Ooh! What a Lovely Pair: Our Story

by Ant McPartlin

  There was one performance where we faced a particularly tough crowd. We were doing our act, and one of a gaggle of old ladies in the front row started making this mad sound at the most inappropriate moments. ‘Eee, eeee, eeee,’ she would cry, really loudly, again and again and again. We were in the middle of the cabbage-on-a-dog-lead gag and all we could hear was ‘Eee, eeee, eeee.’ It went on at intervals right until the end, and then we just couldn’t help it, we cracked up laughing. And once we started, we couldn’t help ourselves. The act stopped, the audience was silent, even the eee-ing had ceased. One of the other residents, who was sitting next to ‘eee woman’, seemed angry with us, and shouted at the top of her voice, ‘Hey, man, yous cannot laugh at her, she hasn’t got a tongue!’

  Not our finest hour as a double act.

  Finally, after a few more, less eventful, music-hall performances and even, in my case, a few days at college, the big day arrived – Ant’s eighteenth.

  I had a party at a social club in Benwell, which is in the west end of Newcastle, on Joanne Street, as it happens, and quite a lot of the Byker Grove cast came, although if they were hoping for another singsong from the Munchkin City, they were going to be sorely disappointed. My family were there, too. Even more important than the party, though, was the fact that we could finally sign the record contract.

  We’d got a lawyer to look at it, and he’d recommended that we didn’t sign. He said it wasn’t particularly lucrative or creatively liberating and, on the whole, it looked like a pretty bad contract. However, he also said that he’d completely understand if we did sign. That was the kind of sharp-minded legal genius we’d paid good money for. The thing was, it was the best offer on the table, because it was the only offer on the table. Plus, we’d waited months for this moment, so we decided to sign. A milestone like that deserves plenty of fanfare, and an extravagant location where you can put pen to paper. Unfortunately, we didn’t get either of those things. We signed it in Dave Holly’s office.

  By this time, Dave had moved premises to a new office opposite the central station and above the Baker’s Oven, a baker’s in Newcastle – he was obviously splashing out with the money we were earning for him – so we signed our lives away and celebrated with a cheese pasty and an iced finger. We were now officially recording ‘artistes’, and ‘Tonight I’m Free’ was scheduled for a Christmas 1993 release. We’d been given permission to miss college when we had music work to do, so we immediately organized performances and promotion to try and get people to buy the single. It was time to hit the road – again.

  Our first ever gig as PJ and Duncan was at the Birmingham Dome on the TV Hits Roadshow.

  We’ve all seen pop stars travelling in limos and being flown around in helicopters, so as we sat in a packed train carriage on the 2.38 from Newcastle to Birmingham, we couldn’t help wondering if there’d been some sort of mistake. It was just the two of us – no burly bodyguard, no record-company assistant, no tour manager, no nothing. Just us with our leather Head bag and a change of clothes. Still, we might not have had an entourage, but we definitely felt we were going places.

  And the first of those places was Birmingham New Street station.

  We arrived there, jumped in a taxi and turned up at the stage door with our CD in our bag and said, ‘Hello, er, we’re here to sing?’

  We were only doing one song that particular evening because, well, we only had one song. We were sharing the bill with a couple of solo acts and a group called Menergy.

  They were a bunch of ex-male strippers.

  They were men with energy.

  They were Menergy.

  Backstage beforehand, we got chatting to all the other bands, bombarding them with questions about how they were feeling, and if they were nervous too. The thing that struck us was how calm they all seemed and, in Menergy’s case, how much baby oil they were getting through.

  I suppose they’d done it so many times before. We, on the other hand, were completely new to all this.

  Eventually, our big moment arrived and, in the last few seconds before we went on, I remember thinking, ‘Well, this is it, we’ve got to just do it now.’

  We gave the CD to the sound engineer and told him it was ‘track one, full mime’, words we would come to use many, many times over the next few years. The nerves had really taken hold by now. We hadn’t done any rehearsing, because we were just going to do the routine we’d done on Byker Grove, which hadn’t been that long ago, but now we were beginning to wish we had. It sounded like there were thousands of people in the venue. We were young, we had no experience and we had absolutely no idea what to expect. In spite of all of that, right there and then we set sail on a voyage of pop discovery that would last far too long.

  As we stepped on to the stage, the whole place went bananas. It was incredible! Before we’d even opened our mouths to start miming, the crowd was screaming and, for once, it seemed to be the good kind of screaming. Because Byker Grove had been so popular and our parts had become so big, there was clearly this recognition between the audience and the two of us. We couldn’t believe it.

  We did the song, but the whole thing was just a blur, it was over in a matter of minutes – two minutes and forty-three seconds, to be precise. As an added bonus, we didn’t hear ‘Eee, eee, eee’ once.

  We came off stage on a complete high, unable to fully comprehend what had just happened to us and how well it had gone. We spent most of the train journey back talking it all over. The venue, the crowds, Menergy’s outfits…

  We treated ourselves to a burger each and just buzzed all the way home.

  From the gig, not the burger.

