TUESDAY, JANUARY 28
The National Television Awards used to be one of my favourite nights out; a gloriously rowdy, drunken celebration of my industry with like-minded narcissists.
But I boycotted tonight’s show in protest at the absurd Groundhog Day pattern that’s been allowed to develop where the exact same people always win the exact same awards, regardless of whether they’ve had a good or bad 12 months.
Holly Willoughby and Phillip Schofield, beat Good Morning Britain to the daytime TV award at the NTAs, their tenth consecutive triumph
The nadir for me came last year when Ant McPartlin scooped his 18th consecutive Presenter of the Year title despite spending most of 2018 walking his dog after his drink-driving conviction.
This year, he and Dec won it yet again, for the 19th time.
In their acceptance speech, my old mates talked of the crippling annual anxiety they experience waiting to automatically receive their award.
‘It never gets easier,’ said Dec. ‘If anything, you feel more and more sick every year.’
Aww. Poor babies.
Trust me Mr Donnelly, your nausea pales into insignificance compared to the tidal wave of vomit that engulfs my intestines when I see you two trotting up on that stage every single bloody time!
Naturally, those other two hardy NTA gong perennials, Holly Willoughby and Phillip Schofield, beat Good Morning Britain to the daytime TV award, their tenth consecutive triumph. I’m not bitter, but they could be replaced with Madame Tussauds wax dummies and still win it.
On their show This Morning today, an 80-year-old grandmother stunned the nation by boasting of her sex romps with a 35-year-old Egyptian toyboy, saying they’d ‘used an entire tube of KY jelly’.
So, I sent Holly a message saying: ‘Hope you’ve stocked up with enough lube… to stick the NTA trophy where the sun don’t shine.’
‘That just made me laugh out loud,’ she replied. ‘If you were that funny on the telly you might win one!’
To compound my misery, Little Mix singer Jesy Nelson won an award for a documentary she made about nasty trolls… the same Ms Nelson who called me a ‘silly t***’ on Radio 1 and whose band screens a mocking video of me during their concerts as their audiences howl abuse.
Fortunately, host David Walliams brought joy to my otherwise tedious evening… by dying on his backside. The ego-crazed weirdo stripped half-naked to creepily crawl all over Ant and Dec, humiliated troubled Caroline Flack with unnecessarily hurtful cruelty, cracked a series of ‘jokes’ that bombed with excruciating awkwardness, and made the whole show about himself.
The train-wreck performance culminated in him inviting the crowd to call him a national treasure – only to be met with virtual silence.
As Barry Cryer once said of Walliams: ‘He’s the modern-day Florence Foster Jenkins. Everyone around him has been telling him he’s funny… but let’s be fair, he’s a good swimmer.’
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 29
‘You gotta love livin’ baby,’ said Frank Sinatra, ‘cause dyin’ is a pain in the a**.’
I thought of this quote recently when a great old village mate of mine, Wayne Thomas, died from cancer aged just 53.
Wayne, with whom I partied so hard in my youth it’s a miracle either of us made it out of our teens, loved his life, and everyone loved him in their lives, which is why the local paper ran an obituary photo of him on the front page headlined ‘LEGEND’.
Wayne was a big GMB fan, entirely because of my co-host. ‘Give Susanna a snog from me,’ read his last text. I knew I couldn’t deliver on that request without getting a punch in the face. But she did record a video message blowing him a kiss, which made his day.
Wayne’s funeral, at the jam-packed church in Newick, East Sussex, was just as he would have wanted it: joyously irreverent.
He ran a building firm and had thus worked on many villagers’ homes.
‘Wayne left a final message for all of you,’ said our mutual friend Liam in the eulogy. ‘The lifetime guarantees just expired!’
The whole congregation erupted into prolonged laughter.
Someone who had a very similar effect on people was the witty, charming Just A Minute radio star Nicholas Parsons, who has died aged 96. I met him a couple of times and he was as delightful and amusing off microphone as he was on it.
In their very different ways, both Wayne and Nicholas enriched the lives of many people simply by making us laugh.
There are few better legacies.
Thanks for all the fun, chaps. RIP.
FRIDAY, JANUARY 31
‘A momentous day,’ I tweeted as dawn broke on Brexit Day. ‘One in which Britain finally brings to an end a ghastly experiment that’s brought us nothing but suffering. I urge us all to celebrate our freedom with riotous jubilation. Finally, the hell is over. Good riddance to… Veganuary!’
I was only half joking.
So, I sent Holly a message saying: ‘Hope you’ve stocked up with enough lube… to stick the NTA trophy where the sun don’t shine.’ ‘That just made me laugh out loud,’ she replied. ‘If you were that funny on the telly you might win one!’
If there’s one thing even more annoyingly hypocritical than self-righteous vegans screaming abuse at carnivores like me while eating almonds and avocados, whose production causes the murder of billions of bees, it’s virtue-signalling temporary vegans who’ve quit meat for a month (and don’t we know about it…) before tucking back into their T-bones tomorrow.
However, even they aren’t as irritating as Remoaners still shrieking dementedly away about why Brexit’s the worst thing in the history of Planet Earth.
As someone who voted Remain, I can’t pretend to be wildly excited about the brave new world Britain’s embarking upon from 11pm tonight. But I do now fervently want Brexit to succeed, and I’m genuinely thrilled the result of a democratic vote has finally, albeit shamefully belatedly, been honoured.
I can also find it in my heart to acknowledge those who won. ‘Congratulations,’ I texted Nigel Farage, who’s spent 25 years campaigning for our departure from the European Union. ‘Big day for you. Always admired your long-time commitment to something you believe in so strongly. Enjoy.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘I just got grey doing it.’