Louise Gold was my beautiful Baroness and we made a marvellous double act, though I say so myself. We managed to bring the house down with ‘You’re My Little Chu-Chi Face’. And we never let it go stale. I loved adding little bits to give Louise and the audience an extra giggle. Everyone loved that. Didn’t they?
‘There’s a note for you, Mr Biggins.’
The doormen would hand me envelopes or I would find one in my dressing room. They were from our choreographer, the terrifyingly good Gillian Lynne. She wasn’t happy with my added extras. So I kept on having to apologise and promise never to go off script again. Then something funny would occur to me and off I would go. Once, I think, Louise and I ran ‘Bombay Samba’ for an extra six or seven minutes because everyone was having so much fun. The whole cast on the show were on top form. Dear Gary Wilmot, a fellow stalwart of the Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre, was with us, and Jason Donovan and Brian Conley, and Scarlett Strallen as Truly Scrumptious, closely followed by Summer Strallen. We had Tony Adams, now a good pal, and Freddie Lees – so many lovely people.
Then, of course, came the Child-Catcher. My run started out with Alvin Stardust in this role, then we had little Stephen Gateley and Lionel Blair. Lionel, perhaps surprisingly, was the most terrifying of my trio. It was a tight ship. Robert Scott, our musical director, and Michael Rose, our producer, were fiercely professional. We had a compulsory warm-up before each show. I would mark out an area at the back of the stage for the oldies. We would gather there to do what the youngsters did. Well, most of it.
I was in the show for a wonderful 18 months. My bank manager loved it as much as I did. My dressing room was a joy in itself. It had a bed, a fridge, a kettle, a colour television and a telephone. It was like having my own little apartment right in the heart of London. I could have made my bank manager even happier by renting my house out for 18 months and moving in at Argyll Street. I’m sure I wouldn’t have been the first to try it.
Long runs are tough. You need secret ways to keep it fresh. I would make eye contact with different members of the orchestra each night. I’d wink at the trumpet players. I’d blow kisses to the flautists. And they in turn had challenges for me. They would come up with words I had to slip into my performance. And not just easy, obvious ones. They seemed to use a thesaurus to find tough ones. But I’d do it, however little sense it made. I’d give it my all to win the bets.
While the show was good for my self-esteem, good for my career and a dream come true for my bank manager, it also did wonders for my waistline. I had to stay in shape. In one scene I had to lift Louise – and, bless her, even I, a best friend, couldn’t call her petite. One night I lost my balance, she began to slip, I began to fall and we ended up in a tangled heap on stage. The audience howled with laughter, I’m pleased to say. Though I probably got another cross note telling me off the next day.
The New York-based writer and producer Bob Calleley is a dear pal. On a short break from Chitty I saw him in the garden at Orso in LA, where I was visiting Joan. ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.
‘I’m here for Angela Lansbury’s 80th,’ was what he said. ‘Beat that’ was what he so clearly meant. I couldn’t. And, oh, how I wanted to go too. Angela is another icon and inspiration. But, however heavily I hinted about my availability, Bob didn’t leap in with a ‘plus one’. But he knew, of course he knew. He just wanted me to sweat a little. ‘Oh. Do you want to come, Christopher?’
‘Of course I bloody want to come.’
So off we went. It was a small party – really just for family. Bob had been Angela’s producer in Mame, so it was clear why he was there. But how amazing, how extraordinary, that I had found my way there. So many times in my life I’ve found myself in places and with people that I should never really have met. My privilege has been to gatecrash some of the best parties in the world. The first person I spoke to at length that night was Jean Simmons – and what an adorable character she proved to be.
And Angela? She was just as charming and enchanting as I had hoped. She too had been on stage at the London Palladium and it was wonderful to hear her thoughts on all the classic musicals, most of which she had been in. For some reason Bea Arthur’s face kept flitting through my mind as I left that golden party. What clever ladies these are, I thought. Angela, just like Bea, had ultimately taken control of her show, becoming producer and star of Murder, She Wrote. That’s the way to get rich and really make your mark in the industry, I thought. And it was worth remembering that neither Bea nor Angela was a spring chicken when they hit television gold. I was rushing towards my sixties but I wasn’t going to count myself out just yet.
