Why I've Not Been Sleeping

Hell of a week last week. I think I’ll say that again and, since I don’t care what Judy says about the carpet, I’ll do it in capitals. HELL. OF. A. WEEK!

Was that too much? It’s just that, as Paul O’Grady once discovered, there are only so many times a man of my undeniable charm but limited patience can be insulted before he strikes back. Only this time, there’s no need for any bottles of hot chilli sauce, plastic funnels, nor any rubber gloves and boxes of doggy treats.

‘I’ve got a good feeling about the Algerian entry,’ said the voice on the phone.
I rubbed my eyes and peered over at the digital. 4.30 in the morning. This was the third time in the week that the phone had woken me in the early hours. The bed squeaked as Judy rolled over, disturbed. She muttered something about monkfish before she lifted the duvet and slid beneath Slumberland’s finest. The snores resumed but the voice remained indifferent to Judy’s plight or the significance of large gilled North Atlantic anglerfish to the ongoing narrative.

‘I’ve got a few witty remarks about the Lithuanians,’ it said. ‘You want to hear them, Dick? Or would you prefer to hear all my Pole jokes?’

‘It’s you again, isn’t it Graham?’ I replied.

‘Of course it’s me,’ said Norton. ‘Who else would be talking about the Eurovision at four thirty in the morning? After all, I’m the only person the BBC have trusted to host the Euro gig.’

History. That’s what this came down to. History, a presenter with leading-man good looks, and the BBC mafia. If it’s the stuff of a Guy Richie film, this would be the moment when the camera makes a quick detour up the trouser leg of an extra and then does a quick 360 degree time-lapse business around the bushes and to that moment about a month ago when I was standing in one of London’s trendier media cafes. Queue the caption. ‘Somewhere in Soho’.

‘He’s here, everybody!’ cried Harry Hill who could clearly see everything from atop a pair of brothel creepers with six inches of creped soul. ‘Lock up your onions or they might fly away!’

If I’d known how those strange words would one day leave Judy muttering ‘monkfish’ at four thirty in the morning I might not have joined in the applause as I stood there, shoulder to shoulder with all the nation’s top presenters. Jonathan Ross was in his pink eel-skin suit (sourced from renewable eels) and Michael Parkinson was in something made from unemployed mine worker. Joining us were Des O’Connor, Paul O’Grady, Brucie Forsyth, Alan Carr, Angus Deaton, Sandy Toksvig... Even Alan Titchmarsh was there, sitting by the fire with a cup of Horlicks resting on his lap.

‘By ‘eck,’ he said. ‘This is a proper do.’

He was right. It was very proper do, only there was no time to reflect on my position among the nation’s ruling elite. There was a sudden ripple of applause and the crowd parted to allow the honour guard to enter the room along with the man we were all there to meet.

I recognised the earlobes immediately. They were earlobes I was hoping to follow; earlobes I hoped to emulate. They were earlobes that had suffered many years of abuse from listening to Eurovision hits; earlobes in London to announce the name of the man or woman who was to land the most highly prized job in television.

‘My children, becalm your beating hearts!’ said Sir Terry Wogan. ‘Too much... It’s all too much for a tired old pro to bear in his dotage...’

What class! The Pope of Radio 2 then began to walk slowly down the line of celebs, shaking our hands. He paused at Wossy and Jonathan kneeled down and kissed the papal ring on Terry’s little finger.

‘Bwess you, good sir,’ said Ross. ‘You are a fine example to all of us pwestenters who hope to follow in your fine footsteps. Now is there any chance I can get your phone number? I might need to wing you in the future, should I discover people impersonating you on Twitter.’

Terry smiled and blessed him with a hand to Jonathan’s brow before he moved on to me.

‘Richard. So good of you to make it,’ he said.

‘It’s not weally Wichard,’ whispered Wossy, leaning into the conversation. Terry ignored the slur, which has been sadly repeated on other occasions and despite the evidence otherwise.

‘There’s always room on the good ship Beeb for hearty fellows with few discernable skills,’ said Wogan in a confident voice. ‘I’m sure you’ll fit right in.’
From anybody else, it would have been an insult. But this was Terry and Terry means a lot to me. Finally, with great ceremony, Wogan went over to where Titchmarsh was sitting.

‘It’s Terry Wogan,’ explained June Whitfield who was acting as Alan’s minder for the day. ‘He’s come to announce the name of the next presenter of Eurovision. You’d like to host Eurovision, wouldn’t you, Alan?’

‘By eck! It’s a proper do!’ cried Titchmarsh again, so excited that he raised his mug and splashed his Horlicks all over June. I’m not sure the poor fellow understood a thing of what was going on. He’s not been the same since they Charlie Dimock’s breasts were dropped from BBC1.

