Biggins

by Christopher Biggins

  Anyway, my favourite Ralph Richardson story is when he was so engrossed in conversation at the Savile Club that he didn’t write down his order. At 1.45 the waitress felt she had to interrupt him. ‘Excuse me, sir, I’m very sorry but the kitchen is about to close. Can I take your order?’

  ‘Of course you can. I’d like a jam omelette, please.’

  And off she went, only to return within moments. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’ve asked the chef and he wants to know who it’s for.’

  ‘Sir Ralph Richardson.’

  Off she went again, and back she came. ‘I’m sorry, sir. The chef says no.’

  You hardly need Sir Ralph’s punchline (‘Who the hell do you need to be in this place to get served a jam omelette?’) to love that story.

  Finally, in a roll-call of mad old actors, how can I leave out John Gielgud? In my favourite story about him he was directing a cast of dreamy-looking military men in a new opera. The cast were lined up on stage waiting for his instruction. ‘Right, I want you over there at the back,’ he said to the first to present himself. ‘Now I want you to the left. I want you next to him and I want you – oh my God, I want you,’ he spluttered as the most handsome young man yet reached the front of the queue.

  Ever since our risqué little Regent’s Park chat I had worried that I might have offended Her Majesty. Fortunately, I found out a little later that, in fact, she has a surprisingly sharp sense of humour. We were reintroduced in the interval of a charity function at a gala performance of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Bombay Dreams. ‘This is Christopher Biggins, who is going to be hosting the charity auction after the performance,’ her omnipresent guide told her as she approached.

  ‘How lovely,’ was her typically noncommittal comment. Everything in me told me to smile and simply say I was pleased to see her. But one tiny part of me decided to be cheeky. That part of me won.

  The Queen was wearing a most incredible set of pearls. They were glowing and gorgeous in the softly lit room. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got anything we could auction?’ I heard myself ask, looking very pointedly at them.

  It seemed that the Queen took great umbrage. She moved on to the next group of people a little too fast for my liking. And then, breaking all convention, she turned around and came back to me.

  ‘What are you auctioning?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, I’ve got some art, some memorabilia. I’ve got holidays and, yes, I’ve got jewellery.’ My eyes fell again to those pearls.

  ‘How lovely,’ the Queen said one last time, putting her hand protectively over her necklace. She left me. But there was a twinkle in her eye that was so pronounced it was almost a wink.

  There was never any doubting that Princess Diana had a sense of humour. I met her at several charity events over the years and was impressed at how well she remembered people’s names. Of course, I also respected the charities she chose to represent. Names and causes so many others felt were too hot to handle. The first time I met her in a purely social situation came about because of Liza. She was headlining at the Albert Hall and rang me just before one performance.

  ‘Biggins, I’ve got a friend in tonight, who I wanted you to come in and look after,’ Liza said.

  I said yes, without even asking who the friend might be. It could have been Liza’s pool boy, for all I cared. In fact, I’d have been very happy if it had been Liza’s pool boy. But in the end it was Diana. She was bright and funny, tactile and warm. And, oh, how she loved her boys. When we met at the Albert Hall she had just been photographed on the royal yacht in Canada. It was that famous picture of her with her arms stretched wide as she reaches out to hug them. It’s one of my favourite images of her. ‘It’s so rare to see anyone in the royal family being so demonstrative to each other,’ I said.

  ‘How could I not hug them?’ she asked me. ‘I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about them all the time we’d been apart.’

  In the months and years ahead, Diana and I had plenty of gossipy lunches, dinners and laughs together. And after a while our friendship made the news. An Evening Standard reporter was always writing humorous references about us. In one full-page article he and the picture people mocked up a shot of Diana wearing a big Miss World-style sash over her dress saying, ‘Miss Biggins 1995’. I thought it was hilarious. So did Diana.

  A letter arrived the following week. ‘I hope life is treating you kindly and yes, a big smile was evident from a particular lady in W8 last Friday,’ she wrote.

