Saturday's Search Term Bonanza

It’s the weekend and I’ve had little chance to rest, even though I’m worn out after the first week back in the five o’clock slot on Channel 4. I’m rushing to write up the latest bit of gossip regarding Stephen’s accident but, in the meantime, here is something to make you smile: my favourite search terms from the past week's visitors from Google.

People often ask me if I make these up and I swear that they are genuine. As usual, I’ll try to explain/answer them to the best of my ability.


‘Venessa Feltz cleavage’

The old favourite is still going strong. It is a somewhat disturbing fact that this phrase alone accounts for more visitors to this blog than any other. I doubt if Venessa Feltz even knows that her cleavage is this popular.

‘How did the pencil help society when it was invented?’

Well we finally had a single instrument which could be used to both stir our tea and remove troublesome ear wax.

‘Perfect marker beard’

I think small Jimmy Hill style beards are the perfect way to mark the end of your chin. Some men swear by them. With a well trimmed Jimmy Hill beard, you’ll never lost the end of your chin again.

‘Uses for hemorrhoid cream’

Cleaning out an ants nest, smoothing wrinkles, making an Eskimo frown.

‘How to electrocute a squirrel’

It is a known scientific fact that you cannot actually electrocute a squirrel. They have such a high level of salt in their bodies that they are a natural conductor of electricity. Some people say that squirrels might even hold the key to our energy problems.

‘Jeremy Paxman pants’

The details are these: inside leg 38”, waist 41”, and made from the best squashed worsted by Mr. Patel of High Street, Whickham.

‘Water Sport transvestites’

This one confuses the hell out of me. Why anybody would want to see transvestites surfing and wind sailing is a mystery. From a distance, I’d doubt if you’d even know that they’re transvestites. Could they perhaps mean water polo?

‘Prunella Scales topless photo’

Understandable. I’ve always had a slight thing for Mrs. Fawlty.

‘Usherette tray manufacturer’

You can’t beat Peels of Norwich. They make the finest usherette trays.

‘Fart appreciation society’

The mind boggles. Where do they hold their meetings? What do they do at their meetings? And who would want to attend their meetings?

‘The rubber duck appreciation society’

Much more my cup of tea. Quack.

‘Kirsty Wark newsreader marital status’

Married and mean. You don’t want to go there, boyfriend.

‘Richard Madeley funny things he says’

See above and below. I’m here until Easter.

‘Who is Marti Pellow's wife?’

Mrs. Pellow. I’ve met her on many occasions and she’s a lovely woman. Oddly, she has a total aversion to the records of Wet Wet Wet. It marks her out as a connoisseur of good music.

When Beavers Attack

The mystery of Fred Talbot's disappearance deepens.

Judy was hanging out her newly-washed triple-trussed safety brassieres this morning when she saw something grinning at her from the bushes that run alongside the rear patio. Naturally, she gave a scream and fainted there on the spot. When I ran out to see what was wrong, I found our beaver lurking in close proximity to her left leg, a morbid grin fixed across its wet, salacious lips. I saw immediately what had happened. From somewhere, the poor creature had unearthed an object that looked remarkably like a human jawbone. The object had become stuck on the beaver’s oversized teeth and were preventing the beaver from going about its normal business of making a documentary for the BBC down at the lake.

Still feeling a little cautious about how I handle an animal owned by TV license payers, I immediately rang Bill Oddie who jumped on his bicycle and peddled around. Together we managed to lure the beaver back down to the lake where we penned him against the bank for a closer inspection.

‘This isn’t a jawbone,’ squealed a delighted Oddie once he’d prised the grin from the beaver’s mouth. ‘It’s the upper half of a set of dentures.’

‘Dentures?’ I said, reaching for them. ‘And what would a beaver be doing with dentures?’

Oddie looked to the still, dark waters of the lake. ‘And you’re yet to be convinced that Fred Talbot’s not down there?’

‘Impossible,’ I replied and looked at the smile in my hand. Could this really be the same grin that had welcomed in many a warm front and warned of overnight ground frost from a floating map moored to the Albert Dock? There was only one way to find out.

‘We need to get these dentures checked out by an expert orthodontist,’ I said as Bill began to frolic in the mud with the beaver. ‘We need somebody to confirm that these teeth match Fred the Weatherman’s smile.’

There is, of course, only one person we know who has the medical training to make such a identification.

‘I got here as fast a human legs and diesel engine could carry me,’ said Stephen Fry, jogging down to the lake. He was wearing his Oscar Wilde had and favourite green cape, while in his hand he carried a shooting stick with the large handle in the shape of H.G. Well’s naked buttocks. ‘Might I enquire, Dick, why your lady wife is currently lying on the patio?’

‘Ah,’ I said, no doubt blushing a touch. ‘That’s because I completely forgot about her in all the excitement. She fainted when the beaver reared its grinning head.’

‘The same beaver with the teeth you want me to inspect?’

‘The very same,’ I said, handing him the dentures.

‘You are indeed fortunate,’ he said, inspecting the teeth. ‘I spent my last Whit holiday taking all the qualifications required to work as an orthodontist. Do you know I fixed Jade Goody’s underbite last year?’

I gave an involuntary shiver. ‘Working for the enemy, Stephen? That’s not like you.’

‘It’s hard to say no when one has the chance to wire that woman’s mouth shut.’ He turned the teeth over in his hands. ‘These dentures are well worn and have the distinctive bite characteristics of a man who speaks with his mouth full and gets overexcited at moments of even mild stress.’

‘That could easily be Fred,’ I said, remembering many a meal when his enthusiasm for a cloud would get the better of him.

‘I need to compare it with pictures of the man.’

‘I’m sure we have a few of those tucked away,’ I said and gestured up to the house.

On the way back, I got Stephen to help me lift Judy from the cold patio and into the conservatory where she’d be warm as she slept off her shock. I then took Fry and Oddie into my study where I keep the chest containing all my old souvenirs of my days on This Morning.

‘Inconclusive,’ said Fry half an hour later. He sat back and let the magnifying glass fall to his knees. ‘These teeth could easily have belonged to Fred but they could have also belonged to one of a number of men with strong jaws and slightly erratic natures.’ He looked toward Bill who was curled up asleep on the rug. ‘For instance, these teeth could easily have belonged to Bill.’

Bill gave a quite mutter, no doubt dreaming about chasing owls through a semi-deciduous forest.

‘Well that means that mystery only deepens,’ I said as I lay the teeth on my desk next to my unfinished Airfix model of Crown Prince Willem Hendrik.

‘Indeed it does,’ said Stephen. ‘If only you could find the bottom set, we might be able to make a positive match. Until then, there’s little more I can do.’

‘Thanks,’ I replied, patting the Great Man on the knee. ‘Fancy a game of Scrabble while the babes are asleep?’

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ said Stephen as I stepped lightly over my little bearded friend.

‘I’m afraid the excitement of the morning had come too early in the year for him,’ I explained to Stephen as we softly closed the study door on the sleeping Oddie. ‘If he doesn’t get a good four mouths of winter hibernation, he can be so irritable come the spring.’

The Madeley Bestiary

Excuse me if I keep burping. I’m feeling a mite bilious this morning. I think it must be something I ate in the last couple of days. However, I intend to crack on and have something posted for you before I scoot off to the studios to film this afternoon’s show.

I’ve also been delayed by working late into the evening on a new feature for my blog. You might have noticed the new ‘Madeley Bestiary’ in the column to your right. I’ll be adding to this excellent resource over the coming days, so both new and old readers alike will be able to reference the dramatis personae of my life. What’s more, if you print them out, they’ll form a set of cards that can be used to play a wide range of interesting games or used as a replacement tarot deck. Turn over two Ronnie Corbetts in a row and you’ll be in for ten years of good luck.

A Meaty Meal

Forgive me if I parse a few ugly phrases this morning. I’m suffering a hangover so acute that it has already penned its own agenda for the destruction of the human race. Last night was something of a special occasion. To mark the first job interview I’ve attended in over twenty years, I was treated to a meal by my excellent friends, Stephen Fry and Jeremy Clarkson, at one of the West End’s finest restaurants. The place came with a good reputation for having the widest menu in the city. A.A. Gill had described it as an ‘omnivore’s paradise’, which in Clarkson’s version had become ‘tasty grub’. In practical terms, the menu offered speciality cuts of meat for those of us who enjoy the finer side of the mammal and vegetable divide.

As if to prove the point, I’d been tucking into my main course when I must have hit an artery somewhere in the midst of the raw steak. The plate was soon awash with bovine claret. I didn’t know what to do: mop it up with a bread roll or fashion a tourniquet out of my napkin. In the end, I asked Clarkson to lean over and lend me his finger. With a bit of pressure applied to the steak’s wound, I piled mashed potato over the meat and the problem was solved. It’s the sort of quick thinking that I’m known for.

I’m telling you this in order to make a point about my diet. To argue that I’m a man who has never taken the vegetarian shilling is to understate my love for meat. If I had the teeth for it, I’d rip it straight from the hoof. Many a time have Judy and I holidayed abroad and I’ve gone for the most meaty dish on the menu. There’s not a animal on this green earth I’ve not dreamed about chewing through and that would include some fairly rare beasts. It’s why I don’t take Jamie Oliver’s arguments all that seriously. If God hadn’t intended us to eat meat, he’d have never given us the cattle gun.

‘It’s the little baby chickens,’ I explained to Clarkson as he began to hack into his own side of beef. ‘He gets all gooey eyed when he sees their cute little beaks.’