Finally, Terry made his way to the fireplace where he posed for photographers and then it was time for the ceremony, which was to be led by the head of BBC light entertainment. Personally, I still blame the guy for the second series of ‘Little Miss Jocelyn’ so I paid little attention to a long and frankly boring speech about the role of the colour pink in the BBC light entertainment department. But from what I did hear, pink has a surprisingly important role and, naturally, it was all music to Jonathan’s ears which were pink to their own considerable lobes. By the time the speech was over, I felt distinctly out of place and I thought it a bad omen that Terry was handed a pink envelope containing the name of the chosen presenter.

‘Ah,’ said Wogan, ‘it’s been many a year since I was in a room, much like this one, eagerly awaiting Diddy David Hamilton to open the envelope to see who would follow him in this great role. It’s a great honour for any presenter to be given the job of commentating the Eurovision Song Contest; to be sent to foreign climes to mock the tastes of our continental friends. And now it’s time to see which of you will be given the high honour of continuing my xenophobic rant towards foreigners. I see some of our most talented names in presenting in the room. I also see Richard Madeley standing there. Ah, Richard. You’re a man after my own mustard. We’ve both been cut from the same cloth. Good luck to you, good sir!’

‘Good luck everybody!’ cried Titchmarsh to the great amusement of all. ‘Ooh, it’s a grand do!’

There was a twinkle in Terry’s eye as he tore open the envelope.

‘And now, with no more further ceremony,’ he said, ‘it’s time to announce the name of the scurvy dog who will be following me on the good ship Eurovision. And... that person is...’

There was a collective gasp. Had I even heard the name? I must have heard something because I stepped forward as if to shake Terry’s hand. Luckily, I was spared any embarrassment when a mirrorball rolled past me and unfurled itself in the middle of the room to take Wogan in its arms. I thought it was some strange form of pink protest until Terry returned the hug but thankfully none of the kisses.

‘By ‘eck, that was a proper turn of events,’ said Titchmarsh who was now standing at my side, June Whitfield on his arm. ‘Imagine them giving the job to him. Ah well. It means my Aunt Rose won’t be watching it this year. Too many references to sausages. My Aunt Rose doesn’t like references to sausages. But by gum, this was a grand do!’
And like that, it was over with Graham Norton taking the applause and the best job in showbusiness. Queue the time lapsed trouser leg and back to me in my bed at four thirty on a weekday morning.

‘Listen Graham,’ I said, softly so as to not disturb Judy, snoring heavily somewhere under the duvet. ‘I hold no grudges. The BBC have clearly decided that Eurovision is going to abandon its small but loyal following among heterosexual men who only watched it for Terry’s witty banter and the legs on the sultry French dancers. If the BBC are to ignore a man as talented as the man Madeley and choose to embrace the camp aesthetic in a spectacular way, then I’m glad they’ve given you the job.’

‘Really?’ squealed Norton. ‘You really mean that?’

‘I do,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful night in Moscow with your double entendres and I predict that the national outcry will mean that the BBC will seek out a safer pair of hands next year. Perhaps a handsome pair of hands that know how to make subtle but biting references to the Turkish entrant’s moustache and her resemblance to a Chuckle Brother.’

And with that, I hung up the phone.

‘Who was that?’ muttered Judy.

‘Nobody of importance,’ I said as I lay smirking in the dark. ‘Now get back to your monkfish. I’ve got to think of something funny to say about Bulgarian glam rockers in time for next year.’

Toast and A Ham

A quick phone call and I had the facts I needed. It did indeed appear that I had a great great great uncle who crafted false limbs from cork to enable pirates to float should their ships sink. It’s a fantastic story which I intend to write up into a book. ‘Pirates & Stumps’ will be my next best seller and I hope to have it ready in time for summer.

The research will take me some weeks, which delays the real pleasure of sitting down with my laptop and crafting words. I take so much satisfaction from writing about my family that I found it somewhat disappointing that Alan Titchmarsh should bad mouth my attempts this morning.

It happened at a breakfast held in Westminster that brought together the nation’s best selling writers to celebrate our past glories and look to ways to boost the economy in these difficult times. The government had organised the event to promote the fact that more books were sold this Christmas than during any previous year. I, of course, didn’t labour the point that it was the first Christmas that a book was out under the Madeley name. Which made it all the more annoying when Titchmarsh piped up.

‘By ek!’ he said from the top table, ‘it’s so good to see you all here at this special event. It reminds me of the day my Aunt Glady’s petunias bloomed early one warm January morning up there in Yorkshire. To see all your radiant faces... Well, it makes an old gardener’s heart melt. It really does.’

I had to sip my water at this point. I’d been struck by an unexpected rise of bile in my throat.

Titchmarsh turned cards and continued his speech.

‘There are so many good things to say about the past year’s work. We writers are a special breed. We require special soil, just the right balance of shade and sunlight, and a firm hand when we begin to sprout in the wrong direction.’ He then began to quote some W.B. Yates before he paused for laugher. There wasn’t any. Nobody laughed at W.B. Yeats. Not even Mrs. W.B Yeats who’d probably heard them all before.

