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.

Mr. Stephen Fry's Buttocks: A Cautionary Tale of Tweed and Excess

‘My dear Richard, it was so very unseemly of you to make such a public display of my buttocks yesterday.’

So said the voice in the orifice shell-like. This was late last night and the fact that the voice was coming through from an iPhone in New York should give you an idea of the man on the other end. I had no doubt that he was fully extended to six feet eight and that at least five of those feet were wrapped in a purple velvet cape with concealed compartments for a wifi enabled swordstick and Bluetoothed brass knuckle.

‘A momentary lapse,’ I answered. ‘I couldn’t resist replying to the twitter in which you commented upon the complexion of your cheeks.’

‘Tut and pish, Richard. Tut and pish. As you very well know, I was making reference to my upper cheeks, those silken mounds of pearly hue.’ He huffed himself to a silence and for a moment I thought he’d hung up on me. ‘On no account was I referring to my buttocks, perfect, pert and dimpled though they may be.’

‘But not so silken?’ I replied with a playful snort which poor Stephen took the wrong way. He took it as a sniff of derision.

‘My buttocks are not to sniffed at, Richard,’ replied the Great Man. ‘Had you lived as many years in tweed as I, then your buttocks would have also taken on a damask finish. But, needless to say, I’d prefer it if that information remains between the two of us.’

‘So your buttocks are not for public consumption?’ I asked.

‘Au contraire, Richard! They are Fry buttocks and all things to do with me are consumed most eagerly by my adoring public.’

I shrugged. ‘I bet they would,’ I said, knowing the dedication of Stephen’s followers.

Contempt was the prime feature of Stephen’s next remark. ‘Honestly. My poor boy. You do have a terrible need to attract attention. I’ve noticed it in the nature of your twittering. Always talking about red onions... Heavens!’

‘I happen to like the red onion. I consider it to be...’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ soothed Stephen. ‘Everybody knows that you consider it the king of all onions.’

‘And it would go rather well with rump,’ I added but I don’t think Stephen caught my sly allusion to his toasted flanks. He was too busy continuing his transatlantic telling off.

‘But enough of this idle chatter, Richard. Call my aunt my uncle if you wish but do not be surprised when the very next words out of my mouth are those of a good scolding. For I have rang you from New York to ask you, nay implore you, to stop ruining twittering for the rest of us. No sooner had I launched my hugely successful Oscar Wilde Day on Twitter than you appeared talking nonsense about Manchester and onions. Shudder. Shudder. Shudder, Richard. And I say that not so lightly as to be heard only by moles. Bless their muddy little ears. Bless.’

‘I can’t help but be me,’ I replied. ‘Not all of us can be televisual Gods. Some of us are mere Holy Spirits.’

Flattery always works well on Stephen.

‘Oh,’ he chortled, ‘were I a less humble man, I would acknowledge that even my smallest flatus has the air of heavenly ambrosia. However, being the Fry of the genus Stephen, I need not make out that I am some kind of God. A lesser deity, perhaps...’

‘Flatus?’ I asked, not knowing the word.

Again Stephen sighed but this time it was one of those slightly condescending sighs which indicate his surprise that there are men in the world who haven’t had another book published in the past twenty four hours.

‘You don’t know your Latin declension, Richard!’ he scolded. ‘Repeat after me: flatus, flatati, flatatum, flaterati, flateratus, flateranimus...’

I confess that I’m paraphrasing here because my Latin is not up to his. I don’t know my arsari from my elbowarium. I’m sure you get the picture, if not the heavy odour of learning in the room. In fact, not long after, Stephen started schooling me in the Ancient Greek for wind breaking and I decided that it was time to make my excuses.

‘So sorry, Stephen,’ I said. ‘The old mobile’s battery is on the fritz. I better be hanging up.’

‘This is what happens when you buy Nokia,’ said the Patron Saint of Sim Cards, who promptly launched into a review of the newest mobile phones. Since it was verbatim to the review that I’d recently read in his Dork Talk column form ‘The Guardian’, I just hit the big red button and disconnected Stephen’s private communications satellite somewhere over New York.

