by Dave Spikey
One of the highlights for the viewer, so I’m told, were the auditions that were held over the end credits. We resurrected this idea from the sketch show that Peter and I had started writing (It’s Dick Martin), in which two of the returning characters were theatre producers, who sat in theatre stalls in deep conversation, while a succession of acts trooped on and off the stage to audition – only to be halted by a loud ‘Next!’, sometimes even before they started. On Phoenix Nights, they ranged from the revolving spaceman, through the female magician who inadvertently threw a dove into the extractor fan, to the legendary Bolton comedian Bob Williamson, who appeared twice beside mechanical dancing toys. Along the way was a one-legged Elvis (‘Blue Suede Shoe’), an inept escapologist, a beautiful girl contortionist who ‘shot’ ping-pong balls at the stunned committee, and the fabulous ‘Rumbergers’, the old couple who danced the paso doble in extravagant and extrovert style.
John and Marion were their first names. John, bless him, died recently after providing years of hilarity for all of us who were lucky enough to see them dance. The genius of the Rumbergers was that they appeared to be totally serious about the dance. As Marion wound herself up to perform a high kick, John would give her a disdainful look and throw in an occasional ‘Hai!’ in matador pose. You had to see them live to catch and appreciate all the wonderful little nuances that they had built into their routines. The beauty of their performance was that people didn’t know how to react at first. Should they pity this old couple who were making fools of themselves; try not to laugh at them, even though it was all quite embarrassing until … Hang on! They know what they’re doing! Massive relief; we can laugh.
During filming, we did two rehearsals with them and about five takes, and I can honestly say that we were still laughing as loud and hard at their final performance as we were at the first. Genius and lovely people, who appeared on a few of my solo shows later.
Another honourable mention must go to Ted Robbins for his faultless performance as Den Parry, Brian Potter’s nemesis from the Banana Grove club down the road from the Phoenix. Ted’s performance established him as one of the country’s top comedy actors, to add to his existing reputation as a great stand-up comedian, first-class radio presenter and all-round good bloke.
Phoenix Nights was nominated for several awards, including a BAFTA, where we lost out to The Office. We gained our revenge over the brilliant Gervais and Merchant comedy by winning Best Comedy at the Royal Television Society Awards. We also won a People’s Choice British Comedy Award over The Office by a landslide on a phone vote, which was incredibly pleasing. Along the way, I lost out in the ‘Best Newcomer’ category to the lovely Kris Marshall from My Family. (Nominated as ‘Best Newcomer’ at fifty-odd – not bad, eh? ‘Best newcomer’! In all seriousness, it was amazing to be nominated for such a high-profile prize, especially in a performance role, and I was really proud of the accolade.)
Peter was also awarded and accepted the ‘Writers’ Guild of Great Britain’ award for best writer for Phoenix Nights. Strange, this – since there were three writers. I did have a thought that maybe he would go away and think about all the hard work that Neil and I had put into the series – the hours and hours of research, the ideas and characters we came up with, the great storylines and the dialogue we wrote – and that maybe he might change his mind, but he didn’t.
Even in the wake of this, I think we still expected there to be a Phoenix Nights 3. We had a drawer full of ideas and it would have worked, but Peter didn’t want to carry on. He announced that he wanted to take Max and Paddy away on a road trip and we said absolutely fine, foolishly assuming that he’d retain the writing team. I got on with it and wrote reams of dialogue for the bouncers and outlined suggested storylines and plots. I filtered them through to Peter. After about a month of hearing nothing, I phoned him – to be told that he’d changed his mind and intended writing it with Paddy. Fair enough, but I thought that he could have told me earlier. And that was that.
The production company phoned me a few months later and said that in one episode of the new show, there was to be a scene at the Phoenix Club, and would I be interested in appearing. I asked for the relevant scenes to be sent. When I saw them, I declined the offer – because the appearance was basically Jerry and the other regulars stripped naked standing against a wall while being hosed down by the fire brigade in a storyline about an anthrax scare, I believe. That was it, that was the scene, no dialogue just decontamination, so I didn’t fancy it.
