In My Dreams I Visit Sunderland

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Dreamy Words

Because of the media’s strictly enforced rules against nepotism, I rarely promote the work of those people I consider to be as much family as friends. I’ve made it my lot in life to always sneak in a link to Stephen Fry’s blog, whatever the topic of the day’s post, but that is merely a professional courtesy towards the man who helped save Ronnie Corbett’s golf swing from his shattered walnuts.

However, it’s not nepotism but humility that prevents me from directing your attention to the newest blog on my blogroll. Not only because I had a small hand in the blog’s design but because long-time reader Selena Dreamy says good things about me. Far be it for me to encourage you to make Selena’s blog a regular drive by on your circuit around the neighbourhood.

Fly, my pretties… Fly!

The Trouble With Dames

‘That bloody Michael Parkinson is going to spoil this for all of us,’ I declared to Judy soon after I’d powered up my old laptop this morning. I tapped the screen where that ungrateful Yorkshire prig was staring out at me as though I’d just asked to hear, yet again, about the time he met Muhammad Ali. ‘Look here. It says that he’s going to be knighted in the New Year honours! I bet his publicist leaked that to the Press. No doubt about it, the damn heel… And after all we’ve done for him.’

A wan hand appeared from under the duvet. It recoiled from the light before whispering. ‘Richard, could you please be a little quieter when you curse Parky? It sounds too much like blasphemy.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re going to defend him!’ I snapped.

‘He is the nation’s favourite talk show host.’

That was low, illegal blow, especially on Boxing Day. ‘The last time Parky asked a penetrating question it was 1973.’ I said. ‘And even then he questioned Lee Marvin about his sexuality.’

‘Oh Richard, give it a rest,’ said the hand. ‘Or at least lower your voice.’

‘I can’t give it a rest,’ I answered. ‘And you know I don’t have any sympathy with hangovers. If you can’t hold your liquor, you shouldn’t drink so much.’ I turned my attention back to the news. ‘If Parky spoils this for us, I’ll never forgive him.’

The instructions from The Palace had been quite explicit: don’t respond when asked about Her Majesty’s New Year honours. It wasn’t my own knighthood that concerned me as much as knowing that Judy has become really attached to the idea of becoming a dame. The weeks of excitement had pretty much been centred on Judy’s outfit for the day. I think my own elevation to the knighthood had passed without even a single mention.

I closed the laptop and slipped from the bed. The hand retreated under the sheets, no doubt rejoining the rest of Dame Judy who had over-exerted her liver at the previous night’s party. Things had been going well until Stephen Fry began supping champagne from Selena Dreamy’s shoe. Judy shouted that had to try it herself and kicked off a slipper. The poor woman was now suffering, not because she’d miscalculated the potency of the drink but the size of her own feet. It stands to sense that it one can get a touch tipsy by supping from Selena’s small pumps then you can get totally bashed by drinking from Judy’s size elevens.

I pulled on my dressing gown and quietly headed for my office, having decided make my phone calls from there and allow Judy chance to sleep off her bad head.

One soon learns about one’s friends when the Press are sniffing about and it’s important to remind some about their loyalty. The man I was about to call is well known for being unable to keep a secret and it was important that I got to him before the newspapers.

I dialled, I sat, I waited as his phone rang, all the time staring at my unfinished Airfix model of Crown Prince Willem Hendrik and wondered if I’d ever find time to finish making the complete Great Dutch Potentates Collection. Eventually, somebody picked up the phone.

‘Jeremy?’ I said, loud and cheerful. ‘It’s Dick. How you feeling?’

The phone groaned. I knew it wouldn’t be the last time I’d hear that this week but Clarkson had more reason than many to be tender between the ears. He’d got himself in a drinking game with Sue Lawley and lost consciousness on the eleventh round. The last I saw of him was when A.A. Gill dragged him by his ankles, out to their waiting taxi.

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I don’t like bothering you on Boxing Day but I just wanted to give you a warning. Looks like the Press are out to discover the contents of the Queen’s Birthday Honours. If they contact you, please don’t mention our names. It’s meant to be a secret.’

‘Yes, yes, sure,’ muttered Clarkson. ‘What time is it?’

