The gathering electric storm...

As if we haven’t enough to worry about what, with climate change, geopolitical upheaval, wars, famine and televised atrocity such as Benefits Britain, along comes a fabulous new opportunity for the modern-day mountebank – electro smog. Oh yes, move over ‘chemtrails’, this fabulous new, you-can’t-disprove-it malady could see you secure in your retirement if you could just set up in business to sell £2000-plus-a-pop ‘electronic yoga mats’. (Also available for horses at only twice the price!) Cue the lead-lined safe rooms, off-grid hide-outs and tinfoil hats.

Madness, delusion, faith; call it what you wish but human gullibility, it seems, knows no bounds and where there is belief, there’s brass. Those going the ‘full Icke’ are so far gone they can make a living from it, but the rest end up on a slippery downward slope with no recompense for their madness. We call it insanity if you’re poor, but eccentric if you can sell your madness to others. I suppose there’s a logic there; the church, after all, does very nicely from selling to the credulous and has done for centuries.

But madness has many paths and you can’t say Noel Edmonds hasn’t done his homework. Wanting to avoid the beating he took over ‘cosmic ordering’ (yes the bearded cardie-fiend has form) he decided to get himself checked out and visited a discreet private clinic, tucked away from scrutiny in an undisclosed but quiet, pastoral location. While he was waiting for his consultation he was taken on a tour to view the house and grounds and see the therapies available.

What he saw was an oasis of calm; group therapies concentrating on mindfulness, relaxing and healing treatments to aid the process and plenty of scope for individuals to express themselves and explore their realities. Outside, people strolled in the grounds or exercised in well-supervised groups. Everybody seemed happy enough until he found himself back inside the foyer and confronted by a man wrapped tightly in his own little universe, muttering angrily to himself as he appeared to be manning an imaginary help desk. The man mimed the taking of calls and the looking up of screens of information and then enthusiastically and not without a hint of weary sarcasm, dispensing advice. All the while he was sitting cross-legged on the floor.

For a moment Noel stood watching this figure with some concern when he was suddenly aware that they were not alone. He looked up to see another man, clinging perilously to a chandelier overhead. The man on the floor noticed and put his own world on hold for a moment. “Don’t worry about him” he said “he thinks he’s a lightbulb”. But Noel Edmonds, known for his philanthropic instincts said “But look at him; we should get him down before he hurts himself!”

You're all mental!

The help-desker considered this for a moment, looking up to see lightbulb man’s face turning red with the effort of clinging on to the flimsy fitting as he slowly revolved above them. It certainly looked like a precarious situation. But then, his mind made up, he turned to Noel and said, quite soberly. “What? You want me to work in the dark?”