The scene is in the show. I have a body double and over the Phoenix Club entrance is a banner advertising ‘Jerry’s 60th Birthday’ for some reason. Hilarious.
My Dad
MY DAD’S HEALTH took a turn for the worse in the early nineties and he was diagnosed with Congestive Heart Disease (CHD). At first, it didn’t incapacitate him too much, but he got progressively worse over the following years, developing oedema in his legs and other circulatory problems.
Around the time of That Peter Kay Thing, he was suffering and his condition had deteriorated. I remember him struggling to walk from the kitchen one Saturday and saying, ‘Look at the state of me. This is what it’s come to.’ It was heartbreaking seeing him look so sad and dejected by this incapacitation.
His worsening illness coincided with Kay’s daughter Jenny being appointed as a Senior Technician in the Cardiology Unit at the Royal Albert Edward Infirmary, Wigan. She suggested we send him there for assessment by her consultant, because something about his condition didn’t sit well with her under the heading of CHD. Her instincts were right – and after various examinations and cardiac testing, it was found that he didn’t have CHD at all, he had a very rare condition called constrictive pericarditis – trust him! In this disorder, the pericardium around the heart calcifies and inhibits heart function. It was, in some ways, a boost for us all, but also, in many ways, a source of anger and frustration, knowing that my dad had suffered all those years misdiagnosed and undergoing incorrect treatment.
On the positive side, the condition is treatable and, if the patient is fit enough, the pericardium can be removed surgically, freeing up the heart to function normally. The question was, was Dad fit enough to undergo such invasive surgery? He was only seventy-one, but the years struggling with the disorder had taken their toll. He went for a barrage of tests. It was lucky that I had finished work at this time, as I could ferry him from hospital to hospital for consultations, examinations and tests. They found that his liver enzymes were raised and weren’t too happy about operating until they’d got to the bottom of why and so sent him for further tests.
Neil, Peter and I had gone up to St Gregory’s late one afternoon to observe a ‘Free and Easy’ function, which is a bit like karaoke, but with the club backing band providing the music and with no screen for the lyrics. Anyone can get up and sing a song. It’s good fun and we used the idea in Phoenix 2. While there, I took a call on my mobile from the cardiologist at Wigan, who told me that my dad had got liver cancer. He asked me for my guidance on whether he should tell him or not, or whether I wanted to take responsibility for doing it.
I didn’t hesitate; I thanked him for all his brilliant efforts on behalf of my dad and said that I would do it. I wasn’t sure if Dad wanted to know the truth, though, so I decided to ask my mum what she thought. I drove straight up to their house to see them. My mum didn’t think we should tell my dad, and I respected her judgement. He knew, though, I’m sure of that. He’d retained a degree of knowledge regarding biochemistry tests and he must have known what his rising levels of liver enzymes indicated. This was in October/November time. All the family gathered at Mum and Dad’s for Christmas and there is a great photo of him with us three kids (you can see it in the illustrated section of this book).
It was a Sunday evening in January and I was in the pub with my mates when I got a phone call from my ex-wife Julie, who said that I should come down to Mum and Dad’s. I asked how bad he was, and she said that there was no hurry, and I
knew then that he was dead. Although we’d all expected it, I was shocked because I’d been to visit him on Saturday afternoon as usual and although he’d looked poorly, he’d not seemed that bad.
Kay and I drove down to Bolton. By the time we got there, Julie and Stephen and Jill were there, together with my brother Pete. My wonderful father was lying on the bed that he’d had brought downstairs months earlier. He looked very peaceful and I sat with him, stroking his long grey hair, for a long and last time.
I have so many vivid, wonderful memories of him. So many that I could fill another book with his amazing life story; I’ve just realized that I’ve not even mentioned his venture into greengrocery!
