by Simon Cowell
I was given advice from an executive producer named Paddy Haycocks who was a senior executive of factual programming at Talkback Thames. He had been working in the television industry for over thirty years and had extensive knowledge of news, features and documentaries. He’d worked at every major broadcaster and so offered us guidance and experience.
People were a bit surprised when I arrived with a cameraman in tow. Today, we always ask if people mind being filmed but in the early days we just turned up and shot the rescue and it seemed to work. No one complained and many people enjoyed the opportunity of being in a television show.
We took the tapes to be edited in batches but I was never happy with the post-production. In fairness to the company that did it, my City habits had died hard and I had beaten them into such a good deal in my favour that it wasn’t in their commercial interest to spend much time and effort on the shows. They just wanted to knock them out quickly – churn and burn – whereas I knew we had better footage and the early shows could have been improved if more production time had been spent on them.
I never had any training to be a presenter. I was probably useless at the beginning. I had been fine explaining things to camera when I thought the footage would only be seen by volunteers but those early pieces to camera for the series were excruciating. I felt that I was being stared at. The camera came up and I had a tendency to back away, like a threatened animal. Paddy gave me a bit of media training but it went straight in one ear and out the other. I improved with time and dropped my posh City accent.
To me the transition from rescuer to rescuer with a TV show seemed effortless. It was fun and I enjoyed doing it. I could see the big picture and realized that the TV show would give Wildlife Aid the sort of exposure and platform of which most small charities could only dream. I didn’t stop to consider that anyone else might not feel as positive about the new direction as I did.
In hindsight, I was perhaps inconsiderate. To suddenly make the Wildlife Aid centre the focus of what was essentially a fly-on-the-wall documentary was a big ask for those who were also involved there, not least my broken family. The situation between Jill and me was still delicate. We were separated. The farm was her home. Gemma and Lou were living there too. The volunteers were mainly on Jill’s side and most probably thought I was a monster. I had split up the family but still loomed large over the empire Jill and I created. And I had decided to turn the gaze of a TV camera on it all.
CHAPTER NINE
. . . And He Taketh
Away
WE HAD BEEN filming for six months and everything was going well. There was no end of drama to capture on video and I was confident that the material we were getting would make an engaging television show. Some volunteers refused to be on film while some lapped up the opportunity. Jill was gracious and was involved in the show; as co-founder of Wildlife Aid it was important that she played a role. Lou appeared, too, while Gemma chose not to.
We started filming in the spring of 1996 and had been flat out all spring and summer, our busiest periods. We had shot hundreds of hours of tape, capturing everything from the sublime to the ridiculous. As I had hoped, Steve and I continued to work well as a team because he knew how to get what he needed for the series without getting in my way and I helped the camera angles when I could. On some occasions, when I needed an extra pair of hands, Steve would put the camera down and help out, which was what I expected of him. The wildlife always came first and we tried to be as honest as we could with what we filmed. Sometimes we would film the set-up shots (showing me driving or walking to a location and discussing what was happening) and panoramic location shots out of sequence or after the animal was rescued or released because it was more practical. Often, once the action was underway I could not stop what I was doing just to narrate.
On one occasion we filmed a badger release in a place called Westhumble near Box Hill. We released the badger at twilight and he was slightly sedated so it took him longer than I expected to leave. By the time he had wandered off back into the wild it was too dark to film the set-up shots we needed.
‘It’s fine, we’ll come back tomorrow,’ I said.
The following night Steve, a couple of volunteers and I got in the car and drove back out to the site where the badger had been freed. For continuity we needed the exact light levels from the night before, which we had recorded. When we got there and checked it was far too light and we needed to wait until it got darker.
‘No point sitting out here,’ I said. ‘We may as well find somewhere to wait.’
The nearest place was a local country hostelry so we went there with all our equipment and an empty animal transport box and ordered drinks. Then we ordered a few more. For some strange reason it took a long time to get dark that evening and by the time it was dark enough I was slightly tipsy, which made the walk back to the site in the fading light over banks and rough terrain interesting. I was stumbling around in the gloom while everyone else laughed. It took a while for everyone to compose themselves and just as I was about to start my narration someone farted and we all started giggling like children again. I managed to keep it together long enough and then announced to the camera that it was time to let the badger go. The plan was to film me leaning down and reaching into the cage, at which point we would edit into the shots from the previous night of the badger wandering into the woods.
I held the box by the handle with one hand and reached in with the other. As I did I shook the box a bit to give the impression that the badger was scuffling around inside.
‘He’s lively,’ I said to the camera as I reached in.
The light on the camera went out as it stopped filming.
‘Is it a take?’ I asked Steve.
‘No, it’s not, you knob,’ he replied.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Because the badger was sedated. You were shaking the cage as if it was active!’
