The Loose Women

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

Vice Presidential Moths

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Standing At The UKTV Urinals

I was over at the UKTV studios where Judy and I had just finished giving the press conference for our new show, ‘Richard and Judy’s New Position’. Only my new position was with my knees to my chest and balancing on the edge of a porcelain toilet seat. I’d been taking a few moments from the launch party to compose my thoughts when I’d heard my name mentioned outside the stall.

‘The problem with Madeley is that he’s nothing without Judy.’

So said a voice at the urinal. It had the brazen confidence that some men find in a public bathrooms. Thankfully, I am not one of those men. That’s why I was squatting there, fearing that the slightest sound might alert them to my presence. Not that I was bothered by confrontation but this wasn’t the day for scenes played out in bathrooms. Not unless I wanted my name breathed in the same sentence as that of George Michael.

‘The problem with Richard,’ said the other voice, deeper and with a slight lisp, ‘is that he’s nothing without Bill Oddie. I’ve heard that Bill’s the real creative force in that relationship.’

‘Bill Oddie?’ cried the first.

‘Hey!’ said the second. ‘Watch where you’re pointing that thing!’

‘I’m sorry but you can’t say things like that and not expect a person to be surprised. Bill Oddie isn’t really the force behind Richard and Judy, is he?’

‘So I’ve heard,’ lisped the second. ‘You’ve seen the ad for their new show? I suppose you’ve noticed how all the men are wearing cravats? That was Bill Oddie’s suggestion.’

I almost snorted in disgust. How could bathroom gossips get things so wrong? The cravats had been Nige’s idea and I’d agreed to them in order to help Nige get his break in big time choreography. That he’d been harbouring a life-long wish to put the steps to Broadway shows had come as a shock to me but I’d been only too happy to give him the opportunity to try his hand with real dancers. Not that facts such as these were standing in the way of the two men at the urinals.

‘Bill Oddie holds such a powered over Richard that it’s quite worrying,’ said the second, sounding more ‘in the know’ with every passing trickle of his diminishing stream.

‘But what about Judy?’ asked the first. ‘Surely she can’t agree with all this?’

I didn’t get the answer. Taps ran and towels were pulled from their dispensers. The bathroom door opened and closed and I was left alone. I slipped down from the toilet and opened the cubicle door. Nobody. Just I, Madeley, left alone with a particularly handsome reflection in the mirror.

Outside, the party was still going strong. Judy was dancing in the middle of the room, giving it the full mustard with Nige who was wowing the crowd with a display of South American dance steps complete with realistic bird calls. I wandered around, trying to recognise the voices of the two men that had been gossiping in the bathroom. If they worked on the show, I’d have their badges for what they’d just said about me and Bill Oddie.

I was on my second circuit when Judy broke out of Nige’s conga line and caught up with me.

‘I’m so glad we’ve made the change,’ she said, breathless. ‘I think this is going to be so exciting. Isn’t it good to be working with new people in new surroundings?’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve met a man with a slight lisp,’ I asked.

‘A lisp?’

‘Just a slight lisp.’

‘I’ve not,’ replied Judy. ‘But why are you looking for a man with a lisp?’

‘Because I want him fired. I’ve just heard him saying some terrible things about Bill Oddie in the bathroom.’

‘What’s Bill Oddie doing in the bathroom?’ asked Judy.

I really didn’t have time to explain.

‘Richard, you’ve only been here ten minutes. You can’t really want somebody fired.’

‘We have to know that we can trust the people we’re working with,’ I answered. ‘We’re entering into a new contract and it’s important that people can trust us as much we can trust them. I’m not working with men who stand lisping lies about Bill Oddie at urinals.’

Judy placed her arm around my shoulder. ‘Richard,’ she said. ‘For once, let it go. This is a new beginning. Let’s start out with a clean sheet. You have to remember that we’re no longer on terrestrial TV. The name Bill Oddie doesn’t mean as much to these people. Some of them won’t even know who he is...’

It was then that the reality of the situation hit me. A sledgehammer on my brogues couldn’t have done more damage to my composure. The old girl was right. We are no longer stars of terrestrial TV. We’re in a different league. We’re playing by different rules. As I stood there, watching Nige whistle the mating call of the Venezuelan purple grebe with accompanying three twists and a heel kick, I understood that my outlook has to change.

It explains my silence of the last few days. You find me this morning a different man with a different mission. I’m going where no Oddie has gone before. This is missionary work, my friends, and it’s a brave new world that we’ll encounter from October the seventh.

How To Beat The Recession: A Millionaire’s Guide

It has come to my attention that many of you are already feeling the pinch and that even those of you who haven’t already rented out your holiday cottages in Cornwall still have a few concerns about the looming recession. Just the other day, Judy scooped a single spoonful of caviar onto her Ritz cracker, causing me to enquire as to her state of mind. ‘Enjoying the credit crunch,’ was her witty reply as she placed cracker against denture and gave the thing a bite.

And there we have it. With the current financial instability hitting hard so close to home, I realised it was worth a few moments of my time to commit my thoughts to paper. There are some of you that haven’t lived through a recession. You don’t remember the fun we all had in the early eighties and you’re probably wondering how you’ll cope. Should you put your money in gold or begin to stuff hard currency beneath your mattress? Is Bill Oddie an investable commodity and is Nige’s plan to milk butterflies really a viable business plan? Is the market ready for real butterfly butter?

The Madeley Line is to sit tight. In any situation, where the poor are to be made poorer, there are always investment opportunities. There’s a down side and an upside to every ‘market readjustment’. People had some tough times in the eighties but they emerged with ‘This Morning’ and a fresh faced couple talking testicular examinations at half-past ten from a weekday morning sofa. You simply have to look at it from the right angle, as you have to look at testicles from the right angle. We might all enjoying receiving gifts at Christmas but we must not forget that we also get Cliff Richard's latest chart hit. We must take the rough with the smooth and, though his testicles be smooth, I can assure you that there’s nothing as rough as Cliff at Christmas.

