Life's What You Make It

by Phillip Schofield

  By the side of their cottage is a garage which I said was his to keep. My dad always had to have a workshop. Every day when I came home from work, the door to the garage would be open. When he heard the car, he would pop his head out and wave. Tony, my brilliant and devoted driver who has been with me for sixteen years, always said, ‘There’s the smiler.’

  Tony has become a friend of the family over the years. He’s seen both me and Steph at our most drunk and has discreetly scraped us up and got us home. He knows all my friends and knows which of them will lead me astray. I’ve set off for a night out, got lost, turned to look up the road, and there was Tony, following behind at a crawl to make sure I was okay. He has a remarkable ability to be parked exactly where you look for the car after a big event and, because he makes friends with the police, he’s always the first to arrive to pick me up. One year, I was hosting the Royal Variety performance. When it was over, no one could leave the theatre until the Queen had left. My dressing-room window overlooked the stage door. I watched out of the window to see Her Majesty walk out beneath me to her waiting car. Her motorcade pulled away and, as the last flashing blue light left, Tony pulled in behind. It was at that Royal Variety performance that I ended up standing in the wings with Joan Rivers and Robin Williams, just the three of us, for about fifteen minutes. I have never seen such comedy genius in my life as they sparred off each other. It was better than anything that was going to be on the show. I felt incredibly privileged to have been a part of that moment, and they loved me because I was an extremely willing audience.

  Tony’s finest hour, though, was one day on the way home from This Morning as we drove through Parliament Square and we accidentally got caught up in the motorcade of the Australian Prime Minister. We were with them from central London until they peeled off the M4 to go to Heathrow. It was the fastest we’ve ever got out of London, and neither of us can understand how it happened or how we weren’t arrested.

  It’s hard to know when the first indications of decline in my dad began to show. After his heart attack in New Zealand he completely changed his diet. As he lay recovering in hospital, he had turned on the radio. The first words he heard were, as if by divine intervention: ‘No one needs to die of a heart attack.’

  Quite obviously, my dad sat up (figuratively) and listened. The words were being spoken by an ex-Qantas pilot called Ross Horne. Ross Horne had written a book called The New Health Revolution. In short, wellness, being in touch with ourselves and, principally, diet are the key to a long life. This was a very new concept in 1984 and some would suggest back then that it was all a bit ‘hippy shit’. Now, of course, millions of words have been written on the subject and ‘diet’, ‘fitness’ and ‘wellness’ are buzzwords in our everyday lives. They’re also the source of many interviews on This Morning. My dad asked me to get the book for him. When he had read it, he entirely changed his diet. He was slim, appeared fit, yet his heart had nearly finished him off at forty-seven. From that day on, he maintained a strict low-fat, low-salt, low-sugar diet. In the end, it wasn’t enough.

  He and Mum had been to Italy and they had had to run for a bus. He struggled. The girls always wanted to drive with ‘Bo and Bri’, as they call them, whenever they could. On one holiday in Portugal we had gone out to dinner. The girls had travelled with my folks, Steph and I had gone on ahead. When we met up, my mum quietly said to us that it was the last time the girls could travel in their car because she was worried about Dad’s driving. And then, one morning, she called us from their cottage, panic stricken. He was very unwell. He had been under the care of doctors at the Royal Brompton Hospital, so we immediately drove him there. He was quickly admitted and seemed gravely ill. We took it in turns over the next few nights to sleep on a camp bed in his room. Then, one morning, he perked up, had toast, he was being his usual funny self. Tim and I spoke to the nurse. It was explained to us that his heart was greatly enlarged and failing him, that he may temporarily perk up, but that we should all enjoy what time we had left together. It was like a punch to my stomach. What I had feared was actually happening. I don’t think Tim and Mum would mind if I said that they just wouldn’t believe that it could be true and both went into denial. Mum said to me only a handful of days ago that, right to the end, she refused to believe he was going. I knew he was. How ironic that he should die from a big heart.

