Biggins (18 page)

‘Biggins, shall we go and see Barbra Streisand?’ It was Joan Collins.

The answer, of course, was yes. Streisand was in town on her much-hyped live tour and Joan and I were thrilled to be able to call in favours and get some great tickets. But then we had a different, better offer. Prince Charles was hosting an evening for one of his charities at the concert and his office asked if we wanted to attend as part of that.

The answer, once again, was yes.

Joan and Robin had recently split up. They handled the
separation with charm and grace. None of us was forced to take sides. There was never a sense that you had to be a ‘his’ or a ‘hers’ friend in the new world order. Nor did any of us have to sit through recriminations or nastiness. It was the most grown-up of partings. But it was no less sad for all that. Joan’s new beau, Percy Gibson, is a good man and is clearly good for her. But it was tricky for a while to adapt. I saw less of Joan as this new love got off the ground. So I was even more determined to enjoy our night with Prince Charles and the biggest diva in showbusiness.

We were all having drinks at the charity reception before the concert and when we talked to him it was clear that Charles was a little distracted. His dog had just gone missing and he was clearly very upset – making him, in my book, a sensitive and admirable man. Anyway, it was clear that the staff wanted us all to take our seats in the box, but Charles was still talking and of course Joan and I couldn’t leave until he led the way. The whole room emptied before our conversation finally drew to a close. Charles then led us to our seats.

Later in the evening, after clips of the event had been shown on the news, my phone started to vibrate – thankfully I had put it on silent. ‘Biggins, trust you to go and see a Barbra Streisand concert and end up on the news walking in with Prince Charles and Joan Collins,’ was the gist of them all. But dear old Jenks in my first RSC production had taught me the benefit of making a great entrance. It’s something I’ve never forgotten.

One thing about showbusiness, you never know when your next big break will come. I certainly hadn’t expected
mine to materialise in Manchester after the christening of Denise Welsh’s son in 2003 (Denise was an old pal I’d met at a party years ago and we’d hit it off straight away). After the ceremony I got chatting to an exciting man called Brian Park who turned out to be the producer of
Bad Girls
. ‘You must come and work for us,’ he said. They were my seven favourite words.

‘I’d love to.’

The show was camp and cult and preposterous. It fitted me like a glove.

What helped me ease my way back into prime-time television after a gap of something like a decade was the fact that I played myself. The idea was that I was the star guest at a charity presentation of a wheelchair for a fictitious charity that the scriptwriters had come up with.

I had a huge speech in the central hall of the prison as all the old lags, all the wardens and all the local dignitaries look on. Then, as I inspect the chair, the girls pounce on me, push me in it and wheel me away at speed. Which, I can tell you, isn’t as easy as it sounds. Anyway, I end up held hostage in the prison greenhouse until their demands for better treatment are met. Ultimately, my character – me – agrees with their cause and joins it. We get drunk on gin they have made from an illegal still, we sing songs, I do a bit of Shakespeare and it’s all an absolute riot.

Hopefully viewers liked it too, because I was asked back for a second episode, where I adopt one of the prisoners’ kids. As usual, the behind-the-scenes story is one of plenty of laughs and a fair few new friends. Linda Henry in particular is a wonderful pal I might not know if it wasn’t for HMP Larkhall. I hope I wasn’t rusty on set – it was a
long time since my last television show. But, as I say, it was a joy to play myself – or at least the
Bad Girls
scriptwriter’s view of myself.

A dear friend is Sue St John. We both love technical things, like Sky Plus, gadgets and television shows. ‘Are you watching this or that?’ we’re always ringing each other to ask. Her life’s worthy of a book of its own – she was PA to Adnan Khashoggi, though she is irritatingly discreet about it. I was there on the sad day when her lovely husband Dick died.

Sue’s sister was being wonderful, but one day on the phone I asked, as usual, if there was anything practical I could do. For once there was.

‘There’s something we need to collect from a chemist on Wimpole Street. Could you go and get it for us?’ Sue asked.

‘Of course I could. I’ll be there with it within the hour.’

I collected the package and rang the doorbell. ‘Here it is, Sue. But I won’t stop.’ I hated to intrude and knew I would speak to her on the phone later as I always did. But she wanted me to stay.

Poor, wonderful Dick. He had taken a turn for the worse – and there seemed to be death in his eyes and all around. I’ve been so fortunate in my life. I had rarely seen that look before. But it was unmistakable. In that awful atmosphere you learn new things about yourself. I learned that it helps to help. I made the teas and coffees and later helped lift Dick while we changed his bed. In my arms was a shell of the wonderful man I had known for so long. And I am sure he was as horrified as me. What the hell is Biggins doing here? he was probably thinking. I hope it made him smile inside.

