Keith Chegwin's Sparrow

The new banner and associated desktop need some explaining. What began as an exercise in decorating the bedroom ended up as a philosophical enquiry into how nature invidiously includes Rory McGrath in every significant event. The man is perennial and I don’t mean the year long sprouting of his body hair. He just gets everywhere.

You see, during my absence from your computer screens, I took the opportunity to enroll at the local community college where I thought a course of Home Improvement classes would inspire me to greater things in the bedroom. The ceiling has needed Duluxing for some time but I thought it high time that I put something up there that would be an improvement over woodchip and a slap of white emulsion.

Mr. Ketterick was the teacher who welcomed me to the ‘Beginners Painting and Decorating’ class three weeks ago and it was eight o’clock in the evening when I sat myself in the room filled with other men middle aged looking for leadership in the act of hanging wallpaper.

‘The key to success with home decorating is patience,’ declared Mr. Ketterick from the front of the class. He was wearing white overalls and a poor quality toupee. More than patience, I thought a tab of wallpaper paste was clearly the key to the latter remaining on his sloping brow. 'Yes gentlemen, it's patience that you will learn in this class. Patience which will help you hang wallpaper the right way. Patience that will help you apply a coat of paint in the correct manner...'

I looked at my watch and realised that at the pace he was setting, it would be months before we’d get to the nitty gritty of mixing crushed horse bones in large plastic buckets. I decided it was time for some of the inquisitorial skills that have made me millions.

‘But don’t you have any tips that you can pass on in a minute or two?’ I shouted from the back of the room.

‘Ah, Mr. Madeley,’ said Mr. Ketterick. ‘Gentlemen, we have a real life celebrity with us tonight.’

‘Indeed,’ I said, ‘but to hurry you on... Any tips?’

‘Tips?’

‘For painting a ceiling? It’s just I want to get cracking with it, you see.’

He thought for a moment longer than I’d normally allow on the show but this was real life and there weren’t any ad breaks coming up in my rearview mirrors.

‘Tips...’ He pondered for a moment longer. ‘I’d say don’t stand directly under the brush and never load it with too much paint.’

I jotted down these two gems in my notebook. ‘Excellent,’ I said, as I stood up and headed for the door.

‘You’re not staying?’

‘It’s something I’ve learned from years of meeting men and women who achieved greatness,’ I replied. ‘They don’t wait around learning the detail. We’re people of broad brushstrokes and that’s especially true when it comes to making brush strokes. You’ve given me all the help I needed. I’m sure I can pick up the rest as I’m going...’

And with that, I walked out of the classroom.

The next day I was armed with my two tips along with a set of step ladders and a wife nervously looking into the bedroom from the landing.

‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing Richard?’

Judy normally does all the DIY jobs in Madeley Mansions but when it comes to anything requiring finesse, it’s left to the only person in the house that doesn’t wear underpants.

‘I know exactly what I’m doing,’ I replied. ‘You forget that I’ve taken a college course. And with what I've learned, I’m going to decorate our ceiling in a way that’s sympathetic to the bedding but also a little more inspiring when you lay down for sleep at night.’

Judy frowned in that we she has when she’s not sure that I’m totally right but she ten minutes later she appeared at the door with her outdoors coat on. ‘I’m going to see Cilla,’ she announced. ‘The poor thing has got a problem with her gas central heating and I want to be there when the man from the gas board comes around.’

I waved her away. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ I said. ‘I’ll be busy most of the day.’

She left me but I didn’t hear her drive away. I was too busy with a paint brush clamped between my teeth as I used a thumb dipped in ‘Harvest Tint’ to outline figures on the ceiling.

Now, to cut a long blog post short, I have to ask you to fast forward the action by seven or eight hours. In the dying light of the day, I was putting the finishing touches to my masterpiece. I’d just dotted a spot of light in the last eye when Judy walked in the room.

‘How was Cilla’s gas?’ I asked and thought immediately of a funny quip. Only, one look at Judy told me to store the quip for a better day when we can all laugh at Cilla’s gas. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Who the bloody hell is that?’ asked my darling wife, the art critic.

I looked up at the manly figure stretched across the ceiling.

‘That’s a neo-classical Bill Oddie,’ I replied.

‘Neo-classical? It looks more like Rory McGrath!’

And here, you see, we have the point of this little narrative of mine. I looked again and, sure enough, I could see that Judy was right.

‘Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘How on earth did that happen?’

‘I’m not lying in bed looking up at Rory McGrath,’ she declared. I was sure she meant it.

‘It’s uncanny,’ I agreed.

‘It’s enough to give me nightmares.’

Judy’s eyes went around the ceiling to where Jeremy Clarkson, Jonathan Ross, Keith Chegwin, and Alan Titchmarsh all looked down at us in their naked glory.

‘And I’m not happy with what you’ve done with Keith Chegwin’s winkle,’ she said. ‘And why have you made it point to my side of the bed?’

‘I know what it needs,’ I said. ‘An owl sitting on the end of it.’

Judy looked at me. ‘An owl doing what?’

‘If I put an owl on Bill Oddie’s finger, you’ll no longer think of Rory McGrath. It’s the lack of an owl that’s causing all the problem. With an owl, there’d be no mistaking Bill Oddie.’

‘Richard, I was talking about Keith Chegwin’s winkle. What are you going to do about that?’

‘Perhaps another owl?’ I suggested.

Judy looked up to the ceiling. ‘Perhaps a sparrow,’ she said. It was the last helpful contribution she made to the debate. I was left to work late into the evening, rendering sparrows on the ceiling.

And there you have it. In all its glory and ready for your desktop: the story of how a sparrow came to sit on the end of Keith Chegwin’s winkle. I know it was a bit of a lengthy explanation but I think I owe you the full story for when somebody peers over your shoulder and asks why there’s a picture of a naked Keith Chegwin with a sparrow sitting on his winkle. And then perhap's you'll explain why my own manhood is obscured by an American Bald Eagle.

The Dwarf Killer

‘Aren’t you cutting the lawn today, Richard?’

I hadn’t anticipated the question but that’s just typical of what happens when breezes blow away the clouds and the rain steps aside in favour of a spot of sunny weather. About all I could manage was a sigh and a look of moral discomfort.

‘Again?’ I asked. ‘But I only cut it a few months ago.’

Judy lowered her Sunday Times. ‘You’re meant to cut it every fortnight during the summer,’ she said in that snippy way she has when distracted from her Sunday morning Appleyard.

I looked out on the garden and our acres of lush lawn. I had to admit that it had got a little out of hand. A dab of yellow in the middle was the cap of the gnome we’d had made from a full sized body cast of Bill Oddie. There the grass was approaching the four foot mark, already in long trousers and probably in need of a firm hand, if not a stern talking to.

‘Right then,’ I said, setting aside my novelisation of Chekov’s ‘Cherry Orchard’, ‘I’ll cut the lawn but I want you to remember this the next time I want you to help me, Jude.’

Judy muttered something that sounded like a promise and I went upstairs to squeeze myself into my lawn mowing clothes including bright orange overalls and fireproof balaclava.

Having a larger than average lawn means having a larger than average lawnmower. You can forget about Hover Mowers or anything by Qualcast. I own the most powerful lawn-razing beast in the region. In polite company, I call it ‘The Green Machine’ but privately prefer ‘The Dwarf Killer’ because of the many plaster dwarves that have gone under its blades, through its threshing mechanism, crushed in its mangle, and spewed out of its high velocity incinerating nozzle. It’s a high octane crop destroyer and has a top speed somewhere near the Mach.

I had backed The DK out of the garage and was in the process of swilling gas around the engine when a voice over my shoulder provided an interruption.

‘Sounds like you’ve got a supercharger in there,’ it said.

I turned off the engine and looked around.

‘Jeremy!’ I cried, delighted to see my old friend Clarkson. I even whipped off my balaclava to greet him with a smile. ‘How fortunate that you should be in the neighbourhood when I’m dealing with heavy machinery.’

‘Fortunate indeed,’ said Jeremy. ‘A coincidence that you’d find it hard to believe should you read about it in unpublished fiction.’

‘Pah!’ I said. ‘I’ve read much worse in published fiction. Technically minded men appositely arriving in the vicinity of lawn mowers is nothing new to me...’

‘So,’ said Jeremy, raising his eyebrows. ‘Are you taking her for a spin?’

‘More than a spin,’ I replied. ‘I’m doing the whole Madeley estate. It’s time to lay waste to grass.’

His eyes widened as if catching up with the brows. ‘I don’t suppose I can have a go?’

I jumped up as though my name were called in a tanning salon.

‘Jeremy, it would be an honour,’ I said, gesturing him to take the driver’s seat.

