Life's What You Make It

by Phillip Schofield

  I have never seen anyone run as fast as Holly can run in high heels. It’s astonishing to behold. There is one link on Dancing on Ice where we have to run from the audience, right around the back of the set, to emerge by the judges. It’s a hell of a distance and has to be done very quickly. To see her hitch up a stunning ballgown and run at full pelt in ridiculously high heels is a truly Olympic sight.

  On the subject of heels, there are moments when it takes one of your best mates to burst an awkward bubble.

  Holly and I were presenting Text Santa together, ITV’s Christmas charity extravaganza. At the end of the show, the gag was that, in a commercial break, Holly and I would have completely swapped looks: hair, clothes, shoes. It was a very rapid change – we had about four minutes. We ran to a room just off the studio and swapped clothes and both put on wigs. I had blonde, flowing locks, and Holly crammed her hair into a wig that was quickly sprayed silver. Both us and our teams nearly passed out from inhaling hairspray and silver paint. We made it back into the studio with seconds to spare, completely transformed into each other. We closed the show and came off air.

  I was in a red dress, tights and high heels when a runner from ITV2 ran up to us both. Could we please come as quickly as possible to Studio 2 next door to do an interview? I won’t lie. I was not happy.

  ‘Hang on,’ I said, ‘You want me to go on ITV2 dressed like this?’

  ‘Yes, but we have to be quick,’ said the runner.

  ‘Hang on a minute. I’m wearing all this for a joke on a show that understood why I was doing it! On ITV2 it’ll just look like I’m in fucking drag!’

  ‘It’ll be funny,’ said the runner, and set off.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ said Holly. ‘It’s clear what we’ve done. I’ve got silver hair.’

  We walked off to the studio. Well, I didn’t walk, I stomped. A very angry man in high heels, a red dress and flowing blonde hair. It was a very inelegant walk. Holly and both our teams were silent. They knew I was cross.

  As we neared the studio, my limited skills walking in high heels finally failed me. I fell. I didn’t just fall, I went down like a factory chimney when the detonator button has been pressed. I hit the deck, a crumpled, dishevelled wreck, wig lopsided, and having lost a shoe.

  There was silence in the corridor – utter stunned silence. Nobody could breathe. The runner was mortified.

  Then Holly snorted. She burst the bubble. Her snort became a laugh and I started to laugh too. Everyone around us started to laugh. Holly dropped to the floor, trying not to wet her pants. Our entire group were screaming with laughter in the corridor. I was helplessly rolling on the floor, with tears flooding down my cheeks. We began to calm down until, still lying on the floor, I said, ‘Oh, bollocks, I’ve laddered my tights.’

  We asked everyone around us if they had captured the moment on their phones, but no one had. We scoured the area to see if there were CCTV cameras, but there weren’t. Sadly, nothing exists of the moment. Except my continued admiration that Holly can sprint in heels.

  I developed the skill of ballgown social distancing on DOI long before social distancing became a thing. I have had to walk at varying distances behind Holly, depending on the stunning creation she is wearing and the length of its attendant train. Sometimes I can walk right behind, sometimes I’m six feet behind her. We’ve both pictured the scene as we run around the rink: I step on the train by accident and the entire dress is ripped off her!

  Holly is a very spiritual person, open to all influences from the universe, interested and inquisitive. I like to think that I’m open to all of the influences the universe can exert upon us, too, but I think my time at This Morning might have made me a little sceptical.

  The lady who can read asparagus. The man who told me that in his hotel room before coming on the show he turned on the tap in the bathroom and a voice came out of the water; someone called Stan wanted to say ‘hi’. But I didn’t know a Stan. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘What about Frank?’

  I’ve interviewed a man who contacted the dead through the noise of his lawnmower and the woman who left her fiancée for a ghost. Sadly, it didn’t work out, though apparently the spirit sex was amazing. At the end of most of those interviews, I will look at Holly and say, ‘What a load of bollocks,’ and she will invariably say, ‘You never know.’ However, we did smile at the man who had sex with his car, and the woman who fell in love with a five-bar gate. As Fern used to say, ‘Every pot has a lid.’

