
Richard Madeley appears on Good Morning Britain with fractured wrist
Richard Madeley revealed on Monday's Good Morning Britain that he suffered a double fracture of his wrist after falling on a loose pavement in France.
Susanna Reid introduced the show and acknowledged Madeley's injury, to which he responded with a joke about whether he had a good break.
Madeley quipped, "I'm not discussing the pain threshold. We don't think about pain," when Reid asked if his injury was sore.
This isn't the first time Madeley has discussed falling; in December 2022, he slipped while getting out of his car when presenting live from Whiston Hospital.
On the same episode, Madeley and Reid discussed Greta Thunberg's aid boat being boarded by Israeli forces while travelling to Gaza.
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The Guardian
2 hours ago
- The Guardian
Frederick Forsyth interview: ‘I've always been a loner' – archive, 1973
9 June 1973 At the end of most journalistic rainbows stands Freddie Forsyth, hugging a large pot of gold. A pot spilling over almost without effort. It's a remarkable tale; one which (apart from confirming that there is a Father Christmas) tells you a lot about modern publishing and the demise of hoary, leather-bound gents making genteel fortunes between trips to the Reform Club. Operatively our story begins in January 1970. Forsyth, ex-Eastern Daily Press cub reporter, ex-RAF pilot, ex-Reuter man in Paris and Berlin, acrimonious ex-BBC correspondent in Biafra, was also becoming an ex-freelance. No commissions, dwindling cash. Thus, wanting other employment, he finally sat down in a series of hotel rooms and – through 35 days flat – wrote a thriller idly planned seven years before on the French reporting stint. It was called The Day of the Jackal, about a plot to kill de Gaulle. His agent sent it, with diminishing fervour, to four publishers who (perhaps because they were asleep) expressed polite disinterest. By August, Forsyth was getting despondent; as a last throw, he dispatched the manuscript to a French firm. They wrote back enthusiastically. He then sent that letter to Hutchinson, who asked for the book on Friday; on Monday he had a fat three-novel contract. Foreign editions of the Jackal now fill Forsyth's mantelpiece. Over five years it will make him a conservative £250,000. One throw, but not the last. A Jackal film, directed by Fred Zinnemann opens in London next week (after ecstatic American reviews). Novel two, The Odessa File, is an even bigger world bestseller, and will top another quarter-million with thousands to spare. Novel three, The Dogs of War, lies a chapter or so from completion, poised for a fresh killing next spring. Unless he casts his royalties to the winds, Forsyth, at 34, is rich for life after, perhaps, 100 days solid typing. And that, astonishingly enough, is precisely where he'll leave it. Three books and no more. The end of the rainbow. What comes next? Perhaps a little scriptwriting. Maybe some magazine reporting. Holidays at a newly purchased Spanish farmhouse. 'I've always been a loner.' So back to a lone, freelance, journalistic role using the name to get plum assignments and not caring a fig for cash attached because it's pleasantly irrelevant. Are the books, in any literary sense, good? Not very. Forsyth admits he writes them the way he does because that's the only way he can write. Straight narrative, packed with voluminous and sometimes excruciating technical detail (all meticulously researched, which is the true grind). Rather like reading, a 350-page Sunday Times Insight grope. The plotting – which is where he starts – often seems ropy (Odessa ends with a confrontation so stagey that Holmes and Moriarty, wrestling on the brink of the Reichenbach Falls, might pause and blush at the thought of it). Soggy globules of reportage verite litter and throttle action (our Nazi-chasing Odessa here goes to see Lord Russell of Liverpool amongst his rambling roses, just as Forsyth plus notebook did). Sometimes you feel nobody's read the typescript