too impressed. When we arrived back home, I got Judy straight to bed then returned downstairs to help Bill pick up his collection of feathers. The last I saw of him was in his old Citroën bobbing down the road with the suspension being worked hard back the boot packed with the world’s most comprehensive collection of feathers.

Last Monday was when the best London doctors agreed with Bill diagnosis and Judy agreed to have surgery on her leg. Bill reports that his poly pockets are back home in his hobbit hole, packed in the three suitcases of increasing size, and I have only just caught up with last week’s episode of Top Gear. Judy had had the operation and is now recovering, her knee improving with each passing day and with each bag of thawed vegetables thrown into the bin or the saucepan. If I eat another plate of garden peas, I will probably go green and make people flatulent. Naturally, Judy now refuses to even touch a poly pocket and I’ve had to tell the people at Cactus TV that any paperwork that comes to this house must be staples or bound by a paper clip.

Not that the media report any of this. They are so obsessed with Emma Bunton and, next week, Myleene Klass. I care for none of that celebrity tittle tattle. I care only for Judy’s well being and the state of Bill Oddie’s feather collection. The rest, as we say in showbiz, is greasepaint and curtain calls.

Not So Eager For Deaver

A hot stinking lunch break and the smell of grease defies gravity, rising from the Greek burger bar below the production offices here in the heart of the M1 postal district. It’s now that I make my move after a difficult morning working on ‘Eye of the Storm’. I’ve been ad libbing a voiceover for a thunderstorm; not an easy thing to do with that fork lightening which is so tricky to scan. It’s a relief to be making the ten minute dash into the centre of the city, all the time talking with Judy on the mobile. She’s at home, sitting with a bag of frozen king prawns wrapped around her swollen knee. She promises that they’ll be defrosted in time for tonight’s risotto. I can hardly wait.

W.H. Smiths is my target and the book signing is by Jeffrey Deaver, thriller writer and the man who took away Denzel Washington’s legs and made Angelina Jolie look sexy poking rat droppings in forensics gear. In my weaker moments, I can easily give in and pick up a hack-and-slash psychological thriller and Deaver’s Lincoln Rhyme books were always a good read. That was until the last two which I thought were a matter of an author growing jaded with his characters, his storylines tired, a publisher demanding more of the same with the promise of a fat pay cheque. I swore that I wouldn’t buy another Deaver. I didn’t want to prolong the poor man’s misery.

It’s why I was thankful that the queue outside the shop was as off-putting as the Minotaurs disguised as security guards standing in the doorway. Beyond them was a wall of hardbacks, either the edge of King Minos’s labyrinth or the blunt end of the publisher’s mantra: pile them high, sell them cheap (unless the author’s in the store and then it’s RRP only). This would have been my first book signing had I not been offended by the very thought of waiting in line for a scribbled signature from the demonic man being photographed at the front of the store.

I think it was the beard that did it. As you know, I distrust men with beards and I distrust men with neatly trimmed beards even more. When he finally arrived, Deaver was nothing like the clean shaved guy on the dust jackets. He now looks every inch the professional writer; a depressing artifice of the publicist’s art, the nationwide book tour, the promotional interview. His clipped black beard looks like it could pen a few novels on its own. Everyone a best seller. Million pound movie rights.

The queue seem excited. I felt deflated and ready for lunch. But these were ‘real’ readers and I took a moment to take them in. It was sobering to see that they look just like me even without my disguise, my cheap black beret, my comedy pimple. In the end, it was all I could do to turn my back and head back to the office. Disillusioned, disappointed, hugely jealous. At moments like this, asking an author to sign a book feels so horribly dispiriting. I even forgot to take a photo.

The Caption Composition

Like sex on a pogo stick, a one-armed caption writer is an interesting proposition but they probably fail due to a matter of balance.

