Paul Daniels (33 page)

‘What’s that?’ he asked, and was told that was where the musicians would be placed.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m sure that it looks very nice but if I am in that hole, how can I conduct the musicians in the other hole and vice versa?’

Soon the stage management discovered that backstage was fitted with hemp ropes, which haven’t been used in the theatre for decades. When it is a dry day, the hemp dries out and the scenery lifts off the stage. When it is wet, the scenery sags. Still, that was nothing compared with the fact that the grid, from which all the scenery hangs, was set above the stage at only half the height of the proscenium opening. If you are not a theatrical person, let me explain. This meant that all the scenery, when lifted to the top, would still be half in view of the audience. The crew had to fold everything in half to get it out of sight.

The ceiling of the theatre, going forward from the stage to mid-stalls, is angled downwards so voices from the stage tend to hit it and bounce back instead of going to the back of the theatre. To get over this, they put speakers at the back, which can be very confusing if you are sitting more than half-way back in the stalls. You see the show in front of you and the sound comes from behind you.

The last error is wonderful. I love this. Along the ridge at the bottom of where the ceiling dips and half-way back in the theatre, is a curtain rail. We asked what it was for and we were told that this was a brilliant idea.

‘When there are not many people in the audience we can close curtains across that rail and make it into a smaller theatre, which will make it more intimate and better for the performers.’

Isn’t that a good idea? Not really. The spotlights and control boxes are behind the curtain.

Wait for it folks – this theatre won a design award! Do you remember when Prince Charles had a go at architects? I’m on his side.

You’ll probably think I am kidding but while writing this chapter, Mervyn O’Horan telephoned me. He is trying to book a tour of theatres and, in the
British Theatre Directory,
the Theatre Royal at Hanley does not have its telephone number listed. It actually says, ‘telephone ex-directory. Please contact venue for details.’ How the hell do you do that? It has to be a joke, you think. When Mervyn telephoned directory enquiries he was told, ‘sorry, it’s ex-directory.’ He telephoned the local tourist office and they gave him the number. All together now: ‘There’s no business like showbusiness …’

While I’m having a moan, I might as well have a pop at some ‘luvvies’ and modern directors who think that it is artistic to go back to the design of theatres in the Middle Ages. Theatres developed from the streets and marketplaces into amphitheatres and buildings where you didn’t have to rely on passing a hat around, but could charge customers to come in and watch. Somebody else added scenery, but by the time you get to Shakespeare they are still working in the round. Over the years that followed, theatre slowly developed by placing drama, the musical and other theatrical entertainments into a picture frame known as a proscenium arch. Consequently, the whole of the audience’s imagination was filled with the only thing they could see – the play, the musical and the comedy.

In recent years, some artistic quacks have decided to regress centuries of progress by designing and building apron stages that jut out into the audience, theatres that go back to ‘theatre in the round’. Subsequently, you sit in your seat watching the actor on stage while in the distance you can also see the
opposite side of the audience where a woman offers her friend sweets, or picks her nose. This is a major step backwards in enjoying a dramatic experience, because your imagination is filled not only with what is happening on stage but also with what is going on in the audience as well. Alongside this is the disconcerting fact that the audience on the other side of the room is also watching
you
. The idea of restoring Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre might have been a wonderfully historic idea as a museum piece, it might make an interesting night out, but the thought that it is the best way of watching plays, even those of Shakespeare himself, is one of the silliest ideas this century.

Enough of this moaning, Daniels, get on with your story …

As the Bournemouth season was coming to an end, I just happened to mention to Richard Mills that I was going to do a pantomime in Norwich. He gave me, as they say in the North, usually with their arms folded across their bosoms, ‘a funny look’. Not that Richard has bosoms, well, not that I’ve noticed. The next day he came to me and said that the reason for the ‘look’ was that he and Bernard Delfont had been talking about taking my show into the West End.

