Sucking Popsicles On Llanelli Hill With Stephen Fry

‘Heavens! Zounds! Bless my heart, though ’tis a thing of beauty and verily blessed within tw’pence of its life.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘It’s you.’

‘Indeed, indeed! ’Tis I, Fry, on my iPhone, calling you about your latest Twitterage.’

‘What about it?’ I asked, momentarily distracted as I packed my combination nostril tweezers / electronic pliers into a bag for my late shift at the BBC. ‘I’m in something of a rush, Stephen. You probably don’t know this but I have my own show going out on 5Live tonight.’

‘Indeed I do know,’ replied Fry. ‘I know all about it as I also listened to last night’s excellent discussion about America via an quaint little application I downloaded for my iPhone called...’

‘And your point?’ I snapped, knowing that I had to be firm. I really hadn’t time for a technology review and sometimes you just have to be strong for Stephen’s sake. He’s likely give you a Dork Talk column for nothing when the Guardian should really be paying him a small fortune.

‘Ah,’ sang Stephen, his voice booming. ‘My point is that I hope that you’re feeling better?’

‘Better?’

‘From your recent gastric upset. I read your last Twitter post. I believe you had a problem brought on by sucking an iced popsicle on Llanelli hill.’

‘Oh, that!’ I laughed. ‘Never been to Llanelli in my life. As to there being a hill suitable for iced popsicle sucking, I wouldn’t know. Probably isn’t. Wouldn’t want to be quoted about that. Not the sort of thing I’d like to see in the papers. I can see the headlines now: “Madeley likes to suck iced popsicles on Llanelli Hill”.’

‘Quite, quite,’ mused The Great Fry, no doubt his green cape flapping, ‘but why did you send me a message implying that you were unwell?’

‘Because it was my entry into your Twitter competition,’ I replied. ‘You know how I enjoy word games. It made my afternoon coming up with that little gem.’

There was a gasp on the phone and I suspected that one of Stephen’s iPhone apps had updated as I’d been speaking. I was wrong. It was just the sharp intake of breath that one genius makes when he recognises another of his kind.

‘Really?’ he said. ‘But it was so eloquent. Far be it for me to question your skills, Dick, but I asked people to post a message in 140 characters that contain fifty letter “l”s. I wouldn’t expect something so poetic. You would have to indeed be a master of the English language to achieve such a feat.’

‘And achieve it I did, Stephen,’ I said and then allowed a long silence of my own to make my point.

The fact is that I was quite proud of my little composition in 140 characters. It was poetry of the Twitter and, I’m reliably told, one of the first classics of the 140 character form.

Lolly+Llanelli hill=fell ill. Silly! Roll, loll, anally full. Belly=bellows=flatus hell! Mill all local pills & swill llama milk. All well. LOL!

‘Well, well,’ said Stephen. ‘This does give me a little problem! Heavens! The word “shudder” was made for such moments and I would use it here except my doctor has ordered me off them for a week. Oh, heavens! Blast, indeed, and... Oh, shudder!’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘You must see, Dicky, that I can’t be seen choosing my friends, even if their entries (excuse that phrase for I speak not of your bottom) are so much more polished and pleasing than the rest.’

‘Indeed you can’t, Stephen,’ I replied. ‘And I expect nothing less than fair play. What’s the prize, by the way?’

‘Ah, Dick, you know I can’t say.’

‘Oh,’ I groaned. ‘Not another DVD of “Kingdom”! You know how Judy won’t take the last one out of the machine. You know she’s started to wear a cape of her own. You’re a bad influence, Stephen.’

Stephen hummed and ermed a little and then his voice rose an octave into that magical realm of voice where it normally dwells. ‘Dick, let us see what tomorrow brings. Should you win, I can promise you a gift that will make your days brighter, your life more pleasant, and make you the talk of the town.‘

I hung up the phone. I had to prepare for a radio show, even if it seemed that somewhere out there, there’s a cape with my name on it.

Dick Bacon

Just had my hair cut ahead of tonight’s three hour bum ache as I host my first live radio phone-in. After a long debate with the barber about my suggestion that an Obama cut would symbolise the beginning of a new age of broadcasting, I eventually went with the old faithful of part-lift/half flop with a curl over the left lughole. It’s not a good idea to change a winning formula and I want to be at my familiar best when I take up the reigns of the Richard Bacon show on 5Live at 10pm.

Only, to be perfectly honest, the whole thing has already gone nipples vertical, as it were. It happened the moment I walked into the BBC studios this morning thinking I was about to have a chat with Richard about his show and all the innovations I want to bring to medium of radio.