Time was running out that afternoon. Dick’s son was on his way over from America, but it turned out that his taxi had got lost. Somehow it seemed as if every second counted. Sue didn’t want Dick to miss the chance to see his son. Finally, the doorbell rang. I raced to answer it, faster than I have moved in my life. I pushed Dick’s son into the house and ran out to get his bags from the cab. Dick saw his son in his last moments, as I finally slipped away to leave the family together. Life can be short and is precious. That’s the clear lesson I learned from Sue and Dick.

Now I don’t want to end a chapter on a low point. So here’s one last funny story from that era. I’ve been great friends of the Forte family for years and think all the sisters are particularly marvellous. Irene, married to the former American ambassador John Danilovich, is a particularly close pal. When the couple’s 30th wedding anniversary approached, we all knew they would celebrate it well. We were right. They had five days of parties, events and functions in Washington DC. There were lunches, dinners, private tours of the White House and the Capitol. And on the final evening there was a black-tie dinner for 460 people, with Laura Bush as the guest of honour.

I was chatting to Irene when she saw a chance to introduce us. ‘Come and meet the First Lady.’

So we crossed the room.

‘Laura, meet Christopher Biggins. He’s an actor friend of mine from London.’

‘Nice to meet you, Christopher.’

‘Lovely to meet you as well. We were at your house this
afternoon and I have to say we were very disappointed that you weren’t there to make us tea.’

What possessed me to try to crack a joke with the President’s wife? Especially a weak little joke like that? And especially when it appeared that Laura’s sense of humour had deserted her that evening. ‘Well, I’m terribly sorry, but I was out,’ she said flatly.

As an embarrassed silence developed, I thought I saw a chance to create a distraction. Neil was just a few feet away from us, chatting to someone else.

‘Neil!’ I called out, far too loudly. ‘Come over here and meet Barbara Bush.’

The whole room chilled. ‘Laura,’ she barked as she turned on her elegant heel. ‘It’s Laura.’

Neil never did get to meet her.

I
was 55 years old, I had been working since my teens and I had never fought tooth and nail for a role. I had never been convinced I had been born to play any particular part. I had never worried as much as people think you do if the good jobs don’t come up.

But in 2003 I did have a rare sense of humour failure about the industry. The grapevine was buzzing with news that
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
was about to be staged in a massive new show at the London Palladium. I was beside myself when I heard of the plans.
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
! The London Palladium! And who better than me to play Baron Bomburst?

My old
I Claudius
co-star Brian Blessed, it turned out. Then Vincent Spinetti when Brian’s initial run ended. I was devastated. I had put myself up for the role right back at the start, when I heard the earliest whispers that a
production was on the cards. But they wouldn’t even see me. I was having my Barbara Windsor moment. Oh, it’s only Christopher Biggins, they must have been thinking. Too frivolous, too lightweight, too needy even? I have no idea what it was that counted me out – probably simple snobbery. Maybe the industry just didn’t know that I could sing – just like the auditions people on
Les Miz
.

Yes, I was there as Herod in
Jesus Christ Superstar
at the Barbican. Yes, I had been there in the high-camp film version of
Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat
(you were fabulous, Joan). But while I thought Brian was fantastic – however grim I felt, I wasn’t going to miss that opening night – I was determined to keep the pressure on. So, when Vincent’s run approached its end and a third cast rotation was due, I got my agent to call yet again. Finally she won me my audition. And in the summer of 2004 I won myself a chance to appear at the Palladium.

It’s a huge stage. It’s wide and it’s deep and it reeks of history. On my first entrance in rehearsals I kept thinking of little Judy Garland, sitting on the edge of the stage and dangling her legs into the orchestra pit as she sang ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’. On Argyll Street outside the Palladium, there’s a board that lists all the huge stars who have performed there over the years. I had stood and read though that list endlessly over the years. Now I was finally on it. Christopher Biggins. Right there alongside the greats. Fabulous. Quite amazing.

Louise Gold was my beautiful Baroness and we made a marvellous double act, though I say so myself. We managed to bring the house down with ‘You’re My Little Chu-Chi Face’. And we never let it go stale. I loved adding
little bits to give Louise and the audience an extra giggle. Everyone loved that. Didn’t they?