It’s why I say: invest in the people industries. White slavery is popular in any bear market but if you can find a stockbroker willing to take investments in bears, that’s even better. When people are stuffing hard currency beneath their Deluxe Slumberlands, a bear in the house affords additional security. Guests might ask if the bear still shits in the woods but you can reply: not when he shits behind the curtains. And what a surprise that is to any would-be burglar coming in through the French windows. Consider this a Madeley Top Bear Tip: bears are an excellent investment opportunity. And if you can stick a tap into their glands, you’ll be made for life. I swear by the stuff and rub it on my sore knee nightly.

When the markets are squeezed, Judy likes to buy penny shares. When my knee is squeeze, I want to spend a penny but I’ll also be your friend for life. Yet in a economic slowdown, I’m a man who likes to put my money in the established industries. If you can live with your conscience, weapons manufacturers are a safe bet at times of world doubt. Many of the world’s biggest recessions have been solved with a war on a global scale and those of you with funds in artillery and air launched missiles will be sure to profit. Some will say 'war profiteering' but I say good financial sense as passed onto me by Gordon Burns. When I advised Felicity Kendal to invest in munitions, people said I was crazy but look at Felicity now.

I’ll leave you with a final tip for those of you who might be on a budget. If you do find yourself down to your last million in the bank: don’t panic. A million can last at least a year if wisely spent, six months if you're married to a woman with a passion for miniature ponies. Either way, you’ll still be able to see off this blip in the economy from you chalet on a Swiss slope. If things get really bad, change you holiday plans. Third world nations are affordable, usually warm all the year around, and will welcome your hard currency. Judy and I often enjoy the pleasures of South America where on money goes further and there’s no midget pony you can’t buy with a Yankee dollar.

And, if all things fail, just remember the Madeley saying: it’s pink if it’s healthy but don’t touch it is it’s Guatemalan and smells of turps.

The Appleyard Interview

‘Well,’ I said to Judy, ‘this is it. The Big Day. After all these years on terrestrial TV, it’s taken me until the last week of the show before I get to invite a real guest to share our sofa.’

She looked at me, her nostrils flaring half an inch above a piece of toast. There was a momentary look of confusion as she bit down and then began to chew but when it came to wiping a crumb from the side of her mouth, she was back to normal and the crumb was dispatched with a flick of her cruel finger.

‘You’re not going to go on about this all morning, are you Richard?’ she asked. ‘The man is flesh and blood, just like you or me or even Bill Oddie...’

‘Yes, but this is not just ordinary flesh and blood,’ I replied, ‘and certainly not as much flesh as there was only a few months ago.’

‘Which is why we’ve asked him on the show,’ said Judy. ‘I just hope you’re not going to spoil things.’

‘Spoil things? I’m finally getting a kindred spirit onto the sofa, a man cut from the same cloth.’

‘And he’s going to be discussing his stone age diet,’ said Judy. This was clearly meant as a warning.

‘Well, we’ll see,’ I said and left it at that.

The truth is that this will be the first blogger we’ve had on the show whose blog I read daily. Bryan Appleyard might think he’s coming on to talk about weight loss but I have other plans. This will be a far ranging exploration of the man’s mind and if Channel 4 don’t immediately sign us up for a new series of ‘The Richard & Bryan Show’, I won’t have done my part for the intellectual development of this country of ours.

I was already sketching out the format of the show which included self defence sessions led by Elberry and Nige’s Magical Owl and Cravat Half Hour. They were ideas which proved that my mind was already firing on all twelve cylinders so I took my bowl of muesli into my office and began to prepare facts and questions that I’d be able to throw into our interview. Would Bryan know, for example, that Wallace Stevens was a trained juggler who wrote some of his best poems while balancing a stool on his chin? Would he know that it’s impossible to electrocute a cat or that 92% of all clowns are diagnosed manic depressive? I have hundreds of facts at my disposal but I really wanted to be prepared for whatever Bryan could throw at me. Channel 4 would struggle to constrain such a battle of intellects and I imagined us bursting through the scenery of the ITN News as our battle continued over on ITV. Katie Derham would flush at the sight of two thin but muscular men in such a titanic struggle.

I think it was thoughts about Katie Derham that made me worked feverishly away until noon when the telephone rang. I expected the call but wasn’t prepared for the tone of the enquiry.

‘Richard, it’s the newly slim-line Bryan,’ said Bryan. ‘I just thought I’d check that you’re not planning on surprising me with any difficult questions this afternoon. A man who has recently lost fourteen pounds in two weeks can’t take the strain of difficult questions.’

‘Difficult questions?’ I scoffed even as I shuffled my pack of fifty seven fiendishly difficult questions and obscure facts. ‘I don’t know what kind of man you think I am, Bryan. I’m looking forward to our interview with the excitement that I normally reserve for Angelina Jolie.’

‘Oh, I don’t have any tattoos,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t believe in them.’

‘Damn,’ I muttered, as my fifty seven difficult questions and obscure facts became fifty six. ‘Well, not to worry, Bryan. Judy just wants to chat about your diet. It will be a piece of cake.’

‘No, no,’ he replied. ‘I don’t touch anything made from grains, legumes, dairy products, salt, refined sugar, or processed oils.’

‘Well, to be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t know what a legumes is,’ I said, wondering if I should scribble that question down on a card.

‘It’s an erect or climbing bean or pea,’ replied Bryan.

A lucky escape, I thought. The man has an answer for everything.

‘Well, don’t worry, Bryan,’ I continued as I prepared to hang up the phone. ‘I’m sure it will go swimmingly...’

‘It’s a diet, not one of those moronic exercise routines. I don’t believe in those either,’ he replied. I could see that I would have my work cut out. Yet in all fairness to the man, I could also see that Bryan was getting nervous and I thought it only right to give him a clue that I had prepared the odd difficult question.

‘Relax, Bryan,’ I said. ‘Remember that you’re with friends. I’ll ask you a few questions to put you at ease. Perhaps something tricky about Wallace Stevens, cats or clowns. I’m sure you’ll know the answers.’

