Sometimes when I look back on my fantastic and fantastically successful life, I feel a small twinge of regret. It’s not so significant that a quick look at my bank balance can’t cure it, but it is there nonetheless. I am aware that sometimes; well. We all make mistakes.
There are things that, had I known then all that I know now, (such as the Awesome Power of Numbers and the importance of a Really Good Cosmic Ordering)… well, perhaps I would have at least paused. Considered. And then done it anyway.
Like, okay. Maybe Mr Blobby was pretty damn zeitgeisty, what with that single being number one for 15 weeks back in 1988 and him being pretty much the most recognisable and loved spotty pink TV star of the decade (barring Rik ‘Rick’ Mayall off The Young Ones, who even though God rest his soul was, quite frankly, a DISGRACE).
Yes, Mr. Blobby’s chaotic mishaps were the undoubted highlight of Noel’s House Party (except for all the bits with me running around. And the Gotchas. And the gunge tank).
But perhaps he wasn’t loved quite enough to justify a nationwide chain of Blobbyland theme parks stretching from Great Yarmouth to Macclesfield.
If only I had gone with my gut instincts and just called them Noeledmundsland, all set inside huge domes, a bit like CenterParks. Except shaped like my head.
I also feel a small, pretty insignificant really, sense of personal responsibility for the alcoholic haze that was Keith Chegwin’s life after Maggie Philbin walked out on him. Perhaps if we had followed up Brown Sauce’s ‘Hello Hello Hello’ with another killer choon, artistic differences wouldn’t have queered the pitch twixt the two.
But hey, there we are.
Life is short.
And I am not.
In fact, for the record, I am most definitely within average height.