through before it sped to lucrative presses. There are few intricacies, no proper twists or subtleties. And yet, however crude or cumbersome, both (especially Jackal) are surprisingly effective. They exude a naive zest: coatings of detail, poured like thick chocolate sauce over a mingy scoop of vanilla ice, distract attention, criticism, distrust. Perhaps because he's never read Eric Ambler or Gavin Lyall or any of the other masters of the British thriller in any coordinated way, Forsyth is a true primitive, contributing something different and hugely marketable to a defined genre. His method takes a situation and location he knows intimately (by living and breathing it for months and years rather than a fortnight's impecunious research trip) then fitting a yarn to that morass of background. All the gossip, all the briefings he absorbed at the time and couldn't quite print. A few characters are fiction; most are lightly spiced fact. In the wake of Jackal, the French government held a small inquiry to find out who'd leaked their secret service structures. Of itself, this method explains best why he's quitting. The Dogs of War is about an African coup, an African mess (like Biafra), mercenaries, and big European businesses who pull the bloody strings. The Jackal was France, Odessa, Germany – Dogs, Biafra. That exhausts Forsyth's three spells of foreign experience. Unless he wrote a thriller about newspaper work in King's Lynn, he's finished. The only way of recharging would be to disappear in, say, South America for a couple of years – and even then he'd probably need a mainstream job providing a haphazard spray of facts and insights, piles of fuel to spark an idea. It all seems deceptively simple. You sit in his small flat over a dentist's surgery near Regent's Park and imbibe an everyday tale of gold-minting life. Forsyth isn't a Fleming exotic. His dad sold furs in Ashford, Kent. He doesn't care much for publicity bandwagons or cocktail promotions. His Foyles' literary lunch speech set brevity records. The car outside is unchanged by success. He likes jeans, Pernod, an occasional night at Tramps. His girlfriend rings to announce she's got flu. Frederick hunts for some aspirin to take round. A fluent, unflamboyant fellow. Not much interested in home politics. Loathes dictators (and blushes when you raise the Spanish farmhouse). Exposé journalism is what he cares about most; he had a high old time in France last year digging round the drug scene for a colour supplement and causing consternation among the Marseille connections. 'That was a 20,000 word spiel that caught a few people below the belt. It was nice, you know, to take a trip round the airfield again and not worry about money. I just let my agent negotiate the bread and got on with it.' Talk reporting and he comes alive. The mechanics of writing – 10 pages a day from eight to 12 in the morning make a 300-page book in 30 days flat – and it's mere iron discipline. Talk events for keener reaction. 'I mean, take Lonhro. If you'd written a novel using those facts last year everybody would have said come on, this is a bit bloody melodramatic. Do it in five years and they'll say: this was how it was.' The method, in short, won't be buried with Biafra. Nor can one quite see Forsyth vegetating for ever amid sun and cheap booze. He's like no other novelist because the business of novel-writing clearly interests him hardly at all; the business of bizarre, digging, living eclipses all else. He's not an author but a recognisable Fleet Street type – there are at least two on the Guardian – phlegmatically fearless, inquisitive, pragmatic, a bit solitary. 'A loner,' he says again. At a guess, I'd think there may be more thrillers five years or so hence, when there's more experience; but as things stand, The Dogs of War will end a weird interlude and Freddie will drift away into the wide, blue, perilous beyond – leaving behind a predictable cluster of imitators, an agent rolling in bread, and four exceedingly chagrined publishers. 'So the name fades. So what?'