‘There’s a note for you, Mr Biggins.’

The doormen would hand me envelopes or I would find one in my dressing room. They were from our choreographer, the terrifyingly good Gillian Lynne. She wasn’t happy with my added extras. So I kept on having to apologise and promise never to go off script again. Then something funny would occur to me and off I would go. Once, I think, Louise and I ran ‘Bombay Samba’ for an extra six or seven minutes because everyone was having so much fun. The whole cast on the show were on top form. Dear Gary Wilmot, a fellow stalwart of the Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre, was with us, and Jason Donovan and Brian Conley, and Scarlett Strallen as Truly Scrumptious, closely followed by Summer Strallen. We had Tony Adams, now a good pal, and Freddie Lees – so many lovely people.

Then, of course, came the Child-Catcher. My run started out with Alvin Stardust in this role, then we had little Stephen Gateley and Lionel Blair. Lionel, perhaps surprisingly, was the most terrifying of my trio. It was a tight ship. Robert Scott, our musical director, and Michael Rose, our producer, were fiercely professional. We had a compulsory warm-up before each show. I would mark out an area at the back of the stage for the oldies. We would gather there to do what the youngsters did. Well, most of it.

I was in the show for a wonderful 18 months. My bank manager loved it as much as I did. My dressing room was a joy in itself. It had a bed, a fridge, a kettle, a colour television and a telephone. It was like having my own little
apartment right in the heart of London. I could have made my bank manager even happier by renting my house out for 18 months and moving in at Argyll Street. I’m sure I wouldn’t have been the first to try it.

Long runs are tough. You need secret ways to keep it fresh. I would make eye contact with different members of the orchestra each night. I’d wink at the trumpet players. I’d blow kisses to the flautists. And they in turn had challenges for me. They would come up with words I had to slip into my performance. And not just easy, obvious ones. They seemed to use a thesaurus to find tough ones. But I’d do it, however little sense it made. I’d give it my all to win the bets.

While the show was good for my self-esteem, good for my career and a dream come true for my bank manager, it also did wonders for my waistline. I had to stay in shape. In one scene I had to lift Louise – and, bless her, even I, a best friend, couldn’t call her petite. One night I lost my balance, she began to slip, I began to fall and we ended up in a tangled heap on stage. The audience howled with laughter, I’m pleased to say. Though I probably got another cross note telling me off the next day.

The New York-based writer and producer Bob Calleley is a dear pal. On a short break from
Chitty
I saw him in the garden at Orso in LA, where I was visiting Joan. ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

‘I’m here for Angela Lansbury’s 80th,’ was what he said. ‘Beat that’ was what he so clearly meant. I couldn’t. And, oh, how I wanted to go too. Angela is another icon and inspiration. But, however heavily I hinted about my
availability, Bob didn’t leap in with a ‘plus one’. But he knew, of course he knew. He just wanted me to sweat a little. ‘Oh. Do you want to come, Christopher?’

‘Of course I bloody want to come.’

So off we went. It was a small party – really just for family. Bob had been Angela’s producer in
Mame
, so it was clear why he was there. But how amazing, how extraordinary, that I had found my way there. So many times in my life I’ve found myself in places and with people that I should never really have met. My privilege has been to gatecrash some of the best parties in the world. The first person I spoke to at length that night was Jean Simmons – and what an adorable character she proved to be.

And Angela? She was just as charming and enchanting as I had hoped. She too had been on stage at the London Palladium and it was wonderful to hear her thoughts on all the classic musicals, most of which she had been in. For some reason Bea Arthur’s face kept flitting through my mind as I left that golden party. What clever ladies these are, I thought. Angela, just like Bea, had ultimately taken control of her show, becoming producer and star of
Murder, She Wrote
. That’s the way to get rich and really make your mark in the industry, I thought. And it was worth remembering that neither Bea nor Angela was a spring chicken when they hit television gold. I was rushing towards my sixties but I wasn’t going to count myself out just yet.

I don’t remember watching the first series of
I’m A Celebrity… Get Me Out Of Here
in 2001. But, like everyone else, I was well aware that it was a massive hit.
Like everyone else, I also thought that Ant and Dec were the perfect hosts for the show. They make it look so easy. But everyone in the industry knows how hard they work to look so good.

But would I ever see it first-hand? My agents got a call to sound me out for the second series, then the third. Apparently, I was on Ant and Dec’s private wish list of dream contestants. But every year I had to say no. The show clashed with panto – and, trivial as that sounds, panto was still my bread and butter. By 2005 I had done some three dozen consecutive panto seasons and I was immensely proud of that record. Should I break it for a programme that could be a poisoned chalice?

