Biggins (17 page)

I call it my Richard Madeley moment, because of course it was all just a terrible misunderstanding. It began when I was in bed with the flu. Neil was on a trip and I woke up ravenously hungry. We had absolutely nothing in the house so I staggered off to our nearest supermarket. I know I looked dreadful – I hadn’t washed, shaved or even attempted to tame my hair. And I wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. I had pulled on the nearest clothes I could find as I stumbled out of my sickbed – a bright-pink tracksuit with ‘Joe Allen’ printed down one leg, one of a number specially made for the restaurant’s best customers. But it was hardly right for Hackney.

I bought absolutely masses of food, the way you do when you’re not well. You never quite know what you might feel like eating, so you go for it all. I had enough
comfort food to last a week. I even had a bit of healthy food tucked away in my trolley as well.

‘Could you come this way, please, sir?’ The lady stopped me at the exit. What on earth was going on? It sounded a bit more formal than an autograph request.

‘Could I see the receipt for your shopping, sir?’ And then she asked me to empty my pockets.

In them, to my absolute horror, was a packet of batteries. I’d put them there because they were so small they slipped out of my trolley – and, yes, I’d quite forgotten to pay for them. Surely this lady would understand. But no. The police were called and I was taken to the station. The only good thing was that the horror of the situation had taken my mind off my flu.

After a long wait I was told, ‘Mr Biggins, you’ve just spent over £60 on groceries and you have nearly £200 in cash in your wallet. Why would you steal a set of batteries?’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘That’s why it’s a mistake. I’d never steal a single thing, even if I didn’t have the money to pay for something.’ I could finally stop protesting. The police were on my side. I was released and headed back to my sickbed. It was all over.

Yeah, right. At what seemed like dawn the next morning my doorbell began to ring. It didn’t stop. The
News of the World
was there, desperate for quotes, and on Sunday my supposed shoplifting shame was one of the lead stories of the week. The world had gone mad. But at least I got a few more laughs out of it. I went to Peter Delaney’s for dinner that Sunday night. When I sat at the table and reached for my knife and fork I saw the joke. He had chained them down.

A
pack of divas were unleashed as my 50th birthday approached in 1998. They were planning a top-secret party, which of course I knew almost everything about.

The divas were Joan Collins, Carole Bamford, Jeanne Mandry, Sue St John, Dame Maureen Thomas, Billy Differ – oh, and last but not least, dear Neil. As I wasn’t supposed to be aware of the plans, I couldn’t ask Neil how it was all going. But I could well imagine it was fraught with ego problems and dramas. I thought it was all hilarious.

What I didn’t know was that something else was going on. The surprise party was real, but it was really only a smokescreen. I found that out when I was on stage at the end of my panto matinee in Brighton. We didn’t have an evening performance that day and I was looking forward to putting my feet up. I began my curtain speech as normal
and halfway through I got a real roar from the crowd. I think I self-consciously congratulated myself on my comic timing. You’re better at this than you thought, Biggins. They love you.

When the second roar began something told me there was more going on than my repartee. So I turned to see Michael Aspel and his famous red book. Someone was going to get the
This Is Your Life
treatment. But who? I looked around the stage in a genuine attempt to work it out. It’s not false modesty to say I really didn’t think it was me. But how pleased I am that it was.
This Is Your Life
is a fantastic programme. It’s wonderful for friends and family, perhaps as much as for the person getting the honour. My parents were treated magnificently. They were driven up from Salisbury, put in a fantastic hotel and loved every minute of my show. Such a privilege to be able to let your parents into your professional and personal life like this. And oh, what fun to have all your old friends brought together for a marvellous party.

After coming off stage in Brighton – wearing a vast strawberry-blonde wig and an even more outrageous costume than normal – I got out of make-up and into my normal clothes. Then the producer took me outside. A white Rolls-Royce was waiting to take me to London. ‘Is there anything you want, or need for the journey?’ she asked.

‘I’d love a nap, if that’s OK.’

I woke up in a mild panic as we approached the studio in London.

‘Will anyone have a toothbrush? What will I need to wear?’ I asked the producer.

Neil, of course, had thought of everything and left everything I might need in my dressing room.

Cilla was the first guest to speak on the show, then Gillian Taylforth, Anthony and Georgina Andrews, my brother Sean and my parents, John Brown from my school days, Linda Bellingham. They all made me laugh. Cameron Mackintosh spoke via a video link (he’s far too grand to do a tacky show like
This Is Your Life
). My old
Poldark
pals Angharad Rees and Julie Dawn Cole were there with that gang. Then there was Paula Wilcox, Bea Arthur, the actress Amy MacDonald, Nichola McAuliffe, David and Jackie Wood – old pals from my Salisbury days – Bonnie Langford, my tiny little niece Alice and nephew Jack, neither of them more than five, who were led on by their mother, Louise. We had a video greeting from Joan Collins and, wrapping up an incredible night as my final guest, Barbara Windsor.

