In my quiet months I had to ask other friends for smaller amounts to tide me over each new crisis. It was so awful to ask. And in my heart I knew I was barely keeping my head above water. I knew I couldn’t go on like that. At the back of my mind was my biggest worry: what if I lose my home? Would any bank trust me with a mortgage again if I got repossessed? I was in my mid-forties, working in the most precarious, youth-obsessed profession known to man. Could I go back to renting a room from friends – or, worse, from strangers? Of course I couldn’t. I’d had all those glittering years. All the parties, all the nights at the Paris Ritz and in the Hollywood Hills. I couldn’t – wouldn’t – go back to living out of a suitcase.
Or at least that was my plan. I would find more work. A commercial. A new prime-time series. Something in America. But the jobs passed me by and the fear ate away at me, insidious, insistent and awful. Months passed and it was there first thing in the morning and last thing at night. It woke me up at 4am and didn’t leave my mind all day.
So when would the nightmare end?
My accountant had a solution. ‘You need to declare voluntary bankruptcy,’ he said after yet another grim meeting.
The process might be different today. But when I went through it everyone sat down to work out a figure for what I owed and then recalculated how much of it I could afford to repay and when. The final figure was still quite awful, but I worked like a dog so that I could clear it in a single year. Everything went towards that goal. I’d seen my dad go though the same VAT-inspired crisis and fight his way back when his garages collapsed in the 1970s. I was going to follow his lead. This wouldn’t break me.
As a postscript, I think now that voluntary bankruptcy was the wrong thing for me to do, not least because it was all so crazily expensive to arrange. I had to pay £7,000 or £8,000 in fees to go bankrupt – how can that make sense? But whether the actual bankruptcy was the right thing for me or not, the perfect storm of a financial crisis was the making of me. It made me aware of money for the very first time. I was nearly 46. And I was only just growing up.
I had to say goodbye to my lovely bank, Coutts – having given them so many good customers over the years. The only other bank that would take me was Allied Irish Bank. And I will always be loyal to them for that. I was only allowed one credit card, and today that’s still all that I have. And I pay it off the very moment the bill arrives at my door each month. Now when my agent, Lesley Duff, gets my money her slice is taken off, the VAT slice is taken off, the tax money is saved and what’s left is mine. I have never been in debt since. I’ve never forgotten how close I came to losing it all.
The one good thing that came out of this terrible period was that I met the love of my life, Neil Sinclair. Or, I should say, I met him all over again. The way we got together reads like a film script, or a love story, in itself.
I first saw him some 24 years ago in his native Scotland. I was doing Dick Whittington at the Theatre Royal in Brighton for Jamie Phillips and, as usual, I was having a whale of a time. Jamie, meanwhile, had another panto running in Glasgow and was in a state of crisis. His lead had left the show early and they were desperately seeking a replacement star. My gig in Brighton finished the next day. Could I hotfoot it up north and take over? Glasgow is a city I love, so that was one reason I said yes. Another, of course, was the money. But the final one was the challenge. What Jamie wanted me to do was theatrical madness – and I was mad enough to go for it.
I took the curtain calls in Brighton on the Saturday night – and then threw myself into the fun of the end-of-run party as normal. The next day I got the train to Scotland with the Jack and the Beanstalk script on my lap and lots of coffee at my side. On Monday afternoon I was on stage for the matinée at the Pavillion Theatre. I only made one mistake. In one loose moment I turned to Jack and called him Dick.
The audience just loved it, though. They knew that I was a very last-minute replacement, so they were in a forgiving, supportive mood. There was such a buzz that week and I was so glad I had taken Jamie up on the challenge.
Towards the end of the week I decided to let my hair down a little. I went to a bar in town and met this lovely air steward called Neil. We had a short, sweet fling and I just thought he was the most wonderful man. He made me laugh and seemed to be able to read my mind. We were finishing each other’s sentences within a few days. But then it had to end. I was with someone else and so after much soul-searching Neil and I said goodbye. Our Highland fling would have to be the end of it. But as I headed south I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Could he actually be ‘the one’? Had I been a fool to let him slip through my fingers? Fourteen years would pass before I found out.