‘Nine thirty,’ I said with a crisp alertness.

I heard a head impact on a pillow. ‘Oh! You bast…’ began Clarkson before the phone went dead.

Need you any more proof that the man’s a wit and wag from morning till night? I think not.

I dialled the next number on my shot list of those ‘in the know’.

‘’Tis I, Fry, whispering on my iPhone,’ said The Great Man.

‘Morning Stephen. Feeling a bit peaky, are we?’

‘To paraphrase the Bard, my revels now are ended and I have foresworn all spirits that have melted my brain into air, into thin, thin air…’

‘Yes, well,’ I replied, ‘if you insist on drinking like that with The Merry Wives and Windsor, then your hangover is “As You Like It”.’

‘Very droll,’ muttered Stephen. ‘But how was I to know that Mrs. Madeley and Mrs. Titchmarsh could handle their liquor as well as Barbara Windsor?’

‘I’m sure it’s a hard lesson learned, Stephen,’ I answered, ‘but I’m sure you’ll recover your elan in no time. However, that’s not why I’m ringing. I just wanted to warn you against mentioning our names if anybody asks you about the New Year Honours. It’s supposed to be a secret.’

‘You should know that I’m the model of discretion,’ said Fry. ‘Fortunately, I’m currently also a model of forgetfulness. That was quite a party, or at least what little I can remember of it. Perhaps you can you shed some light on why I can taste shoe leather and anti-fungal cream?’

I did just that. He seemed less than amused. I then asked him if it was true about him buying Weasel Vomit coffee for Prince Charles.

For some reason, the question brought out conversation to a premature end. He had to dash off to the bathroom, leaving me with no other alternative than to ring the final person who knows about my impending knighthood.

‘Morning Bill,’ I said to Oddie. ‘Hope I didn’t wake you?’

‘Wake me?’ laughed Bill. ‘I’ve not been to bed. Nature doesn’t rest for Christmas. I’ve been out watching hibernating moles.’

‘That doesn’t sound exciting,’ I replied.

‘To be honest, Dick, it’s not the most fun you can do at four AM on a freezing cold December morning. However, you learn a lot about yourself watching a mole sleep.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ I replied, though not at all sure that I believe a word of it. ‘I’m just surprised you’re not feeling a bit bloated in the gills this morning. You were putting the drink away as well as anybody.’

‘Oh, I feel fine,’ said Bill. ‘But that’s probably because I’m immune to whisky. Ever since I was bitten by a raccoon, alcohol doesn’t affect me. I might as well have been drinking tea.’

‘Well it would have been a bit cheaper if you had,’ I replied, sourly. ‘Listen, I’m ringing to make sure you’ve retained your ability to keep a secret. The Press are nosing around for hints to the Queen’s New Year honours. I want you to remember that nobody is meant to know about Judy and me.’

‘I’m keeping it under my hat with my pet dormouse,’ said Bill.

I believed that he would.

I listened to Bill go on about moles for five more minutes before I hung up the phone and came out of the office to find Judy creeping slowly down the stairs. It looked like she was heading for the kitchen so I moved ahead of her to get the door open.

‘Did I hear you on the phone?’ she asked as she shuffled past me.

‘I was ringing Bill to remind his to keep the New Year honours a secret. He’s a wonderful man but prone to blurting things out that he shouldn’t. Wouldn’t want to jeopardise our honours because of a slip of his wayward tongue.’

‘Our honours?’ asked Judy, stopping by the sink and looking a bit puzzled.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You know… The letter from Buckingham Palace…’

‘Oh, I remember the letter,’ said Judy. ‘I just didn’t remember your name being on it.’

‘Well, it was addressed to me,’ I said, amazed at how the drink was affecting my poor wife’s faculties.

‘It was addressed to Mrs. Richard Madeley,’ said Judy. ‘And it was about my DBE. There was no mention of a KBE.’

I sank down onto the wicker stool as Judy stumbled to the cupboard and took out the jar of salts. After she’d downed a pint of the stuff in a single go, she turned to me and belched gently. ‘You didn’t think they’d knight you after all the things you’ve said and done? I’ve warned you before, Richard. You should do more charity work.’

