Robbie Savage’s mum Val on camping out to see I’m a Celebrity in North Wales

News that I’m a Celebrity…Get Me Out of Here! will be based in a castle in North Wales this year has left me so excited I could scream.

Gwrych Castle in Abergele isn’t too far from me. And I’m tempted to book in to a B&B nearby to see if I can get a peek at the contestants.

Each year I vow not to get addicted to the show, and each year I fail because I love the series so much.

Harry Redknapp was my favourite contestant ever. He was such an old romantic he made his wife Sandra a star too. And when he talked of first meeting Sand, as she danced around her handbag, it reminded me of meeting my late husband Colin.

And when royal correspondent Jennie Bond was buried with rats and sang a cheery tune to get through it, I could have eaten her on a butty.

There’s no way I could put myself through the trials. I’d never eat sheep’s testicles or put a cockroach in my mouth - I’d heave. And if I had to use the dunny I’d have a funny turn (especially if we enter a second wave of coronavirus and there’s no loo roll). So I watch through my fingers as the stars bravely do things I know I couldn’t.

The castle will be spooky and spidery. And North Wales in November will be freezing. But if local food is served it will all be nice - I can see Bara Brith, a current cake, being offered as a prize by Kiosk Kev.

I also hope the show might teach people more about Wales so they make fewer sheep jokes. All the “baa” quips really get on my goat.

Postcodes should have nothing to do with exam results. Only good brains and strong work ethics should count, whether your school’s posh or in a poor area.

It broke my heart to see so many teenagers devastated to open their exam results and find them downgraded. So much hard work wasted, so many ambitions thwarted and chances lost.

So many of the let-down pupils were from so-called disadvantaged areas - the ones who dream of succeeding more than anyone else, and the ones who need the most help.

My cousin John and I grew up together in nearby villages and I consider him like a brother. We had the same upbringing, but as teens I cared only about being able to go to Liverpool every weekend to buy clothes yet John was brainy, worked hard and won a place at Cambridge to read history.

Under today’s exam marking system, that life-changing chance might have been denied him.

And it really did transform his life. He left the village, married a lady he met at Cambridge and their three children all went to Oxford, which means they have a split household during the boat race. He’s written a book about the Magna Carta which I don’t understand. And I don’t understand why he’s considering writing another.

We’re in touch three times a week, and when he told me about his new book I said: “You’re 77, John - do you think you’ll be around to finish the bloody thing?”

He burst out laughing and said: “Our Val, don’t ever change.”

John’s youngest son Hugh got married at an Oxford University chapel which dated back to the 1500s and it was beautiful. And let’s face it, it’s the closest I’ll ever get to Oxford University.

My lawn’s not in great shape at the best of times. So when I discovered nine molehills I thought of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca and said to myself: Of all the gardens on this estate, the mole had to pop up in mine.

My neighbour Chris arranged for a man to call to make sure the mole makes a humane but hasty retreat from my garden and tunnels off elsewhere.

When he arrived, I said: “Adrian, would you like a cup of tea?”. He looked at me strangely and said his name was Jack.

That’s when I realised Chris had been winding me up. Adrian Mole indeed.

In the unbearable heat, the first thing I did was whip off my bra. In all the discomfort, the last thing I need is underwire sticking into me.

I’m not going anywhere so hopefully it doesn’t matter. I just need a few more minutes to compose myself before answering the door.

I know I’m always whingeing about technology. But I’m not finished yet.

This week’s huge storms wiped out the signal on my new-fangled Sky box and it stopped working. But my trusty old TV? Even as the skies sounded as if they were falling in, it still worked a treat.

Lord Andrew Lloyd Webber has volunteered for an experimental Covid-19 vaccine to help prove theatres are safe to reopen.

It’s never a good idea to gamble with your health, especially when you’re older and good health becomes rare and precious. But it’ll be a huge shame if theatres don’t open again.

I haven’t seen many theatre musicals because they weren’t my husband Colin’s cup of tea. We went to see Dirty Dancing in London and when he first fell asleep, I tried giving him a nudge. But when his head flopped I knew he was in a deep slumber. Musical theatre just wasn’t his scene. He’d far rather have been watching football.

My sons Robert and Jonathan were never fans of the pantomime as boys because they were too scared of the baddies.

So when Jonathan’s wife Kim asked me to help supervise a trip to the pantomime with the Brownies, I jumped at the chance. I was more excited than the little kids, shouting “he’s behind you!”, booing the evil queen and dancing to heads, shoulders, knees and toes. The Brownies ended up watching me rather than what was on stage, and Kim laughed her head off.

So let’s hope the coronavirus doesn’t steal the special joy so many people feel when they’re in the theatre. It just doesn’t seem fair.

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