I was on a plane back from Barbados after going out to discuss that first season there. I had been put in Club – thank you, British Airways. And one of the cabin crew, Liza Higgins, a close friend of Neil’s, came up to chat to me. ‘Mr Biggins, I think we have a mutual friend,’ she said. ‘His name is Neil Sinclair.’
In that one moment I remembered everything. ‘Could you give him my number?’ I asked, feeling like a teenager.
She passed it on and he called. And for no other reason than that it was the closest date we could make, we met up on 14 February, Valentine’s Day, in 1994. We have been together ever since.
Neil was living in Hove but we knew we wanted to be together straight away. So he sold his house and bought into mine in Hackney. That helped me clear my final remaining debts from the voluntary bankruptcy. And it gave us the foundation for the life we have had ever since. Neil is funny, caring, a typical Cancer and a home-maker. He still flies, so we have plenty of space, and we’re not glued together when we do go out. I remember that when we first went to showbusiness parties I used to worry about how he would get on. As if I needed to. One early, ridiculously over-the-top date was at a charity dinner party where Neil was placed on the top table next to an ambassador’s wife. ‘Will he cope?’ I asked myself. Then I looked across the room. The two of them were talking so much they hardly drew breath. At the end of the night they exchanged phone numbers.
Neil was a total star. He fitted into my world from the start and he loves it. So nowadays I’m quite happy that we arrive at places together and then I often leap off and leave him for the rest of the night as I talk shop with other theatrical pals. What I love is that at the end of the night we leave together. And we relive the whole night from our different perspectives.
Best of all, Neil and I are both very good about laughing when things go wrong. Which, of course, they do. Just after we got together I was showing off about being offered a new Saab convertible to road-test for a Daily Express article.
‘Won’t it be a bit dull if we just drive around near here?’ I said to Neil beforehand.
‘Where else can we go?’
‘Well, the Channel Tunnel has just opened. Let’s try that. And I’ll treat you to a night at the Ritz in Paris.’
So off we went to France. This time I did have my passport. But once more I didn’t prove to be the sharpest tool in the box. For some reason I thought the tunnel went underground in Kent and popped back up slap bang in the middle of Paris. Neil and I were two men without a map and without a clue. But somehow, through the laughs, we made it to our destination. That’s when we started laughing again. ‘I can’t drive this up to the Ritz. I just can’t.’
As we got to the centre of the city I was overcome with embarrassment. Because, while our car might be brand new and expensive, it was also bright orange. And I mean bright, bright orange. It looked appalling. And understandably, the moment we parked at the Ritz it was whisked away by the staff to protect the sensibilities of the other guests. If I knew the French for ‘That man in the horrid orange car was the one who stole his hostess’s flower arrangement last summer’, I’m sure I would have heard it that day.
But as it happened our Parisian adventure was only warming up.
Now, there’s nothing I love more than getting a bargain. So I ha
d been on the phone to Mohamed al Fayed’s office the moment I had the idea of driving to Paris. Can we get a deal on our room? Unfortunately we couldn’t. ‘We don’t do deals,’ I was told. ‘But we will make sure you are well looked after.’ And the lady was absolutely right. Neil and I had a to-die-for suite. The Ritz is the essence of Paris and has tremendous style. And there was more to come.
When I had been talking to Mohamed al Fayed’s office I had decided to be cheeky. (Thanks, Dad, for teaching me that if you don’t ask you don’t get.) I had been reading about Villa Windsor, the home in the Bois de Boulogne where the Duke and Duchess of Windsor had lived and which al Fayed had lovingly restored. ‘Would it be possible to have a tour of the property?’ I asked. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
‘You do know that it’s a private house? It’s not open to the public.’
‘Yes, I know that. But I do know some other people who have seen what Mr al Fayed has done and they say it’s magnificent. I would so love to have the chance to see the property myself. Would you please just ask Mr al Fayed?’
