The huge lunar moth that I rode over the audience was very occasionally a source of concern. When I started the ride, the stage was a long way away. I could see the cast waving as the doctor made his triumphant return. One afternoon as I approached the stage I could see that the cast were faltering in their waves, and as I got closer I could see concern on their faces. As I came in to land, the closest cast member whispered, ‘Get off! Get off quickly! It’s on fire!’
‘What?’
With Jo from wigs and dresser Angie. A guy in the pub said, ‘You’re working in theatre now so you’ve gone from TV to nothing really.’
‘There’s smoke pouring out of the back. It looks like you’ve been shot down over the bloody Channel!’
The batteries inside the moth didn’t often short out but, when they did, there were always a lot of Biggles impressions on the stage. It reminded me of my summer in the tank range.
We were a very happy company and I made some wonderful friends. We also had an enormous amount of fun. Every so often, the Creature Shop team would announce that the animals were going to have a ‘themed’ day. No one watching would have been aware of this. ‘Angry Animal Day’ was a triumph.
The show was such a great spectacle for my girls to come and see. They were friends with all the animals and, as a present, the Creature Shop made them the most beautiful mermaid tails Steph and I had ever seen.
One of the hardest shows I’ve ever performed was the evening show on Monday, 26 April 1999. Throughout the course of the day, the news had broken that my friend and colleague Jill Dando had been shot dead on her doorstep just down the road from the Hammersmith Apollo, in Fulham. No one that knew her could understand it then, and still to this day no one understands it. The last time I’d seen her was outside the reception at Television Centre about three months earlier. We chatted for a bit and, as she walked away, she said, ‘See ya later, handsome.’
Drunkenly watching the sun rise in Eastbourne.
For someone who is pretty good at spotting the unusual, thankfully, one evening I missed a huge set of clues. If I had questioned what I’d seen, I would have wrecked a very elaborate surprise and an incredibly well-kept secret. As usual, for the finale of every Doctor Dolittle show, I ran down the side of the building on my way to board the giant lunar moth. My route took me out of the stage door to the front of the theatre to a door that was specially opened so I could fly through it. I had to then run up the stairs of the theatre to another door that opened on to the roof, then I’d run across the roof (in all weathers) and down a set of steps into an old room that used to house one of the big spotlights. Now, one side of the room had been cut out and it acted as a kind of garage. Way above the heads of the audience and unseen, it housed the moth, hidden behind black cloths and ready for its descent to the stage. So that was the route.
Rewind to the start of that journey, to the moment I left the stage door and ran down the road beside the theatre. The secret clue I had missed were two unmarked TV vans, one of which had its doors open. If I hadn’t been running at a sprint, and if I’d been more attentive, I’d have noticed the camera kit inside and, before the final bows, I’d almost certainly have asked backstage why the TV crews were here. And where were they?
Mercifully, none of that happened and, until Michael Aspel arrived onstage beside me, I was unaware that ‘Tonight, Phillip Schofield, This is Your Life …’
I was totally lost for words. In conjunction with James Grant, Steph had played a blinder. I didn’t realize that she, my mum, dad and Tim were standing at the back of the auditorium, ready for the moment when Michael surprised me. They then sped off to Television Centre to meet me when I arrived after getting changed.
‘Phillip Schofield, this is your life.’
Most of the people there that night are mentioned in this book. They’re the most special people in my life. How lucky I am to have a recording of pretty much the whole family, as well as friends I hadn’t seen for so long: John and Mac from OBs; Louise Tucker, who I’d worn Hai Karate talc to impress, and failed; Bruce Connock, my careers adviser, who had sent me to watch the news at the BBC in Plymouth; Peter Grattan, my producer from New Zealand; David Rodgers, star of West Country TV and radio, who had become a life-long friend at Hospital Radio Plymouth. Paul Smith, my Broom Cupboard producer and master of the Gopher was there (Gordon also made an appearance). The cast of Joseph appeared and, obviously, Pete, Russ, Paul and Darren.
