The Princess Bride

I love that film.

I Love Richard Madeley

Hugely exhausted tonight but I have time for a quick 'shoutout' to the person who came to the Appreciation Society by typing the phrase 'I love Richard Madeley' into Google.

Hey! Love you too, sweetheart. And just for you, I'm putting on my Bagpuss hat...

Pah!

I thought I might blog today but I'm in Manchester, questioning the vagaries of existence, and with no great insights other than to say that even a pair of cotton chinos can't make some men happy. Why are some of us born to achieve greatness and other end up sitting outside Manchester Town Hall feeding the pigeons? Looking back on my week of blogging, I counted up the many hours it took me and wondered 'what for?' I had fun but to what end? Where's the new series on Channel 4? What's happening with my books?

I'll see you all some other time. I'm here with the pigeons until 4.30.

My Letter to The Sun

Sent to: letters@the-sun.co.uk
11th August 2009

Dear The Sun,

As much as I am reluctant to respond to yet another of your salacious stories, I feel obliged to reply to the article published under the heading: ‘Madeley: I hate wearing knickers’ (08/08/09).

You do not make it clear in the headline that you were referring to Chloe Madeley not Dick Madeley, the famous blogger, Twitter hero, and Norfolk's newly crowned balloon bending champion. As a consequence, I have been caused considerable embarrassment with no fewer than three people coming up to me in the street and asking me why I don’t enjoy the sensual touch of women’s underwear against my skin.

You probably think it an overreaction to write to you like this but I have a reputation to maintain. To that end, I think it only right to make it clear to your readers where I stand on the matter of women’s underwear. To be perfectly honest, I have no particular dislike for the silken hot pant, the miniaturised thong, or the well gusseted girdle. They each have the use, their time and their place. However, let it be known that I am among the legion of men in this country who like to go as nature intended: sans underpant. I live life on the edge, with only my pair of highly fashionable stretch nylon slacks to protect my modesty.

Yours, securely zipped away,

Dick Madeley
The Nation’s Favourite Uncle
------------------------------------------------------
The Richard Madeley Appreciation Society
http://www.richard-madeley.com

Too Much Blogging...

There are some days when I just feel like giving up. They are usually Tuesdays.

My Apology to Mr. Peter Andre

There has been some confusion in the media about my relationship with Peter Andre. This may have been exacerbated by my recent Twitter comments directed toward Pete, such as ‘Thinking of you at this difficult time. In fact, I wake up screaming most nights, wondering if the new single is out yet’.

Comments such as this (there have been 42 since I started to Twitter) have led people to wrongly believe that I’m not a fan of the man. This can’t be further from the truth. Admittedly, I have tried to encourage his fans to move on to Tom Waits, Leonard Cohen, Nick Cave, Neil Young, Lou Reed, The Velvet Underground, Kris Kristofferson, Johnny Cash, Sparks, CSN&Y, Patti Smith, and Bob Dylan, but this doesn’t mean I haven’t got room in my life for Mr. Peter Andre.

As a way of finding closure, I contacted Pete’s management and we’re delighted to announce the forthcoming collaboration. He agreed to make the record only if we could donate all the proceeds to charity. Pete is giving his half to Unicef but I’ve written a promissory note to West Norfolk's Home For the Mentally Insania. They do good work with people driven witless by the incessant ‘groove’ of dance records. They also help people who have listened to too many high pitched whining ballads about ‘missing you’ leaving their sentimental side to run rampant through their psychology.

So, when you’re out buying my new ’12 Love Songs & A Sea Shanty’, why not pick up ‘Lovin’ You In Woollens’? Not only will it help heal the rift in my relationship with Pete but you’ll have an additional deterrent to keep the squirrels away.

Uncle Dick's Guide to Mail Order Heaven

In a break from the usual Monday night fare, I thought I’d review some of the purchases I’ve recently made from the catalogues that fall out of the Sunday papers. As you probably know, I’m a man who enjoys a bargain and I think these are some of the best bargains to be had in the retail sector. Just don’t proceed any further if you don't have the money to invest in the very best in high-end luxury goods.

