‘Cameron, I’d love to play Thenardier in Les Miz.’
‘Genuinely?’
‘Come on, you know I would. Get me an audition.’ So he did. But let me get to the end of the story before anyone cries nepotism or gay mafia.
The show was about to go on its first national tour and I was auditioned alongside the marvellous Rosie Ash. At first all went very well. ‘Oh my God. You can sing,’ one of the casting directors said.
‘Of course I can bloody sing.’
And so, of course, could Rosie.
So we got a call-back and went through it all again. And again. Then again.
In total we performed for them eight times. Then they said no. I rang Cameron and went ballistic. ‘How dare you have us strung along for so long. And not just me. Rosie, who’s magnificent. She’s been the lead in Phantom and all your shows. What more did you all want from us?’
‘I can get them to send you a letter of apology,’ Cameron began.
‘I don’t want a bloody letter of apology. I want a job.’ And out of all this anger it suddenly looked as if I might get an even better one than I had ever dreamed of. One of Cameron’s US partners had been particularly impressed at my auditions.
‘You’ll be in New York playing Thenardier by the end of the year,’ he promised me.
But then he left the organisation for pastures new. My Broadway debut never happened. But maybe it was all for the best. Maybe working with such a close friend as Cameron wouldn’t have worked. That’s the problem with this business. It’s as incestuous as hell. The more people you know the more likely you are to trip over them in one job or another. And the last thing I want to do is lose a friendship with someone like Cameron. We go back some 30 years now. We make up a wicked little trio with the agent Barry Burnett and call ourselves the Three Sisters. We all put on our best Dame Edna voices when we talk on the phone. And we do that almost every day.
I signed up for Jack and the Beanstalk in Cambridge over the millennium holiday – we did a show on the big night and then Neil and I headed to Kate and Kit’s for the midnight celebrations. And in the new millennium the ups and downs of my life were as pronounced as ever before. There were times when there seemed to be very little work or money. And there were times when the parties were as lavish as they could possibly be.
On the work front I was to meet two legends in my next few jobs: Paul Scofield and Eric Sykes. I embarrassed myself in front of Paul and showed off a little too much in front of Eric.
Paul was starring in an incredibly prestigious Shakespeare series on Radio 4. I had some tiny part far behind in his wake. And he did make me just a little nervous. We rehearsed and recorded at the BBC’s radio studios in Portland Place. And in the lunch hour I decided to take advantage of the location by popping into John Lewis. Of all things I needed a new pedal bin for my kitchen. Who says my life is all just about parties and glamour?
Anyway, when I dragged it back to Portland Place, who should be the only person sitting in the rehearsal area with his script but Paul. With my huge shopping bag I must have looked about as unsophisticated as it was possible to be. ‘Hello,’ I said, slightly nervous, trying to push my purchase out of sight.
‘Hello, Christopher. And where have you been?’
There was no avoiding it. I had to come clean. ‘I’ve been to John Lewis. To buy a pedal bin.’ It was like the watermelon scene from Dirty Dancing. I was mortified at how small and pedestrian my life must seem. This man was my hero. He has turned down knighthoods. He’s won Oscars. He doesn’t bother about the shopping and domestic appliances. Fortunately my purchase did not seem to attract much more comment. Paul moved on to read a newspaper and I started to read through the script.
‘Christopher. Can I look at your pedal bin?’ this great actor suddenly asked, his voice booming around the rehearsal room.
‘Of course you can.’ I took the damn thing out of its bag, took it out of its box and set it on a table next to us. There was a long, excruciating silence.
‘Christopher, you must have a ravishing kitchen,’ was his equally loud verdict.
And with that we went back to our scripts.
I met Eric Sykes in Windsor when we had a three-week tryout for a revival of Charley’s Aunt. Bill Kenwright was producing it. He is a man who has kept faith in me, and seen things in me, through some pretty lean times. On a wider scale he has also kept faith in theatre. Bill is one of the few producers to focus on straight plays. Some are good, some not so. But he keeps on producing them, right across the country. He employs so many people. And when I needed him most he carried on employing me.
