Life's What You Make It

by Phillip Schofield

  Holly had come to the conclusion that if you only drink tequila and nothing else on a night out you didn’t get a hangover. We decided to try it out on The Alan Carr Show, where we were both to be guests. Alan was famous for his ‘on show’ drinks cabinet, where guests could choose their tipple of choice. We were on first. We told Alan and the audience what our experiment was and all three of us necked shots of tequila as we chatted. By the end of it, we were all plastered. We finished the interview and sat in the make-up room, watching Alan trying to chat to his other guests. With each one, he also had to have a ‘social drink’. It was one of the funniest shows I’ve ever watched – about eighty per cent of it was cut out. As he slurred his way through, his glasses steamed up and he couldn’t see a thing. At the end of the recording he rolled into the Green Room and the three of us recklessly had another couple of shots of tequila. All of us staggered off into the night. The next day was a Monday, a This Morning Monday!! The alarm went off at 5.30 a.m. and I opened my eyes. Was I okay? Was I hideously hung over? The experiment had worked. I felt fine! I texted Holly on the way into work and we marvelled that we were okay.

  Alan Carr woke up and turned on his TV. He had mixed his drinks; we hadn’t. He was appallingly hung over and stunned by the two of us, bright and sparkling on the telly. He got up to walk his dog in Hyde Park and, as he bent forward to pick up a ball, he rolled forward and fell into the Serpentine.

  Don’t try that experiment, by the way. I have no idea how it worked for us, because every friend since who has tried to follow in our footsteps has been horribly sick the next day!

  You may wonder if we’ve ever been told off down our earpieces by a boss in the production gallery. Not once in the Fern days or the Holly days has anyone said, ‘Pull yourselves together,’ or ‘Stop it.’ Usually, the gallery is laughing, too. We had a lovely director called Martin Lord who was a wonderful audience. Occasionally in our ear we would hear the gallery door slide open and then close as he stood howling helplessly with laughter in the corridor. The worst trigger is looking behind the camera and seeing the operator’s shoulders bouncing up and down. That is guaranteed to make it ten times worse. If you make the crew laugh, it really is funny!

  The job of a vision mixer is to cut between the cameras, effects, slides and graphics. A very good one will also be watching the presenters on the studio floor. Andrew Jennings is one of our vision mixers on This Morning, and he is very good. He catches every expression and every sideways glance. He can read my face very well, pissed or sober, and always catches the little looks I make to the camera.

  One of the jobs of a production assistant in the gallery is to ensure that everything runs to time. It’s the PA who counts down in our ear, and we have some of the best on This Morning. Kate Groome was an Australian PA who took no nonsense. Sometimes she could calm us down by just sighing. It was her way of saying, ‘You are so over time here with your laughing. You’re messing up my timings.’ Kate was also a genius at hiding time! She would keep a minute or so secret from us and it would miraculously materialize when needed. We would ask where the time had come from and she’d say, in her Aussie accent, ‘I had a minute stashed up my knicker leg.’ When Kate retired she gave me a bag full of glittery ‘1’s. She said they were all the spare minutes she had found when she shook out her knickers and she hoped they’d come in handy.

  This Morning away day at Downton Abbey.

  Yes, Studio 8 at the London Studios had some magical memories but, if I’m honest, the thing I miss the most is the live view. We took our set with us and recorded the view in all weather states before we left. It looks great on the telly – you can’t tell the difference – but I can’t gaze out to distract myself. If you get too close, your eyes go blurred! On the other side of the ‘view’ is the GMB studio. One day, on the show from our new home, all the screens went black. One quick wit tweeted, ‘Fuck me, there’s been an eclipse!’ Recently, a number of Tweets from shocked twits said they were appalled that the people walking outside weren’t socially distancing. We informed them that the view was in fact three years old.

  The intention was that we would move out of the London Studios and move temporarily to Television Centre. The Southbank would be totally transformed, with an entirely new Daytime collection of purpose-built studios, new offices, a residential area, shops and cafés. When completed, we would move back to our new home. One day at lunch with my boss Kevin Lygo, I said, ‘We’re not going back, are we?’