Clearly she had done so. And she must have found her boss on a very good day. As Neil and I left the hotel for dinner that evening the concierge approached us. ‘Mr al Fayed’s chauffeur will pick you up at 11am tomorrow,’ he told us. We had been granted our royal tour.
Our driver was none other than Henri Paul. At the time we had no reason to pay him particular attention – and I can certainly say that I don’t remember us driving too fast, or being nervous in any way in his charge. He was neatly dressed and conservative, just as he appeared to be in those awful CCTV pictures of Diana and Dodi’s last moments. As he didn’t seem to speak much English and our French is limited, we didn’t talk very much. But he seemed professional and competent. Both the man and the mood must have been very different those few years later when Diana and Dodi were in our place in Henri Paul’s car and the paparazzi were on their tail.
As an aside, I do have an opinion on Diana’s last summer. I think the bright girl I had spent some lovely evenings with would have enjoyed her summer fling enormously. But I don’t feel that marriage was ever on her mind, especially to someone as controversial as Dodi. Diana loved her boys too much to put them in the middle of that sort of situation. She knew, none better, that being royal was complicated enough already.
The Duchess of Windsor’s former butler opened the doors to us at the villa – he had been retained, which is wonderful in itself. And what a property. The words ‘lovingly restored’ just can’t do it justice. Apparently, the place wasn’t in great condition when the royal family moved on. But now Mohamed al Fayed had spared no expense. He had also shown extraordinary good taste. For an arch-royalist like me it was a dream come true to be inside such a treasure trove. The al Fayed family have rooms somewhere, I believe. But the rooms the Duke and Duchess used are left just as they were. And I mean just as they were. Neil and I opened drawers to see her panties and stockings laid out, his underwear folded and stacked. There were suits, coats, dresses on hangers. It was eerie, as if their owners had just popped out for lunch. A true slice of living history. I ran my fingers over the desk where the Duke had written his abdication speech. How many people are lucky enough to have done that?
Back to the next set of Barbados shows. Taking control of those seasons was fabulous fun. Casting my plays was the highlight. Well, normally. As I got ready for the second year I rang Nichola McAuliffe to offer her a role in The Taming of the Shrew. And there was something funny about the way she agreed to take part. She was so flat, so matter-of-fact, that I was worried she might be ill. Then, seconds later, she rang me back. ‘Biggins, I wasn’t paying attention. Did you say Barbados?’
‘Yes, Barbados. In the Caribbean.’
At that she screeched so loud I nearly lost my hearing. She had misheard me first time around. I think she thought the play was in Battersea.
So many other great names and good friends were able to join me on the jaunts. But I didn’t always push my luck. In London I was leaving a restaurant one day when I passed Maggie Smith and Joan Plowright at their table. They called me over with fabulously imperious gestures. ‘Now, Biggins, we want to go to Barbados and do your season there,’ said Maggie.
‘I’m sorry, I have to say no. You would both be far too diva-ish,’ I said. I like to think I’m one of the few to refuse Maggie Smith and Lord Olivier’s widow a job. Though I’d have got them plane tickets faster than you can say ‘And the winner is’ if I’d thought for one moment that they were serious.
In my third season in Barbados I directed Tosca – who says I’m not up for a challenge? Richard Polo’s enthusiasm for opera had finally rubbed off on me, though I often felt that in Barbados it was never staged as well as it could be. This was my chance to see if I could do better. But who to cast? Richard Wagner’s niece Rosemary Wagner-Scott was training to be an opera singer and I called her for an audition. She was breathtakingly good and it was lovely to give her such a good role to play.
These wonderful seasons ended in a spat over money. For three glorious years we had attracted some extraordinary talents. Our performers always had their flights paid and were put up in the island’s gorgeous hotels. But should they be paid as well?
From the start I had made sure that we all were. It was pocket money, but I felt the principle was important. We worked very hard to rehearse and put on such strong performances in the short time we were on the island. But I think the question of fees began to grate.
