Me and Richard Madeley…

Now you all know that I’m not one to blow my own trumpet. Well not much anyway. O.k. A quick toot now and then perhaps.

Pardon? Oh! A full blown overture, you reckon! Have it your way.

Anyway, come over here and listen, I don’t want to shout it too loud, come on, hurry up, you’ll like this…

Ready?

O.k.

Sitting comfortably?

You sure?

Hold up, I’m coming to it, don’t get shirty!

It’s just that I’m excited.

Yes, again!

Remember Siri?

Yes, the computer voice whose real person, Susan Bennett was following me on Twitter, that’s the one. Glad you’ve been reading my previous blogs.

And John Gilstrap? Best selling author. Yeah, remember now? I blogged that he was following little old me too.

Well I’ve gone one better.

I have, honest.

No. This one’s not following me on Twitter actually. Nor Facebook, no.

No, he’s not following me on any sodding social media platforms! Just calm down and let me tell you for heaven’s sake!

It’s, erm, you ready? I know, I know, but I’m just so thrilled! It’s – Richard Madeley!

There, I said it.

Yes, THE Richard Madeley. The one from Richard and Judy.

No, I’m sure! It’s not just ‘some bloke with the same name.’

I must say you’re not very trusting.

You what? Oh, how do I know him.

Let’s just say that we’re virtually neighbours.

I’m at 21

He’s at 19

Honest!

We’re like ‘that’, me and Rich!

Both writers, see.

Same age.

He’s married.

I’m about to be.

I’m so good looking.

He’s well, let’s be generous, he’s passable.

So much in common.

Yes, I take your point. He’s successful, I’m not, but hey; you never know, do you?

Well no, we’re not in the same street exactly. I live in a mobile home after all.

My mate Richard wouldn’t, now would he. I bet he’s got a very nice place somewhere.

What?

‘How are we neighbours then?’ I was just coming to that.

Well it’s a podcast.

Thanks to Paul Teague for the interview by the way.

I’m episode 21.

He was episode 19.

Well I’m sorry you find that revelation a tad disappointing.

I thought it was something to write home about…

What?

No I don’t know who’s on episode 20.

Hang on I’ll have a look.

Here we go.

A former journalist. Leila Dewji. Now she’s offering consultancy services to self published authors.

Well yes, as you say perhaps I could benefit from something like that.

Doubt I’d use her though.

She is excellent. I listened to Paul interviewing her a short while ago.

Very informative, extremely interesting.

But can you imagine. ‘Oooh! I’m next door to Richard Madeley.’ every few minutes.

It would be unbearable, wouldn’t it?

Can’t stomach those name dropping self-promoters, can you?

But – back to my new bestest mate…

No, he hasn’t asked me onto his show, but once again you never know…

What? Oh, you were asking about the podcast show?

Sorry, for a moment there I thought you were expecting to see me on t.v.

The very thought!

Actually, now you’ve said it…

And I was on Radio WM the other day…

Anyway it’s http://www.self-publishing-journeys.com

My episode is out on Monday 25th of July if you want to listen.

Richard’s is already available.

It’s very well worth listening to.

But I would say that, wouldn’t I?

Now he’s a mate.

…I wonder if he’s read DOGNAPPED!? I bet he has. Probably reads it to Judy in bed. I hope she enjoyed it, I mean people do tell me it’s very good, but you never know for sure, do you?

Anyway, if he hasn’t here’s a link so he can get it – https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dognapped-David-J-Robertson

Wonder if he’ll leave me a review on Amazon too?

Sexual Healing!

Now you probably know this, but I’ll tell you again anyway. Two years ago –  two years next month in fact – I had a bit of a brush with the grim reaper. Not wishing to shuffle off this mortal coil as Kate and I had only just met, I politely declined his offer to join him on some other journey. He was a bit miffed. Apparently his mate had already started stoking the fire especially for my arrival, but hey, we can’t always get what we want. I hope he hadn’t sharpened his scythe specially!

Anyway that’s enough of that nonsense.

Except.

I changed my phone some time back. The the descendant of the mobile I swore that I would never own all those years ago was discarded in favour of an iPhone.

Yes, I sold my soul for an Apple.

No more android crap for me, mate!

And somewhere I read that you could get an app upon which you could place any relevant medical information.

In case of an emergency.

‘Damn useful that,‘ I thought, having had a couple of late night trips to the local emergency department in the intervening period, ‘I’ll get that!‘

So I did.

Get it, that is.

After all, what better thing to have if you keel over unconscious in the street – who said, ‘Again!‘ There’s no need, really! The beer was off! I keep telling you!

So. My reasoning was that up would roll the paramedics, scoop me up, shovel me into the back of their garishly painted meat wagon and rifle though my pockets, where perchance they might stumble upon the aforementioned tiny instrument.

Sorry? You what?

Mobile phone, madam, mobile phone!

‘Ahh!‘ they would exclaim in wonder, ‘This fine chap has had a 4XCABG!‘
and then…

What? No I haven’t been attacked by a quartet of angry vegetables, madam, it is merely a summary of my condition.