Titchmarsh was unmoved. I’d hoped he’d have taken the hint and cut his speech short. It wasn’t to be. He carried on squealing like a fire in a dry compost heap filled with hedgehogs.

‘But from where I’ve been sitting in my shed, I’d say it’s been a good year. I’ve finished writing three new novels, which should be coming out soon. “The Maltese Fuchsia” will be the first in a series of detective stories I’m setting in Yorkshire about Sam Spade, a private eye and expert in shrubs. My next book is a sequel to “Trowel and Error” which I’ve called “Throwing In The Trowel”.’

Again, he paused for laughter. I examined my nails as I waited for the silence to die down.

Titchmarsh cleared his throat and seemed to mutter another ‘by ek’ before he was on to his next card.

‘I have big hopes for “Throwing in the Trowel”,’ he continued. ‘It’s a gentle story set in Yorkshire about a gardener whose battle with depression takes a comic turn when he discovers a secret formula for growing giant sprouts.’ He flicked cards. I wondered how many cards he had in the pile that ran an inch thick. ‘Finally, there’s “Hoe Down”, a story set in Yorkshire about a working girl who finds therapy and just a touch of romance in a herbaceous border. I might have broken a few taboos with this one and it will be the first of my books to have a warning sticker on the cover. So if you don’t want to read some quite graphic descriptions of petticoats and ankles, you better not read it.’

‘Good idea!’ shouted somebody.

Titchmarsh looked my way as though suspecting it was me. I couldn’t deny it. It might have been me.

‘Yes, it’s been a good year, all told,’ he said. ‘We’ve had some bumper blooms and some quality books. But I’d like to make special mention of Dick Madeley’s “Fathers & Sons”.’

I sat up in my chair. I hadn’t expected that. I had expected a twenty minute snooze before Titchmarch finished and they served bacon. I gave a wave to the crowd and looked up at Titchmarsh, though I didn’t like the tone in his voice when he piped up again.

‘Ooh, ay! I see that Dick is with us today. And looking as tanned as a proper apricot. We don’t get sun like that up Yorkshire way...’

‘You don’t get apricots either,’ I said. I don’t quite know what I meant by that but I’d been caught rather flat footed.

‘I wanted to mention Dick’s book because it has outsold all the other celebrity blockbusters this year,’ he said. ‘I think that deserves a round of applause.’

I gave another wave as the collected great and good of showbiz, publishing, and politics honoured me by slapping their paws together.

When I sat back down, I noticed the look in Alan’s eyes. I realised that I knew what a plant must feel like when he comes as them with a fork.

‘Yes, Dick has outsold all of you this year. Except, of course, Julie Walters, Dawn French, Alan Carr, and Paul O’Grady.’

I gave a shrug. There was no shame in coming fifth in that list but I had wished that he’d mentioned it earlier.

Except he wasn’t finished.

‘Bill Oddie, Jimmy Savile, James May, Eric Idle, Paul Young, Richard Hammond, John Prescott, Simon Cowell, Terry Wogan, Eric Sykes, Norman Wisdom, Tom Jones, Jeremy Clarkson, Esther Rantzen, Cleo Lane, John Humphries, Shirley Bassey, Roger Moore, Simon Clegg, Gloria Hunniford, and Ross Kemp.
I sank lower into my chair.

‘And that’s not to mention a humble gardener from Yorkshire. Like I said, a good year for Dick and a good year for all of us. I think we all deserve a round of applause.’

After such a public humiliation, I could hardly be expected to stay for the whole breakfast. I slipped out once they began to dish out the crusty bagels. It was half a mile to the station and I walked through a rather grey London morning simmering with resentment and vowing that with ‘Pirates & Stumps’ they’d have a literary masterpiece that even malicious Yorkshire gardeners couldn’t ignore from their sheds.

Letts’ List

Last night, the taxi parked up outside the Madeley home and I unwound my travel weary body from the back seat where I had been dozing since I’d fallen there from the airport’s arrivals hall. I was somewhat dozily counting out my taxi fare in silver buttons and fur encrusted humbugs when the front door of the homestead opened and Judy came out to greet me. I was happy to see her. Manchester had been a demonstration of one Londoner's lack of charm and the north's abundance of tolerence. Only, Judy wasn’t in the mood for stories of business lunches. In her hands was a black plastic bag emblazoned with a familiar gold font and logo. There was a moment or two’s pause before I planted a kiss on my fair wife’s cheek. I recognised the Waterstones bag but was suspicious that I wouldn’t like what was inside.

‘I’ve bought you a present,’ she said as I finally gave up counting paper clips and pocket fluff and slipped the driver a crisp twenty.