  ‘Nope’, was his reply.

  Moving This Morning to TC3 at Television Centre literally messed with my mind. Still does, if I’m honest. You’ll understand why because of everything I’ve told you. To be back there at this stage of my career is the most extraordinary

  kismet. When BBC Television Centre closed in March 2013 I was invited on to its last-ever programme. I have a picture in my office of me with Noel, Barry Cryer, Brucey and Ronnie Corbett that was taken that night. When I arrived, I met the producer, who told me what I would be doing and what time I was needed. I had two hours to kill. TV production teams like to know, quite rightly, where the presenters or guests are They worry if you’re not where you’re supposed to be. I had a word with the producer. I explained my history with the building and that I had to have a final look around. I promised I would be in my dressing room in an hour and gave him my phone number in case of emergency. He understood.

  I re-created the walk I had taken when I was seventeen, but this time the building was deserted. All the attention was focused on TC1, from where the show was being transmitted. Everywhere else was silent.

  I walked through every studio. I stood in an empty TC7 and could hear the echoes of Going Live. I walked up to the fourth floor, to the hidden staircase behind the lifts, and to where the Broom Cupboard had been. There had been many alterations in that part of the building, but eventually I found the window that had been behind our board of pictures. Where I used to sit was now just a corridor. I couldn’t believe it was closing down. I was heartbroken that this was it. Would they demolish it?

  I walked to the studio, did my bit on the show and left.

  Standing back there five years later, I was thrilled with how sensitively the adaptation from studio complex to studio/residential complex had been done. The look and feel are the same. There may now only be three studios, TCs 1, 2 and 3, but at least there are studios. The main reception may now be the reception for the Helios Hotel and the residents’ area, but the Piper mural remains, as do the ‘Doughnut’ and the Helios statue that Sarah Greene and I used to call Golden Balls. TV sits alongside restaurants, bars and Soho House. TC has been pimped.

  In April 2018, TV Centre became our home. We share TC3 with Good Morning Britain. Next door, Lorraine and Loose Women share TC2. After our first show, Holly said, ‘Show me where the Broom Cupboard was.’ We set off across the ‘Doughnut’ and up the beautiful suspended staircase to the fourth floor. To the left of the lifts, where the staircase to Presentation used to be, was a white door, I tried the handle. It was unlocked and the door opened. We both stared in disbelief then burst out laughing as we took out our phones to take a picture. The door opened on to a cleaning cupboard, and inside was a mop … and a broom.

  I suppose it was kismet that the interview that would alter my world the most would be in that building, the very same building where I began working in broadcasting and where my face first appeared on TV screens. This most life-changing interview was not one that I conducted, though, it was one that I would give to Holly a little under two years later.

  14

  So here we are then. Maybe the only reason you’re reading this is because you knew I had to get here eventually. I’ve seen this part of my story appear over the horizon and get closer and closer as I type. Now we are here, I have no idea how to start. I have stared at the flashing cursor on my laptop screen for most of the morning. I’ve drunk three mugs of tea and gone for a walk around the garden. You should know that my only concern here is tha
t I don’t hurt Steph and the girls any more than I already have. It is not in my nature to hurt people and, as they are the three most important people in my life, I have no wish to wound them further. The mere fact that we all knew I’d have to write this chapter has caused great pain. In an ideal world, I would like to have written, ‘And This Morning moved to Television Centre. The End.’

  But I know you won’t accept that. Maybe I’ll just jump straight in and see how this goes.

  There are twin paths that nearly finished me off: sexuality and reported untruths. Those two paths converged just before Christmas 2019 and brought me to the darkest of places and almost overwhelmed me.

