The Loose Women

I begin with an apology. I feel no small degree of shame for the excesses of my weekend. Not only was I not myself, I wasn’t even Richard Nixon. The whole episode was regrettable and I know that I’ve disappointed many of you who had intended to vote for me in November. I know that Nige was especially anguished that I’d publishing the photograph he’d entrusted to my keeping. It was very bad form. All I can say in my defence is that two days on the Sudafed had turned me into a creature of excess. Things came to a head when Judy discovered me in the larder, at half past four this morning, trying to organise the mice into a labour union. If I hadn’t agreed to appear on ‘Loose Women’ this afternoon, I don’t know how I would have pulled myself together, though the Madeley mice would now be fully unionised.

As to my day. Much more pleasant things to report. I appeared on ‘Loose Women’ this afternoon where I was my charming best. Given that they’re pretty relaxed about these things on ITV, I decided to wear a small lapel badge of Nixon. The majority of the show’s viewers wouldn’t have understood its meaning but those of you who follow my Appreciation Society will have spotted my way of telling you that it was indeed me. The visit was made complete when I was making my way out of the studio. I managed to have a word with the show’s producer and explained how I hate to see goldfish put in those glass bowls. He agreed to release their prop goldfish into my care, so I arrived home, ten minutes ago, complete with a new pet for my office. Which is where I now sit, preparing to answer all my fan mail.



One in particular demands my attention. It was written by a fan with a rather delightful request.

'I have started on a series of cross-stitches of a quirky nature – the sort of thing you might hang on the wall of the loo. I am currently making one in green which begins 'Richard and Judy'. It has a pink gingham heart underneath, with tiny pearl beads round the border. Underneath I want to write something else.'

The ‘something else’ naturally perks my interest. Now I’m back to my normal self, I’m drawn to this ‘something else’ and believe that the most important job of my afternoon is to get this motto right.

After plenty of contemplation, ringing around celebrity friends, and checking them all with Judy, I’ve decided that any of the following would make such a wall hanging into the perfect gift. My question to you is: do you have any better suggestions before I decide to have these made in their millions for the Christmas market?

‘Richard & Judy. We still have the scars.’
‘Richard & Judy. We never bombed Cambodia.’
‘Richard & Judy. Stitch on friendly.’
‘Richard & Judy. Better than penicillin.’
‘Richard & Judy. Bill Oddie gives us onions.’
‘Richard & Judy. None of it was scripted.’
‘Richard & Judy. With added friction burns.’
‘Richard & Judy. We took testicles to tea time.’
‘Richard & Judy. Room for one more.’
‘Richard & Judy. Patrons of the ampersand.’
‘Richard & Judy. We chatted with the best.’
‘Richard & Judy. The other Chuckle Brothers.’
‘Richard & Judy. We did it Oprah’s way.’
‘Richard & Judy. Students and hippies love us.’
‘Richard & Judy. Student sand hippies love us.’ (Yes, it was originally a typo but I like it)
‘Richard & Judy. Stephen Fry’s other home.’
‘Richard & Judy. Devoid of all reason.’
‘Richard & Judy. Never been to Standish.’
‘Richard & Judy. We’ve had better years.’
‘Richard & Judy. This Morning’s minions.’
‘Richard & Judy. Now from Outer Space.’
‘Richard & Judy. Where the smart money goes.’
‘Richard & Judy. Try our heat rub.’
‘Richard & Judy. Better than a poke in the eye.’
‘Richard & Judy. Like Oprah but with merkin.’
‘Richard & Judy. The mild taste sensation.’
‘Richard & Judy. Harpsichord repairs a speciality.’
‘Richard & Judy. One careful owner.’
‘Richard & Judy. Made from sunflowers.’
‘Richard & Judy. Chimp friendly TV.’

