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.

Back Soon...

I’ve been delayed today so my regular update will be a little later than usual. Life as an ‘A’ list celebrity is so busy that sometimes I wish that I could slide down to the ‘B’ list, just to catch a breather. In the meantime, here’s a quick precis of the search terms of some of my latest blog visitors arriving via Google.

For the person asking if Fred Talbot is married, I’d suggest that we find him first...

For my reader in York: at the moment, Monty Don is six feet and five inches tall but we cut him back to five feet eleven in the winter to encourage new growth in the spring.

The person asking me to ‘rate Kerry Katona’: I’d give her 1 out of 20.

The person searching for ‘interesting facts about garden gnomes’: there are no interesting facts about garden gnomes, which is itself, an interesting fact.

The person searching for ‘swearing at babies’: it doesn’t have much effect but it is enormous fun.

The person who came here asking if ‘guys rub balls for comfort’: I can assure you that they rub them to get a bit of shine in the hope of creating a bit of reverse swing.

And finally, for the person who wants to know ‘what happened to Mickey Rooney’s ears?’: Andi Peters accidentally trod on them while Mickey was doing panto in Swansea.

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.’

Strictly Dreamy

(Left to right: Bill, Judy, Myself, Selena, Stephen.)
Click picture to see Judy's legs in more detail

Barely had the glue begun to dry on Crown Prince Willem Hendrik’s elbow than the phone suffered a harmonic seizure. In my panic, the poor man’s arm fell off and attached itself to my thumb which I then had to shake manically in order to free it from the monarch’s grasp, heavy as it was with plastic cement. Only then could I reach for the receiver.

‘Yes,’ I snapped.

‘Oh, hi… Richard? This is Clare at the BBC. I’ve not caught you at a bad moment have I?’

‘You had,’ I replied. ‘I was enjoying a quiet five minutes in my office, putting the finishing touches to my latest Airfix model from the Great Dutch Potentates Collection.’

‘Well, if you’ve got time, I need a word. I’m afraid we’ve made a bit of a botch with your booking.’

I groaned as I deposed an armless Crown Prince by sticking him beneath my desk. There were more important matters at hand, if not to elbow. Judy and I had been asked to make a guest appearance on the BBC’s hit show, Pro-Celebrity Strictly Come Dancing At Christmas. Our booking has been long standing and we’d already devoted weeks of preparation to our dance routine. With only hours left before the big night, complications were the last thing I needed.

‘Could you be a dear?’ asked the producer. ‘I need you to check your contract. Did we say that your team should have “three men and one woman”?’

My hand reached for the file we use of future bookings and extracted the contract embossed with the BBC crest, a unflappable gannet with gremlin passant.

‘You did,’ I confirmed. ‘And we wrote back to say that our team will comprise Bill Oddie, Stephen Fry, Judy and myself. So that’s two men, one woman, and an Oddie.’

‘That’s just it,’ said the producer. ‘It should have been two women.’

‘So you’re saying that our team is a woman short?’ I bit my lip. This was not the first time I’ve been left to rue the inefficiency of the BBC. They once promised me a James May but delivered a Keith Chegwin.

‘We can provide an extra dancer without a problem,’ said Clare the Producer. ‘We’ve had Kerry Katona training in case of an emergency like this. She can join up with you at a moment’s notice.’

‘I’m sure she can,’ I replied, ‘but I don’t think that sounds very safe.’

‘Safe?’ asked the producer.

‘Well, isn’t it dangerous asking four people to dance over my dead body?’ I snapped.

‘I see,’ came the reply. ‘So am I to take it that you have a problem with Kerry?’

‘I have more than a single problem with Kerry. She’s epitomises what’s wrong with this country. Publishers sell her novels though she doesn’t write them, supermarkets use her to promote a healthy lifestyle she doesn’t herself follow, and her personal life is like some rogue state that’s just gone nuclear. To say that I don’t fancy flinging my hips around a dance floor with her would be something of an understatement. I’d prefer to dance the cha-cha-cha with North Korea.’ I rubbed a hand across my immaculate brow. ‘Look, leave it with me,’ I said. ‘I’m sure I can find some able bodied woman with an immaculate sense of rhythm.’

‘Well, if you say so, Richard, but in my experience, ballroom dancers are hard to find.’

I came off the phone and uttered Clarkson’s favourite expletive. This was the last thing I needed. The Christmas work has begun to come in thick and fast and I could see that I wouldn’t even get chance to watch myself on Have I Got New For You? I went to find Judy who was busy swimming lengths in our indoor heated pool.