This really was amazing because there hadn’t been a successful Variety show in the West End for ages, and I do mean ages. I rarely get excited at the promise of something that might happen. So many times, when I was working the clubs, some agent, manager or television producer would promise you the earth and nothing would happen. I learnt not to look forward and risk disappointment, but to enjoy things when they happened. This promise, however, really gave me a buzz. The problem was that they already had a show in the Prince of Wales Theatre and they were not sure when it would run out of steam. I took a gamble and got in touch with Dick Condon. Without hesitation, he released me from my contract, appreciating that a season in the West End would be far better
for my career. He didn’t have to do that, but Dick was a really nice man.

I couldn’t believe that I, Ted Daniels from South Bank, was going to open at the Prince of Wales. I even read up on the history of the place. Originally built in 1884, it was demolished and replaced with a new version, which became the envy of every other theatre owner. The reason for this was its key position, sandwiched between Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square and was rightly described as the best location for a theatre in the West End. The foundation stone was laid by Gracie Fields in 1937 and it quickly became established as a theatre of musical comedy and Variety. Its colourful history had seen the likes of Benny Hill, Harry Secombe, Frankie Howard and Norman Wisdom appear there, as well as some of the best musicals including
Underneath the Arches
, a tribute to Flanagan and Allen.

Arriving for the first day of a three-week rehearsal schedule, I met the Company Manager who would be responsible for the day-to-day wellbeing of the cast. My two boys, Martin and Paul Jnr, worked on the backstage management of my personal props and Dad was in full-flow with all the illusion-building. Already on his hands and knees was John Short, happily painting long slats of wood with brightly coloured ultraviolet paint, which would be used in the magical opening sequence. John was the Deputy Stage Manager and had the onerous task of cueing the technical changes on the show each night. When presenting live magic, timing is essential and John later proved to be the best man for the job.

I was certainly fortunate to be surrounded by the best the business could offer including Production Manager Roy Murray, Choreographer Fred Peters, Musical Director Paul Burnett and the wonderful Dickie Hurran. This vastly experienced stage Director and ex-hoofer was not liked by a lot
of people because he liked to get things right. There was even a rumour that he had thrown a brick at an assistant stage manager on his last show. A tough man, he would shout and holler at his stage management and crew one minute, but take them to lunch the next. Somehow, he was able to keep business and pleasure separate.

Needing to buy a top hat for one of the routines, Dickie and I strolled down to Dunn & Co in the Strand. While we stood waiting to be served, we watched how a young salesman attempted to sell an umbrella to an American and failed. Once he had left the shop, Dickie said to the assistant, ‘that’s not the way you sell an umbrella.’

Picking up the parasol, Dickie went into one of his old song-and-dance-man routines, looking like something out of
Singing in the Rain.
The umbrella flew around his neck, his arms and his body before he spun it up into the air, caught it and slid it down with the point between his crossed legs and said, ‘that’s how you sell an umbrella!’

Without meaning to, I apparently endeared myself to the staff and crew of the theatre. During what is known as the fit-up, when all the scenery, sound and lighting rigs are being built, we worked well into the night. They were all a bit surprised when I worked with them. I love to know where everything is in a show and also how it works. It got to about 2.00am and I left. Apparently, there were comments of, ‘I wondered how long he’d stick it.’ About half-an-hour later, I turned up with large trays of fish and chips, having woken up a fish and chip shop owner and persuaded him to cook the order for me. From then on I was God!

During rehearsals for
It’s Magic
, I got a telephone call from the New London Theatre where Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical Cats was in preview. Wayne Sleep, playing Mr Mistopheles, was having problems in his dance routine where
he had to perform a couple of lightweight tricks. I dashed in, watched the dance routine, pointed out the reasons it wasn’t working, trained Wayne very quickly in the handling of the props and dashed out again. It was months later that I thought I should have asked for money. Now that’s not like a Yorkshireman, is it?

The original contract for
It’s Magic
at the Prince of Wales was for a one-week run with options and I was a bit miffed when I found that out. Now I understand the business side of things a little better and don’t blame them for ‘taking out insurance’, but at the time I thought they didn’t have much confidence in me. My contract also stated I needed to attend a medical, as this was what the insurance company required. Unlike a play, where you can substitute a main part with an understudy, this show, and indeed any show that features a ‘variety turn’ relies entirely on the featured performer. In this case, that was me, and there’s only one of those!

