Paul Daniels

by Paul Daniels

  From then on it was love at every stolen opportunity but it was me, however, that kept pushing her away. Yes, there was the well-hidden fear of what had happened in my last marriage but also I was 40 years old and Debbie was 20. Nikki meant a lot to me and I didn’t want to hurt her. Talk about being in a turmoil. Over and over for the next few years, Debbie and I would have flings that sometimes lasted quite a while but it would be me that would keep interrupting the affair.

  ‘You’ve got to understand, love. The press will have a field day if they find out about you. They’ll murder us on the age difference and look how your parents, sister and brother will feel when they go to work, or school or whatever. Go and find another fellow.’ So that’s how we met, and parted, and met and parted, for years.

  Debbie was a great assistant – one of the best, if not the best, in the world when it comes to helping in the theatre of magic. Those who have written about the ‘Blonde Bimbo’ who got the job on TV because of her affair with the magician have no idea what they are talking about. The Blonde Bimbo has a degree (I haven’t) and an amazing knowledge of all forms of dance. Debbie got the job on the television series when I wasn’t there. I had refused to go to the auditions because I didn’t want the press to do to me what they had done to Bruce Forsyth when his girlfriend was a hostess on the show.

  Martin, my son, was 16 while we were in Great Yarmouth. Paul, his older brother, had started to work for me in Blackpool but didn’t seem to be very disciplined in his work habits. When we were doing television shows they would both help me whenever necessary and both helped out backstage with the props and the scenery. Paul became a particularly good flies man. That’s the guy who hauls the scenery up into the air and lowers it to the stage when it is needed. A good fly man never bangs the scenery on to the stage but brings it to its ‘dead’ perfectly. Paul could land it like a feather.

  In fact, every job Paul took on, he did very well. Assisting in the show, on stage, he seemed uncomfortable and had probably inherited my shyness, but again he did the job very well. He would help out solving problems with fitting up the show with a lovely sense of logic. When we put out demonstrators selling a range of magic he outsold every other demonstrator. He became a financial adviser and did well. Paul gave that up for tiling and, having seen his work, it’s good. All of which made what happened to him later very sad.

  Probably because, when I left school, I had taken on a job in which I had no interest, I told all three of my sons that they should do what they really wanted to do.

  ‘I don’t care if it is picking rice in the paddy fields of China; if it is in your heart then you should go for it. If you fail, that’s OK, but it would be terrible to be older and still thinking, “if only I’d …” If you have a dream, then do it.’

  My career now took on a life of its own. I would do a summer season, a television season, a run of corporate cabarets, nightclubs, radio and so on. Holidays were grabbed between all of this and I would take the lads whenever I could. Gary was a bit too young to go on the trip we made early in 1980 when we went to Los Angeles and it rained. Oh boy, did it rain. Houses were being washed away. Landslides were blocking roads. We went to Disneyland and got well soaked. I took the decision to change the holiday, rented a car and set off for Las Vegas. After numerous diversions we managed to find a way to cross the Mojave Desert. It was pale green with plants and flowers popping up all over the place. The locals kept saying, ‘You are so lucky to see it like this.’ But we had that stuff back home and we wanted to see a desert! We were all ill with colds and flu.

  One day, shopping in Vegas, the whole of the shop shook. An earthquake. I grabbed the lads and Nikki and got them out of the shop fast. Nobody else took any notice. That night on the television they announced, in passing, that there had been an earth tremor in Las Vegas but the big news was that it was still raining in LA. We thought they’d got their priorities wrong.

  We went back to LA over snow-covered roads. This was turning into the holiday from hell so I organised flights to Florida where at last we could enjoy the orange groves and the theme parks and we finished up having a great time.

  That was the year the full summer show moved to Bournemouth. Once again, I was in the Pavilion Theatre where I had spent a happy summer season in The Val Doonican Show. Now I was back as top-of-the-bill and the show was called Summer Magic. Bournemouth has a jungle drum system of communication. It must have. How else can you account for the arrival of dozens, possibly hundreds of requests for charity appearances around the area before you even know you are going there yourself? I said ‘yes’ to them all. I hope I am a charitable man, but that wasn’t the real reason I took them all on this time.