‘And what about all my work writing my blog if it’s not charity?’ I asked. ‘If it weren’t for me, there would be thousands of people going through life without the hope I give them. My regular readers would soon go off the rails if they didn’t have me.’

She waved down my complaint as shuffled away on her way back to bed.

‘Sir Richard Madeley,’ I heard her laugh before the bedroom door closed. I sat in the kitchen, listening to the echo of her laughter dance around the house, beating its merry step on all my hopes for the New Year.

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.

On The Transvestites and Squirrels of Toddington's Service Station

‘Lean, muscular and brawny!’

Four words and an outdoor life beckoned.

‘I don’t mind you gently nudging me awake,’ said Judy, pushing me towards the back door, ‘but I refuse to have the rest of your blogging friends applauding your misogynism. Let’s see how lean, muscular and brawny you feel after a night in the garden shed.’

‘I didn’t so much kick,’ I said, holding onto the sleeping bag she’d forced into my hands. ‘I toed! I toed! There’s a huge difference between a leg and a toe.’

‘A difference?’

‘At least a shin,’ I said. ‘Perhaps even a knee if you measure these things in Imperial units.’

‘I don’t take well to being laughed at,’ she sniffed.

I looked out to the garden where it was blowing a gale. I swear I saw David Dickinson’s groin go flying across the lawn before it leapt the fence and took out Ronnie Corbett’s greenhouse a few houses down.

‘I’ll put it right,’ I promised. ‘Let me get back online and I’ll make it all right.’

‘But I don’t want you to respond,’ said Judy. ‘I don’t want you going online ever again. From now on, Richard Madeley, you're no longer a blogger!’

‘Oh but Judy,’ I said. ‘I have to answer. Do you think I could ignore a woman of Selena’s obvious class and breeding?’

Judy’s flush went white. ‘I don’t see why not,’ she replied, cooly. ‘You always ignore Cilla.’

And there you have it, friends. Female wit boiled down, put into a small bottle, given a good shake, and then hurled with the might of the tender elbow to shatter at the bottom of the hole you’ve dug yourself. The aroma of cat has rarely been so strong.

Regular readers will know that it has been a long held wish of mine that visitors to this blog would ask me questions. I began my Appreciation Society in order to answer the many queries I know the world longs to ask a man of my experience. That's why, when Selena posted her list of questions, I knew it was of the utmost importance that I answer them immediately. It’s the reason that Judy discovered me hiding in the airing cupboard, this evening, when I was meant to be sitting in the front room as she talked me through a replay of last night’s boxing match. I’d naturally tried to hide what I was doing but she’d snatched away my laptop and discovered how we'd all been discussing my method of waking her up. It was the reason why I found myself on my way to a night with a man called Innes No. 3.

‘Okay,’ sighed Judy. ‘I’ll forget about this if you tell everybody the truth. You can go on there and blog but only if you tell them the complete truth and you must show contrition about your treatment of me.’

‘I will!’ I promised, as I dropped the sleeping bag and ran back into the house. And I swear that I will answer Selena’s questions with such honesty, it will rock the very foundations of light entertainment in this country. This, I swear, will be a proper reason for Gordon Brown to hold a COBRA meeting.

Selena’s Five Questions:

1.) are Bryan Appleyard and Bill Oddie about to get engaged?

Ah, I see we are to begin with a syllogism. All cats are myopic, my wife is myopic, therefore my wife is a cat... Well, given that I was the first person to reveal to the world that Nige is really Bill Oddie, it makes my job much easier: Nige is really Bill Oddie; Nige and Bryan are already engaged; therefore, Bryan and Bill are to be wed in the spring. I’m sure I speak for everybody and wish them great happiness. We are all eagerly awaiting photos of the church’s interior architecture.

2.) What exactly did you mean when you were overheard saying to Elberry: “I get plenty of it and can supply it for you?”

Stool softener. Nothing more than good old fashioned stool softener. Dr. Raj came on the Richard&Judy show about a year ago to discuss the psychological impact of constipation. He put a word in with the manufacturers of stool softener and, since then, boxes of the stuff have been arriving at the house on the first of every month. Elberry, as you will know if you read his blog, is a man greatly troubled in that department. He often boasts about travelling the country and squatting on the great Civil War battlefields, knowing that his little ‘Elberries’ will appear in auction houses under the label ‘genuine Roundhead musketballs’. I thought it only reasonable to help the poor man out, as indeed I’ll be helping out the nation’s collectors of antique musketballs.

