Standing At The UKTV Urinals

I was over at the UKTV studios where Judy and I had just finished giving the press conference for our new show, ‘Richard and Judy’s New Position’. Only my new position was with my knees to my chest and balancing on the edge of a porcelain toilet seat. I’d been taking a few moments from the launch party to compose my thoughts when I’d heard my name mentioned outside the stall.

‘The problem with Madeley is that he’s nothing without Judy.’

So said a voice at the urinal. It had the brazen confidence that some men find in a public bathrooms. Thankfully, I am not one of those men. That’s why I was squatting there, fearing that the slightest sound might alert them to my presence. Not that I was bothered by confrontation but this wasn’t the day for scenes played out in bathrooms. Not unless I wanted my name breathed in the same sentence as that of George Michael.

‘The problem with Richard,’ said the other voice, deeper and with a slight lisp, ‘is that he’s nothing without Bill Oddie. I’ve heard that Bill’s the real creative force in that relationship.’

‘Bill Oddie?’ cried the first.

‘Hey!’ said the second. ‘Watch where you’re pointing that thing!’

‘I’m sorry but you can’t say things like that and not expect a person to be surprised. Bill Oddie isn’t really the force behind Richard and Judy, is he?’

‘So I’ve heard,’ lisped the second. ‘You’ve seen the ad for their new show? I suppose you’ve noticed how all the men are wearing cravats? That was Bill Oddie’s suggestion.’

I almost snorted in disgust. How could bathroom gossips get things so wrong? The cravats had been Nige’s idea and I’d agreed to them in order to help Nige get his break in big time choreography. That he’d been harbouring a life-long wish to put the steps to Broadway shows had come as a shock to me but I’d been only too happy to give him the opportunity to try his hand with real dancers. Not that facts such as these were standing in the way of the two men at the urinals.

‘Bill Oddie holds such a powered over Richard that it’s quite worrying,’ said the second, sounding more ‘in the know’ with every passing trickle of his diminishing stream.

‘But what about Judy?’ asked the first. ‘Surely she can’t agree with all this?’

I didn’t get the answer. Taps ran and towels were pulled from their dispensers. The bathroom door opened and closed and I was left alone. I slipped down from the toilet and opened the cubicle door. Nobody. Just I, Madeley, left alone with a particularly handsome reflection in the mirror.

Outside, the party was still going strong. Judy was dancing in the middle of the room, giving it the full mustard with Nige who was wowing the crowd with a display of South American dance steps complete with realistic bird calls. I wandered around, trying to recognise the voices of the two men that had been gossiping in the bathroom. If they worked on the show, I’d have their badges for what they’d just said about me and Bill Oddie.

I was on my second circuit when Judy broke out of Nige’s conga line and caught up with me.

‘I’m so glad we’ve made the change,’ she said, breathless. ‘I think this is going to be so exciting. Isn’t it good to be working with new people in new surroundings?’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve met a man with a slight lisp,’ I asked.

‘A lisp?’

‘Just a slight lisp.’

‘I’ve not,’ replied Judy. ‘But why are you looking for a man with a lisp?’

‘Because I want him fired. I’ve just heard him saying some terrible things about Bill Oddie in the bathroom.’

‘What’s Bill Oddie doing in the bathroom?’ asked Judy.

I really didn’t have time to explain.

‘Richard, you’ve only been here ten minutes. You can’t really want somebody fired.’

‘We have to know that we can trust the people we’re working with,’ I answered. ‘We’re entering into a new contract and it’s important that people can trust us as much we can trust them. I’m not working with men who stand lisping lies about Bill Oddie at urinals.’

Judy placed her arm around my shoulder. ‘Richard,’ she said. ‘For once, let it go. This is a new beginning. Let’s start out with a clean sheet. You have to remember that we’re no longer on terrestrial TV. The name Bill Oddie doesn’t mean as much to these people. Some of them won’t even know who he is...’

It was then that the reality of the situation hit me. A sledgehammer on my brogues couldn’t have done more damage to my composure. The old girl was right. We are no longer stars of terrestrial TV. We’re in a different league. We’re playing by different rules. As I stood there, watching Nige whistle the mating call of the Venezuelan purple grebe with accompanying three twists and a heel kick, I understood that my outlook has to change.

It explains my silence of the last few days. You find me this morning a different man with a different mission. I’m going where no Oddie has gone before. This is missionary work, my friends, and it’s a brave new world that we’ll encounter from October the seventh.

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.