Back in the Land of the South where all the good people dwell, I’m done with Manchester for another week. If I don’t see another brick chimney or stoat-fondling man wearing leather braces and bearing the countenance of a matchstick, it will be too soon. I might also say the same thing about Dennis Plumb, my erstwhile PA, darts fanatic, and man of letters (our captions department to be precise). I’ve spend a pretty torrid evening trying to defend a man who, I don’t mind admitting between the three of us, has clearly gone quite insane. Kurtz upriver getting metaphysical with the natives was never this bad. At least he never had a tea-time viewership well into the millions.

The full extent of the ‘horror’ became apparent tonight when I arrived home. Weary from the intercity and a couple of nights among the Ladyboys of Bangkok, I was looking forward to a relaxing evening with the Right Side of the Ampersand.

Only the Right Side was in no mood for cosy. Judy had promised that she would start bringing tapes of the recording home with her and she did just that tonight. After the incident the other day when Dennis slipped an extra ‘S’ into Wednesday, Judy has become paranoid that it’s an organised campaign by Paul O’Grady to destabilise the show. Personally, I think it’s just Dennis’ way of attracting more viewers in the hope that we might become cult viewing. I think it’s actually a great idea and would think that this is the now the only way to make Channel 4 see sense and keep us on terrestrial.

Only Judy doesn’t understand cult... Tonight my bags had barely settled on the hall floor before she emerges from the living room waving a VHS tape in one hand and her favourite claw hammer in the other.

‘Look what he’s done this time!’ she cried.

‘Welcome home Richard,’ I answered as I moved in for a kiss.

Judy was having none of it. No lips. No squeeze. Nothing.

‘Here,’ she said, thrusting the tape into hands already prepared for something more Judyesque. ‘Go on. Have a look!’

The hammer looked threatening so I thought it best not to argue. Wearily, I went into the living room and slid the tape into the video. Judy had already wound it to the right position and I recognised the beginning of tonight’s show. It was the start of our much celebrated interview with novelist Katie Price (known as ‘Jordan’ to the men of Bristol out there).

‘Look,’ said Judy and paused the tape seconds into the interview.

‘Oh,’ I replied. I could see the problem.

‘Oh? Is that all you can say? Oh?’ She stuck the hammer under my nose, claw raised. ‘I want Dennis fired this minute. Call him up and tell him that he needn’t come into work on Monday.’

‘But it’s an easy mistake to make,’ I told her. ‘You can’t sack a man for a small mistake.’

‘A small mistake? How on earth can you call it a small mistake, Richard? Katie Price looks nothing like Vincent Price.’

‘Well, it’s implied,’ I said. ‘Let’s face it, she’s very orange whereas Vincent was very pale. And she does look like one of the Brides of Frankenstein with her hair piled up like that. Plus, you can’t say that you weren’t frightened when she sat on the sofa. I know I’ll never be the same again and neither will the sofa. It’s a known fact that fake tan doesn’t come out of fake leather.’

‘Leatherette,’ said Judy. ‘Leatherette.’

‘Whatever you want to call it, Judy... You simply can’t sack a man for the tiniest mistake.’

Judy narrowed her eyes and poked me in the chest. Even if Katie Price was all Hammer Horror, it was the horror of the hammer in Judy’s hand that held my attention.

‘Dennis is gone before the next show,’ she said, ‘or I swear that I’ll announce to the world that our caption editor has gone mad and so has my husband.’

Judy should know that there's Iranian blood running in the Madeley line which means that I’m not a man who responds well to threats. That’s why I’m letting things settle down a bit tonight before I decide how I should act. Judy may have a point. A one-armed manic behind the controls of a caption machine is not something you want when broadcasting to the nation five days a week. However, this evening I’m tired and I want to wait to see what the weekend brings. I’ve published this here on my blog and perhaps Dennis will read it and reconsider his actions. As for me: I’m hitting the hay. Quite literally. Judy has locked the bedroom door and won’t let me in until I’ve sacked Dennis. So it’s the shed for me, lying on the bales of hay Judy stores there for her miniature horses. If you want me, you know where to find me. Just knock three times and whisper ‘Dick’.