Bryan sighed a thin avuncular sigh. ‘That’s very good of you, Richard,’ he said. ‘Just so long as you don’t go trotting out those old clichés about Wallace Stevens juggling, that it’s impossible to electrocute a cat, or that 92% of all clowns are diagnosed manic depressive...’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ I answered as the last of my cards slipped to the floor. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it at all...’

The Owl & Stephen Fry

There are times when the very existence of Stephen Fry seems to defy every known law of physics. I swear that the man has been cast by the Gods from some molten greatness that has hardened into a six foot nine inch monument to human potential. Poet, scholar, critic, actor, director, writer, stuntman, comedian, quiz show host, charity worker, environmentalist, after dinner speaker, technology expert, pipe smoker of the year: there is nothing that the man can’t do to perfection. He has saved my life on many an occasion and is now the first person I turn to when reduced to tears by the constant toils of this bad old world.

‘Ah, Richard,’ said Stephen, nestling my head against his great waist-coated breast and stroking my hair with those large fingered mitts of his. ‘There, there, indeed. Hush now. Calm yourself. Were I less compassionate man, I would say that this has been a long time coming and that it’s only right that you worry about your future. Cast out into the world of those horrid little satellite channels, I too would fear for my future. What if nobody watches me? What if I become a “has been”?’

I felt myself go rigid in his arms before he cooed and soothed me by flicking my earlobes.

‘However, being a man of great compassion, your Uncle Stephen would never dream of being so blunt. He would never compare you to Bobby Davro or Les Dennis, men who have realised that satellite TV is a boneyard filled with the remains of once glittering careers. Instead, I will gird you for the trials ahead with a few well chosen words of encouragement.’ With that he cleared this throat. ‘Indeed, Richard!’ said he. ‘You will be a star on satellite! You will be a veritable viewer magnet, attracting them in their tens of dozens from channels as far afield as Horse & Country, UK Gaming Plus and The Baby Channel. Who would choose to watch the British Sausage Awards hosted by Roland Rivron when they have you and Judy just ninety seven channel hops away?’

I wiped away my tears and tried to stand up. My legs felt like two strings of shop-soiled pork bangers with fractional meat content and plenty of buttock and beak.

‘That’s not why I’m crying,’ I said. ‘It’s just that I’m a little afraid of this altitude. Can’t you take me back down?’

Stephen stood back, smiled and reached for the cord leading up to the three gas nozzles. The basket was suddenly filled with the noise of rasping flames as Stephen encouraged his hot air balloon to even greater heights.

‘Ah, ’tis I, Fry, at ten thousand feet!’ proclaimed Stephen, his green cape flapping in the breeze that was pushing us towards Kent. ‘You must learn to soar, Richard. A man must know what it is to reach for the heavens, by whatever means. Look up and admire the firmament. Gaze upon its points sprinkled like glazed cherries on the not so small trifle of heaven. Above us is the Astra 2D satellite which is soon to become your new home. Reach for your destiny. Let destiny pluck you up as it once plucked me!’

‘I never agreed to plucking,’ I muttered, gazing down the thousands of feet towards Mother Earth where I’d left Judy sitting eating cheese and pickle sandwiches in the back of the Range Rover. I had started to regret accepting Stephen’s offer two minutes after lifting off. That’s when the large Richard&Judy banner advertising our new satellite show fell from its hanging place beneath his balloon and blanketed a housing estate. Now I wanted nothing more than to get back down to my wife and her rapidly improving knee.

Only, Stephen was too enchanted by the power of the burn. His hand kept pulling the cord and we kept climbing until the air turned so chilly that my nipples stood erect beneath my shirt. I feared that they’d never go soft again.

‘I think we should really begin to think about home,’ I said.

‘The majesty!’ cried Stephen, his eyes glazed with that look that all geniuses get when they are doing something beyond the normal. ‘The radiant firmament of heavenly splendour!’ Again he pulled the cord and I felt the balloon give a kick as it again began to climb.

‘I want Judy,’ I whimpered as we climbed towards the upper limit of the troposphere.

‘Ah, ’tis I, Fry! Godhead made manifest in comedic flesh on high!’

The man had clearly lost it. Or, at least, I thought he had. The truth is that I don’t really understand geniuses, however they come wrapped. I might leave the occasional comment over at ‘Thought Experiments’ but I know that the other readers pity me more than they respect me. And it was this inability to understand genius that served me so poorly hanging beneath Stephen’s balloon. It made me leap for one of the many ropes running up into the hot canopy. I gave the cord a pull thinking I might put a stop to this mad ascent. The noise of ripping fabric did nothing for my nerves but it did break Stephen’s rapture. I felt the sudden change from ascent to descent at the base of my stomach

‘Oh, Richard,’ said Stephen, shaking his head. ‘Were I a man given to angry outbursts I might say that you’ve consigned us to doom more terrible than UK Living Plus. Instead, I will merely say that you should not have done that. Tut and the full pish! And might I also be so bold as to say: damn these cheap Chinese hot air balloons...’

And what more can I say about Stephen? In a crisis, he’s a touch more reliable than a superman. With a calm and an agility that shouldn’t rightly be his own, he jumped over the side of the basket and clung onto the netting.

‘Don’t touch anything while I’m gone,’ he told me before he began to climb, his last ‘bless’ falling away on the first hint of the jet stream.

I leaned out and watched Stephen make his way up to where a three foot hole was gaping in the balloon’s fabric. Stephen worked a miracle in the next few minutes and he’s the only reason I’m sitting here today able to tell you this tale. If you’d been in the South East of England yesterday and looked into the sky, you might have witnessed a rapidly descending hot air balloon with a modern Icarus in tweed hastily using a green cape to fill the large tear in its side.

‘We’ll have to make an emergency landing,’ said Stephen a few minutes later. He swung back into the basket and took control with only a thousand or so feet to go. I wanted to reply but Stephen pushed me down into the bottom of the basket. ‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘This might be rougher than a night at the British Comedy Awards.’

