Life's What You Make It

by Phillip Schofield

  They gently strapped him on to a stretcher and I became aware that Mum, Tim, Doreen and Harold were all in the room. Mum was distraught. Tim was as transparent as a ghost.

  One of the paramedics was writing in a pad. He didn’t ask my name. He gave me a small certificate, and it read, ‘Tonight, Phillip Schofield saved a life.’

  As he handed it over, he said, ‘Nice work, mate.’

  Out of every small scrap of paper I have saved in my life – and I save everything – that certificate is the only thing I have lost.

  The stretcher was lifted past the pohutakawa tree and loaded into the ambulance. Mum got inside. The doors slammed shut, the red-and-white flashing lights burst into life and it tore off into the night.

  ‘Get in the car!’ I shouted to Tim.

  And we chased the ambulance.

  If they had stayed in rural Cornwall, there is no chance that an ambulance could have reached them in the ten minutes it had taken in Auckland, and I would have been in London and wouldn’t have been able to administer incorrect but effective CPR. The move to New Zealand had saved his life.

  Dad was rushed into intensive care and the three of us sat on a bench in a nondescript corridor to wait for news. After an hour, a nurse came to tell us that he was critical but stable, and was in the best hands. She then exclaimed, ‘Oh, my dear God, your hands!’ We looked at each other. Who was she talking about? She was looking at me. ‘You have to go to X-ray straight away.’

  The back of my left hand was black from the tips of my fingers to beyond my wrist. My right hand was the same: purple-black bruising from my little finger, up the side of my hand and halfway up my arm. I had obviously been hitting Dad very hard. My hand was checked – nothing broken – and we were then allowed in to see Dad. Surrounded by the usual ICU paraphernalia, he looked so fragile and vulnerable. I had never seen him like that. He wasn’t a big man, but to me he was invincible and immortal. Clearly not.

  He opened his eyes and smiled and we asked if he was okay.

  ‘I feel fine, apart from my chest.’

  ‘Your chest? What’s wrong with your chest?’

  ‘I feel like I’ve been kicked by a bloody horse, repeatedly!’

  ‘Ah, yes, sorry about that.’

  He was fine that I had battered him, but really pissed off they had cut up his favourite T-shirt. Like I said, I knew he would be.

  Two days later, I had to fly to Christchurch to host an awards ceremony live on TVNZ. The show must go on.

  In the days that followed, Dad had a quadruple heart bypass. It was months before he was back to normal – well, normal apart from having what looked like a huge zip from his neck to his navel.

  We suddenly all felt a very long way from family and friends. It was time to make another seemingly impossible decision and, collectively, we made it. We were going home. The loops fired up in my head with a vengeance. What the hell was I doing? I had everything. I had been looking at apartments and had found a beautiful wooden cabin deep in a fern grove. I had great friends, I was on television and radio, I loved Auckland and my way of life. One loop said, ‘You have to stay, you’ve finally got where you want to be. You can’t leave this; if you go back, you start from scratch.’ The other loop screamed, ‘You can’t stay behind, you have to go with them. You have felt for a few moments what it’s like to lose your dad. You brought him back. How could you contemplate being 12,000 miles away from him, Mum and Tim?’ Night after tormented night; again, utterly pointless. Obviously, I would be with them on the flight home.

  Let me take you back to that conversation with Peter Powell in the corridor of Broadcasting House, outside the door of Room 130: ‘Keep in touch.’ That was exactly what I had done. I had sent numerous VHS tapes of my best TV moments and cassettes of my radio highlights. In fact, I had sent a lot.

  I had been writing to Peter on and off to update him of my progress. By a magnificent stroke of luck, he had set up his own management company in London. He had called it James Grant Management. James was his middle name and Grant was the middle name of his new business partner, Russ Lindsay. I had been really concerned that my parcels would get ‘wiped’ by some unknown magnetic force as they travelled across the globe, so I had wrapped them all tightly in tinfoil. Back in London, this had caused great amusement in the JG offices.

  ‘Pete, you’ve got more sandwiches from New Zealand.’

