I have always had a soft spot for Noel Edmonds. It might have been the cutting-edge jumpers he wore on Multi-Coloured Swap Shop or the sheer tackiness of Noel's House Party, set in the parish of Crinkley Bottom (ha ha). To me he was a likeable chap with a beard and a winning way with the public. On the downside it should never be forgotten that he was also responsible for unleashing the abominable Mr Blobby.
Apart from that, there was no harm in Edmonds, and I always regarded him as something of a UK institution, like Jimmy Savile, say, or Marmite. Still, I can't have been a deeply committed fan, because I barely noticed when House Party pooped for the final time in 1999 and Edmonds was axed, some hoped forever, by the BBC.
But for the past few months he has been back on television, at the helm of Channel 4's Deal or No Deal, the most surprising TV hit since The Lyrics Board went stellar. Edmonds's contract has just been renewed for a reported €4.5 million, while the nominations and awards are starting to stack up.
If you haven't watched the programme, Deal or No Deal involves participants trying to win money by guessing in which red box - each of the 22 contestants has one - the largest sums of cash are hidden. There is no skill involved, although you might not know it from watching Edmonds, a master of tension-building over-the-topness, take the contestants through the, er, nail-biting half-hour. The man, minus the jumpers, is back with a bang.
So how did he do it? This is where the Edmonds story gets even more intriguing - or bonkers, depending on your level of scepticism. Edmonds says his recent success came after he engaged in a spot of "cosmic ordering". He read a book called The Cosmic Ordering Service, by Barbel Mohr, which inspired him to place an order with the cosmos for "a new challenge".
He gave the cosmos six months to deliver, but within five, Channel 4 had come knocking on his door. He has posted four other requests, three of which he claims have been granted. One was more than likely a cosmic order for a book deal, because just the other week he landed a €300,000 offer to write about how his new spiritual beliefs were behind his comeback.
I recently got my hands on The Cosmic Ordering Service. It's a slim volume that you'd flick through in half an hour. On the first page the author reveals that she placed her first order with the universe only to prove that a friend who was annoying her with this cosmic nonsense was wrong. The order was for a man who had to have nine characteristics, including being a vegetarian and practising t'ai chi. The man, complete with all nine traits, was delivered the week that Mohr specified. Amazed, she ordered a load of other stuff, including a castle to work in, and it was all delivered on time.
Cosmic ordering is really about positive thinking and the idea that the universe is only too happy to deliver the things you need and want, as "nature likes happy people because happy people care about nature". It might sound like gobbledegook to you, but Mohr, Edmonds and thousands of others claim it works. It's unfortunate that the book also contains a short chapter on why Uri Geller-style spoon bending is logical, because for the most part it has a straightforward, plausible appeal. "Listen to your inner voice," says Mohr. "Place your order, sit back and let marvellous things happen."
The items on your list are supposed to be things you would like but cannot find a way of getting. For example, I was going to order a body in a smaller size and a fully completed best-selling novel, but I think those things, sadly, are up to me. There are other requests, however, that I am putting in the hands of the universe. I have placed three orders, all of which I would like to have delivered within six months. By November I will report back on whether the cosmos has come through for me or my delivery got lost in the cosmic post.
I was enthusiastically explaining cosmic ordering to my mother and a friend before we went to the cinema last week. After the movie I realised my phone had been stolen. I spent a good while grieving the loss, not of my phone or even the contact numbers, but my new collection of celebrity photos stored on the phone. Me and Gabriel Byrne. Me and Jamie Oliver. Me and Ronan Keating. Me and Fran Cosgrave. (Okay, so I wasn't really grieving the last one.) "Maybe you could order a new phone from the cosmos," said my mother, unhelpfully. She'll be sorry when I get my Oscar.
