Biggins (12 page)

Worse still, my host popped upstairs to check up on me as I tried, desperately, to clean up my mess.

Fast forward a few years and I'm on my hands and knees trying to clean another carpet in another dear friend's house. Or, to be exact and far worse, in a dear friend's mother's house. Oh, the shame. This time it was Cameron Mackintosh at his mum's holiday place in Menorca. He is a good, but mad, cook. That night he had concocted a first course laced with vintage champagne, a second course stewed in brandy and a pudding that seemed to include an awful lot of sherry. By the time we got to the coffee stage – with liqueurs, of course – we were all paralytic. When the guests had left I did my throwing-up thing. The carpet that took the brunt wasn't just old, cherished and beautiful. It was a traditional Spanish rug covered in tassels and knots. Trying to clean that up sobered me up faster than any amount of coffee. All my life I have been so lucky to have made so many wonderful friends. The way I've behaved, I know I'm luckier still to have retained so many of them.

After I asked Kenny Everett to guest with me on
On Safari
in the early 1980s, he returned the favour by inviting me to join him in a spin-off show about the Snots. Remember
them? They were one of Kenny's most marvellous creations. The ultimate dysfunctional family, who had first been seen in
The Kenny Everett Video Show
. Thames Television decided they should star in their own spin-off series. Kenny said there was no one better than me to play the wildly gay brother. It was hysterical. So near the knuckle and with a lot more leather and S&M than your average ITV audience had ever seen before. But it turned out that they wouldn't see it this time either.

Halfway through filming, the head of Thames came into our rehearsal room with a grim face. ‘I'm so sorry but we will have to pull it,' he said. ‘It's too much and we just can't transmit it.' I'd love to see some of those scenes now. All these years on they might look pretty tame. But then again, this was a Kenny Everett production, so you never know.

One afterthought on the much-missed Kenny. I used to joke with him that I should get at least some of the credit for his Cupid Stunt character's ‘All of a sudden all my clothes fell off' sketches. My own Cupid Stunt moment came years earlier when I was driving my van back home to Salisbury. I realised too late that they had changed all the one-way systems, so I toppled the van trying to make a dangerously late turn. I was left suspended, by my seatbelt, amid all the rubbish from the floor which was now piled up around my head. I turned off the engine – I'd seen a lot of American films where cars explode the moment they take even a minor bump – and tried to work out how to free myself. As I did so, something started to drip down my back. It turned out to be acid from the battery. Which was very bizarrely set just behind the driver's seat.

My dear father saved me, as usual, by heading over with
a truck to right the van and drive me home. Then, as I told my mother about the accident, the acid finally finished eating away at my trousers. They disintegrated completely and left me standing half-naked in the living room. All it needed was Maisie and it would have been Monday bath night all over again. But at least it was all in the best possible taste.

No prizes for guessing that it was Kenny who introduced me to Freddie Mercury. What a mad, wild and surprising man. I was terrified of him at first. He was a huge rock star with a reputation to match. And he did know how to party. When he, Kenny and I got together I was the shy, quiet one in the corner, which is saying something in itself. And through Freddie I met a whole new set of people from the music world.

Kenny also introduced me to someone else I could both admire and fear: Margaret Thatcher. He had asked me along to the infamous ‘Let's bomb Russia' Conservative Party rally when he had the crowd eating out of his giant foam hands. Despite the furore it all caused, the key supporters at the event got personal letters of thanks from Margaret and were then invited to Downing Street for a thank-you reception.

What a place. What a privilege to be there. It's the ultimate Tardis. It keeps on getting bigger and bigger. You go through that wonderful door, up the stairs past the pictures of all the previous prime ministers and into a vast room on the first floor. There are paintings galore up there. ‘I collect paintings. I absolutely love all of these,' I told the great lady when she and Denis passed my way.

‘Aren't they fantastic?' she said. ‘They're all on loan
from galleries and museums around the country and they change them every three months.'

‘Do you have more in the flat upstairs?'

‘Oh, absolutely not. We've got nothing on the walls there. Just a lot of old rubbish.' And that, I swear, was pretty much that.

