The Living Dead

You’ve got to feel some sympathy for John Darwin, the old bloke who pretended to disappear in his canoe and has now returned years later, up the Panama Creek without a paddle, to enjoy a large life insurance payoff with his missus. Learning that really bad mistakes have to be paid for, he’s now living to regret his heinous, outrageous crime of marrying her in the first place.

I know just how he feels as I am a world renowned expert in pretend memory loss. I practise every time I’m asked to "do a Tesco" or empty our dishwasher, and believe me I know it’s not easy to carry off. I am not, of course, saying that disappearing for six years, breaking the law and convincing the police, insurance company and your sons that you are dead is comparable to me having selective memory at home. Of course not. Convincing Debbie is infinitely more difficult.

But Darwin the Dumpling made me think of how useful proper, kosher, memory loss could be. I’m not just thinking of short term memory loss like Team England forgetting how to play football, or Gaby Logan’s hairdresser forgetting every style other than the "Jimmy Savile". I mean really, really forgetting everything that’s happened since 2001 when John disappeared. What a great asset that would be.

There’d be no 9/11, no Tsunami, New Orleans flooding or British soldiers getting Talibanned, and on the poor, defenceless animal front, no Dolly the sheep, no Foot and Mouth and no Jade Goody.

Angus Deayton and John Leslie would still have jobs and we’d believe George Harrison was still with us along with Barry White, Ray Charles, Luther Vandross and The Who bassist John Entwhistle who I had an al fresco dinner with once in Jamaica. He was a very lovely, humble man, but deafer than a deaf post with tinnitus.

I would linger ecstatically over Krispy Crème doughnuts for the first time all over again, become delirious rather than blasé about Thornton’s Alpini chocolates and experience the full, life affirming knowledge that I’m not the most porked up, flabby, uncoordinated git in the world when seeing Dr Fox’s debut on Dancing On Ice.

However, it strikes me there could be a downside to this memory loss too as we wouldn’t have had the enjoyment of television’s Life On Mars, the revival of Doctor Who, the hilarity of John Prescott or the unmitigated fun of Jeffrey Archer going to prison.
I must remember to think about this a bit more.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Another day, another survey, this one claiming to know how long, on average, people take from first meeting to actually er, how shall I put this, getting intimate and jiggy with it.
Sadly we don’t know how long it takes for regret to set in afterwards but we do know that it now takes 777 hours and 17 minutes - roughly 32 days – after first bumping in to your charming prince or princess to then get the kit off, play away and hit the back of the net. I think the odd seventeen minutes is spent texting your friends to boast about it.

It does strike me, however, that thirty two days seems a very long time till congress in our supposedly promiscuous times until you remember that this survey takes in every type of singleton, from the abstinence promoting Anne Widdicombe and Morrisey at one end of the chastity spectrum through to Jodie Marsh at the other. A recent, make believe, survey in my head said no one would be surprised if Marsh admitted to 777 lovers in 17 minutes every day for the last 32 days.

Apparently her gynaecologist has just retired through exhaustion and burn out. He’s twenty three.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was filming on Monday and the TV station’s editor in chief was anxious for us to finish early; not because the light was fading but because, lucky sod, he had a ticket to see Led Zeppelin’s reunion gig.

Everyone seems to be getting back together and making loads of money. Take That, The Police, Boyzone, Spice Girls and Backstreet Boys are just some who are getting wealthy all over again, so I’ve hit on an idea to make us all some money. But I need some backers.

I thought I’d trawl the best of bands who haven’t yet got back together, put them on tour, and clean up. Already I’ve had promises from The Wurzels, Renee and Renato, Black Lace, The Scaffold and St Winifred’s School Choir. I’ve even talked Bobby Crush in to compering the show.

I think I’ll clear up. Want to invest?