  We got back to Newcastle, and it felt like our lives had changed overnight. We were eighteen, and we were pop stars. But we didn’t celebrate, we didn’t get drunk, we just went home and had an early night. Not necessarily because we wanted to…

  … but because we had to do our double act at another old people’s home the next day.

  The music-hall tour hadn’t finished, and we’d made a commitment, so we got out the dog lead and the cabbage, and off we went.

  We were leading a bizarre double life of musical-hall double act by day and fledgling teen idols by night, although the audiences for both gigs had a lot in common: they both liked screaming, eating sweets and, occasionally, someone would wet themselves.

  Our second gig was in Stockton-on-Tees, near Darlington, and we knew this one was a big deal, because East 17 were headlining. When we were on stage, there were girls fainting and crying. This was pop hysteria at its finest.

  Slowly but surely, we were growing into the roles of pop stars. At first, I wasn’t sure how to act before and after the songs, or even during the song. But before you knew it, you’d be striking those boy-band poses you’d picked up from somewhere.

  Probably from East 17…

  Next was the Hammersmith Palais in London, and the hysteria seemed to really go up a notch. There were security guards pulling girls out of the crowd, and at first I thought, ‘They seem very keen to leave,’ but then I realized they were fainting with excitement at seeing PJ and Duncan. It was a strange feeling but, if I’m honest, it was also a real thrill.

  And after the gig, we just couldn’t get out of the venue.

  The doors were locked.

  I’m joking. We couldn’t get out because there were so many girls at the stage door. They had to use extra security to get us into the car. If there’s one thing you need when you’re faced with a small group of pop-crazed fourteen-year-olds, it’s half a dozen security guards, preferably with extensive military experience. Trust me, those girls could get very, very vicious. And they seemed like proper fans – they knew our real names, they’d read interviews with us in magazines. It felt, for the first time, that the attention was focused on us two. We weren’t holding on to the coat tails of a bunch of male strippers like Menergy. Besides, holding on to Menergy’s coat tails was usually a mistake – they were attached with Velcro and came off
at the drop of a hat.

  Don’t get us wrong: we knew our fans were just girls of a certain age who get obsessed with pop stars, and we knew they were seeing other boy bands behind our back, but it still felt good.

  Finally, after more roadshows and more old people’s homes, ‘Tonight I’m Free’ was released. We couldn’t have been more excited. We’d had such an amazing reaction at all the roadshows that we just knew the single would do well; it was simply a question of how well. That Sunday, we both sat down in our front rooms to listen to Mark Goodier doing the Top 40 on Radio 1. He counted down the first ten places from 40 to 30: no sign of it, which meant our debut single had made the Top 30 – brilliant.

  Then they ran down the next ten, and we still weren’t mentioned, which meant it would be in the Top 20 – even better.

  Then another ten went by, and still no PJ and Duncan, which meant our first ever release had made the Top 10. We were stunned: this couldn’t be happening.

  It turned out we were right:

  It wasn’t happening.

  We hadn’t even made the Top 40 – ‘Tonight I’m Free’ went straight in at number sixty-two.

  We were devastated.

  I sat at home that Christmas and watched the Smash Hits Poll Winners Party on TV. I think our invite had got lost in the post. Take That won everything that year, and you certainly couldn’t imagine them going to college, running for the bus or touring old people’s homes.

  After just one single, it seemed like our career could be over – and the reality of becoming successful pop stars seemed further away than ever.

  Chapter 9

  With our careers in the music industry hanging in the balance, this was a time for calm reflection and a chance to consider the future. Whatever happened, we were still on the B-Tech in Performing Arts. If the music didn’t work out, that could provide us with a route back into acting, so getting that qualification was still absolutely vital. Bearing that in mind, I made a decision.

  I left college immediately.

  The tour of the old people’s homes had pushed me over the edge, and I decided college just wasn’t for me. Fortunately, at the same time, something else came along. Telstar, who clearly weren’t taking any notice of our record sales, decided they wanted us to record a second single.

  They’d seen the reaction we’d been getting at the road-shows, and they thought that, with the right track and enough promotion, we still had a chance of having a hit. With any luck, we might even crack the Top 60.

  So, we recorded our second single. The deal was exactly the same as the first one: one single, without a commitment from them to release any more of our material. The song was called ‘Why Me? (Is it justified?)’ and, as you can see, like Bryan Adams’ ‘Everything I Do (I do it for you)’ and a lot of good pop songs, part of the title was in brackets. Although ‘Is it justified?’ may just have been what Telstar’s accountants said after seeing the sales of our first single.

  After we finished recording it, we set off on another whirlwind promotional tour. When you’re a pop star, that’s the only kind of promotional tour you do: it’s quick, and it destroys everything in its path.

  I was still going to college. I didn’t have the same carefree attitude as Dec. He’s always been a bit more impulsive than me, and I suppose I was conscious of still needing something to fall back on, especially after my career as a paperboy hadn’t worked. And a part of me enjoyed student life, it was different from school. Everyone was there because they wanted to be – well, everyone apart from Dec, who wasn’t there because he didn’t want to be – and there was no teasing because I’d been on the telly.

