Friday night Going Live script study in the Chiswick kitchen.
‘Phil, I’ve got you a souvenir from TC.’
‘Oh my God! What did you get me?’
‘I’ve been up on a bloke’s shoulders to prise the studio sign of your favourite studio off the doors.’
‘Jesus. Really, I can’t believe you thought of me. Thank you so much.’
‘No problem. TC6 looked really empty and sad.’
‘TC6?’
‘Yes! Your spiritual home.’
‘Amazing, mate. Thank you so much.’
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the one I wanted was on the studio next door. Nevertheless, it’s still a pretty cool souvenir to have. It’s beside my EMI 2001 camera. I hope the fact that I’ve told this story doesn’t mean that someone is going to want it back. If you do, I’ll swap it for TC7.
We used every part of the building, inside and outside, while filming the show. I was outside the front of the building one Saturday waiting to present an item, and Sarah was inside interviewing the band 5 Star. I was listening to the studio in my earpiece and Sarah was taking questions for the band. Eliot, who was about sixteen, came on the phone to ask one. There was a dog barking in the background, identified as Tammy.
‘Do you have a question for 5 Star?’ asked Sarah.
‘Yes, I’d like to ask them why they’re so fucking crap,’ said Eliot.
‘Right,’ replied Sarah calmly. ‘I’m sure Tammy would have made a lot more sense. Let’s move on to line 3. Do you have a sensible question?’
As calmly as it was handled on air, we were all affronted. You couldn’t call in without giving your number and being called back, so we had his number. It was handed out to a few people and for a few days we dialled the number and hung up. Gentle revenge was very satisfying as we occasionally got him out of bed and, better still, he didn’t know who it was.
A Going Live phone-in.
Gordon the Gopher was still an important member of the team. By now, he had his own signed cards to send out to his fans. Paul Smith was so perfect in the way he brought him to life. Especially as Gordon was, essentially, just a squeaking sock, I was always in awe of the expressions and moods Paul’s hand could get him to show. Anger, hurt, cynicism, defiance – all were part of Paul’s repertoire. Although the Gopher was now part of the show, Paul was still a very busy producer upstairs in Presentation, so he continued his work there alongside working the puppet. One Saturday, we had just shown Thundercats. The cartoon finished and I picked up to read out some letters. The world was so much slower back then: Gordon and I had two seven-minute slots to read out letters and basically muck around. No one’s attention span would accept that now and, besides, no one writes letters any more!
As the Gopher sat beside me, I started to read out some funny notes we had been sent, but the Gopher was silent, refusing to react. I always knew where Paul was going with a joke – we could read each other – but I couldn’t understand where he was going with this. I cracked jokes; the Gopher refused to engage. I asked if he was okay. He wouldn’t answer or look at me. I asked if I’d upset him. Nothing. Well, whatever Paul’s gag was, I didn’t think it was particularly funny. Then I looked up and, standing beside the camera, waving his arms and ashen-faced, was Paul. He had been in his office, lost track of the time and hadn’t returned to the studio before Thundercats finished. The Gopher beside me was empty. I almost burst out laughing. I scooped up the lifeless Gopher, saying, ‘Well, if you’re in a mood, go and sulk somewhere else,’ then I turned around and put him behind the sofa. No one was any the wiser. Paul was never late again. I was never left with just a Gopher carcass.
Paul took his puppeteering incredibly seriously. One morning, I was cooking on the show with Emma Forbes, who was our resident chef. These segments were always chaotic affairs. I had already lost my grandad’s ring in a mountain of minced beef as I was making burgers. The Gopher was squeaking happily beside us. Paul was under the desk with his hand through a hole, watching a monitor and bringing Gordon to life.
Above the desk, some kitchen roll had caught fire. On the telly, the Gopher was trying to attract our attention. The fire grew, getting closer and closer to Gordon. It looked as if he was going to go up in flames, so he was squeaking multiple alerts.
Underneath the desk, Paul was laughing. This was hilarious on the telly – the Gopher was going to get singed. Paul continued to laugh, lost in his role. Until he realized, ‘Shit, my hand’s in there.’
It was a plaintive yelp of ‘Fire!’ from under the desk that alerted me above it. Gordon was saved, and so was Paul’s arm.
The puppets were being mass-produced by this time and, through constant use, the one we had for the telly would begin to wear out. We’d have to break in a new one. Before the old one was retired to the archive, we had to ‘dirty up’ a new one. The new fluffy ones didn’t look anything like ours until they got dirty. So, for a week before the swap-over, anyone with grubby hands would ‘rub the Gopher’.
As a new partnership, Sarah and I were invited to turn on the Christmas lights in Belfast. I have always loved the city. Even staying in the Europa was a strange thrill. It was known as ‘the most bombed hotel in the world’ after suffering thirty-six attacks during the time of the Troubles. The welcome in the city had been warm when I’d been once before, to appear in a televized discussion with my boss, the Head of Children’s Programmes, Anna Home. Anna had managed to get herself into a pickle, when she appeared to say to the attentive audience of children that Father Christmas didn’t exist. I could see the headlines: ‘BBC Children’s boss in “There’s No Santa” storm’.