  Though obviously an unnecessary touch of over-caution, the contents of the foil packages had been well received. Pete had said that if I ever found myself in London, I should pop over to the office in Chiswick for a chat. Well, turns out, that was only a few short months away.

  It was happening all over again. I was saying goodbye to all my friends. I was resigning from jobs that I adored. I was totally uprooting myself. Radio Hauraki had a small gift that they gave to friends on special occasions, a small gold pendant fashioned in the image of the ship, Tiri, that had been the original home to the pirate station in the sixties. I was presented with one by the team, and as I accepted it I seemed to have something in my eyes that made them water. I have my Tiri to this day, and Peter Grattan, Evelyn and Jo from the Shazam! office remain my friends.

  As the 747 rumbled down the runway of Auckland International Airport, I was sitting by the window, looking out. We lifted laboriously into the air, and my eyes were transfixed on the golden lights of the city – my city. I wanted it to be a long goodbye, to watch them twinkle ever smaller as we climbed, but the clouds that night were low and, in a flash, the city was gone.

  I will forever be grateful to beautiful New Zealand. For trusting in a kid with no experience, for teaching me so much and for allowing me to have my dad for another twenty-five years.

  4

  It was very strange to be back. My family returned to Cornwall. I moved back to London and was very kindly put up by family friends called Joan and Les in Finchley, North London, until I found my feet and somewhere to live. They pointed out the Kiwi twang I had picked up over the four years in Auckland and which would take months to disappear.

  London was just as exciting as it had always been: busy, vibrant and full of opportunity.

  I can clearly remember walking through Piccadilly Circus on a hot, sunny day, feeling happy and excited to be back. My bright mood wasn’t dampened in the slightest by a sudden sharp shower. I took cover in a restaurant doorway and watched the hustle of the street. After a minute or so the rain stopped and I re-emerged. There was my favourite smell, petrichor: rain on hot tarmac. If I smell it now, it will always take me back to that day.

  As I reacquainted myself with friends and family, I knew my money would run out. Not only did I need work, I was also itching to get back on to either TV or radio, but it was to prove much harder than I thought. One of my first priorities was to travel to see Peter Powell and Russ Lindsay. The offices of the fledgling James Grant Management were upstairs in Pete’s lovely house by the river in Chiswick. Russ was interested to meet the guy who had been sending the tinfoil packages from New Zealand. He was and is a wonderful guy, and remains among my very closest and trusted friends. We chatted, drank tea and they agreed to take me on. I have stayed ever since. Recently, after Pete and Russ sold the company, it became YMU. (I still think the change of name was a bad idea.) I was the second artist on the roster. The first had been signed a few months before – a singer called Owen Paul. He got to number three, I think, with ‘My Favourite Waste of Time’.

  James Grant was a management company, not an agency, which meant they looked after every aspect of your life, if you needed it. They helped me to find a flat and a car. My flat was on Madeley Road in Ealing and my car a black Ford XR3i that had a very appealing throaty growl.

  Everything was new to me – I hadn’t even seen a mobile phone. Pete showed me how his worked, saying that I’d look like a dick if I didn’t know how to use one. However, it would be a while before I could afford one, because work was proving to be elusive. I was being pitched everywhere, but
no one was particularly interested.

  Thankfully, I had continuing associations with TVNZ to keep my dwindling finances afloat. Everyone was buzzing about the upcoming Live Aid concert at Wembley and I was desperate to go. I got a call from Peter Grattan. He was travelling to London to produce coverage of the event and asked if I would like to be the UK host. I didn’t just bite his hand off, I took his arm off to the elbow! Jo Hulton, who had replaced Ev at TVNZ and become a friend before I left Auckland, came on board as PA, and the three of us were reunited. The biggest concert the world had ever seen, the world’s greatest musicians, and I was backstage, recording interviews with them all. Later in the evening, we moved into the arena to watch. That was a hell of a day.

  I recorded a few interviews with the pop stars of the time to send back to Shazam!, which was now being hosted by Pip Dann. The music was as positive as my mood – shit, it was good to be back. Nik Kershaw, Howard Jones, Simply Red and Go West – I chatted to them all and the tapes were dispatched to New Zealand.