Off I went to BUPA where I had to sit down in front of a computer screen and was asked to fill in the electronic questionnaire, which would give an automatic health check. It was a great system. Operators were trained, not in a wide range of skills, but in applying specific health checks. One would check your blood pressure, another a hearing test and so on. All their conclusions were fed into the computer to enable it to arrive at a final analysis on my wellbeing or otherwise. I thought that BUPA had it right when recognising that trained nurses were not required to conduct these simple tests. Maybe the NHS could have saved some money by adopting this procedure?

Moving along the chain of girls making all the checks, I finally arrived at the end of the conveyor belt and, having stated that there was nothing I needed to discuss with the doctor, sat having a cup of tea before leaving.

A nurse came over. ‘Mr Daniels, would you mind if you did see our doctor?’

I heard the death march in my ears. I was only 41.

‘No, not at all,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady like us macho types do when we are faced with imminent death.

Upon entering the doctor’s room, I had visions of some horrible disease having been discovered in my veins.

‘Mr Daniels, it says here you don’t take any exercise,’ he said, thumbing through the mile-long computer printout.

‘This is true.’

‘None whatsoever?’

‘Nope.’

‘Tennis?’

‘A couple of years ago I had a game.’ I shrugged.

‘Golf?’

‘On my holidays. Once. I’ve been busy.’

‘Then do you mind if I do some more tests on you?’

My heart sank at thoughts of going through the whole procedure once more, coupled with an urgent desire to know what was wrong. Why was he prolonging the agony? Why couldn’t he just give me the worst now?

With thoughts of knowing it was all over and silently writing my will in my head, I sat there while he conducted every single experiment again. Once again, we sat facing each other as he thumbed through the results. The only sound was of my heart thumping loudly, obviously desperate to prove how healthy it really was.

‘Well, to be honest, Mr Daniels, I don’t understand it. I can only put it down to the fact that it says here you don’t smoke and you don’t drink.’

‘That’s true.’

‘You see, Mr Daniels. The computer takes a comparative record of everyone who comes through our clinic. And
according to this print-out, despite the fact you take no exercise, you are the fittest man we’ve ever had.’

I could’ve kissed him, but I didn’t. Instantly I felt so fit, I felt like cancelling the taxi and walking back to the theatre.

Later, however, I wondered whether they did that for everyone, just to make them all feel better.

I never get stage fright. Other performers say they need it. I have never understood that need. My philosophy is that we are getting paid to play with our toys. Actors have the scripts and direction and love play acting, just as singers love to sing and dancers to dance. What we do is a mere frippery, a passing shadow. We help people to leave their normal lives and enter a world of wonder, leaving reality behind. The supposedly important things of life go on no matter what we do. When asked, I always say that tomorrow Bill Clinton will still be in power, or Tony Blair, or whoever. The madness of terrorists will go on. So backstage I am Mr Cool. Sometimes Debbie has to wake me up to go on; I just fall asleep once everything is set up and ready to go.

During the rehearsals for this, the biggest show of my life, I had always parked behind the theatre and walked in the stage door. For the opening night, however, I went by taxi and the driver approached the theatre from the front. I saw me. That’s not true. I saw ME. The picture of me and the title seemed to go from the floor to the sky. Suddenly, I knew what this was all about and that if I didn’t go well in front of this mostly invited audience and the media, a lot of people would be out of work. My mouth started to go dry. Stage fright started to set in. When people kept bobbing in to wish me luck I must have seemed like a stranger to them.

The way that the opening was staged I had to stand alone upstage, in the dark, for six minutes. My legs went wobbly and I really had to hang on to myself. If that is what some acts and
actors go through every night, then they must be barmy to stay in this business. On cue, a white doorframe floated down on to the stage, filled with smoke and I stepped through it and out from the total blackness – I suddenly appeared in a flash, as if by magic! The applause erupted, and the real magic was that my stage-fright vanished.