3.) Have you ever been convicted for stalking The Honourable Nigel Havers?

Convicted: no. Caught: yes. It was at the Toddington service station and it was back in the early eighties. I’d followed The Honourable Havers there from the London BBC studios where he’d been filming Blankety Blank. It was years before This Morning and I was working on a documentary for Granada TV about shipments of Bulgarian squirrels being delivered to celebrity flats late at night. The show’s main target was Anthony Andrews but we suspected that Havers was acting as a middleman. I was hot on the trail of this illicit squirrel smuggling operation, hiding behind a rack of fan belts, when the shop assistant caught me. Nigel was attracted to the commotion. He got straight on the blower to Andrews and blew the whole gaff. That very night, Andrews released all the squirrels. Many people in the security services still blame him for causing South Kensington’s ongoing problem with squirrels with a taste for nibbling quality woollen worsted.

4.) Have you ever heard voices urging you to run for post of Vollsachverständiger für Konspirazionstheorie?

A day rarely passes without my hearing them. Luckily, the voices speak a language that my conscious mind doesn’t understand. It’s the reason why I fear learning German. I don’t know what kind of man I might become.

5.) Is it true, to the best of your knowledge, that Jeremy Clarkson was seen out dining with a man wearing a skirt while claiming he was AA Gill. Or that the Daily Mail thought it was so good they wanted it done again? And what do you imagine Stephen Fry thinks about that? I certainly do not trust the manhood of either. In fact, I rang Jeremy and tried to hide my disappointment, but he suggested, against my better knowledge, that he might just appear on this blog. What good is the word of a man with a predilection for skirts?

Good question. It takes me back. AA Gill once made a remark in his Sunday Times column about Charlie Dimmock’s breasts which I thought at the time to be the funniest thing I’d read. I rang him to congratulate him on the fact and I suggested that we meet. He was somewhat reluctant but eventually agreed to join me for a coffee, oddly enough, at the same service station at Toddington where I had been caught stalking Nigel Havers a few years earlier. To get a long story to its nub, Gill arrived wearing a tight blue business jacket and skirt, and I was again caught behind a rack of fan belts, by the same assistant, only this time trying desperately hard to avoid the heavily rouged Gill. The upshot of this is that yes: I do believe that Clarkson was seen dining with a man dressed in a skirt. Not only did The Daily Mail love it, they also hold it responsible for South Kensington’s ongoing problem with squirrels with a taste for nibbling quality woollen worsted.

As to the Great Fry's opinion, I rang Stephen and he was as astute as ever. ‘Ah, ’tis I, Fry, on my iPhone being asked about transvestites in service stations,' he said. 'Luckily, I’m on first name terms with AA Gill, or A as I like to call him, and I can explain the reasons for his occasional cross dressing. He adopts the guise of the female of the species when meeting people he’s too embarrassed to be seen with. You are, Richard, I know, insufferable when it comes to the high esteem in which you hold Jeremy Clarkson, but many men would adopt camouflage made to the highest standards of concealment. Had I the legs for it, I too would adopt the natural cover of the lady. A word to the wise, Richard: when forced to meet Clarkson, dress as a woman. Unless you are a woman, of course, in which case just keep you car engine running. You're not a woman are you Dick? Bless my soul if you are. In fact, bless all our souls...’

There you have it. It only leaves me to comment on men who like to wear skirts, though I have to be very cautious in what I say. I’ve had emailed complaints about describing them as 'whackos' and 'nutjobs'. So, I say, what’s wrong with them that a Bic razor can’t fix?

Speaking of which, Clarkson has yet to forward the piece he’s writing for me. I’ve informed him that we require none of that dross he gives The Sun. I want nothing less than his Sunday Times material. You know, the stuff he writes with the occasional comma. I’ve asked him to give me 1200 words on why men should never ever toe their wives awake.

I think he’s just the man for the job.