Haircut By Fry

In case you’ve only just noticed my picture: yes, you’re quite right. It’s gone. Do I regret doing it? Yes, I do. And I can’t deny that alcohol played a small part in its demise. I had hit rock bottom. I drank because I was ashamed that I’ve still not had a job offer. But that wasn’t the all of it. I discovered that Stephen Fry is leaving me. Then a tooth divorced itself from a filling. Were the two events related? I cannot say. But my woes were tied into a neat little bundle by Judy who informed that Alan Carr is appearing on tonight’s show…

By the time my chief tormentor retired to bed with her Dick Francis, I was in a much weakened condition. It was probably why I sought comfort with my DVD collection. For one night, I would abandon my books, writing, scripts, and even my beaver. And when Stephen appeared, it seemed only right to spend some time with the man who will soon be touring the Great Lakes in his taxi. To break a confidence, I can tell you that he’s also been feeling pretty rotten about the whole business. He’s heard that Hugh Laurie will be performing the American national anthem before Sunday’s Superbowl. It’s the sort of privilege that makes Stephen just a little jealous of his old comedy partner.

You can see that we were both in moods that might easily be described as tender. Put alcohol on the coffee table and even our plan to sit and chat over a classic film had an element of risk. Not that choosing the film was easy. I wanted something that reflected my mood. Stephen wanted a film that taught him something about driving across America.

‘Thelma & Louise,’ suggested Stephen.

‘Treasure of the Sierra Madre,’ suggested Madeley.

‘Two-Lane Blacktop,’ came back the Great Man’s reply.

‘One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest,’ I returned, thinking I might have won the day.

In the end, we reached a compromise. I shut all the doors, turned down the lights, and set the amplifier to 70% to really appreciate Bernard Herrmann’s score to Taxi Driver.

‘I’ve not actually see this film,’ said Stephen after a few moments. It was a rather frank confession from a man who I thought knew everything about great culture. He gazed at the young De Niro driving a yellow taxi through New York a night. ‘But this is indeed promising,’ said the owner of the nation’s favourite black London cab marked ‘Fry’.

I waved down his chatter. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I just love this speech about cleaning the seats in the back of a taxi…’

Only Stephen didn’t, and, as the film went on, he began to tut more and more as he realised that the story had less to do with taxis than it had to do with one man's descent into his own personal hell. I did my best to calm my guest by pouring him more wine until, eventually, an equilibrium was reached. Stephen began to enjoy Martin Scorsese’s bleak portrayal of Paul Schrader’s almost toxic script and I began to understand why the world is treating me so unfairly. There is a bit of Travis Bickle in Madeley and the events of the last few days made it all the more apparent.

‘My filling fell out today,’ I said to Stephen, who was, by then, looking just a little bleary eyed from all the wine.

‘Typical,’ he said, raising a glass. ‘Here’s to decay!’

‘And I didn’t land the job to which I’d been pinning all my hopes for the last couple of weeks.’

‘Here’s to failure!’ he responded.

‘And Judy has gone and invited Alan Carr onto tonight’s show. I’ve got to be pleasant to the man who once rear-ended me on Hamstead Heath.’

‘Damn his eyes,’ cried Fry and gazed up at the screen before raising a finger. ‘Were I a man in the mood to have a psychotic episode, that’s what I would do,’ he said as De Niro appeared for the first time sporting a Mohican.

‘Judy would kill me if I did that,’ I said. ‘Could you imagine what they’d say at Channel 4?’

‘Well shave it all off!’ said Stephen with sudden passion. Even in the depth of an alcoholic murk he has the answer to every problem. ‘Your Uncle Stephen is not a man for being unduly blunt, Dicky, but you’ve become something of a national laughing stock. You’ve had that same haircut for nearly twenty five years on our screens. Your hair is older than some BBC executives I could name, damn their poxy adolescent hides!’

‘I thought people liked my hair,’ I protested, jumping to the defence of one of my twenty seven features rated by World Heritage as sites of historic importance.

‘You hair is the reason that people think you’re conservative and safe,’ said the only man I know who wears tweed pyjamas. ‘They don’t respect you and they certainly feel no fear when you’re around them. As a great and intoxicated woman once said: play hard to get, Dicky. Hard to get!’ He eased himself up, his plaster cast not making it easy, but with his natural grace and athleticism, up he soon was. ‘Come on, we’ll do it now. I’ve got the perfect thing in my room.’

He returned a minute later with an electric razor designed by New Zealand farmers to sheer the wool from sheep made hardy by the harsh winds of the southern Pacific. I was in no mood to argue with Stephen, whose natural command comes through even when soaked to his gills with juice. As De Niro began his bloody rampage on the screen, Stephen began his buzzing rampage over the Madeley scalp. I can’t say which outcome was the more satisfactory for the protagonists concerned.