‘That isn’t another of those “self-help” books, is it Jude?’ I asked, wary that the last time she bought me a book, it was written by a spiritual guru who she had also invited around to the house. He’d proceeded to explain why I should give him 50% of my income in exchange for regular sessions involving colonic massage and prune juice.

‘No,’ said Judy, ‘I bought this knowing that you’d definitely approve.’

The taxi driver seemed to read my mind. He gave an all knowing sniff as he counted out the change in two pence pieces.

A good ten minutes later, I was indoors and able to open the gift. That’s when I gave the cry of fright that might have woken local residents and made some early news reports in the South East. My outburst was warranted since I hadn’t expected to find Alan Titchmarsh’s smug grin staring up from my lap. My first instinct was to reach for my pocket and throw loose change into his face. However, a gasp or two later, I realised my mistake. Titchmarsh was in caricature and rather than having the literary equivalent of organic fertilizer dropped into my hands, I was holding a lumpy goodness, a book that I would recommend to all my friends.

Despite writing for ‘The Daily Mail’, Quentin Letts has made much sense in his writing career and rarely fails to register a few laughs with his parliamentary sketches. His book '50 People Who Buggered Up Britain' was a quick read – I managed it in an evening – but packed full of observations that you’d only dispute if you were... well, a Daily Mail reader.

‘Did you enjoy the book?’ asked Judy this morning. ‘I fell asleep counting your chortling. It was more regular than clockwork sheep.’

‘Chortling was the only response to a book as good as that,’ I answered, ‘though I was somewhat disappointed by Quentin’s list. There were some glaring omissions that made no sense. As the instigator of all that’s wrong with this country, Peter Mandelson’s name should have been front, centre, as well as following up in the rear as he’s so likely to do. And no lesser an omission was the name of John Major. His programme of “care in the community” was one of the most misguided health policies of living memory. I blame his obsession with “charters” for what came later with the creeping, sycophantic politics of the ever mendacious Tony Blair.’

Judy looked across the table at me with a look of profound shock. ‘I never knew you were so informed about politics, Richard. I’m impressed.’

‘Oh,’ I said, gazing at the back of my hand, ‘I occasionally glance at Iain Dale’s blog and dip into the Devil. I’m something of a socio-political commentator at heart.’

‘You are that,’ she replied. ‘You should write your own list. I bet you might even get into the hardback charts with a book like that.’

Whilst it was clearly a cheap dig at my ‘Fathers & Sons’ sales figures, I thought that Judy had a point and I set myself to producing my own list. For reasons of brevity, I’ve decided to call it: ‘Richard Madeley’s List of Another 50 People Who Buggered Up Britain’. There is only one rule for inclusion in the list: nobody must be in Quentin’s book. After all, I wouldn’t want to try to match his verdict on Titchmarsh (‘he’s more prevalent than the municipal begonia’) and his ‘Ground Force’ militia.

What characters the presenters were, the embodiment of spray-on change and of instant improvement – and as such a betrayal of the most fundamental necessities for any gardener, which are patience and the nourishment of the soul from slow, seasonal change. Alan Titchmarsh offered the gardening equivalent of fast food. Does he care about the rhythms of the year, of the pace of Nature?’

Anyway, after fifteen minutes activity up in my den, I’d finished my list. It was harder work than you’d imagine but here it is, open to adjustment in the coming weeks and all suggestions appreciated. You might be puzzled by some of my inclusions but each one is made for good reason. If it takes my fancy in the future, I’ll write at length about each of them. They have all contributed (or are contributing) to the decline in our nation and done more than most to hasten the collapse of civilisation.

Richard Madeley’s List of Another 50 People Who Buggered Up Britain

And & Dec (counts as 2)
Sue Barker
Banksy
‘Big Daddy’
Bono
Fern Britton
Prince Charles
David Coleman
Angus Deaton
David Dickinson
Ben Elton
Michael Fish
Tony Green
Richard Hammond
Lenny Henry
Michael Heseltine
Benny Hill
Jules Holland
Jordan/Katie Price (counts as 2)
Ross Kemp
Robert Kilroy Silk
Neil Kinnock
Ken Livingstone
Andrew Lloyd Webber
Matt Lucas
Ruth Maddoc
Peter Mandelson
Paul O’Grady
Lembit Opik
Michael Parkinson
John Major
The Queen Mother
Esther Rantzen
Claire Rayner
Roland (the fat kid from ‘Grange Hill’)
Jonathan Ross
Paul Ross
J.K. Rowling
Salmon Rushdie
Arthur Scargill
Phillip Schofield
Norman St John-Stevas
Suggs
Daley Thompson
David Walliams
Ruby Wax
Fatima Whitbread

Suggestions to the usual places: in the comments or to dickmadeley@yahoo.co.uk.

Keith Chegwin's Sparrow

The new banner and associated desktop need some explaining. What began as an exercise in decorating the bedroom ended up as a philosophical enquiry into how nature invidiously includes Rory McGrath in every significant event. The man is perennial and I don’t mean the year long sprouting of his body hair. He just gets everywhere.

