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...

Do Squirrels Like Sudafed?

Having adopted the guise of the thirty seventh president of the United States, I have received a welcome boost in the form of the significant reduction in the number of people emailing to ask if I’m really me. Thankfully, there hasn’t been a subsequent rise in the number of people asking me if I’m really Richard Nixon, which just proves that the role of TV talk show host is really much more important than the top seat in the White House. The only thing that Judy and I lack is a nuclear deterrent but I hope to rectify that in the coming weeks. Stephen Fry has told me that he knows where to put his hands on some fissionable material and Bill Oddie says that the old incubator he uses to hatch eggs will make an excellent fuselage. Strapped to a couple of owls, we’ll have a weapon that can evade any radar system in the world. How the Red Chinese will react is our only real concern given their history for breeding terrain hugging bats. Yet it’s a price we think it’s worth paying if small UK satellite channels are to sleep soundly in their beds.

All of which reminds me to tell you that last night I had a dream in which I turned on Gloria Hunniford for stealing my Mint Imperials. It is a strange thing to be dreaming given that I’m largely indifferent to mints and consider Gloria to be the Queen of daytime TV.

Friends have suggested that the unusual nature of these dreams (bouncing eggs at Ted Danson from off an inflatable castle was one of the strangest) is related to my Nixon fixation, which I say isn’t a fixation as much as a means of concealing my true identity, which everybody doubts given that they can’t believe somebody with so much talent can write a blog which is so irrelevant. One person was good enough to email me this week to describe my blog as ‘piffle’. I couldn’t say that I agreed with him. I didn’t have time to agree. I’ve been in Manchester for the past two days on presidential duties.

During my half an hour break for lunch between book signings yesterday, I got trapped in Market Street. I was stuck behind a fat man carrying cushions. There’s nothing more inconveniencing that a fat man carrying cushions in a crowded city street. It’s a metaphor for my life. In each hand he held plastic bags stuffed with cushions in purple fabric. He must have measured fifteen feet across and not a person could get past him. All we could do was nestle up against his buttocks and wait for him to turn into Deansgate.

Today I’m home and wrapped up against the autumnal chill. My flu is now down a few DefCon levels. It’s now a heavy cold and the Sudafed is working in unexpected ways. I feel rather chatty and my mind can’t settle on any one topic. Does anybody know how many spoonfuls of Sudafed a man should take in an hour? I’ve always confused teaspoons with tablespoons. I think I might have overdone my morning dose.

Judy was very vex with me when she discovered that I’d deconstructed her new bamboo patio furniture. I had a mind to build myself a large water powered clock from the bamboo. I was then distracted by ‘Soccer’ AM on Sky One. Does anybody find those ‘comedy sketches’ funny? Helen Chamberlain and Max Rushden are personable enough but they don’t understand the physics of the sofa. Their body language was all wrong and I’d suggest they watch some of our old ‘This Morning’ shows from 1998 if they want to see how it’s done.

I’ve finally come to the conclusion that I do enjoy liquorice but not when it’s shaped like a bear.

I’m going to sit down this afternoon a sketch out a plan for a new book. ‘Fathers & Sons’ is a huge hit but my tour of the nation’s bookshops has convinced me that people are crying out for a book about those little black power supplies that come with every electronic gadget but never seem to work on anything else. Judy has a Tesco’s carrier bag filled with the things. I know we’ll never need them but I can never bring myself to throw one away.

And why is the letter ‘Y’ in the middle of a keyboard but the ‘a’ is tucked away under the little finger of my left hand? Why are the important vowels on the left when I’d want on them on the right? And why do I have a key for the ‘¬’ symbol when I don’t even know what the ‘¬’ symbol is for.

Oh look! A squirrel in the garden! I wonder how a squirrel would react if I fed it Sudafed...