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.

Happy Birthday Me!

It was more than the maturing of my peppercorn stocks that prompted Judy to wake me this morning. ‘It’s your birthday, Richard,’ she said. ‘Or it is according to Wikipedia and if that’s good enough for our team of Cambridge-educated researchers, then it’s good enough for me. Now what would you like to do to celebrate?’

I didn’t know what to say, birthdays having become something of a low point of my year since I prefer to go by my skin age rather than my real age. Besides, I’ve been miserable for so long that I have forgotten the meaning of ‘fun’. It was clear that Judy could sense my mood.

‘I know the contract negotiations with Channel 4 have upset you,’ she said, ‘and I appreciate how tiring it must be to travel up to Manchester once a week to work in an office. But why don’t we spend the peppercorn dividend on the biggest barbecue this street has ever seen? I could ask Cilla to come down and you could give Bill a call...’

The thought of Cilla Black singing ‘Happy Birthday’ was enough to turn a pubic hair but Judy did have a point about my needing to relax. It’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed a good time with my showbiz friends and there’s nothing as good for the spirits as singing one the karaoke while Bill Oddie plays his spoons.

‘We’ll do it!’ I said, throwing back the sheets on my naked body. ‘Uncooked meat on a Tuesday! There’s nothing as likely to provoke the threepenny bits on a Wednesday. And Stephen’s back in the country. Now his arm is fully healed, I’m sure he’d love to bring over his famous sausage.’

Three hours later, as the sun beat down on Emery Close (named after its first famous resident Dick), I prodded my fork into a lump of quality meat and turned it over before basting it with some of Judy’s spicy sauce. The garden was full of family, friends, neighbours, and colleagues. David Dickinson was loudly explaining the difference between walnut and mahogany, while Ant (for once without his Dec) was playing his banjo as Stephen Fry interrogated Robert Llewellyn (he of Scrapheap fame) about welding techniques for the softer alloys. Over in a corner, we’d left some old golf clubs for the kids who were using Keith Chegwin as a makeshift pinyata. His little Scouse screams amused all who heard them.

‘Isn’t this better?’ asked Judy, standing at my side and buttering her buns. ‘We’ve been needing a day like today to get rid of all the tension.’

‘A man could be happy if only he could prod meat for a living,’ I agreed.

Judy put her lips to my cheek and wished me a ‘Happy Birthday’.

I blushed, realising how lucky I am. I turned over a sausage and thought of how many men would swap their whole world for just a few hours of living like that. I had reached for a bottle of sauce, believing that things couldn’t get any better, when I saw Vanessa Feltz arrive. Dressed in a thin summer dress, she came jogging over to me. Judy muttered one of her more nautical curses but I was mesmerized.

And that’s when the world caught fire.

A little time later, I woke up and felt an intense pain across my forehead. A figure was bending over me, wiping my face with a damp cloth.

‘Ah, ‘tis I, Fry,’ said Stephen, ‘extinguishing your flames with my now ruined summer cloak. Dear Richard, did you think it wise to pour a can of fuel onto a lit barbecue? Were I am man more given to reproach, I would advise you that it is a very silly thing to have done. I would berate you with a “tut” and a “tush”. Bless...’

‘Is that what happened?’ I asked, trying to sit up. I felt for my brow and was surprised to feel how smooth it was. ‘The last thing I remember was being distracted by the approach of Vanessa Feltz’s summer bosom. It was like a field of sunflowers bouncing towards me. I must have picked up the wrong bottle? Am I injured? How do I look?’

‘Eyebrows,’ said Stephen. ‘The poor little fellows stood no chance. Your brow is as smooth as a Brazilian buttock. However, it has taken years off you. You now look like a man in his fifties.’

The dear man. He can always provide a ray of sunlight in even the darkest of hours. I patted his arm and managed to climb to my feet from where I surveyed the scene of the barbecue. Much of the back lawn was blackened and all my meat ruined. Even Stephen’s famous sausage was too scorched for salvage. But say what you want, days like this that remind you that it’s important to surround yourself with friends, family, colleagues, and large bosoms.

What more can a man ask for on his birthday. Except, of course, a new set of eyebrows. Brown if you’ve got them...

