And the award goes to…

Well, I have to admit that, from our rather shabby little table at the back of the auditorium, I was left nothing short of agog at this year's British So-Called-Comedy Awards. It's not what you do, it's who you know, innit? (I shall pause here, dear reader, and brew myself a peppermint and camomile before I splurt something unfortunate onto this blog.)

There – back now. Where was I? Oh yes – the risible BCAs. Oh dear, as I once said to Barry Chuckle as the boys were just starting out, Oh dear. I'm not saying that Clarkie doesn't deserve some sort of accolade (for perseverance, if nothing else) but did he once mention the inspiration for his most memorable character, the irascible old codger Compo? He did not, and I must say that by the end of his gut-wrenchingly gushing little homily I was beginning to wish I hadn't worn my Wellingtons and gardening Tweeds to the event.

Was that the nadir of the evening? I'm afraid not, and truth, the old leveller, must out. Two episodes, I'm afraid, drag the event down into the 'not comfortably remembered category' (where it will sit grimly alongside 'the incident with Tarby's dentures and the port-a-loo' and 'the day Ems found Ken's hairbrush in my back passage'). First, there was the minor scuffle with Roisin Conaty after Noel mistook her for Pamela Stephenson and demanded a Foxtrot – at least that's what it sounded like through the commotion that had engulfed them when the bearded one made his initial lunge. Second was my annoyance and discomfiture to find that Noel Fielding, in the single most hilarious moment of his otherwise wholly drab and unnecessarily overinflated comedy career, had filled my Wellingtons with a rather unpleasant concoction of liquid and semi-solid matter. It was only my quick thinking that left me able to walk out of the venue with a degree of dignity. The same, to my shame I must admit, cannot be said for Jimmy Cricket, last seen squelching his way rather forlornly out of the O2 towards Stratford tube station.

The patter of tiny feet…

The dust seems to have settled on the furore surrounding Elton and David's recent new arrival – in the media and world at large, at least. I wish that things were as settled here in the flat! Ever since the news broke, Noel and Biggins have been like broody hens, clucking around the place talking nothing but babies and nappies or, as Noel will insist, diapers.

Their application to a Romanian surrogacy service (via www.kids4u.ro/omi-polone) appears to be going well. They've had numerous emails from Mrs Pederfilov at the agency and have paid the prospective mother an advance on her expenses of £12,000. This, apparently, guarantees them three full cycles of fertilisation. The big issue now, if you'll forgive the pun, is whose sperm will be used to inaugurate this great miracle of life. After much to-ing and fro-ing it was finally decided that a mixture would be used to, if you'll pardon the expression, allow the best man to win.

So, when little Asperger/Cheryl/Anton/Kara/Artem (name tbc) finally boards the EasyJet from Bucharest, we shall be relying solely on the early development of familial attributes to identify its 'natural' parentage. Let's hope, dear reader, that the little blot does not arrive with a neatly trimmed goatee and 'tache…

Too much, too stupid…

So, the dangers of multi-tasking have finally been exposed, thanks to some ground-breaking investigative journalism from BBC Breakfast. Puts me in mind, somewhat, of an incident involving a long-standing client of mine. (There was a time when I could have called this person a 'friend', but these days – due to nothing more sinister than a misunderstanding over a jar of pickled onions - our relationship is entirely pecuniary.) Our short-lived but, for all its brevity, passionate friendship was yet to develop at the time of the incident I shall share with you here, so let me press on…

This chap, a rather well known sports performer of the footballing ilk who, for the sake of this story, we shall call David, came to me for some coaching in the art of stagecraft and enunciation following a period of prolonged and, I must say, reasonably justified ribbing doled out to the poor boy by certain sections of the popular press. I remember the first time we met. The man was such a gibbering, slobbering wreck that his wife at the time, a rather underfed former celebrity who, for the sake of this story, we shall call Victoria, had almost to carry the chap into my studio. Never one to stand idly by and watch a lady struggle, I sat down and poked my nose back into that week's copy of The Stage which, from memory, carried a rather entertaining article on Johnny Sessions' fall from grace due to what I shall refer to here simply as 'the curtain incident' following his appearance on the BBC's scrumptious and much missed Hotel Babylon (a tale to be recounted in more detail on another occasion, perhaps.)

After some time, the wifelette managed to arrange young David as best she could in my reindeer-skinned Paimio, making some comment as she did so about Ikea – to which I chose, to my credit I think, not to rise – before tottering off to what she charmingly referred to as 'the bathroom'. Whether she actually took a bath is anyone's guess, but her withdrawal was sufficiently well-timed and prolonged to enable me not only to diagnose David's issue, but to – and I use this claim in the firm knowledge that it is, to the best of my belief, wholly accurate – cure him immediately and entirely of his condition.

In a nutshell, and to cut a longish story down to size somewhat, the man was trying to do more than he could cope with. Not - and you will have to forgive me if this is the obvious conclusion to which my story telling to date has caused you to leap - juggling the demands of international sporting superstar, model, perfume salesman, sporting, national and cultural ambassador and part-time dancer. No – his problem was more fundamental than that. You see, the poor boy was trying to think and speak at the same time! And how, you may well ask, did I provide the bullet-proof cure I've already teased you by mentioning? Here's what I did – I simply asked him which of the two activities played to his strengths – talking or thinking. After a rather long pause, during which I almost convinced myself that he was answering my question with the power of thought alone, he mumbled 'Umm…tawkin…er…spose.' And that was it! 'Make yourself a talker, David' I instructed. Think if you must, but do so at your leisure, when all the talking is done and never, never attempt to do both at once. And do you know what? The dear boy simply hasn't looked back from that day to this.

To close the circle in a rather pleasing way, I believe that David has both a personal shopper and a personal texter. Most wise, dear boy – most wise.

New year, new blog....

...well, neither, actually, as I seem to have missed the boat on both. Still, you live and learn, don't you?