  After shining as the man with a cabbage on a dog lead, it was soon time for my next big role, the lawyer in Bertolt Brecht’s The Caucasian Chalk Circle. In case you’re not familiar with that play, it’s an example of Brecht’s epic theatre and is a parable about a girl who steals a baby but becomes a better mother than its natural parents.

  At least, that’s what it says on Wikipedia. I can’t remember a thing about it.

  At the same time as rehearsing for the play, I’d be off doing promotion for ‘Why Me?’ in the evenings. I must be the only performer in history to combine a Bertolt Brecht play with the Just 17 roadshow.

  When it came to opening night, I was ready for my debut as a serious stage actor, and Dec even came to see me in it.

  It was awful, absolutely bloody awful.

  He’s right, it was.

  I was joined in the audience by Matthew Robinson, the producer from Byker Grove, a man who knew all about drama, stage acting and great playwrights.

  I never did find out – what did he make of it?

  He left at the interval.

  I can’t blame him, I didn’t enjoy it much either. I almost felt nostalgic for the heady days of being the coroner of the Munchkin City. I caught Dec’s eye during the performance, and I could see he was thinking, ‘You poor sod.’

  Actually, I was thinking, ‘Where’s Matthew gone?’, and ‘How long does this drivel last?’, but I did feel sorry for Ant.

  Anyway, not long after that I decided to leave the course as well – The Caucasian Chalk Circle convinced me that college wasn’t my cup of tea. Looking back, I probably should’ve gone when Dec did.

  Too right you should have, then I never would have had to sit through that bloody play. I’ll never get those two hours back…

  As soon as we really started on the music, we realized life was about to go one of two ways: we’d either end up on Top of the Pops, or the dole. So we started working. Hard. As well as the roadshows, we started performing at under-18s discos. Back then, they were a popular way to promote a new band, and they’d always be held at a local nightclub with sticky floors and the smell of stale smoke. I think it was actually a part of the contract. When it came to getting changed and preparing for the gig, we’d always enjoy the same lavish backstage facilities: the manager’s office or the staff toilet.

  These discos provided our first taste of the kind of extreme reactions we provoked from any lads who’d happen to be in the audience. And by ‘extreme’, I mean extremely hostile and aggressive. We’d take to the dance-floor – there wasn’t even a stage – and perform our extensive back catalogue of two songs, then the teenage girls there would start screaming and shouting our names. With the lads, though, it was very different. They tended to show their appreciation by throwing ice cubes or ashtrays at us, and if they couldn’t find anything to throw, they’d just spit at us. It happened every night without fail and there was nothing you could do about it – if someone spat at you, you’d just have to swallow it.

  Not literally, that would be disgusting.

  We did have to put up with it, though, and in a way, we could see where they were coming from. They were teenage boys who’d been dragged along to this disco to watch their girlfriends scream at these two jokers from Byker Grove. It wouldn’t have put me in a good mood either.

  Undeterred, we threw ourselves into life on the road, something we’d become very familiar with over the next few years. We had a driver who would ferry us from place to place and, for a while, we seemed to live in a non-stop cycle of motorway service stations, Travelodges and Ginsters pasties. We were living the life of an HGV driver, but stopping to get spat on once or twice a day.

  After each gig, we’d go back into the manager’s office, wipe the saliva off our clothes, check for ice cube- and ashtray-based bruises and get changed. Then our driver would head off towards the following night’s venue. We’d drive halfway there that night and then stop at a Travelodge.

  Naturally, there would always be two rooms booked – one for the driver and one for us two to share. Yes, we had to share – every night we’d toss a coin to see who got the bed and who got the fold-out sofa – the standard of our accommodation gave us another indication of how much faith the record company had in us. I sometimes thought we would have been better off getting a job as drivers for a boy band ourselves: at le
ast that way we’d have got our own rooms.

  All the time we were doing the discos, we were chasing the Holy Grail for all pop stars, something so special, so powerful, so amazing that we were desperate to do it – an appearance at the Radio 1 Roadshow. Never mind TV Hits or Fast Forward magazine, Radio 1 was the big one. We knew if we could get on the bill, our record would be played on national radio to millions of listeners, which would result in our record sales going up, which would hopefully persuade Telstar to let us record a third single.

  As is normal practice in the music industry, the record company employed a plugging company. Where Telstar’s job would be to choose tracks for us, organize contracts and decide on releases, the plugger’s job was simple – get people to hear our records. Sounds simple but, depending on the record, it can be very difficult. Within the plugging company, you’d have different people for what, back then, were the three main ways to get your music heard – TV, radio and magazines.

  Matt Connolly, our radio plugger, did some serious persuasion and managed to pull off an almighty coup, a spot at the Radio 1 Roadshow in Glasgow. I don’t know how he did it – maybe he had some compromising pictures of the head of Radio 1 – but he did it, and that was all that mattered. This was a big moment. It really felt like the start of something. Things were about to change and, if we played our cards right, we could even end up with the one thing we’d always dreamed of: our own rooms at the Travelodge.