I jumped in with, ‘I think what Anna means is …’
Afterwards, she thanked me profusely and, from then on, although she was always rather stern, I think we had a bit of a bond.
Anyway, this time we were in Belfast to turn on the Christmas lights. As Sarah and I left the Europa, we were dismayed to see that the streets were pretty much deserted. We both voiced our concern to the Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC) guy that was driving us. Had there been a problem? None that he was aware of. Maybe the people of Belfast weren’t that bothered that we had come to town, I thought.
As we got closer to City Hall, we turned into a street and could only see the backs of people. We tried another route: more backs. Another: the same. It seemed the good folk of Belfast were indeed interested – they had arrived in their thousands. Our RUC escort was getting nervous. How was he going to get us in? We abandoned the car, met more of his colleagues and ducked our heads as we were smuggled in through a secret back entrance in Donegal Square. We met everyone inside, and they were extremely jittery because of the size of the crowd. All apart from the mayor. He was perfectly happy: all would be well; ‘the crowd would listen to him’. Sarah and I looked at each other with an element of scepticism. Would they? Really?
Outside the building, it was rammed. There was a huge crowd hemmed into the square. Out in the middle of the crowd was an open, wooden shed that had been temporarily built to house the button to switch on the lights. We had to walk from the main door to that shed in the middle of the crowd. ‘They will listen to me,’ reiterated the mayor.
It was time to go. The RUC officers were not happy at all, and the organizers were aware that the crowd was much bigger than they had expected and were also unhappy. The mayor was thrilled.
We all assembled just inside the big doors and our orders were barked at us. We were to obey instructions for our own safety. It was all very serious and carried out with military precision.
‘We are going to form a tight circle around you. Phillip, Sarah, Mr Mayor, you are to remain in that circle. Do as you are instructed and listen to the team leader. If we have to abort, we will “extract” you.’
It was a bit intense, but bloody exciting.
‘We will count this down. Ready yourselves,’ came the order.
The mayor, resplendent in his red tunic and gold c
hain, put on his huge tricorn hat topped with a spectacular black feather. The protective circle was formed around the three of us and the doors were opened just enough to let us out. A huge cheer erupted from the crowd. Our tight formation began to move through the sea of people like a boat in a storm. I heard the mayor shouting, ‘They’ll listen to me. Stand aside. Let us through. Stand aside!’
The crowd pushed forwards as we were slowly advancing in our tight circle, protected by the iron ring of the RUC, towards the shed. And then, just for a moment, the circle broke and Sarah and I watched as the mayor got sucked out of the break and into the crowd.
‘Stand aside!’ I heard him cry.
‘Man down!’ I called.
The last time we set eyes on him, he was drifting helplessly out into the crowd, the black feather of his tricorn hat like a mighty sail on a lost galleon. Sarah and I started to laugh, heads down in this closed circle. We couldn’t help it. At no point did we feel anything other than warmth from the crowd. They were exuberant and entirely friendly. There were tears rolling down our cheeks. Then … the Belfast City Christmas lights came on.
‘The lights are on!’ I shouted to Sarah in our circle.
‘What?’ she shouted back.
‘The Christmas lights have come on.’
We were helpless with screaming laughter. Someone had spotted the mayor adrift in the crowd and panicked. They had hit the button and turned on the lights.
Sarah and I made it safely to the shed, gave a speech of thanks … and turned off the Belfast Christmas lights.
The RUC weren’t the only ones protecting me. James Grant were doing a pretty comprehensive job as well. At that time, and probably now, to a lesser extent, children’s presenters were expected to be squeaky clean. To live pure, saintly lives. I couldn’t be bound by those restrictions. I was by no means reckless, but my friends and I were all having a ball. A few magazine articles described me as ‘beige’ because I never seemed to do anything reckless. That always made us roar with laughter. The secret was not to go into the centre of London but to stay within the confines of either Chiswick or Ealing, where, back then, no one could be bothered to look. Everyone was protective of us. We knew all the bar staff and all the restaurateurs. Not one of them ever ratted if we had a raucous night out.
The thing is, if I’m honest, I have never felt ‘famous’ or understood the term ‘celebrity’ if it is apportioned to me. I didn’t feel it then; I don’t feel it now. Perhaps it’s because I was never in it for the recognition. Being recognized was an unnecessary by-product of the job I loved to do. Instead, I loved it because I loved discovering the art of communication. The way to address a camera, how to throw it a glance, like a cheeky friend. I realized that just a look could be enough to tell the filthiest joke. I suppose that has become ‘my thing’, a casually thrown, knowing look. It can say, ‘Is she mad?’ or ‘I disagree,’ or ‘Yes, I’m sure we all agree, this man is a twat.’ It just happens. I don’t think about it. The camera can be a very watchful, knowing accomplice.