Jeremy slid behind the wheel and turned the big ignition switch. Then it was like the throttle cable was linked to his teeth muscles. His big yellow grin appeared each time the engine blew smoke.

‘Just take it easy,’ I warned.

But it was too late. With a squeal of caterpillar tracks and the sound of the twin chainsaw blades scraping against concrete, Jeremy was off down the drive and heading towards the back lawn. There was nothing I could do but watch as Jeremy hit the wall of grass and vanished in a cloud of smoke and cuttings.

When he emerged, fifteen minutes later, he was green with grass sap but high on destruction.

‘Wonderful machine,’ said Jeremy as he jumped from the seat.

I was more concerned about the state of The Dwarf Killer. After half a lawn, a long gash had appeared down its side and a fender was bent near the weed cudgel. More worrying was the evidence of something that had passed through the inlet to the edging scythes.

‘What’s this?’ I asked, wiping something crimson from the blades.

Jeremy peered down. ‘No idea,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a field mouse?’

I jammed my hand into the inlet and felt something soft. I gave it a tug.

‘Do field mice wear leather?’ I asked, holding out a piece of soft leather in an unfortunate shade of pink.

Jeremy just shrugged. It wasn’t even a reassuring shrug. This was that shrug that guilty men give in courts when they’ve already been given two consecutive life sentences for committing abnormal acts in graveyards with the residents of obituary columns.

‘Funny,’ I said. ‘I wonder how this got in there...’

It was at that point that I heard the familiar cry of Graham Norton drifing from across the road.

‘Mugwump! Oh Mugwump!’ he sang.

‘Damn distracting,’ said Jeremy.

‘It’s the name of the Graham’s dog,’ I explained. ‘An animal that gives scabid rats a bad name. I can’t tell you the number of times that dog has attacked me in my own front garden. A horrid beast which he pampers terribly by dressing it its own waistcoat fashioned from soft pink leather.’

Jeremy looked down at the piece of leather between my fingers and then looked towards the lawn mower. It took me a few attempts but I finally latched on to what he meant when he began to laugh like a manic idiot and his face flushed red.

‘Oh,’ I said, dropping the leather. ‘I see.’

Jeremy launched himself for the driver’s seat once again.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m going to see what’s hiding in the other half of your lawn,’ he said. ‘If I’m lucky, I might even hit Oddie.’

I hadn’t the heart to rob him of his illusions when he hit the replica Oddie five minutes later. It would have been a cruel thing to do when he’d done so much good, cut so much grass, and trimmed so much dog from my woefully overgrown life.

In My Dreams I Visit Sunderland

Every night recently, I’ve had extremely vivid dreams. Some have been nightmarish. I can sometimes wake in the middle of the night rigid with the fear that some shape in the folds of the curtains looks vaguely human. A few have been comic and I wake laughing manically at some joke I’ve already forgotten. Some have been neither, just crazy jumbles of meaning that hide something deeper.

Very little of last night’s adventure made it through to morning. I do remember that it involved a day out to Sunderland in the company of Judy, Jeremy Clarkson and, for reasons that will become apparent, New York poet and songwriter, Suzanne Vega. At some stage of the proceedings, Jeremy found himself wearing a bronzed bikini which precluded him from returning home by train. Instead, he used his vast wealth to charter a luxury yacht and we all sailed home with Jeremy clinging to the mast a la Simon Le Bon from some Duran Duran video of the early eighties.

As I say, much of the dream is lost to me but there was a very clear moment when I was sitting in a art gallery’s cafe talking to Suzanne Vega about the novels of Thomas Pynchon.

‘I have tried to read them but I grow quickly bored of their prolonged insanity,’ I was saying.

Suzanne looked at me, her eyes twitching in that way she has when excited. ‘But he’s a master of prose and his surreal take on the world should appeal to you Richard. Isn’t that what you’re trying to do with your books?’

‘I don’t know if it’s surreal or just lacking a strong through story,’ I replied. ‘And I don’t know if I want to be considered as hysterical realist. What’s wrong with a good old fashioned plot?’

I fear that this is the point at which I disappointed Suzanne. She was immediately whisked off by some long haired bohemian type who could talk the talk about Pynchon and play the bass guitar. I paid for the coffees, looked up, and found myself emerging from Manchester’s art gallery and turning left towards the office.

Waking up this morning, I could see how the dream arose from my waning literary hopes and concerns for my future. When Suzanne Vega first burst onto the music scene, she was the woman whose love I wanted to win through my wit and artistry. I fell in love with her distinctive looks, but even more so, her dry humour, her introversion, her sublime lyrics, and that voice like a cold wind whipping down the aisles of New York. She was everything I wanted to find in a woman, everything I wanted from life; intelligence, poetry, an ability to fingerpick the acoustic guitar, a left-of-centre brilliance, everything that was out of the ordinary yet so very right for me. That she should appear at this moment in a dream is no coincidence. It was my heart telling me something.

That Jeremy should be there too is no surprise. I think the dream was my subconscious reminding me that wit skirts around success, fame, intelligence, passion, oddity, and art. Your kind comments have helped me recently when I’ve been feeling low and tired. Elberry sent me an email that cheered me immensely and Selena wrote a piece to which I’m too humble to respond except to say that she’s right in every significant detail. As for me: I’m going to look again at my novel that left me feeling so underwhelmed yesterday. I’m going to rededicate myself to it and it to Suzanne Vega and Jeremy Clarkson. I can see now that few things make sense and it’s better to embrace the unusual. I should thrive on it and make it my own.

The only thing that still worries me is Sunderland. Why Sunderland? I’ve never been there in my life and I can’t say I’m keen on starting now. Call me old fashioned but I really don’t want to visit a city that sells bikinis in Jeremy Clarkson’s size. Or perhaps that’s it. Sunderland was really Manchester, where I’ll be tomorrow and Thursday, where they do sells bikinis in Jeremy Clarkson’s size.

Hung Over

The Limburger nibbles grated against the backs of my eyeballs have brought out the mice again. They are now frantically chewing at my temporal lobes from where this painful hangover seems to originate. It really is too much to type this morning but I expect most of you are feeling pretty much the same after last night’s party to mark the one year anniversary of this blog’s launch. How Judy kept it all a secret from me I don’t know, but I have to thank so many of you for making the long trip to see us. The evening was a gala of bacchanalian fun with the occasional comic moment. Bill Oddie says he won’t sit down for a week while Stephen Fry is promising a fifty pound reward to the person who returns his favourite green cape. It was good to see a few of you take time to go and say hello to Fred Talbot who has featured so regularly in this blog, as he has featured in my life, over the last twelve months. He is no longer feral and, as many you discovered, he can now converse quite happily about the weather without trying to bite you.

Friendships were made last night that may never be broken.

The only thing I believe I have to apologise about is that Jeremy Clarkson thought it appropriate to show a picture of his recent eye infection to people as they were eating. Judy took him to one side and, as you can see, confiscated the photograph so there should be no repeat performances of that grotesque sideshow. The main event, as you know, was as much fun as you can get when living near to David Dickinson. That he complained half a dozen times about the noise was no fault of mine and I hope you appreciated the efforts we made to keep the party going until four in the morning.

Today is a matter of recovering before I go off to film this afternoon’s show. Judy is in a fine mood and even seems relaxed about the Dennis situation. For my part, I have decided to take more of a hand’s on role with the captions. They will be written by me, so any mistakes are my own.

I’m sure you come for lots of exciting tales today but I’m really too hung over to type for too long. Each keystroke is like a particularly hungry rodent sinking its teeth into my brain.

Perhaps later...

The Jeremy Clarkson Mask

There have been so many people visiting the blog looking for a Jeremy Clarkson mask, I thought I'd make one available to my blog's readers along with something a little more respectable for wearing in the office.

Simply click on the images below, print in colour to quality card, and then carefully cut around the lines and add a piece of elastic or string.

If you love Bill Oddie, you'll wear these masks with pride for the rest of the day.

[UPDATE: I'm getting so many hits (and now emails and comments) from people searching for a Bill Oddie mask that I've decided to add one to honour this blog’s dearest friend. However, if you do decide to wear Bill’s face, remember that this isn’t some 'Top Gear' bandwagon we're jumping on. This is a protest against the BBC’s humiliation of their greatest asset. Unlike Clarkson, I want you to wear Oddie’s face with pride. But remember: never near owls. We’re trying to get them to naturally land on the real thing and it would only confuse them.]

[Update 2: And for Bertas... I imagine Fry fanatics could excite themselves with these masks in ways that aren't technically legal in certain parts of America and east of Swindon.]