  Jo Hulton and Peter Grattan.

  TVNZ had started to run an annual Telethon and I was asked if I’d consider flying back to host some of it. I had a job interview a few days after, so I said I would go but would have to come back immediately. I wondered if sleeping pills might be a good idea for the return journey and figured that I might be able to get a few from the oldest member of my family, my nan. She popped a couple in an envelope for me and I packed them in my case. I flew to Auckland, where I was picked up and driven directly to the studio to present for twenty-four hours, live on TV. My co-host was Erik Estrada from Chips, who reminded me of the New Zealand traffic cops. After that, I did a further twelve hours on Radio Hauraki, during which I abseiled down a hotel and scared the bejesus out of a bloke sitting on the toilet. After that, I went straight to the airport and boarded my flight home. I was on the ragged edge of exhaustion, so I took the pills. I have no idea how the hell my nan could even walk after taking them – they acted like cattle tranquillizers. I fell asleep about an hour out of Auckland and woke up in my bed at the flat. I have absolutely no recollection of changing planes in Singapore or how I got from Heathrow to Ealing. That was the last time I visited New Zealand. Life, work and timing have all prevented a return trip, but I’ve often thought how lovely it would be to reacquaint myself with Auckland. My Kiwi passport has long since run out, but I sometimes wonder if I still have my dual citizenship.

  Interviewing Howard Jones.

  Pete still remembers a conversation I had with him about money when I told him I was getting worried because I had £1.47 in my bank account. My new friends were making sure I wouldn’t starve, and I spent most evenings with Russ and his girlfriend, Lesley, and their circle of mates. Sometimes Pete would join the group. But I was beginning to get worried about my lack of employment.

  Satellite TV had only just begun and Pete was hosting a weekly music show on Sky Trax. In an incredibly selfless move, he asked for a fortnight off and said that he wanted me to fill in. Remarkably, they agreed and I hosted two shows. Sadly, they weren’t all that impressed.

  Things took a small step forward when I was asked if I would present the weekend graveyard shift on Capital Radio, I think from 2 a.m. to 6 a.m. It would be a toe in the door, and I was happy to be back on the radio. Unfortunately for me, Capital being a commercial network, timings were critical. The news had to happen exactly at the top of the hour, to the second. I had to back-time the record into the news and add up the commercials I would play, then add in the news jingle. For me, it was impossible maths. I was bad enough adding up at the best of times, but doing it in minutes and seconds was something I couldn’t get my head round. On the first night, as I sat in the chair, I spotted what was going to happen at about 2.45 a.m. I tried the maths but I just couldn’t do it. I phoned my mum.

  ‘Sorry to wake you up, but I have a problem.’

  ‘What’s the matter? What have you done?!’

  ‘I’m on the radio, and I need you to add these up, quickly.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Okay.’

  ‘Three minutes forty-nine seconds, then twenty-eight seconds, then thirty-one seconds, then fourteen seconds, then twenty-six seconds, then eight seconds.’

  I hit the news bang on time! Each week after that I phoned mum before I went on air and she did that night’s maths for me. She couldn’t help me when I locked myself out of the studio, though.

  The loo was down a corridor, on the other side of a door that was opened by a key card. At about 3.30 a.m., I decided I needed a wee. I put on a record of a suitable length and set off. The station output played throughout the building so I could hear the music even in the loo. When I got back to the studio door, I put my hand in my pocket: nothing – the access card was still in the studio. The record continued to play. I phoned security to tell them I was locked out. It was an age before they picked up. The music played on. The guard was on his way. As I stood, panic-stricken, outside the door, I heard the music start to fade, followed by the tick, tick, tick as the stylus nudged the centre of the record. About five minutes later, the security guard sauntered down the corridor, smiling at the silence I was broadcasting across London.

  ‘You’re going to be in trouble.’

  ‘Hopefully, nobody is up.’

  He let me in, I ran to the studio and pressed ‘play’ on the next record, but already the phone was ringing. The programme controller was up. I lifted the phone to my ear and listened in silence to my bollocking.