But somehow the official photos of the event suggest a different story. Four shots were taken of my conversation with the PM – I've put them in this book because they always make me smile. In the first we are both laughing uproariously. In the second she is holding her fingers around six inches apart and I am looking on fascinated. In the third I have my fingers a good foot apart, we're both laughing uproariously and looking inordinately impressed. If only I could remember what we were talking about. Ronald Reagan? Cecil Parkinson? Denis? Who knows?

Postscript to Margaret. I was driving down Marylebone High Street in 1990 when I heard on the news that she was being ousted from Number Ten. I actually cried. I had to pull over while I listened to the full story. Yes, perhaps she had outstayed her welcome. But what a way to bring the curtain down. I'm not the most political of people. But I believe in self-reliance and getting on with the job in hand. Margaret had seemed to personify all that. And she had star quality, which of course I loved.

‘
P
eter, look at this.’

I’d just finished filming as yet another vicar in a short-lived show called
Brendon Chase
and was sitting reading the Sunday papers with my real-life vicar, Peter Delaney. The property section had an article about some new houses being built near Victoria Park, out in Hackney, east London. Peter and I had both talked about each buying ourselves a nice little house. But then we remembered that he was as poor as the proverbial church mouse while I could spend money as fast I could earn it. Faster, in fact. Making matters worse, I’d just found out that neither
Brendon Chase
nor
On Safari
was getting another series and apart from panto I didn’t have much else on the horizon.

‘Let’s go and take a look after church,’ Peter said, ignoring our precarious finances.

We were just in time. All but two of the 14 houses had
already been built and sold. So should we try to get the last of them?

‘Oh my God, you’ve got to come and live here.’ I was standing outside looking at the development when a woman opposite dashed across the street. ‘I’m Pam,’ she said, grabbing my hand. ‘You’re Christopher Biggins. I recognise you from the telly. You have to come and live here. We’re a great street and everyone’s wonderful. You’ll love it.’

And in a way that was what swung it for me. I wanted a neighbour like Pam.

But on a more practical level I also wanted some of the home’s other key features. It had its own garage – even then, in 1984, I thought that this would be important in London. It also had a huge, double-height and galleried living room with a great big wall for my ever-growing collection of paintings. I desperately wanted that house – even more so when I was told it was an architectural gem – designed by Piers Gough, no less. So I spoke to the estate agent. The houses were both on the market for what seemed a staggeringly expensive £57,500. I remembered the way Dad did business.

‘Tell the builder we’ll give them £100,000 for them both,’ I said.

‘I’m afraid there’s no way they’ll agree to that.’

‘Just tell them.’

Two hours later the agent called back to say that we had a deal.

Peter and I had to beg, borrow and all but steal to raise the £5,000 deposit we each needed. But what fun those early years were. My new best friend Pam opposite. My old best friend Peter next door.

It has been a happy home from the very start. And while Pam is no longer with us and Peter has since sold up and moved on, I now have Neil here to ensure it stays the true centre of my life. I have never felt the need to move to some fancy address in west London or some huge pile in the country. And that’s just as well as I’ve never had the cash. Hackney might not exactly have any Hollywood glamour. But it suited me. And anyway I didn’t have time to house-hunt all over again. Life was about to get busier than ever. My lifelong belief that something always comes up was about to come true yet again. This time in spectacular fashion.

I was playing
Babes in the Wood
in Birmingham when Alan Boyd came to see me. He was a big-league London Weekend Television producer and I admit I was flattered by his attention. So many people were still laughing at me for staying loyal to my panto all those years. But it was always my primary shop window and most regular pay packet. It still is, funnily enough. ‘Look, I’m doing a series with Cilla Black,’ Alan told me amid the wigs and wild costumes of my stuffy little dressing room.

Cilla was in an interesting position in the early 1980s. She had been a huge star, of course. But after ‘Anyone Who Had A Heart’ and ‘Step Inside Love’ and all the other number ones, she had disappeared to raise her family – and all credit to her for that. She had stormed back into the public consciousness with a barnstorming performance as a guest on
Wogan
in 1983, proving that we can all have second chances.

After
Wogan
, everyone had been desperately trying to
find her the right comeback vehicle. Boyd’s proposal was a huge, studio-based, audience-participation show to be called
Surprise Surprise
. He wanted me to be Cilla’s co-host. ‘What do you think?’ he asked when he had finished explaining the new show’s concept.

What did I think?

