by Paul Potts
As I headed south to London, I got a call from the head of media at ITV. She told me that my audition had been shown to the media as part of the screening of the very first episode of Britain’s Got Talent.
“Your audition went down really well,” she said. “There were very hard-nosed journalists in that room who were reduced to tears.” I didn’t know what was ahead of me, so this left me feeling hopeful but confused. I’d just stood in front of the judges for three minutes—I didn’t really understand how that could make people react like this.
I was staying with some of the other acts in the North London district of Cricklewood, at a smart hotel called the Crown. On arrival we were given a briefing by Ollie and Jenna, the researchers who were looking after us. They were great, and both really hard working; they always seemed to be on hand. Initially, I was very nervous about being around the other acts, as we were effectively competing against each other. But I needn’t have worried: we all got on like a house on fire, and sat together in the upstairs bar to watch each other’s performances.
There was a core group of us that met for dinner and to watch each evening’s programmes: Bessie Cursons and her parents, who were from my old holiday haunt of Portsmouth; the puppeteer Damon Scott, who seemed to be very confident; and Mike Garbutt, an impersonator whose attitude was very similar to mine. He was a nice guy who struggled a little for confidence, but was very good at what he did.
One of the brightest stars in the room was little Connie Talbot. She was a pretty little girl who seemed very mature for her tender six years. The common thought amongst the adult competitors was that she was the most likely winner. Connie was self-assured without being overconfident, and had just the right kind of cuteness without its feeling forced and sickly sweet. I got on well with her parents, who seemed very down-to-earth and pleasant.
My audition was shown on Saturday, 9 June as part of the first-ever show of Britain’s Got Talent. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to watch it or not, but I managed to get through it, and was congratulated by everyone else in the room. Several of them told me that I had a good chance of winning. I did my best to put aside what they were saying; I was nervous enough without the extra pressure of hoping to win.
One thing we were all unprepared for was the amount of interest there was from the media, and in particular from the newspapers. I think it also took ITV’s press office by surprise, as before long we were getting called directly, although they did check with ITV beforehand as to whether it was okay.
The calls started with a few requests being passed through Jenna and Ollie and one or two face-to-face interviews, complete with photographs. Then it just snowballed from there. Although I had dealt with the press before in my role as a city councillor in Bristol, that was local press only. Dealing with the likes of the Daily Mail, the Mirror, and the Sun was a different animal altogether.
Through Jenna, I also got calls with offers to fix my teeth. This was something I had always considered, as I hated the way they looked. This felt like a real bonus, and Jenna took the dentists’ details. I didn’t know what else the week would hold, and I did my best to keep my expectation levels low. Having low confidence really helped with this. I never believed that anyone would pick me, so merely being at the live rounds felt like the FA Cup Final for me.
Meanwhile, there were more sessions with Yvie as I went through “Time to Say Goodbye” a few more times. The producers decided that if I made it to the final, then I would perform “Nessun Dorma” again. So in case I did make it, we also went through that as well.
The Thursday of the semi-final came all too quickly. It was a fairly warm day. I had been fitted for a tuxedo for the performances on the show, but dressed casually for the rehearsals. I didn’t realize the rehearsals were going to be shown in the video introduction before my entrance, and I remember thinking how scruffy I looked! The rehearsal took place in the same studio that the live show would be broadcast from later. There were lots of people milling around and three substitutes standing in for Piers, Amanda, and Simon.
After a full run-through, I recorded a short piece to introduce myself for the video that would precede my performance. The producers wanted me to talk about my lack of confidence. They felt that if I told the audience why I felt this way, then viewers would be more likely to vote for me. There was a lot more that I could tell them: there was the bullying at school, which I had talked very briefly and generally about. Then there was also the abuse at the hands of Burton-Barri. Would I use this to help me win? I felt sure the producers would love to hear about it.
I decided to talk a little about how the bullying made me feel, but that I wasn’t going to say anything about the abuse. If I spoke about it, I’d never know whether I had gone further or even won because of the abuse, rather than in spite of it. I would never know, and ultimately I’d be giving the effects of the abuse even more control over me. It would mean that I could never rely on any success being solely due to my voice. So I kept that information to myself.
By now, the clock was ticking until we were live on air. The acts for that night’s show were given a briefing by the judges. Originally it was planned that the X’s—the judges’ buttons to vote acts offstage—would not be used for the live shows. However, due to the competition between Britain’s Got Talent and rival shows such as BBC1’s The Apprentice and Channel 4’s Big Brother, it was decided that the X’s would reappear after all.
This was a very unwelcome update, and added to the already nervous feeling around Fountain Studios in Wembley. Several of the other contestants assured me there was no way I would get buzzed, but I couldn’t be sure, so I tried not to think about it. It was a dramatic end to the preparations for the first semi-final, which was the last thing I wanted or needed. I just wanted to get it over and done with.
