Slowly but surely I began moving into more TV work. At one point I got a part in a Dick Emery sketch on his TV show. I was very excited – everyone loved Emery, who was about the biggest star at the BBC at the time. His primetime Saturday-night comedy programme regularly pulled in 15 million viewers. I made sure I knew all my lines, and turned up for the first day’s rehearsal. I was pretty much word-perfect, but every time Emery forgot one of his lines he gave me a dirty look. Cheeky sod, I thought, but I stood for it the first day. He pulled the same stunt the second day, but I’ve never been anyone’s whipping boy, and it wasn’t long before I couldn’t stand any more of it. Emery had just given me another look when I decided enough was enough.
‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Why do you keep looking at me when you get your lines wrong? It ain’t my fault. I know my lines.’
The next thing I know he’s walking out of the room. The producer, Harold Snoad, called me into his office and tried to give me a dressing-down.
‘You can’t upset Mr Emery like that,’ he said, terrified his big star had been offended.
‘Fuck Mr Emery,’ I said. ‘I won’t be made his whipping boy.’ It was the first time anything like that had happened to me. ‘Sack me if I’ve done anything wrong.’ I didn’t get the sack – we got on with it but Emery never spoke to me again. Mind you, he never spoke to anyone else in the cast either.
I also did a sketch in a Two Ronnies show. They were a different class, as were Morecambe and Wise – whenever you saw them they would smile and say hello. But Emery wouldn’t give you the time of day. He really burst that bubble and I didn’t like him.
When I was about 18, I landed a lead role alongside the lovely and very talented Leslie Manville in a new ATV children’s drama series called A Bunch of Fives. ATV was owned by the great impresario Sir Lew Grade, a wonderful man who must be turning in his grave at what’s become of TV today. Sir Lew brought all the world’s great actors and entertainers – from Olivier to Sammy Davis Jr – to star in high-class dramas and variety shows.
A Bunch of Fives centred around a group of school kids who start up a magazine with the help of one of their teachers, an idea that Grange Hill later emulated – plagiarists! The series was directed by an amazing man called John Sichel. John could be very unpredictable. One day he’d be a joy to work with, but the next he’d be a tyrant. He’d shout and make me do things over and over, and it was hard to take. I wasn’t used to being bawled out in front of other people – not since boarding school, anyway – and John and I had some real toe-to-toe disagreements.
I recall one occasion when John had been on my case all day, and I called him out to the corridor. He and I’d had enough – we started shouting and swearing and making a right racket. Lord knows what the other actors thought. Eventually, we calmed down and started to discuss our differences, and it was then I realised John was only pushing me so hard to get the best from me. When I went back into the rehearsal room I nailed everything and John got what he wanted from me. It felt great. And at the end of the day John came up and put his arms around me.
‘If I didn’t care I wouldn’t bother pushing you so hard,’ he said. ‘All that natural anger in you needs to be channelled, Jamie. When you use it instead of letting it use you, you will become a very good actor.’
After that John and I became good friends, and I learned a hell of a lot from him. We went on to do a second series together and he also cast me in quite a few other projects he directed. A good man.
You were so looked after if you worked at ATV. The studios at Borehamwood were a magical place. I had a star dressing room and my own costume dresser – a lovely gay man who would always bring me a bottle of wine at the end of each recording – and Bob Monkhouse used the same dressing room at weekends when they recorded Celebrity Squares. I often bumped into Barbara Windsor when she was there. I’d fill her in on how I was getting on, pick her brains and ask her advice on acting, which she always gave graciously and encouragingly.
At lunchtime the canteen was a gallery of stars. On one table you’d spot British film star Kenneth More taking a break from making Father Brown, on another Tom Jones while he was recording one of his music specials. I saw Lord Olivier there, although I never went over to speak to him. I wish I had, so I could have thanked him for giving me my first job and show him that I was still working. The Muppet Show was filmed at Borehamwood too, and I would often sit and talk to Frank Oz and his gang. Great guys – really friendly and funny. I used to creep into their studio and watch with amazement at how they put the show together. They all looked like they were having so much fun.