His was no idle threat. The trees rushed us like Caroline Aherne on whisky chasers. Branches snapped around the basket and I witnessed one swipe Stephen from the basket. He gave a yell of ‘shudder!’ before he disappeared over the side. Then there was the heavy impact as the basket hit the ground. I recollect being thrown out and doing a prodigious amount of rolling before I blacked out. I remember nothing else until I opened my eyes some minutes later and saw an unmistakable shadow standing over me.

‘Almost a perfect landing,’ said Stephen, apparently unharmed by his fall. ‘I would congratulate myself on a job well done, only I have absolutely no idea where we are.’

I rubbed mud from my chest where my altitude hardened nipples had punched holes through my silk shirt and scooped up dirt. I was surprised to find myself in a corner of England untouched by the twentieth century. Greens were of a greener hue, the trees lined up to form the edge of some great oak forest. I too had no idea where we were until I peered into the middle distance and spotted a bush occupied by an old friend.

‘Isn’t that a Purple Hairstreak?’ I asked.

I knew that Stephen would know. ‘I believe it is,’ said the man last year voted Butterfly Hunter of the Year by ‘Which Butterfly’ magazine.

‘Then I know exactly where we are,’ I replied. ‘This is a small private estate in an undisclosed location of South East England. And if I’m not mistaken there should be an obscured entrance to a cave just beyond those trees.’

We walk the hundred yards to where a clever bit of topiary blocked off a path into the dense woodland. Fortunately, I knew the area and found the handle that drew back the old piece of wooden fencing disguised with branches. The entrance to the cave was where I remembered it from my last visit and Stephen followed me cautiously as I began to negotiate the long descent into the dark underworld.

We emerged in a brightly lit chamber, the sound of light classical echoing around its natural gothic aisles. High in the dark corners of the cave, eyes peered out from the many owls roosting there as though overseeing the small work area in the centre lit by bright lights. There a signed photograph of Bryan Appleyard was hung over a series of prints of UK moths. To the side, a picture of Petula Clark was pinned to a dartboard by a large hunting knife, while working at a desk at the centre of this tableau, sat the owner of the NigeCave there in the heart of the NigeCorp Country Park and Beetle Sanctuary. There sat the man known by criminals as ‘The Owl’; that genius who has created this sanctuary where butterflies have equal rights with sparrows and where otters frolic in streams of pure spring water that have risen through layers of English sedimentary rocks. There’s no German schist or Russian granite down there. Just pure English limestone, the purest chalk of old Albion and a chap in tweeds called Nige.

‘Hello Nige,’ I said. ‘Just crash landed a Chinese hot air balloon in your back garden. Hope you don’t mind me letting myself in.’

‘Richard!’ said Nige who I could see was holding a hunting knife with loving tenderness. ‘You’re just in time to help me put the finishing touches to this rabbit pie I’m preparing for supper. What on earth happened to your eye? And have you seen the state of your nipples?’

‘Hard to explain, Nige,’ I said and gestured towards Stephen. ‘Let me just say that I owe my life to the last of the great English Frys. Do you know Stephen?’

Stephen stepped forward and gave a bow. ‘Ah, Nige. I’ve heard so much about you.’

‘Nice tweeds,’ said Nige, slipping the knife back into his belt. ‘Reminds me of lines from Betjeman. “I used to butt my head into his tweeds / To make him hurry down those languorous miles.”’

Stephen gave a shudder of delight. ‘Ah, indeed, the man had neat of a turn of phrase. Butting tweeds indeed. Gracious me!’

‘Can you two forget turns of phrases and butting tweeds?’ I replied. ‘I need to get back to Judy. She goes toxic if she’s allowed to eat too much pickle.’

‘Fear not,’ said Nige, picking a throwing knife from a bandoleer over his shoulder and aiming it at a bell. He hit it plumb in the centre. His butler arrived moments later. A diminutive man with Asiatic qualities, we know little about the man except that Nige brought him back from his last trip in the East. ‘Ah, there you are Hung,’ said Nige. ‘Is the Nigemobile ready?’

Hung paused to pick up the knife. ‘I’ve just primed her with a new bucket of coal, sir,’ he replied to Nige’s evident satisfaction.

‘Nice to see you again,’ I said to the butler. ‘I take it that you’re are you well Hung?’

The man gave me the usual rueful smile as he handed the knife back to Nige.

‘Right then,’ said Nige, taking a leather driving helmet and goggles from a desk drawer. He bowed and crossed himself before pictures of the moths and the photograph of Bryan Appleyard before he waved us to follow him to the back of the cave. That’s where Stephen was surprised by a most unexpected sight.

‘My!’ said Stephen. ‘A 1924 Stanley Steamer. And with customised knife holders!’

‘Climb in,’ said Nige, who hopped into the driver’s seat and began to pump the controls of the steam powered engine. ‘I’ve had it modified. Can hit a top speed of nearly nineteen miles an hour on a straight.’ He lowered his goggles as I settled myself in the back seat, Stephen taking the passenger’s side. ‘Here we go!’

What a rush! The next four hours flew past as we raced back the three and a half miles to where I’d left Judy with her sandwiches. Occasionally, Nige would stop by a hedgerow to chop back some new growth with his favourite Bowie knife or hack a limb off a tree for future whittling but other than these few delays, we made good time. I was soon back to the car park where the sound of Judy loudly singing Dancing Queen warned me that she’d already gone too far with the pickles.

‘Thanks for the ride, Nige,’ I said as I reluctantly climbed out.

Stephen remained seated. ‘If you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll go back with Nige. I really couldn’t miss a chance to enjoy a 1924 Stanley Steamer for just a little while longer and I really should recover my balloon and cape.’

‘Well I’ll open the throttle this time,’ promised Nige, dropping his goggles down over those keen eyes of his. ‘We’ll take the long route back and we’ll be home for breakfast!’

‘Hooray!’ said Stephen.

‘Hooray, indeed!’ said Nige.

I waved them off. Two of the few reasons why I choose to stay in the forsaken mire of a country. Two of the reasons why I’m so certain that God wears tweed.