‘Cock up on the Pro-Celebrity Stricture Come Dancing Christmas Special front,’ I said. ‘We’re a woman light.’

Judy trod water as she cleared out an ear that had become waterlogged. ‘Did you just say we’re a Norman light?’

‘I said a woman. And not just any woman. A woman who knows the foxtrot inside out.’

‘We’ve been taking months of secret lessons to get us up to speed,’ said Judy. ‘Who could we possibly ask? We don’t even know anybody called Norman.’

Poor Judy. Her inner ear is such a weakness. She has large earholes, you see, and her lobes also have a natural tendency to attract water. When she’s been swimming, we’re lucky if her hearing is back to normal within a week of her drying out. I went back to the office and rang Oddie.

‘Simple,’ said Bill. ‘Katie will do it.’

‘Katie?’

‘Kate Humble. We present "Autumnwatch" together. Lovely girl. She has an eye for a fine badger.’

‘That’s well and good,’ I replied, ‘but can she dance?’

‘Not a step,’ laughed Bill, ‘but there’s no better woman when you need to identify the call of the screech owl.’

I hung up, leaving Oddie with a promise to ask Katie if we couldn’t find a better alternative. All things considered, if it got that bad, I’d have even consider a screech owl.

‘Stephen?’ I said moments later after the speed dial had finished speeding through his forty seven digit phone number. He’s not so much ex-directory as triple-ex directory. There’s nothing that Stephen appreciates more than his privacy.

‘Ay, ’tis I, Fry, on my iPhone, currently practising my foxtrot for Pro-Celebrity Strictly Come Dancing’s Christmas Special.’

‘Odd that you should mention it,’ I said. ‘’Tis I, Richard, one Norman light for our team.’

‘Did you say a “Norman”?’

‘A woman. A woman,’ I cried. ‘What’s wrong with people today?’

‘A woman. I see… And is that just one woman we're short?’ he asked, apparently unfazed by the problem.

‘You make it sound like it’s a triviality. We need a woman with immaculate timing and an encyclopedic knowledge of contemporary ballroom dancing. This is a woman who has to dance on national TV with Bill Oddie. She has to be good.’

‘Simple,’ he said. ‘Ask Selena Dreamy.’

I was astonished at how the man’s mind works. I’ve said it before but it’s just not connected like those of normal human beings. He’s definitely got the full spec at Mankind 2.0 standards.

‘Of course,’ he continued. ‘When she came to see the mango tree growing in my conservatory, Selena demonstrated a quite admirable set of pins on her. Never has a woman been more blessed by the gods of the rhumba, if not the paso doble, cotillion, two step, and the bunny hug.’

‘Do you know her number?’ I asked, having long ago concluded that the astonishing blog phenomenon known as Selena was really a pipe smoking taxidermist from Slough. That she existed in female form was astonishing news.

‘Naturally, I do,’ replied the Great Fry. ‘What is the point of owning an iPhone if one doesn’t have the telephone numbers of the nation at one’s fingertips?’

‘Why indeed?’ I asked as the phone went silent and I heard Stephen’s fingers begin to stroke his iPhone.

An hour later, I returned to the pool. Judy was practising back flips from the diving board. I waited for her to surface before I told her the good news.

‘We’ve got our woman.’

‘I knew you would,’ she smiled. ‘I got thinking about it too. Norman Collier. He’s always good for a laugh.’

I shook my head and returned to Crown Prince Willem Hendrik’s elbow, the one constant in an often confusing world.

Pole Position

When I started to take pole dancing lessons last year, I never realised what an obsession it would become. Nor did I truly appreciate what flexibility it would give my lower back. You might ridicule me but what began as a ten minute feature on the show has now become my regular form of exercise three nights a week. Judy has even allowed me to install a pole in the house. I wanted it in the bedroom but we compromised on the garage. It’s now got to the point that I can’t feel totally relaxed unless I’m upside down, doing the splits, and wearing hot pants. I’ll be talking more about this tonight so make sure you tune in and see me take Kerry Katona through a few basic moves.

I can't think of a better reason than it being Wednesday to give you some pole dancing facts. Traditional poles use in pole dancing are made from sterilized chrome. Bacteria cannot live on them. Pole dancing requires the use of more muscles in the body than any other form of physical exercise except championship darts. Different height of poles are available, with extreme sports enthusiasts using poles that are nearly 38 feet high. Pole dancing is to be banned in Scotland under new rules that demand that all publicly funded forms of exercise have to be kilt friendly. Other celebrities who use pole dancing to keep trim include Noel Edmonds and Jeremy Clarkson.