  An act called Little and Large were ‘hot’ at the time and the Civic Authority let it be known to my management that they fully expected Little and Large to do the major business and that our show might break even. A summer season show extends for a few weeks before and after the main body of holidaymakers arrive in the town and that is normally a quiet time, as very few locals bother going to see shows that they believe, incorrectly, are ‘just for the grockles’. That’s a south coast word for tourists.

  By doing all the local charity jobs, I believed that the locals would support the show and they did. There was another ‘benefit’ that we hadn’t anticipated. They told all their friends, visitors and holidaymakers to come to the show as well and we did great business.

  In the early part of the summer, I agreed to do a pantomime for Dick Condon, the manager of the Theatre Royal in Norwich. Now there was a real manager of a theatre. The whole building buzzed with excitement all day long. He had snack bars and restaurant service, photographic and art exhibitions and he sold everything he could to do with the productions that were on at any given time. He seemed to be everywhere with his lovely Irish accent, greeting people, usually by name. You would find Dick wandering around the town saying, ‘Hello there,’ to passers-by, ‘we haven’t seen you in the theatre for a while.’ Way to go, Dick, way to go.

  Not many civic theatre managers have that drive or initiative. As an ex-internal auditor, some of them drive me crazy, but then they are not generally appointed from showbusiness but come from other administrative jobs. Civic theatres can, and should, make a profit and not be a burden on the taxpayers. It can be done. Dick Condon proved it.

  Ask any performer from any branch of the theatrical arts and they will have their own horror stories of having to work in modern theatres, designed by architects that the local council have appointed but who have no experience in theatre at all. Mind you, I have heard the same moans from hospital nurses, television workers and many others that their buildings, too, don’t fit the purpose for which they are supposed to be designed.

  I have been to ‘theatres’ that are designed as ‘multi-purpose’ buildings. This means that they don’t correctly fit any of the ‘multi-purposes’. Gymnasiums, for example, in which the seats pull out are acoustic nightmares for bouncing sound and kill the shows that the managers try to put on. We have had to walk through the corridor, where the audience is coming in, to get to the stage. That destroys the ‘magic’ of theatre. It also prevents you carrying and setting up props.

  Let me tell you about one theatre that embodies all the errors in one design.

  The local council used their own in-house architect. On the day of the grand opening, the first artist knocked on the stage door and asked to be shown to her dressing room. ‘Dressing room?’ asked the stage door keeper. The architect had forgotten to build any. So they quickly brought caravans down for the acts to change in. This blocked the car park completely. For the first few months, performers had to run outside in the cold to temporary caravans in order to get changed. Eventually, they stuck an ugly block of dressing rooms on to the rear of the building.

  The orchestra leader turned up next and asked to see the orchestra pit, normally a long ‘slot’ across the front of the stage. He was directed to two egg-shaped holes in the front
apron that protruded forward of the proscenium arch.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked, and was told that was where the musicians would be placed.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m sure that it looks very nice but if I am in that hole, how can I conduct the musicians in the other hole and vice versa?’

  Soon the stage management discovered that backstage was fitted with hemp ropes, which haven’t been used in the theatre for decades. When it is a dry day, the hemp dries out and the scenery lifts off the stage. When it is wet, the scenery sags. Still, that was nothing compared with the fact that the grid, from which all the scenery hangs, was set above the stage at only half the height of the proscenium opening. If you are not a theatrical person, let me explain. This meant that all the scenery, when lifted to the top, would still be half in view of the audience. The crew had to fold everything in half to get it out of sight.

  The ceiling of the theatre, going forward from the stage to mid-stalls, is angled downwards so voices from the stage tend to hit it and bounce back instead of going to the back of the theatre. To get over this, they put speakers at the back, which can be very confusing if you are sitting more than half-way back in the stalls. You see the show in front of you and the sound comes from behind you.

