Life's What You Make It

by Phillip Schofield

Eventually, the headphones crackled into life.

  ‘Can you hear me, over?’

  ‘Yep, loud and clear, over.’

  ‘Good, so, point yourself down the mountain and you’ll start to slide, over.’

  ‘Okay, over.’

  I pushed off and felt my skis start to glide. I tried to put in a turn, but my skis just wouldn’t obey. I tried the other way, but my skis still didn’t comply.

  ‘Okay, Phil. Looking good, mate. Put in that turn now … Phil, you need to put that turn in now.’

  ‘I can’t. They won’t turn.’

  ‘Can you sense that you’re beginning to pick up speed now, mate? Put that turn in. Phil, make a turn. Seriously, you have to turn right now.’

  I was flying down the mountain in a perfectly straight line. Out of instinct, I crouched and tucked my arms in. I’m also pretty sure I closed my eyes.

  ‘Phil, turn! Turn, mate … Fall, Phil! Fall! Just lean backwards and fall on to your back.’

  I shot past them in silence. No yelling, no screaming, just an uncontrolled spear streaking downhill.

  They stood in horrified silence, the useless walkie-talkie hanging limply in their hands.

  A stranger came to a stop beside them.

  ‘He’s good,’ said the stranger. ‘How long has he been skiing?’

  ‘First time.’

  ‘Shit.’

  I hit the ground so hard my ski flew for about thirty feet, away and up, hitting a sign that pointed the way back to Méribel, turning it forty-five degrees in a different direction. It took two days of people skiing in the wrong direction before someone got a ladder and turned it back.

  Skiing with Peter Powell, apparently without poles!

  Skiing became one of my favourite pastimes, followed closely by scuba-diving. Once, the gang all decided to travel to Antigua to take our open-water certification. On our first dive together, we realized that the faster you breathed, the quicker you used your oxygen and the sooner you had to return to the boat. The competition was intense; nobody wanted to be first back to the boat. It probably helped us enormously: we were all instantly calm and serene divers, and there was no way I was going to be first out. I spent most of the dives with blue lips.

  It’s a source of great joy to me that both of my girls have taken to diving. The family holidays with the four of us diving in formation are very special. They were all with me when a barracuda fell in love with me and stayed beside me for a whole dive. Those family holiday memories are twenty-four-carat gold to me.

  As a group of friends, one of our most serene trips was our annual trip to Loch Goil, on the Cowal peninsula in Argyll, Scotland. Our mate Gary had a boat – well, his dad did. Russ, Gary and I would fly to Dundee and then drive to the loch, where we’d meet Gary’s dad. We stayed in Lochgoilhead, which, you won’t be surprised to hear, was a tiny collection of houses at the head of the loch. The Bouquet Garni was the only restaurant and the guy who ran it would put a blackboard outside announcing who had made a booking that night. He had some sort of radar because, as we arrived, he would write on the blackboard ‘The Southerners are back.’ It was always a mad, furious dash from our accommodation to the restaurant because the midges were furious and it hurt like hell when they swarmed on to our heads and hands and bit us in their hundreds! We’d all stand at the door, waiting to open it and make the frantic run to the restaurant.

  ‘Is everyone ready? Remember, there’s no going back if you’ve forgotten something. Right, ready? Three, two, one: ruuuuuuunnnnn!’

  Everyone who arrived at the restaurant did so in the same way. There was a huge bang as they hurled themselves in through the outer porch door, arms wheeling above their heads and hands desperately patting at their faces.

  The reason we made the journey north was because of the fishing. If the weather was nice, it was utterly sublime. In the morning, we’d be picked up by the boat and spend the day out on the loch, fishing for mackerel. At the end of the day we beached the boat, fired up a disposable barbecue and cooked the freshly caught fish, eating them with our fingers. I loved every second. It was calming and peaceful, life was slower, and it reminded me of Cornwall and of going out with my dad to fish for mackerel on the rocks in Newquay.