Each episode of The Muppet Show featured a major star making a guest appearance, and we’d meet them too. One day, as I entered the main reception area and held the door open for someone behind me, I realised it was Rita Moreno, the Broadway star. What a stunning-looking woman. A real Latino beauty, Rita was in a lot of films, including my favourite musical, West Side Story. Rita gave me the sexiest look before thanking me. ‘It’s my pleasure,’ I replied, wondering if there was a chance she was flirting with me. I told myself to get a grip. Then again, I thought, maybe she likes them young…
I bumped into her again at lunch and got the same look. Rita was most probably having a lot of fun toying with me. She could have toyed with me all she wanted, but unfortunately I never had the nerve to approach her.
For LWT I went on to a Saturday-morning programme called Our Show, which went out straight after Tiswas. It was a primetime slot and my job was to interview the heroes of the day. One week I’d be interviewing Carrie Fisher about a new film she was in – Star Wars (I went to the first press screening and was absolutely blown away. I’d never seen effects like it. I got straight on the phone to my mate Pandy and told him how amazing this new film was. It may seem dated now, but then it was ground-breaking cinema) – and the next I’d be sitting in Dickie Davies’s seat and using the World of Sport studios for a chat with Terry Venables and Ray Wilkins. I was having a ball with it all.
Then there was another TV series down in Bristol – King of the Castle – for Harlech TV. A great cast included Fulton Mackay, the nasty screw in Porridge. The series was a truly bizarre fantasy where the main character, who was being bullied by – you guessed it – me, escaped into his imagination. Once there, I became a Samurai warrior and all manner of weird and wonderful things took place. The plot was very complicated, and I don’t think any of us actors really knew what was going on, but the viewers loved it.
Before I knew it, I was on the telly twice a week – A Bunch of Fives on Wednesdays and King of the Castle on Sundays – and I was beginning to achieve a little bit of notoriety and fame. That said, the supposed glory of fame was something I never courted. For me it was always about the work. I didn’t want my name splashed in the papers, I wanted to act and entertain and be recognised for nothing more than that. This ethos has stood me in good stead over the years, and here’s a warning to young actors from an old sage: doing stories on your life in the papers and having your photo taken is no way to go forward. It’s the worst day’s work you can ever do.
Since the day paper first met ink, the press have built people up, then shot them down just as fast. Court publicity for its own sake and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. Achieve great things as an actor, on the other hand, keep your counsel, and people will always maintain their interest and respect. When it comes to the press, and to fans, be polite, give your autograph and let your work do the talking.
I’m pleased to say that in those early days, and in all the years I’ve been acting, whatever the press have said about my father – and my involvement with him – has never closed any doors for me professionally. Not that I’m aware of, anyway. I’ve never been refused a job because of my background or who I am. If anything, who I am and where I come from helped me in the early days. Back then, people in the industry didn’t give two hoots about such trivialities – it was the acting they were interested in, and littl
e else. One man in particular – Paul Knight, who I mentioned briefly before – was always behind me in so many ways. Paul has been responsible for some of the greatest TV ever made in this country, and he often called me up with ideas for my next job. It’s down to people like him that I’ve always had work, and I can’t thank him enough.
Although acting was always a joy, none of it had really meant anything to me while Dad had been out of reach. It was only once he came back that I really began to flourish, and one of my proudest moments was the first time my father got to see me doing what I loved on stage. I was nearly 20, focusing on theatre work, and had landed a part in Gotcha, an iconic one-hour play by Barrie Keeffe. It’s about disaffected youth within a failing education system, and, loving the part, I went for it with gusto. Actors such as Karl Johnson and Phil Davis had been in Gotcha and I saw the role as a fantastic opportunity. My TV work had been great, but mainly for kids, and this was the first adult work I really got my teeth into. It was a meaty, weighty part, something that required that little extra passion and commitment.
