“Do come in Hugo,” said the lovely Jill, greeting me at the door in a garish headscarf. “The spirits love puce, you know.” And so they must, because ex-D.I. Maggie Forbes came up with some stunning evidence for the afterlife.

“Jill’s always been into her spirits,” whispered a cheeky Peter Skellern as we all joined hands in the darkness. “I’m hoping to contact Gilbert O’Sullivan this evening.” “But he’s not dead,” I said. “Damn,” said Peter.

Jill closed her eyes and began shifting uneasily in her seat. “Ooh, I can feel a pipe,” she croaked. “And an old man who says his name is Jack. Yes, it’s Jack Hargreaves.” Everyone shivered, fearing a manifestation. “Jack,” said Jill, “we met once at a party. Don’t you remember?”

There was a long silence. “Does anybody have any questions for Jack?” “What’s it like on the other side?” ventured Peter. “He says it’s lovely,” sighed Jill with tears streaming down her face. “He says it’s like a big farm… And I can see a St Bernard, reunited with his best friend.” Suddenly Jill struggled to her feet and threw open her arms, nearly falling over. “I am the spirit of Bernie Winters!” she exclaimed. “Eeee-eeeeee…”

Thank goodness for the doorbell and latecomer Noddy Holder! More anon!

Heigh-ho,

Hugo

“I’ll get you butler,” said the cheeky devil when he knocked on my door on Sunday morning and fessed up. “Everyone’s a Fruit & Nutcase, Hugo,” he said as he brushed past me and headed for the kitchen. ”Got any chocolate?” “Ooh, you are awful,” I replied, quick as a flash “But I like you!”

All these shenanigans are in aid of his new one-man show at the Haelen Centre, 30 Voices From 30 Years Ago. “I didn’t get where I am today by not knowing that the 70s was a classic decade,” explained the evergreen entertainer over a plate of Penguins (the best I could muster).

It all sounds like a lot of fun. Where else can you find Opportunity Knocks, featuring Selwyn Froggitt serenading Miss Piggy, and Eddie Shoestring teaming up with George & Mildred to relive the Yorkshire Ripper case?

Bobby will also be promoting his new series of talking books, Frank Spencer Reads… so be sure to get down there. Ooh Betty!

Heigh-ho,

Hugo

Anyway, there I was taking the wee fella for his morning constitutional on Saturday, strolling past Crouch End library, when who should I chance across en masse outside the public toilets but 80s glam poppers The Human League. Honestly, those lovely hair-dos and that fluorescent make-up still look stunning, even on the girls.

“Hello Human League!” I said, punching the air and nearly strangling poor Feydeau. “Ellor,” they replied in their lovely Yorkshire accents. “Eh-oop, get t’ name right, Hugor,” said grumpy singer Phil Oakey. “It’s T’ Human League. T’ definite article’s reet important you knor.”

“So what are you all doing here?” I asked, over Feydeau’s constant barking. “Are you looking for some Love Action?” “Well nor,” chirped backing singer Jo (now a chunky mum to triplets thanks to a clinic in Europe), “Phil ha’ dropped t’ hat and we’re all tryin’ to find it.” I pointed to the pavement in front of them. “But it’s right there,” I said. “And it’s even got a few coins in it.” “Oh aye, ta,” they all said in unison.

“Na, pretha, barn, mak heaste an’ gang,” added Phil. “He stack his shak-fork up i’ t’ esins.”

Eee by gum! Genius works in wondrous ways.

Heigh-ho,

Hugo

“Trust me, I’m a doctor,” he smirked, miming fisticuffs and playing down an incident in the Harringay Arms last week. “That was just a misunderstanding. I mean, who the hell is this Foucault bloke anyway?” “And what do you think of the internet?” I asked. “Love it,” he said. “But those fake degrees you can buy are just wrong. Too soddin’ expensive.”

Chubby-cheeked comedian Joe Pasquale was also there, heckling hapless Alvin as he made his speech. “Ere,” he shouted cheekily from the back, “I always thought you wore them black gloves because you had a withered arm!”

Joe’s been standing outside Greggs the bakers all week, handing out leaflets for his new Book Of Sonnets. “I hope the c**ts f**cking shift,” squeaked the foul-mouthed fella as we raised a glass to Alvin’s new venture. “Between you, me and a whisky sour they’re perfect for the Christmas stocking!”

He’ll be signing copies at the YMCA at the end of Topsfield Parade every Sunday till Christmas. Better get down there!

Heigh-ho,

Hugo

I’ve taught Feydeau to sit on the toilet and to use Freeview, but he only did one of those things, and the house now looks as if a clumsy chipolata salesman has been staying there. My Cambodian throw may never be the same again! So, with my nerves in shreds, I ventured out to the dry cleaners this morning.

All I needed was a repeat of the encounter I had last Wednesday when I picked up my Ted Rogers Memorial Blazer…

“Hugo,” barked a figure dressed as Bob The Builder. Quick as a flash I cunningly said I wasn’t Hugo, but a close friend. “No, wait, it’s me!” said the figure, squinting through the gap in Bob’s mouth. I peered in. “It’s me,” he said again, struggling to remove his head as children screamed all around him. ‘Me’ turned out to be bipolar funnyman Tony Slattery. “Can you fix it?” I asked. “Mother of god, no,” he replied, staring fixedly at the ground. “They’ve already moved me on twice.”