‘Why do we have to pay these actors to come out here?’ I was asked in the third year.
‘Well, because they have mortgages and bills and need to eat,’ I suggested.
But by this point I think the seasons were going so well that the family thought they would run themselves. And they had just had an amazing offer from Pavarotti. He agreed to do the following year’s season for free and clearly my band of travelling players could hardly compete with that. As it turned out, though, we might have been a better bet. By all accounts Pavarotti gave a magnificent performance. But, while he didn’t charge for his services, the bill for the orchestra and his entourage was rumoured to have topped £1 million.
17
Men Behaving Badly
I showed Tommy Steele my dick shortly after going back on tour in the UK. And he went on to show it to pretty much everyone he could find. I was in the Frederick Lonsdale play On Approval which Lee Dean produced (who would get that invite to Liza Minnelli’s wedding ahead of me), the mouthy Liver Bird Polly James, Tessa Wyatt and Robin Sachs (Leonard’s son). The play is a comedy of manners about two couples going away for a weekend. Polly was a bit of a diva, but we coped. She had just done Half a Sixpence with Tommy Steele and was off on holiday with him towards the end of our run. She turned up at the theatre that night with a new camera for her holiday photos and was snapping away as the curtain rose.
‘Oh my God, I’m on!’ she whispered, thrusting the camera at me.
I couldn’t help myself. I dropped my trousers and pants. ‘Take some pictures of my dick,’ I told Robin. He did, but then it was my cue and after the show Polly got her camera back and I forgot all about it.
Fast forward to Tommy and Polly’s mini-break. After finishing the film she took the camera in to get the pictures developed – and of all places she chose one of those camera stores where developed pictures are hung up in the window for everyone to see. Tommy was dispatched to collect the prints – and returned hysterical with laughter. He proceeded to pass the offending pictures around a restaurant, saying it was the funniest thing he had ever seen. Polly, I feel obliged to say, was less than thrilled. Our friendship has survived because I think that we’re in the right world. Theatre seems to breed eccentrics. I love larger-than-life characters – and the larger the better.
I’ve already talked about several of the great ladies in my life. Here are a few stories about the most outrageous of the men.
George Borwick was a divinely eccentric man, an old
-school gentleman straight out of central casting. He was the heir to the Borwick’s Baking Powder fortune (I kid you not) and we had one very larger-than-life friend in common: Kenneth Williams. Get me, George and Kenneth together and you were in for a very good time indeed. George had a home in South Africa and there were many happy afternoons when he returned to England with packs of photographs of naked South African men from around his pool to show off. Yet again this proved to me that the rich are different. When he got down to his last quarter of a million, George panicked. So he did what so many others have done over the centuries. He married for money.
The bride-to-be was a wealthy fellow South African lady he had known for years. I sat with Kenneth gossiping in a restaurant one night. ‘Well, George has fallen on his feet as usual. He should finally be able to relax a little about his finances. And his wife seems nice enough. She must know the score. At least he won’t have to do it,’ I predicted.
‘No! No! No!’ trilled the incomparable Kenneth. ‘He’ll have to do it all the time. She loves the dick!’ Never have so many fellow diners choked on their soup en masse before.
Sir Ralph Richardson was another eccentric hero of mine. My favourite story about him is set at the fabulously old-fashioned Savile Club on Brook Street in Mayfair. The Poldark author Winston Graham had made me a member and every time I went – thanking Mrs Christian for my elocution lessons – it was always full of classic old colonels. It wasn’t really my scene and I loved it and laughed at it in equal measure. The club has a rigid set of rules. If you are on your own you are seated at a long table next to other members and left to sink or swim in conversation. Fortunately small talk is something I’m good at. I swam away happily. Ordering meals took some getting used to as well. The waitresses aren’t allowed to interrupt the members to ask them for their orders – instead you have to write down what you want on a bit of paper and they have to peer across at it. How quintessentially English, and bonkers, is that?
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