You see, during my absence from your computer screens, I took the opportunity to enroll at the local community college where I thought a course of Home Improvement classes would inspire me to greater things in the bedroom. The ceiling has needed Duluxing for some time but I thought it high time that I put something up there that would be an improvement over woodchip and a slap of white emulsion.

Mr. Ketterick was the teacher who welcomed me to the ‘Beginners Painting and Decorating’ class three weeks ago and it was eight o’clock in the evening when I sat myself in the room filled with other men middle aged looking for leadership in the act of hanging wallpaper.

‘The key to success with home decorating is patience,’ declared Mr. Ketterick from the front of the class. He was wearing white overalls and a poor quality toupee. More than patience, I thought a tab of wallpaper paste was clearly the key to the latter remaining on his sloping brow. 'Yes gentlemen, it's patience that you will learn in this class. Patience which will help you hang wallpaper the right way. Patience that will help you apply a coat of paint in the correct manner...'

I looked at my watch and realised that at the pace he was setting, it would be months before we’d get to the nitty gritty of mixing crushed horse bones in large plastic buckets. I decided it was time for some of the inquisitorial skills that have made me millions.

‘But don’t you have any tips that you can pass on in a minute or two?’ I shouted from the back of the room.

‘Ah, Mr. Madeley,’ said Mr. Ketterick. ‘Gentlemen, we have a real life celebrity with us tonight.’

‘Indeed,’ I said, ‘but to hurry you on... Any tips?’

‘Tips?’

‘For painting a ceiling? It’s just I want to get cracking with it, you see.’

He thought for a moment longer than I’d normally allow on the show but this was real life and there weren’t any ad breaks coming up in my rearview mirrors.

‘Tips...’ He pondered for a moment longer. ‘I’d say don’t stand directly under the brush and never load it with too much paint.’

I jotted down these two gems in my notebook. ‘Excellent,’ I said, as I stood up and headed for the door.

‘You’re not staying?’

‘It’s something I’ve learned from years of meeting men and women who achieved greatness,’ I replied. ‘They don’t wait around learning the detail. We’re people of broad brushstrokes and that’s especially true when it comes to making brush strokes. You’ve given me all the help I needed. I’m sure I can pick up the rest as I’m going...’

And with that, I walked out of the classroom.

The next day I was armed with my two tips along with a set of step ladders and a wife nervously looking into the bedroom from the landing.

‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing Richard?’

Judy normally does all the DIY jobs in Madeley Mansions but when it comes to anything requiring finesse, it’s left to the only person in the house that doesn’t wear underpants.

‘I know exactly what I’m doing,’ I replied. ‘You forget that I’ve taken a college course. And with what I've learned, I’m going to decorate our ceiling in a way that’s sympathetic to the bedding but also a little more inspiring when you lay down for sleep at night.’

Judy frowned in that we she has when she’s not sure that I’m totally right but she ten minutes later she appeared at the door with her outdoors coat on. ‘I’m going to see Cilla,’ she announced. ‘The poor thing has got a problem with her gas central heating and I want to be there when the man from the gas board comes around.’

I waved her away. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ I said. ‘I’ll be busy most of the day.’

She left me but I didn’t hear her drive away. I was too busy with a paint brush clamped between my teeth as I used a thumb dipped in ‘Harvest Tint’ to outline figures on the ceiling.

Now, to cut a long blog post short, I have to ask you to fast forward the action by seven or eight hours. In the dying light of the day, I was putting the finishing touches to my masterpiece. I’d just dotted a spot of light in the last eye when Judy walked in the room.

‘How was Cilla’s gas?’ I asked and thought immediately of a funny quip. Only, one look at Judy told me to store the quip for a better day when we can all laugh at Cilla’s gas. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Who the bloody hell is that?’ asked my darling wife, the art critic.

I looked up at the manly figure stretched across the ceiling.

‘That’s a neo-classical Bill Oddie,’ I replied.

‘Neo-classical? It looks more like Rory McGrath!’

And here, you see, we have the point of this little narrative of mine. I looked again and, sure enough, I could see that Judy was right.

‘Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘How on earth did that happen?’

‘I’m not lying in bed looking up at Rory McGrath,’ she declared. I was sure she meant it.

‘It’s uncanny,’ I agreed.

‘It’s enough to give me nightmares.’

Judy’s eyes went around the ceiling to where Jeremy Clarkson, Jonathan Ross, Keith Chegwin, and Alan Titchmarsh all looked down at us in their naked glory.

‘And I’m not happy with what you’ve done with Keith Chegwin’s winkle,’ she said. ‘And why have you made it point to my side of the bed?’

‘I know what it needs,’ I said. ‘An owl sitting on the end of it.’

Judy looked at me. ‘An owl doing what?’