The Real Story of Judy’s Knee

The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, War and Peace, The History of the English Speaking Peoples, Jeffrey Archer’s Kane and Abel: it always takes time before all the great stories are told in a way that does them justice. Days have now passed since the news broke that, for at least a fortnight, I’ll be presenting the Richard&Judy show without the right side of the ampersand to keep my hormones in balance. Only now am I in a position to tell you the full tale of Judy’s knee and how this magnificent specimen of Dame Womanhood was brought (or, should I say, dragged down) to her one good knee and glorious shin.

As you probably know, Judy has had problems with her knee for some time. Years of climbing ladders with a hod of bricks on her back haven’t helped. Even after she’d finished building our house, the toil on her legs continued as she set about laying seven miles of crazy paving around our expansive estate here in our undisclosed location in the South East of England. Yet the decision to finally have the knee operated upon only came as late as last Sunday when I was blessed with a visit by Bill Oddie.

Sunday, as you know, is normally a day of rest in the Madeley household. By the early evening, the adventures of the previous week had caught up with me and I was dozing on the sofa ahead of my weekly chuckle at my old friend Clarkson on ‘Top Gear’. Such happy dreams I was having. Vanessa Feltz wore something light and breezy as she played air hockey with Jeremy Paxman who was getting thoroughly outclassed. I watched from on high, lounging in the umpire’s chair and laughing manically as I awarded every contentious decision to the woman in the see-through chiffon.
I didn’t, at first, hear the doorbell ring and when it did wake me, I arrived at the front door still thinking of air hockey. I was certainly not prepared to see Bill Oddie standing there carrying a large suitcase.

‘Bill? What you doing here at this hour?’ I asked.

‘Ha!’ said Bill as he dragged the suitcase into the hall and dumped it at my feet. He turned his back and went outside, only pausing on the doorstep to gaze back at me and say ‘ha!’ again.

He returned a moment later with another suitcase which was even bigger than the first.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said as he set the case down. ‘You’ll soon see what I’ve brought. This will all begin to make perfect sense in just a moment.’

‘Thank God for that,’ I replied. ‘I thought you were about to say “ha!” to me for no apparent reason.’

‘Ha!’ said Bill and with that he turned back to his car. I followed to watch him drag a third suitcase from the boot that was even bigger than the first two and probably exceeded the capacity of the word ‘suitcase’ and should more rightly be described as a ‘travel trunk’.

‘This is what you’ve been asking to see for nearly three years,’ said Bill. ‘And now is the moment when you get to see it.’

My heart soared over eighteen metres of beats like an Olympic standard triple jumper on methamphetamines.

‘You haven’t?’ I asked.

Bill smiled and it was that rarity in all men with beards: a smile full of grace and beneficence.

I helped him drag all three suitcases/trunks into the living room, though I wouldn’t have done this had I not known that Judy would be out until well after midnight. Bill knew it too since the local newspapers have been reporting nothing else but the East of England snooker tournament at Judy’s local Snooker & Billiards Association. Judy was due to play Barbara Winsor at eight in what was sure to be a nine frame thriller. I knew it would go on until late and I intended to make the most of my time along with Bill and his suitcases.

‘I don’t know what to say, Bill,’ I said as I watched him begin to push the sofa back so we’d have plenty of floor space. ‘This really is an honour.’

‘The honour is all mine,’ answered Oddie, now unlatching the smallest of the cases. ‘There aren’t many men who’d get to see this but you, Richard, you have always been good to me. You are one of the few celebrities to treat me with dignity and I appreciate that. I wouldn’t do this for Clarkson. Not after that business with the mask.’

‘I’m sure you wouldn’t,’ I said, trying to peer into the case.

Slowly the lid opened and I saw them all lying there in a heap. The case was packed with thousands upon thousands of glistening polly pockets. Now, for those of you without stationary experience (and, I assure you, I have plenty of that after my two day stint in Manchester), a poly pocket is a plastic envelope for A4 paper, usually punched along one edge for putting inside a ring folder. Only these poly pockets were loose inside the suitcase and inside each pocket was a sheet of A4 white card onto which Bill had attached a single feather. In the corner of each card, written in Bill’s neat if slightly florid hand, were the details of the bird that had donated the feather.

He pushed the suitcase to me. ‘The entire bird kingdom if yours for the night,’ he said.

Well, the next three hours were an education as we began to lay out Bill’s feather collection on the floor. The whole of the house was soon covered with poly pockets, spreading from the front door, around the living room, through the dining hall, round the back skirting the conservatory, through the utility rooms, past my office, into the kitchen and finishing at the back door. The whole thing was laid out in strict classification of birds across the globe. I was naturally in my element because, though not technically a bird watcher myself, I am a man who likes to collect knowledge and has an excessive facility for showing off .

‘I wish Nige were here now,’ I said as Bill lay the final few poly pocketed feathers around the potted plants in the front room and thereby closed the loop of plastic envelopes that now ran a full circuit around the house.

‘This is your moment,’ said Bill, finally standing up. ‘Nige will get his chance when the time’s right.’

I nodded as I wiped away a tear. ‘The Crested Sand Shrike has a distinctive whistle,’ I said, to cover my slight embarrassment at getting so emotional over a million feathers. ‘And did you know that the East European Potato Shrike has a whistle inspired Mozart to write the Magic Flute?’

‘Really?’ said Bill, impressed. ‘Amazing.’

I was about to tell him how the Shrike is a close relative to a chicken and has often been seen crossing roads for no other reason than getting to the other side but, at that moment, there was a rattle of keys in the door. I couldn’t understand it since it was not yet ten thirty.

‘Only me,’ shouted Judy from in the hall. ‘Barbara Windsor cancelled and I ended up playing Julie Walters. I didn’t stand a chance. She’s playing Jenifer Saunders in the final after Jennifer beat Joanna Lumley in the semi. I couldn’t bear to watch...’

That’s when I heard the fateful sound of Judy kicking off her shoes.