On Jeremy Clarkson's Cruel Mockey of Bill Oddie

Necks are very much like testicles. Nobody takes you seriously when you injure them.

I reflected on this when I arrived at the breakfast table this morning, having just endured two painful hours simply trying to get dressed. My condition hadn’t been helped by the bad choices I’d made when it came to put on my trousers. The severity of my bad neck made it impossible to look down to see where I was putting my legs. I had spent half an hour trying to get into my pants before I arrived at the only logical conclusion: that I should hang my trousers from the wardrobe’s door knob and then drop into them from a great height.

And that hadn’t been the success I’d anticipated...

I’d climbed on the wardrobe well enough and from there I’d launched myself on a perfect trajectory to drop me squarely into my jeans. Only, in the process of coming into land, I managed to bash my testicles against the wardrobe’s handle. The pain in my neck was matched by a greater one down below where I now have a minimalistic bruise shaped like an Ikea doorknob and with that same Scandinavian flair.

‘You could have come to help me,’ I said to Judy later, as I rummaged through the freezer drawer.

She was busy preparing our packed lunches to take to the Channel 4 studios and was busy peeling sprouts. ‘I have more important things to do than bother about your neck,’ she said. ‘And I’ve just had a phone call from Bill Oddie. He sounded extremely annoyed.’

‘As I imagine he would be,’ I replied as I slid a bag of frozen runner beans down the front of my trousers in the hope they’d help reduce the swelling around my own recently peeled sprouts. ‘Jeremy was very unfair on him on last night’s Top Gear.’

‘I think there’s something wrong with Jeremy.’

‘Clearly wrong,’ I agreed. ‘He knows how much Bill Oddie means to me and that’s why he’s going out of his way to ruin the man’s reputation among the Japanese. He clearly suspects that my blog has a very large readership around the Pacific Rim.’

Judy sliced off an ear of cheese and began to nibble on it before she turned on the red onions. The onions stood no chance.

‘You should do something to cheer Bill up,’ she said. ‘You could invite him on the show. You always have fun making vulgar allusions to tits.’

‘And believe me, Judy, there’s nothing I’d love to do more. Only, it’s impossible due to Bill’s contract with the BBC. As one of the BBC’s Untouchables, they won’t allow him to appear on any other channel. Do you know that they’ve had him electronically tagged? He makes one false move towards Channel 4 and they send out a snatch squad to take him back.’

‘That’s terrible,’ said Judy. ‘I can’t believe the BBC could be so cruel.’

‘Believe me, Jude. I’ve seen it happen. You don’t know terror until you’ve seen Huw Edwards in a balaclava dragging an innocent birdwatcher from the street just because he strayed off course following a migratory heron towards the South Bank.’

‘I always wished that we were untouchable,’ mused Judy.

I looked down at the peas to check that they weren’t melting over my untouchables.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘before we head off to do the show, I’ll send Bill an email and ask him about his owls. That usually does the trick.’

‘That would be nice,’ said Judy. ‘But don’t email. Ring him up. You know he finds your voice soothing.’

Which is exactly what I did, not much later, once my loins had been frozen numb and I’d returned a pack of defrosted runner beans back to the vegetable drawer.
‘Hello. Bill Oddie,’ piped Bill Oddie in a key above the Lesser Greebled Throatwarbler.

‘Bill? It’s Dick. I understand you rang earlier.’

‘I did. I did. I wanted to chat about that Clarkson fellow. Rather rude about me last night, I figured. What did he think he was doing driving around Japan in a mask of my face?’

‘He was being rude, Bill. That’s all it was. He was using the material from my life to make cruel jokes about the nation’s favourite twitcher.’

‘He did. He did. I noticed that. And that’s why I rang. I wondered if there’s any way we can get him back. I had thought about an otter.’

‘An otter?’

‘Stuff one down his trousers. Then I thought it would be a bit cruel and probably wouldn’t look too good with the RSPCA people if I go stuffing a live otter down Jeremy Clarkson’s trousers. And a dead one wouldn’t be any use.’

‘I doubt if there’s room down Jeremy’s jeans for an otter, living or dead,’ I said. ‘Of course, we could give it a go. He might take it as a warning and would think twice about making fun of the two of us.’

‘I didn’t notice that he made much fun of you, Dick.’

‘He mocked my beaver,’ I explained. ‘He said that you could spot it from a mile away. Now how many people do you know that own a real beaver?’

‘True,’ said Oddie.

‘And that means he was also mocking Stephen Fry give that we’ve named the beaver after the Great Man.’

‘Look,’ said Bill. ‘Leave this with me. We clearly need to do something about Clarkson. I’ll give it some thought and I’ll get back to you. I know a man who might be able to lay his hands on a swarm of locusts.’

‘Locusts sound good to me, Bill,’ I said. ‘But let’s leave it for a few weeks. I’m suffering a bad neck and I can still feel an Ikea wardrobe handle between my legs.’

‘Will do,’ said Bill. ‘After all, revenge is a dish best served cold.’

‘As are otters,’ I said before I could stop myself. I had simply forgotten who I was talking to.

‘Otters?’ asked Bill.

‘Oh, a bad joke,’ I replied, happy to get off the phone but not as happy as moments later when I hit the speed dial on the keypad marked ‘1’ and I heard a familiar voice.

‘Ah, ’tis I Fry, on my still fully functioning iPhone.’

‘Stephen? It’s Dick. Quick word of warning. If you happen to get chatting to Bill, don’t mention that cold otter stew we had last week. He wouldn’t understand and he’s feeling a touch temperamental due to Jeremy’s jokes.’

‘Will do, or rather, I won’t do, despite it being rather a sumptuous otter stew and one’s natural inclination is to state as much in a loud theatrical voice whilst standing on some high public projection of great prominence. Ah, Richard... Were I more callous man, I would have taken even more pride in that stew if I could have clubbed those otters to death myself. The gristle of an otter tail is this year’s taste sensation but that it leads you into those simply scrumptious bits of otter belly, touched by the brine of the North Sea, gently mellowed under a Scottish sun! Heavens. And the taste of those lovely otter feet, Dick! Weren’t they just something to die for? Weren’t they just?’

‘They were indeed,’ I replied, ‘and it remains a distinct possibility that we will die for those feet if Bill ever finds out that we’ve been eating his relations.’

‘Ah,’ said Fry. ‘Heavens. Gosh. Hushed silence. Groan.’

But for my neck, I would have shrugged. For the second time in an hour I was glad to hang up the phone.

Some days, you really don’t know what you’re getting into just by getting up in the morning.

Neck: Bad

I’m struggling today after waking up at seven o’clock, putting my right arm behind my head and then yawning.

‘Holy Jesus, King of Kings!’ I cried as I felt something go wrong in the place where my shoulder joins my neck.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Judy, lifting up her eyeshades.

‘It’s my shoulder,’ I said, stuck in a position in which I resembled Ronnie Cox when they find him floating in the river in 'Deliverance'. ‘I think I’ve trapped something in my shoulder.’

She grabbed my arm and gently pulled it from behind my head which fell on the pillow to the sound of my screaming.

‘OOooooohhhhh!’ I said, as though there weren’t enough ‘ooh’s in my life recently.

Judy just shook her head and looked at the clock.

‘Well, there’s not much I can do now,’ she said. ‘I’m having another couple of hours.’

‘But what about me?’ I asked, unable to move.

‘I’m sure you’ll think of something.’

And that’s how you find me. The beginning of a new week when I had many great plans to put into operation but instead, I’ve tore, trapped, or otherwise dislodged something in my shoulder which makes it difficult for me to type, look to the left, or hold any kind of beverage in my left hand. I had also intended to write a letter of complaint to the BBC about last night’s ‘Top Gear’. Clarkson was using all my best material as he drove around Japan wearing a Bill Oddie mask.

I suppose next week he’ll be writing limericks.

PS. Oooohhhh...

Grey Clouds At Two O'Clock

Like some well-crafted metaphor about a man trying to overcome a bad mood, I took aim at the grey clouds with a bazooka of my own making. I’d had no hand in designing the warhead. That had come straight from the BBC props department via the 'Top Gear' offices with a slight detour through the Met Centre where currency was exchanged for enough silver nitrate to dose the skies of East Anglia.

‘You two don’t actually think you’re going to achieve anything with that thing?’ asked Judy through the open kitchen window.

‘Pah!’ said Clarkson rather pithily.

While I'd only got Fry's answer phone and Oddie was busy doing things with Nige and a snowy owl, Jeremy had responded to my SOS by shattering the sound barrier in his rocket car and leaving a half mile scorch mark down the M1.