  He was always up! I got a second dressing-down when I broke the rules. To save money through the night, I could only play music that didn’t cost the station any performing-rights fees. So that ruled out all chart music, past or present. In fact, it ruled out anything that I had ever heard of. Essentially, I spent the night playing shite. All the forbidden chart records were in a huge box beside me. One night, I couldn’t stand the temptation any longer. It was 4 a.m. – surely I was safe. I reached into the box. I’m pretty sure my hand settled on ‘Easy Lover’ by Phil Collins. I put it on the turntable. I waited for the record by someone no one knew and would probably never know to finish. A jingle first, then I pressed ‘play’. I settled back in my chair. It sounded good. Fifteen seconds later the phone rang and I got my second bollocking. The man was never asleep!

  Regardless of all the restrictions and the fact it was the middle of the night, I loved being on Capital. It was an exciting station, and made better by the fact that Kenny Everett was presenting the weekend breakfast show and I handed over to him. Kenny would arrive into the studio next door to set up and give me a cheery wave. Sometimes he would pop in for a chat and bring me a cuppa. He was brilliantly eccentric and outrageously funny. Kenny told the best stories, and those handovers were the highlight of my week.

  JG Management were still tirelessly trying to get me a job on TV, but no one was interested. Russ heard that the BBC in Manchester were looking for presenters for a show called No Limits. It had been running for a series, and they were recasting. They sent my CV and show reel to Manchester. It took a few days for the rejection to arrive on Russ’s desk. Apparently, I didn’t get it because I wasn’t blond. It had gone to Tony Baker, who was.

  I was getting used to the disappointment. It’s a tough business – you have to be patient and have a thick skin – however, I was both impatient, and upset that my hair was the wrong colour! The surprise came a few weeks later when my show-reel VHS was returned. It was in a BBC envelope but had been sent from London. I had posted it to Manchester, so why had it travelled internally? It was probably nothing to get excited about, but I was intrigued.

  In fact, it was something to get excited about – wildly excited. A couple of days later Russ got a call from Pat Hubbard, who was the BBC’s Presentation Head of Promotions. The BBC were looking for a presenter to link the afternoon children’s programmes. ITV had had the idea first, and it was beginning to hurt the BBC’s viewing figures. The ITV content was recorded, but the BBC wanted to do it
live. They were working very quickly and hadn’t had time to hold their own auditions, so they had gone to the last show that had: No Limits. They had, essentially, asked to see their rejects – and I was one of them. If I was interested, they would like to see me.

  As I write this, it’s got me thinking about my fickle relationship with television and radio, how I waver between

  the two, and, from the outside, how confused it seems. In the earlier years it was a bit like the tides of Fistral beach, washing in and out. I wrote to all the radio DJs when I was younger, but I also had a TV studio made out of Lego in a cardboard box. I was entranced by the cameras sliding into view on television, but I waited for hours to watch a Radio 1 Roadshow.

  In New Zealand, I had landed a job on TV accidentally, but had only felt completed by working on Hauraki. Back in London, I was applying for jobs in television but also wanted to be on Radio 1. I think perhaps that, in New Zealand, television had taken the lead. It had become the career, with radio the sexy accompaniment. On contemplation, currently, television is my life and my love. I’ll have to see if, in the future, the tide changes and I look towards radio again. The thread that ties them together is the fact that I have loved learning the art of communication on both platforms, and the lessons continue.

  Anyway, this day in London in 1985 was all about TV, because there was that feeling again as I walked down Wood Lane to the TV building I loved so much. I hadn’t seen it since the day I had explored before we left for New Zealand. It was no less spectacular. The ‘Atomic Dots’ on the side of TC1 were still there. Apparently, Arthur Hayes, who worked on the building, was rushed at the time he was designing parts of it, stuck drawing pins into a polystyrene model, and thus, the dots were created. This time, though, I wasn’t going for an uninvited snoop. This time was different. I had been asked to go.

  As I walked confidently up to the commissionaire, I was able to say, ‘I have an appointment.’