  On one of the trips, the weather was roasting, so we all stripped off to our pants and dived into the cool, clear water for a swim. Out of nowhere, there was a very strange swell. There was obviously something huge under the water! The three of us panicked and made for the boat, flailing our way through the water to escape the beast beneath us in the briny waters. What the hell could be so big to create such a swell? We got to the ladder of the boat and fought each other to be first out. All dignity had escaped us. As we lay panting

  on the deck of the boat, Gary’s dad stood over us, looking down, tears rolling down his cheeks. He could hardly speak for laughing. We were affronted that he wasn’t taking this encounter with a creature of the deep seriously. When he had composed himself, he explained.

  ‘Aye, that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. Three grown men escaping a submarine!’

  A what now?

  It transpired that, as the loch was open to the sea, submarines would creep in unnoticed on training manoeuvres and, as they turned to leave and head back out to sea, they always kicked up a swell on the surface. I’m not sure that any of us were comforted. Which was worse? A mythical monster or a bloody massive submarine with gigantic spinning propellers silently turning beneath us!

  We developed one quaint tradition on the day of the Oxford v. Cambridge Boat Race. Pete lived by the rowing club at the end of the race, where the boats were hauled ashore and the interviews were given. I’d been live on TV for two hours that morning, Pete had been live on the radio for two hours, yet we all gathered at his house to watch the race. He always recorded it. As the race drew to a close, we all ran up the riverbank to stand in the back of shot while the interviews were taking place. We then went back to Pete’s and rewound the VHS to see if we’d made it on to the telly. Every time we could identify one of us in the background, we had a drink.

  Our nights out very seldom had any discernible effect on our broadcasting abilities, except maybe Peter’s. After very heavy nights, when we’d all got into a bit of a mess and finally found our way to our beds, we would try to wake up to listen to Pete’s opening link on the radio. He was presenting the weekend breakfast shows on Radio 1 from eight till ten. If he was in a bad way, two things would happen: firstly, he would say only ‘Good morning,’ in a particularly gravelly and pissed-off voice, then promptly play five records in a row. Then, if we were lucky, his ‘neat freak OCD’ would kick in. At home, for him, everything was/is always in an orderly pattern – even his cigarette stubs were arranged in a straight line. Sometimes, if he was hideously hungover, it would cross over into his show. Pete would look at the mixing desk in front of him; he liked all the faders to be in a straight line. Trouble was, if one was up on its own, the chances were, it was playing something. We knew that if the radio suddenly went silent, he had put all the faders in a neat line and taken himself off air. The screams of laughter from our individual flats could be heard all across West London.

  My diary was filling up with personal appearances and other TV work. I was presenting Take Two and I was a regular presenter of Disney Time, which, in the days before subscription telly, was the only way to watch Disney clips without buying the VHS. I was happy to work whatever hours were necessary. I was mostly living the dream, but there was one gap: I missed radio.

  It was proving tricky to get back on air because Doreen Davis, who at the time was a senior executive at Radio 1 and, no matter how hard Peter tried, wouldn’t have me on the station. She always said: ‘He’s very good on television.’ As long as Doreen was there, I didn’t stand a chance – but then, she retired!

  Johnny Beerling was the new controller of Radio 1 and, without Doreen as a barrier, things were much easier. I went in to see Johnny and he asked why I wanted to be o
n the radio when TV was working so well for me. I told him about the Fistral Roadshow, my obsession with radio, the ‘Enter’ sign in Broadcasting House. He smiled and said, ‘Ah, I see, this is more than just ambition, this is destiny.’ Johnny hired me, and I will love him for ever for that.

  Radio 1 had, sadly, moved buildings by this time, so I didn’t ever get to press ‘Enter’ as a DJ. It had, however, only moved next door, to Egton House, and was now in its own building. My life was literally complete as I walked through the doors for the first time, just across the road from All Souls Church, where my dad had sat on the steps when I had my booking-clerk job interview. I walked on to the floor that housed the studios: two Radio 1 studios, or ‘cons’, with their accompanying control rooms, overseen by the engineer and producer. The red, white and blue colours of the station were everywhere. I’m pretty sure the studios were Con K and Con L, but that’s the geek in me. I make no apologies.