The Nanus And The Ladyboys

You must never be ashamed to admit that you don’t believe half of my stories. Life in the celebrity vacuum is unreal and it will often be unlike anything you’ve experienced in your everyday lives. After all, how many have you ever watched Stephen Fry fire a flaming arrow into a 300 page manuscript soaked in petrol and pushed out onto a beaver-infested lake, complete with a dam built from the half-chewed remains of the ‘This Morning’ map?

More than the fame which accompanies them, a certain degree of rewriting also goes on when I set my fingers to type my stories. Like any author working on his own biography, I can choose to elaborate upon the truth or omit a compromising detail. What is left, however, is as close an approximation to reality as any political diary or celebrity memoir picked from a bookshop’s shelf. Take yesterday as a perfect example. You might not believe what I’m about to tell you but the following is a page ripped from the book of verisimilitude. It positively bulges with fact. In other words: this is pretty much exactly as it happened. I really couldn't make this up.

Oversleeping is usually a good indication that I’m about to have a bad day. Other clues involve discovering the Madeley zipper stuck at 10%, the loss of a vital piece of equipment (which is always likely when my fly is at 10%), verbal misunderstandings with Canadians, or any incident that involves a person of diminutive stature. Yesterday, in one way or another, I lived through all five, and yet the day didn’t turn out too bad.

Sleeping through my alarm clock's histrionics happens too often when I stay in Manchester. Rooms in cheap hotels hardly encourage you to lift your eyelids at six o’clock in the morning. From the deepest slumbers where all things are made of Feltz, I am suddenly thrown into the grey business-end of an economy-class Bunkhouse Dreary. Only an insomniac sadist would deny me the right to roll over and bury my face in my pillow for another fifteen minutes.

Yet having missed many appointments this way, I have devised many redundant systems to ensure that I don't sleep till noon. Judy's elbow is usually in the first line of that defence. The last is the travel alarm which I leave in the bathtub. In a good cast-iron tub, the sound from that little beauty gets focussed into a funnel of noise that can peel the wallpaper from the ceiling, disable communications satellites and neuter low flying pigeons.

I imagine a few of Manchester’s pigeons grabbed for their valuables at 7.15 yesterday morning. Three seconds later, I stumbled back from the bathroom and began to thread my ankles into my trousers. I was relieved to see my knees follow and I breathed a sigh of relief once my belt gave my narrow hips a squeeze. A quick brush of the teeth, a dab of gel on the old mop, and I was then running around my hotel room to pack my bags and pick up all the machinery vital to living in a city far from a woman called Judy. My Bluetooth enabled headphones, mobile phone, notebook, pen, Army issued switchblade, Oddie-licensed duck call, hygienically cured ear trumpet, eye drops, flint and steel for making a fire, and a length of waxed string. It was all there.

Except for my mp3 player which had mysteriously gone missing.

The last time I remembered using it was when I was trying to get to sleep the previous night. Mozart could never have imagined how well his 'Magic Flute' could drown out the sound of the Ladyboys of Bangkok whose show was taking place in the car park across the road from my hotel room. As I began to search for my mp3 player in the sheets of the bed, I begin to vaguely remember throwing it across the room in the middle of the night.

Without music to calm me, the city becomes a hostile environment. I spent fifteen minutes searching for the player before I had to give it up as lost. By then I was woefully late for the office. I endured a tram journey into the city centre that was memorable only for the endless tannoy announcements, chatter of passengers, the noise of traffic... I suffered the full 'humanity experience' and when I jumped off the tram, I then had to endure the insults of builders who made comments about the state of my zip which I had left semi-elevated.

It was what is known as an arse of a morning, or what we in Channel 4 like to call a ‘Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’.

Work on ‘Eye of the Storm 2’ went relatively well and by four o'clock, I was finished for another week and I left to catch the Virgin Pendolino back down south. Luckily, we’d already recorded Thursday’s 'Richard&Judy Show' so I had no reason to get back early. However, to preserve the illusion that the show is live, Channel 4 executives demand that I remain in disguise whenever I’m in public during the hours of 4.30 and 6.15PM.