‘I love beak,’ sighed Jeremy. ‘Newly fried with a squeeze of lemon juice. Absolutely terrific.’

At this point, Stephen Fry returned from the wine cellar. He’d insisted that the waiter took him there to choose a bottle of the red that would match not just our meal but his new vermilion cape.

‘Do I return at the end or the beginning of an interesting topic of conversation?’ asked Stephen, resuming his seat.

‘We’re discussing meat and why Jamie Oliver is fussy about what he cooks,’ explained Jeremy.

‘Oh, I know something he’d never cook,’ said Stephen. ‘Panda.’

‘Panda?’ said Jeremy, wiping his mouth with his napkin and then giving me one of those looks. ‘Do you believe this, Dick? Stephen claims to have eaten panda.’

‘I didn’t much care for it, myself,’ said Fry. ‘A rather tough meat with an excess of gristle.’

‘And when did you eat panda?’

‘In China,’ said Stephen. ‘Some of the larger zoos have quite a collection of panda. I happened to be guest of honour on the day one of them died. The poor thing fell from its tyre swing. Everybody was quite distraught but then common sense took over. They quickly dressed the meat and popped it in the pot. It was quite the experience.’

‘I’ve eaten raccoon,’ I admitted, which didn’t sound half as interesting as panda.

‘I bet neither of you have eaten chaffinch,’ said Jeremy, with a gleam in his eye. ‘I love chaffinch.’

Now it was my turn to look pleased with myself. ‘You certain have,’ I said. ‘Your love for them is the stuff of legend. That’s why Judy has made you so many chaffinch pies over the years. It’s become her speciality.’

‘I bet Mr. Oliver wouldn’t know what to do with a chaffinch,’ said Stephen. ‘It reminds me of a meal I had on a tour of Japan. It was the days of Jeeves and Wooster and Hugh Laurie had taken me to a little traditional restaurant in the heart of Tokyo. You would not believe what was on the menu.’ He looked at us and sipped his wine in order to delay the moment. ‘Zebra.’

‘Oh, I’ve had that too,’ said Jeremy. ‘A tough meat but has a strong flavour. It reminds me of porcupine.’

‘Australian porcupine is the best,’ agreed Stephen. ‘It’s best when it still has the spines.’

‘Another good meat,’ returned Jeremy, clearly getting excited by the topic, ‘is llama. It’s tastier than camel yet just as juicy.’

‘Yet camel is one of my favourites,’ said Stephen. ‘Put the snout under a hot grill at gas mark 4 and it is the perfect meal for a cold night.’

I listened as these two great men began to run down the meats they’ve eaten, all of which put to shame even my own carnivorous ways. Between them they’d eaten pretty much everything: otters, lizards, ponies, dogs, cats, spiders, and even Arctic mice.

The conversation lapsed as we scraped the last of our meal from the plate and prepared for the dessert.

‘So,’ I asked Stephen. ‘What shall we have for pudding? Sparrow, gnu, or cougar?’

‘I fancy something light,’ he replied. ‘I suggest a spot of ice cream?’

‘Excellent choice,’ agreed Clarkson.

‘Okay,’ I said, waving over the waiter. ‘Three ice creams.’

At which point, Jeremy leaned back and took on his favourite look of unqualified smugness. ‘This reminds me of my time in Louisiana when we have alligator pie and ice cream flavoured with a wombat’s ears.’

‘Amateur hour,’ replied Stephen. ‘I once ate ice cream sprinkled with the crushed loins of the silver backed sand monkey of Papua New Guinea.’

And so they went on. For another hour, I listened to some of the most mouth watering recipes imaginable. I began to jot them down but soon gave up for the same reasons as I’m now going to close this post: I’m beginning to feel hungry. And I happen to know there are some ham sausages in the fridge. I’m not going to eat them, of course. But I might be able to lure the neighbour’s dog into the back garden…

Wednesday's Logic Puzzle

1. Despite all I've ever said about Apple computers (and their shockingly woeful power supplies and customer support), I'm now lusting after the new Apple MacBook Air.

2. However, it's pointless my lusting after the new Apple MacBook Air since I can't actually afford one.

3. I'll be away for most of Wednesday morning attending a job interview. I anticipate intelligence tests followed by questions such as 'where do you see yourself in five years time?'

4. I don't know where the hell I'll be in five years time and I'm liable to punch anybody who dares ask me that question.

5. Yet should I answer the question well and get the job, I will be able to afford a new Apple MacBook Air.

6. If I get the job, I won't have any time to use my new Apple MacBook Air.

7. But if I don't get the job, I'll have all the time I want to write on a new Apple MacBook Air. However, I still won't be able to afford a new Apple MacBook Air.

Questions:

Should I actually try to get the job?
Should I punch anybody who dares ask me the fateful question?
Is the Apple MacBook Air as sexy as it appears?

Stephen Fry Finds The Perfect Permanent Marker Pen

It is a fundamental predisposition of friendship that a tall man in a green cape should leap to fill the void vacated by a man wearing casual slacks and with a heart as open as his wallet or crotch. Heavens! It is I, Fry, loyally standing in for your good friend Richard Madeley, today indisposed on account of a visit to The Richard&Judy Studios by Ms. Davina McCall. However, let us not dwell on this unfortunate event, except to say: shudder. If, indeed, shudder is enough when discussing a woman with the tattoo of the Tai Huen Chai Triads on her wrist. We can only wish Richard well and hope that neither he nor Judy is sold into the Far East flesh trade.

Somewhat cowardly, I have remained at the rear to fill in for this blog’s unfortunate author. ‘Fill in’. Such a common term for a lofty ambition. Were I a humbler man, I might well have forgone my duty and left his blog to run wild today, capering about like some council estate scamp. Unlike the constant flow of traffic at my website, poor Richard struggles to attract visitors. I intend to affect change. After all is said and, indeed, done: your Great Uncle Stephen has a knack for taking up the reigns and doing a splendid job. I will spend my time most wisely and review a remarkable piece of kit that has come my way.

The Sharpie Jumbo Sized Fine Point Permanent Marker Pen is a class leader in ergonomic design. The model provided to me for review was a shade of red that has pretensions towards the crimson. Styled after the fashion of a liquorice torpedo, the pen immediately sat proudly in my gifted hand and I was soon taken with the desire to write a sonnet. Fourteen lines soon followed, with the Shakespearean sestet terminating in a deliciously rhymed couplet; something that failed to happen when I reviewed the Papermate Expo Grip Pen earlier in the year. As the words began to flow, the Sharpie’s aroma began to cloud this reviewer’s mind and reality dulled like a bleak Whitsunday afternoon in Formby. This was not the heady brew of cheaper marker pens! Oh no! I recognised the slight infusion of an aroma not unlike that of lightly toasted coffee beans. That, at least, is what I told the large purple pixie who sat swinging his legs idly on the top of my monitor as I put down my pipe and began to type up this review.

Both Mr. Pixie and I believe the pen to be a leap forward in permanent markers designed for the family home. The Sharpie forgoes the clumsy design of the standard W.H. Smith Permanent Markers, without the expense of the BIC XL400 series. We regret the lack of rubberised barrel and there was no opportunity to extend the life of the pen through upgrades or refills. Remarkably, the Sharpie’s nib more than made up for this deficiency. A cleverly fashioned point, it provides fingertip control for those small annotations one might wish to make in perpetuity. Again, it is a marked (pun most craftily intended) improvement on the chisel tips of its class competitors. In the twenty four hours since I’ve been road driving this model, I have scribbled the Fry moniker on a dozen lamp posts in the West End region, signed my autograph on three breasts, two kneecaps, and a most tricky septuagenarian elbow covered by a copious amount of hard skin. The Sharpie handled all with remarkable (another deliciously inserted pun) ease. The nib remains as pert as ever; a fact that causes your reviewer to blush quite considerably.

(I have been since reminded that the Sharpie should be used on neither human nor animal flesh. Should you find my hastily scribbled signature on your breast, kneecap, or, indeed, pet, I advise you to wash it off immediately. In my excitement to mark you with my name, I might have inadvertently caused you severe kidney failure. Deary me! Since we have no guidance on inanimate flesh, we can safely assume that the Sharpie is perfectly suitable for marking up any cadavers, zombies, or other undead creatures you may have lying around the house.)

Indeed, the only flaw that I can see in the Sharpie is one that Mr. Pixie pointed out to me as we amused ourselves by dialling numbers randomly into the telephone. That is: longevity. One struggles to imagine how many lethal doses of kidney busting ink the good people at Sharpie have squeezed into such a handsomely profiled barrel. Were I to begin to pen a long poem consisting of nothing but Alexandrines rhymed incongruously with the occasional word of Latin or French, would the Sharpie last the distance? I think not. Nor does Mr. Pixie to whom the Alexandrines is the most perfectly formed line for epic verse.

For this reason, both your Uncle Stephen and Auntie Pix must withhold their full recommendation until our poem is writ. Were you to use it as the manufacturer recommends, inscribing your initials on lunch boxes, frisbees, and beneath the eyelids of your family pets, then the Sharpie might last a good deal longer than we have estimated. Then it would indeed warrant your purchase and this reviewer would be left to feel a rather foolish old chap. Lordy!

Richard Reviews: The Richard&Judy Show (14/1/08)

There is no way of diminishing the disappointment one feels when watching oneself on television. Things you wish you’d done better, questions you should have asked, intimacies that were probably best left private: they all hasten a man’s hand as it reaches for the remote control as he reviews his day's work around midnight. Yet an occasional glance at the handsome chap chatting on the TV can also be liberating. As the ancient Greeks advised: know thyself! To judge Madeley as though he were a famously gifted contemporary can be quite a revelation if your name also happens to be Madeley. It also stays the hand when all it wants to do is to switch over to Busty Babes UK.

