Bunion

After the drama of yesterday morning, it was good to escape the house for a few hours last night and spend the evening with the rest of the TV industry celebrating the fifth year since Paul O’Grady stopped wearing high heels. The event was a huge success, with lots of money raised for Paul’s charity that finds work for unwanted lap dogs sniffing out landmines on the border between North and South Korea. My mood had still risen considerably by the time I was driving home around eleven o’clock, which is probably why my instincts were sharp enough to react when I turned into the drive and saw something scamper from the beams of the headlights. It was no more than a shadow that flit across my attention but enough of a shock to make me pull up. Before I could get out, the creature – I was sure, at least, of that – had scampered into the bushes that block the lawn on one side and hide the view of our tennis court from the public road.

Intrigued, I ran for the spot in the bushes where the animal had disappeared. A tuxedo with purple cummerbund may not be the best outfit for crawling in vegetation but it did protect me from the branches that clawed at me like so many desperate fans. I have enough experience of celebrity to know how to push, elbow, kick and bite my way through a crowd and with a little effort I soon emerged on the other side to find myself in a slight clearing at the side of the house. The sight to greet me was not what I had expected to find. A bundle of plastic sheeting had been set up like a tent over the outlet to the central heating and more sheets covered the ground that was scattered with empty tubes of Pringles. More disturbing still was the figure that sat in the lea of the shelter, glaring at me as it shivered in black bin bags and tattered clothes.

‘Dick?’ croaked a voice I thought I recognised. ‘Is that you Dick?’

‘Yes, it’s me,’ I said, leaning down to see if I could recognise the face behind the mud, straw, and what smelled like unrefined effluent of cow.

A smile broke through the dirt. ‘Don’t you recognise me, Dick?’ whispered the voice. ‘It’s me. It’s your old friend Griff.’

‘Griff?’ It all came together: the face, the voice, the smell, and the name. ‘Not Griff!’

‘The very same,’ he said, his voice now recognisably that of my old judo partner, Griff Rhys Jones.

‘But Griff,’ I replied, ‘what are you doing here? And what’s happened to you? A man of your celebrity shouldn’t be eating Pringles in a tent made of plastic bags.’

‘Ah,’ he said, looking not even a bit ashamed. ‘It’s not what you think. I’m doing research.’

‘About Pringles? Here in my garden?’

‘About beggary,’ he replied. ‘It’s for a new TV drama in which I’ll be playing a much loved tramp in a small Shropshire village. It’s a light comedy for the winter evenings. I think it could be my path back to prime time.’

‘And what’s the name of this show?’ I asked, a little intrigued since I too have often seen myself moving into drama. I have asked the people at Cactus TV to find me an suitable role and a tramp in a Shropshire village sounded just my thing.

‘His name,’ said Griff, ‘is Bunion.’

‘As in the corn?’

‘Actually it’s more like the inflammation of the first joint of the big toe.’

‘Right,’ I replied, still feeling a bit disappointed that I wasn’t playing what sounded like a meaty role. ‘That sounds like good TV. The audiences are sure to flock to see you.’

‘Oh, they are,’ said Griff. ‘Or at least they will once I’ve finished writing it.’

‘Ah, so this Bunion is self penned?’

‘It is,’ he admitted. ‘And that’s why I’m here. I’ve been waiting for you to get home. I need some help putting the finishing touches to my script.’

My laugh was like a branch snapping or a can of Pringles opening. ‘You can’t fix your Bunion?’

Griff looked sadly to his feet, wrapped in bundles of cloth. ‘No, no, I can’t,’ he said. ‘To tell you the truth, Dick, I haven’t actually started it. All I have at the moment is the name and the setting. But I do think it’s the perfect for Sunday night on ITV.’

The news that the series had yet to be penned set my mind duelling with the facts. Here, I thought, was an opportunity to get in on a good thing right from the beginning. I still regret turning Jasper Carrot down when he offered me the ‘Who Wants To Be A Millionaire’ gig. I’d could have been Chris Tarrant if only I’d been blessed with the killer instinct and an inverted laugh.

‘Bunion? A very good name for Sunday night,’ I said. ‘I’m sure that Bunion will complete the triumviate of the nation’s favourite tramps that currently stands at only Compo and Cheggars. There’s nothing a middle class audience enjoys more than the reassurance that the destitute live a happy carefree life.’

‘I think so,’ said Griff, adjusting his plastic bag overcoat.

I grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet. ‘Don’t you fret, Griff. Come on into the house and clean yourself up. I’m quite a talent when it comes to scripts. I’ll soon be able to sort out Bunion’s problems. We can then be described as the series’ joint creators…’

‘Oh,’ said Griff. ‘I didn’t mean for… I mean… That’s very good of you to offer, Dick. It’s just that…’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I heard that Stephen’s staying with you.’

‘Ah,’ I said, the clouds parting and moonlight illuminating the real lie of the bushes. ‘You don’t want me to touch your Bunion?’

‘I had rather hoped that Stephen would help. He has such a way with words.’

‘As have I, Griff. As have I. But I’ll see what I can do but you might find that this will be a Fry / Madeley co-production. You see, I’m doing all his typing since he’s broken his arm.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ said Griff. ‘I’m a very good typist.’

Two handfuls of black polythene bin bags and a few chest hairs later, I had Griff pinned against the wall. ‘Listen Griff. If you come into my house, asking Stephen Fry to lend you a hand with your script, then you obey my rules. Okay?’

Griff looked suitably subdued. ‘Okay, you do the typing. As long as Stephen’s involved, I can live with that.’