My still beating heart was plucked from my chest, re-plumbed and thrust back in again. Quadruple Coronary Artery Bypass Graft. They’d know that see, them paramedics and I’d be sorted in no time. Job’s a good ‘un.

 

And that’s how I left it.

Until.

One day I got a bit bored and fiddled with it.

The phone, I mean!

And I opened the health app to see what else it would do.

It measures how far you walked today.

Impressive.

How many flights of stairs you have climbed.

Just in case you ever wanted to know.

It counts calories in your food. If of course you could be arsed to enter the relevant information.

Oh hold on, what’s this?

Sexual activity.

WTF!!!?

How the hell does that work then?

I don’t know about you but when I’m engaging in ‘sexual activities,‘ there are unlikely to be pockets involved!

Was that you again, madam? ‘Pink fluffy handcuffs’ indeed! Tsk!

So where’s the bloody phone during these shenanigans?

What do you do with the damn thing!?

What could you possibly strap it to?

Careful now!

I’m broadminded enough to know that there are some knobbly battery operated devices on the market these days, but surely that’s a little excessive!

And what if it rang!?

Mid stroke!

That’s going to be an interesting conversation – from one end of the line anyway!

And what the bloody hell is it measuring!?

Ins?

Outs?

Gallons? (Sorry, litres – we’re not out of the EU yet!) Oh, all right then, micro litres – have it your way!

Can it somehow count the number of little swimmers?

Is the internal microphone listening for the crucial moment?

And can it tell the real thing from a faked moan?

 

In all honesty I don’t know.

Frankly I don’t want to know!

Reassuringly the screen reported that my phone had ‘NO DATA.‘

Thank the Lord for small mercies.

 

Hang on though!

If I don’t know how it collects the data, how do I know that it’s not actually working?

Perhaps it knows all of our boudoir secrets.

Perhaps we’re not doing ‘it’ enough.

Perhaps it thinks that I’m not very good at ‘it.’

Well you have to wonder!

 

That’s probably why one night I was heard to shout, as I rattled through the oddments drawer –

‘Kate, Kate, what happened to that ball of string and that bungee rope I had the other day? And are you any good at knots – if I put my finger on it?‘

There’s this job see…

I was out when they phoned the first time.

They left a message on the answer phone apparently.

As usual I never listened to it.

Well you don’t do you? It’s usually PPI, or double glazing, or that bloke from Sky I’m having a row with – still!

Then someone called round.

With a friend.

The neighbour told them I’d gone into town. He said they seemed a bit put out even though he’d said that he thought that I wouldn’t be long.

In fact, he told me later that he thought he’d heard one of them mutter, ‘bollocks!‘ under his breath.

I got a couple of texts on the mobile. ‘Ring! Urgently!‘ they said. But my battery was nearly flat so I put it off.

Unfortunately the emails they sent went straight to ‘junk‘. I never look in there – do you?

Then they phoned again.

Kate answered.

‘He’ll be round the pub I guess,‘ she told them.

‘Which one?‘

She guessed wrong.

I wasn’t in the Hinksford Arms for once. I was in the Navi. So unfortunately they missed me again.

Eventually though they caught up with me.

Law of averages I suppose.

‘No!‘ I told them.

‘Please,‘ they said, ‘we asked nicely.‘

And I must agree that they had. Asked nicely that is.

‘No, sorry.‘ I was not quite so curt in my second response. A civil question deserves a civil answer I feel, unless of course you’re that bloke from Sky. He knows what he can do – I’ve told him!

‘Why not?‘ they seemed a bit desperate now. ‘It’s a good job. You’ll make loads of new friends. Foreign travel. All expenses paid. All the best hotels.‘

Well for a split second I have to admit that I was tempted.

‘Are you sure?‘ I asked, ‘why me?‘

‘Because we’ve asked everyone else!‘ they told me.

I sucked it up and held my temper, ‘So I’m the last?‘ I queried.

I just wanted to be sure.

‘Well, yes,‘ they hesitantly replied. I think they recognised that they may have painted themselves into a bit of a corner.

‘In that case, you know exactly what you can do!‘ I couldn’t help it. It was like a dam had burst. The tirade that I unleashed on them lasted a good five minutes at least.

They stood looking forlornly at the ground as I vented my spleen.

‘Out of everyone,‘ I raged, ‘you asked me sodding last!‘

‘Well you were out most of the time,‘ said one, ‘what could we do apart from keep knocking door to door?‘

The shoulders of the other were quivering. I think he was crying.

‘But everybody!?‘ I was incandescent.

‘Well there was a tramp in Essex that we couldn’t find either.‘

Frankly that didn’t make things any better.

‘Where are you from,‘ I asked eventually.

‘Conservative Central Office,‘ replied the cry baby. ‘Gove has screwed Boris over and frankly we don’t want May to have it.‘

‘We were going to ask Jezza in desperation,‘ the other told me, ‘but he has even less in his cabinet than the England football team.‘

The other one started to cry again. Apparently he’d seen the Iceland game too!

But now I’m feeling guilty.

You know what I’m like.

It’s probably partly our fault anyway.

And so I will ask just one final time on their behalf.

DOES NO ONE WANT TO RUN THIS BLOODY COUNTRY!?