  When he came home to the cottage in our garden he was more or less back to his usual self but looking frailer by the day. We had that wonderful family day where he was fly fishing in the garden, tapping the fly on to a side plate thirty feet away with incredible accuracy. One night I went over to see him. He was reading a fly-fishing book in bed, his glasses halfway down his nose. I hugged him and told him I loved him. He said, ‘I know, I love you too.’ He hadn’t closed the curtains, and when I left I stood in the dark on the wall outside his room, unseen, watching him read.

  He was first confined to a chair, then to bed. All I hoped was that this incredible, kind, wonderful, gentle, funny man would be allowed to pass from his life without pain and at peace. He was cruelly denied that. As his heart failed him, he slowly closed down in front of us. The girls were brought in to say hello; we knew it was goodbye. His eyes filled with tears. Cruellest of all was that we couldn’t hug him. His whole body hurt if he was moved. Even when he became unresponsive he still winced in pain if he was touched.

  When I was fourteen we bought our first stereo record player. Dad and I marvelled at the sound and made sure the speakers were in the perfect position. I held the stepladder for him as he mounted them on the wall. One of the first records he bought was an album called Nights are Forever by England Dan and John Ford Coley. His favourite track from the album was ‘I’d Really Love to See You Tonight’. In his final days, I lay on the bed beside him singing it to him, hoping he could hear. I can’t listen to that song now.

  Mum, Dad and Tim.

  Mum, Tim, Steph and I took it in turns to continue an unbroken vigil by his bed, but when the time came, he still tried to slip away unnoticed. On 1 May 2008 at 5.50 p.m.

  I was sitting by the bed and Mum and Tim were in the kitchen. Steph had just arrived back at the house with the girls. I stuck my head out of the door for thirty seconds to say ‘hi’ and when I went back into his room, his breathing had changed. I yelled to everyone to come quickly. We were all with him, moments later, when he went. As he died, a huge tear rolled from his eye and smashed our hearts into a million pieces. We all hugged him close, because it didn’t hurt him any more. I always make sure I’m on the phone to my mum at ten to six on 1 May.

  Two days after Dad died, I was booked to host the British Soap Awards. I was gently told that I didn’t have to do it; everyone would understand. Absolutely not. My dad would be mortified if he thought I had missed a show or let people down because of him. The show must go on. It was a very tough show to host, but it was in TC1 at Television Centre that year and I felt strangely comforted by that.

  The Soap Awards are great fun to host, especially now that they are live. I always have a huge respect for the stars in the audience – their workload is immense. Considering the amount of episodes and the turnaround, the quality of our soaps constantly amazes me. The phrase ‘continuing drama’ is often used, and I think that’s much more appropriate. Standing onstage and saying hello to everyone is always totally surreal. Looking into the audience and having the whole of Soapland looking back at you is always disconcerting. When the show was recorded, I think they all appreciated that I tried to get them into the bar as fast as possible. This is a group of people who know how to party.

  I have a tradition around the Soap Awards that involves ‘red 19’. The night before the show Simon Schofield (who plies me with pints to get me onstage!) and I try to meet up and take our chances on the roulette tables. It started when we were in theatre and all went out as a group. It has continued as an occasional treat ever since. Nineteen has always been my lucky number. There’s a casino in Manchester that is frequ
ented by footballers, and the money they throw at the table totally eclipses the piddling amounts we play with, but the thrill of a win is always great, regardless of the size of the bet. Simon and I have a rule: only take in the cash that you want to play with. That means we don’t take our debit cards, and don’t go to the cash machine if we lose our money early doors. It’s a rule that isn’t always adhered to.

  As we work our way through lockdown, have you thought back to the last ‘normal’ night out you had? The night before the wheels fell off the bloody world?