I lowered him to the ground. ‘I knew you’d see it my way,’ I said. ‘You must remember that the scriptwriter is always right.’

Jamie Oliver on Vauxhall Bridge

Excuse my absence yesterday. I’ve been working with a homeless charity after pressure groups got in contact with my agent over comments I’d written last week about a tramp called Dodger. A monsterous injustice was committed on the name of Madeley but nobody seemed to care about that. Nobody leapt to my defence when I was unfairly criticised in comments. But I suppose everybody assumed that I have a big team of lawyers to do that for me. Dodger certainly wasn’t surprised. He’d told me privately that even bringing the subject up would lead to trouble. That’s the problem of being a blogging celebrity: honesty brings its own misery.

As I was serving soup to the homeless on the North Bank of the Thames, I looked up and saw somebody taking pictures of me. I thought it the paparazzi but noticed that the camera was too small. Then I assume it was a tourist. Then they lowered the camera and I saw it was Jamie Oliver.

‘Oy, Madeley,’ he yelled, a huge grin on that meat shank of a face of his. ‘How are you seasoning your soup?’

‘F**k off, Oliver,’ I shouted. I was cold, tired and stank of cabbage soup. He just chuckled and began to show off to his friends.

‘Is it oxtail? If it is, you want to season it with some real sea salt for that added flavour.’

‘Didn’t you hear me?’ I shouted back. ‘F**k the hell off, Oliver. We don’t need you around here.’

That got a small cheer from everybody in earshot. It surprised me. I’m aware that not all of you like me. In fact, I realise that I’m not everybody’s cup of tea. But in a contest betwee myself and Jamie Oliver, it seemed I had the popular vote. It was a unique and very satisfying feeling.

That's why I begn to feel good with myself and I grew determind not to respond to any more taunts. Only Oliver then began to get personal.

‘Love the black eye, Madeley,’ he shouted. ‘Did Judy give it you?’

My face must have visibly darkened. I don’t like to hear people making fun of Judy. I was about to ask him if he wanted one of his own, when I received some welcome support from an unexpected source.

The guys I’d been serving soup to suddenly turned on Oliver. The sound of tin soup tins being dropped was something eerie. It was like Dawn of the Dead as these shambling fellows then began to chase the guy who is supposed to be the nation’s most loved chef. I heard they lost him somewhere near Vauxhall Bridge but there’s an all-points-bullitin that’s gone out through London’s vagrant community. Oliver won’t be able to show his face in public without being spotted by one of them.

Jamie Oliver doesn’t deserve one of my factoid dumps but I’m cautious about what I say about the homeless, so I guess he’ll have to do. Did you know that his father made trombones and from an early age Jamie had a natural gift for the instrument. He’s still the only person to high a high C on a trombone before his fourth birthday. His remarkable lungs allow Jamie to talk for seven minutes without a breath. The downside of that is he needs extra large shirts as he’s always ripping them whenever he breathes too deep. His chest measure fifty seven inches fully inflated.

The Tramp Called Dodger

The plans for the new series get more exciting by the day and I’m pleased to announce that our’s will be the first UK show to provide regular jobs for some of London’s thousands of tramps. I admit that this was my little brainwave. I notice on the drive to the studios that London has an abundance of homeless vagrant types, wandering the streets with nothing else to do. ‘Untapped potential’ thought I as my eyes narrowed and my brain went into overdrive. This morning I asked my driver to slow down next to one of the ugliest, smelliest, and most violent individuals we could find to see if he'd be interested in filling in while Denise Robertson goes on her spiritual quest to find herself up the Andes.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, through the window’s one inch gap. ‘Are you interested in a job?’

‘A job?’ repeated the man slowly as though the word once held meaning for him. ‘Ay, I’m interested. What doing?’

‘I thought general chat about weekly new items seen from the perspective of the slightly deranged and possibly sociopathic.’

‘Sociopathic? I could do that,’ he said, fingering the knife he’d take from his pocket. ‘When would I have to do this?’

‘Possible twice a week,’ I said, ‘depending on the number of guests we have on the show. You’d probably be on the sofa between Kim Wilde and Dr. Raj. You’d provide an alternative point of view.’

‘I like the sound of that,’ said the man as he began to scratch his initials into the door of the limo.

‘Well, that’s that,’ I said. ‘Hop in and I’ll take you to the studio.’

The production meeting went fine, except for the ten minutes we spent at the end trying to get my friend to release his hostage. A half-consumed box of Jammie Dodgers seemed to pacify him and all was settled when we promised him a weekly supply of his very own.

I personally think that Dodger (as we've now christened him) is going to be a huge star for Channel 4. We’re already thinking about producing his own series. We just have to find the right vehicle for him. Perhaps something to do with home improvements. I like the ironic twist it gives to a well worn genre.

Since I’ve been light on facts the last couple of days, here’s some facts about Jammie Dodgers. They are the world’s most popular biscuit, though in American they’re known as St. James Dodgers. In Japan, they have a wing of their biscuit museum dedicated to the dodger. The jam in a dodger isn’t actually jam but a syrup. It’s specially formulated to keep the two halves of the biscuit together and is actually stronger the rubber cement. Too many jammie dodgers eaten in a day can clog up the digestion, producing dodgeritus, which is a real medical condition, the remedy of which is to gorge on fig rolls. Conversely, eating too many fig rolls can produce a condition known as figrolltiddilyitus, the cure of which is – you’ve guessed it – eating plenty of Jammie Dodgers. But once you start, you will find it hard to reach a balance. You have been warned.