No one earns much on a tryout of a new play or a revival. The money, such as it is, comes if we go on tour and if we make it to the West End. I was desperately hoping that we would hit the jackpot with Charley’s Aunt. It’s an old chestnut of a play. But I had a feeling that we would at least make the tour – because of dear old Eric’s box-office clout.
He was in his late seventies in 2001. He could barely see and he could hardly hear. His wonderful assistant Janet Spearman, whom I’d known for years, was his eyes and ears. She would walk him from his dressing room to the stage. She would check his costume. She would check that every prop he would need was exactly where he would expect it to be. It was wonderful, heartening kindness.
And Eric himself? I would watch him from the wings desperate to work out how he’d got to be so good. I’d never seen technique like it. All I can say now is that he could somehow sense the audience. He had comedy running through his veins, he could feel when a laugh was going to come. He could adapt his timing to the idiosyncrasies of every audience. He was magnificent.
But he kept us on our toes. He was a perfectionist – at his level you have to be. He was very critical of himself, and when he felt it was necessary for the good of the production he certainly expected the best of others. At one point in the show I saw the opportunity for a cheap laugh from the audience. I’ve never knowingly passed up on a cheap laugh and I had no intention of starting then. Plus, of course, I wanted to show off a little in front of Eric and prove that I knew how to whip up an audience. I hope he approved of that, but I think he felt my cheap laughs were just that.
Sadly this wonderful production was to end with a tragedy. The marvellous Nyree Dawn Porter was in our company – the woman most audiences would always see as Irene Forsyte in The Forsyte Saga. She was probably the greatest hypochondriac I had ever met – and I loved her for it. We would all rise and fall in the dramas of her imaginary illnesses and afflictions. But in Windsor, as we prepared for our transfer up to the Theatre Royal in Newcastle, she was taking it to a new level. ‘I’m not well,’ she announced.
We all nodded, barely paying attention. This was hardly new.
Bill tried to calm her down. But she was adamant. ‘I can’t do the tour,’ she said. In the end he brought his own doctor to examine her.
And, after a tip-to-toe examination, she was given a clean bill of health. But still she refused to come up to Newcastle. Nyree’s understudy, Jane Lucas, was fantastic. She had little more than a day to rehearse but she was magnificent. She saved the show – and she wasn’t alone. We had another understudy in a lead role that extraordinary opening night in Newcastle. An old pal of mine, Francis Matthews, was in the company and his wife was terribly ill herself as our transfer approached. As we left Windsor he too was excused in order to care for her. Wishing him – and her – all the best, we all went on stage up in Newcastle.
And we had a triumph of an opening night. Everyone was word-perfect and the audience loved us. There were tears and cheers and dances backstage as we hugged and congratulated one another. But then, suddenly, the company manager appeared and hushed us down. Grim-faced and grey, he said he had sad news to impart. My hand went to my heart. Francis’s wife must have died. My heart ached for him.
But that wasn’t the news. It was Nyree who had passed away. Like the old joke about the inscription on the hypochondriac’s
gravestone – ‘I told you I was ill’ – she had been right all along. The girls were crying and we all felt terrible for having dismissed Nyree’s fears. It was a devastating piece of news, right after the triumph of our big opening.
‘Come on, come on. We must all stick together. We have to go out. For Nyree.’ I took charge. We went to a nearby pizzeria. It wasn’t exactly the Ivy or the Caprice but it was what we needed. In remembering Nyree we became hysterical, telling jokes and stories about her. It was cathartic and a fitting tribute to a colleague we sadly missed.
‘Biggins, shall we go and see Barbra Streisand?’ It was Joan Collins.
The answer, of course, was yes. Streisand was in town on her much-hyped live tour and Joan and I were thrilled to be able to call in favours and get some great tickets. But then we had a different, better offer. Prince Charles was hosting an evening for one of his charities at the concert and his office asked if we wanted to attend as part of that.
The answer, once again, was yes.