I don’t remember watching the first series of I’m A Celebrity… Get Me Out Of Here in 2001. But, like everyone else, I was well aware that it was a massive hit. Like everyone else, I also thought that Ant and Dec were the perfect hosts for the show. They make it look so easy. But everyone in the industry knows how hard they work to look so good.
But would I ever see it first-hand? My agents got a call to sound me out for the second series, then the third. Apparently, I was on Ant and Dec’s private wish list of dream contestants. But every year I had to say no. The show clashed with panto – and, trivial as that sounds, panto was still my bread and butter. By 2005 I had done some three dozen consecutive panto seasons and I was immensely proud of that record. Should I break it for a programme that could be a poisoned chalice?
In a youth-obsessed society, did it make sense for a man in his late fifties to lay his life on the line and be judged by the viewing public? I was convinced that people would far rather have a footballer or someone from a girl or boy band in the jungle. Being voted out on day one would be mortifying – and possibly career-ending. So every year I was secretly pleased that the approach from I’m A Celebrity came just after I had signed up for that year’s panto. I don’t break contracts, so this always gave me the perfect excuse for saying no.
And yet, and yet. A tiny part of me still liked the reality-television concept. When you’re an actor people think they know you. But they really only know the roles you play. I could see the attraction of going on screen as myself. Telling my own story, not reading anyone else’s lines. I hoped people might like me. I was sure I could entertain.
If I had been available, taking the plunge might not have been as hard as I’d thought because I had done a tiny bit of reality TV before. The Entertainers, for BBC2, was a fly-on-the-wall documentary where Neil and I were allocated a wonderful director, producer, cameraman and make-up person – all combined in the single wonderful form of a lady called Harriet Fleming.
I was a bit nervous about having my real life on film. And it was Neil’s first introduction to television, so he was just as anxious. But it turned out to be such fun. Harriett followed us around as I did my year’s panto in Cambridge, set up some other work, went to a string of charity events and generally tried to live and act just the way we would on our own. Neil was brilliant, coming over really warmly on screen, and we got plenty of positive feedback from friends, colleagues and strangers alike.
Tony Blackburn, Leo Sayer and Bernie Clifton were also being filmed for the show and they all agreed it had been a lovely experience. Reality TV wasn’t so scary after all, we said. And I knew that I’m A Celebrity wouldn’t be entirely uncharted waters if I ever signed up. It all still hinged on my availability.
The producers of I’m A Celebrity are, not surprisingly, clever people. You don’t make a television juggernaut by mistake, after all. So in 2007 they found out when I normally sign my panto contracts and got in touch well beforehand. ‘This is very early for us, but we didn’t want to miss you again because you’re right at the top of our list yet again,’ they said. Flattery, of course, would get them everywhere.
And, because they spoke to me before I had a ready excuse to say no, I was forced to think more seriously about the idea. I had a long talk with my agent, Lesley Duff. I was soon to be 59. That’s 159 in showbusiness years. I knew
that people were taking me for granted. Good old Biggins, he’ll always be around, they would think. We’ll get him if the others all say no. But the others weren’t saying no, so there wasn’t exactly a queue to offer me great jobs. I’d not been on television much since Bad Girls, and that had only been for two brief episodes. Yes, I was in a very deep lull. I had panto, but I didn’t have a pension. So I signed up.
Last year I had watched as David Gest, the man I felt had been a factor in causing further upset in my pal Liza’s life, had come fourth. I had seen what this had done to his profile, career and no doubt to his bank balance. My target was to come fourth as well. If I could do that the whole adventure would be worth it.