I haven’t said much either about his love of horse-racing, which he inherited from his father and passed on to me and my brother. I haven’t dwelt on the traditional Saturday afternoons, when we would all gather at Mum and Dad’s to pick our horses and discuss form, and Dad would trot out his latest theory – ‘Always back Henry Candy on a Saturday’ – then we’d go down the road to Ladbrokes and put our bets on, and in between races stroll across to the King’s Head for a couple of pints and a catch-up on how our weeks had been. I remember arriving late one Saturday and going straight to Ladbrokes to join the queue for the cashier. A head turned round down the queue and our Pete smiled, and then he indicated further down the line and there was my dad, and right at the front was Grandad – makes you proud, three generations united in throwing money away on a horse called ‘Lame Boy’ in the two-thirty at Uttoxeter.
Dad used to shout at the screen in despair at tactics employed by the jockey. He hated his horse leading the race and would moan loudly, ‘No! What is he doing?’ Mind you, he’d do the same if his horse was dropped out last of the field in the early stages. And he would never, ever back Lester Piggott.
This position dated back to an incident that arose when I was a toddler and my dad was working at Walkers Tannery. It was Friday and pay day and there was an evening meeting at Ascot. Dad had a tip for a horse ridden by Lester Piggott. This was a seriously strong tip and so (and I think alcohol may have played a part …), he bet his whole week’s wages on this horse. So that was the mortgage money, the household bills money, my tooth fairy money – you get the picture.
The horse won at three to one! He’d trebled his money and he’d be coming home with the equivalent of near enough a month’s wages. As he celebrated, there was an announcement – ‘Steward’s Enquiry’ – and all went quiet. You have to remember that this was in the days before televisions appeared in bookies; the commentary was audio only and so nobody knew exactly what the enquiry was about until, ‘Second objects to the first for taking his ground in the final half furlong.’ How he must have sweated on that result, which came after five minutes, ‘Objection granted, the placings are reversed’; he’d lost all his money and he never bet on ‘that Lester Piggott’ again.
I know that Dad was incredibly proud of his three children. I had had a successful career in the hospital labs and then in comedy; Joy was a gifted artist and had travelled the world; and Pete had overcome all odds to forge a successful career in IT. Dad said to me and Mum in a moment of reflection just before he died, ‘Where did we go wrong, Marian? Our three kids have had successful careers, they all live in lovely big houses and drive nice cars, and look at us, back where we started, in a little terraced house just up the road from where we were born.’
And I said, ‘You didn’t go wrong, Dad, your children are testament to that. All those things you just said about us, all the achievements we’ve had in life, all the good things we enjoy and our children enjoy, are because of you and Mum. You didn’t go wrong at all.’
He didn’t live to see Phoenix Nights 2, but when we were filming it, Peter let me take up the tapes to show him and he loved them.
This is a short extract from what I said about him at his funeral …
I know a lot of people think that they’ve got the best dad in the world, but we never thought that. We always knew for sure that we had the best dad in the world. The greatest thing, the most precious gift we got from him were not presents, not toys, nothing like that; it was that we always felt loved, and still do.
He inspired us, and later his grandchildren, in so many ways – and he did it simply by setting us a good example. He was a good man, a kind man and a loving man. He was an exceptionally bright and intelligent man, and without his inspiration, none of us, his children, would be where we are today. The depth of his knowledge was amazing, yet he never boasted about it, never lectured us or imposed it upon us; he just used to beat us hollow when we watched University Challenge every week.
When he died, I found on his table near his chair books on art, the Bible and a volume by Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the theologian who was martyred by the Nazis. In his bookcase were many of the great works of literature, poetry and philosophy. He could quote Nietszche and Kierkegaard, Plato and Marcus Aurelius with authority. There were books on his favourite artists – Renoir, Degas and Van Gogh – and his record collection featured all the well-known classical works, as well as some of the more obscure works of Mahler, Schubert, Beethoven and Mozart. And as we all know, the amazing thing about all that is that he was self-taught. He left school with no qualifications apart from a twenty-five-yard swimming certificate, which he must have cheated to get because I learnt at a very early age that he always had one foot on the bottom.