I was staggered. Practically floored. Yes, I had earned a lot of money in panto and on children’s television. Yes, I had been on major BBC dramas, long-running shows and major commercials. But this ITV production was clearly going to be huge.
Surprise Surprise
was set to be a massive, prime-time Saturday-night production. And, while even I forget it sometimes, the show’s full title was actually
Surprise Surprise, with Cilla Black and Christopher Biggins
. Beat that.

We were an instant hit with upwards of 15 million viewers. The show was hugely popular, wonderful antics. We did six live shows in one series, and there is nothing quite like live television. On one of them we needed a boat to go under Tower Bridge, which was due to be raised for the occasion. But for some reason it didn’t open, so our boat couldn’t sail and we moved on.

As usual, Cilla and I said our goodnights and then Cilla got her cue to do her final song, the way each show closed. As she sang Alan rushed up to me. ‘Biggins, we’re seven minutes under. You need to get Cilla back and keep it going.’

I thought this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. Cilla is standing there, taking in the applause, and then I come on. She looks at me in horror. I will never forget her look as I approached. All the viewers would have seen was her usual lovely smile. But I could see
the questions in her eyes. What’s going on? What’s gone wrong? What do we do?

What we did was talk – and fortunately neither of us is exactly backwards at that. Cilla and I talked and joked on for those long last minutes. Then we collapsed in our usual fit of giggles. I don’t think we’ve ever stopped giggling, which is why I love her.

A lot of the sketches and skits we did on
Surprise Surprise
are forgotten now. What people remember are the reunions – the ‘surprise’ element that ran through each show. What Cilla and I soon discovered was that lots of these reunited people didn’t want to see each other again. Many of our families and so-called ‘loved ones’ had split up for very good reasons. It took some careful editing to keep the tone light and not give that away each week.

I did three seasons on the show and was on top of that world. The learning curve hadn’t just been about big-budget, prime-time television. It was also about fame. Being in 15 million living rooms every week changes everything – if only I had known it wouldn’t last – and it wouldn’t return until the jungle all those years later.

Being recognised everywhere is marvellous, not least because for a long time everything is free. People don’t let you pay for things, even when you have the money in your hand. That goes for small items like coffees in cafes and right up to hotel stays and travel. No wonder I got carried away.

On the show everything was just as lavish – and I was swept along in Cilla’s wake. She had her own driver, so I had my own driver. She had to have a new dress every week. So I had to have a new suit. I had them run up by Tommy Nutter and Dougie Hayward, who’d both been
tailors to the Beatles. I had a seemingly endless series of shirts made by Turnbull & Asser. The pair of us were treated like true, old-fashioned movie stars. Nothing was too much trouble. No request was denied. No expense wasn’t worth spending if it would make Cilla or me happy.

I was, of course, in absolute heaven right through those first fabulous years of the show. But as our fourth season approached Alan talked me through some changes they wanted to make for the new series. ‘Biggins, you’re so good with people. We want to make more of that. We want you to be out in the audience with a microphone and a camera crew,’ he began.

I knew, throughout our conversation, that Alan was right. I’m good with audiences – I’m proud of that. I get the skill from panto but I’ve honed it in a thousand other productions over the years. When I did the spoof
Three Musketeers
on tour one year, each night I walked into the stalls dressed as a caretaker while the audience took their seats. I was up and down ladders, changing light bulbs and having a chinwag with people before climbing on to the stage and starting the play. I loved it and the crowds seemed to love it.

So, yes, on
Surprise Surprise
I could have thrived in that roving role. But I took the suggestion quite badly. I didn’t understand why the request had come, or what the implications might be.

Insecurity might be the curse of the jobbing actor but until then it had hardly ever hit me. I felt it when I considered the new-look
Surprise Surprise
– not least because, as the original title of the show had been so long, my name no longer seemed to get many mentions when
the show was written about in the press. If I was out with a crew in the audiences, what would be happening back in the studio? Who else might be drafted in to be with my Cilla? I didn’t want to be like one of Esther Rantzen’s supporting players, appearing to be happy to stand in the great lady’s shadow.

And, however much the producers tried to put my mind at rest, I felt as if I was being demoted. I felt as if Cilla’s husband and manager, Bobby Willis, wanted
Surprise Surprise
to be her show now, which of course he did.