In The Land Where The Cheggers Dwell

The adjustments I've been making to my sleeping pattern have left me suffering terrible bouts of narcolepsy. As soon as I stop moving, my eyes close and I'm asleep. And little do I care where I land. Since I started to get up earlier in the day, I've been found sleeping behind the sofa, in the laundry closet, and nestled at the back of Judy's clothes cupboard. As I move on with my plan of getting up an hour earlier each morning, the narcolepsy seems to be getting worse.

'I think you should go back to bed,' said Judy at eight o'clock this morning. I'd just fallen face first into a bowl of cornflakes and only the years Judy spent as a life-guard saved me from the milk I'd sucked into my lungs.

'No, no,' I replied, 'I'll be quite fine. I can't feel as tired as this all day. I just need a little fresh air.'

'You're going to look a mess for this afternoon's show.'

I couldn't deny that but I was in mood for giving up. Madeley will need to be heading into the city at seven thirty on Monday and I want to be doing so after more than a couple of hours sleep.

With that in mind, I resolved to ensure that I would wide awake for five o'clock this afternoon but physically tired when it came time for me to retire to bed an hour earlier tonight. I changed into my tracksuit and went out the front door, fully intending to jog five miles down the road and back again.

The enterprise began quite well. I turned right at the front gate, ran down past David Dickinson's place, and then peered up Michael Palin's drive in the hope of seeing him, despite the rumour that he's currently walking barefoot across Australia for the BBC. Then I was skipping past Trevor McDonald's house and then gave a wave to Clive James who was washing his car. I then carried on down to the cheaper end of the street. It's rare that I go that far on foot. The problem of living in a strictly hierarchical neighbourhood such as ours is that there are always people on the lower levels who demand something from those at the top.

Today was no exception. I'd just run past the house owned by the neighbourhood recluse who used to be Shakin' Stevens when I heard a voice shouting me.

'Richard?' squealed a scouse accent. 'Hey! Richard? It's me!'

I turned around in time to see Keith Chegwin leap a low privet hedge and come running after me.

I might be prone to rushes of serotonin to the brain but I was not without certain emergency functions. Before I could consciously issue instructions to my legs, I was running the other way.

'Richard! Stop!' came another appeal. 'It's me. Cheggers!'

If you know anything, you'll know that Madeley hates men who refer to themselves in the third person. I looked over my shoulder to find that Cheggers was pursuing me but I was relieved to see that he wasn't gaining.

'What do you want?' I shouted but not lessening my stride.

'Any... chance... for five... minutes... on... your show?' he asked.

'Not a chance,' I shouted.

'But Cheggers has got... a... new... computer game... coming out...' was the rather breathless reply.

'A computer game?'

'A... showbiz... trivia... game...'

For a moment, I thought about stopping to learn more but then I remembered that chatting with Cheggers usually involves him telling you the story about when he presented a show nude on Channel Five.

'Haven't got time, Keith,' I shouted as the thought of Keith's shrivelled genitals encouraged me to pedal my knees faster.

'But it's on the Wii...' shouted Cheggers, the last syllable draining out into the silence of my eventual getaway.



Deciding not to risk another encounter with Swap Shop's scouse siren, I took the long route home, cutting through the estate where most of the Radio 4 lot live. I was quite relieved when I spotted John Humphrys who allowed me to take a short cut through his garden and to climb the wall that separates his apple orchard from the bottom of the Madeley estate.

When I get into the house, I mentioned what Cheggers had told me about his computer game.

'I think we're missing a trick here, Judy,' I said. 'Here we are spending time with our clubs for books, wine, cheese, and nuts, but we're catering to a vanishing audience. We need to start appealing to younger viewers.'

'We're not having a video game club,' she replied.

'No,' I said, 'but I thought we could easily have a Richard&Judy video game.' I looked towards the Xbox 360 that Stephen Fry had bought me for Christmas and I wondered if 'Zorg the Destroyer' would have any advice about my idea of making the jump into the virtual world.

'I'll ring Stephen this afternoon and see if he can think of any genre of game that would suit us,' I said as I sat down on the sofa and pulled off a shoe. 'I think a first person shooter based on the Richard&Judy formula would rocket to the top of the video games charts.'

Judy might have answered. I really can't remember and I haven't got time to go and ask her to repeat herself. I only woke up ten minutes ago with one trainer still on my foot and the other propped beneath my head as a pillow. I must now go and wash and change. I also have to get rid of the large Nike logo that's now embossed on my cheek.

You can't believe how strict they are at Channel 4 about produce placement and advertising.