  DJ Mark Goodier taught me how to use the desk, and I was ready to go. My first show on the station was on 29 August 1988, the summer bank holiday. I’d been allocated legendary Radio 1 producer Chris Lycett (his wife, Annie, is now a great friend at the Prince’s Trust), and Louise Musgrave was shadowing, because she would produce my upcoming shows on Sunday afternoons and Thursday evenings, starting in October that year.

  It was absolutely everything I had ever wanted it to be. Not only to be a part of the team, but also get to count the DJs of the time as my friends: Steve Wright, DLT, Simon Bates, Mark Goodier, Simon Mayo and the legendary Alan Freeman.

  My Radio 1 colleagues at the time.

  I would be setting up my Sunday show in one studio and ‘Fluff’ Freeman was next door presenting Pick of the Pops. The joy of watching him through the glass, saying, ‘Greetings, pop pickers’ and ‘Not arf’ was supreme. What a wonderful man he was, and he swore better than anyone I’ve ever met. Getting Fluff to laugh and tell me to ‘Fuck off’ in that legendary voice was a delight.

  Thankfully, there were still great ‘old school’ characters at the station, and reigning supreme among them was producer Malcolm Brown. Middle-aged and with crazy hair, he was talented but also hilariously eccentric and brilliantly bonkers. If he was thinking, he made a grunting ‘muh’ sound before he spoke. One Christmas, we were all in the offices above the studios. Cathy Mellor had become my programme secretary and we were working through the show. Malcolm was holding court. A record company had sent in sides of smoked salmon for everyone and one of those cards which, when you opened it, played a Christmas carol. We were chatting and eating salmon when someone wondered out loud whether, if you swallowed the card mechanism, the carol would continue to play.

  ‘Muh, well, I expect so.’

  Malcolm carefully dismantled the card to inspect what made the carol play: a battery, a couple of wires, a small printed circuit and a little speaker. He looked it over, took a piece of smoked salmon, wrapped it round the gubbins and popped it in his mouth.

  ‘Noooooooooooooo!!!!’ we all yelled in unison, and leapt forward. Too late. He opened his mouth, and it was empty. He had swallowed the card mechanism. One by one, we listened to his stomach. Cheerfully playing inside him was ‘Good King Wenceslas’. It was reckless and dangerous and apparently played for two days.

  Times were changing for Radio 1. New FM transmitters were opening up all over the country, the station was moving from the old, poor-quality 275/285 frequency on medium wave to a brand-new, high-quality stereo frequency on FM. It was a big deal, so the DJs were expected to take part in the switchover, which was slowly being rolled out across the UK. We were dispatched all over the country each time a new FM transmitter was activated. After a successful switch-on in Plymouth, I was dispatched to Southend with Malcolm Brown as my producer and Cathy Mellor as production secretary. We all arrived in the white Radio 1 Range Rover, resplendent in its station branding. The plan was simple. Simon Mayo was in a helicopter and had been visiting various switch-on sites around the country. The helicopter would land, Simon would jump out, a DJ would be there with local dignitaries, we would press a fake button and the FM signal would burst forth. We were on about the fifth switch-on of the day and they were running late.

  Malcolm, Cathy and I arrived at the designated playing fields, cleared a space for the helicopter, set up the fake button, met the Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress, said hi to the gathering crowd and waited … and waited. Mayo was late, and getting later. Malcolm’s phone rang as he sat in the Range Rover and I stood beside it, looking at the sky.

  ‘Muh, they’re not cummin’.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’ve run out of time. We’ve been dropped.’

  I looked at the expectant crowd. What were we going to do? What would we say?

  I then looked into the Range Rover for help from the man in charge. Cathy was sitting in the back with the door open, watching us both.

  There then followed the most bizarre set of instructions I had ever heard, and the most extraordinary executive decision, bearing in mind we were all representing Radio 1.

  ‘Muh, get in the car, but not fully in the car, stand on the outside step with the door open, but don’t make it look like we’re leaving, make it look like we’re arriving.’

  ‘What do you mean, Malcolm?’

  ‘Make it look nonchalant, like nothing is wrong. Cathy, dangle your legs out of the open door … Remember, we’re just arriving.’

  ‘But Malcolm, we’re already here!’