After that, I remember very little except drinking more wine and then waking up on the sofa this morning. The DVD menu to Taxi Driver was still lighting up the screen but now the Special Features option was being pointed out by an arm in a plaster cast that was sticking up from the other side of the coffee table. It was only when my own hand instinctively went to arrange my fringe that I felt the cold dome of my head and I began to remember about the job, my filling, Alan Carr, and Stephen Fry shaving me bald...

Judy was less than complimentary when she first saw me and retired sobbing to her room. Stephen was less than complimentary about his hangover and soon tip toed gently to bed. I now have to spent my afternoon finding a suitable wig before the tonight’s show. Being chatty with Alan Carr will be the least of my problems. If you see my brow slip, then at least you’ll know why. My world is falling apart and I with it.

The Carr Crash

You might know that I’ve never been the world’s biggest fan of Alan Carr since the moment I first heard him speak. He’d just shunted me from behind on Hamstead Heath and his voice reminded me of the howl of a Barbary monkey undergoing hormone replacement therapy. It's why I was so adamant in my refusal when Judy put his name forward as a guest on the new series of The Richard&Judy Show.

‘If he appears then you can find yourself another sofa partner,’ I said yesterday lunchtime as I poured hot water over a leak and onion cup-a-soup.

Judy was scrubbing down the sink at the time and the name had come to her after a rush of others that had included Liza Minnelli, Paul Ross, John Updike, Roger Moore, and David Bellamy.

‘You have to come up with more interesting names, Richard,’ she said, treating me as harshly as the mildew around the taps. ‘You can’t keep suggesting the same old guests.’

‘Same old guests?’ I replied. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Whenever we ask you for suggestions you only ever say Bill Oddie, Stephen Fry, and Jeremy Clarkson.’

‘But they’re my kind of people. Why should I go out of my way chumming up to the likes of Monty Don when we’ve got Bill Oddie? And what can David Bellamy tell us about a subject that Stephen hasn’t already researched?’

‘It’s not the point,’ said Judy. ‘People want a bit of variety in their lives. When we introduce guests, we don’t want to be seen introducing the same faces, week after week.’

I took Judy’s words on board and contemplated them over the course of yesterday when I withdrew slightly from the public eye. Judy probably has a point. I’m just too loyal to my friends and when Stephen breathes an utterance, I want to report it to you without delay. The fact that we’ve begun working writing next year’s ITV hit series, Bunion, gives me even more reason to talk about the Great Man. As, indeed, the coming Spring will see Bill Oddie come out of hibernation and I’ll have many more things to tell you about The Bearded One.

Yet, if Judy is right, I should also bring you news about other people.

Which brings me back to Alan Carr. Was I right to hold a grudge against the man just because he once shunted me from behind on Hamstead Heath?

‘Oooooooohhh, look what you’ve done!’ I remember him saying as he climbed out of his enormous jet black 4x4 with glittered trim.

Back then, I was driving my Jag and I was not best pleased to discover the bumper twisted to hell and back.

‘What I’ve done?’ I laughed, squaring up to the man who’s bigger than you’d expect. ‘You’re the one who wasn’t looking where he was going.’

‘Oh, I can’t be held responsible for that!’ he replied. ‘I can’t be held responsible for that! You just put on your brakes like you wanted me to come up your behind.’

‘If you weren’t tailgating me, it wouldn’t have happened.’

‘Tailgating?’ he hissed, if indeed you can hiss a word made up of ‘t’s and ‘g’s. ‘Is that meant to be some kind of homophobic joke?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Now it was my turn to sound insulted. ‘Homophobic? Don’t you know that you’re speaking to one of the nation’s gay icons? I’ve been voted pin-up of the year by the Pink Paper for seven out of the last ten years.’

‘Don’t give me a laugh. It’s Judy we all love. Not you. I mean, who’d lust after you?’

And with that, he’d climbed back into his monster truck and drove off without even leaving me his insurance details. Since then, I’ve gone cold whenever his name is mentioned. Or, indeed, whenever I’ve heard a Barbary monkey scream.

These memories were rattling around in my mind last night, until finally, around eight o’clock, I decided that life would be better if I didn’t hold on to my grudges. I rang my agent who soon came back with the number to Alan’s mobile phone.

‘Hello Alan,’ I said, trying to sound upbeat. ‘It’s me. Richard Madeley.’

‘Oh, pin up of the year,’ he said, knowing, no doubt, that since our little argument, I’d lost my pin-up of the year status to the moustached Chuckle Brother. ‘What you ringing me at eight o’clock on a Friday for?’

‘I’m ringing to say I’m sorry about that incident last year and to invite you on the show.’

‘Sorry dear, I don’t do afternoons.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘If it’s alright with you,’ he said, ‘I prefer to keep my brand of slightly indecent humour for the evening audiences which will appreciate such things.’

‘This was meant to be an attempt at reconciliation,’ I said.

‘Reconciliation!’ he squealed. ‘l’m sure it is for you but those of use whose stars are rising do not need help from those whose stars are fading.’