What I most admire about the Polar Fleece Poncho is how it marries two different geographic themes in one stylish item. Not only is it the clothing of choice for your Antarctic or Arctic adventures, it will keep you looking trendy in South America, possibly Bolivia. And it now comes with a bonus continent, Australia, in the form of a pocket to keep your kangaroo safe. Is there anything the Polar Fleece Poncho can't do?

Many hours have been spent in the Madeley household looking for the perfect ornament for the coffee table but both Judy and I have finally agreed that this is so 'us'. But please take note: this is not a practical poker set. You can’t get many people around this table. We tried and four was a bit of a squeeze.

In some countries, this might be a source of amusement. But not here in the UK where every home has at least a two pump action shotguns. I would go so far as to say it's a necessity when you need to keep a scoped sniper rifle with silencer out of the reach of the children. Judy swears by it, as she also swears by her scoped sniper rifle with silencer.

This handy gun rack also comes with a 'full length drawer' for all your 'odds and sods'. We just use the drawer for unused ammunition, though it is big enough to hold some small anti-personnel mines if needed.

We must be thankful that the inventor of this great product looked at a blanket and thought: that blanket needs sleeves. Nothing now says comfort quite like a blanket with sleeves. Simply put: it's a design classic. Just think of the many things in life that could do with extra sleeves. I know I wait for the day when I can buy myself a good pair of sleeves that come with their own sleeves.

And what's amazing is that this blanket with sleeves fits all sizes! What an amazing bit of kit!

The next item caught my eye because, as you know, I'm one of the UK's biggest collectors of object d'art. When next you come around to visit, you must have a look at my equisite Victorian figurines, marble statues, modernist pottery, and my miniature samurai sword letter openers.

Please note the justified warning. These letter openers really are miniature samurai swords and are lethal in the hands of miniature samurai.

I often wake up in the morning and cringe because of my painful wrist. Thankfully, since I bought this wrist support, I can refer to the helpful arrow that quickly show me where it hurts.

Don’t let the description fool you. This long reach toilet paper holder has a thousand uses. Whatever the hard to reach place: this handle is sure to reach it. Just think of it as a back scratcher that can go the extra six inches.

Another design classic. The fur trim is a inspired touch but the eye is drawn to the central motif on this beautifully crafted seat cover. Created by one of the UK's most 'talented' artists, it is a stunning lifelike representation of a cross-eyed dog.


This catalogue is clearly aimed at the armed robber with the perfect kit to keep his gun clean. Don't forget to look down the barrel as you polish the trigger.

I've been into amateur butter cutting for many years but I see this as the opportunity to move into the big league. Some might say I'm arrogant but I think I'm ready to cut butter professionally. Why not join me?

We once to have a dog that was into 'self warming' but we had to get rid of it because it was making a mess of my trousers. Now Judy just keeps terrapins. However, now we’ve got this thermal mattress, we can keep her terrapins warm all day long without resorting to the Defrost setting on the microwave.

Finally, do you need ask what drew me to the Invisible Sheep Urinal? Having been plagued by invisible sheep for many years, I was delighted to find that somebody was finally addressing the bladder-control issues they cause. You have to hand it to the inventors. It 'allows full social, business, and sporting activities'. Personally, there's nothing that gives me more satisfaction than relieving myself during a business meeting or when I’m on the golf course with friends. If only I'd had one of these when I was dating! Nothing is bound to impress a woman than a man who takes his bladder so seriously that he has one strapped to his leg.

However, if I have one concern, it's that bit about it being 'virtually undetectable'. Surely that means it's detectable and I'm not sure if I could allow myself to relax at some semi-formal engagement, perhaps an awards ceremony, knowing that any invisible sheep could tell that I was passing water. It's most off-putting. I doubt if I could 'go' under those circumstances. Even if it was only the BAFTAs.

The Independent on Sunday

I don’t want to detract from the piece I've published below but I must express my thanks to 'The Independent on Sunday' who kindly reprinted part of my letter. If I were to be critical, I would ask why they edited me down. There can’t be many days they receive an email like mine. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I start to feel outraged that they took out all the best bits. I'm disgusted. I really am! In fact, I've got a good mind to write them a letter...

A Russian Tale

Amid the creped curtains, voile panels, and tumbled sheets of the dim bedroom lay the body of Richard Madelesky, the famous poet, lover, and orthodox onion impresario. His lithe form arced gracefully once as he scratched himself awake. Then, further roused by the sound of the day, he rolled over on the mattress and opened one eye. The letter’s edge smiled at him from the adjacent pillow.

