The other beauty of learning the word ‘no’ is that it means more when you say ‘yes’. If I sign up for something now it’s because I really want to do it – not because I’ve nothing else to do or because I think it could be a useful means to an end.
So when I was invited to be on Celebrity Masterchef I went back to my old ways and gave them a resounding ‘yes’. The world thinks I’m always darting from theatre to restaurant and back again. People think I eat out for England at The Ivy or the Wolseley or some other celebrity haven every night. But in reality I love to cook. I’m as happy as Larry in my little kitchen. I love rustling up a storm, knowing the people I love will soon be eating and laughing around the table next door.
So when I was asked about Celebrity Masterchef I said yes straight away. I knew I’d love it. But what I didn’t know was how tough or terrifying it would be. Forget eating kangaroo penis or whatever else it all was in the jungle. Cooking odd ingredients in front of the Masterchef team is the biggest bush-tucker challenge of all.
When you sign up for shows like this you’re told they can be a big commitment – though I knew that if my soufflé deflated I could be out on my ear after the first week. But I wanted to do it anyway. And I wanted to make it well past the first week. Funnily enough I prefer the idea of cooking for 150 to cooking for just two. I live big. So I cook big. I like to throw it all together and hope for the best. So I thought the crazy extra challenges in Celebrity Masterchef would suit me. I was as excited as a little boy at Christmas. And the show didn’t disappoint.
We started off in a big studio somewhere out in west London. Lots of people think we know who the other contestants will be beforehand. But we don’t. I had no idea who I would be cooking with – it was just the same as turning up in Australia for I’m A Celebrity. They really do keep their secrets, the producers and crew on these shows. But they do like throwing surprises, so a tiny flash of worry did cross my mind at one point. Surely Janice Dickinson couldn’t be here as well? My nemesis. In a kitchen full of knives and pots of hot oil. It wouldn’t end well, I felt. So surely they wouldn’t risk that.
And they didn’t. And this is what I love about shows like Masterchef. They choose nice people! They don’t set things up in the hope of conflict. And my team was fantastic. I was there with the likes of Tina Hobley, Kiki Dee, Jason Connery, Charlie Boorman, Jodie Kidd and Sophie Thompson. So many other great people would join us as the show went on. But I was thrilled to be with such a lovely bunch from the start. But could I cut it in the kitchen?
I got really, really nervous as we all waited to walk into the kitchen area. The work spaces with cookers and fridges and so on were waiting for us. As was the box of ingredients, all covered up. Oh, and the judges, of course, at the end of the room, standing there like, well, real-life judges in some awful court of cooking law. I think I wanted to die, not cook, at that point. I’d forgotten how to boil an egg. But there was no going back.
We get a very, very quick welcome. Then they say what they want us to cook. We get to look in the box. And we’re off. On your marks! Go!
I lifted the lid to see what was in store for me. I was transported back to the jungle. Lots of raw fish. Lots of food that, when raw, looks a little bit scary and a whole lot unappetising. The octopus tentacles, the prawns all the other bits of cod, halibut and all. It was like a bush-tucker trial without Ant or Dec. So what to do? What to make?
I decided to be a true Brit. I would keep it simple. I went for fish and chips. But I tried to do it really, really well. I double fried my chips and the judges seemed to like them. Phew. I could wipe away those beads of sweat. And I could start to laugh. We all laughed, when it was all over. Lovely Jason Connery had gone mad. He had cooked every last bit of his pile of fish. Talk about an over-achiever. His plate was piled so high he could have fed us all.
As the weeks pass and the show goes on you really get into it.
Our first big set-piece occasion took us to the London School of Music by the Albert Hall to cook for 150 hungry students. Kiki had gone, sadly, and I was alongside the terrific Tina. Things didn’t go entirely to plan. We began to run out of food, for a start. But the students were fantastic.
So I stayed in the competition for at least another week. Wonders will never cease. Jason had gone – and oh boy was he competitive so he hated it, poor lad. Tina had gone too.