Up to this afternoon, I’d been living in the swampland known as denial. I didn’t want to acknowledge that I had to return to Channel 4. Even as late as this morning, I was more concerned by my life beyond the contract than I was in the guests we’d had booked for the first show of our new series. Judy had only reminded me at lunchtime that the limo would be picking us up at two o’clock. I had planned on spending the afternoon with Clarkson, stalking A.A. Gill around some of London’s choicest restaurants, flicking peas at him as he tried write up his notes on the grub. Instead, I was stuck sobbing in the back of a limo as we made our slow way to the studios down in Kennington.

The Richard&Judy Show may still be the jewel in the Channel 4 crown but the studios had the same unmistakable smell of menopausal pickled onions. The faces were all the same and so were the bodies, despite the constant chatter about diets and New Years resolutions that greeted my arrival. Being the only man working on the show can sometimes make conversation limited. I think it explains the number of male friends I have outside the Richard&Judy phenomenon and why all of them appreciate what it means to shoot black powder long bore rifles whenever we can at the weekend.

As for the actual recording of the show: I thought it went remarkably well. Only watching it now on the Sky+ box do I see how we failed in our stated objective to begin the series on a subdued note. It will hard to maintain this quality over the run of the whole series. All I can guess is that the adrenaline took over. After half an hour, I was in blisteringly good form.

We began with an interview with Janet Street Porter. As soon as I saw her in the green room, I knew she was going to clash with the sofa. Before we went on air, I even asked her if she’d slip out of her horrendous green tights but Janet just responded by calling me ‘a misogynous prig’. You might have read about our long history of mutual dislike going back to our well publicised falling out over the matter of Lebanese butter. It was back in the days of ‘This Morning’ up in Liverpool. I’d made an offhand remark about Janet’s taste for low fat spreads and she’d told me off for being uncultured. That had led me to make an offhand joke about her love for butter made from camel milk. I still don’t know what she has against me but the feud has simmered for all these years and I can't see there ever being peace. Either in the Middle East or between Madeley and Porter.

Despite this, when the cameras are on her, Janet remains the consummate professional. She chatted away through the segment without once mentioning camel butter. I managed to avoid commenting on the gangrenous colour of her legs. That’s not to say that the first ad break wasn’t tense. Janet had me pinned against the wall and threatened to remove my feet at the ankles. Judy had to beat her off me with a cushion and things were barely settled by the time we all came back from the commercials. We chatted about her new book and then I had security escort her from the building as Judy and I moved on to chat with the nation’s chirpiest toff, Ben Fogle.

I hadn’t seen Ben since the incident at Ainsley Harriott’s house when one of my least sociable gastric discharges had re-stained the Italian marble in the bathroom. Ben was on the show to plug his new series in which he’s been helping people overcome the problems in their lives through adventure. I was so sure he was going to mention my tricky gut and recommend that I try canoing up the Nile to teach it a lesson. He didn’t, which shows what a good sport he is. But I was still a bit worried about him spreading malicious gossip about me so he too was soon being led from the building by security.

To be honest, after the next break, the show became pure Judy. I had to sit there in the presence of some of the ghastliest paintings produced by the wit of man. It was, quite frankly, embarrassing as I listened to Judy turn poetic as she described pictures made from vegetables and raw fish. My poor wife has so little taste you’d think her a custodian of the Tate. I’d wouldn’t mind if she’d allowed me to give the segment a bit of class by asking Carl Warner if he compared his studies of foodstuffs with vanitas paintings of that period of counter Reformation in Europe of the seventeenth century. I wanted to know if his garish landscapes were a comment on the artificiality of food and by extension, human life, at the beginning of the twenty first century, in a similar way to those Protestant artists who depicted decaying fruit as symbolising the mortality of the flesh and an ethic of worldly suffering. Judy just thought it better to ask him if he enjoyed working with vegetables. I was relieved when we’d made it to another break and that’s when I told the artist what I really thought of his work and had the security guard escort him from the building. For the life of me, I still don’t know why we couldn’t have used that time to help some talented unknown artist find a market.

I’m similarly dubious about our video clips segment which is another of Judy’s babies. This week’s selection distinguished the brain dead from the truly moronic: a dancing parrot, a whistling belly button, the ubiquitous accident involving a caravan, and a comically frowning baby. My favourite remains the German juggling hammers, which gives me endless delight to know that we’re promoting dangerous stunts on national television without any warnings about ‘trying this at home’. Mark my words: this year will be known as the year when accidents with claw hammers shot through the roof. Or, more accurately, got stuck in the roof before coming back down and embedding themselves in the skull of some inept juggler.

The last segment was our interview with Martin Freeman. By this point, I was completely out of it. I can barely remember what I said. As usual, I hadn’t read the notes before the interview and had expected Martin to be my favourite black actor from America. I was hugely disappointed that I couldn’t ask the questions I’d prepared about ‘Seven’ and ‘The Shawshank Redemption’. Instead, I had this pasty-faced English Joe blathering on about some film he’s made with an unknown filmmaker, who just happens to be Gwyneth Paltrow’s brother. There is no man working in show business who takes a dimmer view of nepotism in the arts. If Paltrow had been on the show, you can be sure that I’d have had an security escort him from the building.

And that, as they say, was a wrap. Despite all my prevaricating about going back on TV, I can’t recall ever being in such good form at the beginning of a series. I won’t be re-watching any future episodes, so I won’t be boring you any more of these behind the scenes anecdotes. I know you all love the show but, to be honest, it’s not for me. It helps pay the bills but what man in his right mind wants to spend his day admiring luminous landscapes made from potatoes and peas?

Now, I have to get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a tough day for Madeley, the unpublished writer. We’re interviewing Pauline McLynn (Mrs Doyle from Father Ted) about her sixth novel. That’s right. Her sixth! I have some interesting anecdotes about Norman Mailer I want to run past her.

Monday's Top Searches

For once, the day's top search terms speak for themselves. My own commentary would only take something away from such an accurate account of life in modern Britain:

1. Russell Brand in his garden
2. Celebrity webbed toes
3. Vanessa Feltz cleavage
4. Phillip Schofield skiing
5. Richard Madeley is a twat!
6. Can bees sting in the winter?
7. Richard and Judy funny five dancing parrot
8. Liposuction pubic mound
9. Duel rectum syndrome
10. Two rectums
11. What does Jeremy Clarkson's wife look like?
12. Richard and Judy and the whistling belly button on there [sic] show
13. Richard Madeley nude
14. H.G. Wells nude
15. For sale genuine usherette tray

We're Home...

We've just got in after tonight's show. I'm so tired but after a quick bath, I hope to post something later on. In the meantime, I just wanted to drop and thank you all for the emails we've had congratulating us on our return to your screens. I thought I was in blistering form. The whistling belly button was my pick of the show, but, if I'm honest, I wasn't too impressed with the paintings made from vegetables. I'm afraid that segment was pure Judy...

My Monday Moaning

I woke up this morning, gave a loud sigh, and began to gaze at the ceiling. I remained like that for nearly an hour before Judy came upstairs to see what was wrong.

‘I don’t know,’ I said, tearful beneath the duvet. ‘Call it the Monday morning blues or the new week syndrome but I’m suffering from a general malaise. I don’t recollect my outlook on life ever being this bleak.’ With another sigh, poetry came to my lips. I had memorised the lines a few days ago in anticipation of this very moment. ‘“I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars did wander darkling in the eternal space…”’

‘Oh, not another of your moods,’ replied Judy, carrying a pile of washing to the drawers. ‘I thought you’d be up early to feed your beaver.’

‘On days like this, not even a beaver’s the answer,’ I said.

‘Come on, Richard! What have you got to feel glum about?’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ I sighed. ‘Were I broke, unemployed, horrendously overqualified for every single job, living far from the nation’s media capital, and clueless about my future, then I might have a reason to feel down. As it is, I’m not Fred Talbot. But I do worry that my body of work is not being appreciated by the people that really matter.’

She began to consider my underpants before she folded them and tucked them away in the drawer. She was thoughtful for a moment or two longer than I expected.

‘Since you brought it up, Richard, I did want to ask you about how your job hunt is going.’

I groaned and buried my head under the pillow. ‘Don’t talk to me about that. I’m due in town today to revisit the job agency. They might have news for me.’

‘Well, isn’t that good? They might have found you some work.’

‘But that’s just it, Judy. I don’t actually want a job. I have enough work to do here, writing twelve hours a day for no financial gain and no exposure but knowing that I’ll be a latter day John Kennedy Toole whose work is recognised only after I leave Channel 4.’

To this, Judy gave one of her most meaningful huffs before she went downstairs. Five minutes later, I heard her car spluttering down the drive.

When I did get up, my email box was no great consolation. Five emails questioning the size of my manhood, three from unknown Kenyans offering me obscure financial opportunities, one from a writer hoping that I’d be able to further his career and his novel, and another enquiring about a job at Channel 4. As a generously proportioned man of some financial means yet unable to find himself a literary agent and soon to be out of a job at Channel 4, the emails could not have found a more inappropriate recipient. However, I quickly fired off replied to all ten and then got down to my day’s work.

Which is where you now find me, scribbling this note before I begin on another day’s labour at the keyboard. The problem with writing a blog is that it’s such a small part of my day, a fraction of my output. This is what people fail to see when they send me emails. I have a beaver to feed, a novel to complete, inventions to patent, scripts to polish, ad libs to write, a man called Oddie to polish, and then letters to write and post.