  Diana’s big mistake, her tragedy, was falling in love with Charles. I like and respect him a great deal as well. I believe in his charities, which have often been in fields as unfashionable as those chosen by his former wife. But no one told Diana she was applying for a job, not marrying her hero.

  The only major member of the royal family I didn’t get the chance to meet properly was the Queen Mother – though I once sat opposite her at a church service and am convinced I got a smile. But I did hear a lot about this grand old lady, through the much-missed Billy Talon. Billy had joined the royal household at just 16 – and never left. The Queen Mum was the Queen of England then. He told a wonderful story of how they had become so close.

  It was at a Christmas party when the dance called the Paul Jones was about to start. The men and women lined up in circles around the room and when the music stopped you had to do the next dance with whoever was in front of you. For the poor, nervous Billy, that person was the Queen. ‘Do you dance?’ she asked, clearly sensing how uncertain he was.

  ‘No, Ma’am.’

  ‘Then walk with me.’

  And he walked with her for the rest of her life.

  I spent a lot of time with Billy at his tiny house on the Mall, a treasury of royal family photos and keepsakes. He was a joy as a man, someone who loved his life and loved his job. That, I am sure, is why we always got along.

  Another of my favourite Billy Talon stories about his extraordinary employer concerned another terrified new recruit.

  ‘Tomorrow you will take Her Majesty her breakfast,’ he was told.

  ‘But I can’t.’

  ‘You must.’

  ‘Please don’t ask me to. I can’t do it.’

  But the following morning the terrified youngster was one of the four men outside the Queen’s bedroom door. One was there to supervise. One to knock. One to open the door. Our young friend had to walk in with the tray.

  ‘Only speak if you are spoken to,’ was the breakfast rule. And as the boy had put the tray down and was leaving the room he thought he was in the clear. Then the Queen Mother spoke. ‘You’re new here,’ she said.

  ‘Yes I am, Ma’am.’

  ‘Are you gay?’

  ‘Yes I am, Ma’am.’

  ‘Then you’ll love it here,’ she pronounced.

  ‘Economise, Biggins. Economise.’ I really did try hard in the quiet years after Cluedo.

  But there always seemed to be one more party to attend. And, really, they were often too good to miss.

  Some of the best were thrown by Teddy and Bee Van Zuylen. He’s a big bear of a man and she’s a beautiful, slim and charming lady. I bumped into them at Nice airport when they were setting off on their honeymoon. But fortunately, after gatecrashing Jeremy Irons’s honeymoon all those years earlier, I had since learned to leave newlyweds alone. Perhaps as a reward for my newfound manners I was soon invited to Teddy’s family home, Kasteel de Haar, just outside Amsterdam. It has a moat, spires, battlements – everything you could expect in a fantasy castle. It’s open to the public for 11 months a year and is his for all of September.

  If you are lucky enough to be invited there, chauffeurs pick you up from the airport, butlers take your luggage at the castle door and maids seem able to unpack and iron all your clothes by the time you get to your room. I should have taken a few duvet covers with me to save my dear cleaning lady a job. All the vast rooms have four-poster beds and every night someone runs you a vast bath at 6pm and tells you that at 7pm the water will be the perfect
temperature.

  That, surely, is how I was born to live.

  After that perfect bath I remember dressing in black tie and playing Oh Hell, a poor man’s bridge, after dinner. And amid company that can hardly be described as poor.

  On another occasion Neil and I went to Paris on Eurostar to another of the couple’s parties. Sitting opposite us on the train was a fellow guest, Tessa Kennedy, and we had a picnic of bread and wine along the way. In Paris we met one of Tessa’s pals, the film star Leslie Caron, then headed to the Van Zuylens’ house on an island in the Seine. It was like a Disney fairytale. Our car swept through a deliberately ordinary gate and into a heart-stoppingly beautiful courtyard. Practically a whole orchestra was playing inside on the staircase, and there was room after room of unbelievably glamorous people to meet. And meet them I did. Feel intimidated and fade into the background? I don’t think so. I mingled to the manor born. And that was just the start.