And the surprises kept on coming. We were cooking in a real-life restaurant for one show. We were all set up and to go, ready for the off – when the lights went out! The hotel had lost all its electricity. We stood stock still and waited. The wonderful woman in charge did a lot of shouting and screaming at people and in the end the power was back. And so it began. I burned my hand then on a hot pan. There is so much danger in real restaurant kitchens. They are so small, so crowded and so hot! How I respect all the people who have cooked every meal I have ever eaten.
We had little and large alongside us by then: Wayne Sleep and Jodie Kidd. We had Sophie Thompson, Emma’s sister who had been such a wicked EastEnders villainess. Not so in real life. I fell in love with that girl. The funniest sense of humour. And the fun went on.
For the next big show we were all taken to Stratford in a bus – oh the glamour of showbusiness. It was the year of Shakespeare’s 450th birthday, if you know what I mean. We were off to the farm where his mum had been brought up, Mary Arden’s Farm, a working Tudor farm today. And we weren’t alone. There were about a hundred Shakespeare fans, all in fantastic, costumes, waiting for a birthday banquet. A birthday banquet we had to cook in a field kitchen using only ingredients that were around in the 16th century. Oh, and it was boys versus girls for a bit of added zest.
It turned out to be the funniest day ever. The boys and I went for risotto from pearl barley, old-fashioned food from that period. And yes, you’ve probably seen the episode. So you’ll know that, yes, I stole things from the other team. All is fair in love and kitchens. Didn’t Shakespeare say something like that?
Then we moved on to do afternoon tea in Richmond for the lovely ladies of the WI. That was one of my favourites. I love afternoon tea. And the WI. And then, at the semi-final stage, I made a mistake. We had to pick something that meant a lot to us. And I thought back to my childhood when my Aunty Vi had made trifle. She’d taught me how to make it, and to make it properly, all those years ago. So her trifle meant a great deal to me. And I made it. I made my own custard and really tried to get the details and the extras right.
The crew adored it, I’m thrilled to say. But the judges? They thought it had been too easy. I’d finished first, I think. So they had seen me loafing around a bit when I was done and the others were still creating. So off home I went, feeling it was a little bit unfair. Should I have chosen to cook something complicated, even if it hadn’t meant as much to me?
But I’d been thrilled to get so far. And I was thrilled that funny girl Sophie won. And I’m even more thrilled I’ve been asked back as a judge for the next series – and hopefully for many more shows after that. I’ve eaten some quite disgusting food from some of the poor contestants. But how I love the good stuff.
Later that year the only way was Essex for me. I was off to Southend to play in Peter Pan – for the very first time. Mad, really, after all my pantos, that I’ve never been in this most famous one. But it’s not got a part for a big, loud dame in a crazy dress. So we re-wrote it. We turned Mr Smee into a very sexy (some may disagree) Mrs Smee. We wrote in ten different entrances and exits for me. We found ten different madly over the top costumes for me to wear for each and every entrance – the giant, multi-coloured cupcake on my head being a big favourite.
We were at Cliff’s Pavilion on the sea front. And I was there alongside anther stellar, talented cast, including one David Hasselhoff. What a lovely man he proved to be. And oh, what a show. We broke all box-office records in Southend. We did phenomenal business. And we had fun – even though the people in charge tried to stop me.
Some of that il
licit fun began right at the start. I decided I wanted to wear a red swimsuit and do a Pamela Anderson, Baywatch thing to sort of take the mickey out of my co-star. Of course I did. It was David Hasselhoff. He was going to be Hoff the Hook. I had to make fun of him. So I had to do it.
But our producer said no. He said David wouldn’t like it. You can’t do it, he said. David doesn’t like to be sent up.
Nonsense, I thought. Everyone likes to be sent up. So I did it anyway. I got the fabulously talented costume people to run me up a vast red bathing suit. I got my mad hair and madder make-up done. I had some pictures taken on my phone.
And then I decided to show them to the Hoff, whom I had really only just met. As I did so, I did hold my breath a bit. Had I made a massive miscalculation? Would this Hollywood star prove to be as humourless as some of the other Hollywood types I’ve met (Janice Dickinson, for example)?