Then came Sarah Greene and Mike Smith, Caron Keating, Anthea Turner and Emma Forbes, followed by some of the friends I’d made at Radio 1, including Steve Wright and the man whose first ever Roadshow I’d watched when I was eleven, Alan Freeman. Steph was beautiful beside me and the best moment by far was when the doors opened and my two gorgeous little girls walked out, holding the hands of my dresser Angie White and the Dolittle cast.
I’ve always thought how lucky I was to have had my career celebrated in that way and, on reflection, it came early. The producers told me after the show that they had wanted to feature someone younger than the usual recipients of the big red book but who had still achieved enough to fill a show and had a family that spanned the generations. For me, it meant that I had two of my grandparents, my parents and my children all on one VHS. It is a beautiful living, breathing memento.
The year flew by in London, and it was time to take the doctor on the road. I was very much looking forward to seeing how the show went down in slightly smaller theatres. As I’d hoped, it was a joyous transformation. All the subtleties that were missed at the Apollo could now be seen by every audience and the laughter rang out night after night.
I have so many happy memories of that two-year tour. We laughed a lot. We had poker nights and wine-tasting nights. We had long nights on the beach in Eastbourne when the most hardy of us drunkenly watched the sun rise out of the sea. Angie White was brilliant, hysterically funny but sensationally accident prone. As we unpacked after the move from one theatre to another, she asked if I fancied a cuppa – great idea. We were both horrified by the noise the kettle started to make. When we looked inside it, we discovered that she had packed all the cutlery, the corkscrew, a pan scrub and half a bottle of Fairy Liquid inside.
In Southampton, Angie and I stood on the roof of the Mayflower Theatre along with lovely Joe from the wig department and set off balloons with our telephone numbers on them to see how far they travelled. I got a confused call from Belgium. Was there a prize? No, sorry.
The relationship between dresser and actor can be a close one. Seconds before the curtain went up one night, Angie was with us all onstage, desperately trying to stitch a button back on to my crotch. But I think we laughed the hardest during a quick change in the pitch darkness when I accidentally rammed my finger up her nose. It was as if I was about to bowl her head down an alley. Those were very happy times.
Indirectly, the fact that I missed a performance of Doctor Dolittle in Plymouth was Jason Donovan’s fault.
In the Going Live days, if ever we needed a guest, Stock, Aitken and Waterman would instantly fill any gap we had with one of their performers. We were constantly grateful. So when I was asked by them if I would record the links for a compilation video for all of Jason’s hits, of course I said yes. It would be a very easy afternoon in a studio. When they asked how much I wanted, I told the office that, as a thank-you, I’d happily do it for free.
That decision cost me a small fortune. I recorded the links and didn’t think too much more about it until two cases of wine were delivered to my door in Chiswick. I knew nothing about wine at this point, so I bought a book on it, then another. I discovered that I had been sent twelve bottles of very good red Burgundy and twelve bottles of a very lovely white, with tasting notes. (I have kept one of the whites as a memento, and I will never open it.) I drank the bottles with family and friends. It was definitely the best wine I’d ever tasted. I bought more books, I joined the Wine Society, I bought a house with a cellar. I’ve now bought lots of wine – in
fact, there are gaps on the wall where there should be pictures but, instead, I bought wine.
When the first one was full, my dad supervised the construction of another cellar to accomodate the overflow. That too is now full. I’ve often said I’d like to end my days in there with a corkscrew and a glass.
I met Stephen Browett through my New Zealand PA, Jo Hulton, and he introduced me to Britain’s first female Master of Wine, Jancis Robinson, and from there my circle of wine friends grew wider and wider. They were incredibly generous, both with wine and in sharing their knowledge. I went with Stephen and Jancis to taste the year’s new vintage in Bordeaux. I had lunch in Château Latour and I’ve been lucky enough to taste some of the best wines in the world.