Joan and Robin had recently split up. They handled the separation with charm and grace. None of us was forced to take sides. There was never a sense that you had to be a ‘his’ or a ‘hers’ friend in the new world order. Nor did any of us have to sit through recriminations or nastiness. It was the most grown-up of partings. But it was no less sad for all that. Joan’s new beau, Percy Gibson, is a good man and is clearly good for her. But it was tricky for a while to adapt. I saw less of Joan as this new love got off the ground. So I was even more determined to enjoy our night with Prince Charles and the biggest diva in showbusiness.
We were all having drinks at the charity reception before the concert and when we talked to him it was clear that Charles was a little distracted. His dog had just gone missing and he was clearly very upset – making him, in my book, a sensitive and admirable man. Anyway, it was clear that the staff wanted us all to take our seats in the box, but Charles was still talking and of course Joan and I couldn’t leave until he led the way. The whole room emptied before our conversation finally drew to a close. Charles then led us to our seats.
Later in the evening, after clips of the event had been shown on the news, my phone started to vibrate – thankfully I had put it on silent. ‘Biggins, trust you to go and see a Barbra Streisand concert and end up on the news walking in with Prince Charles and Joan Collins,’ was the gist of them all. But dear old Jenks in my first RSC production had taught me the benefit of making a great entrance. It’s something I’ve never forgotten.
One thing about showbusiness, you never know when your next big break will come. I certainly hadn’t expected mine to materialise in Manchester after the christening of Denise Welsh’s son in 2003 (Denise was an old pal I’d met at a party years ago and we’d hit it off straight away). After the ceremony I got chatting to an exciting man called Brian Park who turned out to be the producer of Bad Girls. ‘You must come and work for us,’ he said. They were my seven favourite words.
‘I’d love to.’
The show was camp and cult and preposterous. It fitted me like a glove.
What helped me ease my way back into prime-time television after a gap of something like a decade was the fact that I played myself. The idea was that I was the star guest at a charity presentation of a wheelchair for a fictitious charity that the scriptwriters had come up with.
I had a huge speech in the central hall of the prison as all the old lags, all the wardens and all the local dignitaries look on. Then, as I inspect the chair, the girls pounce on me, push me in it and wheel me away at speed. Which, I can tell you, isn’t as easy as it sounds. Anyway, I end up held hostage in the prison greenhouse until their demands for better treatment are met. Ultimately, my character – me – agrees with their cause and joins it. We get drunk on gin they have made from an illegal still, we sing songs, I do a bit of Shakespeare and it’s all an absolute riot.
Hopefully viewers liked it too, because I was asked back for a second episode, where I adopt one of the prisoners’ kids. As usual, the behind-the-scenes story is one of plenty of laughs and a fair few new friends. Linda Henry in particular is a wonderful pal I might not know if it wasn’t for HMP Larkhall. I hope I wasn’t rusty on set – it was a long time since my last television show. But, as I say, it was a joy to play myself – or at least the Bad Girls scriptwriter’s view of myself.
A dear friend is Sue St John. We both love technical things, like Sky Plus, gadgets and television shows. ‘Are you watching this or that?’ we’re always ringing each other to ask. Her life’s worthy of a book of its own – she was PA to Adnan Khashoggi, though she is irritatingly discreet about it. I was there on the sad day when her lovely husband Dick died.
Sue’s sister was being wonderful, but one day on the phone I asked, as usual, if there was anything practical I could do. For once there was.
‘There’s something we need to collect from a chemist on Wimpole Street. Could you go and get it for us?’ Sue asked.
‘Of course I could. I’ll be there with it within the hour.’
I collected the package and rang the doorbell. ‘Here it is, Sue. But I won’t stop.’ I hated to intrude and knew I would speak to her on the phone later as I always did. But she wanted me to stay.
Poor, wonderful Dick. He had taken a turn for the worse – and there seemed to be death in his eyes and all around. I’ve been so fortunate in my life. I had rarely seen that look before. But it was unmistakable. In that awful atmosphere you learn new things about yourself. I learned that it helps to help. I made the teas and coffees and later helped lift Dick while we changed his bed. In my arms was a shell of the wonderful man I had known for so long. And I am sure he was as horrified as me. What the hell is Biggins doing here? he was probably thinking. I hope it made him smile inside.