‘If I put an owl on Bill Oddie’s finger, you’ll no longer think of Rory McGrath. It’s the lack of an owl that’s causing all the problem. With an owl, there’d be no mistaking Bill Oddie.’

‘Richard, I was talking about Keith Chegwin’s winkle. What are you going to do about that?’

‘Perhaps another owl?’ I suggested.

Judy looked up to the ceiling. ‘Perhaps a sparrow,’ she said. It was the last helpful contribution she made to the debate. I was left to work late into the evening, rendering sparrows on the ceiling.

And there you have it. In all its glory and ready for your desktop: the story of how a sparrow came to sit on the end of Keith Chegwin’s winkle. I know it was a bit of a lengthy explanation but I think I owe you the full story for when somebody peers over your shoulder and asks why there’s a picture of a naked Keith Chegwin with a sparrow sitting on his winkle. And then perhap's you'll explain why my own manhood is obscured by an American Bald Eagle.

Beckham, Titchmarsh, and Me

Disappointment howls today like the wind that keeps shifting the rafters as it tries to break the backbone of this old house. It is not a good day to be either a Madeley or a Beckham. I heard through the celebrity grapevine that Titchmarsh was out around town last night, celebrating his new job. I’ve still not had official confirmation but I can only assume that this silence means that the Madeley charm failed yet again to win over important people. I won’t get my second cap as captain of ‘Eye of the Storm’. My search for a job will have to continue and I still cannot assure you about the future of this blog. There is only a very small chance of my finding another part time vacancy as suitable as the one I’ve just missed out on.

If there are positives in this, I fail to see them. My lassitude has begun to spread around the house. Judy has fled to the local shopping centre to escape it. And when Stephen Fry appeared for breakfast this morning, even a man known for his resilient spirit looked chagrined once he heard the news.

‘As long as I’m quizmaster, Mr. Titchmarsh will never be welcomed on QI, I can assure you of that,’ he said as he watched me butter his English muffins.

‘It’s bad enough that he keeps getting all the plumb jobs and that he produces novels that take up shelf space that might have gone to new unknown writers.’ I stopped spreading butter and looked up. ‘But what disappoints me more than anything is that I thought I’d got the job. I left that interview so sure that I’d connected with people. I thought they understood the easy going nature of a man who refuses to abide by the law of underpants. They should have seen that they had a special opportunity of getting “A” list recruitment material for a knock down price.’

‘I feel your pain as though it were my own,’ said Stephen, clutching his arm and giving a dramatic wince. ‘I thought I had a natural affinity with the manatee. Little did I know that they had plans to knock me from a log and laugh about it later.’

He had a point.

‘Are you up for some writing today?’ asked Stephen after I’d finished soaking his muffins in my tears.

‘I don’t know if I am,’ I said, wiping my eyes. The last thing I wanted was to spend the day transcribing another man’s genius to the page.

‘Come, come, Richard. You should do something productive today. You need to rage against the storm that so cruelly batters you. Cry out that you’re not for being beaten.’

‘Oh, I intend to rage,’ I promised him. ‘In fact, I’ve been giving some thought to having a tattoo.’

‘A tattoo?’

I shoved the newspaper across the table. ‘David Beckham has had an angel tattooed on his arm,’ I explained. ‘It has the face of his wife, Victoria. I thought I might have the same but with the face of that real angel called Judy. I thought a tattoo might prove to people that I’m not the nice guy they can treat so unfairly.’

‘I would suggest that you think again and make no hasty decisions when feeling glum,’ replied Stephen. ‘Have a day or two to think about it. I regret very much the tattoo of Hugh Laurie I had etched on my… Well, let’s not dwell on that. Let us instead consider written English. Let me help you on your own magnum opus. Let’s see if we can raise your spirits by setting you back on track with that novel I know you’ve been writing about the Australian outback where a young boy is raised by the koala.’

‘You’d do that for me?’ I asked. ‘I mean, you’d really help me finish “Tamazepam: King of the Eucalyptus”?’

Stephen’s smile hung like a cloud beneath that great crescent moon of a nose. ‘Of course I would,’ he chuckled. ‘Not everybody is a Titchmarsh man. Some of us are on the side of Madeley and you should never forget that fact, Richard. Never forget that some of us want you to win and win you most certainly will.’

And Now I Wait...

I'm exhausted. We recorded today's show earlier than normal in order to fit my job interview into a gap in my schedule. It means that I've had a hectic day and now need a couple of hours of shut-eye before I drive Stephen to a poetry recital in aid of the Leslie Phillips Cravat Foundation.

I think the interview went reasonably well. By the time I'd finished arguing my case, the title of the show had changed from 'Eye of the Storm 2: Mild and Slightly Damp' to 'Eye of the Storm 2: Slightly Damp But Mild'. It was a small concession on the producer's behalf but I didn't want to have my name associated with a show whose title didn't scan right. I also have yet to hear the outcome as I understand that Alan Titchmarsh was due in this afternoon to outline his plans.