‘This is the best quality television explosive, Mrs. M,' he assured her. 'And with all the silver nitrate I’ve loaded in this baby, those clouds will dump all that rain over Norfolk and won’t come anywhere near us.’

And with that he turned back to me where I was holding the length of drainpipe on my shoulder and he slapped me on my motorcycle helmet. This, as J.C. usually says when he's about to put his foot through the throttle of the latest Italian supercar, was the moment of truth.

I aimed at a particularly offensive cloud which reminded me of Hughie Green’s chin and I squeezed the trigger. It moved all of an inch before the rocket ignited with a pop.

And then it whistle softly as though it were Roger Whitaker taking a leisurely stroll down the length of the bazooka. When it reached the end of the tube, the rocket fell out and landed at my feet from where it mocked me with the message ‘Norwich or Bust’ which Jeremy had earlier scribbled on its side.

Clarkson peered over my shoulder.

‘I think we should move,’ he said and made a dash towards the shed. I joined him there moments later.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘I’ll be buggered if I know,’ said Jeremy, thick with sweat. He sat down as he looked at his watch and counted off a few seconds. ‘Where’s Judy?’

I looked out at the house. Judy was standing in the kitchen where she was about to do the washing up.

‘She’s in the kitchen,’ I said.

‘Near the window?’

I looked again. Judy looked up and saw me watching. She gave me a wave. I waved back.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She’s right in front of the window. She’s just putting on her marigolds.’

Jeremy winced as he took out his mobile and dialled a number.

‘Hello Judy,’ he said a few moments later. It all left me a little confused. ‘It’s Jeremy. Yes, the Jeremy Clarkson of Top Gear fame. I’m currently sitting on a pile of imported Afghan merkins in your garden shed... Yes, odd isn’t it? I know... He was waving to you too. Anyway, I just wanted to get you away from the window. Why? Oh, I think there’s going to be a rather large explosion in your back garden right around...’

The shed shook, Clarkson fell from his seat and Afghan merkins were soon covering every inch of his seven feet one inch frame. I might also say that I thought he deserved every last one of them. When I stepped out of the shed, there was a hole the size of a quarry in the middle of the lawn and the air with thick with the smell of Daniel Corbett’s best silver nitrate.

‘Well, if that doesn’t make it rain, I don’t know what will,’ I said as Jeremy emerged behind me. An Afghan merkin sat on his head and he looked like some misshapen, freak-show version of Bruce Forsyth.

‘But I bet this cheered you up, Dick!’ he said and slapped me on my back.

I couldn’t say that it had or hadn’t. There were only a couple of hours before I would have to go and do a show for Channel 4 and I really didn’t know how to feel about an enormous crater in the lawn or a man wearing a merkin toupee. I was more concerned about the state of my wife who had appeared at the back door.

Judy, as we say around these parts, was simply distraught.

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.

A Madeley Pen Profile: No 27. Clive James (Poet, Essayist, Humourist, Presenter, High Druid, Elvis Impersonator)

I wrote a long letter to Sir Clive James the other day; prompted, I suppose, by the sight of him dancing naked beneath the full moon at the garden party we recently held to mark the summer solstice. The letter had nothing to do with his work as High Druid of our order. I just wanted to thank him for being such a damn good bloke.

Rarely, in these dark and troubled days, do we reach out to people. How often do we look a friend in the eye, shake them by the hand and say ‘thanks pal, for being there’? Yet Sir Clive has always been there for me. For over a decade, he was the bull-necked TV host, too large for his shirts, who taught me that we television types can be intelligent, witty, wry, occasionally profane, but generally urbane and decent.

Saturday or Sunday night, we would turn on the TV and welcome him into the Madeley home where he would sit in corner of the room and never abuse our trust or look out-of-place beside our fitted carpet or mantelpiece strewn with awards. It’s been one of the great rewards of fame that I can now sit the real thing in the corner of the room and serve him quality alcohol in healthy amounts and listen to him rant about the late novels of Philip Roth or do his infamous Elvis impersonation. In fact, there are few sights that fill me with as much pleasure as seeing Sir Clive coming up the drive, his bags packed for a weekend stay, his nose stuck between the pages of some rare Somali poet’s latest collection of limericks.

It reminds me of the very first time he came to stay. It was around the time he published the first volume of his ‘Unreliable Memoirs’ and I was preparing the guest room when I heard that deep sonorous voice sounding from down the street:

‘There once was a man from Mogadishu
Who lined his underpants with tissue,
One day he did sweat,
His buttocks got wet,
The rest... well, that’s a delicate issue.’

He then went on to recite one of his own poems about a sunburnt tourist from Bangor but that’s far less suitable for this family-friendly blog, especially the bit where he rhymes ‘Lurpac’ with ‘sack’. Less extreme is his limerick sequence, written while still at Cambridge. Some critics believe that they are the equivalent of Ezra Pound’s 'Cantos' but in comic verse. I’ll quote only the first three of the nine hundred.

I

There once was a man with ten chins,
Who lived all his life in Berlin,
Such was his draw,
People flocked to his door,
To see his nine magnificent grins.

II

There is a man that I know,
Who likes to make patterns in snow,
But he took it too far
When he copied Degas,
And was severely frostbitten below.

III

There once was a man, well muscled,
Who dreamed of visiting Brussels,
It’s in Belgium, you know,
You can get there by boat,
Or fly if you’re particularly pectoraled.

Quite amazing, I’m sure you’ll agree, combining flawless technical mastery, a delight in the absurd, and an occasional recourse to the vulgar. Yet that is one of the things that I most admire about men like Sir Clive James: that he can appreciate the value of a good profanity or a filthy joke whilst retaining every ounce of his academic credentials. Stephen Fry is the much the same, as are, to a lesser extent, Bill Oddie and that man Clarkson. Experts in their own field (or, in the case of Fry, many fields and a few municipal car-parks thrown in to boot) they are intelligent without being afraid to get in touch with their scatological side. One need only whisper the word ‘buttock’ in Stephen’s ear and he’ll laugh himself silly until dawn spreads her rosy cheeks, which is, itself, an allusion to Homer that Stephen happens to find particularly funny.

What I suppose I am saying is that they are men after my own heart and in saluting Sir Clive, I’m saluting myself. Well done Madeley, I say. You haven’t turned out too bad.

Of course, Sir Clive never responded to my letter. Why should he? His days are still full of essay writing, limericks, and Elvis. I’m just happy knowing that I possibly brightened up his morning inbox. And I’m also happy that things are finally right between us. For a while, there was some animosity given our last rather unfortunate interview in his study. But that’s all water under the bridge. I had caught him on a bad day when he was still feeling frisky, what with the musk of Martin Amis still heavy in his den, and I was little better.

So, on this rather quiet Tuesday, I just want you to go over to Sir Clive’s place and read his words, listen to his poems, watch his television programmes, and generally live a while in the company of a man of fine habits, serene intellect, and all the foreign satellite channels that you could ever hope to receive. And don’t forget to ask him to show you the movements to his limerick about the man Billericay.

There once was a waiter from Billericay,
Whose elbows were terribly tricky,
They bent the wrong way,
So first thing each day,
Somebody had to fasten his dicky.

Mr. Bond’s Monkey Paw

This morning, my life took an unfortunate turn towards the vulgar and I feel it's only right to warn you that a trouserless Madeley awaits you below. Since every crevice of my being will soon be open to your inspection, I’d also be most grateful if you could warm your hands before you pass this point. Cold fingers need not apply.

While I go about alienating the more prudish amongst you, I want to say that I didn’t set out today intending to bend before you in this undignified manner. This pose just happens to be the perfect position from which to describe the events of my day. I have been left, you see, compromised and with my dignity exposed. I can only ask you to grip the torch tightly between your teeth as I spread my buttocks before your interested-yet-repulsed gaze. This won’t take long and, again, let me assure you that it was most definitely not what I wanted.

After all, the colonic was not my idea. Judy suggested it over breakfast.

‘Cilla claims they’ve done her the world of good,’ she said as she served me up a bowl of All Bran Extra Fibre.

I didn’t need those dehydrated twigs of evil to I know what my wife was up to. Since I got the call from the BBC asking me to appear on Newsnight's ‘Late Review’, Judy has been worrying that I’ve started to show the symptoms of early Ekow Eshun fever, the effects of which happen to be identical to those of severe constipation. Pretentiousness is hard to deny, especially when you spend your time pressing your lips together, fluttering your eyelids, and then waxing lyrical about the pretence of subjectivity in postmodernist Nordic subculture as seen in the Tate Modern’s challenging exhibition of Knut Hamsun’s earwax sculptures on loan from the Norsk Folkemuseum. I also think it’s wrong of Judy to accuse me of 'turning Eshun' when she knows that I’ve started to make a list of all our differences. I keep it in my man purse, right next to the copy of Foucault's 'History of Sexuality' I've been annotating in my own glorious and ever-so-superiour hand.

