I’ll be honest, I shit my pants big time. Little did I know that in less than 24 hours I would be dancing naked on top of Lorraine Kelly’s bedside table shouting “I’m a big girth banana, come play with me you massive Scottish twat whore”.
Gordon the Gopher, despite being recognised by millions all over the UK as a fluffy, loveable hand puppet, had in fact forged a fierce reputation within the industry for psychotic violence. His criminal underground empire of extortion, terror and slightly off milk, had long wreaked havoc within British television.
“Dickie! Come in and sit down you lanky-haired cock swabbler!”
His office was newly decorated; lavished with unnecessary furnishings from Argos. The centre-piece was a rather ostentatious My Little Pony desk from which he sat behind, perched on the arm of his ever-silent human puppeteer, Ian.
“I’ve got a Job for you Madeley” Gordon the Gopher’s fake plastic eyeballs bore into mine whilst I squirmed in my seat and my bowels began their merry dance. “I need you to seduce that Scottish bint Lorraine Kelly. Work your pretty boy magic. Get her on our side.” He paused for thought. “You are on our side aren’t you Richard?”
“Yes, of course Mr Gopher Sir.” I let out a little fart. One of those warm ones that spells danger.
“You see, we need to convince her that her rogue ways are not accepted in the British light entertainment industry”
“Convince her?” My reply was echoed by more gas being passed.
“Yes. Sex her up. With your penis. Or face.”
Now, when TV Times Magazine voted me Best Daytime Television Presenter 1994, they did so not only because of my amazing talent and skill, but also because of the moral integrity with which I hold. I was suddenly faced with an unacceptable proposition. I was no one’s puppet.
“No. I’m afraid I can’t, I…” The look on Gordon’s polyester face told me I should stop talking. This, I’m afraid to say, is when I shat my pants.
Gordon clicked Ian’s fingers. Suddenly the Mitchell brothers, Ross Kemp and Steve McFadden, burst through the door and pinned me to the chair, simultaneously calling me a ‘slag’ repeatedly over and over: “Slag, slag, slag, slag, slag, slag, slag…” Their regional accents and lack of acting acumen stunned me, leaving me powerless. The door burst open again as TV Chef Ainsley Harriott hurricaned into the room screaming “Percy Pepper! Percy Pepper!” His matching chef whites and glorious teeth blinded me as he sharpened his kitchen knives.
The Gopher, with the help of Ian, leaned in closer: “Now then Dickie, I don’t need any more mess, but Ainsley here is desperate to show what he can rustle up for five quid”.
As I looked on, shitting my pants profusely, my mind comforted itself with the thought of Judy and her massive supple breasts. I feared that I would perish and never smell the rotting corpse of her sweat-filled vagina again. That my kids would grow up without a father as handsome as me. That my real daughter Chloe, the fit one, would go off the rails and do something devastating like marry a rugby player or something. Then I thought about Ant & Dec; all the hatred, all the arguments and, most importantly, that kiss. Was upholding the morals of my morals really worth dying for? Besides I’ve always wanted to know what Lorraine Kelly’s growler looked like.
“I’ll do it!” I bellowed out in my most handsome voice. But its sheer brilliance was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was John Leslie.
Follow me on Instagram & Facebook for more fun and gig updates
All characters and events in this piece – even those based on real people – are entirely fictional. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The Alfie Evers Brain Sale 