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It don't matter if you're famous or what you claim that fame is.

One day you're going to be nameless.

I'm Rick Edwards and this is Fighting Talk. In 2003, a shambolic sports banter show took the airwaves in the days when banter was sort of fine.

That show is still here, back for season 23, still a shambles, still persisting with the idea of banter.

You know what they say, if it ain't broke, but it is a bit tired, don't fix it.

Let's address the elephant in the room then, not you, Phil, relax.

You're looking very trim.

Thank you.

But there has been some scrutiny in the closed season regarding my own future. I accept that my win percentage is staggeringly poor. I accept that my approach is inflexible. I accept I'm not getting the best out of my panellist. I accept that I'm getting humiliatingly turned over by local commercial radio presenters. But what I need is time. Give me time. I'll come good. And in the meantime,

you just have to let me fiddle with my silly little magnets in the rain. And who are my silly

little magnets today? On for the 57th time. And it's a second consecutive show after a joint

third finish on last term season-ending champion of champions champions and by joint third, I obviously mean

joint last, an Olympic medalist in a game that is, to be fair, mainly played by pensioners

in municipal sports halls. It's Gailims!

Hello, Gail. Hello, Rick. I'm playing another pensioner sport now. I'll pay pickleball,

don't I? You tell me every time you come on, go on.

I know, I know.

Have I looked interested?

But that's my mistake. I tried to get you on to do it anyway last time, didn't I? I tried to take you to Hawaii to play Pickable. Oh, actually. I was there at the airport, Rick, I was there. You bought my ticket. Champion of champions was fun

but you must have been beating yourself up

over your performance because you

...