None of this impressed Judy who continued to frown whenever I mentioned Newsnight.

‘Not everybody who goes on that show is backed up down below,’ I said as I began to hack through the bran with a machete and spoon. ‘There must be a few well regulated bowels working on Newsnight...’

Judy sniffed as she levelled her gaze at me. ‘Kirsty Wark?’ she asked.

I could see her point.

‘Look, if I agree to have this colonic, you’ve got to allow me to go on the show. Last week they talked a lot of drivel about the new James Bond book by Sebastian Faulks (writing as Ian Fleming) and I want to set them straight about villains with monkey paw hands.’

‘Oh, Richard. You and your monkey paws. Is there nothing you won’t do in order to talk about them? All I’ve been hearing about lately is monkey paws, monkey paws, monkey paws... Enough with the monkey paws!’

‘But it’s important that the world knows what I know,’ I replied. ‘It’s fine for Faulks (writing as Ian Fleming) to use a monkey paw as a key narrative device, but he’s not really addressed the whole monkey paw issue.’ I was getting into my stride. ‘This monkey paw is the elephant in the room but the Late Review didn’t even mention it. Instead they just came out with a load of old nonsense about Faulks (writing as Fleming) writing the book in six weeks. What’s that except pure middle-class angst because they fear they might have lowered themselves to read popular fiction? Then they couldn’t stop worrying that it might affect Faulks (writing as Faulks) and his more “serious” novels. I say stuff his “serious” novels. I want more monkey paws. I want more Bond. Paul Morley was the only one who spoke any sense and, as for Rachael Campbell-Johnston, chief art critic of The Times, I felt sorry for the poor woman. She’d only read "Casino Royale" and spent most of the time judging the book by the films. I wanted to tell her that the films are an insult to Fleming (writing as Fleming).’

The rant had taken more from me than I’d realised. As I tried to get my breath back, Judy set her spoon to one side of her bowl and took me by my hand. ‘Richard, I think it’s about time you found yourself a proper job,’ she soothed. ‘I don’t think it’s good for you, sitting in your room alone for so long...’

‘All I’m saying is that they didn’t do the Bond books any justice. When I go on the Late Review, I’m going to prove to the world that Fleming was a fine prose stylist and better than most of their charming but dull highbrows. And then I’ll tell the world the injustice that Sebastian Faulks (writing as Ian Fleming) has done to the whole monkey paw cause.’

‘Have your colonic first,' suggested Judy, 'and then we’ll see about the paw.’

And there ended the merry preface to this unhappy little tale.

It was later in the morning and I was being driven into the city in search of a colonic to help me set the world straight about Sebastian Faulks (writing as Ian Fleming) and monkey paws. I’d asked Stephen Fry to drive me since I was still in no mood to look Clarkson in the face. I can’t deny that his rocket car would have been the perfect vehicle to get me to an appointment I would happily delay and you know how much Jeremy would enjoy talking monkey paws. But Clarkson was off with AA Gill, playing the games that sophisticated people play with their peeled chins, and I was with Stephen, moving slowly through traffic.

It was when Stephen insisted on stopping at yet another set of lights, citing his blemish free driving license as a reason not to rush, that I began to grow restless. The thought of having a rubber hose pushed between my cheeks had begun to weigh heavily on my mind and I decided to turn to Stephen for advice.

‘Ah, the pleasure of a newly-rinsed colon,’ said Stephen Fry with a crooked smile. ‘You cannot anticipate how your quality of life will improve. Dear old Hugh Laurie swears by them. He even has a woman of Swedish descent on his staff. She's there, any hour of the day or night, to give him a colonic should it be required. You could eat your dinner of that man’s sphincter, it’s so clean. Claims it’s the reason he’s such a big star in Hollywood.’

‘They really care about clean sphincters that much in America?’ I asked.

‘I hardly think so,’ chuckled Stephen. ‘I was talking about his love for "a well washed men's room". How do you think he invented a limp for his character in “House”? If it wasn’t for a fortunate clash in his diary, he might not have turned up at his casting interview only an hour after having his monthly swill. The poor chap could hardly walk but Fate is a playful mistress. The producers thought it a perfect touch for Dr. Gregory House. Isn’t that a wonderful anecdote? You really can't beat a touch of celebrity, plenty of bottoms, and a happy ending. Don’t you agree?’

‘Fascinating story,’ I replied and sighed as Stephen slowing despite the lights ahead showing green.

‘It is hardly surprising, though,’ he continued. ‘I myself have seen my own life improve since I started to demand a clean back passage.’

‘There seem to be many ways of describing something so disgusting,’ I noted.

‘I’ve discovered many new talents that my cluttered old colon had been preventing for many a year,’ said he to whom none of life’s experiences remains a mystery. ‘I never thought I’d be able to juggle but now I’m a three ball man, with four in the air on a good day.’

‘I can already juggle,’ I was relieved to tell him.

‘Then how about the trombone? I mastered it in three months. It’s amazing how much extra space your lungs find once you give your lower intestine room to breath.’

For a moment I wondered if it could be that healthy breathing through your lower intestine but thought it best not to question Stephen who tends to be right about most things.

‘I’d prefer to leave the trombone to Judy,’ I said. 'She's still trying to master the instrument and practises before she goes to bed every night. I can't handle the thought of joining in. In my opinion, there's no instrument less suited to a duet than the trombone.'

‘Ah, well, fret not, dear Richard,’ said Stephen stopping at the now red lights. ‘I promise you that you will not regret this experience. And who knows what new talents you’ll discover once you’re been sucked clean.’

It had to be one of the oddest conversations ever to take place at the traffic lights on Kensington High Street but it was somehow reassuring to know that Stephen's colon was as clean as his driving license.

We found the clinic shortly before twelve. Apparently one of London’s best, it looked quite chic in dressed brickwork and brass plaques that almost obscured the door. Discreetly named the 'London Arse Hospital’, it stood well back from the street as though it were itself nervously waiting the prod of a hosepipe. We went in and I signed myself in at the reception desk before climbing to the second floor waiting room. It was there that I was surprised to find two characters I knew quite well.

‘Ah, dear me,’ muttered Fry. ‘We would do well to avoid those two. 'Tis Trinny and Susannah. They can kill a man at ten paces and have a very low tolerance for tweed.’

I’d never seen Stephen so nervous but it was too late to back out of the room. The nation’s favourite fashion stormtroopers had spotted us the moment we’d walked through the door.

‘Trinny!’ I exclaimed, kissing her an inch from her cheek. ‘Susannah! What are you doing here?’

‘I’m Trinny,’ said Susannah as she gazed unimpressed on Stephen’s suit.

‘And I’m Suzanna,’ said Trinny, also giving Fry the bad eye.

‘Most confusing,’ said Stephen, who I actually thought looked quite smart in his purple cape and hunting britches.

‘We’re regulars,’ explained either Trinny or Susannah. ‘We come here once a month. Can’t get enough of it.’

‘Really?’ I said. I wanted to ask more but a nurse had arrived and was already trying to smear lubrication on my buttocks. I kissed Trinny again. ‘Well, be good,’ I said. ‘I hope it all goes well for you. Have a good flush!’

‘Flush?’ exclaimed Trinny or Susannah (writing as Ian Fleming). ‘We’re not here for a flush! That was so last year! We’re having it pumped back in. Does us the world of good.’

‘Heavens!’ said Stephen suddenly looking quite pale as I was escorted away.

It is not worth troubling your last meal with the specific details of the next half hour. Let’s just say that I was taken to a sterile room where I was greeted by an elderly woman wearing rubber gloves and Wellington boots. I removed my trousers, lay down, and tried to settle myself with 'Devil May Care' while valves, tubes, buckets, and a powerful diesel pump were attached to my more sofa-friendly end. The sensation was not what I expected and I found it particularly hard to concentrate on my book while watching the contents of my flushed innards pass by me in long transparent tubes. It baffles me why they have to use transparent tubes, though they did afford me a glimpse of the shilling I'd inadvertently swallowed three Christmases past. It was a small comfort and finally explained my inability to walk through airport metal detectors and the times I thought I had more change in my pockets than I could ever account for.

‘I hope Sebastian Faulks (writing as Ian Fleming) appreciates what I’ve just been through,’ I said as I limped slowly out of the clinic. Stephen had my arm and helped me to his cab.

I winced as I banged my knee against the cab door. I was surprised to hear myself whistle.

‘Well, look at that!’ I said. ‘I’ve never been able to whistle before.’