  The last error is wonderful. I love this. Along the ridge at the bottom of where the ceiling dips and half-way back in the theatre, is a curtain rail. We asked what it was for and we were told that this was a brilliant idea.

  ‘When there are not many people in the audience we can close curtains across that rail and make it into a smaller theatre, which will make it more intimate and better for the performers.’

  Isn’t that a good idea? Not really. The spotlights and control boxes are behind the curtain.

  Wait for it folks – this theatre won a design award! Do you remember when Prince Charles had a go at architects? I’m on his side.

  You’ll probably think I am kidding but while writing this chapter, Mervyn O’Horan telephoned me. He is trying to book a tour of theatres and, in the British Theatre Directory, the Theatre Royal at Hanley does not have its telephone number listed. It actually says, ‘telephone ex-directory. Please contact venue for details.’ How the hell do you do that? It has to be a joke, you think. When Mervyn telephoned directory enquiries he was told, ‘sorry, it’s ex-directory.’ He telephoned the local tourist office and they gave him the number. All together now: ‘There’s no business like showbusiness …’

  While I’m having a moan, I might as well have a pop at some ‘luvvies’ and modern directors who think that it is artistic to go back to the design of theatres in the Middle Ages. Theatres developed from the streets and marketplaces into amphitheatres and buildings where you didn’t have to rely on passing a hat around, but could charge customers to come in and watch. Somebody else added scenery, but by the time you get to Shakespeare they are still working in the round. Over the years that followed, theatre slowly developed by placing drama, the musical and other theatrical entertainments into a picture frame known as a proscenium arch. Consequently, the whole of the audience’s imagination was filled with the only thing they could see – the play, the musical and the comedy.

  In recent years, some artistic quacks have decided to regress centuries of progress by designing and building apron stages that jut out into the audience, theatres that go back to ‘theatre in the round’. Subsequently, you sit in your seat watching the actor on stage while in the distance you can also see the opposite side of the audience where a woman offers her friend sweets, or picks her nose. This is a major step backwards in enjoying a dramatic experience, because your imagination is filled not only with what is happening on stage but also with what is going on in the audience as well. Alongside this is the disconcerting fact that the audience on the other side of the room is also watching you. The idea of restoring Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre might have been a wonderfully historic idea as a museum piece, it might make an interesting night out, but the thought that it is the best way of watching plays, even those of Shakespeare himself, is one of the silliest ideas this century.

  Enough of this moaning, Daniels, get on with your story …

  As the Bournemouth season was coming to an end, I just happened to mention to Richard Mills that I was going to do a pantomime in Norwich. He gave me, as they say in the North, usually with their arms folded across their bosoms, ‘a funny look’. Not that Richard has bosoms, well, not that I’ve noticed. The next day he came to me and said that the reason for the ‘look’ was that he and Bernard Delfont had been talking about taking my show into the West End.

  This really was amazing because there hadn’t been a successful Variety show in the West End for ages, and I do mean ages. I rarely get excited at the promise of something that might happen. So many times, when I was working the clubs, some agent, manager or television producer would promise you the earth and nothing would happen. I learnt not to look forward and risk disappointment, but to enjoy things when they happened. This promise, however, really gave me a buzz. The problem was that they already had a show in the Prince of Wales Theatre and they were not sure when it would run out of steam. I took a gamble and got in touch with Dick Condon. Without hesitation, he released me from my contract, appreciating that a season in the West End would be far better for my career. He didn’t have to do that, but Dick was a really nice man.

  I couldn’t believe that I, Ted Daniels from South Bank, was going to open at the Prince of Wales. I even read up on the history of the place. Originally built in 1884, it was demolished and replaced with a new version, which became the envy of every other theatre owner. The reason for this was its key position, sandwiched between Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square and was rightly described as the best location for a theatre in the West End. The foundation stone was laid by Gracie Fields in 1937 and it quickly became established as a theatre of musical comedy and Variety. Its colourful history had seen the likes of Benny Hill, Harry Secombe, Frankie Howard and Norman Wisdom appear there, as well as some of the best musicals including Underneath the Arches, a tribute to Flanagan and Allen.