  If there was one seal of approval we all sought when we joined This Morning it was that of Denise Robertson, the stalwart of the show. She was an original member of the team, along with Dr Chris, and you couldn’t help but want them both to like you. Denise would sail into the studio, a galleon full of sound, sensible advice. You knew you had won her approval when she said, ‘You’re absolutely right,’ during an item. When it happened, separately, to me and Holly, we both swelled with pride. Denise was exactly the same off air as she was on. Our kindly no-nonsense telly mum. We were all heartbroken when she died and were proud to be invited to her funeral to say goodbye to such a wonderful woman.

  One challenge that played directly into everything I love about my job was my Text Santa twenty-four-hour non-stop broadcast marathon. As soon as it was pitched to me I was hooked. Something on this size and scale had never been done on British TV before. I broadcast over three channels: ITV 1 2 and 3. Starting the moment I came off air on This Morning with Amanda Holden and leaving the studio to begin the challenge was both daunting and exciting in equal parts. I became a continuity announcer, I presented the weather, Ben Hanlin taught me how to walk on broken glass, I had a party on the roof of the ITV tower with Davina McCall and travelled across London, broadcasting all the way to, and then inside, Number Ten. Steph and the girls took part and pretty much all my TV friends came to play in one way or another.

  There was no time for me to check my social media at the time, but when it was all over the response had been incredible. It had been an amazing insight into the behind-the-scenes action in TV and had gone down very well. I know, as a kid, I’d have been totally glued as we showed literally everything. What it proved without question was what can be achieved logistically and technically if everyone pulls together. As a company, ITV was extraordinary. Nobody said ‘no’, no matter how mad the idea.

  It was one of those incredible moments when an entire company comes together to do something unique. As I abseiled down the side of the building and past the office of my boss, Kevin Lygo, he at his desk, me dangling outside, we both laughed through the glass and shrugged in a ‘look what we’re doing’ kind of way.

  The next year, I agreed to the challenge of appearing in every single ITV programme during the Text Santa day. It took weeks to travel up and down the country, fitting in with all the schedules of each of the pre-recorded shows, wearing a different and extravagant Christmas jumper each time.

  On the big day itself, with all the recorded shows ready to be aired, I had to complete the challenge by appearing in all the live shows. The day started with me standing behind a Good Morning Britain reporter on the doorstep of Number Ten, and then I would appear on every show from Judge Rinder and The Jeremy Kyle Show to Tipping Point and 1,000 Heartbeats. The best one, though, was appearing in the back of shot in David’s shop in Emmerdale buying an Ordnance Survey map.

  On TV, it was a great day. In reality, it was dreadful. Two days before, on 28 November 2015, Steph, the girls and I were all watching I’m a Celebrity … when the phone rang. It was my brother Tim’s wife, Petra, to tell us that Tim had had a serious heart attack and was in intensive care in Bristol. We had all had a glass of wine so we couldn’t drive. We called a local taxi and then set about trying to find Mum. She was somewhere in Birmingham at a Christmas fayre. As we were racing down the M4 she was located and also jumped into a cab.

  We all arrived at the Bristol Royal Infirmary at more or less the same time. Petra was waiting for us. God, I hate those ‘family rooms�
�. Not that the BRI’s wasn’t lovely and caring, it’s just all the sitting and waiting. Details were sketchy, but we pieced together what had happened as we waited for news of Tim’s condition. As it turned out, Tim had about three lifetimes of luck on that day. He had felt unwell, pulled over in a lay-by at the top of a remote hill near Bath and called 999. The operator was incredible, trying to keep him calm as she dispatched the emergency services. We know just how kind and caring she was because Tim later got access to his 999 call. He had no recollection of what had happened.

  Within minutes, a paramedic arrived, at the precise moment Tim went into full cardiac arrest. The paramedic dragged him out of the car and performed CPR on the car-park gravel until the ambulance arrived. The two-ambulance crew should have been in an air-ambulance helicopter, but it was out of service that day, so they had decided to work, but in a road ambulance. The helicopter had a CPR machine on board that is not generally available in a road ambulance. It could keep giving CPR long after a human would tire. Fortunately, they had made the decision to take that equipment with them.