  Let me answer the primary questions first. Did I know I was gay when I married Steph? Absolutely, unequivocally not. If I had, I wouldn’t have got married. I love her with all my heart. We have had the best marriage, we have travelled the world, laughed our way through life and had two beautiful girls, who we worship. I utterly adore every atom of her being. Everyone loves Steph, and for very good reason: she is one of the world’s good guys. Kind in heart, spirit and soul. No one could love me harder than Steph loves me, and no one is more conflicted and confused than I am right now. Do I wish this was different? Yes. As in The Book of Mormon, do I wish I could ‘turn it off’? Yes. Am I proud of myself? Yes. Does that help? No.

  The second headline question. Was I forced out? Categorically not. No one else was involved in the decision other than me and Steph. Only my close friends knew, and only when I told them. None had a clue beforehand. I came out for me and the safety of my head. Anything you may have read, any rumours you may have heard about my hand being forced, are totally untrue.

  For the moment, those are the headlines.

  I have no idea when my centre of balance shifted. There is no specific day or time that I can pin down, but I would say that I have been ‘increasingly aware’ for around five years, and even when I realized that I wasn’t what I thought I was, I had no idea it would cause such serious issues.

  I think Steph would agree that I’ve had totally unrelated moments in the past when I’m down or ‘sad’. Not depressed, just down, when little things seem so much worse. I know I have a habit of seeing a half-empty glass rather than a half-full one. In fact, Steph has helped me to change that perception over the years. I know that in recent years I have developed a habit of catastrophizing – seeing one big unfixable mess, rather than a series of manageable issues. A realization that my sexuality was more complicated than I’d imagined, seriously unseated my head. It was a small atom of an issue that grew to an enormous, all-consuming red giant. I was totally honest with Steph. We talked together, we cried a lot together, mostly because we didn’t know where the hell it was going to lead us, or what was happening to me.

  For the first time in my life, I was really scared, not TV scared, not nervous scared, but emotionally, fundamentally scared.

  I found myself staring into the fire, unable to think of anything else. I would distract my chaotic thoughts by re-reading whole series of books – Harry Potter, The Lord of the Rings – nothing would calm me. I cried a lot, we cried a lot.

  I obsessed over how I could make this work for everyone. How we could get through this without anyone getting hurt? I realized it just wasn’t possible.

  I would walk into work on Monday and everyone would be discussing their weekends. They would ask how mine was. ‘It was lovely,’ I would answer. The reality was that I would have stared silently into a fireplace watching the flames consume the logs and wishing they were consuming me.

  Steph was astonishing, literally, unbelievably incredible! She comforted me, held me tightly, wiped away my tears and listened to my desolate confusion. No matter where I looked, there was no way out. When things got really dark, she reminded me how much they all loved me and that there was nothing that the four of us couldn’t cope with. I had grave doubts there. I tried mindfulness apps and meditation, but I found myself existing on two hours’ sleep a night, if I was lucky. Constantly tortured by the loops in my head. The loops … the bloody loops. I read papers, books and studies in a desperate attempt to pick my way through.

  A lot of literature talks about shame. That was not an emotion I felt. My torture was guilt. GUILT in huge red letters, just behind my tired eyelids. I couldn’t make it go away. I still can’t. I read a paper written by a man around my age who came out later in life. He said he had ‘no one in his life’, but he ‘felt a sense of peace’. That was it! That was what I wanted. I just wanted peace, I wanted the chaos in my head to shut up. But that wasn’t going to work. ‘No one in his life,’ and he found peace? How was that possible? I had to have Steph and the girls in my life or there could never be peace. But that was definitely what I wanted. What I want. Peace.

  One day on the show Gino D’Acampo was setting up for his cookery slot. We were in a commercial break. The first I knew that I had caught his attention was when I felt him touch my shoulder. ‘What’s wrong, my friend?’ he said. ‘You were just standing totally still in the middle of the studio looking at your feet for two minutes!’ I smiled and told him I was fine, and a look of ‘I don’t believe you’ crossed his face. As he walked back to the studio kitchen he turned, looked me dead in the eye and made the universal sign for ‘Call me’ with his hand.

  I didn’t.

  My spiralling thoughts crossed over into my job twice. On the way to This Morning I was writing up an interview with Annie Lennox. As I tried to structure my questions, my head was yelling at me, ‘You’re fucking up everything and everyone and there’s no way to stop it.’