‘What do you mean you’re not doing panto? Biggins, are you OK? Are you ill?’ If I had a pound for every time I was asked this in 2007 I wouldn’t have needed to go on I’m A Celebrity in the first place. People were genuinely perplexed. And such is the way of Celebrity that I couldn’t put anyone’s mind at rest. When the producers say ‘top secret’ they mean it. Blab and you’re out. They make it clear that they have plenty of reserves signed up. So I, of all people, had to keep the secret. Agony, absolute agony.
‘I’m making a film in Australia. It’s an all-star cast and it’s hugely exciting, but I can’t give any more details,’ was the lame excuse I finally settled upon. But pals who didn’t buy it would soon get plenty more grist for the rumour mill. In September, some three months before the show’s start date, I gave up the booze. In October I began a strict protein and vegetable diet. In November I started to eat next to nothing.
It paid off. I’m not sure really what was worse in the camp, the boredom or the hunger. But at least I was relatively ready for the latter.
I was able to show off my newly svelte form (in my dreams) in the hilariously organised photo shoot set up to promote the new series. Secrecy still reigned supreme. The contestants mustn’t meet, so we were hustled around by production assistants in cars with blacked-out windows, rushed up and down corridors as their headphones buzzed with muffled instructions and requests. It was the closest I have come (so far) to a James Bond film. After the pictures I had my session with the show’s psychologist. What a hoot. A lovely lady, Sandra, in Swiss Cottage. I loved being able to lie back and chat about myself. But one of her final questions brought me up short. ‘How’s your libido?’ she asked.
‘I beg your pardon?’
And so we got on to the subject of masturbation, the way you do. Apparently the only place to do it was in the dunny – which, of course, was the least conducive place for such an activity. As an aside, the men did all talk about this when we were in the camp – I’m not sure if it was broadcast. It seems that whatever we had said to the libido question from Sandra it wasn’t an issue in the jungle. Forget waking up with a hard-on. We all said we didn’t even consider sex once. I hardly thought of it. Maybe the final secret of the show is that they put bromide in the water.
‘You’re going into the show a few days after the other contestants. We want to surprise people.’ This set-up meant I was flown to Australia on my own, which was lovely. The first two days I spent high up in the Meridian Hotel on the Gold Coast and managed to get some sneaky intelligence from home. My minder didn’t know I had an extra mobile phone in my bag. So, while we couldn’t see any TV or log on to the internet to find out about the show, I could ring Neil to get some early warnings. At least I could until I was overheard, ticked off and had my phone confiscated. So I was left in the dark – just the way the producers wanted it.
Dr Bob was my key ally. He’s a lovely man they should show more on the show. He runs through all the pitfalls, the dangers, the spiders. I thought back to the little boy in Salisbury who hated going to the outside toilet because of the spiders. Fortunately On Safari had given me a genuine interest in animals – even scary ones. So I thought I could cope.
‘Walk sideways’ is a key instruction for the jungle, for reasons I probably should remember. But Dr Bob and his team certainly don’t pull any punches. Some of the things you’re told before the show do freak you out. They make it very clear that it’s a very real jungle and is more, not less, serious than it looks. If you think you’re walking on to a safe, sanitised film set, the warnings about poisonous snakes soon put you straight. It’s worst-case-scenario stuff and I think it was what caused Malcolm McLaren to opt out at the last moment. Maybe he, like me, thought it was all just a bit of a giggle at first. Dr Bob put us right. But I’m glad I didn’t bottle out.
The madness of television is that you get the talk of doom in the most inappropriate surroundings. After my two days in the Meridian I was moved to the Versace Hotel. Yes, it’s everything that the name implies. And it wasn’t really me. All those bright colours. Everything ridiculously expensive. I defer to no one in my love of the good life, but I still don’t think Versace style will ever be for me.
Three pairs of pants, two pairs of swimming trunks, and that’s it. That’s all you are allowed to take into the camp. All the other clothes are issued on the way in, along with a regulation bag of shampoo, conditioners, soap, toothbrush and toothpaste. You can take any medication you need – Janice certainly availed herself of that opportunity – but other than that you travel very light. You get up very early too. My entrance, with a Bushtucker Trial, was timed to be shown live in England, so it had to take place around dawn in Australia. First there was a drive of about an hour and a half to the camp in another van with blacked-out windows. Once there, we went through the magic gates to the compound – which have a worrying amount of barbed wire on them – and I was told to wait behind a bush.