‘What is this?’ he said aloud as he took the crisp parchment between his fingers and turned it carefully around. ‘Oh you fool! You wretch! You scoundrel! Surely, it is only a note from my dear wife, Judi. That is all. No need to sound the alarm. Dear me! What would she say if she heard you talking to yourself naked and alone in the bedroom?’

With excited fingers, he pulled apart the folded sheet and read the few words written there in the hand of his one and only: ‘The world would be happier if men had the same capacity to be silent that they have to speak.’

A faint terror gripped Madelesky as he recognised the quotation from Spinoza. He swung his legs from the bed and stood, wondering if the message could really be from his wife. They had been married many years and, in all that time, never once had she left a letter upon his pillow quoting Spinoza.

A minute passed and then two. His mind raced. What could the letter mean? At this point he resolved to ring his old friend, Bill Oddieski, who had once advised him in the matter of V. Singletoni’s turnip whisky. Surely he would know what to make of the message.

The phone rang five times before the bearded voice answered. ‘The Oddieski residence.’

‘Bill, it is your old friend, Richard Madelesky. I fear some terrible thing has happened!’

‘Ah! This is not the story of the geese that have already migrated to Nova Scotia? Just last week I paid 75 roubles for geese pellets and now the geese are gone!’

‘Ah, you blockheaded dunder!’ cried Madelesky. ‘Does the whole world revolve around your geese? I have just woken in my bed to find a note on my pillow. It is written in Judi’s hand.’

‘Then what did this paper say?’ asked Oddieski. ‘For I know what kind of man you are: always fearing what is not there. You are like the Snowy Owl who hides at the slightest creak of the barn door blown by the first gusts of autumn.’

Madelesky read the note aloud to his friend who tutted his disapproval.

‘I’m afraid I cannot help you,’ said the old owl warden and amateur spoon musician. ‘Your wife, Judi, is playing tricks with you, my friend. I want no part of it. Do not call this number again.’

‘But Bill,’ cried Madelesky, his hands shaking as he held onto the telephone, ‘I fear this is some omen. I am a wretch. Oh, how my life is ruined! I must have said something out of place.’

‘All men say things they live to regret,’ replied Oddieski. ‘The hardest thing is to work out what it is you have said and to make things right. Now goodbye. I must go. My tufted grebes are calling me.’

The phone clicked and Madelsky stood motionless for a moment before throwing the receiver to the bed. What did his wife mean by this cryptic message? He could bear it no longer. In a matter of minutes, the curtains were open and Madelsky stood in his finest Sunday suit; the elbow patches worn by many a dry sermon, the knees thin from unanswered prayer, and the jacket pockets gummed with broken fragments of the fruit sherbets that had once given much fizz to his faltering faith.

On the landing, he paused to listen to the sounds of the old house. A radio played somewhere and he suspected his wife was in the kitchen.

‘What am I to do?’ thought Madelsky. ‘Has Judi grown so tired of my bed that she seeks the words of Spinoza?’ He crept slowly down to the kitchen door and opened it slowly. He had intended to spy upon his wife in order to judge her mood but, seeing her with her head stuck in the oven, he burst into the kitchen and supplicated himself upon his knees, on her linoleum still smelling of Cillit Bang.

‘Oh, Judi, you have left this piece of paper upon my pillow and it has given me grave concerns,’ cried Madelsky. ‘Take your head from that electric oven and tell me what’s wrong. You have so much to live for.’

His wife lifted her head from the oven, where she had been admiring the smell of her newly baked squirrel meat buns. As she looked at him, her face tore up the sunlight. ‘Oh, Richard,’ she cried, a smile rippling her cheeks like it was a damask fabric. ‘That was not a note but the bookmark from Andy McNab’s “Immediate Action” that I finished reading last night.’

Madelsky crawled to the kitchen chair as he felt tears relieve him of his burden. ‘A bookmark? But I thought I had upset you with something I had said.’

‘Ah,’ replied his wife, ‘you have been reading too much Chekhov. Not all things have the significance of the small apparently insignificant objects you find in Russian literature. Here, have a squirrel bun...’