Daily Mail
2 hours ago
- Daily Mail
Vogue Williams calls out husband Spencer Matthews for FORGETTING her suitcase ahead of a wedding in France
Vogue Williams has hilariously called out her husband Spencer Matthews for forgetting her suitcase for a wedding they attended over the weekend in France. The Irish broadcaster, 39, took to her Instagram page on Monday with a try-on haul of all the stunning items that didn't make the flight. Speaking to the camera, she said: 'So I thought I'd show you the things that I had planned to wear to this wedding because they are stunning. 'And obviously I don't say 'yes' to many weddings so now I will never wear them to a wedding. Thank you Spencer Matthews!' Vogue first showed a stunning white and red polka dot maxi dress which she would have worn for the pre wedding drinks. From A-list scandals and red carpet mishaps to exclusive pictures and viral moments, subscribe to the DailyMail's new Showbiz newsletter to stay in the loop. She then wowed in a pink whimsical ruffle dress which was meant for Saturday daytime lunch. Speaking to Spencer, who was behind the camera filming, she asked: 'Do you like my dress Spen?' He replied: 'It's lovely,' before she sarcastically mimicked: 'Hmm it's lovely.' Vogue then donned a light blue long sleeve cut out dress, which she said was 'so excited to wear' for the main event. This was followed by a cotton shirt two-piece set which was for the beach party on Sunday. Vogue even revealed that she had packed a spare outfit, just incase she fancied 'a bit of neon'. She finished the clip by saying: 'Now I need to find somewhere to wear this stuff... and I will. There's some wedding inspo for you.' It comes just days after Vogue and Spencer marked a milestone in their marriage as Vogue took to social media to share some sweet snaps. Taking to Instagram, the beauty stunned in a neon yellow dress as she posed next to Spencer, who donned a black tuxedo. She captioned the love-up snaps: '7 years married today. '3 kids, two dogs and a whole lot of fun.' It comes after the TV presenter revealed she 'thought her life was over' after divorcing Westlife singer Brian McFadden on an installment of the Mail's 'The Life of Bryony' podcast. In a candid conversation with Mail columnist Bryony Gordon, 'relationship girl' Vogue, reflected on her love life ahead of turning forty. She remembered feeling as though she had 'ruined her life' in 2017 after her divorce aged 31 from Westlife singer. The Irish mother-of-three revealed her joy at having built a happy family life with Spencer, despite the constant 'outside noise' that surrounds their relationship. In her eagerly awaited autobiography Big Mouth, Vogue details her struggles with anxiety that have cast a shadow throughout her adulthood. Vogue told Bryony she manages the disorder far better now, with a 'great' and supportive family behind her. However, the model admitted that the 'noise' surrounding her marriage to TV star Spencer still manages to get under her skin. Vogue and Spencer have been married since 2018 and share three children together, Theodore, Gigi, and Otto. On her anxiety, Vogue explained: 'It's this thing in your life that you wish would just go away. Sometimes it's fine, sometimes it's a lot worse. 'When I wake up, I am really conscious of any mood I could be in. It's why I don't drink much now because that is something for me that is a huge trigger of anxiety. 'I will always have beta-blockers in the cupboard, but I rarely take them. It depends on what's happening in my life. 'For me now, it's more the outside noise of my job and people outside of my family that stress me out. 'In this industry, certain people are very much out for themselves. The way they portray themselves isn't true - it's not actually who they are.'


BreakingNews.ie
3 hours ago
- BreakingNews.ie
McGregor deletes tweet after row with Liam Cunningham over Gaza aid boat
Conor McGregor has deleted a tweet criticising the aid ship that was bound for Gaza following a row with Irish actor Liam Cunningham on X. The Game of Thrones star was writing about Israel's seizure of the Freedom Flotilla, a Gaza activist boat carrying aid, when McGregor criticised Cunningham and his role in supporting the ship. Cunningham's response went viral. He wrote: "Didn't know you could read and write Conor. Thought you used your hands to tap out." Advertisement Cunningham was referring to McGregor's UFC loss to Khabib Nurmagomedov, in which the Dubliner was forced to tap out. McGregor has since deleted his post. McGregor regularly gets invovled in arguments on X, formerly Twitter, and often deletes his own posts afterwards. Israeli naval forces seized the boat early on Monday about 125 miles off Gaza's coast, according to the Freedom Flotilla Coalition, the group that organised the journey. The boat, accompanied by Israel's navy, arrived in the Israeli port of Ashdod on Monday evening. The activists said they were protesting against the ongoing war and the humanitarian crisis in Gaza.