There were eight acts performing in the semi-final, and it was decided that I would perform last. To some of the contestants it seemed like an advantage to be on last, but not for me. It meant I had more time to think about things—more time to get nervous, to lose all courage, to forget the words. I worried that the waiting would be too much for me, and that in front of millions of people, my mind would go blank. I feared opening my mouth and nothing coming out. In my dressing room, I tried to occupy myself until call time by listening to my performance music on my phone. This didn’t seem to help much at all, so I listened to different music. If the words weren’t in my mind by now, they never would be.
By the time I got the call I was in a complete haze. I made my way down the stairs and along the corridor to the backstage area. The other acts, who were now waiting for the end of the show, wished me good luck. I stood and waited for my turn, which seemed to come too soon. Standing behind two huge video walls acting as doors, I could hear my voice on the video clip being shown, ending with the words “I’m somebody. I’m Paul Potts.”
The doors opened. Part of me was excited, but part of me wanted to get it over and done with. I walked forwards to the microphone. The music started, and it was time to begin. Thankfully, there were no hitches, no forgotten words. I managed to find that place I went to when I sang—the one where I was in a different world. As I finished singing “Time to Say Goodbye,” a shower of pyrotechnics rained down behind me.
As with the initial audition, there was a huge reaction to my performance from inside the auditorium. I was relieved that it had seemed to go well, particularly as the judges had not been slow in buzzing some of the other acts. As the audience’s cheers subsided, the judges started to speak. They were all really complimentary: Amanda spoke about the death of her father, something she had not talked about before the show, and that he would have voted for me. Piers talked about his reaction to my voice.
Now it was Simon’s turn to speak. Please be nice, I pleaded inwardly. At that moment I realised that, contrary to the instructions of the stage manager, I had left my mobile phone in my trouser pocket. Someone was calling me. I could feel the phone vibrating, and pray
ed I had put it on silent.
My phone was normally set to vibrate, then ring at maximum volume. And not just to any old ringtone either. I had been an avid watcher of the TV drama series Life on Mars, and had downloaded an amusing ringtone voiced by Philip Glenister in the character of a 1970s police inspector. The ringtone was set to say “Oi! Fatty! Shut it, and have another pie!”
Waiting for Simon to speak were the longest seconds of my life so far. If my phone wasn’t on silent, I felt sure that it would be the end of any hopes of a career. Thankfully, when Simon started speaking, my phone subsided.
“Every time you come on, I want you to do well,” Simon said. “And you just did again. It was magic.”
I was hugely relieved, twice over. When I got offstage, I told the crew about my phone. At this revelation, they shook their heads:
“Don’t do it again, Paul,” the stage manager said, trying, and failing, to stop himself laughing out loud.
Now it was time to wait for the results. There was a very short gap while the phone lines were open, and then the votes were counted. I didn’t want to think about the result. I thought I had sung okay, although I didn’t feel I’d done my best. It was too late to do anything about it now, though; I just had to wait for the viewers’ decision.
The results were in. The acts were led out on the stage, and we were put into our allotted positions. When I watched television at home, I always felt the urge to shout at the screen when hosts held on before announcing the winner. “Get on with it, for God’s sake!” I’d yell. Standing there on stage, I was thinking exactly that as Ant and Dec started announcing the results. Finally, the preamble was over.
“The first act,” Ant announced, “going through to the final of Britain’s Got Talent is . . .”
“. . . Paul Potts!”
I felt a rush of relief wash over me. I cupped my hands over my mouth. I’d made it through to the final!
For the first time in a long while, I was feeling successful. However, this emotion was tinged with sadness. That wasn’t only for Amanda Holden, who had lost her father, but also because one of Julz’s favourite aunts had lost her long fight against cancer the previous week. Aunt Sheila had made our wedding cake, and I’ll always remember her lying on the floor in front of me, with a rose in her teeth, as I sang Robbie Williams’s “Angels” at our wedding reception. Julz’s side of the family have always been a laugh a minute; being a large family, they’re a bit like a travelling show. This was Aunt Sheila’s way of messing around.
There wasn’t much time between the semi-final and the final: just three days. I had plenty of rehearsals to keep my mind off things, and also the introduction to my spot on the final to record. The location the crew chose for that was a little crazy; they wanted me to walk to and beyond the camera on a very crowded Oxford Street at lunchtime. What should have taken just a few minutes ended up taking three hours, as I was repeatedly stopped by passersby who wanted to congratulate me. It felt strange yet touching to have people I didn’t know giving me encouragement.
That was just one sign of the impact the programme was having. The media were now taking a real interest, and not just in the UK but all over the world: the first audition seemed to have made a splash everywhere, and I was being interviewed by journalists from Australia to South Africa and the United States. It was really quite bewildering. I spent much of my time in the hotel lobby taking calls from journalists on my mobile.
At first, the media interest was very positive and supportive. But as the final neared, it started to become more cynical. I had one call from the Sun newspaper accusing me of misleading the public and suggesting that I was already a professional. I explained that while I’d had some coaching, it had been years earlier, and that one master class with Pavarotti didn’t amount to being trained by him. I told the journalist that I had supplied all of this information to the programme, and it was there for everyone to see on the Britain’s Got Talent website. I had never made any money from my singing before, so I felt justified in saying I was an amateur.