Stephen patted me on the back. ‘There you go, Dick. A new world beckons. Who knows what other skills you will discover. Maybe you'll learn German or solve world overpopulation. Now let’s get you home. My tweeds would feel infinitely better if they weren’t around when Trinny or Susannah come out.’

‘I thought they’d have gone long ago,’ I said, not having spotted them when we left the clinic.

‘Well, that’s the strange thing,' said Stephen. 'As soon as you’d disappeared into your room, the nurses came back and took Trinny and Susannah into cubicles on either side. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that the tubes that came out of your room went into these same cubicles. I can’t imagine why but I believe one of the dear ladies shouted something about spotting a shilling. Were I a less imaginative man, I would suspect that that which was once yours, is now theirs. The most remarkable form of wealth redistribution I think I've ever seen.’

I winced. ‘Well, may it bring them luck in every place but airports,’ I said and lowering myself gently onto the back seat of Stephen's taxi I gave a smile. There was something so deeply satisfying in knowing that all the bran I've been eating was now somebody else's problem.

Jeremy Clarkson's Infinite Variety

I’m often asked if I find much time in my busy schedule to hate Phillip Schofield. I normally reply that I don’t give him much thought. While there are indeed a great many adjectives I would delightfully hurl at him like so many spanners wrapped in offal, these days, my hands are full holding a fairly broad-hipped opinion about people who watch ‘The Paul O’Grady Show’. They are the only people I currently consider the enemy and I would encourage you to do the same. Full-bodied eccentrics to the last, desperate like a constipative’s final gasp, they are full of that worldliness which leads them to consider cabbages the only fruit. To them a hosepipe ban is a cultural event and they donate their sphincters to medical science expecting to get tax relief. These are not bright people; as blind as a raincoat’s lining and as docile as gravy. Normally when I find myself in their company, I look for the nearest policeman and ask him to castrate me with his truncheon. Failing that, I try to disembowel myself with a coconut.

Unfortunately, last week, I found myself in far off Manchester with no policemen in sight and coconuts out of season. It was not the best time for one of these denizens of Transvestite TV to stop me in the street. I didn’t have high hopes for the encounter. He was a gnomish man who must have been pushing to peer up the skirt of ninety. I thought to make a dash for the nearby Athenaeum but he started to shuffle around me, examining the Madeley profile from side, back, and front, before he set a bead on my face and sighed. I could smell dumplings.

‘You’re looking old,’ he said. As simple as that. No small talk. No baiting it with compliments. Just a straight insult delivered with a slurp of his false teeth settling themselves back on receding gums. And then he was away. With the briefest of waves, he was back to the world of Scouse cross-dressers, cabbage and dry rubber hosepipes.

Yet had he waited just a moment, I would have explained that, like Shakespeare’s Cleopatra, age cannot whither me, nor custom stale my infinite variety. Let my face wrinkle and my brow sag, if they must, but you can never deny that my spirit is more youthful than that of many an angst-ridden teenager with a pension plan. It is why I care not a jot about looking my age. It also explains why I didn’t hold my tongue this morning when the doorbell rang and I found a strange man standing on my welcome mat.

Thankfully, he wasn’t alone, otherwise I might never have recognised him. Parked in the drive was a rocket car with AA Gill sitting on the luggage rack. AA gave me a wave as he always does; a flare of crushed velvet something special against the spare tyre.

‘We’ve come to take you for lunch,’ he shouted. ‘We’re off to the Hix Oyster and Chop House where we expect to make wry comments about the cuisine.’

‘Are you indeed?’ I replied and turned back to the tall man threatening me with a bleached smile the shape of scimitar. Without the clues of the rocket car and A.A. Gill to help me, I might have chased this stranger away with a few well times lashes of an umbrella. Instead, I stood staring at the poor man as I tried desperately to hide my disgust at the helpless product of unhindered vanity.

‘Well?’ he asked, standing there and making large hand gestures towards his face. ‘What do you think?’

‘You look a mess,’ I told him. ‘What on earth have you done to yourself? You have more than passing resemblance to Dick Van Dyke.’

‘It’s the new me!’ said Jeremy Clarkson with the euphoria that evidently comes of having your eyelids peeled by a laser. ‘Twenty thousand quid on the best plastic surgeon in London. He’s resculpted my chin and got rid of all my bags.’

‘Got rid of all your sense, I should say,’ I answered.

‘You can’t deny it. I look years young. And my testicles hang a good inch higher. I’d show you what he’s done for the hair on my back but it’s taking a time to heel. The skin graft hasn’t taken but that’s because we couldn’t get the right skin from a bald monkey. I’m having it re-laid this week.’

‘He’s left you looking like Richard E. Grant’s bulimic twin,’ I observed and dragged Jeremy into the hall as a dark cloud hinted at a sudden downpour. The last thing I wanted was a damp Clarkson threatening to split at the seams as he dried out.

‘Come on,’ he said, oblivious to his danger. ‘We’re going to try it out on London folk. See what they make of the new improved Clarkson 2.0 GTI.’

‘GTI?’

‘Grin, teeth, intelligence.’

‘Intelligence? They can help lift that as well?’

‘You’d be amazed what they can do with a laser,’ he replied.

This was an experience I thought it foolish to miss. I quickly changed into a suit and soon joined Gill on the luggage rack as Jeremy climbed into the driver’s seat. Once the cabin lid was shut and Jeremy was out of earshot, I turned to Gill.

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ he said. ‘But he wouldn’t listen to sense...’

‘I blame you for putting all these ideas into his head,’ I replied. ‘You and your metrosexual dinner jackets lined with baby otters. He used to be an honest, down-to-earth bloke who liked to talk about oiling bolts and greasing washers. Now look at him. He’s a monstrosity! He looks like Fred Gwynne’s less manly brother.’

‘Ah,’ said Gill, switching to his TV critic voice, which is at least ten decibels higher, ‘Fred Gwynne from TV’s “The Munsters”. A show of dubious writing quality but salvaged by the charm of a likable cast.’

Luckily the rest of his review was hidden behind the blast of the jet engine. I held on tight as we began to head towards Mach One. On the other side of the sound barrier, things grew quiet once again. Back to being the food critic, Gill licked a finger tip, nodded appreciatively at the flavour, before running it over an eyebrow. I feared the worst. I could hear a full metal wit being loaded into a chamber.

‘I can’t deny that Jeremy is probably a little in awe of my élan,’ said Gill, ‘but as I always say, you can’t catch panache. It’s sad that the same can’t be said of bad taste.’ He looked at me and an eyebrow curled towards the implicit.

‘What do you mean by catching bad taste? You’re not saying that any of this is my fault?’

‘I’m merely pointing out that my tan came from the Côte d'Azur.’

‘Meaning?’

He shrugged. ‘Meaning it wasn’t a free sample in a woman’s magazine.’

I’d heard enough. I hammered on the roof of the cabin and the whine of the jet engine was replaced by the sound of brakes and the screech of Dunlops.

‘Don’t tell me he’s fallen off again,’ said Jeremy, popping his head out his plastic bubble. He looked to Gill who smiled, elegantly as always.

‘Not me,’ said AA. ‘We have a deserter in our midst.’

‘You not coming for lunch?’ asked Jeremy as I struggled to unbuckle myself. ‘We’re having escargot.’

‘A lucky day for the French snail,’ mumbled Gill.

‘I’m off,’ I said, slipping from the roof rack. ‘You can go to lunch without me. When you’re in the mood for the company of somebody who knows his age and is happy eating at home with a Pot Noodle, you know where I live.’

Gill shrugged but Jeremy’s face attempted a frown for which it was clearly not designed. He just looked pleased that ‘Mary Poppins’ had won so many Oscars.

‘Don’t go off like this,’ cried Jeremy. ‘I still haven’t shown you about my ears. They’re fully detachable and have Velco on the back.’

But I was too far gone to care listening, detachable ears or no detachable ears.

Give me lunch with men that are men and people who look their age. Give me men who are thinkers, wizened but wise, true to their principles, or habitually lost. Though my hair is brown and my skin is too, I am a real man at heart. When the crags on my face deepen, the hairs of my head whiten, you will see that I am still being myself and no other. You’ll never find me bleaching my teeth or wearing a baboon’s pelt on my back. I’ll leave that to O’Grady, Schofield and the rest of their unctuous kind. And though I never thought I’d say it, I’ll leave it to Jeremy Clarkson too. God knows. I’ll miss that craggy faced old bugger and his yellowing teeth.