I made the train in plenty of time but I was disappointed to discover that my seat was the airline type whose front was to the back of the one in front. My mp3 player still lost, I had to settle myself in a cramped seat for a two hour journey. The only consolation was that it would be heavy with Graham Greene. I had picked up a copy of ‘The Heart of the Matter’ after hearing Amis talk about it the other night. When the train began to move, I was looking forward to reacquainting myself with Greene’s voice. I spread out my legs into the well of the vacant seat next to me and I sank back expecting bliss.

And that’s when a late arriving passenger appeared at my side and began to push a large suitcase into my leg space. I was about to say something when I looked up. Only I didn’t have to raise my chin very far. For this was a nanus or a small person.

Like many of the small people I’ve known in my life, he was extremely well dressed and, as I would soon discover, unerringly polite and extremely intelligent. His black flat cap looked rather fetching against the tan of his waistcoat and his face radiated a smile. I radiated back.

He pushed his luggage further into the well of the seat and I tried to move my legs out of the way.

He smiled again but this time with the recognition that he was putting me to some trouble.

‘You’ve got very long legs,’ he said in a thick Canadian accent.

I didn’t know how to reply. Life has a habit of forcing me into these situations when I risk being too quick witted for my own good. Situations that any normal person would consider unreal are, to me, everyday. A Canadian dwarf was commenting on the size of my legs. And how did I feel? I felt terribly hurt.

‘Must you always go on about my height?’ I scolded him. ‘“Oh, isn’t he tall? Look how big he is!” I know what you’re thinking. Always chattering among yourselves and thinking I can’t hear you. Well I can hear you. I see the looks on all your faces. And I have feelings too. I’m a human being, for God’s sake...’

Humour is always the best way to build bridges. Even little bridges with low hand rails.

The man laughed and I knew at once that we’d be fine. He sat down (though ‘down’ was more of a ‘clamber up’) and we began to talk. It turned out that he was a rep for a large Korean electronics company and had finished a trade show in Manchester where he’d been demonstrating their latest products. He showed me the catalogue from his bag and I mentioned that I’d been up in the city to see the James Wood / Martin Amis lecture. He said he was sad to have missed it.

‘Mind you,’ he added. ‘I’ll be glad to get home.’

‘Really?’ I asked. ‘And why’s that?’

‘It’s those goddamn Ladyboys,’ he replied. ‘I’ve not had a wink of sleep all week. I tried to change rooms but the hotel said they were fully booked.’

I gave a snort of derision. It seems that I wasn’t the only man in Manchester to have suffered from the vocal warbling of Thailand’s finest female impersonators. ‘You too? I’ve had exactly the same problem. An utterly miserable weekend which only got worse this morning when I lost my new Bluetooth mp3 player.’

He winced. He obviously knew what it’s like to lose a Bluetooth connection.

‘I couldn’t take it anymore,’ said my friend. ‘If I had to listen to one more chorus of “My Shlong On The Mekong” I might have lost every inch of my postmodern liberal sensibility and told them a few home truths about gender identity...’

‘Ooh,’ I said. ‘You can’t say that...’

‘Don’t worry,’ he replied. ‘I can say that. I was actually born a woman.’

I looked at his in utter astonishment. 'Really? That's amazing.'

‘Got you!’ he said, bursting out into laughter.

I smiled but felt rather uncomfortable, not knowing how to take the humor of a politically incorrect nanus.

It turned out that Eric – for that was my new friend’s name – had been staying in the same Sheraton Of The Ever So Noisy as I had slept in the night before and that the problem of inebriated Ladyboys singing late into the night was the perfect subject to bring two strangers together on a long train journey. We chatted for an hour or so and once the express passed Birmingham and left the North, I began to savour the aroma of the south. That’s when I thought it time to reveal myself to my small friend.

‘Eric,’ I said, ‘I want you to prepare yourself for a shock.’

He looked at me. ‘You’re not a ladyboy?’ he laughed.