But Madelsky could not touch the bun. For there, burned into its light fluffy crust where the singed tail slightly poked through, he was sure he could see the face of a Snowy Owl. And he could not tell his wife that on his cheek, he thought he could feel the first draughts of autumn.

Just A Big Thank You...

... to all those who attended last night's London gig. The response to the material from '12 Love Songs & a Sea Shanty' was superb and it was an absolute pleasure to perform to such an appreciative audience. I also hope you enjoyed my twenty two minute version of the Grace Jones classic, 'Pull Up To The Bumper'. But do you want to know the funniest thing? When I came off stage and went to find my car, I discovered that somebody had actually pulled up to my bumper and I had to wait exactly twenty two minutes before I could get out.

I'm hoping to perform at Castle Donington next month with more tour dates available soon.

12 Love Songs & A Sea Shanty

As you all know, for the past year, I’ve been travelling up to Manchester at least two days a week. What you didn’t know was that I’ve actually been recording my debut album. Well, the time have now arrived and I’m finally delighted to announce that ’12 Love Songs & A Sea Shanty’ is released today and is available from all good record stores (though, sadly, not yet available via iTunes). Promotional work for the album will take up much of my time for the next few weeks but, with your help, I think we might be able to chart this sucker. I’m aiming for a top five place.

I just want to take a moment to thank the people involved in the project. I’m very proud of the result of all their hard work. Naturally, I want to thank Judy, who kindly provided a trombone solo to ‘Sweet Girl of Mine’, but my main thanks must go to Jim Sharman up at Rochester Studios in Manchester for all the work he put into producing the album. Though we disagreed on a few points (sorry Jim but I think the sea shanty had to stay), he was always supportive. Vic Neal provided engineering and helped make the record what it is. I would also like to thank all my management company for keeping this news from the media.

Finally, I would like to thank all of you here on the blog and on Twitter who have been so supportive. I look forward to hearing what you think of the album.

Rock’n’roll!

Restautrant Review: Albert’s Shed, Manchester

My blogging activities are limited since I’m still in this strange corner of Manchester where the weather is sultry, the men dress as women, and everybody sports tribal tattoos. The office overlooks a drag club, a Turkish restaurant and a college which isn’t a college since it doesn’t have students, just a woman who spends her day stamping certificates. We’re not far from the pub known as ‘Paddy’s Goose’, which I noticed this morning is actually called ‘The Famous Paddy’s Goose’. I admire their bravado.

Yesterday was taken up with high level meetings and lunch at a restaurant called ‘Albert’s Shed’. Apparently, the shed used to belong to a man called Albert who used it to store his tools. He only moved out after they agreed to name the restaurant after him. I can’t help but feel that Albert got a raw deal. Not only did they renege on their agreement and name the restaurant after his shed but it was a shed bigger than most people’s homes. Air conditioned too. Albert should have managed his property portfolio more carefully, what with real estate prices in the fashionable Castlefield area of the city. He would now be living on the Med, having his shovels polished by supermodels.

The meal itself went well, beginning to with delicious shiitake mushrooms. The waitress must have heard the joke before. She didn’t react when I pronounced them ‘shit-ache’, which is closer to how they were written on the menu. I then made the mistake of ordering their ‘spiced pizza’, which I expected to be a slice of bread with a little topping. It was, in fact, a full pizza covered by red chillies (possibly the Dorset Naga). I spent the whole meal blubbering into my jug of iced water and seeing visions of Albert and his shovels.

Possibly the most interest part of the meal was the other customers: a large group of men wearing big collars and even bigger shades, pinstriped suits over bodies honed by months in the gym or prison yard. The person buying lunch looked over and muttered ‘no doubt they’re in property’. I wasn’t so sure. If an armoured car gets taken down in the next week, I can identify the suspects. They all ate ten ounce sirloin steaks at £16 a pop.

I will return to normal blogging activities over the weekend. Until then, I’ll simply sign off.

The Famous Dick Madeley.