  ‘Just stand on the side of the bloody car … Oh, and look up.’

  I did as I was instructed. I stood on the running plate of the Radio 1 Range Rover, smiling and looking up. Malcolm slid the gearbox into reverse and slowly, so very slowly, we backed away.

  Further and further away. The assembled dignitaries were still watching the sky as we retreated.

  ‘We’ve left the fake FM button.’

  ‘Muh, sod it, can’t be helped.’

  As we reversed out of the gates of the playing fields and on to the road, Malcolm shouted, ‘Now!! Get in!’

  I slipped into the passenger seat and slammed the door. Cathy drew in her legs and slammed her door, too, and we drove off! I looked questioningly at Malcolm’s face as we raced off down the road, all those eager faces still staring at the sky.

  ‘And that,’ he said, ‘is how you make an exit.’

  Southend had its revenge some time later. I’d been asked if I’d do a wing-walk for Going Live. I’m not easily scared, and there’s not much I won’t try. I drove to Southend airport with a crew. I was going to fly over the south coast on the ‘Crunchie’ biplane. It was pretty well known at the time because, being in the orange colours of the chocolate bar, it was pretty easy to spot. There wasn’t much instruction required. I just had to stand, strapped to the wing – that was basically it. When I got to the airport I was met by the owner/pilot. He said that it would be pretty cold up there so I’d need to wear leathers. Unfortunately, his leathers were unavailable so I would have to wear his wife’s. I don’t know to this day if they were winding me up.

  So it was that I stood on the wing of the biplane in a tight purple leather jumpsuit with tasselled fringing on the sleeves. We pulled over at the end of the runway to let a passenger jet go first. I love planes, as I’ve said, and I looked over to the cockpit window of the jet. The pilot, who was going through his pre-take-off checks, looked up, our eyes met, him inside a passenger jet with his shades on, me strapped to the wing of a biplane in a leather jumpsuit. As he taxied into position he showed me the internationally recognized sign for ‘wanker’ and took off. I was crushed.

  I was becoming a bit of a daredevil, happy to take on most challenges (except any more charity football matches). Would I be winched from a military helicopter on to Brighton Pier to meet up with Jackie Brambles, who was broadcasting live? Of course! On the day, I was driven to the huge helicopter, which was waiting in a corner of the airfield. After the introductions were made it was explained that we’d p
erform a couple of dry runs before we flew out to Brighton. The helicopter lifted vertically about a hundred feet into the air. I sat at the open door with my legs dangling out. The winch man stood facing me, a leg either side of me. Was I happy? Everything okay? As the rotors beat their steady, thunderous roar, I gave him the thumbs-up. I slid forward and out, and he cast off at the same time. It takes a bit of skill to get the ropes exactly the right length, taking into consideration both the winch man’s height and mine. Anyway, work needed to be done because, as we slid out of the helicopter, his face disappeared out of view and mine jammed into his crotch as we descended! I couldn’t move my head because of the rope tension, and I couldn’t breathe. I was seriously suffocating, totally jammed against his package! As we got to the ground, my feet touched first, then my head was released from the grip of his groin and his body slid down in front of me until we were face to face. The helicopter roared above us as I looked at him, stunned by this forced intimacy.

  ‘All okay?’ I think he yelled, above the roar of the hovering helicopter.

  ‘No!’ I shouted back ‘The rope length isn’t right!!’ He couldn’t hear me and signalled that we were going back up.

  ‘No!! I can’t breathe! I was suffocating.’

  It was useless. Neither of us could hear each other. He looked up to the crew and signalled that we were ready to be lifted.

  His face lifted out of view, his chest passed by and then, whoomph, the rope tightened. I tried to turn my head: no chance – my face was pulled back towards his groin. I took a deep breath and, again, the world went dark, as we were lifted skywards. Nothing was ever said, but the ropes were adjusted and I was winched down to Brighton Pier in a much more dignified fashion. I was dropped off and the helicopter soared away. When I told my mates what had happened, they couldn’t breathe for laughing, and the ‘winch man’s bollocks’ story has been regularly retold.

  Sometime afterwards I was asked by the Going Live team if I would like to fly with the Red Arrows.