Then of course were all the other people who hadn’t had a chance to speak in the half-hour show. In the audience were so many other dear friends. I look at the photographs – you’re given them in the big red book – and to this day it moves me to tears. As I turn the pages I see my agent, Jonathan Altaras, Barry Burnet, Philip and Joan Kingsley, Anna and Graham Smith, Tony McLaren and his wife Veronica Charlewood, Esther Chatham, Gerald and Veronica Flint-Shipman from my Phoenix Theatre days, Sally Bullock, Stella Wilson, Jeremy Swan, Peter Delaney, Michael Codron and Mark Rayment, Paul Macbeth, Sian Phillips, Paula Wilcox, Lynda Bellingham, Peter Todd, Edmund and April O’Sullivan, Grace and David Tye, and so many more. I’m just as proud that so many of my
family were at the show. Alongside my parents and Sean, there were the people who supported me for years – Auntie Betty and Uncle Jeff, who had put money into
The Orchestra
when I had desperately needed it. Auntie Monica and her husband Bryn, Uncle Ken and his wife Valerie, my relatives Michael and Annie O’Toole – the photographs and the memories just go on. It’s traditional to end
This Is Your Life
in tears. I didn’t stop for hours.

Oh God. Does going on
This Is Your Life
mean that your career is over? Is it like a Lifetime Achievement Award at the Oscars? Am I a has-been already? I had a bit of a wobble after the show. Had they wanted me on because they thought that if they waited any longer the world would forget my name? Was I never going to get back on television again?

At times like that you need to turn to your friends for comfort, reassurance and support.

‘Biggins, you know you’ve really fucked up your career.’

That wasn’t quite the comfort, reassurance and support I was after. Cameron Mackintosh was giving me what he thought passed for a pep talk. The only good thing about the conversation was its location. We had just had a wildly camp holiday in Las Vegas and were in the glorious first-class cabin of a flight back to London.

‘What do you mean I’ve fucked up my career?’

‘You’ve never lived up to your potential. There are a million things you could do that you haven’t done. You should be playing Thenardier in
Les Miserables
, for a start.’

‘Cameron, I’d love to play Thenardier in
Les Miz
.’

‘Genuinely?’

‘Come on, you know I would. Get me an audition.’ So he did. But let me get to the end of the story before anyone cries nepotism or gay mafia.

The show was about to go on its first national tour and I was auditioned alongside the marvellous Rosie Ash. At first all went very well. ‘Oh my God. You can sing,’ one of the casting directors said.

‘Of course I can bloody sing.’

And so, of course, could Rosie.

So we got a call-back and went through it all again. And again. Then again.

In total we performed for them eight times. Then they said no. I rang Cameron and went ballistic. ‘How dare you have us strung along for so long. And not just me. Rosie, who’s magnificent. She’s been the lead in
Phantom
and all your shows. What more did you all want from us?’

‘I can get them to send you a letter of apology,’ Cameron began.

‘I don’t want a bloody letter of apology. I want a job.’ And out of all this anger it suddenly looked as if I might get an even better one than I had ever dreamed of. One of Cameron’s US partners had been particularly impressed at my auditions.

‘You’ll be in New York playing Thenardier by the end of the year,’ he promised me.

But then he left the organisation for pastures new. My Broadway debut never happened. But maybe it was all for the best. Maybe working with such a close friend as Cameron wouldn’t have worked. That’s the problem with this business. It’s as incestuous as hell. The more people
you know the more likely you are to trip over them in one job or another. And the last thing I want to do is lose a friendship with someone like Cameron. We go back some 30 years now. We make up a wicked little trio with the agent Barry Burnett and call ourselves the Three Sisters. We all put on our best Dame Edna voices when we talk on the phone. And we do that almost every day.

I signed up for
Jack and the Beanstalk
in Cambridge over the millennium holiday – we did a show on the big night and then Neil and I headed to Kate and Kit’s for the midnight celebrations. And in the new millennium the ups and downs of my life were as pronounced as ever before. There were times when there seemed to be very little work or money. And there were times when the parties were as lavish as they could possibly be.

On the work front I was to meet two legends in my next few jobs: Paul Scofield and Eric Sykes. I embarrassed myself in front of Paul and showed off a little too much in front of Eric.

Paul was starring in an incredibly prestigious Shakespeare series on Radio 4. I had some tiny part far behind in his wake. And he did make me just a little nervous. We rehearsed and recorded at the BBC’s radio studios in Portland Place. And in the lunch hour I decided to take advantage of the location by popping into John Lewis. Of all things I needed a new pedal bin for my kitchen. Who says my life is all just about parties and glamour?

Anyway, when I dragged it back to Portland Place, who should be the only person sitting in the rehearsal area with his script but Paul. With my huge shopping bag I must
have looked about as unsophisticated as it was possible to be. ‘Hello,’ I said, slightly nervous, trying to push my purchase out of sight.