Silly Film Titles

I’m away in Manchester for two days, so have some of my Twitter nonsense from last night. The theme was #welshfilms:

The League of Extraordinarily Hairy Gentlemen
FF for Vendetta
Whatever Happened To Baby Jones
The Lllllllllion King
The Ex-Coalminer’s Daugher
Buck Rogers in the Nineteenth Century
A Farewell to Rams
Austin Powys: Man of Mystery
Kung Fu Rhondda
Mad Max Boyce
The Silence of the Lambs Who Accepted The Out Of Court Settlement
Three Men And A Baby And A Pickaxe
Don’t Tell Mam That The Babysitter’s English
Hairy Potter And the Half-Blood Prince of Wales
Bridgend’s Too Far
Eisteddfod Scissorhands
The Bloody English Patient

And my personal favourite:

An American Werewolf in Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch

A Word From Our Sponsors...

The Fred Dinenage Appreciation Society

A quick note to the person(s) arriving here this afternoon, searching for the 'Fred Dinenage Appreciation Society': sorry to break it to you but I very much doubt if there is one. I've got nothing against Fred Dineage but he was yesterday's man. This blog is about today, men who have a strong connection with youth, talk their talk, walk their walk, and allow their trousers to hang loosely around their hips, revealing three inches of underpant (if I wore them).

Forgive me if I'm wrong, but that doesn't sound like Fred Dineage, even on a good day.

Dancing Monkeys!

I owe you all an explanation about the onion.

It's a truth of blogging that whenever you put effort into something, your rewards are minimal. I could have easily sat there for half an hour last night writing 2000 words about how my day was ruined by Judy's incessant wittering on about her latest Andy McNab. However, I knew there had to be an easier way. You, see, I'm beginning to understand blogging. I'm catching on. Post a picture of an onion, I thought. There are sure to be people out there who like onions. And I was right.

I was inspired by this thread, over at Thought Experiments. 34 comments and counting! It's enough to make a writer weep into their Salvation Army issue blanket.

It’s why I’ve decided to take a zero-effort approach to blogging. From now on, I’ll just be linking to videos of monkeys dancing.



See, how easy that was? Now to curl up on my flattened cardboard box and finish the last of this soup...

An Onion

Not So Easy Money

24 hours have now passed and my letter to 'The Independent' has still not recieved a reply. This is just so typical of journalists, happy to abuse a chap's Twitter account but haven't the decency to slip him a few thousand in the post for the distress they've caused.

But on the topic of hard earned money, I have to admit that my return to blogging has caused some debate on the Madeley/Finnigan ranch. Judy believes it's a pointless waste of time that only has a detrimental effect on the purse. 'Stick a donate button on the side!' is all she can say whenever I raise the subject of expanding my Appreciation Society. I blame Elberry who has gone the donation route and is now lighting cigars with twenty pound notes tucked into the garter belts of his thousand pound a night Bulgarian love midgets.

I suppose we're not alone in finding times tough. Judy's taste for leather bound contemporary hardbacks has given way to her reading a well thumbed copy of an Andy McNab she picked up at the local bring and buy. So when I noticed 'The Independent' had been taking my copyrighted material from Twitter and posting it in full, I thought this was the chance to make a few quid. God knows, I've given 'The News of the World' enough chance to tap my phone (passcode 423632).

What I suppose saddens me the most is that I only seem to get grief despite the great efforts I put into pleasing people. Whatever the opposite of 'needy': that's me. I'm a 'giver'. Such as the photos I sent out just the other week. Two kind letters of thanks: one from the UK and another from Spain. But what about the rest? I didn't hear a thing. But that's people, I suppose. Once they get the 4x10 glossy snap of you posing in your swimming trunks, they just don't want to know you...

Old Goats and Grey Squirrels

The following email is now on its way to 'The Independent'. I will publish their reply/apology should I receive one. [UPDATE, 10th August, 2009: They did print part of the letter, here.]

3rd August 2009
Re.: Old Goats and Grey Squirrels

Sir,

I am writing in response to the piece ‘Silly Old Goats Grow Old, Disgracefully’, which appeared in the 2nd August (Sunday) edition of your newspaper and cited my Twitter account.

On the 9th May 2009, I placed the following ad online: ‘EMPLOYMENT REQUIRED. Sexy man, experienced sofa operator, Ali G beard. Licensed squirrel catcher. Will travel for work but not to Belgium.’ I hardly expected to see this serious attempt to raise my public profile reprinted in your newspaper and used as the basis of a dastardly assault on my character. The piece was sour, spiteful, and poorly punctuated. My wife was in tears after she read it and vowed never to vote Independent again.