‘Hold it right there!’ I shouted, looking for a way to the hall that avoided the thousands of feathers on the floor. ‘There are bloody poly pockets everywhere,’ I said and thought I should explain just in case Judy was without the required stationary experience. ‘Poly pockets are plastic envelopes that protect pieces of paper up to A4 size. Or in this case, Bill’s feather collections.’

But it was too late. Through the door leading into the hall, I saw Judy pass by at approximately forty miles an hour and gathering speed as she slid in her slick silk stockings on a floor made lethal by a layer of polythene.

‘CCcccccciiiiiiiiiilllllllllllllllaaaaaaaaaaaaa....’ screamed Judy as she headed into the dining room and the Eastern European Swallowtails, round the back of the Chinese Mud Skippers skirting the conservatory, through the utility rooms full of North American eagles, past my office full of the tits of the Rockies, and finally into the kitchen where the South American songbirds ran up against the parrots at the back door.

We followed as quickly as we could, Bill the nimblest picking out the fastest route through the bird kingdom.

‘Best to avoid the peckers, said Bill, heading towards the kitchen. ‘We’ll take a short cut through the cuckoos.’

‘I’m following you,’ I replied, nearly coming a cropper on the tricky plume of a Great Reed Warbler.

We found Judy deep amongst the Amazonian parrots, groaning where she’d come to rest against the tumble dryer and the Crested Banana Macaw.

‘My leg,’ she said.

‘My purple eaglet wing!’ said Bill picking up a heavily battered feather wedged in the ruined stocking around Judy’s toes.

I lifted my wife to a seat at the breakfast bar and, other than a few bruises, I was relieved to see that she seemed perfectly well.

‘So, how was the snooker?’ I asked trying to keep her distracted as Bill set about picking up thousands of poly pockets.

‘Richard Madeley,’ said Judy, standing up. ‘If you think...’ She winced and sat back down again. ‘Ooh,’ she said, and lifted her leg onto the table. ‘It’s my knee. I’ve done my knee again!’

‘Hang on,’ I said and called Bill back into the room.

Bill was the model of professionalism as he slipped on the pair of reading glasses that always hang around his neck on a chain. He took a look at the leg and prodded the sort spot. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘My vast experience examining sick and injured birds tells me that you’ve got twisted ligaments in your knee.’ He tried to bend the leg but unfortunately forgot that the human leg went the other way. Judy winced. I gave a cough. ‘Oh yes,’ said Bill. ‘Wrong species. Legs bend the other way. Always forget that...’

And without another word he took a roll of metal tape from his pocket and began to wrap it loosely once around Judy’s ankle. He fastened it with a pair of pliers from another of the many pockets in the world’s most ironically named ‘hunting vest’.

‘How’s that doing to help my knee?’ asked Judy.

He laughed as soon as Judy spoke.

‘So sorry,’ he said. ‘There I go again! Force of habit. I was ringing you just in case I run into you again. This way, I would see how far you’ve travelled.’

‘Get out,’ muttered Judy, who I could see was in some pain and not a little indignation. ‘Get out of this house now, Bill Oddie, or knee or no knee, I’ll throw you out myself.’

Bill paled and I gave him the old raised eyebrow signal that he probably should go and hide before things turned ugly.

I then helped Judy to the car and took her to the local A&E where doctors diagnosed twisted ligaments. I told them that Bill Oddie had already told us that but they didn’t seem too impressed. When we arrived back home, I got Judy straight to bed then returned downstairs to help Bill pick up his collection of feathers. The last I saw of him was in his old Citroën bobbing down the road with the suspension being worked hard back the boot packed with the world’s most comprehensive collection of feathers.

Last Monday was when the best London doctors agreed with Bill diagnosis and Judy agreed to have surgery on her leg. Bill reports that his poly pockets are back home in his hobbit hole, packed in the three suitcases of increasing size, and I have only just caught up with last week’s episode of Top Gear. Judy had had the operation and is now recovering, her knee improving with each passing day and with each bag of thawed vegetables thrown into the bin or the saucepan. If I eat another plate of garden peas, I will probably go green and make people flatulent. Naturally, Judy now refuses to even touch a poly pocket and I’ve had to tell the people at Cactus TV that any paperwork that comes to this house must be staples or bound by a paper clip.

Not that the media report any of this. They are so obsessed with Emma Bunton and, next week, Myleene Klass. I care for none of that celebrity tittle tattle. I care only for Judy’s well being and the state of Bill Oddie’s feather collection. The rest, as we say in showbiz, is greasepaint and curtain calls.

The McGowan Factor

There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, means that their wives will be extremely vexed with them come Sunday. I don’t know what it was that gave me a hint that all wasn’t well in the Madeley household this morning. The thought that my blog is a year old tomorrow perhaps made me anxious about my career plans but, otherwise, there wasn’t anything particularly ominous in the creak of the bed springs, my healthy ablutions, nor the suds and foam on my cheeks as I washed and shaved. Conversations began and ended as naturally as they should, yet there was still something in the air that was more than the smell of Mrs. Corbett spreading muck around her roses...

‘Having a good morning?’ asked Judy as I appeared at breakfast.

‘Indeed I am,’ I said. ‘My ablutions were quality from beginning to end. Happiness, they name is Fruit & Fiber twice a day.’

‘And the toilet flushed first time?’

‘How can you tell?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘You seem perky.’

‘You’re a remarkable woman, Ms. Finnigan,’ I said. ‘One day I’ll marry you under the eyes of the Christian God and make you a Madeley.’

Judy smiled thinly and watched me as I began to cobble together my breakfast. Despite my outward appearance, I was feeling uneasy about something and I could tell that my wife wasn’t the normal vivacious Judy who is usually up at seven on a Sunday when there’s concrete to be mixed. Naturally, I was suspicious that she was still angry about the third mistake that out caption editor, Dennis Plumb, had made on Friday when he had misidentified another of our guests.

It was when I was finally prepared to depart for my snug around ten o’clock, Rivita and coffee in my hands, that Judy spoke and the whole twisted mess began to unravel.

‘Richard,’ she began, ‘have you read yesterday’s paper?’