Yet I was satisfied with our conversation. It had been instructive in more than Greek fartari and Latin flatus. It had taught me that in the future when I twitter, I must be more considerate to those people reading me. Previously, I have been tempted to post every detail from my daily life. Every thought has gone there and every wayward dream. But no longer will I twitter without aim. If you decide to follow me on Twitter, you will find me a much changed twitterer, with much less of the wit and more of the twit. And never once again will I send Stephen Fry a comment about his buttocks. Even if they do have a tweed hue and a russeted charm. Stephen’s buttocks are his own concern and from now I will leave them alone. And I advise you to do the same.

Rub-a-dub-dub, Four Men and a Tub

There are moments when I despair for mankind; moments when I become a little fretful about the state of the world and wonder what would happen if I gave up my TV career to become a man with nothing more than a bag of onions and a plot of land. The simple life often appeals to me but then I usually run myself a big bath, soak for half an hour or so, and emerge a well wrinkled optimist with hardly a bad word to say about anybody or anything.

Yesterday was a busy day at the Madeley household. A highly respected man of letters threatened to have me killed for releasing footage of him shaking a leg at the Charleston, and then David Dickinson forced me up a ladder to give his crotch a good scraping. Days of rosier hue there certainly have been and Judy wouldn’t have been at all surprised if, upon arriving home at ten o’clock, I had told her that I was heading straight for the bathtub.

Unfortunately, by the time I did arrive home at ten o’clock, Judy was gone. I’d forgotten that she’d made plans to see Equus in the West End for the nineteenth time. She would be staying over in the city with Denise Robertson who had bought herself some high powered binoculars especially for the occasion. It meant I had time alone to enjoy a good long bath and my special formula of salts were soon filling the house with the aroma of apricot and cinnamon. All my earthly worries eased away as I slid into the hot water. Bliss.

I woke up five hours later.

The water was cold and my legs had gone dead. And that wasn’t the worst of it. Below the waterline there was more shrivelled skin than in the audience to a Cliff Richard concert. I didn’t know if I should call for help or sing a chorus of some chirpy Christmas hit.

‘Judy!’ I cried, my voice sounding hollow against the walls of the tiled bathroom. Then I remembered that she’d gone away for the night and that I was alone. Trapped in a bath. With possibly severe wrinkle damage and hugely bloated buttocks that had wedged me tight into the bottom of the tub. I knew I had to act and, if I was to escape from my bath, I would have to do so without her help.

Panic, my rarely reticent mistress, wrapped me it her tight embrace. My breath came to me ragged and uncontrolled. Luckily, Dr. Raj had taught me meditation techniques for a moment such as this so I began to think of my ‘comfort mantra’ and began to say it aloud.

‘Sue Lawley’s sponge pudding… Sue Lawley’s sponge pudding… Sue Lawley’s sponge pudding…’

Eventually, I felt my breathing ease and I found myself able to think myself through my predicament. Consider: man in bathtub; unable to move; becoming more bloated with every passing moment. It seemed that the only chance of escape lay sitting in the pocket of my trousers. It was the new Apple iPhone I’d bought over the weekend, after much pestering from Fry. The trousers were, however, a good few feet away and beyond my reach.

However, I’m a man of some considerable imagination. I quickly grabbed my bathrobe, put a knot in the cord and then tied it around my large luxury loofa. On the third attempt I managed to snag my trousers and drag them to the side of the bath where I reached for the phone. Luckily, I’d charged it up that very morning and it came on with a bright chirp as I ran a finger down the screen.

Unfortunately, severe wrinkles had not been a design consideration back at Apple HQ. After accidentally selecting the MP3 player and then pulling up a detailed map of Swindon on the GPS, the internet browser loaded and I inadvertently checked all my emails. Only then did I manage to get to the phone book. That’s when I remembered, to my horror, that I’d only got around to putting one number in there. There was nothing I could do but press dial.