‘Hello, Christopher. And where have you been?’

There was no avoiding it. I had to come clean. ‘I’ve been to John Lewis. To buy a pedal bin.’ It was like the watermelon scene from
Dirty Dancing
. I was mortified at how small and pedestrian my life must seem. This man was my hero. He has turned down knighthoods. He’s won Oscars. He doesn’t bother about the shopping and domestic appliances. Fortunately my purchase did not seem to attract much more comment. Paul moved on to read a newspaper and I started to read through the script.

‘Christopher. Can I look at your pedal bin?’ this great actor suddenly asked, his voice booming around the rehearsal room.

‘Of course you can.’ I took the damn thing out of its bag, took it out of its box and set it on a table next to us. There was a long, excruciating silence.

‘Christopher, you must have a ravishing kitchen,’ was his equally loud verdict.

And with that we went back to our scripts.

I met Eric Sykes in Windsor when we had a three-week tryout for a revival of
Charley’s Aunt
. Bill Kenwright was producing it. He is a man who has kept faith in me, and seen things in me, through some pretty lean times. On a wider scale he has also kept faith in theatre. Bill is one of the few producers to focus on straight plays. Some are good, some not so. But he keeps on producing them, right
across the country. He employs so many people. And when I needed him most he carried on employing me.

No one earns much on a tryout of a new play or a revival. The money, such as it is, comes if we go on tour and if we make it to the West End. I was desperately hoping that we would hit the jackpot with
Charley’s Aunt
. It’s an old chestnut of a play. But I had a feeling that we would at least make the tour – because of dear old Eric’s box-office clout.

He was in his late seventies in 2001. He could barely see and he could hardly hear. His wonderful assistant Janet Spearman, whom I’d known for years, was his eyes and ears. She would walk him from his dressing room to the stage. She would check his costume. She would check that every prop he would need was exactly where he would expect it to be. It was wonderful, heartening kindness.

And Eric himself? I would watch him from the wings desperate to work out how he’d got to be so good. I’d never seen technique like it. All I can say now is that he could somehow sense the audience. He had comedy running through his veins, he could feel when a laugh was going to come. He could adapt his timing to the idiosyncrasies of every audience. He was magnificent.

But he kept us on our toes. He was a perfectionist – at his level you have to be. He was very critical of himself, and when he felt it was necessary for the good of the production he certainly expected the best of others. At one point in the show I saw the opportunity for a cheap laugh from the audience. I’ve never knowingly passed up on a cheap laugh and I had no intention of starting then. Plus, of course, I wanted to show off a little in front of Eric and
prove that I knew how to whip up an audience. I hope he approved of that, but I think he felt my cheap laughs were just that.

Sadly this wonderful production was to end with a tragedy. The marvellous Nyree Dawn Porter was in our company – the woman most audiences would always see as Irene Forsyte in
The Forsyte Saga
. She was probably the greatest hypochondriac I had ever met – and I loved her for it. We would all rise and fall in the dramas of her imaginary illnesses and afflictions. But in Windsor, as we prepared for our transfer up to the Theatre Royal in Newcastle, she was taking it to a new level. ‘I’m not well,’ she announced.

We all nodded, barely paying attention. This was hardly new.

Bill tried to calm her down. But she was adamant. ‘I can’t do the tour,’ she said. In the end he brought his own doctor to examine her.

And, after a tip-to-toe examination, she was given a clean bill of health. But still she refused to come up to Newcastle. Nyree’s understudy, Jane Lucas, was fantastic. She had little more than a day to rehearse but she was magnificent. She saved the show – and she wasn’t alone. We had another understudy in a lead role that extraordinary opening night in Newcastle. An old pal of mine, Francis Matthews, was in the company and his wife was terribly ill herself as our transfer approached. As we left Windsor he too was excused in order to care for her. Wishing him – and her – all the best, we all went on stage up in Newcastle.

And we had a triumph of an opening night. Everyone
was word-perfect and the audience loved us. There were tears and cheers and dances backstage as we hugged and congratulated one another. But then, suddenly, the company manager appeared and hushed us down. Grim-faced and grey, he said he had sad news to impart. My hand went to my heart. Francis’s wife must have died. My heart ached for him.

But that wasn’t the news. It was Nyree who had passed away. Like the old joke about the inscription on the hypochondriac’s gravestone – ‘I told you I was ill’ – she had been right all along. The girls were crying and we all felt terrible for having dismissed Nyree’s fears. It was a devastating piece of news, right after the triumph of our big opening.

‘Come on, come on. We must all stick together. We have to go out. For Nyree.’ I took charge. We went to a nearby pizzeria. It wasn’t exactly the Ivy or the Caprice but it was what we needed. In remembering Nyree we became hysterical, telling jokes and stories about her. It was cathartic and a fitting tribute to a colleague we sadly missed.