Richard Madeley’s diary: Forgetting Tom Conti’s name, and other harrowing experiences

Oh God, it’s happened again. Another evening where I’m surrounded by people I know personally or have interviewed, and I can’t remember a single name. Multiple blanks. It’s a sort of self-fulfilling nervous tic — a phobia, almost. We were at a fundraiser at our kids’ former school in north London. For some reason, lots of celebs send their children there, including Jonathan Ross. He once joked that it’s the only school in London with a permanent posse of paparazzi hanging around outside the gates. Anyway, a veteran actor with grandchildren there strolled over for a chat. After he’d wandered off, I looked at my wife in mute appeal. ‘Tom Conti, for fuck’s sake,’ she sighed. ‘You’re bloody hopeless. You should just come clean with people and tell them you’re rubbish at remembering names.’

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Britain is living beyond its means

Never, never confess to someone that you’ve forgotten what they’re called.