Many other interviews went in a similar way. While I did feel a little embattled, I knew that if I refused to answer the questions, the newspapers would add two and two together and come up with whatever number they wanted. I remained polite but firm about my history of singing and held my ground. In many ways, this was the first time I had ever really stood up for myself without losing my temper.
The nastiest interview was yet to come. In spring 2007, a young girl named Madeleine McCann had gone missing from the accommodation in Portugal where she was staying with her parents. It was, and still is, big news. As the final approached, I had not one, not two, but three calls from a reporter with the Daily Star Sunday. The call didn’t start well. He began by asking what I thought my chances were of winning the competition. The journalist was attempting to get me to say I was a sure thing when I knew full well that I wasn’t. He asked me what I thought of the sweetheart of a little girl, Connie Talbot. I told him that she was as bright as a button, and her maturity belied her young years.
“Do you think she will win,” the reporter asked, “because she looks like Madeleine McCann?”
I was horrified. How could anyone be so incredibly insensitive and nasty? Worse still, I felt I knew exactly what he was trying to do. It seemed he was trying to entrap me into giving them a headline that might read “Paul Potts says Connie will win because she looks like missing girl, Madeleine McCann.”
The journalist phoned me three times, and on each occasion asked me the same question. I made a point of telling Jenna, who looked after both Connie and me and let the other contestants know as well. It turned out that I wasn’t the only one this journalist had tried to entrap; he’d tried the same trick on some of the others, too. I sat down with Connie’s parents, explaining what had been happening, and also to warn them in case the subject was raised with them.
I felt there was a very real risk the reporter would try to suggest that, despite our denials, one of us had said yes to his question. When he rang me for the third time and once more asked about Connie, I was extremely firm with him.
“Listen,” I told him, “I have refused to answer that for the last two days. It is a blatant attempt to cause mischief. What makes you think I will be stupid enough to justify your spiteful question with an answer?”
That was the only time I have ever had to hang up on a call from a journalist. I was furious that he would be so nasty, and that he was trying to kill any hope that I might just get some success after the show. It was quite the revelation for me. I was fighting for something for myself, for a change, rather than lying down and allowing someone to walk all over me.
Dealing with journalists wasn’t the only thing I had to get used to. I also met the people who were to become my managers after the show. Richard Griffiths and Harry Magee told me that not only were they going to be looking after me, but that there was already considerable interest from several record companies. They came across a bit like “good cop–bad cop,” Harry being the gentler one and Richard the firm one. I’ve since learned this to be true. They were, and are, a great double act and perfect foils for each other. The whole situation was difficult to get my head around; for years, no one had seemed interested, yet following a coin toss and two performances, my life was now doing an about-turn.
All of this put added pressure on me to succeed. I didn’t dare to believe it too much, though, because I knew that once there was expectation, it would play on my nerves. So far I had kept my jitters in check by having no expectations at all. Having nothing to lose helped me not think about what was happening. For all Richard and Harry’s talk about record companies, I needed to maintain that feeling and keep my expectation levels down. As the final approached, I genuinely thought little Connie Talbot would win the show. That, too, was the thinking amongst the other finalists.
In the final rehearsals, I went through “Nessun Dorma” a few more times. By the end, I really felt I had sung it wel
l. So well, I worried whether or not I could replicate it on the night. In addition to the singing, the producers also wanted to rehearse talking with the presenters. I made a conscious decision that I didn’t want to say in an interview with Ant and Dec what I would actually say in the final itself.
From always being on the sidelines and from studying media as part of my degree, I had learned to read body language and to judge people’s intentions from their eyes. I had watched shows like Britain’s Got Talent before, and recognised the expression on people’s faces that made it look like they were reading something: they were recollecting what they’d said before. I didn’t want to rehearse what I would actually say, as I didn’t want it to come across as practised and therefore insincere. It is how I have continued to handle interviews ever since.
I had a very nervous wait after rehearsals for stage time, and eventually we were called down. When we were taken to our holding room, Amanda Holden was there having her makeup done. It was great that she wanted to spend time with us all before we went on stage. We got a real sense that she had been in that situation before, and knew how we were all feeling.
It was little Connie who broke the silence first. “I’m going to make you cry again, tonight, Amanda!” she said.
Everybody laughed, and no one doubted that she was right. Yvie was there, and came over to speak to each of us individually. When it was my turn, she came over and whispered in my ear. “Paul! Your flies are undone!”
I was hugely grateful for her spotting that. Thanks to Yvie, I wasn’t after all going to be walking out in front of fourteen million people with my trousers unzipped. I’d learned my lesson from the semi-final, too, and made a point of making sure that my mobile phone was safely locked away in my dressing room.
There were five other acts in the final: dance group Kombat Breakers, Connie Talbot, Bessie Cursons, jugglers the Bar Wizards, and Damon Scott. Once again, I was chosen to perform last. Once again, the time soon came for me to enter the stage. Although I had performed “Nessun Dorma” at the start of competition, singing it again felt anything other than easy.