January... what a depressing month. The New Year's started, Christmas is over. It's time for some form of restraint. I've recently had to watch myself on television and have decided that the svelte young man that exists in my mind is not actually the same person who appears on the box claiming to be "Dom Joly".
Spurred on by Stacey going to some weird yoga retreat in Devon just before Christmas and having half her innards colonicked out of her, I have decided to initiate my own New Year fitness regime. If successful, do not be surprised to see a slew of DVDs, shouting books and oddcasts out next Christmas. I might join forces with Ricky Gervais, Peter Kay and Roy "Chubby" Brown. We could clean up, touring the country like some fat bandito troupe of mildly amusing aerobics instructors.
Problems would arise if the tour became very successful, and, with Ricky Gervais on board, this is a dead certainty. He can do no wrong. His own faeces would be a top Christmas seller - actually, there's another idea for the project: Celebrity Shit. "Roll up, roll up, come and get it while it's hot. It's the must-have purchase this Christmas." Following this successful campaign, flushed with cash, I would be forced to celebrate by booking the suite next door to Michael Winner at Sandy Lane in Barbados. On the beach I'd challenge him to an "eat off". It would be close but I'd win and then have to start the whole fitness thing again. It's a vicious circle.
I'm actually loathe to write anything about "fitness" ("fatness" more like). The moment you tackle any issue like this in print then you are deluged with requests for TV programmes like Celebrity Fat (sorry Fit) Camp". Then I'll get the request to do the London Marathon dressed as a rhinoceros to raise money for ant farms in Calcutta. Following these will be the requests to present a show on Channel Five about competitive eating competitions around the world. Then the theatrical agents will get involved: "we're developing the Pavarotti story for American TV, would you consider the part of the young Luciano? AAARRRGGGHHH. Go away, I'm just considering taking my dog for a couple of long walks and staying off the deep-fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches for two weeks.
Mind you, I started this column using the word "depressing". That's asking for it. I'll start getting emails asking me to talk more about my depression as it'll help so many sufferers out there. Then interviewers will headline every interview with "Tears of the Clown" or "The Dark Side of the Loon" or "TV Fat Man Not Funny Anymore". I'm surprised they haven't done Celebrity Nutters as a show yet - shit, they have, Celebrity Big Brother, sorry I forgot.
Sorry about the tone of this column, it's just cold outside and it's getting me down...
This week, don't miss Dom Joly: Sub-Zero Hero tonight on Bravo. And read in the Daily Twat about Dom Joly's battle with early morning frost and how he battled his way through freezing fields without a scarf in his battle with the elements. Huxley the dog tells all - "He's a wanker," says black Labrador from his £38,000 Cotswold kennel.
OK, stop all this. I just mentioned that I, like most of the country, was feeling a little, heavy after the "holiday" season. There was no need for all this over-reaction. You don't get proper celebs like Jordan or Kerry Fuckwhat'shernametona going on about this sort of stuff in their well-written columns in Hello! and OK! - I need to be more professional and get a grip.
I want to wish all readers of my first column in 2007 a very happy New Year and a lot of success these coming 12 months. See, that wasn't hard. Not controversial, pleasant, nice to read.
I've cut myself shaving - "D-List Comedian's Suicide Bid..." Right, I give up. You're not going to get any sense from this column this week, read Michael Winner. He's not mentally unbalanced. Bye.Reuse content