Steph bought me an incredible present, a driving holiday in Bordeaux, which she meticulously organized with Stephen Browett. Now I could properly learn the geography. Stephen booked wine tastings in some of the châteaux and we ate lamb barbecued on vine sticks over a wheelbarrow at Château Cos d’Estournel. It was the best lamb I’ve ever tasted. After being shown around Château Margaux we had dinner in a very posh restaurant. I got cocky and, as I tasted the wine for our dinner, it went down the wrong way and I coughed. Both the sommelier and Steph were horrified by the two red jets of Margaux that shot out of my nose.
So, you see, I take it very seriously.
Anyway, back to that missed performance. Stephen Browett asked if I would like to go to a tasting of some really special wines they were having at their offices in Battersea. I decided I would. First thing in the morning I flew from Plymouth to Heathrow. I explained that I was onstage that night so I’d have to leave by about four. As we began our descent into Plymouth I felt the plane turn. The pilot came on the Tannoy. He apologized, but Plymouth airport was closed because of fog and we were diverting to Bristol. My heart was jumping out of my chest: I was going to miss the show.
At Bristol, I found a company that would fly me to Exeter, and from Exeter I got on the back of a motorbike that took me at terrifying speed to Plymouth. Just as I jumped off the bike and ran to the stage door, the show started. I’d missed it. If I hadn’t done that free video for Jason, I wouldn’t have been sent the Burgundy, I wouldn’t have got into wine and I wouldn’t have been at that tasting. See: all his fault.
The final city for the tour was Bristol, and it was lovely to be back there. I had a gorgeous suite in the Swallow Hotel, just across from the theatre. One afternoon I answered my ringing phone. It was Steph.
‘Are you watching TV?’
‘No?’
‘Turn it on.’
As I turned it on, I stumbled backwards in horror to sit on the end of the bed.
Moments later, the second plane hit the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. I had arranged an interview in a local wine shop that day. I was glued to the TV, but I didn’t want to let them down, so I left the hotel room, dazed by what I had seen and trying to understand what it meant for us all.
We didn’t talk much about wine in the interview. As I said my goodbyes and walked back to the hotel through the stunned streets of Bristol, my phone rang. Again, it was Steph.
‘They’ve collapsed. Both towers have gone.’
I walked aimlessly through the streets. New York was the only city that I had literally dreamt of going to as a child. Steph and I loved our visits. We had both stood on the viewing platform at the top of the South Tower and been awestruck by the view over the city. I thought back to the last time I had performed in Bristol, my visit to the Concorde simulator and my success at flying the plane perfectly through the gap between the towers. We would visit New York a month later. The ruins were still smoking. A city had been stabbed in the heart. When I looked up from my thoughts, I was totally lost.
On 22 September 2001, I hung up my Dolittle top hat (actually, I put it in the boot of the car!). It was the last musical I did. I had got to know David Grindrod when he was the company manager on Joseph. He later left and became one of Britain’s top casting directors. David and his partner, Stephen Crockett, have kindly offered me roles in many of the West End’s big musicals but, sadly, the timings have never worked. I also wondered if my singing nerves had finally got the better of me. One of the friends I made on the Dolittle tour was Simon Schofield – no relation, and a much better singer than me. Simon is also now among my closest friends. He now has his own production company and recently over a few beers he pitched the Knights of Music concept to me. A group of West End singers and dancers would perform songs made famous by either Sirs, Lords or Dames. There was a wealth of material to choose from. I would narrate the show. It sounded fun. Over a couple more pints, he persuaded me to sing both ‘Close Every Door’ and ‘Any Dream Will Do’. I agreed, but I was too scared to sing on my own so I insisted we duetted. I also agreed to wear ‘the Coat’. We did ten shows, which were beautifully put together. Simon’s lovely fiancée, Beth, was in charge of wardrobe, and the whole production had a happy, family feel to it.
In the finale, when I appeared in ‘the Coat’, the reaction was incredible. My voice had mellowed and improved and I sang those songs better than ever. At the end of each show, I felt like a pop star. However, every day before the show, I was crippled with nerves. What if I made a mistake on one of the songs and it ended up on YouTube? It was irrational. Though every performance had gone perfectly, I had to tell Simon that nerves prevented me from doing any more. To give him his due, he has bought me a few pints and tried to wear me down, but all to no avail, so far.