  When Teddy’s 70th birthday came around, we all arranged a surprise party at Tessa’s place in Runnymede near Windsor. We tried to recreate the vast dining table from Paris – though things were a little more cramped on this side of the Channel. We certainly didn’t run to a waiter for every second guest, which was the ratio over there. ‘I want to come as the baroness,’ I joked when we laid down the dress code. ‘That way I’d get the best bedroom in the house.’

  Nice joke, Biggins, everyone was thinking. But I did want to come as the baroness. So I got a white panto outfit with acres of diamante and bucketloads of fake jewellery. We had some very grand, very serious French people at the party that night. The world’s banking industry was particularly well represented. But, thank God, they knew how to laugh. And, thank God, Teddy saw the joke.

  Late in the evening he admitted he had guessed that some sort of surprise party was on the cards. ‘But when I was told to come out to Windsor I thought I was having dinner with the Queen,’ he said.

  ‘You are, dear, you are,’ I told him.

  When you are living the high life with such marvellous friends you really don’t want to be arrested for shoplifting. In 1996 I was arrested for shoplifting.

  I call it my Richard Madeley moment, because of course it was all just a terrible misunderstanding. It began when I was in bed with the flu. Neil was on a trip and I woke up ravenously hungry. We had absolutely nothing in the house so I staggered off to our nearest supermarket. I know I looked dreadful – I hadn’t washed, shaved or even attempted to tame my hair. And I wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. I had pulled on the nearest clothes I could find as I stumbled out of my sickbed – a bright-pink tracksuit with ‘Joe Allen’ printed down one leg, one of a number specially made for the restaurant’s best customers. But it was hardly right for Hackney.

  I bought absolutely masses of food, the way you do when you’re not well. You never quite know what you might feel like eating, so you go for it all. I had enough comfort food to last a week. I even had a bit of healthy food tucked away in my trolley as well.

  ‘Could you come this way, please, sir?’ The lady stopped me at the exit. What on earth was going on? It sounded a bit more formal than an autograph request.

  ‘Could I see the receipt for your shopping, sir?’ And then she asked me to empty my pockets.

  In them, to my absolute horror, was a packet of batteries. I’d put them there because they were so small they slipped out of my trolley – and, yes, I’d quite forgotten to pay for them. Surely this lady would understand. But no. The police were called and I was taken to the station. The only good thing was that the horror of the situation had taken my mind off my flu.

  After a long wait I was told, ‘Mr Biggins, you’ve just spent over £60 on groceries and you have nearly £200 in cash in your wallet. Why would you steal a set of batteries?’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘That’s why it’s a mistake. I’d never steal a single thing, even if I didn’t have the money to pay for something.’ I could finally stop protesting. The police were on my side. I was released and headed back to my sickbed. It was all over.

  Yeah, right. At what seemed like dawn the next morning my doorbell began to ring. It didn’t stop. The News of the World was there, desperate for quotes, and on Sunday my supposed shoplifting shame was one of the lead stories of the week. The world had gone mad. But at least I got a few more laughs out of it. I went to Peter Delaney’s for dinner that Sunday night. When I sat at the table and reached for my knife and fork I saw the joke. He had chained them down.

  18

  Fabulous at 50

  A pack of divas were unleashed as my 50th birthday approached in 1998. They were planning a top-secret party, which of course I knew almost everything about.

  The divas were Joan Collins, Carole Bamford, Jeanne Mandry, Sue St John, Dame Maureen Thomas, Billy Differ – oh, and last but not least, dear Neil. As I wasn’t supposed to be aware of the plans, I couldn’t ask Neil how it was all going. But I could well imagine it was fraught with ego problems and dramas. I thought it was all hilarious.

  What I didn’t know was that something else was going on. The surprise party was real, but it was really only a smokescreen. I found that out when I was on stage at the end of my panto matinee in Brighton. We didn’t have an evening performance that day and I was looking forward to putting my feet up. I began my curtain speech as normal and halfway through I got a real roar from the crowd. I think I self-consciously congratulated myself on my comic timing. You’re better at this than you thought, Biggins. They love you.