On another occasion I was called to a water treatment plant after a worker there had spotted a bird in one of the tanks. The message came through from reception: ‘Bird stuck in waste tank.’ I went with another cameraman I knew at the time and, as we drove to the rescue, I had my fingers crossed that the tank in question was fish-tank sized and that the waste was water run-off. As we neared the plant the smell that greeted us dissolved my optimism.
‘It’s a bloody sewage plant, isn’t it?’ I said grimly.
The vast waterworks consisted of several huge concrete vats sunk into the ground, each around 12 metres across. Within each one water purification was taking place. Raw sewage came in and was pumped through the system, becoming cleaner and cleaner until it was clean enough to be put back into the river system.
We were met at the office by a member of staff who explained the problem.
‘It’s some sort of black bird and it can’t get itself free and it’s in the middle of a tank. It really is in the shit,’ he explained wryly before leading us through the plant. The smell was cloying – it hung in the air and made my eyes water. The guy with us seemed impervious to the stench but I was constantly fighting the urge to vomit. I supposed years spent in that environment had burned away his sense of smell. I don’t think I’ve smelled anything as bad since. Even the most infected wound would have been favourable.
He led us to the side of one of the tanks, which contained a dark cocktail of effluent, not quite solid, not quite liquid. In the middle sat a coot, flapping forlornly and spraying crap over itself with its wings.
The cameraman and I looked at each other.
Normally, such a rescue would require the long net I carried in the car. However, at full extension it was only about 2.5 metres and wouldn’t be long enough to get near the poo-covered coot.
‘We’ll need something longer,’ I said. It was evident that the rescue needed to be done quickly. The fumes were making me feel queasy so heaven knew what effect they were having on the bird. We raced back to the car and shot off to the nearest town where we found a hardw
are store and bought a bundle of bamboo poles. Back at the sewage plant we taped them all together using a rescuer’s best friend – gaffer tape. We taped the lengths of bamboo to the net and managed to extend the reach by another 2 metres or so.
I fixed myself to the railings that ran around the side of the tank with a harness to stop myself falling in and leaned over the edge with the net and poles raised above. Then I dropped them in the sludge as near to the coot as possible. The contraption was unstable and so long it bent easily. The bird was too weak to move away but I couldn’t get the net in position. I pulled the net back, dragging through the sludge, carefully shook it out, taking care not to splash myself, and repeated the same action, trying once more to get the net near enough to the bird to allow me to catch the thing. It took several attempts, but each time the net and poles splatted into the tank with a plop. Eventually I managed to get the coot in the net and pulled it back across to where I was standing. I think it must have known that we were there to help it because it didn’t struggle. It was covered in slurry. I pulled it out of the net and grabbed hold of it but it was slippery. Before I could get a good grip it gave its wings a vigorous flap, which covered me in a shower of excrement.
The cameraman did his best not to laugh and I did my best not to swear. I quickly wrapped the coot in an old towel and put it in a carry-cage before it could do any more damage. The guy who had shown us to the tank had been watching the rescue and thanked us as we took the bird away. I detached my net from the poles and handed them to him.
‘Can you get rid of those for us please?’
The coot was taken back to the centre where it was checked over, cleaned up, fed and given the chance to rest in our rehab pool. It was released somewhere safer and cleaner a few days later.
By then the centre had developed enough to allow us to take in hundreds of patients. The biggest rehabilitation area was the ‘top barn’ at the end of the garden.
Inside we had dug a badger sett into the ground. The barn was also used for storage, including food for the patients which was kept in freezers. Parts of the barn had also been divided into various pens and aviaries. It was linked up to the office with CCTV so anyone in the main house and office could keep an eye on what was happening there.
Although I wasn’t technically living in the farm, I spent a lot of time there. It was my castle. I had built it and it was where I felt safe and calm. No matter how chaotic things got outside, inside or in my personal life, I always felt in control when I was there. I didn’t like being away from it for long periods of time. I often stayed in the office into the night, catching up with the more mundane things you have to do when you run a charity. Sometimes I was with Steve or some of the volunteers, sometimes on my own. Jill and the girls were usually there and there were always people coming in and out because the centre was a twenty-four-hour operation.
I was there, working late one evening in the autumn of 1996 when I heard urgent shouting outside. I ran out to see what the commotion was about, looked up and saw the sky at the top end of the centre glowing red. I could smell the smoke, which was billowing into the sky. Fire! I went on autopilot and ran indoors to call the fire brigade. They arrived within six minutes and in that time I ran up see what was happening and, when I saw the top barn ablaze, I started ringing as many people as I could to get them in to help. We had about thirty volunteers at the time and I tried to call all who lived nearby. I called the vet we used, too, as I feared she would be needed.
‘There’s a fire, come now, we need help.’
Lou later recalled that she rang Steve. She was in bed because she wasn’t feeling well and remembers waking up and seeing the blue lights of the emergency services as they arrived. She looked out her window and saw two or three engines already there. She couldn’t work out whether the fire was in the house, the coach house where my parents lived or in the centre. Then she looked up and saw a huge red-orange glow and realized the top of the garden was on fire. By the time she was dressed and out to help volunteers had arrived.