  They arrived and took over. Tim was ‘zapped’ by the ambulance crew and stabilized enough to be taken by road. The next decision was critical. Should they take him to the local hospital, which was much closer, or to Bristol, which had better facilities? They decided to go to Bristol. On the way he arrested again; only the helicopter kit could have kept him alive for such a long period of time. They stabilized him once more. As he arrived at the hospital he arrested again. They got him back and he was rushed to theatre, where it just so happened that one of the best stent surgeons in the country was on duty. Tim was immediately operated on.

  We were allowed to see him in the ICU. We had been warned that he would be very cold if we touched him; his body had been chilled to help in his recovery. He was in a coma, and he would remain so for nearly three weeks. The prognosis was dark. We all listened, ashen-faced, as we were told that although his heart was now performing well, there was no way of knowing how successful his recovery would be. There were grave pneumonia concerns and because he had ‘died’ so many times, there was also no way of knowing how damaged his brain would be or how much of him we would get back when he came out of the coma. All we could do was to take it in turns to sit round his bed and marvel at the astonishing mass of machinery that was keeping him stable, and stare admiringly and in awe at the staff. We were in the company of angels.

  In two days’ time, it was Text Santa. My challenge to appear on every show that day had been launched. Christmas jumpers were being sold in my name to support the day and the charities. I had already appeared in all the recorded shows, so they were all ‘in the can’ and waiting to go out. I still had to do the live shows on the day and the main Text Santa show that evening. But here I was, sitting beside my gravely ill brother. The decision was agonizing. I would have to leave him for the day. Too much work had already been done. Overnight, on 1 December, I headed back to London.

  As I stood in the back of shot on Good Morning Britain, outside the door of Number Ten, Downing Street in the cold, in an extravagant Christmas jumper, I remember thinking, ‘This is a bloody bizarre job.’ I’ve said it before but I’ll say it again, the show must go on, eh.

  The happy ending to this particular story is that I have just been WhatsApping my wonderful brother to tell him what I’m up to. His recovery was slow but steady. I lived in a Bristol hotel room for a while so I could be by his side. Now, five years later, he’s mostly okay. He just has a good excuse for a pretty shit memory.

  Telling this story enables me to reiterate what Tim and I said together on This Morning and in the newspapers when he had recovered. We could publicly, proudly and loudly sing the praises of the NHS. Not only had they fixed him, they were also incredible with us as a family and held us together. During lockdown, we all clapped at 8 p.m. on Thursdays to acknowledge how unbelievably lucky we are to have the angels and heroes of the NHS. Not just now, but always.

  13

  I like to think that when I’m sent a new format or idea I’m pretty good at spotting one that will work for me. I’ve presented lots of shows over the years – some have worked, some have not – but sitting here right now, I don’t think there are any I wish I hadn’t done. TV is all about trying new things out. If it sticks, great; if it doesn’t, you dust yourself off and try again. There have also been shows that I was sure would work but, for whatever reason, the stars weren’t aligned.

  It’s Now or Never was a superb format; essentially, it was a flashmob before they were invented. We shot two pilot episodes, and after both of them, we were all sure we had a hit on our hands. The premise was simple: someone wanted to say something special to someone else, and they did it with a surprise song-and-dance performance, in public. We booked the whole of Camden Market for a guy who wanted to propose to his girlfriend. We had recorded him rehearsing and telling us why he loved her, and then came the big day.

  Hidden cameras were everywhere. They were sitting in a busy boat on the canal, just chatting, then he started to sing. Her face was a picture – she was mortified. The bloke next to her boyfriend started to sing, and her head snapped round, then a couple behind, then the whole boat and then the whole market. An entire, full-on sudden song-and-dance routine. It was spectacular. In the second show a lady wanted to thank her friend for getting her through her cancer treatment. We booked out London City Airport. At the check-in desk the friend started to sing ‘Thank You for being a Friend’; next the check-in staff joined in and then the entire airport. It was a guaranteed hit.

  However, because of a very sunny weekend (few of us stay in and watch TV when the sun is shining), and a tentative senior executive, it all went tits up. One show went out with poor figures; the next, scheduled to go out the next night was pulled. I begged the boss to let it play. If it didn’t perform well, we could rethink, but if he pulled it the idea would be totally dead. He pulled it. The flashmob would have to be invented by someone else.