‘No, Judy, I haven’t,’ I sighed, knowing what was coming next. ‘I’ve been rather busy.’

‘Busy?’ She began to finger her necklace nervously and I knew I was in for trouble.

‘We had the newsagents change papers twice because you said you didn’t enjoy reading “The Independent” or “The Telegraph”. Yet I haven’t seen you pick up “The Guardian” once this week. I don’t see why we’re paying nearly twenty pounds a month on papers you’re not even reading!’

I took a step back. Two steps back if the truth be told.

‘What is it, Jude?’ I asked. ‘You’re not really angry about the paper, are you? I’ve been thinking all morning that you seem to be in a mood about something.’

Asking my wife about her mood was my second mistake, equivalent to allowing the Germans to rearm.

‘Well, no, Richard. I’m not alright. If you want me to be perfectly honest, I’m disappointed that you’ve not sacked Dennis. And didn’t I warn you about what would happen if he was still in his job on Monday? I’ve gone on and on about this, Richard, and I’ve told you until I’m blue in the face and yet you still won’t listen to me despite every...’

She went on for some time. When Judy begins to list all the things wrong with me, she can sometimes talk for forty five or even sixty seconds, but this morning it was something special. She also began to list all the faults of my friends and that took the speech well into lunch.

‘... and I’ll say this one last time, Richard: if I ever catch Stephen Fry smoking his pipe next to my washing line, I’ll drag that cape over his head and beat him until he stops moving. I found scorch marks in my...’

I tried to close my ears to most of it.

‘... and if Nige thinks that he can come and leave his owl with us while he goes off to France every couple of months...’

Like I said, it went on for some time.

Eventually, there came a point when I noticed that it had ended. I looked up from the newspaper I’d managed to read from front to back and wondered if Judy would allow me to change it for ‘The Times’ on a Sunday.

‘Finished?’ I asked.

‘You have to sack Dennis,’ spluttered Judy.

Before she could start again, I waved my hand. ‘If this is about Friday,’ I said, ‘you don’t need to bother. I know all about McGowan.’

‘You do?’

I had to smile. Despite everything, Judy does her best to look out for me. She has a knack of berating me when all she’s trying to do is to save me from some of the harsher things that life throws my way. She had been trying to hide Dennis’ latest excess from me but I had learned about it yesterday afternoon.

‘I had Alistair on the phone,’ I explained. ‘He was gloating, as you can imagine, and he asked me if he’s allowed to quote it on his next DVD.’

‘He would,’ replied Judy. ‘Everybody wants us to endorse them but it doesn’t make it right. You’re much funnier than Alistair.’

‘You don’t need to tell me,’ I said. ‘I always said that Ronni Ancona carried those shows.’

‘Yes, well... You have one of those things for Roni Ancona.’

‘Things?’ I laughed though I knew that I shouldn’t.

‘It’s in your eyes, Richard... You begin to blink a lot whenever she comes on.’ I wanted to protest but Judy just shrugged. ‘Anyway, what matters is Alistair. He’s probably jealous because your Ali G impression is so much better than his.’

Music to my ears. ‘You’re telling me things I know already, Jude,’ I said.

‘Then sack Dennis and we can put this behind us.’

‘We can’t sack him. He’s a one armed man. We’d have an even number of limbs on the staff and that’s technically illegal under European rules.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘You’ll see,’ I said and gave Judy a wink. She smiled back and I stood up, planted a kiss of her brow, and then headed to my office where I was overcome with emotion.

The last time I felt like this was as a child when I was forced to give the family cat away. There must be somebody out there who has a use for a slightly unstable one-armed man with a Peter Manley fetish. He’s good with children and buries his mess in the garden. What more could you ask for?

Anybody?

Nige's Owl

First of all, I want to thank Nige for last night. He was the perfect host, even if we did come to blows over my attempts to take his picture for this blog. He did, however, allow me the very great honour of posing with his owl. The claws were sharp and the beak rather strong but the experience of meeting Nige was one that I would recommend to all. As for the owl, it was perfectly docile, even though it was was bit too happy to take a nip out of the Madeley earlobe. According to Nige, my ears do resemble baby mice, which just goes to show you that there’s nothing the man doesn’t know about English wildlife.

The highlight of the evening was Nige’s three hour presentation on the current state of English moths. I thought it could have gone on for another three hours and not one of his guests would have been any more bored than they were in the first five minutes. I was simply spellbound. Judy later told me that she had never seen such excellent photographs of the English Frilly Bumswain Moth, which made it an especial shame when she left early. No sooner had Stephen Fry arrived to pick her up in his taxi than she was professing her love for all moths. She intends to show them her devotion by starting her own collection this very night my massacring hundreds of them using the 100W light bulb she’s rigged up in the garden.

Nige was typically Nige throughout the evening, of course. Ebullient and gregarious, he was congenial to the last. Although, I must say, for a man who keeps owls, he is surprisingly lacking in nocturnal habits. When I was still sitting in his living room at a quarter past midnight, I got the distinct impression that he wanted me to leave. I honestly thought he’d nipped out to refill his drink. He came back fifteen minutes later dressed in his pyjamas and wondering why the living light was still on.

Yes, I was a little embarrassed, but the night ended happily. Despite having left his teeth to soak in the upstairs bathroom, Nige wished me well and promised me his very next hatchling.

Nige, I salute you for a wonderful evening. Next time, you must allow me to play host and I’ll let you frolic with my beaver.

Richard Madeley’s Top 10 Things That Gnats Are Good For

I’m busy writing my memoir today (I’ll reach 20,000 words by the evening or my name’s not Madeley) so it's only a small update this afternoon, which, I suppose, is only fitting given that I want to answer the many people coming here wanting to know ‘what are gnats good for?’

It’s strange how my blog attracts sudden waves of visitors searching for the same thing. The ‘John Noakes riding naked’ epidemic has thankfully passed, though 'Vanessa Feltz's cleavage' seems to be a stayer. At the moment, however, Google is bringing me nothing but questions about ‘custard creams’ and ‘gnats’. Well, I’ve dealt with custard creams on many previous occasions and I think it’s only right that I turned my attention to the humble gnat.