‘Better than that,’ I said, ripping off my fake nose and comedy pimple. ‘I’m actually Richard Madeley!’

He gasped, a small terrified yelp of a gasp. Pocket-sized surprise.

‘And who is Richard Madeley, exactly?’ he asked.

‘Oh, I’m quite big in the UK. My wife and I have our own show on Channel 4. If you weren’t leaving the country, we’d have had you on. Show your products to the nation...’

‘So you’re in TV?’ he said. His eyes had filled with the usual Gods-come-down-from-Mount-Olympus look of excitement. ‘That’s great because I have a fantastic idea for a TV game show.’

‘I doubt if you do,’ I told him. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many times I’m told about the next big idea but do you know how many are ever made?’

‘No idea,’ he said.

‘Nearly all of them. So fire away, little buddy of mine.’

He took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks. ‘Barrel-O-Monkeys,’ he said.

I paused. I nodded. It had the advantage of being one I’ve never heard before.

Eric explained. ‘Back in Canada, it's very popular with the kids. It's an old game with plastic monkeys in a barrel. You have to try to pick them out using a fishing hook.’

‘I can’t quite see how you’re giving this a unique televisual twist, Eric,’ I told him, trying to let him down as gently as I could. ‘TV is about spectacle and, no offence intended, I don’t think watching a small chap like yourself hooking plastic monkeys from a barrel with a fishing rod is going to bring in much of an audience. It might work on ITV3, of course, but who would really want that audience?’

‘Ah but Richard,’ he replies, ‘what if we use real monkeys?’

Damn it! The dwarf had a point but the conductor was already announcing our imminent arrival at Euston. I knew I had to act quickly. I gave Eric my card.

‘You’ve got an amazing talent there, Eric,’ I said. ‘This Barrel-O-Monkeys idea might be a winner. When you come back to England, you must look me up.’

His brows narrowed. ‘That some sort of joke?’

I bit my lip.

He smiled. ‘Got you!’ he said and pointed at me.

And hadn’t he just? Again...

'Why...' I began but he waved me back.

‘Here,’ he said, reaching into his bag. ‘Take this to replace the one you lost.’

And with that he handed me a brand new mp3 player. A model not yet on the market and only slightly soiled by handling on a trade show floor.

‘I couldn’t take your only sample,’ I said as I stuffed it under my shirt.

‘Remember, Dick,’ he said. ‘Barrel-O-Monkeys...'

'It’s a sure winner,’ I said as we both stood up to leave.

He seeme unhappy to see me go but I had to rush since Judy would be waiting for me in the car park. Eric waved and waved back as I walked down to the end of the train. And there in Euston I left behind the one person you would always want to sit next to on a long train journey from Manchester. Witty, wise, a great instinct for TV, and he left me plenty of leg room.

Running Late

I’ll be glad when it is next week and I can find some routine in this crazy patchwork life I’m leading.

My mood will be low and the blog posts short tomorrow and Thursday since I’ll be back up in Manchester. I’m helping to devise new series based around the approximately fourteen hundred hours of weather footage we’ve amassed over the last two years. ‘Eye of the Storm 2’ will be just the first of many programmes I hope to present about inclement weather. On Friday I’ll be preoccupied with a pop concert that Judy is dragging me to see. I can’t honestly say I’m looking forward to two hours listening to a singer I know nothing about but there’s another example of the things we do for love. My ears will be suitably bled by Saturday. All this mayhem kicks off tonight when I’ll have another busy night as I’ll be attending a celebrity bash. I can’t go into too much detail but I do hope to have pictures of me with a few famous faces tomorrow. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.

With so many things happening and the afternoon show eating up a considerable part of my day, my life has had to adapt. My blog will consist of short posts for a couple of days and I’ve been forced to go on my early morning jogs later than usual. I normally hit the roads around six o’clock in the morning, do a quick ten miles, and then it’s back home for a shower, a couple more hours in bed, and then a late breakfast with Judy.

Yesterday I was jogging at ten o’clock, which I have to tell you is a totally different experience.