I have a full day ahead of me but little energy to commit to the cause.

In Katie Derham's Shoes

Before I begin, I want to make it clear that I’ll not hear a bad word said against Katie Derham. Like many this day and age, she may lack a certain professionalism but she completely wins me over by her beauty. Had I not already found my soul mate in Judy, then Katie would be the woman for me. Or that, pretty much, was the conclusion I reached when chatting to Bill Oddie when he came over yesterday.

I was on my way back from a lazy Saturday morning jog around the neighbourhood when I met Bill at the bottom of the drive. He was wearing his favourite RSPB deerstalker and carrying a large inflatable carrot.

‘Good news,’ he said, ‘there’s a major crisis at the Beeb.’

‘An invasion of large PVC rabbits?’ I suggested with a nod towards his carrot.

‘Oh, this?’ he waved the orange inflatable in the air. ‘This is for Judy.’

‘Ah,’ I said, as though it made complete sense that Judy would want a large inflatable carrot.

‘I mentioned that I had one and she asked if could have it when I was finished with it.’

‘Stop right there, Bill,’ I said, wiping the sweat from my brow. ‘I don’t need to know any more. Tell me instead about this crisis at the BBC. Am I right to assume that they’ve discovered that the large red button on the National Lottery draw isn’t actually connected to the Random Ball Juggling machines?’

‘Not at all,’ said Bill looking a touch bewildered. ‘The natural history team have been called in for an emergency meeting. Poor old Katie Derham was due to take delivery of the star of a new reality TV show for next autumn’s schedule. Unfortunately, she’s had to drop out because she never mentioned that her house is in the middle of London and lacks a lake-sized pond.’

‘An odd thing to forget to mention,’ I replied. ‘The fact that this house has a lake-sized pond is usually the first thing out of my mouth whenever I walk into a production meeting. But tell me, Bill. Does this have anything to do with me?’

‘Only that I’ve put a good work in for you and your pond.’

‘You mean they want me for a show?’

‘Couldn’t do without you,’ he smiled. ‘Though, to be honest, Dick, you were the only port and this a pretty ferocious storm. The whole series had been thrown into doubt. Production schedules were being rewritten and if it hadn’t been for my last minute suggestion, they were going to defrost David Attenborough from his cryogenic chamber. They’ve been saving him for the day when the icecaps head south.’

All fascinating details, I’m sure you’ll agree, but to cut a short story even shorter: it turns out that Bill had been so impressed with the natural organic taste of my right areola that he had suggested that I might be the ideal man to fill Katie’s shoes. Not that I normally go in for wearing women’s shoes, you understand, but on this occasion I could and would.

After arrangements had been made, agents contacts, contracts signed, Bill and I sat down for lunch and waited for the men from the BBC arrived with the crate. It arrived shortly after one o’clock and contained not women’s shoes but my co-star.

'A beaver!' said Judy when I told her the good news.

I corrected her. 'A reality TV beaver. They've trained him to avoid looking at the cameras. We'll be keeping him in the lake, so you don't have to worry about him coming up to the house.'

In actual fact, the lake sits at the furthest corner of our enormous plot of land. It is fed by a fresh water river that flows in from the Corbett estate and drains off into our neighbour’s land. An hour after the crate arrived, I was standing on the banks of the lake as I watched Bill and Stephen Fry wade through the grey waters. Stephen had responded to my plea for help with his usual display of selfless loyalty. They had been working tirelessly to remove the large map of the UK I’d scuttled there back in the nineties.

‘I’m not sure this is a good idea,’ said Judy after a few moment's thought. She was standing at my elbow and wrapped for winter. Her pessimistic view of the whole beaver situation was, I think, a result of being reminded about the map. It never puts her in the best frame of mind. There has always been a touch of guilt about the way we left Fred up in Liverpool when we came to make out fortune beside the Thames. Judy had thought it particularly cruel of me to sink our weatherman’s favourite prop but I thought it was the kindest thing to do in the circumstances. A man like Fred Talbot would never have escaped that map and at some point he’d have done something foolish, like try to sail it around the coast. Scuttling had been an act of great kindness.

‘You’re only being negative because it’s not your career that you’re thinking about,’ I told her. ‘Come Autumn, you’ll be penning your best-selling novels. But what about me? I need to be seen on TV. This beaver could be the break I’ve been talking about. I could become the new face of BBC wildlife. Can you imagine Alan Titchmarsh with a beaver?’

‘Unfortunately I can,’ said Judy, not without menace.

‘Look here,’ I said, kicking the crate. ‘This beaver won’t bother us. I’ll come down here and feed him in the morning, say my bit to camera, and then come back and make us breakfast. You won’t even know he’s here.’

‘So you promise me that I won’t become part of this?’

‘I wouldn’t want you to,’ I said. ‘This is my beaver. Not yours.’

She crossed her arms and turned back for the house. ‘I’m going to put the kettle on. Ask Stephen and Bill if they want a drink. It must be freezing in that water.’

I shuffled down to the edge of the lake and watched a muddied Stephen Fry drag a chunk of East Anglia from the water.

‘My, my,’ he said as he dumped it on the bank. ‘What on earth are we going to do with a one tenth scale model of Lincoln Cathedral?’

‘If you don’t know, Stephen, I’m sure I don’t have the answer,’ I said. ‘Where’s Bill?’

Stephen didn’t need to reply. Bill surfaced from beneath the weeds. A waterlogged piece of knitting trailed behind him like a net as he made for the shore.

‘Isn’t that one of Fred the Weather’s old jumpers?’ asked Stephen.

‘It might be,’ I said, somewhat surprised to see it. ‘I wonder what it was doing down there…’

‘There’s so much rubbish,’ said Bill, sitting down on the bank and wringing the moisture from his beard. ‘The map’s hollow and there’s plenty of space inside. I managed to dive quite a way down and I’m sure I spotted an old gas cooker and a sleeping bag.’

Stephen pulled off one of his yellow marigolds in order to scratch his head. ‘Think back, Richard. When you dumped this map in the lake, did you check it to make sure that Fred wasn’t living in it at the time?’

‘I can’t say that I did,’ I confessed. ‘It’s not something you look for: minor celebrities living inside large floating maps. I do remember than it took a while for it to sink. I recollect saying to Judy that it was like it had a life of its own, the way it kept making muffled hammering sounds as I pushed it under with a stick.’

Stephen winced. ‘You don’t think those muffled hammering noises could have been Fred?’

‘I thought it mere buoyancy.’

Bill sucked his teeth and shook his head. ‘You should probably get on to his agent. See if anybody has seen him in the last ten years.’

That I would certainly do. Only, at that moment, there was a squeal from the crate.

‘You beaver’s hungry,’ said Bill.

‘Bless him,’ said Fry. ‘Were I a man with a large freshwater lake in my rear yard, I too might indulge myself with the purchase of the castor canadensis or North American beaver.’

‘These are European beavers,’ said Bill.

‘Ah,’ said Fry. ‘Then it is castor fiber.’

‘What’s the difference between a European and American beaver?’ I asked.

‘One is hairier,’ said Bill with an inexplicable smirk.

‘Oh dear,’ said Fry, pulling on his rubber glove. ‘Come on Bill. Let us return to our aquatic toils lest Richard asks us any more questions and you are tempted to more vulgarity.’

It was an odd note on which to end a conversation and, somewhat confused, I wandered back up to the house, thinking it best to leave them to their private jokes.

A couple of hours later, Judy woke me. She was standing at the living room door.

‘Stephen says that they’ve finished,’ she said.

‘Ah,’ I replied, sitting up in my recliner and setting aside the newspaper beneath which I had been so solidly snoozing. ‘Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.’

When I got back to the lake, I discovered that Bill had stripped out of his wet clothes and was wearing a dry one-piece undergarment in a faded colour of ruby. He resembled an old gold prospector while Stephen resembled the old prospector’s offended mule. He was looking at Bill with a disgust it is hard to describe as mild.

‘So are we ready to release the beaver?’ I asked.

‘You are a few minutes too late for that,’ said Stephen, giving Bill another funny look. ‘I have already bore witness to its hairiness. Most certainly European.’

‘Oh, ignore him,’ said Bill. ‘We’ve done no such thing. Your beaver is still in his cage.’

‘Well, there’s no time like the present,’ I said as I went over to the crate and unlatched the hatch. The beaver was bigger than I expect and he needed no encouragement. He came lumbering out like an obese rat and hit the water with barely a splash. He swam out to the middle of the lake where he turned and looked back at us.

‘The good thing about your garden is that you’ve got plenty of trees,’ said Bill, wiping a tear from his cheek.

‘Oh, Judy takes great pride in our woodland,’ I said, myself distracted by a slightly moisture about my own eyes. The beaver looked so happy as it splashed in the water. ‘No doubt our little friend will enjoy rummaging around them looking for nuts and berries.’

‘Nuts and berries?’ repeated Bill. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was looking shifty.

‘Have you thought of giving him a name?’ asked Stephen. ‘I find it preferable to name an animal to whom one is expected to grow attached.’

