Manchester: 8:22AM

This morning I lost a close friend under the wheels of a train. It was the button from the shoulder of my favourite casual jacket. It had got stuck under the strap of my bag which, I pulled the bag from my shoulder, went ping and merrily rolled along the platform before it disappeared under the wheels of the second carriage. It was something of a highpoint.

The train was packed. I found a spare seat next to an aspiring Jordan, her jacket and bag sitting in the chair.

‘Can I sit down, please?’ I ask.

She moves the jacket’s cuff all of one inch to make one third of the seat available to me. I’m not a man to make a scene – much as I would love to be – so I sat down as she made a tactical move for territory by taking up the whole of the table with her OK Magazine. This is how I came to I spend my journey from Manchester Airport reading Katie Andre’s column about ‘what a laugh we had at Club Slap which we got to at midnight but I needed to be up early the next day so I called it a night at around three and Pete wanted a shag...’ I have the luxury or reading the magazine because this delightful creature answers her phone (hands free) and I have to listen to her barking laughter in my ear for the next twenty minutes.

‘Life is so hard,’ she tells her friend. ‘How many holes are you going to play today?’

The Caption Composition

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Leatherette,’ said Judy. ‘Leatherette.’

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

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

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

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

Yang

Yin and Yang. Karma. Or just swings and roundabouts... I've always had faith in the notion that Life has a way of evening itself out. Cosmic Balance. Celestial Harmony. For every new reality TV series written by Jordan's breasts and starring Kerry Katona, there's bound to be something that balances it out. Without at least one Jamie Oliver, we might not have Larry David. For every Crunchie in a box of Cadbury's Heroes there's always a Twirl.

Yet over the course of the last few years, I've begun to think that Life is all swings, or indeed, all Crunchies. There's just far too much Yang in the world. Kerry Katona's face mocks me from the advertising hoardings as I trudge through the waking city centre each morning at dawn. Her down-the-nose sneer is the confirmation of my own hubris. Kerry gets yet another new series while 'Arrested Development', one of the best comedies to come out of America in the last decade, was cancelled part way through the third series. Chaplin is dead. So are Stan Laurel, W.C. Fields, Groucho. Hunter S. Thompson has knocked back his final whisky and P.G. Wodehouse has wore his last spat. It's dangerous having me as a fan. Look at my dear friend Stephen recently run over by a marauding manatee.

Today was another day when the swings won. Yang is laughing at me for believing that at some point, my luck will change, that I will begin to feel good about myself. But what's that you say? “Ah, Richard, don't harp on about how tough things are when the world is full of famine, illness, and people born without elbows.” And you would indeed be right. Statistics would prove that there is a worldwide shortage of elbows and that Yang laughs at other people far more often than it mocks me. But the truth is that I'm too tired to question the self-evident truth that I have really made a mess of things. Judy might land us a new deal after the Channel 4 contract runs out but in the meantime, I'm getting up at six o'clock and getting home twelve hours later after doing some anonymous voiceover work for a cracker company that's only famous in China. Today it was pointed out that I'm not very good at my job. This might well be true. How can any competent man make a mess of the line: 'it's the crazy crisp of the crunchy Chinese corn cracker'?

Tomorrow is another day. Think of me and pray for Yin.

The Shetland Midgets

Animals and Dick Madeley hold an uneasy truce, born out of years of conflict, often bloody, and usually resulting in me with underpants to ankles and a tetanus shot stuck in my behind. It’s the principal reason why I rarely talk about Judy’s passion for Shetland ponies, despite her being, in the sad and often disturbed circles that rate such things, one of the nation’s top show breeders. She has won awards for her miniature horses that surpass her many achievements in television. I think I’m even safe in saying that only George Lucas has done more to further the cause of midgets worldwide.

Yet as much as I avoid having anything to do with them, there are certain times when I can only bite my lip, give a snort, and become a bit horsey. Yesterday was one such day. The annual Richard&Judy Horse of the Year Show is organised by Judy’s stables and held at a large converted aerodrome in Norfolk. Unlike that other horse festival with a similar title, our show celebrates the country’s equestrians in the only way that’s right and proper: by attracting the country’s top celebrities and getting them drunk before sunset.

This year was a special year because it was the tenth show and Judy was going to be showing Raymond and Percy, her two prize Shetland ponies. Now, running around a ring leading a midget horse is not something I normally look forward to, but this year there were a few compensations. For one, Jeremy Clarkson was going to be on hand with his donkey. He’d promised to bring old Flossy along for the children to ride for a pound a go, with all proceeds going to his Donkey Sanctuary and Meat Processing Charity / Investment Opportunity. The other reason for my optimism was the fact that we’d persuaded Stephen Fry to be our master of ceremonies. This had been one of my better ideas and I knew things would go well once I heard the familiar voice echoing around the show ring.