So, I'm proud to present you with:

Richard Madeley’s Top 10 Things That Gnats Are Good For

1. Scrabble. I’ve annoyed Stephen Fry on many an occasion when I’ve used that odd ‘GN’ combination to get my ‘genuflect’ on a triple word score.

2. Gnats are nature’s irritants. If it weren’t for gnats, we’d pick on the Welsh.

3. If it weren’t for the gnats that get stuck to cyclists’ teeth, many vegetarians would get no meat in their diets. Being naturally low on carbohydrates, they are also an excellent addition to any low-carb diet. Eat nothing but gnats and I guarantee that you won't feel bloated in the morning.

4. ‘Gnats’ rhymes with ‘spats’ which means we have one of my favourite self-penned verses:

If a gnat wore spats
And a bowler hat
Would they let him dine
At Michael Caines?

5. Picking a gnat from your ear can be one of the most pleasurable things you can do with your little finger. The relief when you squash the little bugger against your eardrum is quite exquisite.

6. Gnats cheer me up when Judy holds one of her insufferable garden parties each summer. There’s much fun to be had watching Vanessa Feltz trying to swat gnats away from her blancmange.

7. Simon Cowell fears all gnats, which is why I always keep a bag of them in the glove compartment.

8. Gnats don’t eat caterpillars. Which means that we have Grizzled Skipper, the Green-veined White, the Painted Lady and the Greater Unspotted Nigel.

9. Gnats never voted for New Labour.

10. Gnats give talented TV types the chance to make exciting new documentaries such as ‘When Gnats Swarm! Narrated by Richard Madeley’.

For Nige...

Budge over...

Herring Nipples

While Judy hogs the living room and watches the FA Cup final with Dame Shirley Bassey, I’m spending my afternoon here in my office, catching up with blog business, buffing my elbows, clipping nostril hair, and generally doing that important spot of grooming I’ve put off for so long. One of the problems with the Madeley gene is that the males of the line have the quickest growing nose hair to ever grace a chin. Judy has often suggested that we turn it into high quality matting that I might sell via this blog. It’s a fine idea except I can’t promise a supply a single shade of fibre. An everlasting ‘Welcome Home’ mat is one thing but would you really buy one that’s got flecks of grey in it?

I don’t know why I’m asking you this except I want to also take this opportunity to clear up any outstanding business on this blog. I have a love/hate relationship with my statistics, as indeed, I have with reality, and my posts recently dried up while I came to grips with my new job in Manchester. I even stopped looking to see how many people continued to visit me and never had chance to see who has linked to me, included me in their memes, or generally badmouthing the finest looking man in an electric-violet cummerbund.

First of all to Elberry, who really moved me with his post, ‘The Knights of Madeley’. The thought of being sponsored by my readers touches me deeper than my expert Korean masseur, Hwan Long Finger. However, I’m not a man to take charity. I just ask you to gather at Trafalgar Square next Friday at noon and march on the offices of Random House or Macmillan. I’ve got a firm undertaking from Selena Dreamy that she’ll do the dance of the seven veils before any publishing executive or literary agent willing to put me on their books. (And I would like to take this opportunity of publicly thanking Selena for this kind gesture and for filling in after Vanessa Feltz slipped dropped out during rehearsals. I’d also like to thank The Twitch for handling that situation so well.)

Speaking of heavy matters, I’d like to thank the people at the BBC’s College of Comedy competition for their gracious response to the ten pages of sitcom I submitted to them last month. By not contacting me, they have chosen to preserve my dignity and respect my privacy. I’d like to also thank them for not dragging me into London for the final round of interviews, nor loading my schedule with the onerous duty, as winner, of having to write them a complete sitcom. My loss will ensure that the BBC’s next generation of sitcoms will be of the same standard as the last. Hurrah!

Finally, I would like to send my thanks to 'Maureen Chlorine' for the admirable attempt to render my handsome profile in finger paints but I wonder if she really needed to include my plastic bag in the same picture.

Onto meme business: I’ve been listed in a meme on Monscooch, where I’ve been asked to describe myself in six words. Hard to do. Do they want the ‘real’ Richard or the public Richard? I think I’ll cheat and give them both. So, the public Richard is:

Brash
Bouncy
Affluent
Fertile
Tanned
Gregarious

As for the private Richard, you might say that he’s almost a totally different man. The Richard you get to see on this blog is:

Complicated
Optimistic
Moody
Gullible
Generous
Nige

Which leads me on to Nige’s brief-but-much-appreciated post, to which I was forced to add my own three replies. The problem of being both Nige and myself, writing two blogs a day, is that I sometimes get a little confused as to which persona I’m inhabiting. Am I the wren loving twitcher with a love of English poets or am I Nige? Only time will tell.

Finally, I must mention search terms. It’s always a pleasure to look to see what people have put into Google. Not having examined my statistics in months, I have missed some real gems. The following three caught my attention:

‘Herring nipples’

What more can I say about my favourite brine-flavoured snack? They’re the juicy North Sea chews that you can tickle in your pocket.

‘What’s wrong with Richard Madeley’s left knee?’

I sprained it when I fell over after ogling a mime. It is still giving me a little pain, though I’m glad to report that the last few days has finally seen a small improvement.

‘Who is Richard Madeley?’

A perfect moment to post the description of myself I wrote for my entry on Wikipedia:

Richard Madeley, TV host, writer, blogger, fertility god, and inventor, is the immensely popular and influential host of his own talk show on Channel 4. His wife, Judy, often appears as his special guest. Richard also writes a blog which is even more popular that his TV show. An estimated 4.5 million readers a month read about his adventures with celebrity friends Bill Oddie and Stephen Fry. He has been sued by ex-pat Tunisians, members of the deaf, blind, midget, and homeless societies, and David Dickinson, though he has settled out of court a record number of times. He is currently writing a epic poem based around the lives of his blogging friends.