‘’Tis I, Fry, past midnight on my iPhone,’ yawned a somewhat sleepy Stephen Fry.

‘Stephen, thank god,’ I said. ‘I need you to call somebody to help me.’

‘Richard? Is that you?’

‘Yes, ’tis me, Richard, on my iPhone and I’m stuck in the bath.’

‘In the bath? Heavens!’

‘You must call somebody here in the UK. I need somebody to come and rescue me at once.’

‘I’ll be right over,’ said Stephen.

If I hadn’t already been wedged into the bath by my bloated buttocks, I would have still been rooted to the spot in shock. ‘I thought you were in America,’ I said. ‘What happened to your counter-clockwise tour of the nation?’

‘Oh, I’m go back to finish filming that in a few days but I had to come back home to narrate a piece for The Sir John Soane’s Museum. I had to tell people about their quite wonderful collection of chimneypieces. But more about that later. I’ll be there within minutes.’

And with that, he hung up. I love the man dearly but, to be honest, he wouldn’t have been the person I’d have asked to come help me out of the bath. Yet if brains were brawn, he’d be the first. Chimneypieces, indeed!

Half an hour later, I was woken from the early stages of hypothermia by the sound of a large shoulder impacting multiple times upon the front door. Then there was the noise of lanky legs ascending stairs before the bathroom door was flung open and Fry marched in.

‘Thank god!’ I cried, fearing that my body couldn’t stand much more shrivelling.

‘Not God, but close,’ he said. ‘’Tis I, Fry, in your bathroom!’

‘You have to get me out,’ I said. ‘I’m freezing, my legs are completely dead, and my body has absorbed so much water that I’m now wedged tight beneath the waterline…’

He untied his cape and threw it dramatically to one side as he came forward to grab hold of me.

‘Poor Richard,’ he said. ‘Throughout this adventure I shall refer to you as “Thora”, as though I were the playwright Mr. Bennett and this were a drama fit for the great Dame Hird herself. Old Lady in Bathtub.’ He let me slip as he stood up and pulled a notebook from his pocket before jotting down the idea. ‘The scenes almost write themselves,’ he said with evident glee.

‘Just pull me out,’ I pleaded, giving him both my hands.

After two minutes of struggle, I fell through his grasp for the dozenth time and Fry stood and leaned against the wall.

‘Who’d have thought you could be so terribly slippy when naked and wet?’ he said. ‘This is impossible. I need help.’

‘Well, if you must, go get Palin,’ I said. ‘He’s only a few doors up the road.’

Not an ideal solution, I suppose, but there you have it when ‘needs must’.

Fifteen minutes later, Palin walks in, still dressed in a dressing gown he’d clearly bought in Afghan bazaar. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘Looks like you’ve got yourself in a bit of a lather.’

‘Oh dear,’ groaned Stephen. ‘Well past midnight and the older generation of comedian still insists on punning. I can tell you, Dick, he’s been working on that one all the way here.’

‘Comedy legend,’ said Michael with a wink as he came and peered into the murky water. ‘Somebody dropped the soap or is that the natural colour of a well washed Madeley?’

‘I wish you’d hurry up and get me out of here,’ I said, feeling not a little embarrassed by my nakedness. I was only glad the water was opaque with the soap.

‘Stephen, you get his legs and I’ll take his arms,’ said Michael. ‘And I’d advise you to not look towards the middle. That is only fit for fair maidens called Judy.’

They huffed and puffed for a good few minutes before Palin fell back and sat down on the toilet. ‘He’s not going to shift,’ he gasped. ‘I tell you what… Why don’t we empty the water first?’

‘No way,’ I said. ‘I’m already cold enough and I’m not exposing myself to you two.’

‘There’s nothing down there we’ve not seen a hundred times,’ said Palin.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Well, those trousers you wear on the show,’ he said. ‘They don’t leave much to the imagination when you go spreading your legs for the ladies.’