I still don't know how to feel about this development. To know that I'm going head-to-head with the nation's favourite item of knitwear is enough to dent my confidence, or, at least, unravel an extra yard of wool. Yet should I get the job, this blog may yet survive. I'll be working two days a week in the city, leaving me time to finish my novel set in the world of men who go commando. At the moment, I can only assure you that 'Bravo Size Two Zero' will be in bookshops by the late summer.

The Squirrels

If there’s one thing in the world I could change, it would be people’s obsession with decking. Don’t get me wrong. I like a nice bit of wood as much as the next man but not at the expense of a good old fashioned herbaceous border. In fact, a herbaceous border much like the one I found myself trampling yesterday afternoon in an attempt to cheer myself up.

Though the weather’s gone cold, Judy still insists that we do our gardening once a week. After the depressing news about my statistics and the even more depressing news that I’d drank all the whisky, my slight inebriation had been calmed by the freshness of the air and half an hour spent digging the border. Then it was to be my job to rake leaves in my typically efficient manner. I don’t mind raking leaves but I do think it’s Judy’s duty to save me the trouble whenever she can. I wasn't going to touch the rake until I was sure that all the leaves had fallen from the tree. And that’s the reason why Judy had climbed the big oak we have growing at the bottom of the garden. She was doing her best to pick out all the dead leaves before they fell.

I was in the process of pointing out what I thought was a large clump of leaves that were about to fall from the end of a thin branch high in the oak when there was a ‘coo-ee’ from the garden gate. I leaned on my spade and looked up to the house. I couldn’t make out who was there, nor how I was meant to respond to a ‘coo-ee’.

I decided on the cautious approach. ‘Judy!’ I shouted up into the tree. ‘There’s somebody at the back gate.’

I heard a loud sigh and then a branch crack. Despite the fact that was forty feet up the tree, she managed to get down surprisingly fast. ‘Okay, okay,’ she huffed, as she picked herself out of the slight hole she’d made in the soft ground. ‘I’m going, I’m going.’

‘That’s my girl,’ I said as I carried on supporting the spade.

It seemed to take her ages to trots to the back gate but, when she got there, there’s a squeal of delight and then excited chatter. Not being a man who likes to miss interesting things, I dropped my spade and went off to investigate.

‘Oh, Richard, look who’s here,’ says Judy coming around the side of the house.

My heart leapt. Not at 80s pop sensation Kim Wilde, as you might expect, but at the sight of my old mate Terry Nutkins.

Judy had invited Kim around to help with the garden but Terry had come at the invitation of the master of the house.

‘Terry!’ I said, going to shake the great man by his hand.

Kim’s eyes narrowed but I gave her a smile as I led my friend off down the garden.

Terry’s a great guy. He used to present the Really Wild Show on BBC1 but I remember him best from the days of Animal Magic when he used to own a sealion. Terry stills smell rather fishy, on account of his still working with animals, but when it comes to trouble with wildlife, there’s nobody better. Now, if you’ve been reading the 'Richard Madeley Appreciation Society' in recent weeks (and let’s face it, who hasn’t?) you’ll think I’d have invited Terry along to sort out the problem with he mice. And you’d be wrong.

‘It’s these squirrels,’ I said, ‘they’re a bloody nuisance.’

‘Ah, Sciurus Carolinensis,’ he said as we walked down the garden towards the trees. ‘They’re become a pest all over the country since they were introduced back in the 1980s. Do you know that radio disk jockey Dave Lee Travis was the first man to import them? He used to let them nest in his beard. Only they escaped and now they’re bloody everywhere.’

‘Spare me the tales about Travis,’ I said and pointed out the oak tree. ‘Judy was just up there and they were swarming all around her. I’ll tell you, Terry, that I was a little worried that they might bite her.'

'Oh, rabies,' he said, tutting.

'Rabies!' I cried. 'I don't like the sound of that. I can't even think of hitting my dear Judy with a spade just to stop her biting me.' I shook my head. 'But I suppose I’d have to do whatever it took to look after the living…

He gave me a funny look as he prodded a bulge in his trousers. That’s not as odd as it sounds as a pair of binoculars popped out of his pocket. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got, shall we?’ he said and set to examining the tree.

After a moment, there was an audible gasp from Nutkins.

‘My god,’ he said. ‘That’s remarkable.’

For a moment, I thought Judy had climbed back up the tree and Terry was remarking on her ability to swing from branch to branch like a gibbon.

He lowered his glasses. ‘Richard, do you know what you have here? You don’t have sciurus carolinensis, or what are commonly known as grey squirrels. You have Sciurus vulgaris, which we all know as red squirrels.’

‘Vulgaris?’ I repeated. ‘Well, they make me feel pretty vulgar when I see what they’re doing to Judy. Can’t we get rid of them?’