  I had just signed a new contract with ITV at the time. The headlines read: ‘Phillip Schofield signs new ITV deal and has series pulled.’

  That stung (we’d only made the two pilots!). Piers Morgan saw the headline and texted me with what is now in his Twitter profile and is in fact a quote by Margot Barber: ‘One day you’re cock of the walk, the next a feather duster.’

  How very true.

  I’m not naïve or precious enough to expect that every show I do should be a success – over the length of my career, some have definitely been better than others – but the failure of It’s Now or Never really hurt, simply because I knew it could have been a bloody good show.

  When I was sent the treatment for The Cube and 5 Gold Rings I had the same excitement, only this time, thankfully, they were both hits. The Cube was such an inspired idea. The creators at Objective Productions had written out the whole game-play as a storyboard on a large sheet of paper (eventually they cut it up and gave us all a piece). Right from the word go, it looked gripping. We rehearsed it in Objective’s offices, and I played some of the games. They were impressed that I completed ‘Stack’, putting ten Perspex cylinders on top of each other, while everyone around me fled the building as the fire-alarm bells rang.

  Fountain Studios (dropbox, chipped floor) was the only one high enough to house the crane that held the overhead camera that was so important to the viewers. That was the shot that made the games look easier, so everyone watching would be screaming, ‘How can you not do this!’ at their tellies. Colin McFarlane (from the Batman movies) was the Voice of the Cube, and though I’m not allowed to tell you the name of the Body, I can tell you she was very funny, especially when she was recording ‘how to play a game perfectly’, and continually arsed it up.

  Trouble was, we had created a game that only one person ever won. We had a full gold lighting change ready for anyone who ‘beat the Cube’. To add to the drama, the only time I was ever seen on TV inside the Cube was when someone actually beat it
. Both the golden lights and my trip inside the Cube only happened once, when Mo Farah became the only person to beat it and he won £250k. It never happened again. No one else beat the Cube. Never say never, though: it’s always possible.

  5 Gold Rings was another format that leapt off the page. I was sent a few mock-up games and we played them on a laptop at home in the kitchen. As I stood back and watched Steph and the girls putting their fingers on the screen, trying to guess where an anteater’s eye was, I knew we had a hit on our hands. One of the greatest joys of presenting 5GR is asking anyone playing it to post pictures on Twitter. I love seeing families coming together to play. It’s one of the few reasons I still have Twitter!

  I like being taken out of my natural habitat and I love a challenge, but nothing galvanizes me more than a massive outside broadcast, especially one with a department I’ve never worked with before, or indeed that I had ever expected to work with.

  ‘ITV News have been on the phone,’ said my manager Emily. ‘Would you be interested in presenting William and Kate’s Royal Wedding with Julie Etchingham outside Buckingham Palace?’

  News! ‘Bloody hell. Okay.’

  When it came to the Royal Family, I’d had a moment with Prince Edward at an awards ceremony years before. He turned to me and said, ‘Ah, hello. You’ve just been on a programme with my mother.’

  Quite obviously, I racked my brains to think when I might have co-hosted something with the Queen. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have forgotten! It turned out that the programme HRH was referring to was A Party in the Park for the BBC. Her Majesty had been at one end of Hyde Park in a carriage, and I was at the other end with a giant sausage sizzle, a sort of huge barbecue, grilling a sausage big enough to feed hundreds of people. It was my most remote co-hosting duty ever.

  Walking into the News HQ on Gray’s Inn Road was something I’d only done once before – I’d stood beside Tom Bradby at the end of News at Ten on my Text Santa challenge. I was really, really nervous walking in this time. What would it be like, working with a news team? Of all the career considerations I had ever had, news wasn’t one of them. I thought they would be serious and severe but, although incredibly sharp and professional, they were the opposite and absolutely delightful. Julie Etchingham is a dream to be around. I’m sure she won’t mind me saying that she’s like a head girl. She absorbed all information, had read every book, knew every fact, detail and person. Me, Steph and the girls had all been on holiday to the Maldives just before the wedding. They had had a ball in the sun while I spent my days inside doing my ‘wedding homework’.