Vice Presidential Moths

After two days on the Sudafed, the plaster angels are singing to me. This is some weird decongestive drip, one crazy mucous trip, but I can’t be the first President of the United States to announce that his decorating has formed a close harmony choir. They’ve been singing me Pink Floyd hits all night. Of course, the same thing happened to Truman but people forget about that because of that business with prune juice and the Guatemalans. The angel choir is just a Nixon thing, they media will say. Blame it all on Nixon. He was out of his head on cough syrup when he ordered the US fleet up the Thames to capture Channel 4 headquarters. Judy says that it will be seen as blatant aggression on foreign soil but I say that we were there for ten years. I can promise you that the next series of ‘The Richard & Judy Show’ won’t be like the last. I won’t be happy until we’ve rid London of the Red Chinese. And Castro. Don’t even get me started about Castro. And if I have to send the marines out to take down Jamie Oliver I’ll do it.

Who can I trust? That’s the question we have to bring to the Oval office. Who beyond these walls has Nixon’s best interests at heart? When I go signing my book, they all look at me as though I’m some kind of freak. They keep calling me Madeley. I can’t get them to stop. I wouldn’t mind if they called me ‘Tricky’, like the good old days, but they’re all out to get me. Except Nige. I love Nige. He reminds me of Spiro Agnew, which is why I made him my Vice President. Nige will know what to do, even if that means calling out the National Guard like he did that time to protect the moths.

Damn. I’ve drained another one. And I’ve lost my plastic measuring spoon. The last I saw of it was when it was stuck to Kissinger’s elbow after we met about the Fern Britton problem.

It seems pointless bothering measuring the stuff when my lips fit so snugly around the bottle. Great stuff, this Sudafed. All my flu symptoms have gone, though I can’t feel my right leg below the thigh and I’m sure that I’m developing breasts. Nothing pendulous. Just pert. Pert breasts are Nixon thing, they’ll say, and I’ll tell them that they’re damn right they are.

I’d ask Judy to have a look at them but she hasn’t forgiven me for calling her on my mobile this evening. I hadn’t known that I had until I found my phone in my trouser pocket with a fifty eight minute call still ongoing. Apparently her mobile phone had gone off sometime after seven. She’d picked it up midway through a meal with Dame Patrick Stewart and Helena Bonham Carter, only to hear me enjoying my nightly ablutions to a rousing rendition of Pink Floyd’s Money, terminating with a rhythmically perfect yanking of the chain.

Can I trust other bloggers? This is the key question. There was a time when I was added to blogrolls. Now I’m routinely deleted. They’re all out to get Nixon. I know it. Fry won’t answer any of my calls. He’s gone to Africa when Nixon wants him in Washington. I swear he's in league with the Red Chinese.

Can’t trust anybody. Except Nige who’d call out the National Guard for me. And the moths. Or maybe they're angels...

My First Executive Orders

Minutes into my second day as Richard Nixon it became apparent that the country was crying out for a series of measures to solve some of the problems brought about by mismanagement. This is why I’m issuing the following Executive Orders. Not only do they offer you a taste of things to come but they are the kind of governance you voted for. And there’s not a thing here that people who voted for George McGovern would criticise.

All men who work two days a week in Manchester will be elevated to the peerage.

Anybody caught tucking a trouser into a sock will face a £50 fine unless they are in possess of a bicycle. Coincidentally, anybody caught trousering a sock will face a £1000 fine. My administration will be tough on all sock crime.

The word ‘carvery’ is now banned from our roadsides. Call me irrational but I really do dislike the word.

All dancers must apply for official permits to tap.

Bus travel will be made free for all who pass our new cleanliness tests.

Companies that make handsome laptops will be encouraged to donate free machines to handsome bloggers with identity problems.

Richard Stilgoe is to write a new national anthem which will include the word ‘debonair’.

Facelifts are now banned from the BBC.

Clive James will become the new head of the BBC and the license fee will be reduced if you can quote Milton.

Jonathan Ross is to be demoted to caretaker in the BBC canteen but he will be given a new mop worth no less than £17.

Thorntons take note. The word ‘chocolatier’ will now be spelt ‘chocolateer’.

There must be a unified cartridge across all makes and models of inkjet printers.
Road widening schemes are to be scrapped in favour of a new programme of car narrowing.

And in our first wave of forced emigration to the Isle of Wight will be limited to anybody who has ever sang or dance in an advertisement for the Halifax.