But guess what? David almost fell over laughing. He loved it. The Hoff doesn’t like to be sent up? Nonsense. He’s an old pro. He knows what works. So we put it in the show. That vast red swimsuit was one of my ten big costumes. And we got the biggest laughs of the night, every night. We got wave after wave of laughter and goodwill. We sailed away on that laughter for the rest of the night. Everyone left the theatre on our high. Peter Pan was panto magic in Essex. I was thrilled to have finally added it to my list of productions.
And the Hoff and I have become real friends. He’s one of the good guys. He even got me a cameo part in one of his new TV shows, a series he was making for Dave. The run was long and as draining as ever. But it was a good one. And as the show came to the end in Essex I came to the end of my latest contract with Qdos, the people who put on all the good shows. I thought long and hard about what to do at that point. Then I signed a new contract. I signed up for another three years, starting with Aladdin with Blue’s Simon Webbe at the Theatre Royal Nottingham for the 2015–2016 season. That three-year commitment will take me through to my seventieth birthday, I realised. At which point I would probably be getting to old to be the dame and to play the fool. I’ll think again when we get there. But my feeling now is that it will be the time to take a panto bow at seventy. A final bow, to retire and to say goodbye, goodnight and thank you for some amazing panto memories.
In the meantime, I am still available for work, darling. Aren’t we all? I’ll listen to any proposals, I’ll consider it all. But I must admit that one thing I don’t think I’ll do as much of in the future is pure acting. I’m losing my interest, after all these roles and all these years. To be more specific, I just hate learning lines. It’s so dull, so dreary and I struggle so hard to do it nowadays.
There are ways around this. They say Marlon Brando never learned a line in his life. You can find ways to manage it, places to read things from and ways to cover it up. But I don’t want to get into all of that. I can’t take the pressure any more. If I can’t learn the lines then I shouldn’t be saying them. It’s only fair to give the role to someone who’s got the brains.
And there’s a little bit more. I’ve turned into one of those old fools who bangs on about the olden days. But in the olden days it really was different. When you did TV or theatre back then you had fun. You had time and you had rehearsals, for a start. We’d turn up for a show. We’d meet up, cast and crew. We’d talk, we’d work and sometimes we’d make lots of mistakes. But we’d get it by the time we did the take or took to the stage for real.
Now there’s no time and precious few rehearsals. You’re expected to turn up knowing all your lines, your cues, your role. You won’t necessarily know who your fellow cast members will be. But you’re supposed not to care. You just turn up, do it, and go home. No room to get to know people. No room for laughs. I think of all those life-long friendships I have made in long, lovely rehearsals over the years. I don’t make them now because it’s wham, bam and thank you, man. And we all move on, with barely a goodbye.
One more moan? There’s so little money nowadays as well!
What other industry has seen pay slump so far, so fast? Lots of them, I suppose. Lots of us have seen our workplaces change for the worse. I’m not too out of touch to think actors are special. And I know how lucky I was to be signed up in the good old days. I think back to the days when Cilla and I would get it all – new frocks and shoes and jewellery for her each show, new handmade suits and handmade shirts and handmade shoes for me. We’d have cars and handsome chauffeurs ready to pick us up and take us anywhere each night. And we’d get something like £5,000 an episode, thirty long years ago when that kind of money went a very, very long way.
So I’m happy to star with the autocue nowadays. I can read words that are put in front of me. So if it’s a studio-based show, I’m there. Or a panel show or chat show where I can be myself, ad lib and just say what I think. I’m there for that. Radio? I’m there for that as well. There’s Nothing Like a Dame was great fun. Taking over from lovely Lisa Tarbuck for two hours on Christmas Day was hard, but a hoot.
And when lots of work does come in I do have a brand-new secret weapon that sees me through it.
It’s that at the grand old age of 65, I think, I did something I never expected. I gave up alcohol. I gave up the booze and I’ve not looked back. Why did I do it? Two reasons, really. One was in my subconscious. Over the years I realised I’d been seeing what alcohol did to so many people I had loved. I’d seen so many people aged by addiction. Killed by addiction, for some sad souls.