Far from feeling famous, I couldn’t feel more ordinary in my head. I like to think I’m good at what I do, but I don’t successfully guide planes into Heathrow or fix a leak, and I certainly don’t fix a brain. We have a very strange job, which gets more recognition than it deserves. At a Pride of Britain Awards ceremony, I met Sir John Sulston, part of the British team who mapped the human genome. Bill Clinton described their work as ‘the most wondrous map ever produced by mankind’. In comparison, I will never understand why, very occasionally, I have been called ‘a legend’! And while I don’t do it for recognition, I don’t mind that my job brings attention. I have always doubted those in my profession who get frustrated at being recognized. I’ve always thought, give them a week without that and they’d soon be paranoid that it was all over!
Russ lived in Drayton Avenue in West Ealing at the time with his flatmates and his brother Craig. I will describe Craig as … untamed. He was a genuinely good soul and a kind man, right up until his sad death only a few weeks ago, but he loved to party.
When it came to the parties I went to, my drug of choice has always been alcohol. I’ve never really been interested in dope because, as I’ve mentioned, I’m really not very suited to it. Though, one day in Drayton Avenue, Gary, one of the gang, sparked up a joint as we were watching TV. An ad for a Cadbury’s Caramel bar came on the telly. The animated bunny was quite large and then, with a puff of dust beneath her, suddenly got thin. Gary said, ‘My God, she just farted herself thin, mate,’ and we laughed for four hours. That was the last time I touched it, because in between laughing, I was also being sick. Alcohol has always been enough for me.
We had such fun together and we did some crazy things. On bonfire night, we all trekked around the district picking up boxes and crates. The bonfire we built in the back garden was certainly too large to be safe, but when it started to die down someone unscrewed the kitchen door and threw that on. The cupboard doors followed.
Pete’s advice was always the same: be dignified in public, don’t let yourself down, always leave the BBC bar before everyone else, don’t show yourself up. So I never did, or at least I was never caught. But if you lived in Ealing or Chiswick at the time and you saw us out, thank you for not telling.
For all the advice about being dignified and staying safe, the gang very nearly killed me on two occasions.
Pete had a boat, a Sunseeker he kept moored in Poole. One sunny Saturday after I’d finished on Going Live it was suggested that we all drive down to the boat to go water-skiing.
It was a glorious day out on the water, but quite chilly. Russ had decided he was going to mono-ski. He couldn’t quite get up out of the water on one ski, so he got up on two then kicked off a ski and carried on with just the one. When he tired, we had to go in search of the ski he had dropped, which could have drifted anywhere in quite a wide area. The search was on. As it was chilly, I stood on the bow of the boat, still in my telly clothes from the show earlier, wearing a thick coat and my glasses. I wore contacts or glasses for years until, for a This Morning film, I had my eyes lasered. I haven’t needed glasses since.
The boat was pounding across the Solent in search of the dropped ski, and our eyes were peeled, scanning the sea.
‘There it is!’ someone called.
Pete snapped the boat round forty-five degrees. I wasn’t holding on.
I left the boat at around thirty knots, flying in a perfect arc over the water. I had enough time to think, ‘I’m going to lose my glasses,’ so I put my hands to my face as I flew. It was like hitting solid concrete as I smashed into the water. Every bit of breath was gone, leaving me completely winded. My thick coat filled with water and I began to sink. At that moment, I was done, no breath or energy to swim and no inclination to try. I felt my glasses slide down my nose and drift down into the depths. I was perfectly happy to follow them. By now, everyone on the boat knew that I was gone from the bow and the focus of the search changed from the dropped ski to me. I was quickly found and, as my head sank below the water, I felt Russ grab the neck of the coat and pull me to the surface.
My second close shave with death was in the Alps.
The gang loved to ski, and Pete was particularly good.
‘Would you like to come skiing with us, mate?’
‘I can’t ski.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll teach you.’
It had snowed heavily in the south-east, so we piled into our cars and headed for Box Hill in Surrey. It had a particularly useful slope. Most often used for sledging, it also offered a reasonably acceptable training slope. I was put on skis and given about a half-hour lesson before the others got bored and started skiing themselves.
A couple of weeks later, in Méribel, high in the Alps, we kitted ourselves up and set off. At the top of my first-ever run, I certainly looked the part: all-in-one outfit, mirrored shades. I mean, how hard can this be?
The guys produced a set of walkie-talkies.
&
nbsp; ‘Right, we’re going to ski halfway down, then we’ll stop. Put the headphones in and we’ll talk you through the moves. Remember what we told you about putting a turn in and snow-ploughing?’
‘Er, yes, I think I remember.’
‘Okay, then. Just listen to the instructions and you’ll be fine. Good luck. Enjoy.’
They skied off down the mountain. I waited at the top.
Life's What You Make It Page 15