‘Of course I’m going to give him a name,’ I said. ‘And being a bit of a literary man, I thought I’d name him after my favourite literary beaver. Tarka. I used to love that book when I was a child. Bill doesn’t know this but it’s why I’ve been so quick to agree to make this documentary. I’m looking forward to our months together. I love to watch them lying on their backs as they float in the water…’

‘Richard,’ said Stephen, placing his arm around my shoulder, ‘I really hate to be the one to inform you of this but I believe that Tarka was a…’

‘A lovely little fellow!’ squealed Bill, rushing up to us and giving the two of us a squeeze. ‘That’s what Stephen was going to say. Tarka the Beaver was one of my favourite books too as a lad up there in Lancashire. Such a nice chap, Tarka the Beaver… Come on, Stephen. I think we better be going. Let’s leave Dick alone. He needs to get to know Tarka and Tarka the Beaver must get to know Dick...’

Stephen shrugged as Bill began to drag him towards the house. ‘I should think of another name if I were you,’ he shouted back as he went. ‘In fact, I’d ask advice from members of your blog. I don’t know…’ He wriggled free of Bill’s grip, stopped, and looked at me with a meaningful stare I couldn’t quite interpret. ‘Tarka the Beaver just doesn’t sound quite right to me…’

I waved him away and turned my attention to my newest friend, giving himself a good scrub in the middle of the lake. Beavers are clearly one of the few subjects about which Stephen knows little. I just knew that Tarka and I were going to be friends.

‘Isn’t that right, little fellow?’ I shouted to the lake.

As if in agreement, Tarka bobbed down in the water and I smiled with delight when he resurfaced, a shining piece of wood in his mouth. I turned my back on the lake and began the long walk back to the house. I would have to ask Judy about the tree that grows in our garden and produces branches that are so white that it almost resembled a thigh bone.

The Sting of Winter

Today I was stung by a winter bee.

What’s that? Did I hear you say there's no such thing? Nonsense. I swear it was a bee, though one well lagged against the winter chill, which here in the South West is a rather balmy twelve degrees measured by the Madeley elbow. There was also an air of premeditation about the attack. The bee had been hiding among the grow bags in the garden shed, readying itself for the right moment to strike. And strike it most certainly did, at ten thirty this morning; lancing its mortal barb straight through my shirt, between the weave of my string vest, and deep into my chest.

Given the intense pain – I am, you should note, mildly allergic to bee stings – I ran into the kitchen to inform Judy that poison was pumping its way into my system and I might pass out at any moment.

‘You can’t have been stung,’ she said, applying pastry topping to a pie. ‘It’s winter. Bees don’t come out in the winter.’

I proceeded to demonstrate that they most certainly do come out in winter and they can sting a man by collapsing on the kitchen floor.

The next thing I remember was feeling a pleasurably erotic sensation about my right nipple.

‘Stephen?’ I muttered as I opened my eyes and saw a grey head bent over me.

‘Got it just in time,’ said Bill Oddie, sitting up and wiping spittle from his lips. ‘I’ve got all the poison out. He should be fine now.’

‘Bill,’ I said, reaching for those soft downy cheeks of his. ‘You’ve saved my life… And… And you’ve been suckling at my right teat.’

‘Lucky for you I was on my way around,’ said Bill. ‘I've had expert medical training so I always know what to do with a sting. It is a bit early in the year for bees. I’ll have to make a note of this for our annual Springwatch survey. You’re probably the first person to see a bee this year. Global warming is clearly having an effect and I’ll be saying as much in my letter to the UN Climate Commission. I hope I can get a quick picture of your right nipple for the report. This might be the evidence we need to prove that the world is indeed warming up.’

‘Snap away, Bill,’ I said pulling open my shirt and turning my wounded areola towards my saviour. Oddie played with his Nokia, snaps were taken, and then we all retired to the living room for coffee and some chat.

‘You know,’ said Bill, after we had all calmed down, ‘your nipple has give me an idea.’

‘Has it Bill?’ I asked. ‘And what idea might that be?’

‘Well,’ he said, gently stroking his beard as he does when thoughtful, ‘you know that I have my own line in bird feed? I was wondering if there might be a market in bees.’

‘Bees?’

‘They are our natural pollinators. H.G. Wells once said that if the bees die out, so does mankind.’

‘Did he?’ asked Judy, balancing her cup on her knee. ‘We’ll have to see if we can get this Wells on the show. He sounds like he'd make an interesting guest. Don't you think so, Richard? Has he written any books?’

I gave Bill the look to tell him to just smile.

‘He did,’ said Bill who moved on with an admirable deftness. ‘Now, the problem with bees is that it’s very difficult to attract them to the average garden. They are put off by all sorts of things like the signals from computers, household chemicals, and the general artificiality of modern living. And that’s where I think your nipple comes in. There can be no coincidence that the bee was attracted to your nipple.’

‘So much so that it stung me and died in the process,’ I pointed out.

Bill waved aside my argument. ‘Nonsense. You tried to brush it away. A bee will always sting when attacked. They’ve got the personality of Gordon Ramsay. Sting first and ask questions later.’

‘With all due respect,’ interrupted Judy. ‘Gordon Ramsay does not leave his back end sticking in his victim.’

She had a point, if only one devoid of all sense.

‘Look,’ said Bill, ‘all I’m saying is that Richard’s right nipple might hold the answer to the nation’s bee problem. I could get some scientist friends of mine to have a look at it. See if we can’t extract whatever chemicals Richard produces that attracts bees.’

‘He does attract lots of bees,’ agreed Judy.

Which is true. I’m something of a bee magnet in the summer. I once fell asleep on one of our touring holidays in France and woke up with a full beard of bees. It took two days before I was rid of them. Two long and lonely days...

‘I suppose if it’s for the good the country’s bees,’ I relented, ‘I’d be happy for scientists to look at my breast. But I warn you now, Bill Oddie: if there are profits to be made from this venture, I’d like a fair share of them.’

‘Of course,’ smiled Bill, draining his coffee. ‘In fact, I think this could “bee” a very profitable buzzness indeed.’

Friday's Search Terms

Some days are particularly fruitful in the world of the internet search engines. In the last twenty four hours, I’ve had visitors searching for the following terms, which I shall now attempt to address to the best of my considerable ability.

"Who is Mrs Jeremy Clarkson?"

Mrs Jeremy Clarkson is the wife of Jeremy Clarkson, TV host, the nation’s favourite baiter of badgers, and professional strongman. Her name is Frances and she holds the female land speed record which she set at 655mph in Jeremy’s rocket car.

"Do women fancy trannies?"

Tough question. I would say that it depends on the tranny. Generally woman prefer MP3 players as the sound quality on even the most modern transistor radio isn’t as good as you can get from a basic MP3 player. Whereas MP3 players now come with touch screen controls, trannies are generally stuck with knobs which can be fiddly and hard to use when your fingers are cold.

"Tell me about midgets in orange jackets"

Good question. Simply put: it is the law. Since 2004, all European midgets have been forced to wear luminous orange jackets to make them visible in crowds. This rule was brought into effect after a spate of high profile accidents involving taller people tripping over midgets in public places.

"Stephen Fry taxi blog"

Stephen does write a blog from his taxi. The address of the ‘Stephen Fry Taxi Blog’ is known to only a few close friends and I couldn’t possibly publish it here. It is, I can assure you, one of the best blogs out there and even wittier than his public blog. No, honestly, I wish you could read it. It is genius. Pure genius.

"Richard Madeley penis model"

So what if I did? I was young and needed the money. The pictures were all tastefully shot in black and white and though I was nude there was nothing wrong with that. It was the 1970s. We were all nude back then. Except for Harold Wilson, who you wouldn’t want to see nude. Even with his pipe. You would want to see me nude, though. Prints are available at a reasonable price. Email me if you’re interested.

"Technically a midget in UK"

To be a midget in the UK you have to be less that four feet nine inches tall. The most surprising aspect of this fact isn’t that Ronnie Corbett is classed as a midget but that Noel Edmonds is too. It’s something of an in-joke within the media, just don’t mention it to Noel’s face… the next time you’re down there.

"Midget riding a donkey pic"

Officially this is Google’s most popular search term. There are many images of midgets riding donkeys, but the most famous resource is probably www.midgetsridingadonkey.com.

"Does Chuck Norris wear dentures?"

Yes. As I've explained on many previous occasions, he has two pairs. One for everyday use and another for films when he wants to sneer. His sneering dentures are slightly larger and ride higher on the gum.

"How did Eric Church meet his wife"

What an interesting question! I’m glad somebody has finally asked me that. Many of you won’t know who Eric Church is, which is odd given that he’s the UK’s top fiddle-playing gynaecologist. He’s played the fiddle between the thighs of some of the country’s most famous women and the odd man too. He met his wife, Sandra, at a banjo and fiddle convention in Stockport. Sandra is an expert banjo player as well as being an ear, nose and throat expert with a Middlesex Hospital Trust.

"Richard Madeley bog"

This happened only three minutes ago and I had to include it since it’s such an odd thing to ask me about. There only interesting fact I can tell you about this is that there are no locks in the Madeley home. Digestion is a normal function of the human body so why should we be ashamed and hide it away? I’ve lost count of the number of times that Judy has walked in on me mid-movement. In fact, some of the best conversations we’ve ever had took place while I was elbow to kneecap. I recommend it to all married couples. Unmarried too. If it doesn’t break you, it will bring you closer together.

[Update: Judy has just pointed out that 'bog' might be a mistyped 'blog' and I needn't have gone into all this detail. However, I think it's interesting and helpful advice, so I'll let it stay.]

"Does Chuck Norris have any hobbies?"

I can barely keep up this afternoon with all the queries coming into the blog. Now a visitor from Dallas asks if Chuck Norris has any hobbies. I’ve had to ring Stephen for an answer to this one and he’s quite certain that Chuck does have hobbies. Apparently, Chuck’s hobbies are breeding horses, sculpting decorative mullions, oriental cooking, and Subbuteo. I'm glad we could help.