The Devil and Jeremy Clarkson

Damn me for these feelings of inadequacy. If you caught the show last night, you might have wondered what was wrong with the man in the cream coloured slacks and the generously unbuttoned shirt. Well, I'd had enough of this crazy monstrosity of a life I've been living for this last month. A straight G&T after yesterday's show set me straight; almost as much as all your generous comments left at this blog over the course of the past few days. Stiffened with so much resolve, it would be right to call me 'lumber' as I marched out of the studio and hailed a taxi to take me to BBC headquarters.

The intention was to set this Michael Jacob character straight on a few things and, especially, the terms and conditions to his 'College of Comedy' initiative. I wanted to know outright if a man with a blog of over 100,000 words could still consider himself a beginner in the world of writing comedy. And even if this blog doesn't count because, as I'm sure you'll agree, it's got less to do with comedy and more to do with spiritual enlightenment like some latter-day religious text, then surely my impression of Ali G must rate as one of British comedy's most celebrated moments of recent years. There is a reason that I co-host the highest-rated husband-and-wife talk show in Channel 4's 5pm slot and it has nothing to do with my immaculate profile and crease-free brow.

Looking back, I know I should have quit the taxi before the driver started to steer me the long way around Shepherd's Bush. Drink and I rarely mix. Add a Shepherd's Bush into the mix and there was bound to be trouble, if not the occasional sexual innuendo involving sheep and clippers. As it was, the fatal imbalance of gin over tonic meant that I was walking straight into an ambush. It had slipped my mind that after my previous spat with the BBC, Corporation executives had insisted that my picture be posted in the little booths that stand guard outside the car park.

And so it was that no sooner had I stepped from the taxi and begun to explain to the guard about the unfair rules of the 'College of Comedy', he had stunned me with his BBC issue Taser and I was on the ground doing the Dance of the 10,000 Volts. He spent the next five minutes trying to extract Channel 4 secrets from me. Naturally, I told him everything he wanted to know but I never really had much choice.

I hope you're never hit by a stun gun. No, I really mean that. I wouldn't want to see it. Even if it was on YouTube and no matter how funny your spasms. The two needles hit me blow the waistline so the pain was more intense once the current started to flow. I doubt if I'll ever get my hair to lie flat down there again.

However, to cut a long story short (much as I've been forced to do with my hair), it was only when a large black Bentley drew up at the gate that the guard stopped torturing me.

The car's window wound down to the whirr of electronic trickery and a face emerged that it was hard not to recognise.

'Is that you Dick?' said Jeremy Clarkson, a glass of champagne in one hand and a copy of Exchange and Mart in the other.

I looked up at him from the gutter. In lieu of the 10,000 volts, the guard had placed his foot on my throat.

'You know this gentleman, sir?' asked the guard.

'Of course,' replied Jeremy. 'This is the man who taught me everything I know about Tunisia. The question is what he's doing beneath your foot.'

'I'm trying to get into the BBC,' I gasped.

'And I've been trying to get out for years,' said Jeremy in turn, 'but they never let me go. They made me sign my contract with blood. Oh, they promised me that I'd have seven years of good luck and become the richest man in the country, but I ask you, Dick, at what cost? What has it done to my soul?'

'What indeed?' I asked and gestured towards the length of shin that was still directing a black shoe toward my windpipe.

'Ah, let him up, will you?' asked Clarkson to the guard, who doffed his cap before he took his foot from my throat.

'Thanks,' I grumbled as I stood up and dusted myself down.

'So, are you coming in?' asked Jeremy.

I looked towards Television Centre. My instinct was to run but I still had business with Aunty Beeb and a Clarkson already mildly greased with liquor and cheaply priced auto parts makes for the perfect companion when setting out to put the world to rights. Ten minutes later, we were walking through the bowels of Television Centre, searching for the famous 'BBC Comedy Unit'.

'I'm not so sure it has a comedy department,' said Jeremy after we'd emerged from the dozenth dusty room full of props. Jeremy had commandeered an Admiral's hat from an old prop basket and, to his great delight, it fitted him perfectly.

'Of course the BBC have a comedy department,' I replied. 'There must be a room in here where we can find the likes of Armando Iannucci, Dick Clement and Ian la Frenais, not to mention David Nobbs and those comedy Gods known in their human form as Galton and Simpson.'

Jeremy opened another door and peered into the darkness.

'At this rate, we're only likely to find by Jimmy Perry and David Croft,' he said and then brightened at a devilish thought. 'Perhaps we might stumble across the people who write Armstrong and Miller.'

'I sincerely hope not,' I replied as I checked behind a large cut-out of Ricky Tomlinson's nose. 'I've had enough trouble with one chimpanzee in my life. I'd hate to get between an infinite number of them fighting over a single typewriter with a dodgy ribbon.'

Another door and another grimace appeared on Clarkson's face.

'Oh, just the production unit for Little Miss Jocelyn,' he said as he quickly shut the door on the sound of a looped laughter track.

I too fed my face the look of a man not happy with his place in the world. 'In that case, we're clearly heading in the wrong direction,' I said. 'Comedy must be in the other direction.'

After another half hour's search, we finally tracked down the BBC Comedy Unit. The portacabin was stuck behind the Terry Wogan Hydrotherapy Annex, right at the back of the BBC lot where they one day plan to built the Bruce Forsyth mausoleum. The place was in darkness when we found it and though I had lost all hope of speaking to somebody in authority, Jeremy insisted on banging on the door.

A moment later, a light came on.

'See,' said Jeremy. 'BBC comedy talent never rests!'

Mine was not a prophesy worthy of Nostradamus when I told him that I thought that he'd spoken too soon. The door opened and a small bald fat man appeared on the step. He was wearing small horns on his head but otherwise looked like we'd just woken him. Perhaps it was the horns that distracted me from immediately recognising Matt Lucas. We'd once done some charity work together but I wondered if he remembered me.

'You can't come in,' he said, giving Jeremy one of his dark looks. 'This is our hut. You can bugger back off to Top Gear.'

'Typical,' muttered Jeremy. 'Another one that's bought into the seven year contract.'

'I'm here to talk to somebody about comedy,' I replied, hoping that he would have forgotten about all the bad blood that once flowed between us. 'Is there somebody in charge?'

'Well there's only me and you're not coming in. Who do you think you are? The Dark Lord himself?'

A shiver ran up my spine but Jeremy patted my shoulder. 'Don't worry, he means Ricky Gervais,' he said.

'I should hope not I'm not Ricky Gervais,' I replied with a smile. 'I'm Dick Madeley.'

'Madeley?' Lucas peered at me and then recognition flared. 'Oh, it's you! You once said that I wasn't funny.'

'And I stand by that,' I answered firmly. 'I said that your brand of infantile comedy was as poorly written as it is performed and that it would never find an audience. I also said that you'd be condemned to satellite TV for the rest of your miserable career.'

He smiled and tapped the sign on the portacabin door.

'BBC Comedy Unit,' he said before he quietly closed it on me and my hopes for comedic stardom.

Good Heavens! Gnats and Transvestites on a Sunday!

If somebody hadn't typed 'do gnats have feelings' into Google or I hadn't been forced to intercept misdirected visitors looking for 'blogs for men attracted to transvestites', I might not have updated today. Search engines bring in such a range of people with unusual tastes that it's hard to know how I should respond to them. Yes: gnats have feelings. In fact, they are very sensitive to criticism. No: I don't know any blogs for men attracted to transvestites. Nor do I know of blogs for men attracted to gnats or whether transvestites have feelings.

I do know that I'm very busy preparing myself for two tough days of voice-over work. Unless I can hammer out a few words when I get home late tomorrow night, you shouldn't expect to hear from me until Wednesday. This is the price we must pay for ensuring that crusts are earned, nests feathered, livings made. I might get Denis to write something in my absence but, after his first attempt, I'm wary about giving him the blog's password.

If gnats, transvestites and one-armed assistants aren't odd enough for your Sunday, I've had an email to ask that I help promote the campaign to award Petula Clark a damehood. Although I don't own any of her records, I do know that she recorded a few of Serge Gainsbourg's songs and, by doing so, helped promote the work of my hero and role model. For this reason alone I think she deserves recognition, though you might want to recognise her for founding one of the best high street shoe shops.

While I was on the Downing Street website I tried to register a new campaign to reward Stephen Fry with a knighthood only to discover that a petition already exists.

I wouldn't mind but I'd already had my local graphic design company produce a logo for my campaign. I must now reconsider whether I should work to endorse the existing petition or start one of my own to have Bill Oddie recognised for the work he does on behalf of owls. While I'm away, I want you to give this some thought. I like the idea of making Bill this year's charitable cause but I fear that, although he's a bigger celebrity than Stephen inside the UK, Oddie would not reach out to an audience in the wider blogging community. I'm tempted to offer Jeremy Clarkson as a compromise candidate. What do you think?