Back on stage with Simon Schofield.
The last time I sang in public was for Ant and Dec’s ‘end of the show show’ on Saturday Night Takeaway in March 2018. In a seventieth-birthday tribute to Lord Lloyd Webber and all dressed in Dreamcoats, they sang ‘Any Dream Will Do’ along with James Corden and Joe McElderry. I was the surprise finale. Only they could persuade me to sing in front of 8 million people. I didn’t tell anyone I was doing it other than Steph and the girls. They were with me in the dressing room, holding me together. I even kept it a secret from Holly, who over the years had become one of my closest friends and confidantes.
She texted me immediately after the show came off air and said that she was watching it with her husband, Dan, and she had said to him, ‘Phil should be doing this,’ and then I walked out! Again, it was an incredible experience. I’ll never forget the roar as I walked out. But the nerves nearly killed me. So either Britain’s most famous TV phobia experts, the Speakmans, will have to rid me of my fear, or my singing days are now behind me.
In 2001, after I returned home from the tour, the gang came over to the house for a celebration. Russ Lindsay took me to one side.
‘Mate, we may have a problem,’ he said.
‘Why, what’s the matter?’
‘I was in a cab a couple of days ago and the driver asked what I did. I told him I was a manager and he asked who I managed and when I got to your name he said, “Whatever happened to him?” ’
‘Why is that a problem?’
‘You’ve been doing theatre too long. People have forgotten about you.’
It was true. I may have been having a blast every night on the stage but, for a television audience, I had disappeared. Celador had once again looked after me with the National Lottery’s Winning Lines, but the beginning of 2002 was terrifying. I can clearly remember having a bit of a cry at the kitchen table as I said to Steph that I’d messed up. Flicking through the start of that 2002 diary still makes me anxious. It is a vivid reminder of just how tenuous a job in TV is. It is very easy to be forgotten – no one is irreplaceable. It can all be over in the snap of a finger. You are there only because people want you to be there. When they don’t, you can be absolutely assured, you’re yesterday’s toast. TV executives also move on; they have their favourites. For a while, I wasn’t one of them. I couldn’t get arrested on ITV.
The team at James Grant were working hard to find something for me to do, but pickings were slim.
I p
resented a Design Challenge show for a satellite channel and a series of interviews with people of note who lived in the West Country for TSW (which used to be Westward TV). I really enjoyed that one. I got to work with David Rodgers again, who I’d first met at Hospital Radio Plymouth. I also got to meet some fascinating people: Joss Ackland (best speaking voice ever), Jean Shrimpton, Jenny Agutter and, best of all, Hugh Scully. Hugh had been a friend for some time. David Rodgers, Steph, Hugh and I would meet up for lunch, usually at Rick Stein’s in Padstow. We would eat lunch, drink wine, talk and laugh, drink more wine and then be in the perfect place for dinner, so just carry on.
Hugh was one of my favourite raconteurs. He was brilliantly funny, with the best stories, and also incredibly intelligent and utterly charming. Funnily enough, working for Westward was another tick on my fantasy broadcasting list. It was the channel I grew up with in Newquay. I fondly remember watching David Rodgers present Treasure Hunt, marvelling at how Roger Shaw said, ‘temp er a TURE’ and listening to Ian Stirling try to sort out a link when he had endearingly arsed it up. Judi Spiers was also a big star on the channel. As a kid, I stayed awake to hear her do the close-down. She always messed around and was quite obviously breaking the rules. At about fifteen, I answered an advert placed by Judi in the Cornish Guardian. They wanted a young presenter for a show called Down the Line. I have relentlessly reminded her that when she phoned to personally tell me I hadn’t got it, she broke my heart during my brother’s birthday party. Sadly, although I met all of them and even became a friend to many, I never met Gus Honeybun.
Come to think of it, it was in David Rodgers’ sitting room that I first met Ruth Langsford. She was on her hands, dragging her bum across the sitting-room carpet, pretending to be a dog with worms. (Sorry, Ruth, hehe.)
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