It was there that I first heard the dulcet tones of dear Janice. Now, in one of our illegal, sneaky phone calls Neil had mentioned some mad American woman. But beyond that I had no idea who she was – or who anyone else was. Camera rolled, Janice hugged me and my first thought in the jungle was: This woman is fantastic.
Oh dear, oh dear.
20
The Jungle – and Beyond
My new best friend Janice lost a little of her shine straight away. I was on the show to get the job done. My attitude to most tasks is simple: I’ve done worse. So, if the boys want me to put my hand in a tree full of scorpions and snakes, then in my hand will go. Janice didn’t see it quite that way. She chickened out of the first three tasks and handed the next over to me. It was the one with the gunge. Within ten minutes of my freshly ironed arrival on prime-time television, I was covered in fish skins. And I had swallowed a fair few of them too. Apparently, all my family and friends at home were screaming, ‘Close your mouth!’ at the television as my big moment arrived. For some reason I was looking up open-mouthed in excitement. Big mistake.
Next came the cockroaches, the ants or whatever they were.
And on it went. I reeked and could feel the creepy-crawlies creeping and crawling all over me as the trial went on. You don’t get as much as a paper tissue to clean yourself up for an awful long time. In fact, you don’t get paper tissues at all.
But at least I had Janice. Didn’t I? Where the hell’s she gone? Goggles on, I’m in the bug chamber looking for stars. One second ago Janice was right beside me. Now I turn and she’s safely on the outside, directing operations next to Ant and Dec. I’ll have to watch her, I thought as the bugs flew down my throat. Once again, Biggins, close your mouth.
With a batch of stars in my hands I gave my first interview as the gunge started to ferment all over me. Then it’s about an hour to the main part of the camp. When I got there I found out that even then I couldn’t have a shower. The recycling system and the fish scales couldn’t mix. So I was led to the pond, where Marc Bannerman proved to be a real gentleman by helping. It was surprisingly cold and seemed ominously stagnant. But at least I had found a friend in Marc.
Meeting the others was all a marvellously exciting blur. I was just so thrilled to have made it through my first task and made it on to the show. Anna Ryder Richardson was the sole face I
recognised – we had worked together years earlier and I knew she would be a treasure. She and Cerys Matthews helped me do my washing in the creek – and trust me, there’s really no better sign of friendship than that in a wet, steamy jungle.
From the start I found out that life in the jungle was harder work than it looks, though maybe I only felt that as I was three times as old as some of my campmates. But, still, it was a long way down to collect the wood and it felt a lot longer on the way back up. Dealing with the silence was my next big shock. With no radio, no television, no music, I nearly went mad. No wonder I barely stopped talking.
Cooking would have helped pass the time, if John Burton Race hadn’t been so strangely insistent on taking it over. We weren’t there for five-star food, after all, and taking turns would have been fun. But John’s ego seemed to get in the way of that. He was my least favourite campmate.
The kiddies, Gemma Atkinson and Jason ‘J’ Brown, were adorable. They were like my children and since the show I’ve seen a lot of both of them. One thing they said had horrified me: that neither had ever been to the theatre. So afterwards I took them to my favourite, the Haymarket, in London. We saw The Country Wife, with Toby Stephens and my dear friend Patricia Hodge, and I hope they finally saw what all the fuss was about. ‘Oh, they’re so close!’ Gemma whispered at me as the curtain rose. Just adorable.
In the camp, J and I both loved to find spiders, animals and insects. ‘When you’re in there, look for things. Make the most of the experience,’ Dr Bob had told me back on the outside. It was great advice. When would I be in that kind of situation again? When would I ever have the opportunity or the time to see things like baby crayfish in a creek? It’s to J’s credit that he felt the same.
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