Noel Edmonds writes. Again:
“The number nine has a deeply personal meaning for me- it’s the most number of pints I have ever drunk in a pub before anyone admitted to recognising who I was. It was a real hoot trying to blend in and be ‘normal’, but pretty embarrassing for some of the crowd who witnessed me not quite reaching the toilet before being sick in a nearby umbrella.
Well, so fucking what.
They had asked for the appearance of danger and anarchy when we originally sold out, sticking it to the man on the then Munition Worker’s Medium Wave National Broadcasting Wavelength Station.
Eventually, a new name was schemed up by none other than the scarily brainy Mike Read. ‘One FM on Medium Wave’ was truly born, and the teenage revolution could finally go coast to coast in over 6000 staggering roadshows, featuring a grand total of 4 different DJs over 27 sensational summers.
And who were they, these nutters of the airwaves? Yours truly, of course, the exceedingly bonkers DLT, Mike Reid, and then some jumped up little cunt who shall remain nameless here.
Nine is also, incidentally, the number of years that I think drug dealers should go down for if caught, at the very minimum. Scum!
* * *
You know, I first became consciously aware that numbers totally rule when I made my first million suing one of the sellers on Swap Shop. I’d agreed to purchase what was described as an as-new Kerpluk. But when I got it throught the post, it only had two marbles.
And later, in the aftermath of accusations that I had personally killed a member of the public on Live TV (I hadn’t at all- we were actually showing VT of a furious Dave Lee Travis getting his twelfth gotcha at the time- one of our most elaborate yet!), numbers again became central to my existence.
The day I lost my job, I was walking down the street when something I had driven past in my Bentley countless times caught my attention. The numbers on the cards in public phoneboxes throbbed with significance. Numbers taunted me with promises that an angel or some other divine being could easily be conjured up at the hotel room door.
And then nobbed inside.
Twice if she didn’t start crying.
Numerically, I added up all the numbers together in my wallet and it came to about £200, which was enough for two hours, all in. Ironically, the only thing I hadn’t lost that day was the big fresh dollop of Noel’s Creamy Man Milk churning in my balls. (And my iconic beard, of course!)
I shakily dialed the number- with my finger. Which is Itself a freaking digit. Which is Latin for ‘finger’. And then I gave out yet another number- the office Visa card details.