Thankfully for all concerned, Tony wasn’t around, although I’m told that a dejected Teletubby has been seen in Park Road. More anon.

Heigh-ho,

Hugo

It’s all in aid of a doomed fir tree outside the library. “I call her Jemima,” explained Anita.  “If we all called Nature’s Bountiful Earthsprouts by names we’d care about them so much more. And Jemima is about to be beheaded!” Tears sprang from her eyes. “It’s Leonard the Crescent Road elm all over again.”

The ex-Eastenders star has also asked some of her celebrity chums to link arms around Jemima to hamper the council’s tree surgeon. Sadly, when asked, most of them were on holiday, but Crouch End lovelies Diane Keen and Lynda Bellingham bravely enlisted. “We’ll be dressed as eco warriors,” says Anita, although smashing costumes are nothing new for a panto regular like her!

Local death metal group Spittle, fronted by Daley Thompson’s twin boys Lionel and Tracy, will also be offering their support. “Spittle will bring in the kidz, yeah?” confided Anita, bending her knees slightly and raising her palm. “No, Hugo!” she said when I ducked. “It’s a high five. I’m streetwise, laaak.” Well, good luck!

And good luck to Arlene Phillips too. She’s launching her new environmental campaign, Island Life, next week. She plans to turn rarely used traffic islands into micro-paddocks for unwanted ponies. “I see it as a marriage between nature and machine,” she told me on Monday… More anon.

Heigh-ho,

Hugo

“And what do you think of my new blogspace?” I asked. “Oh, er, I’m a big fan,” she said, adding that it would be wonderful if I “put up more recipes”. The odd thing was that I hadn’t actually put any up at the time, but she must have read my mind as I was about to do that very thing. And you can see my first effort on the new Hugo’s Recipes page. Yum!

“It’s always been my dream to eat my own crop,” I told her. “You should come and visit my Memorial Celebrity Vegetable Patch sometime.” “That sounds more like something I should wear,” said the cheeky singer, winking and becoming temporarily blind. (That’s if I can still call it a vegetable patch, of course, having recently planted melons in memory of Wendy Richard in the Are You Being Served? section.)

Anyway, I hate to blow my own trumpet but do look out for my fruit and veg stall outside the library on Haringey Park. With all the celebrity deaths recently there will be plenty to buy. And everything will be fairly priced, although John Inman’s cucumbers will of course have a label on them saying “I’m free”!

Heigh-ho,

Hugo

Still, at least he wasn’t acting up like poor old Bobby Ball’s poodle, Hindley. She’s just not been the same since Peter Stringfellow knocked her out cold with his medallion last week (see last blog entry). “She’s been tearing down the wallpaper and taking up the carpets,” admits an exhausted Bobby. “I only have to nip round the corner and she’s got the china down from the dresser. I’m at my wit’s end.”

He even took the troublesome pup to visit a celebrity dog-handler on Sunday, buxom 58-year-old Ulrika Jonsson’s ex-colleague and Blue Peter presenter John Leslie. “We agreed a cash fee by fax and talked for a good four or five minutes on the doorstep of Mr Leslie’s Dartmoor home,” explains Bobby. “His advice was to ‘keep the whip handy’ and ‘keep the bitch down’.” And he should know!

Heigh-ho,

Hugo

Friends have rallied round, but to little avail. Dear old Amanda Redman has been an angel, commissioning a stunning What A Bitch! embroidery sampler in memory of the fated Lapdog. But things do not improve for poor Peter. “I thought if I pushed those damned cava bottles in hard enough they’d all fit in,” he confessed, clamping his arms around me and wiping his face with his sleeve outside the off licence the other morning. “And I’d only just had the bitch neutered, so that was money down the drain.”

Then yesterday afternoon came another terrible blow: the awful scene that unfolded outside Costa Coffee on Crouch End Broadway. When bending down to stroke Hindley, Bobby Ball’s favourite poodle, an excitable Peter knocked the poor pup clean out with his gold medallion. Bobby, consumed with “rage and heartbreak”, threatened to “rock on Tommy” and, with a small crowd gathering, immediately demanded a grande frappucino with caramel syrup as compensation. Honestly, what a hoo-ha! Let’s hope there’s no lasting damage to all those concerned.

Heigh-ho!
Hugo

There I was on Tuesday evening, trying to find some inspiration for my Celebrity Memorial Vegetable Patch (more anon!) when I chanced across the child-sized singer, now 59, restocking the pickles.

“You could say I’m working on Broadway,” chuckled the spiky-haired fella, best known for the slinky singalong single, Too Shy. “I re-recorded it as a rap with Nerys Hughes for my recent album, Bak On The Streetz,” he explained, cheekily elbowing me in the ribs and trying to grab my wallet. “It’s only available on cassette tape at the moment. But if you give me your debit card number and security code, Hugo, I’ll get one over to you!”

It’s that cheek that’s kept him afloat in the last couple of decades. Literally, in the case of his recent impromptu stint as entertainer on the Caledonian MacBrayne Outer Hebrides ferry service. “It was pretty rebellious really,” he told me over a whisky in the stockroom.  “I just got up and started groovin’. It was a captive audience.”

So is he content to sit on his laurels? “Not on your Van Nelly!” he yelled with tears in his eyes. “I’m in the studio every Monday and Friday, although currently only as a ‘hygiene facilitator’. 1983 was a great year for me but I’m not on the shelf yet.”

Heigh-ho,
Hugo