I was met in the foyer by some small puff of a PR assistant who led me to a small office where she left me in the care of a young chap. He was typical of BBC researchers, sitting behind a PC and spending most of his hours searching YouTube.

I took a seat, smiled politely at him, before looking at my watch. I had a dinner appointment with the Ant percentage of Ant&Dec and I didn’t like to be left waiting. I suppose I’m also use to being the bigger fish over at the Channel 4 pond and now in Watch’s modestly sized aquarium. But, in the BBC, you’re always reminded that there are always bigger fish and that the name Madeley counts for very little in a waters dominated by the likes of Wossy and Clarkson.

So, I waited and waited and the young chap on the keyboard kept clicking away as he downloaded more inane clips of animals doing party tricks. All pleasant, I suppose, if you enjoy waiting for things to happen in the company of imbeciles. Only I’m not that kind of man. It wasn’t long before I began to huff and mutter as I repeatedly looked at my watch. My message seemed to get across. After a few minutes, this young upstart fellow says ‘fancy a drink?’

‘I suppose I do,’ I replied, looking again at my watch. ‘Coffee. Four sugars...’

And off he went as I carried on waiting for Bacon and growing more annoyed with each passing minute. Five more minutes pass before the youth comes back carrying something hot and sweet in polystyrene.

‘We’re all out of sugar so I had to use sweetener,’ he said as I set my lips to sipping java.

‘Sweetener!’ I tutted but it wasn’t a soft, slightly annoyed tut. This was the sort of tut that would shatter poorer quality porcelain. Thankfully, all my crowns are cast from Tungsten and have been given a glaze of the same ceramic they use on the Space Shuttle’s heat shield. My tuts are as hard as bullets. Especially in cold weather.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

There was something about the youngster’s attitude I didn’t like.

‘You know what sweetener does to a man’s procreative orbs, don’t you?’ I asked, fixing him with a leathery eye. ‘I don’t suppose you do. Well let me tell you...’

I then launched into a five minute tirade about sweetener addiction and the effects it can have on a man’s most potent juices. Just as I was coming to the end via a small digression on the inefficiency of assistants in show business, the PR girl came in again.

‘You okay, Richard?’ she asked.

‘Okay?’ I spat my indignation. ‘Not when this loaf gives me sweetener in my coffee. My manliness diminishes with every second the stuff is in my system.’

She seemed unconcerned and turned to the loaf in question. ‘Richard? Is everything okay?’

‘Fine,’ says the loaf from behind his desk. ‘Could you please call security?’

‘Richard?’ I repeated as the girl headed off.

‘Richard Bacon,’ he said as he stood up, his knuckles white as he gripped the back of his chair.

‘Oh,’ I replied. ‘Bacon!’

‘Just like the meat.’

‘I see,’ I said. ‘So you’re Richard Bacon...’

‘Like the...’

‘Just like the meat.’ I laughed. ‘So you’re more meat than loaf...’ He didn’t seem to appreciate my play on words so I thought it best to get on with making an apology. ‘I’ve made an awful fool of myself,’ I said. ‘When they told me I was filling in for Richard Bacon, I think I must have been thinking about Richard Baker. Now I come to think of it, he must be getting on a bit to be hosting three hour talk shows past midnight...’

‘Lucky that he isn’t,’ said Bacon, who grew a little easier and lowered the chair from over his head. He took my hand in his and gave it the traditional BBC shake with his little finger tickling my wrist.

‘Sorry about that,’ I said. ‘It’s just that you look too young to have your own show on 5Live.’

‘I’m actually forty three,’ he answered, ‘but please keep that quiet. I’ve not undergone years of treatment with the goat glands to ruin the illusion.’

‘Oh, I know how to keep a secret,’ I said. Which is true. Nobody reads this bloody blog so anything I write here is as safe as if I’d announced it on a weeknight on Watch. ‘All I can say is that I hope I look as good when I’m forty three.’

In the end, I had a good half hour minute chat with Bacon about tonight’s show. I promised that I’ll be gentle with his guests and I won’t plug my highly acclaimed book, ‘Fathers & Sons’, more than ten times an hour after midnight. We parted as friends, with him enthusiastic about all of my innovations.

‘But remember what I said about the goat glands,’ he said. ‘Don’t mention them to a soul.’

‘You just go and enjoy your holiday,’ I said. ‘Leave the worrying to me. If playing Westlife albums backwards and live ritualistic invocations to the spirit of Marconi don’t drive up your ratings, I don’t know what will.’

He laughed like any carefree forty three year old would laugh when going on holiday and leaving his successful national radio show in the hands of a professional with a new haircut and a quiff or two of sexiness.