After rousing as much help as I could I ran to the top end of the garden to start the rescue operation. Jill was there, too.
Firemen were running around, laying hoses and telling everyone to get back. They used the pond as a water supply but, despite the rapid action, within only minutes the fire became an inferno. The barn and the structures around it were wooden and although it had been a damp evening, which may have slowed the blaze, the fire was fierce and getting hotter.
Along with the volunteers I started to walk into the fire zone.
‘You can’t go in, it’s too dangerous,’ a fireman shouted. All I could think about were the animals that were trapped there as the fire started to creep towards their pens. There was no way I was going to stand back and let them perish without trying to help so I ignored the advice. There were around sixty animals of all descriptions in the pens and I was determined to save them. I ran through an open door and all around was smoke, fire and heat. Others followed me. I went into pens, grabbed animals, put them under my arm and ran out. There were around five of us, darting in and out of the enclosures, dodging flames, and the fire crew did their best to damp us down. Each time one of us emerged we were sprayed with water and the firemen tried to create safe pathways into the building so we could get to the stranded patients.
Fleur was in one of the aviaries attached to the barn and there was a padlock on her door. The fire was spreading so quickly that I couldn’t go looking for the key so I grabbed the nearest heavy object I could, which was a paving slab. I lifted it above my head and smashed it down onto the lock, which snapped off. I kicked the door in, ran in and grabbed her. She was cowering on a perch, and the flames licking at the walls were reflected in her huge, terrified eyes.
Up and down the path we ran, gathering the patients we could and placing each saved animal in any available pen away from the danger zone. There were ferrets, birds, foxes, hedgehogs and deer carried to safety. None of the animals put up a fight when we went in to get them and, because time was of the essence, to begin with we put animals in any pen just to get them somewhere safe. We put animals together that would have eaten each other in the wild. Foxes went in with pigeons, owls went in with hedgehogs, but not one predated or attacked another. They knew the situation was serious and knew to behave.
In all we saved scores of patients in a remarkable rescue operation that took hours while the firemen continued their work. After around an hour they had the fire under control and we started moving animals on the periphery out to other pens to get them away from the smoke and fumes. It took all night to reorganize the centre and, after the patients were out of danger, the volunteers began the process of checking their health. In the end, of all the creatures that were there, we lost just three.
Throughout the night I had been worried about the sole badger in the sett in the barn. I prayed that because he was underground he had managed to survive and, once the blaze was out, I went inside the remains of the barn and started digging to get to him. Others helped and, after their shift was over, some of the firefighters also returned. It was hard going because the heat-baked earth was rock hard. It took several hours and was getting light when we finally got to the ante chamber the badger had dug for itself in which to seek sanctuary away from the heat and smoke. It was around 2 metres down and the ground around the sett was still smoking and hot. Carefully I bent down and reached into the hole we’d opened up around the patient and I saw him move. I was hit by a wave of emotion.
‘It’s okay, fella, we’re here to get you out,’ I said.
I was choking back tears and couldn’t believe that after such a ferocious fire he was still alive. I slowly pulled him out, taking care not to hold him too tightly in case he had sustained burns. I carried him to the hospital where, under better light, it became apparent that he wasn’t in a good way. Although he had no visible injuries, his breathing was laboured, most likely as a result of smoke inhalation. He was put on oxygen
and I left him in the capable hands of the vet. I returned to the ruins. Steve was still filming and as the sun came up he captured the most moving shots of the smouldering timber and fractured, dripping water pipes.
Everyone had been running on pure adrenaline and as it started to wear off tiredness set in. I stood in the ruins on my own for a moment and felt a sense of crushing loss. I felt like a general surveying his defeated army after a bloody battle. It was silent except for the dawn chorus and the hiss and crack or water dripping over charred timbers. I had built the centre, it was my life and here it was smouldering in ashes. Tears stung my eyes as I looked around and thought, This is insane, I can’t rebuild all this again now after all the effort and work.
I felt exhausted but knew there was so much more to do, so I went back to the office and started calling as many media organizations as I could. I wanted people to know what had happened. I called the actress and wildlife campaigner Virginia McKenna and she agreed to come down, there and then, to help out. Within hours news crews were parked outside and were filming the remains. I did interview after interview and Virginia spoke on breakfast TV about the tragedy.
At some point that morning we looked back over the previous night’s CCTV to see if we could pinpoint where the fire had started and what caused it. We found the seat of the blaze easily. It began behind one of the freezers. The footage showed it going from a little bit of a flame to a huge blaze in a matter of minutes. I didn’t realize at the time but as a deep freeze gets older it runs hotter. The top barn was a dusty environment and a bit of straw, hair or fluff had probably got caught in the back of the machine and burned. I’ve since learned to pull out fridges and freezers every six months and vacuum round the back of them to make sure they are clean. Some lessons are hard learned.