Why the BBC Needs Stephen Fry to Electrocute Alan Dedicoat Every Saturday Night

Just before the National Lottery draw was made two nights ago, an attack of peptic reflux had forced me from my study and into the living room, where I found Judy perched on the edge of the sofa. The light of the television was reflected in her eyes, big like polished soup bowls, and illuminating the lottery ticket in her trembling hands.

‘Shush,’ she said when I took a breath to speak.

Chastened, I slid into my armchair with my glass of Andrews and I waited to see if the numbers 1, 2 , 3, 4, 5 and 6 would come rolling out of the machine and make us richer than an Oddie.

‘“Amethyst” is my lucky machine,’ explained Judy.

The comment did not warrant a reply. Why they give the machines names is beyond me. I don’t know what’s wrong with calling it ‘Ball Juggling Machine Number 4’ for the difference it would make to the outcome. Or perhaps it would make a difference: chaos theory and all that... Which is why I don’t waste my money on these foolish games. How is a man to make an informed gamble about something that might be decided by which side Dale Winton’s wearing his underpants? It’s why I’ve not actually watched a National Lottery draw since the days when Winton was a sprightly 68 year old. It made it quite the education to catch up on the world of randomly selected numbers.

Stood next to BJMN4 was the presenter, a young Adonis photocopied straight from GQ magazine and buffed to a high sheen with Turtlewax and Botox. He was wearing the ubiquitous BBC single breasted suit and had a crest of hair like a plastic newt basking on his head. From a professional viewpoint, he did a competent job. He wasn’t Stephen Fry competent but he was certainly mid-to-high Noel Edmonds good. He knew where the camera was and when to smile, and then, when the big moment came, he knew exactly how to put both of his hands on the big red button in front of him.

‘Okay everybody,’ went the sparkle on his teeth, ‘good luck!’

And as we enjoyed this moment of great theatre brought to us by the people at Colgate, he pressed the button…

There was then a pause for a fraction of a second before he did something that’s had me puzzled for days. He turned to the two men operating and he said: ‘Gentlemen, could you start the draw?’

At this point, one of the men, wearing white cotton gloves as if to prove that he was in no way shifty, walked to the machine and flicked a small switch on the side. With that balls started to pop from the slot like some Bangkok novelty act and somebody somewhere became a millionaire.

All of which raised an obvious question: what the hell was the red button for?

After two days, I’ve come to the conclusion that the red button wasn’t actually connected to the lottery machine. I know it's hard to believe but bear with me. Might it be possible that whenever these celebrities start the lottery draw, they are only pressing a bit of shiny red plastic connected to nothing but the podium?

I know what you’re thinking and I agree. It is shocking. I remember an agent friend of mine once telling me that the majority of ceremonies involving star names turning on Christmas lights make use of fake levers and switches. The actual ‘lighting up’ operation is being run from behind the scenes by some council worker, no doubt with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and effectively ‘turning them on at the wall’ with a muttered curse about it being ‘about bloody time’. But this surely can’t be the case with the National Lottery draw. That red button must do something.

Mustn’t it?

Well I fear that it doesn’t and it’s merely another sign that we’ve passed out of an age of myth, legend, and ritual. There was a time when esoteric ceremonies meant something. The Queen would regularly have her earlobes tickled with an eagle’s feather, leading Richard Dimbleby to whisper that the feather represented the Isle of Skye and this gesture was that of an eagle, riding a current of Hebridean air, bowing its head in solemn reverence to the awe of Her Majesty who took great pleasure in the bird’s show of deference. It might have been a bit of Victorian hokum but it was an engaging bit of hokum. And we never doubted that it symbolised something worth symbolising, even if it was the oppression of the Scots by the English. The same was always true of launching a ship. When the bottle of champagne smashed against the hull of the latest cruise liner, we didn’t actually believe that the momentum of the bottle caused the ship to start sliding down the dock's ramp, but we did all share a deep cultural flashback to those old pagan sacrifices our ancestors made to the Gods, asking them to bless our crafts before Clan Chieftain Madeley went off to pillage foreign shores.

But have we now gone beyond that? Is it so very wrong of me to want a world in which big red buttons are linked to machines that actually do something? And might there still time for us to put things right?

The BBC Special Effects and Props department has always been feted as the best in the world. Or, at least, that’s the valuable lesson taught to us by Blue Peter. Surely, there must still be men who know how to wire up a big red button so it lights up to signify the beginning of ‘the ball dropping process’. Better still, can’t they rig it so it gives mild electric shocks to Alan Dedicoat up in the gallery. The man sounds far too cheerful for a man working on a weekend. A few scrotum-tightening volts passed across his reproductive lobes would do him the world of good and BBC One on a Saturday night would become exciting again. Get Stephen Fry involved and there won't be a man, woman, or child who doesn't tune in to see how high he came make the nation’s favourite announcer leap from his chair. Damn it. Couldn’t we all lay wagers on how far Dedicoat will fly, with proceeds going to good causes?

Not only would it make the big red button mean something again, we would take the random factor out of the lottery. We could introduce an element of skill into the life of the nation’s gamblers. We would return to the days of ‘Spot the Ball’ and the Football Coupon but with the added entertainment value that comes with a pair of well polished electrodes.

So, if anybody is reading this from the BBC, please get in contact. You know my email address. I’m full of good ideas like this and, lucky for you, I’m looking for a job.

The Shetland Midgets

Animals and Dick Madeley hold an uneasy truce, born out of years of conflict, often bloody, and usually resulting in me with underpants to ankles and a tetanus shot stuck in my behind. It’s the principal reason why I rarely talk about Judy’s passion for Shetland ponies, despite her being, in the sad and often disturbed circles that rate such things, one of the nation’s top show breeders. She has won awards for her miniature horses that surpass her many achievements in television. I think I’m even safe in saying that only George Lucas has done more to further the cause of midgets worldwide.

Yet as much as I avoid having anything to do with them, there are certain times when I can only bite my lip, give a snort, and become a bit horsey. Yesterday was one such day. The annual Richard&Judy Horse of the Year Show is organised by Judy’s stables and held at a large converted aerodrome in Norfolk. Unlike that other horse festival with a similar title, our show celebrates the country’s equestrians in the only way that’s right and proper: by attracting the country’s top celebrities and getting them drunk before sunset.

This year was a special year because it was the tenth show and Judy was going to be showing Raymond and Percy, her two prize Shetland ponies. Now, running around a ring leading a midget horse is not something I normally look forward to, but this year there were a few compensations. For one, Jeremy Clarkson was going to be on hand with his donkey. He’d promised to bring old Flossy along for the children to ride for a pound a go, with all proceeds going to his Donkey Sanctuary and Meat Processing Charity / Investment Opportunity. The other reason for my optimism was the fact that we’d persuaded Stephen Fry to be our master of ceremonies. This had been one of my better ideas and I knew things would go well once I heard the familiar voice echoing around the show ring.

‘Ah, ’tis I, Fry, on the Tannoy, welcoming you all the twenty second Richard&Judy Horse of the Year Show. Indeed. Were I to say what kind of show we have for you today, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I would be doing you all a great disservice. For I simply cannot anticipate the soft warm bundles of frilly goodness you’ll see here today. My! I can merely ask you all to put your hands together, if they are not already thus, and welcome out our first act: Ms. Sandi Toksvig and her celebration of the beauty of bareback!’

The audience cheered and we were away with a the usual display of bareback riding that Sandi does each year to open the show. I’ve seen it all before so I made my way backstage where I found Judy, that paragon of professionalism, demonstrating why she’s often called the Queen of the Midget Mounts.

‘Get that ****ing comb and ****ing-well brush it a-****ing-gain!’ she screamed at one of the young grooms. ‘I want that tail ****ing silky. ****ing silky!’

I decided to walk right through the paddock – as I believe it’s called – and head off to see how all the other celebrity acts were getting on with their preparations. Or I would have if I hasn’t spotted Clarkson smoking his pipe at one of the side doors. He was admiring some big bunkers on the other side of the old runway.

‘Do you ever stop to consider the engineering that goes into something like that?’ he asked. ‘Staggering. Simply staggering.’ He used the end of his pipe to point out a detail. ‘That concrete must be twelve feet thick. They were probably once home to battlefield nukes.’

‘Strong stuff,’ I agreed. ‘That would even protect you against a blast from a battle hardened Cilla Black.’

‘She’s not here is she?’ asked Jeremy. With hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned Cilla’s name. Jeremy was clearly still worried about that drunken argument they’d had at our Christmas party. I know for a fact that she’s still very upset that Jeremy considers ELO superior to the Beatles.

‘I’m afraid she couldn’t make it,’ I said, to reassure him.

‘Couldn’t she? Oh damn,’ he said, returning to his pipe. ‘Perhaps that explains the good turn out.’

‘No, that’s just the Lily Allen effect,’ I explained. ‘She’s brought her publicity machine with her. We have half of London’s PR staff out in the crowd. I don’t know what sounds louder: the applause for Toksvig on an Arabian or the sound of fingers on blackberries.’

Jeremy puffed away, seemingly quite content gazing across at the hardened bunkers.

‘How are the donkey rides going?’ I asked to shake him from his dreams of low yield battlefield nukes.

‘All sold out,’ he said. ‘I’ve done so well that I’ve now got the rest of the day to myself.’

‘How on earth can you sell out a day’s donkey’s rides?’