‘Ah, ’tis I, Fry, on the Tannoy, welcoming you all the twenty second Richard&Judy Horse of the Year Show. Indeed. Were I to say what kind of show we have for you today, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I would be doing you all a great disservice. For I simply cannot anticipate the soft warm bundles of frilly goodness you’ll see here today. My! I can merely ask you all to put your hands together, if they are not already thus, and welcome out our first act: Ms. Sandi Toksvig and her celebration of the beauty of bareback!’

The audience cheered and we were away with a the usual display of bareback riding that Sandi does each year to open the show. I’ve seen it all before so I made my way backstage where I found Judy, that paragon of professionalism, demonstrating why she’s often called the Queen of the Midget Mounts.

‘Get that ****ing comb and ****ing-well brush it a-****ing-gain!’ she screamed at one of the young grooms. ‘I want that tail ****ing silky. ****ing silky!’

I decided to walk right through the paddock – as I believe it’s called – and head off to see how all the other celebrity acts were getting on with their preparations. Or I would have if I hasn’t spotted Clarkson smoking his pipe at one of the side doors. He was admiring some big bunkers on the other side of the old runway.

‘Do you ever stop to consider the engineering that goes into something like that?’ he asked. ‘Staggering. Simply staggering.’ He used the end of his pipe to point out a detail. ‘That concrete must be twelve feet thick. They were probably once home to battlefield nukes.’

‘Strong stuff,’ I agreed. ‘That would even protect you against a blast from a battle hardened Cilla Black.’

‘She’s not here is she?’ asked Jeremy. With hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned Cilla’s name. Jeremy was clearly still worried about that drunken argument they’d had at our Christmas party. I know for a fact that she’s still very upset that Jeremy considers ELO superior to the Beatles.

‘I’m afraid she couldn’t make it,’ I said, to reassure him.

‘Couldn’t she? Oh damn,’ he said, returning to his pipe. ‘Perhaps that explains the good turn out.’

‘No, that’s just the Lily Allen effect,’ I explained. ‘She’s brought her publicity machine with her. We have half of London’s PR staff out in the crowd. I don’t know what sounds louder: the applause for Toksvig on an Arabian or the sound of fingers on blackberries.’

Jeremy puffed away, seemingly quite content gazing across at the hardened bunkers.

‘How are the donkey rides going?’ I asked to shake him from his dreams of low yield battlefield nukes.

‘All sold out,’ he said. ‘I’ve done so well that I’ve now got the rest of the day to myself.’

‘How on earth can you sell out a day’s donkey’s rides?’

He winked. ‘That’s where you lack my genius. You might have noticed that there is now a donkey walking around backstage, carrying a crate of babycham and enough cheese nibbles to feed Cambodia. I strapped a tray to Flossy’s back and hired her out to Christopher Biggins for the day.’

A roar from the audience suggested that Toksvig’s bareback routine had finally come to an end. ‘Sounds like we’re up next,’ I said as I heard Fry announce a moment’s break. ‘Midget horses next,’ I said, unable to restrain a groan.

‘I don’t think they’re technically called midget horses,’ said Jeremy, who can be politically correct when it suits him. ‘The correct term is midget ponies.’

‘Well whatever they are, I’m up next. Are you coming to watch?’

He tapped out his pipe on his heel before he tucked it into his pocket. ‘It should be good for a laugh,’ he said.

We reached the edge of the ring in time to find Judy pacing nervously around. She has such a passion for the midget ponies that even her husband has to tread cautiously when he’s around her. Actually, that’s not a bad bit of advice. It’s all too easy to step on one of the bloody things and mess up your heels with blood and flaxen mane.

‘Where have you been?’ she snapped.

‘Admiring twelve feet of concrete on some Cilla-proof bunkers,’ said Jeremy; a touch foolhardy, I thought.

Judy’s face darkened, as it always does when Jeremy mocks one of her closest friends.

‘Don’t worry, I’m here now,’ I said to calm her. ‘Which one of these do you want me to take. Pinky or Perky?’

‘As well you know, Richard, they’re called Raymond and Percy. You can take Percy. He’s slightly lest skittish.’

‘I can’t see why we couldn’t hire midgets to ride these things around the ring,’ I said as I took the reigns to the little trotter. I felt mildly foolish with Jeremy watching me, his face big with a drayhorse grin.

There was a brief cough over the Tannoy before Stephen’s voice shushed the crowd.

‘Ah, shush,’ said he, ‘for, now, indeed, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I’m delighted to welcome to the ring, the couple of the hour… Were I am man given to long and rambling introductions, I would say that we feel the deepest love and affection for the people who made this event possible. Luckily, I’m not a man given to long and rambling introductions, so I will simply say, with no little humility and a touch of love that one might call “squishy”, that it does our hearts proud to welcome into the ring, Richard and Judy and their simply stunning Shetland ponies.’

To the March of the Bumblebee, we ran out into the ring. I was following Judy every step of the way as she bounced along with Raymond beside her. Percy was pretty indifferent to the whole thing, as was I, and we were soon losing a little distance from the lead.

‘Keep up,’ shouted Judy as she ran out ahead, waving to the crowd.