‘Get rid of red squirrels? This might be the only remaining red squirrel population in the south of England. You can’t get rid of them!’

‘Not even with poison?’

If he wasn’t bald, I think Terry would have started to pull his hair out. Instead, he just wiped a fist over his skull.

‘Richard, I really don’t think you see the importance of this discovery,’ he said and reached into another pocket for another bulge. Terry Nutkins is a man of many bulges. I don’t think any one of them is real. ‘You wait herem' he said. 'I think we’ll be able to show you how important this discovery is.’ And with that, out popped his mobile phone and he walked off to get a better signal as Judy came down the garden with Kim.

‘Hello Kim,’ I said and gave her one of those celebrity kisses (all sounds, little lips, no moisture) to make up for my ignoring her earlier on.

‘Oh, he speaks,’ she said, rather tartily, though I’m not saying that Kim’s a tart. She’s still the beauty I used to lust over all those years ago.

‘Richard’s just a bit preoccupied,’ said Judy. ‘We’ve got terrible trouble with squirrels.’ She held up her hand. ‘Do you know one of them bit me?’

I reached for the spade. ‘They’re red squirrels,’ I said as I tried to detect the first signs of frothing on Judy’s mouth.

‘Oh, reds,’ gushed Kim. ’That’s wonderful!’

‘Not you too,’ I groaned. ‘If it wasn’t bad enough that we can’t rid the house of our psycho mice, I’m now told that we’re not allowed to kill squirrels.’

Judy tutted and explained the problem we’ve been having with the mice after Dr. Raj’s brain medicine left them all with multiple personalities.

Terry came back a minute later, looking very pleased with himself. ‘I’ve called my contacts in the BBC,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a nice little surprise for you, Richard and Judy.’

He wouldn’t tell me what it was but the whole street knew half an hour later when there’s the sound of a siren wailing down our quiet little residential cul-de-sac.

We all ran out to the front and saw a line of trucks coming down the road. They were all the distinctive colours of BBC Outdoors Broadcast Units, but the car at the lead, with the red flashing light and siren, was the focus of my attention.

‘I don’t believe it!’ I said.

‘Knew you’re be surprised,’ said Terry. ‘Since his retirement, he’s been on a state of high alert ready for a scoop like this.’

And sure enough, there in a car with a flashing red light was the great man himself, David Attenborough. All twitches, excitement, spittle. And that was just from him jumping out of the car

‘Where are they?’ he asks, full of that enthusiasm that’s made him a household name.

‘They’re in the back garden,’ I said, ‘up the tree.’

‘Up the tree!’ he laughs and trots off to the garden followed by his team of cameramen and sound recordists.

‘Well?’ asked Terry.

‘So, I guess this mean we can’t poison the squirrels,’ I said, ‘but would I be allowed to install electrical equipment in the garden and smear peanut butter over the leads?’

Terry looked at me, not knowing if I was joking or being serious. You know me, so you know I was being serious.

We all followed the crowd into the garden where David Attenborough was already shinning up the oak tree and gushing stuff to camera about this being a great discovery and the caution he had to show in case the squirrels had rabies. I gave another look at Judy but there was still no sign of madness in her eyes but I also knew that dehydration was the earliest symptoms.

‘Fancy a drink, Jude? I asked.

‘No, no, I’m fine,’ she smiled. I lessened my grip on the garden spade but wouldn't let it go until I was definately sure.

But by then, if I'm honest, it was all getting a bit too much for me and I was about to say I was going back to bed when a breeze suddenly got up. I began to shout something about elderly TV presented shinning their way up oak trees in blustery conditions when I realised it wasn’t the wind that had turned. Wind isn’t usually associated with the sound of rotors. A helicopter had just crested Madeley Towers and was looking to land in the middle of our large and expensively laid croquet lawn.

‘What now?’ I sighed. Terry just shrugged, Judy fainted, and Kim caught her. In a way, each person played their role quite admirably.

I ran across the helicopter and was about to tell them the price of quality turf when the back door opened and I saw the flash of the BBC logo

‘You lot can’t just keep on harassing Channel 4 employees in this way,’ I told the man before I even looked up into his face. ‘Oh God,’ I said, ‘not you!’

‘You can cut that out,’ said Alan Titchmarsh. ‘Where’s that bastard, Attenborough. I was promised all the wildlife gigs. He was supposed to stay at home and write the forwards to books.’

I pointed to the tree. ‘He’s up there,’ I said. ‘Don’t catch rabies,’ I said, my voice laced with sarcasm.

Titchmarsh jumped out and went racing off towards the oak and the only community of sciurus vulgaris in the South of England. I smiled at the helicopter pilot.

‘Going back into London?’ I asked.

He nodded.

‘Don’t suppose you could give a man a lift? Drop me anywhere.' I said. 'I’m really not that fussy…’