He winked. ‘That’s where you lack my genius. You might have noticed that there is now a donkey walking around backstage, carrying a crate of babycham and enough cheese nibbles to feed Cambodia. I strapped a tray to Flossy’s back and hired her out to Christopher Biggins for the day.’

A roar from the audience suggested that Toksvig’s bareback routine had finally come to an end. ‘Sounds like we’re up next,’ I said as I heard Fry announce a moment’s break. ‘Midget horses next,’ I said, unable to restrain a groan.

‘I don’t think they’re technically called midget horses,’ said Jeremy, who can be politically correct when it suits him. ‘The correct term is midget ponies.’

‘Well whatever they are, I’m up next. Are you coming to watch?’

He tapped out his pipe on his heel before he tucked it into his pocket. ‘It should be good for a laugh,’ he said.

We reached the edge of the ring in time to find Judy pacing nervously around. She has such a passion for the midget ponies that even her husband has to tread cautiously when he’s around her. Actually, that’s not a bad bit of advice. It’s all too easy to step on one of the bloody things and mess up your heels with blood and flaxen mane.

‘Where have you been?’ she snapped.

‘Admiring twelve feet of concrete on some Cilla-proof bunkers,’ said Jeremy; a touch foolhardy, I thought.

Judy’s face darkened, as it always does when Jeremy mocks one of her closest friends.

‘Don’t worry, I’m here now,’ I said to calm her. ‘Which one of these do you want me to take. Pinky or Perky?’

‘As well you know, Richard, they’re called Raymond and Percy. You can take Percy. He’s slightly lest skittish.’

‘I can’t see why we couldn’t hire midgets to ride these things around the ring,’ I said as I took the reigns to the little trotter. I felt mildly foolish with Jeremy watching me, his face big with a drayhorse grin.

There was a brief cough over the Tannoy before Stephen’s voice shushed the crowd.

‘Ah, shush,’ said he, ‘for, now, indeed, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I’m delighted to welcome to the ring, the couple of the hour… Were I am man given to long and rambling introductions, I would say that we feel the deepest love and affection for the people who made this event possible. Luckily, I’m not a man given to long and rambling introductions, so I will simply say, with no little humility and a touch of love that one might call “squishy”, that it does our hearts proud to welcome into the ring, Richard and Judy and their simply stunning Shetland ponies.’

To the March of the Bumblebee, we ran out into the ring. I was following Judy every step of the way as she bounced along with Raymond beside her. Percy was pretty indifferent to the whole thing, as was I, and we were soon losing a little distance from the lead.

‘Keep up,’ shouted Judy as she ran out ahead, waving to the crowd.

‘That’s easy for you to say,’ I called back, having managed to get the reigns wrapped around Percy’s throat. From a distance, I imagine it looked like I wasn’t leading him as much as trying to strangle the life out of him.

I was thankful that after a single circuit of the ring, we stopped in the middle. I say this but I guess I wasn’t as thankful as little Percy who I’d had to drag around for the last few feet.

‘What do we do now?’ I gasped, though, again, not as much as little Percy who was sucking in plenty of air now he had the chance.

‘Oh, Richard, you know exactly what’s next. It was on the piece of paper I gave you. We stand here while the girls perform.’

I didn’t want to say that I hadn’t bothered with piece of paper. Never do. I ad lib my life and this was going to be no exception.

A fanfare heralded ‘the girls’ into the ring. In a synchronised canter, out came Jordan, Jodi Marsh, Jade Goody and Kerry Katona, all bouncing high and happily on their four mounts.

‘Apocalyse!’ I cried, unable to restrain myself.

‘What?’ asked Judy, holding Raymond’s reigns. The two midgets had become uneasy and were pulling at their restraints, as, indeed, was I.

‘Apocalypse!’ I cried again. ‘It’s the four riders. This is the end, Judy! Judgement day. And I’ve not had chance to do enough good in the world.’

‘Oh Richard, behave,’ she said, while maintaining her grin for the crowd.

The next few minutes were a nightmare to me. The four riders from the Book of Revelation circled me, their devilish orange faces shining in the spotlights. And lo, I looked, and beheld, an ashen horse; and she who sat on it had the name Jade; and Kerry Katona rode behind her. The number of the breasts was eight and hell followed with them.

‘They’ll end up with heavily bruised chins if this goes on for much longer,’ I said to Judy.

‘I’m warning you Richard. Cut it out.’

But I couldn’t. Round and round they bounced, cantered, twirled, and, indeed, bounced again. Just as I thought it couldn’t go on much longer, they wheeled around and trotted slowly towards us and the crowd rose in applause as their four mounts gracefully kneeled down and bowed to Judy, Raymond, Percy, and me.

‘That was really, really moving,’ said Clarkson, wiping tears from his eyes as I came off the ring and out of the spotlights. ‘That was really quite something. Never have I seen a man get on his knees and pray with such conviction. Did you really mean it when you asked God to take Judy first?’

‘Shut it Clarkson,’ I warned. ‘I’m in no mood to be mocked.’

‘Mock? I wouldn’t dare. I’d have paid good money to see that.’

I strode out to the back.

‘Where are you going?’ he shouted after me.

‘To find twelve feet of blast proof concrete. I have some things to say I think it better the world didn’t hear.’

Bad Luck 3

I began by setting the laptop up, carefully arranging the lighting just right so I cut out the reflections, and turning off my digital camera’s flash. Only then did I begin taking picture after picture of ‘the cracks’ in laptop’s screen, just to be sure that I’d got a good shot of the damage. I then shut down my laptop, put it carefully back in its protective case, and carried it to the other side of the room where it would be safe. Then I’m back to my desktop PC, power it on, log in, wait an eternity for my virus protection to load, and then finally boot up my image editing software. It was finally time to find a perfect picture of the cracks, post it here and write a few words before I crawl thankfully to bed with a handful of the red pills Dr. Raj prescribed for Judy’s hot flushes.

Only, when I opened the camera, I realised that there was no memory in it…

It was so typical of my day.

I start again. Fifteen minutes later we have our grainy result. And it’s a beaut, isn’t it? It doesn’t do justice to the size and vibrancy of the cracks. These are cracks designed by Faberge and made by Swarovski.

There’s a moral in this: what you reap, you eventually sow. About a year ago, I reaped myself a new laptop. I’ve always used Sony laptops. It’s not just a style thing. In fact, it’s never really has been a style thing. It’s been about having a good working environment. I’m big into getting the perfect set up. I have to use my favourite word processor (Atlantis Word – small, quick to load, almost crash proof), with a dark background and bright text to make it easier on the eyes to write for long periods. My previous laptop was extremely small, with a ten inch screen and a titanium shell. It lasted me for about five years of travelling around and throwing it carelessly in my bag. I must have written a good few million words on it. Eventually, a copy of Sir Walter Scott’s poetry fell on it from about twelve feet and the hard disk developed a high pitched whine. It drove me crazy when I tried to write with it so I attempted to change the hard disk. The laptop died in the operation.

Last year, I bought its replacement. I should have spent more money.

I’d intended on buying an exact replacement for my previous machine; something I could lug around the house, into coffee shops, parks, and libraries, and always be able to write. Trouble was: the smaller the laptop, the more you pay for the laptop.

Sony have a TZ range of ultra portable laptops. A man could die of dehydration just drooling over them. I know I did last year when it came to choosing a new machine. Only the ultra portable laptops with either the titanium or carbon fibre shells were nearly two thousand pounds. Judy told me to damn the expense and get myself one. But that’s nearly Mac PowerBook territory. Of course, I’d never buy a PowerBook after having bad experiences buying countless replacement power supplies for a machine that had a habit of burning off your knees (yet falling outside their battery replacement scheme). Still, it was more than I could afford, even with the money from Channel 4.

So, strapped for cash but needing something to write on, I settled on not-quite-dirt-cheap model with a fifteen inch screen and a plastic case. One year and half a million words later and this is the result. Something has pushed against the flimsy plastic lid and caused the ‘cracks’ to develop inside the screen. It works but it’s hardly work friendly.

Some days I wonder why I write this blog. The main answer is usually to make myself laugh and in the process hope to make you smile. I’ve failed today, unless you’ve got one of those healthily warped black humours and find calamity funny (I have and I do, despite tonight’s tears). Less edifying is to see fate again conspiring against me and I’m reminded that the answer to all my problems begins with a ‘j’, ends in a ‘b’, and has a crudely formed ‘o’ in the middle.

So please: go vote in my poll. I might not stand by the result but it might help me choose one among equal evils.

Me. I’m going to bed. I’ve had enough of today. I only wait to see what tortures lie in store for me tomorrow. I do know that Judy mentioned something about Cilla coming around.

Bad Luck 2

... and as if to prove what a bad day I'm having, I've just turned on my laptop to do some writing and I've discovered the the screen is smashed. I don't know how it's happened, but there is a big cobweb of smashed LCD.

Bad Luck Wednesday

If the Gods of Insanely Bad Luck decided to descend on you for twenty four hours, they could not conspire to produce the kind of day as I’m currently living. There is not a thing I’ve done today that hasn’t turned out for the bad. Not one. In fact, I’m deliberately putting a speelling mistake into this post, just to avoid a more embarrassing one creeping in where I don’t intend to put one.

It has got so bad that I was driving back from a last minute trip to the supermarket (don’t ask) when I contemplated how easily it would be for me to get to an airport and fly away, out of this life. How long would credit cards last me before I’d be stuck on the streets?

I can’t wait for today to be over.