Then I had a clever wake-up call when I had a regular health MOT one year.
‘How do you want to die?’ I was asked.
‘I’m sorry, what?’ I replied, unsure whether I was being offered a specific menu of choice.
‘Do you want to die peacefully in your own bed at a grand old age? Or do you want to die a whole lot sooner, dribbling away in a hospital bed and being looked after by strangers?’
I said that the first option sounded a little bit nicer. He said he couldn’t guarantee it would work out that way. But that there was a simple way to improve my odds.
‘Give up drinking,’ I was told. It was as clear and simple as that. So I did. Why make a fuss? Why not get on with it? And I don’t miss it at all. I sleep better. I’m not as tired. Without any hangovers I have more energy.
Yes, I had a chink of a champagne glass last Christmas. A sip of red wine at a special Easter lunch. But that’s it. We threw the most amazing party for Neil’s 50th birthday a few years ago. It was on the top of Soho House, the private club in the East End of London closest to our home. It has a swimming pool on the roof, just like something out of Sex and the City. The day we had Neil’s party was gloriously sunny and boiling hot. Dozens and dozens of slim, hot, young people were draped around the pool in their part of the club. And in the outdoor area on the other side of the doors from the pool you could find us – dozens and dozens of hot (literally hot, due to the sun) older people, not all of us as slim as we once were. But I bet we had a better time on our side of the fence. We laughed more. We let it go more. It’s another lesson of age. Don’t get so worried about what others think. Dance like no one’s watching, or whatever the phrase is. And, as I said, don’t feel you need to drink to enjoy the moment. I didn’t drink at Neil’s party. And I enjoyed every moment.
So if you’re getting on a bit, if your energy levels are dropping then join me. Give up the booze. Give it a go. It worked for me. I’m not going back now. I need every ounce of energy I can get. Life is for living. I need to keep at it.
Another thing I do like doing nowadays – and what I thrive on – are charity auctions. They’re oxygen to me now. And they can spring some real surprises – like the one I did in the height of Top Gear madness in 2015.
I got drafted into the cause by Nick Allot, Cameron Mackintosh’s talented right-hand man. He asked me to help out at a big auction at the Roundhouse in Camden, north London. The Roundhouse charity, which does so much for disadvantaged youngsters, is such a great cause. It was always going to be
a totally worthwhile night. But it turned into a media whirlwind because sitting right there, on my top table, was one Mr Jeremy Clarkson, who was the man of the moment after being suspended from Top Gear after reports of him lashing out at a producer on location. Or something. I can’t say I’d read that much about it, if I’m honest.
I can’t say I ever really got Jeremy Clarkson either. I don’t watch the programme. I’m not a petrol head, or whatever they are called. My big question about cars used to be: What colour is it? Now it’s likely to be: Is it easy to get in and out of? So I’d not expected to bond with the man behind the show – and nor, to be fair, had I expected him to bond with me. But you know what? He was enchanting company. He was open and charming and philosophical about the demise of his show. On the other side of our big round table his lovely girlfriend told my lovely Neil exactly what had gone on – you’ll have to ask him for all of that information. And as we were all getting on so well I decided to see if I could gee Jeremy up for a final lot to raise some extra cash.
‘Will you offer anything for the auction?’ I asked, right before I went up to the stage to get it going.
He would and he did. He said he would offer up a seat for what he declared (with a fair few bleeps required if you listen to it online) his last ever lap on the Top Gear track in Guildford, I believe.
And it got better. Nick Mason, the Pink Floyd drummer, was on our table with his wife Nettie as well. It turns out he owns some rare gazillion-pound car that again I’d never really heard of. But we added it in to the lot.
I did my very best auctioneer job of whipping up the crowd. I made sure everyone knew how important this charity was. And how great this particular lot would be. Then the bids started to fly. In the end we came down to two – two generous souls with deep pockets, bidding against each other for that final lap with Jeremy.
I knew by then that we were on target to make lots of vitally important money for the charity. And I thought: What a shame only one of these bidders can write a cheque. So I stopped the auction for another quick word with my new friend Mr C.
Biggins Page 24