  Arriving for the first day of a three-week rehearsal schedule, I met the Company Manager who would be responsible for the day-to-day wellbeing of the cast. My two boys, Martin and Paul Jnr, worked on the backstage management of my personal props and Dad was in full-flow with all the illusion-building. Already on his hands and knees was John Short, happily painting long slats of wood with brightly coloured ultraviolet paint, which would be used in the magical opening sequence. John was the Deputy Stage Manager and had the onerous task of cueing the technical changes on the show each night. When presenting live magic, timing is essential and John later proved to be the best man for the job.

  I was certainly fortunate to be surrounded by the best the business could offer including Production Manager Roy Murray, Choreographer Fred Peters, Musical Director Paul Burnett and the wonderful Dickie Hurran. This vastly experienced stage Director and ex-hoofer was not liked by a lot of people because he liked to get things right. There was even a rumour that he had thrown a brick at an assistant stage manager on his last show. A tough man, he would shout and holler at his stage management and crew one minute, but take them to lunch the next. Somehow, he was able to keep business and pleasure separate.

  Needing to buy a top hat for one of the routines, Dickie and I strolled down to Dunn & Co in the Strand. While we stood waiting to be served, we watched how a young salesman attempted to sell an umbrella to an American and failed. Once he had left the shop, Dickie said to the assistant, ‘that’s not the way you sell an umbrella.’

  Picking up the parasol, Dickie went into one of his old song-and-dance-man routines, looking like something out of Singing in the Rain. The umbrella flew around his neck, his arms and his body before he spun it up into the air, caught it and slid it down with the point between his crossed legs and said, ‘that’s how you sell an umbrella!’

  Without meaning to, I apparently endeared myself
to the staff and crew of the theatre. During what is known as the fit-up, when all the scenery, sound and lighting rigs are being built, we worked well into the night. They were all a bit surprised when I worked with them. I love to know where everything is in a show and also how it works. It got to about 2.00am and I left. Apparently, there were comments of, ‘I wondered how long he’d stick it.’ About half-an-hour later, I turned up with large trays of fish and chips, having woken up a fish and chip shop owner and persuaded him to cook the order for me. From then on I was God!

  During rehearsals for It’s Magic, I got a telephone call from the New London Theatre where Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical Cats was in preview. Wayne Sleep, playing Mr Mistopheles, was having problems in his dance routine where he had to perform a couple of lightweight tricks. I dashed in, watched the dance routine, pointed out the reasons it wasn’t working, trained Wayne very quickly in the handling of the props and dashed out again. It was months later that I thought I should have asked for money. Now that’s not like a Yorkshireman, is it?

  The original contract for It’s Magic at the Prince of Wales was for a one-week run with options and I was a bit miffed when I found that out. Now I understand the business side of things a little better and don’t blame them for ‘taking out insurance’, but at the time I thought they didn’t have much confidence in me. My contract also stated I needed to attend a medical, as this was what the insurance company required. Unlike a play, where you can substitute a main part with an understudy, this show, and indeed any show that features a ‘variety turn’ relies entirely on the featured performer. In this case, that was me, and there’s only one of those!

  Off I went to BUPA where I had to sit down in front of a computer screen and was asked to fill in the electronic questionnaire, which would give an automatic health check. It was a great system. Operators were trained, not in a wide range of skills, but in applying specific health checks. One would check your blood pressure, another a hearing test and so on. All their conclusions were fed into the computer to enable it to arrive at a final analysis on my wellbeing or otherwise. I thought that BUPA had it right when recognising that trained nurses were not required to conduct these simple tests. Maybe the NHS could have saved some money by adopting this procedure?