In these days of mass unemployment and a rampant grey squirrel population, I would have thought that any attempt to find work proactively would have been applauded and not used to categorise a man as a ‘silly old goat’. I suppose you think I should simply fade into obscurity like Lenny Bennett, Bernie Clifton, or Suzanne Charlton. Well, I’ve been told by some of the nation’s top publicists that I could become the next Adrian Chiles or Russell Brand, but with the advantage of speaking Estuary English and requiring very little public nudity.

I also saw, with some concern, that you listed my name alongside that of Silvio Berlusconi, who I consider a prince among men given that he has provided employment for many of Italy’s most impoverished young women with money from his own pocket. Similarly, you mock Jack Nicholson, asking: ‘Can there be anyone who doesn't feel repulsed by the pictures of Nicholson holidaying with his paunch?’ But, with respect, what would you expect the poor man to do? Abandon his stomach in a box? Bury it in the garden? Leave it in the park reading a newspaper?

This insult comes at a time when I have noted, with growing frustration, that ‘The Independent’ is trying to cater to a younger audience through garish colours, shorter sentences, and constant mention of Lily Allen. All populations are ageing (though you newspaper types do like to repeat that ridiculous cliché about ‘the ageing population’) but there are increasing numbers of men, like me, in the early throes of middle age. We are your core readership and you would be wise to cater to our interests rather than mock us. You could make up for this personal insult if you began to address issues of an interest to me and my kind, such as: thermal socks, sheds, Barnes Wallis, rambling, onion diets, Harris tweed, rotavator reviews, and (please!), less coverage of Graham Norton who wouldn’t know how to trap a squirrel if he had one up his trouser leg (and I’m not sure that he doesn’t).

Yours, in a state of some discomfort,

Dick Madeley
North London


---------------------------------------------------------
The Richard Madeley Appreciation Society
http://www.richard-madeley.com
http://www.twitter.com/richardmadeley

An Open Letter to Dave Barry

I was browsing my regular haunts yesterday when I came across this post on the blog belonging to Dave Barry, the American wit and all-round sharp needle.

Although I rarely leave comments on his site (rather too many Americans to make me feel at home), I found the contents of the post so utterly irresponsible that I fired off an immediate reply, which I am now following up by extending it to a letter, expressing my disappointment on behalf of all my fellow Dicks.

Dear Dave Barry,

As a proud Dick, I would like to express my disgust and outrage at the cheap joke made at the expense of Mr. Dick Pole, the pitching coach of the Chicago Reds. Although I’m English and don’t understand a thing about ‘pitching’ (it means something else here in North London and I could never see the need to coach teach what comes so naturally to young boys of a certain age), I’m certain that Dick Pole is good at his job and doesn’t deserve such ridicule. I am also sure that his friends and family would stand firmly beside Mr. Pole to show the world a united front against such cheap Dick shots.

How would you feel if we mocked your name? Here in London, it’s the highest insult to call somebody a ‘Dav’, but would I call you ‘Dav Barry’? No, of course I wouldn’t! It would only cause undue hurt to an American. Yet I wish people were equally sensitive to Dicks. People laugh at Dicks all the time and I can cite the example of Mr. Dick Spring, the former Irish politician, who had to suffer years of sniggering at his name. I also fondly remember Dr. Dick Shaft, a director of British Petroleum, and my good friend, Mr. Dick Drop, head of regional programming at BBC Radio Carlisle.

Are we really living in such unenlightened times that men called ‘Richard’ can’t have a familiar abbreviation? All Dicks face an unenviable choice. Do we bear the stigma of the shortened form of our name or do we append an ‘ie’ to become a ‘Dickie’? Though I respect Dickie Davies, Dickie Bird, and Dickie Attenborough, I’ve always believed that ‘Dickie’ is the coward’s way out. It’s fine if you want to be patronised as some doddering national treasure but I want to be taken seriously as a modern vigorous Dick.

So, in speaking out on behalf of all Dicks who have been mocked because of our name, I would ask you to think again should you feel tempted to smirk at the next Dick you spot. To be honest, I didn’t expect it of your normally excellent blog as I would have expected somebody in such a high profile position to stand up against the rampant scoffing of Dicks.

Yours,

Dick Madeley (Uncle)