  As we got to Wood Lane, I said to Tony that he should carry on to the flat. Without questioning me, he did so. We’d bought a flat in South-east London a few years earlier because, at the time, it was close to ITV if I was working late and needed a place to crash, but more importantly, it would be somewhere for the girls to be safe if they got jobs in London. Steph and I regularly used it if we’d been out with friends and didn’t want a long journey home. I texted Steph and Paul that ‘I couldn’t do the show’, and turned my phone off. I sat alone in the flat, staring at the walls, as This Morning started on the other side of London. It was a very stupid thing to do. Everyone panicked. All my closest friends knew how ragged my head was, but no one except Steph knew why. Holly had to do the show on her own that day. This frightened me even more. It was the first time my issues had spilled over into my work. Another day I had to leave a fashion item halfway through to be sick. I now knew that I needed professional help.

  Being ready to talk out loud to a stranger was a big step. If your head becomes your enemy, you have to talk to someone, even if it’s just a friend. You can’t sort it out on your own.

  I will never, ever complain about being recognized. It is part of the job and part of a lucky and charmed life, but there are times, though, when I wish I could turn it off for a couple of hours. I poured my heart out to my therapist and sobbed myself breathless. Then my hour was up and I found myself out on the street with a blotchy face and red eyes. I slipped around a corner into a mews to hide and recover. At that moment, a guy stopped beside me on his bike.

  ‘Hey, Phil! You have to come and see Kinky Boots, mate. It’s a great show. I’m in it.’

  ‘Okay, great, definitely,’ I said as he pedalled off.

  On another occasion, I slipped around the corner, closed my eyes. As I looked up to the sunshine and leaned back against a gate, it swung open and, thankfully, I caught the metal railing with my hand before I fell backwards down into someone’s basement. That made a friend or two laugh when I told them.

  Talking helped, and the pills I was prescribed took away the hard edges without having any other nasty side effects. But I knew what I had to do. I had to come out. If I didn’t, the secret was going to give me a total breakdown … at best.

  I had to confide in some of my friends. Not one single one of them said, ‘Ah, that makes sense,’ or ‘I’ve always had my suspicions’, or ‘Yeah
, I guessed.’ Quite obviously, just as I didn’t know, neither did they.

  There had been moments when I was very down and Holly knew something was wrong. A number of times she took me to one side and asked if I was okay. She never pushed, she was always so gentle and caring, but I could tell she was worried about me. ‘Please talk to me,’ she said. ‘I’m always here.’

  One day I knew I had to tell her, because I needed her. I needed her advice and her wisdom and I needed her to have my back at work if I faltered. I asked her to come into my dressing room and I told her everything. I knew she would be incredible. She was so much more than that. After I had confided in her and after the hugs, I opened my dressing-room door. Perfectly positioned on the floor outside was a pristine white feather. She picked it up and gave it to me.

  ‘See,’ she said. ‘It’s all going to be okay.’ The feather is in my wallet.

  Paul and Daz were also unflinching. ‘Okay, mate. No problem. Now we understand your head. It’ll be okay. We’re here for you all.’ We talked a lot about what it meant for the family, principally, how were the girls? How was Steph? All they cared about was our wellbeing and how we would pick our way through the uncertainty, confusion and heartache. I spoke to Simon Schofield, because his no-nonsense and pragmatic approach was vital. His words were also perfect. ‘Oh, you twat. Why didn’t you tell us all this before? Okay, we all have to make sure that Steph and the girls are okay, because that is a good place to start in your head.’ We drank a lot of beer that day.

  At the same time, home was my sanctuary, and it was Steph, my wife, the person who knew me best, who continually scraped me up.

  At work, my make-up and wardrobe team knew something was up. Suzie and David are very dear friends. We’ve worked on so many shows together and they know me incredibly well. Neither of them knew why, but they could see the weight falling off me. The fun make-up room chats became fewer, as I stared into the mirror, trying to figure out my life.