A brilliant director called Adrian Shergold – who’d acted with me on A Bunch of Fives – had suggested me for the part, and before I knew it I was working under Richard Ireson with proper actors in a proper acting environment. The play was put on at the Croydon Warehouse, a well-established and respected lunchtime theatre on the fringe circuit that Adrian and Richard ran together.
My character was ‘the Kid’, a rebellious teenager who catches two teachers – played by Peter White and Penny Casdagli – at it in a storeroom and holds them hostage for an hour by holding a cigarette over the open petrol cap of a motorbike. A wonderful, demanding part to play. The mind games at work reveal the Kid to be much more intelligent than the teachers previously gave him credit for, and I simply loved the dramatic tension of it all. The audience were so close to the stage that the actors were practically in their laps, and the lack of distance between us and them made for an immediacy and intensity that I thrived on. You could feel the audience were genuinely frightened by the power of this teenager who was only a couple of yards away, and playing him was a real thrill.
The day Dad came along with the rest of the family gave me such a feeling of pride. It meant the world to have him in the audience looking at living proof I was going somewhere. I’d first told Dad of my acting ambitions while he was behind bars, and now the result of that conversation was on stage before him. Amusingly, though, the audience got to see a little bit more than was intended during this performance.
One of the play’s scenes involves the PE teacher getting so frustrated that he gives the Kid a good hiding – a savage beating, to be precise – and Peter White and I had practised very hard to make the moment as convincing as possible. Peter is one of our most powerful stage actors, and in the end we worked out the scene so it was just right. During his onslaught I would face away from the audience and lie with my hands cupped against my chest so that Peter could kick into my hands. This made things look and sound pretty realistic, but on this occasion art imitated life a little too much – Peter missed my hands and kicked me right across the jaw!
My head snapped back, my family gasped, and for a second poor Peter froze. He’s such a gentle soul, and I could see him trying to hide his horror. I was pretty dazed for a few moments, but the adrenalin of being on stage kept me going. The show had to go on! I looked up at Peter and subtly indicated to him to keep going. He gave me another few kicks, this time squarely into my hands, and soon enough the curtain was down and Peter was off fetching some ice for my sore head.
I knew my parents would be worried, so I rushed out to see them. The pain was really bad now I was offstage, but soon we were all laughing about it. ‘I knew it looked too good,’ said Dad. ‘He really caught you, didn’t he?’
I nodded, but luckily I could take a punch. The eternal young man in me likes to think I could still handle such a mishap. Hopefully, the opportunity for me to find out won’t arise.
That afternoon was so special, and I think it meant as much to Dad as it did to me. Gotcha was a success, and I went on to appear in Killing Time, part of the same trilogy. During that run I was also doing Nigel Baldwin’s Irish Eyes and English Tears at the Royal Court over in Sloane Square, so was performing twice a day – once in the afternoon, once in the evening. It was as demanding as hell, but I loved it. Irish Eyes is about a group of Chelsea FC fans, one of whom strikes up a friendship with a tramp, and I worked alongside some great actors for that production – among them Karl Johnson, Alfred Molina, Chris Fairbank (best known as Albert Arthur Moxey in Auf Wiedersehen, Pet) and Ian Redford. They were the hotshot actors of the day, and as the youngest person in the company I felt privileged to be working with all of them. Karl Johnson in particular is one of the nuttiest, most eccentric of people, and an absolute joy to watch on stage. I used to drool watching him and the other guys rehearsing, and I learned so much from them. One afternoon they came to see me in Killing Time, which was fantastic and touching too.
It was those guys who first suggested I got myself a different agent. I’d been with the Italia Conti agency for years, and they had been amazing. Conti’s were great for kids’ stuff, but I wasn’t a kid any more, and it was time to move on. Eventually I ended up with the wonderful Bill Horne, sadly now passed away. Bill was pushy, but in the nicest possible way. He saw that I was a little wayward, that I’d nicked some great parts, but he also recognised that I was sometimes a little slapdash, a little unambitious, shall we say. I desperately wanted to act but was lacking in the discipline of going out and getting it. I’d done well so far, but Bill reminded me that my luck wouldn’t last for ever. I had to keep putting myself out there, and Bill helped me do just that.