I could go on for hours talking about my dad, but the bottom line is that if I am half the man he was, I’m more than happy because he was a very special person and my best friend. I can’t begin to tell you how much I miss him.
On the night he died, I asked him for a sign that he was alright and he sent me one; so don’t worry, he’s okay.
Mayday, Mayday
KAY PROPOSED to me a few months later. I say ‘proposed’, but what actually happened was that we were sitting in the back garden on a Sunday morning and she was reading the paper when she suddenly said, ‘Do you know that if you die, I don’t get your pension.’
We arranged the wedding for June 2003, but kept it a secret, and nearer the time invited friends and family to a barbecue at our house. We booked Salmesbury Hall for the wedding as it has a lovely little chapel for the ceremony and a old banqueting hall complete with massive fireplace for the reception. We left it until the last minute before telling everybody that we were having a wedding and not a barbecue.
We were blessed with the only sunny day in June 2003 and everyone turned out in their finery. We had a jazz trio playing on the lawn – musician friends of Kay’s – to welcome the guests. Our daughters were bridesmaids, my son Steve was my best man, and Kay walked down the aisle to ‘You Belong to Me’. When she got to the front, we had a little dance, which sounds a bit cheesy, but sort of worked. It was only a short civil ceremony, but I got quite emotional and struggled to hold back the tears.
After the ceremony, we had all the photographs to take and another friend of ours, John, did the honours. We’d had this idea that while we were occupied with the photos, the jazz trio should play and the guests would be served a cocktail of peach schnapps, vodka and champagne. We’d not really thought that through, had we?
As we walked back across the lawn towards our guests, I said to Kay, ‘Is it me or do they look blurred?’ When we had left them a mere half an hour before, they’d looked smart and sensible – and now they were all a bit wobbly and giggly. Some of the men had the ladies’ hats on at a jaunty angle and some ladies had lost their shoes. They all looked ridiculously happy.
After the meal, I made a short speech, during which I had to stop a couple of times when talking about my dad, and then Steve made a brilliant best man’s speech, funny and touching in equal measure. Other friends joined us for the evening ‘do’ and Archie Kelly sang ‘Me and Mrs Jones’ for our first dance.
I’d chartered a yacht on a Turkish flotilla for the honeymoon because over the past couple of years we’d become interested in sailing –
don’t ask me why, I have no idea, except that I’ve always been drawn to the sea. (I need to go back to Vinegar Vera to find out why, unless it was the Noah’s ark period.)
We began our new hobby by going with our friends Tony and Barbara on a ‘learn to sail’ holiday around the Ionian islands. This was a big deal for Kay, who gets travel-sick big time, but it was something I’d always wanted to do, so she got some special seasickness tablets on prescription, bless her. When she was a child, her parents left her behind with her gran when they went on holiday because she was always sick for the whole trip. A year or so before, when I’d got a gig in Singapore, she got sick in the taxi going to Preston station!
As it turned out, we loved sailing and at the end of the week we got a certificate, which proved to be meaningless. We sailed to Lef kas, Ithaca, Megannissi and Kefalonia and even took part in the Ionian Regatta, which was a brilliant experience and in which we came second in class, thanks to our skipper Joel, who was a fantastic sailor. Mind you, it has to be said that he fell into the harbour most nights when he came back from the taverna worse for wear, managing somehow to miss the boat completely when trying to board!
We decided that we wanted to sail more, but we also wanted to gain the qualifications that would allow us to skipper our own yacht, and so we enquired of the Royal Yachting Association (RYA) as to the nearest college that ran a RYA Day Skipper theory class. Unbelievably, it was in Horwich, Bolton – about fifteen minutes down the road from us! So we signed up and studied yacht design and layout, navigation, chart plotting, rules of the ‘road’, sail trimming, safety procedures, meteorology, tidal charts and many other seafaring topics. We both passed and Kay went on to do another year and gained her ‘Coastal Skipper’ certificate.