  I had only been ‘out’ for a month or so. Simon was one of the close group of friends I had confided in. He had been suggesting we go for a pint. I was nervous about going out. What would the reaction be? I warned him that although he was deeply heterosexual, if he went to the pub with me he’d almost certainly be labelled my ‘new lover’. He burst out laughing and said he didn’t give a shit what people or the papers said, he’d be proud to be my imaginary lover. As it happens, we had the best night out. Everyone was so kind. I was stunned when we walked upstairs in a pub on Bruton Street and an entire table stood and applauded me. I thanked them with very teary eyes. Sadly, by the time we got to the Ritz casino to take our chances on the roulette tables, we were too pissed to play. We stumbled out on to Piccadilly, thankfully unnoticed.

  The best-ever ‘red 19’ night was with Steph. We were in Antigua on holiday and decided to try the resort’s casino. We’d both had a good night. The wheel had been kind and I had been squirrelling away the bigger chips we had won in my pocket. By the end of the evening, we were the only two players in the entire casino. I said I was ready for bed, ‘Let’s call it a day.’ We both got up from the table and I took all the winnings from my pocket and put them all on nineteen. Steph said:

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘Dunno, crazy impulse.’

  ‘Well, that’s just bloody stupid.’

  We walked away. The only chips on the table in the empty casino was our tower on nineteen. As we walked past the croupier and the supervisor, I heard the ball drop and saw the bored expression change on their faces. We turned to look at the table. Spinning slowly was the roulette wheel, with the ball snuggling in nineteen. That impulse was nearly enough to pay for the holiday.

  12

  ‘I think Holly would be perfect for This Morning,’ I said to the Head of Daytime.

  ‘I’m not sure about that,’ she replied. ‘She lacks gravitas.’

  ‘Gravitas?! I lack gravitas.’

  ‘I just don’t see it working. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It has to work. She’s my only choice.’

  I had to make it clear that, if I was to continue on the show, Holly was the only person I wanted to work with. I’ve always tried really hard to pick my battles in my job, and this was a battle worth fighting and a battle I intended to win. Thankfully, in the end, I got my way.

  On 14 September 2009 Holly stood beside me for the first time in the This Morning studio. She was extremely nervous. In the opening link, I pretended to walk off and she grabbed my arm and pulled me back. In the eighteen years I’ve been on This Morning, because of holidays or sickness or babies, I’ve presented with lots of co-hosts. I would hope that all of them felt safe beside me, that they knew I’d be there immediately if they needed me, that I had their back. Holly knew I was there, like a big safety net. She didn’t need me, and I knew that would be the case. Yes, she asked for advice;

  yes, we talked things through. But as a broadcaster she was instantly across it all. I smiled internally and externally. This was going to be fun.

  I hope Melinda Messenger doesn’t mind me telling this story. I only do so out of affection – Melinda is absolutely delightful. Before Holly arrived I needed a co-host for the show and Melinda agreed to come and play. She listened attentively in the meetings, asked important questions, made sure she was fully briefed and across the show. At ten thirty we stood beside each other waiting to start. As the familiar opening titles started to play, Melinda said:

  ‘This is so exciting. When does the show go out?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘When does it go out?’

  ‘It’s live! It goes out now. This is it. We’re on!’

  ‘So, what we say now goes straight out on TV?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Oh, I see!’

  ‘Good morning …’ I said to Britain, with a look of wide-eyed fear in my eyes.

  For the rest of the show, Melinda was flawless.

  We all watched Holly grow in confidence and laughed when she had to say ‘vagina’ for the first time on TV. I told her she would say worse. The teams instantly fell in love with her, as did the crew and the viewers. Filling Fern’s shoes was no easy task. The viewers were suspicious at first: they were, quite rightly, very loyal to Fern. In her unforced, easy way, Holly charmed everyone, both viewers and crew. The funny, outrageous, naughty atmosphere in make-up was back. We started a quote book for all the things that we said in there. Holly wears her heart on her sleeve and just says it as it is. Ninety-nine point nine of our quotes are absolutely not repeatable, but here are four of Holly’s from our quote board:

  ‘Miss Piggy was there, so I went and had a chat with her. She was the only one I knew.’

  ‘I can’t turn right on a bike.’

  ‘Oh my God, Prince Charming smokes Marlboro Reds.’

