A New Year Message From Dick Madeley

I was in a famous London bistro last night, arm wrestling Gordon Ramsay for blind orphans (to aid them, not win them), when I was reminded that I hardly lead an ordinary life. There I was, surrounded by some of London’s top showbiz personalities (and Noel Edmonds too), who had gathered together for a good cause and were happy to dip into their millions to put money on my opponent to win. A lesser man might have been compliant but I had the orphans in mind. A victory for me would be a victory for the cause of bouncy castles and trips to Conway. I couldn’t care less if the bout was so one sided. These celebrities couldn’t know that arm wrestling is one of my party tricks and that I’m impossible to beat due to extended arches in my ball sockets. What began as a slight genetic abnormality would end in a cash bonus for the kids.

Yet, as I looked up into Gordon Ramsay’s big red sweating face as he strained against my immovable sinews, I noticed a vein throbbing at the side of his temple. I could see that it was no ordinary vein but a vein at least 15% thicker than those found in the average human head. That of Ross Kemp, for example, or perhaps a Chuckle Brother. It was then that I realised that those of us who are ‘true celebrities’ really are a breed apart from normal folk. Each of us are blessed with these small genetic abnormalities that should make us freaks but help us rise our heads above the rolling fields of vanilla DNA.

Science, I think, would prove that more blood pumps though our system in a day than dribbles through your bodies in a weekend. We celebrities live life faster and are capable of feats of remarkable skill. We are testament to the power of the dominate talent gene. We were born to party late into the early hours of the New Year with Jules Holland, dance until dawn with Ruby Wax, and sup red wine from out of Cheryl Cole’s odour eaters. We can even endure the company of Lenny Henry when it’s called for. We are remarkable yet humble people, with abnormal qualities that are rarely mentioned. There are men like my good friend Bill Bailey whose sweat glands produce a potent musk that’s highly prized by butterfly collectors who use it to seduce their prey. I’m talking about woman like Jan Leeming who left the BBC to run a puffin colony in the Orkney Islands and recently spent seventy two hours on a sea cliff just to incubate a clutch of eggs. Need I mention that Stephen Fry is incapable of growing nose hair, a rare form of alopecia that has given him his sonorous voice and a career reading audio books? I’m also talking about great men like John Cleese who, despite his advancing years, is blessed with super strong shanks and exercises for half an hour each morning on a pogo stick. Make no mistake: these are all remarkable people but quite average celebrities.

These were the thoughts that occurred to me as I waited for my arm wrestling bout with Gordon Ramsay to finish. I was waiting to see what happened when an irresistible force met an unmovable object. In the end, the result was predictable. Gordon eventually sank back defeated and shook his head.

‘You’ve got a ******* elephant bone up that sleeve of yours,’ he said somewhat bitterly. ‘What the **** have you been eating? Holy ******* Gordon! There’s no way I could lose. Are you certain you weren’t cheating?’

‘Language, Ramsay,’ I said and nodded over to where the representatives of the blind orphans were sat. ‘You tried your best but the Madeley bicep has spent years holding on to badly designed sofas. It has developed a rigidity from which it’s impossible to move it.’

His lips pressed together to lock in a look of contempt.

‘And I’ve spent all my life mixing batter,’ he said as he rolled up his sleeve to reveal a bronzed bicep, at least 18% larger than the average bronzed bicep. ‘There’s no way you could withstand the power of baby Gordon.’

‘And I,’ said a voice from the crowd, ‘have spent many years playing with gears on cheap hatchbacks but even I couldn’t beat Richard in arm wrestling. Admit it when you’ve met your match.’

Ramsay looked to where Jeremy Clarkson had emerged. Jeremy is another of the blessed, only his slightly higher than average arches on his feet gives him a height/arch ratio smaller than most men and gives him extra speed when wearing soft leather moccasins in a petrol rich environment.

Not that Jeremy’s gifts were apparent to Ramsay.

‘Sit down, old man,’ Gordon answered, standing up to his full five feet seven and a half inches. ‘This is between me and Madeley.’

‘Oh no it isn’t,’ said Jeremy, valiant as ever, probably on account of his arches.
Just as things were about to turn ugly, Judy pressed her way through the crowd and stepped between the pair of them.

‘Hold on, you two,’ she said. ‘Let’s not end the year with a fight. Gordon, don’t make me have to sit you down.’

Ramsay dropped to his chair, chastened no doubt by the sight of Judy’s forearms, crafted from granite, honed by years of plastering. They too are a genetic trait which have helped her in her career. A woman who can get a lid off a tight jam jar 50% quicker than her closest competitor is always going to have a few extra seconds in life’s great race. Just ask Katie Humble who owes her career in nature programmes to webbed feet.

With Judy’s intervention, the crowd began to dispel as a bundle of charity donations began to appear in Judy’s hands. Feeling good about my contribution to the cause of blind orphans, I gave Gordon a piece of advice that I thought would also help him in the future.

‘Always trust in what you’re good at,’ I said. ‘With veins like yours, you should make more of your anger. Have you thought of getting into wrestling?’

‘Wrestling? I’m a chef for ****’s sake. Why would I want to go into wrestling?’
I patted his arm, golden bicep and all. ‘We all need our alternative paths. What happens when the cooking fad goes away? Think about it, Gordon. You need to be more like Alan Titchmarsh. A jack of all trades.’

‘And an utter **** at every one,’ spat Gordon.

I couldn't disagree with him on that point. ‘Just think about it Gordon,’ I said. ‘Just think about it.’

Which I believe he will do and, should he take my advice, he would be hugely successful. He'd look good in spandex.

And that’s my advice to you, here at the beginning of 2009. But not about the spandex. I mean: stick with what you’re good at. Don’t aspire to anything above your station unless you’re born like me, with extra thick earlobes, a slight elevation in my right-side mons mascularis, and an elbow that even batter beating TV chef’s can’t bend.

Happy New Year, normal folk. Happy New Year!