It wasn’t too bad when I was running in the neighbourhood where the likes of Michael Palin and Ronnie Corbett will often wave and give me a word or two of encouragement, but once I got into the more urban settlements, I began to attract attention.

‘You’re that Madeley bloke aren’t you, mister,’ said a young boy who was suddenly striding along at my side.

‘I am indeed,’ I said, ‘now buzz off. Can’t you see that I’m running?’

He obviously could see that I was running because he shouted to his friends: ‘Oy, look here! It’s that Madeley bloke running.’

I was soon joined by five youths running behind me and they in turn were soon joined by a couple of teenagers who, being teenagers, are happy to jump onto whatever senseless bandwagon happens to be approaching or, indeed, ambling by.

To cut a long story short by about three miles, it wasn’t long before I had a crowd of people following me that wouldn’t have looked out of place in ‘Rocky 7’. The only thing I was missing was the ubiquitous dog and that joined me at five miles. I commend the stamina of the British working classes but the whole thing was becoming unworkable as we’d begun to hold up traffic and police helicopters were circling overhead. I think somebody feared rioting had broken out, led by a handsomely tanned man in nylon running shorts.

When I tried to turn for home, I hit a snag. I had hundreds of people blocking my path. How do you get such a mass of humanity to act as one? I was just pushing a woman with a pram out of the way when there was a sudden bark of a car’s horn. I turned around and there was a black taxi cab driven by a man in a green cape.

‘Stephen?’

It was indeed the man I have come to call 'Great One'.

‘Ah, ’tis I, Fry,’ said Stephen, ‘earning a few honest bob driving people around this area of south east England which I prefer not to mention for fear of my location being divulged on your internet blog. Were I a man of more bold enterprises, I might not cherish my privacy but, alas, I do, and so this location shall remain unspecified.’

‘Forget about your privacy and unspecified locations in the area of North London,’ I said.

‘Tsk,’ said Stephen. ‘You give too much away.’

‘I don’t care,’ I answered. ‘I just want to know if you can help me get home?’

‘Indeed, I can,’ said Stephen.

‘Thank God!’ I replied and moved to climb into the back of his taxi. Before I had even laid flesh on the handle of the back door, I heard the locks engage.

‘But I fear,’ sniffed Stephen from the driver’s cab, ‘that I cannot allow you to enter my carriage with those damp thighs of yours.’

‘My damp thighs?’

‘Indeed. I understand you have run some considerable miles in those high cut nylon running shorts, which, I might add, do little to hide your manhood...’

‘And why should they?’ I asked. ‘Hanging free like this is what made Britain great. And it helps me keep rhythm as I run.’

‘Be that as it may,’ said Stephen, ‘I cannot allow you to put damp Madeley appendages onto my back seat. I’m willing to help you get home but I cannot allow you in my taxi. I am more than happy to help you clear the road by driving ahead of you and your friends.’

What else could I say? I wanted to get home and Stephen did have a point about sweat damage. The Madeley perspiration is notoriously potent stuff. My only dalliance with piercing led to a tungsten stud and chain melting between my buttocks.

And that’s how, around nine thirty this morning, should you have been in an unspecified region of South East England (roughly north of London), you would have seen the odd sight of a man in a green cape driving a taxi slowly in front of a handsomely tanned man in high cut nylon running shorts followed by a mob of children, teenagers, men with dogs, pensioners, nuns, postmen and other assorted working class types who were not sure why they were running but were running nevertheless. When we got to the outskirts of the estate, the mob fell back as all mobs do when coming close to David Dickinson’s house and by the time I arrived home, it was only Stephen and myself.

‘Many thanks Stephen,’ I puffed as I began my cool down stretching exercises. ‘I understand totally about not allowing me in your taxi but it was good of you to take time to drive slowly like that.’

‘Not at all,’ said Stephen. ‘I was charging you by the minute and not by the mile. And that’s forty seven pounds fifty. And please take your leg off the hood of my car. It might do your hamstrings the world of good but I fear that I’ll never eat dumplings again... Heavens!’