Time was running out that afternoon. Dick’s son was on his way over from America, but it turned out that his taxi had got lost. Somehow it seemed as if every second counted. Sue didn’t want Dick to miss the chance to see his son. Finally, the doorbell rang. I raced to answer it, faster than I have moved in my life. I pushed Dick’s son into the house and ran out to get his bags from the cab. Dick saw his son in his last moments, as I finally slipped away to leave the family together. Life can be short and is precious. That’s the clear lesson I learned from Sue and Dick.
Now I don’t want to end a chapter on a low point. So here’s one last funny story from that era. I’ve been great friends of the Forte family for years and think all the sisters are particularly marvellous. Irene, married to the former American ambassador John Danilovich, is a particularly close pal. When the couple’s 30th wedding anniversary approached, we all knew they would celebrate it well. We were right. They had five days of parties, events and functions in Washington DC. There were lunches, dinners, private tours of the White House and the Capitol. And on the final evening there was a black-tie dinner for 460 people, with Laura Bush as the guest of honour.
I was chatting to Irene when she saw a chance to introduce us. ‘Come and meet the First Lady.’
So we crossed the room.
‘Laura, meet Christopher Biggins. He’s an actor friend of mine from London.’
‘Nice to meet you, Christopher.’
‘Lovely to meet you as well. We were at your house this afternoon and I have to say we were very disappointed that you weren’t there to make us tea.’
What possessed me to try to crack a joke with the President’s wife? Especially a weak little joke like that? And especially when it appeared that Laura’s sense of humour had deserted her that evening. ‘Well, I’m terribly sorry, but I was out,’ she said flatly.
As an embarrassed silence developed, I thought I saw a chance to create a distraction. Neil was just a few feet away from us, chatting to someone else.
‘Neil!’ I called out, far too loudly. ‘Come over here and meet Barbara Bush.’
The whole room chilled. ‘Laura,’ she barked as she turned on her elegant heel. ‘It’s Laura.’
> Neil never did get to meet her.
19
Back on Stage
I was 55 years old, I had been working since my teens and I had never fought tooth and nail for a role. I had never been convinced I had been born to play any particular part. I had never worried as much as people think you do if the good jobs don’t come up.
But in 2003 I did have a rare sense of humour failure about the industry. The grapevine was buzzing with news that Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was about to be staged in a massive new show at the London Palladium. I was beside myself when I heard of the plans. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang! The London Palladium! And who better than me to play Baron Bomburst?
My old I Claudius co-star Brian Blessed, it turned out. Then Vincent Spinetti when Brian’s initial run ended. I was devastated. I had put myself up for the role right back at the start, when I heard the earliest whispers that a production was on the cards. But they wouldn’t even see me. I was having my Barbara Windsor moment. Oh, it’s only Christopher Biggins, they must have been thinking. Too frivolous, too lightweight, too needy even? I have no idea what it was that counted me out – probably simple snobbery. Maybe the industry just didn’t know that I could sing – just like the auditions people on Les Miz.
Yes, I was there as Herod in Jesus Christ Superstar at the Barbican. Yes, I had been there in the high-camp film version of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat (you were fabulous, Joan). But while I thought Brian was fantastic – however grim I felt, I wasn’t going to miss that opening night – I was determined to keep the pressure on. So, when Vincent’s run approached its end and a third cast rotation was due, I got my agent to call yet again. Finally she won me my audition. And in the summer of 2004 I won myself a chance to appear at the Palladium.
It’s a huge stage. It’s wide and it’s deep and it reeks of history. On my first entrance in rehearsals I kept thinking of little Judy Garland, sitting on the edge of the stage and dangling her legs into the orchestra pit as she sang ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’. On Argyll Street outside the Palladium, there’s a board that lists all the huge stars who have performed there over the years. I had stood and read though that list endlessly over the years. Now I was finally on it. Christopher Biggins. Right there alongside the greats. Fabulous. Quite amazing.
Biggins Page 20