‘That’s easy for you to say,’ I called back, having managed to get the reigns wrapped around Percy’s throat. From a distance, I imagine it looked like I wasn’t leading him as much as trying to strangle the life out of him.

I was thankful that after a single circuit of the ring, we stopped in the middle. I say this but I guess I wasn’t as thankful as little Percy who I’d had to drag around for the last few feet.

‘What do we do now?’ I gasped, though, again, not as much as little Percy who was sucking in plenty of air now he had the chance.

‘Oh, Richard, you know exactly what’s next. It was on the piece of paper I gave you. We stand here while the girls perform.’

I didn’t want to say that I hadn’t bothered with piece of paper. Never do. I ad lib my life and this was going to be no exception.

A fanfare heralded ‘the girls’ into the ring. In a synchronised canter, out came Jordan, Jodi Marsh, Jade Goody and Kerry Katona, all bouncing high and happily on their four mounts.

‘Apocalyse!’ I cried, unable to restrain myself.

‘What?’ asked Judy, holding Raymond’s reigns. The two midgets had become uneasy and were pulling at their restraints, as, indeed, was I.

‘Apocalypse!’ I cried again. ‘It’s the four riders. This is the end, Judy! Judgement day. And I’ve not had chance to do enough good in the world.’

‘Oh Richard, behave,’ she said, while maintaining her grin for the crowd.

The next few minutes were a nightmare to me. The four riders from the Book of Revelation circled me, their devilish orange faces shining in the spotlights. And lo, I looked, and beheld, an ashen horse; and she who sat on it had the name Jade; and Kerry Katona rode behind her. The number of the breasts was eight and hell followed with them.

‘They’ll end up with heavily bruised chins if this goes on for much longer,’ I said to Judy.

‘I’m warning you Richard. Cut it out.’

But I couldn’t. Round and round they bounced, cantered, twirled, and, indeed, bounced again. Just as I thought it couldn’t go on much longer, they wheeled around and trotted slowly towards us and the crowd rose in applause as their four mounts gracefully kneeled down and bowed to Judy, Raymond, Percy, and me.

‘That was really, really moving,’ said Clarkson, wiping tears from his eyes as I came off the ring and out of the spotlights. ‘That was really quite something. Never have I seen a man get on his knees and pray with such conviction. Did you really mean it when you asked God to take Judy first?’

‘Shut it Clarkson,’ I warned. ‘I’m in no mood to be mocked.’

‘Mock? I wouldn’t dare. I’d have paid good money to see that.’

I strode out to the back.

‘Where are you going?’ he shouted after me.

‘To find twelve feet of blast proof concrete. I have some things to say I think it better the world didn’t hear.’

In The Company of True Beauty

Jordan’s bringing her tits onto the the show tonight so I’m feeling a bit humble. It might get a bit crowded on the sofa so we might have to get Judy to shove over a little or ask Jordan to let a little air out.

For those of you that don’t know who (or what) I’m taking about, we’ve posted this bio on our official website.

Katie Price is one of the most successful female celebrities in Britain today. She has conquered being a model, author, mum, wife and now perfumer! Katie is the author of four successful books, two of which are autobiographies. This month, Katie releases her new perfume ‘Stunning’. She joins Richard & Judy in the studio to talk about her new baby Princess Tiaamii and Pete’s struggle with Meningitis, her amazing success as an author, and her new perfume.

Hard to know where to begin, isn’t it? Makes my own accomplishments pale somewhat. To be honest, these big name interviews get me nervous. I've been back and to to the toilet all morning. The woman has talent oozing out of her every pore. I imagine this is how Parkinson felt before he interviewed Ali.

I should probably begin by chatting about little Princess Tia Maria and then asking her about becoming a role model for many young girls across the country. I’ll ask her about her boob jobs and how she got started in the business of soft core pornography. Of course, she’s a famous author with two novels out (ooh er!), so I’ll be asking her about the creative process that brought about her ‘amazing success’ and the moral choices she makes when faced with the job of writing page after page of sex. I'll ask her if she finds it as tedious to write as I find it tedious to read. Then I’ll ask her how she comes up with her ideas and how she first came up with now notorious scene in her first novel when her heroine ‘did it like a monkey’ in Knowsley Safari Park.

The woman is sure to interest you so don’t forget to tune in. And also, don’t forget to buy her new perfume, “Stunning” available from 24th August. Prices start from £18.00 but it’s cheaper if you buy it by the pint.

Some Jordan facts. Jordan has famously nicknamed her breasts Eric and Ernie, but did you know she's been sued by the estate of the late Ernie Wise? Did you also know that Jordan’s perfume actually contains her own nipple juice and comes with a money back guarantee should your nipples not grow an inch after using it? Jordan hopes to be shortlisted in this year’s Booker Prize and, if she is, she’ll be only the second author to do so with breast implants. Jordan is also involved in a high court action against the country of Jordan when it was announced that the small middle eastern nation intended to have a boob job and market its own perfume. Jordan’s calendars are always top sellers but did you know that for the past five years they’ve been missing the month of March?