The Great Natasha Kaplinsky Hunt

I thought it odd when I turned on the computer this morning and discovered that my blog had been overwhelmed, not by people seeking Stephen Fry's encounter with shrivelled reindeer glands, but by new visitors looking for pictures of 'Natasha Kaplinsky without makeup'. It set me to thinking.

'Have you ever heard of such a thing?' I asked Judy who was kneeling before the fireplace, chiselling off dried mortar from the new hearth she'd fitted a day earlier. 'Judging from this interest in pale, un-rouged skin, I would think that we could make a fortune if we could get a picture of Natasha Kaplinsky with a little less colour in her cheeks.'

Judy dropped her lump hammer and turned to me. 'Richard, are you sure that this is the most profitable way of spending your Tuesday?' she asked. 'I thought you could help me come up with some questions to ask tonight's guest, Kerry Katona, who will be joining us in the studio to talk about her new reality show, “Kerry Katona: Crazy In Love”, in which Kerry and her husband, Mark Croft, offer an insight into their extraordinary lives.'

I gazed at my poor darling wife. It never ceases to amaze me how easily she drops into autocue mode.

'Sorry,' she blushed. 'I did it again, didn't I?'

'You certain did, Jude. Perhaps we should continue this conversation after the break?'

She touched a hand to brow and shook her head sadly. 'I don't know what happens. I suppose it's just instinct after all these years. I can't wait for the Channel 4 contract to end so I can get down to Cornwall and start writing my novels.' A sigh and she looked up at me. 'But what about you, Richard? You've still not answered my question. Are you going to help me write some questions for Kerry?'

'Not if she were the last guest on earth,' I replied and vengefully dug a paper knife into the day's mail. 'You know how I feel about her. I don't at all see what's so extraordinary about her life? Has she ever had a great thought or written a line of prose or poetry enough to make a nation weep? Does she have any skills other than those of self-promotion and overindulgence? I've said it before, Jude, but we should be promoting people who deserve our help. Not these examples of British trailer trash who hardly know what it's like to go out and earn money through the hard graft of their own labours. No, no, Judy. You'll have to write the questions yourself. I'm going to spend my day trying to earn an honest wage. I'm going to sneak into Channel Five and snap a covert picture of Natasha Kaplinsky before they've heat sealed her inside a mixture of pancake and wax.'

Judy waved her chisel in the air. 'If you think it's worthwhile, go for it, Richard. But don't expect me to help.'

'There's no need for you to help,' I said. 'I have plenty of friends who will be more than willing to track down Natasha Kaplinsky. There are men out there cast from the same mould as your husband. Men who consider hunting newsreaders as the noblest of the sports left to us since we've been banned from shooting elephants, white rhino, and tiger.'

'So it's a surveillance operation?' said Clarkson half an hour later when I rang him. 'If it is, then count me in. It'll give me chance to try out the new night vision goggles I bought off eBay.'

'No need for night vision,' I told him. 'This will be a daylight raid into the heart of the Five News operation. I'm going to see if Bill Oddie will let us borrow his camera with the lens specially designed for taking surveillance pictures of sparrows at close range.'

'Why not bring him along?' asked Jeremy. 'We might need a man whose beard has been specially trained by the SAS to sneak through undergrowth.'

I explained how Bill and his beard were still suffering from their wounding by an errant heron. 'He's back with his family but he still claims to feel discomfort whenever he gets near an estuary,' I said.

Jeremy rang off having agreed to meet me at twelve, and, sure enough, a few seconds before noon, I heard the distant bang as the sound barrier was breached by a land-based rocket car. Jeremy arrive a second later, the shrill whine of his jet engine fading as he climbed out. He was dressed in combat trousers and a safari jacket, a fact which caused me no end of amusement as we began to pile equipment into the back of the Range Rover and then set off into central London and the promise of big game.

Being two 'A' list celebrities, we can get access to places that are restricted to you normal untalented folk, no doubt stuck out there in your humdrum existence of commuting into Manchester or Glasgow, and working a long day full of office routine. You won't know the thrill of breeching a nerve centre of the nation's communications. One such place is the studio for Five News. It's run by the people at Sky News from their headquarters in Osterley, Central London. We parked out front and decided to try the direct approach by blagging our way past the guard at the front desk. He was the typical guard, proud of his job. His jacket was emblazoned with the insignia of News International and the the Bob Friend Memorial tie pin gleamed near his throat.

'We're here to do an interview about our new show,' I told him.

'Oh,' said the guard. 'And what's that all about?'

Jeremy, quick on his feet as ever, replied: 'the Welsh.' When pressed and nervous, he usually mentions the Welsh. I suppose that, psychologically, the Welsh are Jeremy's comfort blanket, though I don't know why...

'The Welsh?' replied the guard.

Jeremy just smiled. I could tell it would be left to a man of real imagination to fill in the detail.

'Jeremy and I have been travelling Britain together, filing a new series in which we wryly comment on the nation's musical tastes. We began with the Welsh and their unhealthy obsession with male choral groups.'

'Very good,' whispered Jeremy.

'Welsh choral groups?' repeated the guard.

That's when Jeremy piped up. 'The show is called, “Good Vibrations With Richard&Jeremy”,' he said.

I made a point of jotting this idea down. Jeremy might not see much potential in it but I certainly do.

The guard, however, was somewhat suspicious. I could tell this by the way he picked up the phone and began to mutter something to his superiors. However, a few minutes later, a call came through and he reluctantly gave us to visitor cards.

We'd reached the first floor when Jeremy dragged me to one side and behind a large cardboard cut out of Kirsty Young marked for recycling. He nodded towards a set of doors marked 'Staff Only' at the end of the corridor.

'We go through there,' he said. 'I've been here before to plug my Christmas DVD. That way leads to the dressing rooms.'

'But we don't even know if Natasha is in the building,' I said. 'We should make some casual enquiries first.'

Jeremy placed his big hand on my shoulder. 'What kind of man comes on a hunt and doesn't know the habits of his quarry? You don't think I didn't come prepared. Before I left the house I rang Jeremy Paxman who told me everything we need to know about Kaplinsky, such as the fact that she rarely leaves her dressing room. She'll be in there now, resting before tonight's show.' He nodded again at the doors. 'Come on, follow me.'

I trailed after him as he crept down long dark corridors. Finally, he stopped outside a door marked 'Talent'.

'This is it,' he said. 'This is where they keep her.'

'Keep her?' I was very cynical, as would you should you know that your actions are being governed by information gleaned from a man called Paxman. 'You make her sound like she's an exhibit...'

Before I could finish, Jeremy threw open the door and I began to realise how little I know about the world of TV beyond Channel 4.

The oxygen tent filling the room was glowing a vibrant pink. Soft furnishings filled it like a sack of cotton candy and giant marshmallows. The fur from creatures whose natural camouflage was pink was spread across the mattress while lying amid the flowers, feathers, and throw cushions, was a figure of sublime beauty, her thin features cleansed of artificial colour.

'Is that her?' I whispered.

'If it's not,' replied Jeremy, 'we should watch out for seven malicious dwarves coming back from diamond mining duties.'

'But won't she wake up?'

'Not during daylight hours,' said Jeremy, who for some reason was opening his satchel. I was a little surprised when he pulled out a foot long stick sharpened at one end and a wooden mallet.

'What's that for?'

'It's just something that Paxman asked me to do,' he smiled the nation's favourite Jeremy.

I was in no mood to question the agreements made between BBC men. I pushed the lens through an opening in the oxygen tent and fired off a few snaps.

'We should get out of here,' I said.

Jeremy lingered, weighing the stake and mallet in his hands.

'Come on,' I said, grabbing him by a curl, 'we need to get out of here before we're discovered and they force us to make them a show. You don't want to be on Fifth Gear do you?'

That seemed to do the trick. His shoulders sagged and he followed me as we retraced our steps out of the building. Five minutes later, we were sitting in the Range Rover. I was checking the pictures on the digital camera while Jeremy kicked the gears into four wheel drive and ploughed us through a hedge and out onto the open road.

'These photographs will make us a small fortune,' I promised him.

Jeremy just looked vaguely out at the road ahead. 'I though I could do it,' he muttered. 'I thought I could do it... And I've missed my chance.'

'Don't worry,' I said, looking at the stake and mallet sitting on the back seat. 'If you're still in the mood for adventure, come along to the show this afternoon. I could do with a man who knows how to wield a mallet.' I looked again at the wood steak. 'I do think we should stop off and find you a bigger big of wood. It's one thing hunting a woman like Natasha Kaplinsky but I'm now talking about an evil that roams the Earth by day...'