One day Bill called me into his office, saying he wanted to talk. I was worried I’d done something wrong, but it turned out the opposite was true.
‘I’ve got big plans for you,’ he said. ‘I think you’ve got a lot to offer and that you can go far in this business. But you really need to learn the ropes. You’ve got to go and learn your trade, so no more TV for a while.’
I was loving my TV work, so this wasn’t exactly music to my ears. Still, I listened on.
‘You’ve got to further immerse yourself in the fringe scene, go out there and do your apprenticeship. You won’t get much money for it, but if you do as I say you’ll reap the dividends later on. Trust me.’
I trusted Bill’s judgement and, looking back, I was right to. These days you see so many young actors coming up on TV soaps, but, once their part is killed off, their careers often go the same way. Who knows, if I’d stayed in TV with theatre on the side, post-soap obscurity might have been my fate. Luckily, I had Bill to guide me, and I’ll forever be grateful to him.
Following that conversation, I ended up performing at just about every fringe theatre in London, and it was during that time that I really made my bones and learned what hard work really meant. I did some great plays with some brilliant actors and honed my craft. And all the while I was still there for Dad and the business. All things considered, I was working my socks off, and the combination of theatre and work with Dad meant I had a few quid in my pocket too.
But it wasn’t a case of all work and no play making Jack a dull boy. When not hard at it, the chaps knew how to relax, and there was plenty of socialising. Mondays and Thursdays were the firm’s two drinking days. Business was often involved, but the point was to have a good drink with the people closest to your heart. The A & R was a regular haunt, and not just Mondays and Thursdays either. Dad and I often dropped by after his morning meets. We’d park up behind Charing Cross Road, walk up Denmark Street – or Tin Pan Alley – and up into Ronnie and Mick’s place. You were bang in the centre of London, but once you entered the A & R you were shut off from everything and in another world. All the shoplifters used to come in offering whatever they’d nicked that morning, and more often than not I’d end up buying something nice for myself, Mum or whatever gi
rl I was seeing at the time. Shoplifters were brilliant in those days – you never had to buy anything over the counter, as they had it all covered: cashmere jackets, suits, fine shoes, handbags, jewellery. They were like Savile Row tailors – once they knew your size they never forgot. You’d be having a drink and one of them would approach you. ‘You’re a 42 short, aren’t you, Jamie? I’ve got a lovely Aquascutum two-piece suit. Look lovely on you. Three hundred, but I’ll take a oner for it.’ If you wanted something, chances were you’d find it at the A & R.
Dad’s bar at the Ellerslie was a good place. A wonderful environment to drink in. But it was just one of several little ‘shush clubs’ Dad had set up with Uncle George all round South London. They were unlicensed drinking dens – similar in nature to the American ‘speakeasy’ – and were always filled with diverse, edgy and characterful crowds intent on keeping their drinking times alive after hours.
Wherever we drank, it felt so natural standing shoulder to shoulder with the chaps. These were my dad’s friends and my uncles, and being part of their world gave me a sense of belonging and confidence that I’ve always been grateful for. Their grace and manners rubbed off on me and have carried me through many a situation in life that I might otherwise have shirked from.
When I wasn’t out with Dad, I’d be with my best friends Pandy and John Bunce. John was a fellow South Londoner who had also gone to Conti’s, but had left just before I’d arrived. He and Pandy were very close. John’s family and mine turned out to have connections. John’s dad Joe – a lovely man sadly no longer with us – had a waste-paper business down by Lambeth Walk, where a lot of my family come from. It also emerged that John and I had played football against each other when I was at Christ’s College and he was at Riverdale, another private school in South London. I always maintain we beat them, while he maintains they beat us. That aside, John and I are as close as can be. He has been a staunch and loyal friend to me. There is a favour he did for me that I will remain eternally grateful for. But more of that later.
Gangsters, Guns & Me - Now I'm in Eastenders, but once I was on the run. This is my true story Page 12