So I said no. It was probably one of the worst decisions I’ve made in my whole career. I could probably have become a multimillionaire if I’d swallowed my pride and stayed with that show for the next four or five years of its run.

But at least I never for one moment lost my friendship with Cilla or Bobby. They both understood how I was feeling. Nothing was personal. She’s a good egg and a great pal. Cilla and I share a zest for entertainment. Bobby is still sorely missed.

But the end result was that I walked out of the country’s biggest and best-paid light-entertainment television show. And to do what, exactly? Good question. When I look back on my life, I know I’ve never suffered as much as some. I’ve been blessed with good fortune, in my family, my friends, my career. But I’ll admit that after
Surprise Surprise
I hit a few lows. I still had panto. I still had a wonderful social life. I still had a belief that one thing would always lead to another. But what if I was wrong? Time passed and my bank balance was starting to look very shaky. My agent’s phone wasn’t exactly ringing off the hook. Where was I going to go next?

China was the unlikely answer. Peter Delaney and I were going off on a very rare holiday. We booked on to a tour, starting with two days in Hong Kong and then a big trek around mainland China – Beijing, Xi’an for the Terracotta Warriors, Shanghai and all the other places. I in particular had an extraordinary time in the Forbidden City in Beijing – and not just for the sights. I sprained my ankle and someone in the group suggested I try acupuncture. As if that kind of mumbo-jumbo is going to work, I thought. But when in China I thought I might as well do as the Chinese do, so I called up a little lady with her bag of needles.

I swear she didn’t even come close to me. She pretty much propelled the needles at me from three feet away like some kind of mad martial-arts heroine. And the pain disappeared immediately. I’ve used acupuncture ever since.

Back on the road I needed to be fit. The Great Wall is huge and high, at least it was where we climbed it. How the dear old Queen managed on her visit I’ll never know. But so much for fitness. My next focus on this trip turned out to be food.

Everywhere we went in China there seemed to be people showing us animals in wicker baskets. ‘What a cute puppy,’ I said the first time I looked into one.

‘You want?’ the owner’s body language seemed to be saying to me.

‘But I can’t take him home,’ I said to the guide.

‘It’s not a pet. He’ll cook it for you,’ he told me with a smile.

It was the same with the bags containing cats or even the mongoose we were offered the following night. My
appetite disappeared in a flash. All I ate for the next ten days was white rice – and I’ve had an aversion to it ever since, which was a bit of a problem in the jungle as it was pretty much all we were ever given. But in China I wasn’t even safe with the rice. I got a terrible stomach upset one afternoon. An explosive one.

‘Is there a toilet here?’ I asked in panic at one tour stop.

‘Yes, over there,’ said our guide, pointing helpfully to, well, nothing. The toilet was a hole in the ground, which we were pretty much used to at that point. The difference here was that this hole in the ground didn’t have anything at all to sit or lean on. Nor did it have any walls at all.

But when a sick man’s gotta go, he’s gotta go.

The incident was mortifyingly embarrassing – especially as Peter and the rest of the group were right there looking and (unfortunately for them) listening. Thank God, those were the days before camera-phones. That wouldn’t be a clip I’d like to see on YouTube.

Weak with hunger, shrinking by the day, embarrassed by my dicky tummy. None of this stopped me from taking charge when our group got bad news. The 13 of us were told that our trip to Xi’an and the Terracotta Army was off. The flight we had been booked on to had been cancelled and no other flight was available. That was it.

Enter, stage left, Biggins the drama queen. Earlier in the trip the guide had let slip that the tour company had put a VIP tag against my name on the booking sheet. I decided to play that card. ‘That’s simply not good enough. I’m a VIP. All of us here would agree that the Terracotta Army is the one key attraction that we have paid to see above all the others. There must be another way to get us there. You
must find us that way.’ It was like a revolt in
Tenko
. Dear Stephanie Cole would have been so proud.

Anyway, all our little Chinese guides buzzed around in a state of shock. And then they found the solution. We were packed into vans with blacked-out windows and whizzed over to a military airport. An army plane, with benches rather than seats, was on standby for us. Safety announcement? We didn’t even have seat belts. In-flight meal? We had a lady behind a curtain at the back of the plane who was heating up a kettle on a naked flame. It’s fair to say we weren’t the most relaxed set of passengers as we zipped low over the paddy fields.