Behind

I despise getting behind with my work. The midnight crisis in which I deleted posts, dumped the old poll, and then went outside naked and howled at the moon was only going to delay me today. Yet there are so many things I have to write about. That’s the problem when a man of huge ambitions has a small crisis of confidence. It’s an ocean liner coming adrift on a grain of sand. Well, your comments have helped shift the grain and the propellers are turning once again on HMS Madeley. Give me an hour or two to get up a head of steam and then we’ll head into some tropical waters.

Before I go and turn out some serious verbiage, let me answer four questions that appeared in my blog statistics yesterday.

‘Which city is host to the only UK chapter of the Christmas Pudding Appreciation Society?’

Birmingham.

‘Where can I see transvestites in tight skirts?’

Birmingham.

‘How tall is Steven Fry?’

On a good day he’s six feet nine inches tall.

‘Judith Chalmers how old is she?’

She’s 87 but doesn’t look a day over 86.

The Poll

I’ve put shackles around the poll’s ankles and dumped it into the Thames. There was one bloody stupid idea: asking people if I should quit blogging. Stronger men might have laughed off the answer but not me. It has made me unduly bitter and I’ve found myself being cruel to minor celebrities, just to see them cry.

You might have also noticed that I’ve roped yesterday’s 2500 word post to the chain as it sank beneath the water. There is another 3000 words of the story that will be going with it. The whole thing was getting far too big. Nobody was going to read it, did read it, or would want to read any more. I’ve written 130,000 of this blog since it began a few months ago. There was an element of blind panic in my starting out on a story that would take another 130,000 to finish. Judy spotted this immediately and told me to calm down.

The thought of hunting for a job had me thinking that just a couple of weeks I could write a book. I just ask that you bear with me while I go through this transition. These are hard times. Even harder, I should imagine, that having two rectums or working for the BBC.

The Scrabble Champion

Among the many remarkable properties possessed by half quarts of cheap spirits left over from Christmas is the ease with which they manage to sneak their way into the garden shed at some point during the New Year. Some might describe it as uncanny, the way they always seem to find men more than willing to loosen sobriety’s belt buckle.

One such man had spent his Sunday morning replacing the garage’s automatic door mechanism with the engine he’d stripped out of an old hover mower. It was a job I’d been intending to do for weeks. As it turned out, the space of a lunchtime was all it took for things to go horribly wrong.

Judy arrived back from the hairdressers around noon and, as normal, drove her car right up the garage door. The moment her front wheel broke the infra red beam the door snapped open in rather brisk 0.1 seconds. Truth to tell: it was probably a bit too brisk. It proceeded to rise a further meter before it met resistance in the form of the garage roof. In less than the time it takes me to write ‘bent metal’, twenty four square feet of corrugated roofing had been peeled back before the electric motor had freed itself explosively from its bearing and gone sailing off in the direction of Dale Winton’s bungalow. It was about this time that I had retired to the workshop I maintain in the garden shed and this is where the liquor sought me out not long after.

It only takes the sound of fire engines rushing to the scene of a blaze in a camp celebrity’s bungalow for a man to appreciate what it means to share a bottle with Ronnie Corbett’s cat. Mr. Brucie often comes and sits in the shed for a little warmth. And so it was yesterday. We shared a few sad stories, Corbett’s cat and me, and then we each promised undying friendship to the other before one of us passed out.

I awoke at four o’clock to find that I’d emptied the bottle to within half-an-inch of its life and that Mr. Brucie had already broken our pledge of loyalty. Alone, I stumbled back to the house and plagued by the thoughts of my Monday interview at the local job agency, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I retrieved a box of matches and the manuscript to ‘Fry, Oddie & Me’ from my office, and then proceeded back outside where I dumped the pages in the barbecue pit. Swaying slightly in the cold air, I stood over it as I doused the whole lot with the last of the spirits.

‘This is it,’ I said, looking at my collected outpourings of the last few months. ‘It’s been fun while it lasted old friend but we knew it we could never go on like this. Goodbye cruel world! Tomorrow, I becomes a normal man.’

And with that, I struck a match and leapt back to protect my eyebrows as five hundred pages of my closely typed wit and wisdom began to blaze where summer bangers usually sizzle. I imagine this is how many of the great unpublished books met their end: with pages flipping and turning in a drunken heat. The force of inebriated flames pulled the manuscript apart, wantonly ripping off the odd page to send it hot and flighty into the sky.

As tears began to trail down my face, there was a movement in the shadows of my attention and I felt somebody come to stand next to me.

‘Is there a sight more likely to make a grown adult weep than watching a melancholic talk show host consummate his passion for wretchedness?’ asked the familiar voice.

‘Stephen?’ I said, wiping a few sooty tears from my eyes.

‘Ay,’ said the Great Man, brushing back a veil of that floppy hair some of us love so much. ‘’Tis I, Fry, with you at the end.’ He put his great paw on my shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze as we both gazed at the blackening pages, rolling in the flames like my tortured dreams. ‘You intend to go through with it then?’

‘Bill’s coming with me tomorrow morning,’ I said. ‘It’s always good to have an Oddie on hand.’

‘He’s the perfect man for the occasion,’ said Fry. ‘Were I just a little less famous, I might have accompanied you to your interview.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’ I smiled. ‘But I wouldn’t want you to see me like that. I’ll be wearing a bad suit.’

He seemed to understand the gravity of the moment for the first time.

‘You mean it won’t be bespoke?’

‘As unbespoke as they come,’ I said.

‘And am I to assume that it won’t be in some shade of gaudy showbiz orange?’

‘It will be very grey. It even came with a small plastic bag containing the spare buttons.’

‘Not buttons for you to stitch on yourself?’

‘The very same,’ I replied. ‘There’s not even room for a cape.’

To that he gave an audible shudder. ‘Shudder,’ said Fry.

‘Oh, don’t be down, Stephen. I’ve had a good career.’ I said this reassure myself as much as him. ‘These next few months will be bitter but at least I’m taking steps to get myself a proper job.’

But now I turned to see tears streaming down Stephen’s face. ‘Oh, forgive me, Dicky,’ he spluttered. ‘To think that you’ll be one of the hoi polloi in a matter of hours… It’s almost too much to bear. What will become of us?’

‘Not to worry,’ I said, taking his hand in mine. ‘Why don’t we go back into the house and have ourselves a jolly game of Scrabble? I’ll give you a ten tile lead.’

‘Include a blank and you’re on,’ he smiled through his tears.

That I certainly did. Half an hour later, I had just overcome Stephen’s ten tile and a blank lead with a cunning use of a ‘Q’ on a double word score. I was about to follow it up when the doorbell rang.

‘I’m not expecting anybody,’ I said as I stood and headed for the front door but Stephen just waved me away. Now recovered from his emotional outburst, he was clearly preparing to run me through with a ‘X’ he was eying for a triple letter.

It was a threat I would have to postpone for later because standing on the welcome mat was Sir Clive James. We’ve not been on speaking terms since he kicked me out of his house during an interview. It didn’t appear that he had recovered. He was red faced and he was waving a singed sheet of paper.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, pushing the page into my face. ‘Comes flying through my window. Is this your name on the top?’

I took a look at paper. ‘Ah, my story about Terry Nutkins and the squirrels!’ I said, recognising the style. ‘Made it all the way to your place, did it? That’s miles away. It couldn’t have got there quicker than if I had tied it to a squirrel and a blazing one at that.’

‘Bad prose travels quickly,’ was all that Sir Clive said, displaying the sort of wit that earned him few friends inside the BBC.

‘I thought it one of my better efforts,’ I answered.

‘Better efforts?’ laughed Clive. ‘Only such a stunningly crass effort could destroy the manuscript to the new book of poetry it has taken me ten months to get right! Every single verse had been rhymed to perfection before this came through the window.’

‘Pftttt,’ said a voice high above my shoulder. It was Stephen. I’d thought him anxious to get on with his triples but there was poetry to discuss and that rarely keeps him out of a fight.


‘What the bloody hell did that mean?’ asked Clive.

‘It meant, my dear squat friend, that there’s a new polymath in town and you are certainly not he.’

‘You think not?’

‘Look you two,’ I said, standing between two of the greatest minds of our age. ‘Can’t we calm down?’ I turned to Clive. ‘I’m afraid you’ve caught us at a bad moment. We’re in the middle of a game of Scrabble.’

His face changed. ‘Scrabble? You play Scrabble?’

‘We both play,’ said Stephen. ‘Care for a game? We could fight for the title of the “Nation’s Favourite Intellectual”.’

Clive stuffed the sheet of paper back into my hands and brushed me aside. ‘Out of the way, Madeley,’ he said. ‘Sir Clive James never says no to a challenge.’

And that was it. The last evening of my showbiz career was taken up with serving drink and food to a pair of insatiable Scrabble addicts fighting for the right to call Radio 4 their own. The night was abound with rare words, with scatterings of ‘x’s and ‘z’s. ‘Zouave’ matched ‘nuzzler’, ‘zonk’ with ‘zoom’. I could only gaze on the scene as one o’clock struck. Such a happy scene, yet mixed with he certain dread that it might be the last. Could I really give up my friends? Could I change the life I knew so well? Would I print out a new copy of my manuscript?

I closed the study door on a friendship newly found and I made my way to bed. Stephen would play until the early hours given a man foolish enough to encourage him. Sir Clive James was clearly that man. To the sound of their mutual laughter, sharing a joke in Spanish, I climbed the stairs. Perhaps I’d see them again before I left for town in the morning. Perhaps I wouldn’t. The only thing that matter was that peace reigned and I would soon be asleep, eased their by the gentle orange glow from the still smoldering ruin of Dale Winton’s bungalow.