‘Now you just listen,’ I began but at that moment Judy and Stephen walked in the room. ‘Listen,’ I hissed. ‘You’ll know what that’s like sooner than you think... I’ve got two words for you, mate. Julian Clary. Julian Clary!’

And with that, I hung up the phone.

‘Did I hear Julian Clary’s name being used as a not-too idle threat?’ asked Stephen, taking his seat next to Judy as they prepared to watch Gardener’s World.

‘Alan Carr doesn’t want to be on the show,’ I said to Judy.

‘Well at least you did the friendly thing and asked.’

‘I did that,’ I said, darkly. ‘I most certainly did that.’

Black Eye Dick

If I don’t seem in a good mood this morning, it’s because, as you can see, I’m nursing a black eye. I had a terrible evening at a dinner celebrating the best in British Comedy organised by the Red Cross. The award I was supposed to be presenting was for best standup, which I was more than pleased to do. When I worked as a standup commedian in the late 1970s, I discovered that there’s nothing harder than making people laugh. I wasn’t up until near the end of the evening, which had been going quite well. Brucie had received his usual Lifetime Achievement Award with his typical self-deprecating humour and all the hosts had been in good form, particularly Des O’Connor who told a rather funny anecdote about Fred Dinenage and a wheelbarrow.

After such a build up, I’m afraid I let the side down. I made a slight slip up when I opened the envelope. Instead of Bobby Davro’s name, I announced that the winner was Joe Pasquale, whose name was written at the bottom of the card as a way of reminding me that I was meant to introduce him to present the next award. Before the organisers could point out my mistake, Joe was half-way through his thank-you speech. That’s when I got the message in my ear telling me that I’d made a mistake.

I did the best I could in the circumstances. I stepped forward, tapped Joe on his shoulder, and explained my mistake. Davro was ecstatic, of course, and came bouncing up on stage. Only Joe wouldn’t listen to reason. I tried to be polite but, when he wouldn’t hand the statuette back, I tried to snatch it from his hands. That was my fatal mistake. They’re like lemurs, these commedians. They have a gang instinct. Seeing one of their own being manhandled, I had four minor jokesters come lunging at me from the crowd. I managed to punch Alan Carr, kick Alan Davies, and completely avoid the lumbering bulk that was Justin Lee Collins. But that bloody Dave Gorman caught me with a right hook that sent me flying. Can you believe I was floored by Dave Gorman? The bloody guy seems to get everywhere.

While all this was happening, Davro and Pasquale were grappling for the award. It seems it’s okay for them to fight among themselves. In the end, Davro won, leaving Pasquale in tears.

What all this means is that the Union of Television Hosts and the British Comedy Federation are now not officially speaking to one another. Whether this will have an impact on TV shows is yet to be seen. There might be a lack of comedians on 'Have I Got News For You?', though to be frank, with the quality of their guests lately, that can’t be a bad thing. And the less that’s said about Trevor McDonald’s show the better.

While I nurse my black eye, here are some facts about Bobby Davro to keep you going. Did you know that he trained to be monk? He is also a great reader of the gnostic gospels and has written three books on them. After a slight decline in his fortunes, he’s once again one of the most popular commedians in the UK. He has been asked to play Davros in the new Dr. Who and will be appearing in a three hour long Christmas special. As an in joke, the Doctor will actually refer to Bobby Davros. It will be the first time that viewers will get to know the first name of the man behind the Darleks.

Happy Slapping Alan Carr

It’s cheap filler but the audience haven’t noticed yet. I’m talking, of course, about Richard and Judy's Funny Five, which we’ll be featuring on tonight’s show. We’ve gone out and found the funniest material on YouTube and we’ve been asking viewers to vote for their favourites. It’s quality television at its best. If you’re into happy slapping or want to see the hilarious result of a polar bear meeting a Japanese whaler then YouTube is for you.

If you haven’t heard of it, YouTube is the latest internet phenomena allowing you to take copyrighted material and broadcast it free to the world. And because YouTube is owned by Google, there’s no chance you’re going to get sued by the original copyright owners. It’s also great for shows such as ours because we can also find work by talented unknowns which we can broadcast without having to pay them a penny.

Well, that’s the theory. Most of these talented unknowns seem to be young boys in bad vests miming to the Crazy Frog song. But that’s the way with the world. No matter how much you underestimate your audience, they will always surprise you with the things they find funny. I suppose it explains the popularity of Alan Carr. And why nobody has been filmed happy slapping him remains a constant disappointment to me.

Some YouTube facts for you. Did you know that YouTube has caused a surge in the number of youngsters learning to mime? Mime classes across the world are reporting record numbers of students. It has also contributed to the number of accidents involving dogs running into patio doors. In the US alone, last year, nearly ten thousand people lost one eye or more in comedy related accidents involving looking down the end of a hosepipe.