  When the second roar began something told me there was more going on than my repartee. So I turned to see Michael Aspel and his famous red book. Someone was going to get the This Is Your Life treatment. But who? I looked around the stage in a genuine attempt to work it out. It’s not false modesty to say I really didn’t think it was me. But how pleased I am that it was. This Is Your Life is a fantastic programme. It’s wonderful for friends and family, perhaps as much as for the person getting the honour. My parents were treated magnificently. They were driven up from Salisbury, put in a fantastic hotel and loved every minute of my show. Such a privilege to be able to let your parents into your professional and personal life like this. And oh, what fun to have all your old friends brought together for a marvellous party.

  After coming off stage in Brighton – wearing a vast strawberry-blonde wig and an even more outrageous costume than normal – I got out of make-up and into my normal clothes. Then the producer took me outside. A white Rolls-Royce was waiting to take me to London. ‘Is there anything you want, or need for the journey?’ she asked.

  ‘I’d love a nap, if that’s OK.’

  I woke up in a mild panic as we approached the studio in London.

  ‘Will anyone have a toothbrush? What will I need to wear?’ I asked the producer.

  Neil, of course, had thought of everything and left everything I might need in my dressing room.

  Cilla was the first guest to speak on the show, then Gillian Taylforth, Anthony and Georgina Andrews, my brother Sean and my parents, John Brown from my school days, Linda Bellingham. They all made me laugh. Cameron Mackintosh spoke via a video link (he’s far too grand to do a tacky show like This Is Your Life). My old Poldark pals Angharad Rees and Julie Dawn Cole were there with that gang. Then there was Paula Wilcox, Bea Arthur, the actress Amy MacDonald, Nichola McAuliffe, David and Jackie Wood – old pals from my Salisbury days – Bonnie Langford, my tiny little niece Alice and nephew Jack, neither of them more than five, who were led on by their mother, Louise. We had a video greeting from Joan Collins and, wrapping up an incredible night as my final guest, Barbara Windsor.

  Then of course were all the other people who hadn’t had a chance to speak in the half-hour show. In the audience were so many other dear friends. I look at the photographs – you’re given them in the big red book – and to this day it moves me to tears. As I turn the pages I see my agent, Jonathan Altaras, Barry Burnet, Philip and Joan Kingsley, Anna and Graham Smith, Tony McLaren and h
is wife Veronica Charlewood, Esther Chatham, Gerald and Veronica Flint-Shipman from my Phoenix Theatre days, Sally Bullock, Stella Wilson, Jeremy Swan, Peter Delaney, Michael Codron and Mark Rayment, Paul Macbeth, Sian Phillips, Paula Wilcox, Lynda Bellingham, Peter Todd, Edmund and April O’Sullivan, Grace and David Tye, and so many more. I’m just as proud that so many of my family were at the show. Alongside my parents and Sean, there were the people who supported me for years – Auntie Betty and Uncle Jeff, who had put money into The Orchestra when I had desperately needed it. Auntie Monica and her husband Bryn, Uncle Ken and his wife Valerie, my relatives Michael and Annie O’Toole – the photographs and the memories just go on. It’s traditional to end This Is Your Life in tears. I didn’t stop for hours.

  Oh God. Does going on This Is Your Life mean that your career is over? Is it like a Lifetime Achievement Award at the Oscars? Am I a has-been already? I had a bit of a wobble after the show. Had they wanted me on because they thought that if they waited any longer the world would forget my name? Was I never going to get back on television again?

  At times like that you need to turn to your friends for comfort, reassurance and support.

  ‘Biggins, you know you’ve really fucked up your career.’

  That wasn’t quite the comfort, reassurance and support I was after. Cameron Mackintosh was giving me what he thought passed for a pep talk. The only good thing about the conversation was its location. We had just had a wildly camp holiday in Las Vegas and were in the glorious first-class cabin of a flight back to London.

  ‘What do you mean I’ve fucked up my career?’

  ‘You’ve never lived up to your potential. There are a million things you could do that you haven’t done. You should be playing Thenardier in Les Miserables, for a start.’