  ‘I think I used to be Nefertiti.’

  In the studio, she was completely endearing with her honesty. The camera that is on air has red lights around it; the ones not on air have green lights. Holly said it was confusing her because red was for danger and green was for go, which was why she was looking at the wrong camera. She is also dyslexic and doesn’t like being surprised by names, so she takes care to check everything out beforehand. If she sees one she doesn’t know, she’ll ask me for help. It sounds mean, but we’ve both laughed as I’ve given her three wrong pronunciations, saving the correct one until just before she needs it. There have been a few commercial breaks we’ve come out of where she’s just said, ‘You are such a shit.’

  On her own cognisance, she ended the show with, ‘And on tomorrow’s show, we have Anal Kapoor …’ Another morning, she said that Burke Bacharach would be on the show.

  She also inserted an unfortunate pause in ‘Shit … akee’ mushrooms, and I think it’s best not to mention the Country Casuals moment.

  From very early on, I have regarded Holly as the sister I never had. We can tease each other, totally confide in each other, say anything to each other. And like most big brothers would do to their younger sister, I take great delight in making her jump. Holly is scared of everything – literally everything – from a fly, to a ghost story, to a pickled walnut. There have been so many moments I’ve made her jump so hard she has nearly sworn. She’s said on numerous occasions, ‘If you make me say fuck on air, I’m taking you down with me.’

  I could never have imagined that the laughter we had all enjoyed with Fern would come so quickly with Holly. My wheezy laugh made her laugh even harder, which made her drop to the floor so she didn’t pee herself, which in turn made me laugh harder. It was, and remains, a very dangerous dynamic.

  Holly definitely makes having to get up at 5.30 a.m. better. In all the eighteen years that I have been doing the show there has never been a single day when I’ve been happy to hear the alarm. I can get up, get showered, shaved, dressed and ready without even opening my eyes. Tony is sitting outside at 6.30 a.m. and has the script and briefing notes all ready for me. That’s when I wake up. It takes about two hours to get from home to work and, in that time, I’ll have studied the show, come up with any ideas to run past the team and written about six interviews.

  Before lockdown, I’d arrive at work and make-up would be the centre of our world. My team of David and Suzie Narden (who took over when Lyn retired), alongside Holly’s make-up artist Patsy and the various nail and hair experts that are in that day. Sometimes the team around Holly can
look like a Ferrari pitstop. We laugh, gossip and recommend TV shows to each other. At eight fifteen the production team for the day, along with our editor, Martin Frizell, come into make-up for the morning meeting and to chat through ideas that the pair of us may have had.

  I have always loved the inclusive nature of This Morning. Everyone’s input is essential. We can have ideas in that meeting that change the structure of the entire show, we can recommend guests, items, jokes and props, and the team are so nimble and fast that it’s usually all ready to go just before the show starts at ten. Sometimes it’s still evolving as the opening titles play. No one can ‘just’ be a presenter on the show, we are all part of the production team, and occasionally when a guest goes rogue we end up as part of the legal team, too, always ready to offer a legal voice to those who aren’t there to defend themselves. That’s what I love about the show: there’s nothing like it anywhere on TV. As a presenter, it’s deeply satisfying and constantly stimulating.

  No matter what Holly and I are doing, it turns into a competition. I’ve asked my daughters Molly and Ruby if they think I’m competitive. They both agreed I’m not, but when I’m on air with Holly it all changes. Make a cocktail – whose is better? Get on a scooter – who goes faster? Plant a terrarium – whose is prettier? We do it with everything. Last year, for pancake day the team built an assault course for us outside to run around while we tossed our pancakes. I was slightly in front but the wind caught my flying pancake mid-toss and blew it on to the floor. I completely forgot I was on TV. I was in a competition with Holly and that was all I could concentrate on. As the pancake hit the deck, I shouted, ‘Shite!’ at the top of my voice. After the race, while I was having to apologize to the viewers for my language, I thought Holly would definitely pee her pants.