I resented his implication and told him as much. ‘I can’t help but sit the way I feel most comfortable.’

‘Hush, you two,’ said Stephen. ‘We don’t need to empty the water at all. We just need an extra set of hands.’

‘We could always ask David,’ suggested Michael.

‘Not Dickinson,’ I said, drawing the line. ‘It’s bad enough that I’ve seen his groin at close distance. I don’t want him seeing mine. There’s a good likelihood that he’d flick it with his nail and call it a bad 1960s reproduction.’

‘Well you must have another neighbour,’ said Stephen. ‘Is there anybody close by who you don’t mind asking for help?’

I thought a few moments. ‘If it weren’t an emergency, I’d never suggest this,’ I said. ‘But you could always go and ask Corbett.’

Stephen looked towards Michael. Michael looked towards Stephen. Finally Stephen spoke.

‘Matthew or Ronnie?’

‘Ronnie, of course. And before you say anything, the man is stronger than he looks.’

‘I’ll go get him,’ sighed Michael. At the door he turned to look at me. ‘Are you sure this is the only option?’

I would have shrugged by even my shoulders were beginning to suffer water damage.

By the time Michael returned with little Ronnie Corbett, Stephen had finished lecturing me on the delights of the Sir John Soames museum’s collection of rare pickle jars and I, in my desperation, had almost found it interesting.

‘Anybody in?’ asked Ronnie, sticking his head around the door. ‘Ah, Richard! How good to see you. No, don’t get up. Ah ha! No, seriously. I’ve not seen a flesh that white since my wife cooked turkey last Christmas. I’m not saying it was underdone but it did help us unwrap the presents. Ah ha! No, come on. We have to get you out of there. My wife doesn’t like me being out at night. She thinks I might be mistaken for a peeping tom. No, honestly. My wife is a terrible worrier. She went to the doctor with an irritable wart. He told her that is she didn’t like it, she shouldn’t have married me. Oh no. Actually, I’m being unfair. My wife is very loving. She wanted me to take her ballroom dancing. I said fine, I’d do that so long as she took an interest in my golf. After two weeks she told me that she thought our foxtrot was fine but our tango would be better if I stopped shouting “fore” and if left my nine iron in the car.’

‘Ronnie?’

‘With you in a moment, Dicky. Actually. I’ll let you know that I’m a very accomplished dancer. I look very good in tails. I’m often being mistaken for a bridegroom. I’ve been stuck on so many wedding cakes, my toes have got frosting damage. Ah ha! No. Seriously…’

‘Ronnie?’ I said again this time splashing some water his way. ‘Ronnie, please?’

‘Oh, of course. Don’t know what I was thinking. How did you managed to get stuck in there, Dick? As the bishop said to the actress. Ah ha! Have I told you the one about the pygmy and the slipper salesman?’

Fry groaned. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the legs if Ronnie you can take one arm and Michael get his middle.’

‘I’m not touching that,’ said Michael. ‘This gown is real Afghan.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Ronnie, rolling up the tartan sleeves to his own dressing gown. ‘As they say, if you have a man by his balls, his legs and arms will follow.’

What more need I say? Ronnie was right. They had soon dragged me from the bath and wrapped me in a bathrobe before placing me warming before the fireplace.

‘I can’t thank you all enough,’ I said to my friends as they sat with me and helped drained my drinks cabinet. ‘I honestly thought I was a goner there. History would have Jimmi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and me. Three famous bathtub corpses.’

‘Shush, Richard,’ smiled Stephen. ‘There are many more miles left in you.’

‘Indeed,’ added Michael. ‘You don’t think Dickinson would let you go anywhere until you’ve finished scrubbing his groin?’

Ronnie laughed. ‘Poor David’s groin! It reminds me of this story about a bank manager from Congleton and a goat with extremely large udders…’

‘I’m sure it does,’ I muttered but Ronnie couldn’t be stopped. The last thing I remember fore falling asleep is the sound of Stephen Fry chortling softly over a punchline involving cold fingers.