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written until it absolutely cannot be avoided, I said to Matt that I was worried about Bob Geldof.
    “Why? What for? He’ll be alright,” said Matt.
    “I’ve just got a feeling that he could be confrontational,” I said. It was not entirely a male version of women’s intuition – my fear was ignited by provocative elements of our script. When me and Matt write scripts our minds depart, our better judgement takes a hike and our combined rudeness struts in with a hard-on and drizzles out what it considers to be funny but is actually offensive – usually to someone important. It did it at the NMEs (Bob Geldof ), it did it at the Brits (the Queen) and it did it at the MTV VMA awards (George W. Bush). I’ll tell you how we erred at these subsequent events in good time, but for now here’s my forensic analysis of what may’ve got up Bob’s nose.
    I called him “Sir Bobby Gandalph”.I threw to a VT of his close friend Bono with the line, “Here’s Bono, live from a satellite orbiting his own ego.” Maybe that antagonised him.And finally there was this link to bring him to the stage: “The winner of Best DVD is Bob Geldof. My best DVD is Big Natural Tits 10, in a welcome return to form after the lazy and derivative Big Natural Tits 8 and 9. Of course we ain’t really captured the glory days of Big Natural Tits 1 and 2 – don’t be ridiculous – but all this is academic because the Big Natural Tits series has been overlooked. Again. Here’s Sir Bobby Gandalph!”
    The moment.
    At our script meeting I reasoned with Matty Morgs thusly – “That Gandalf stuff and all this rhubarb about boobs will antagonise him” (although they really are spectacular films), but Matt said, “No, he won’t say nothing, he’ll be flattered.”
    “He won’t be flattered, Matt, he’ll be incensed.”
    I presumed his response would be “There’s only one big natural tit here” – then, turning to point at me, “that prick”. As it transpired, Sir Bob was much more linguistically efficient.
    As my gung-ho writing partner and I discussed the likelihood of a tit-for-tat reprisal from Sir Bob, an incredible thing happened. Occasionally as a comic, a line will appear as if in a dream, perfect, celestial, fully formed. The line I’m about to recite emerged from the mists of my troubled mind like Excalibur. Matt was still busily assuring me that the world’s most notoriously outspoken man would tolerate my childish teasing like a big soppy ol’ sheepdog when I, suddenly St Paul, all smug with epiphany, said, “If he does coat me off I shall simply reply: “No wonder Bob Geldof ’s such an expert on famine. He’s been dining out on ‘I Don’t Like Mondays’ for thirty years.” Matt has never been one to dole out praise profligately; he responded to my burbled boasts about Kate Moss with the immortal “Her? She’s a bit thin, ain’t she?” – but now he was suitably awed.
    “Fucking hell, that’s brilliant.”
    “I know, my son,” I said all holy. “Shall we put it into his intro?”
    “No. That’d be overkill. But it’s nice to know it’s there if you need it. It’s security – like Clint Eastwood’s Magnum.”
    “Russell Brand, what a cunt.” It felt like the nice man from Live Aid, the man who’d single-handedly saved Africa, had speared me through the decades. I felt like a bullied nine-year-old, hurt and defenceless. Well, you may’ve fed the world but you just broke my heart, Geldof. I was eviscerated, up there. I stood at the side of the stage, white and silent with no recourse. Except I had that line.
    But Bob Geldof is a hero, revered by millions, the perfect apotheosis of modern philanthropy, a great father, a rebel who stayed true and kept on sticking it to the man even after he made it. Who took his fame and money and power and did something truly worthwhile. There’s no way I can hit back at Bob Geldof. Can I? He did just call me a cunt. On the telly. In front of my mum. What a