In a youth-obsessed society, did it make sense for a man in his late fifties to lay his life on the line and be judged by the viewing public? I was convinced that people would far rather have a footballer or someone from a girl or boy band in the jungle. Being voted out on day one would be mortifying – and possibly career-ending. So every year I was secretly pleased that the approach from
I’m A Celebrity
came just after I had signed up for that year’s panto. I don’t break contracts, so this always gave me the perfect excuse for saying no.

And yet, and yet. A tiny part of me still liked the reality-television concept. When you’re an actor people think they know you. But they really only know the roles you play. I could see the attraction of going on screen as myself. Telling my own story, not reading anyone else’s lines. I hoped people might like me. I was sure I could entertain.

If I had been available, taking the plunge might not have been as hard as I’d thought because I had done a tiny bit
of reality TV before.
The Entertainers
, for BBC2, was a fly-on-the-wall documentary where Neil and I were allocated a wonderful director, producer, cameraman and make-up person – all combined in the single wonderful form of a lady called Harriet Fleming.

I was a bit nervous about having my real life on film. And it was Neil’s first introduction to television, so he was just as anxious. But it turned out to be such fun. Harriett followed us around as I did my year’s panto in Cambridge, set up some other work, went to a string of charity events and generally tried to live and act just the way we would on our own. Neil was brilliant, coming over really warmly on screen, and we got plenty of positive feedback from friends, colleagues and strangers alike.

Tony Blackburn, Leo Sayer and Bernie Clifton were also being filmed for the show and they all agreed it had been a lovely experience. Reality TV wasn’t so scary after all, we said. And I knew that
I’m A Celebrity
wouldn’t be entirely uncharted waters if I ever signed up. It all still hinged on my availability.

The producers of
I’m A Celebrity
are, not surprisingly, clever people. You don’t make a television juggernaut by mistake, after all. So in 2007 they found out when I normally sign my panto contracts and got in touch well beforehand. ‘This is very early for us, but we didn’t want to miss you again because you’re right at the top of our list yet again,’ they said. Flattery, of course, would get them everywhere.

And, because they spoke to me before I had a ready excuse to say no, I was forced to think more seriously about the idea. I had a long talk with my agent, Lesley Duff. I was soon to be 59. That’s 159 in showbusiness
years. I knew that people were taking me for granted. Good old Biggins, he’ll always be around, they would think. We’ll get him if the others all say no. But the others weren’t saying no, so there wasn’t exactly a queue to offer me great jobs. I’d not been on television much since
Bad Girls,
and that had only been for two brief episodes. Yes, I was in a very deep lull. I had panto, but I didn’t have a pension. So I signed up.

Last year I had watched as David Gest, the man I felt had been a factor in causing further upset in my pal Liza’s life, had come fourth. I had seen what this had done to his profile, career and no doubt to his bank balance. My target was to come fourth as well. If I could do that the whole adventure would be worth it.

‘What do you mean you’re not doing panto? Biggins, are you OK? Are you ill?’ If I had a pound for every time I was asked this in 2007 I wouldn’t have needed to go on
I’m A Celebrity
in the first place. People were genuinely perplexed. And such is the way of
Celebrity
that I couldn’t put anyone’s mind at rest. When the producers say ‘top secret’ they mean it. Blab and you’re out. They make it clear that they have plenty of reserves signed up. So I, of all people, had to keep the secret. Agony, absolute agony.

‘I’m making a film in Australia. It’s an all-star cast and it’s hugely exciting, but I can’t give any more details,’ was the lame excuse I finally settled upon. But pals who didn’t buy it would soon get plenty more grist for the rumour mill. In September, some three months before the show’s start date, I gave up the booze. In October I began a strict protein and vegetable diet. In November I started to eat next to nothing.

It paid off. I’m not sure really what was worse in the camp, the boredom or the hunger. But at least I was relatively ready for the latter.

I was able to show off my newly svelte form (in my dreams) in the hilariously organised photo shoot set up to promote the new series. Secrecy still reigned supreme. The contestants mustn’t meet, so we were hustled around by production assistants in cars with blacked-out windows, rushed up and down corridors as their headphones buzzed with muffled instructions and requests. It was the closest I have come (so far) to a James Bond film. After the pictures I had my session with the show’s psychologist. What a hoot. A lovely lady, Sandra, in Swiss Cottage. I loved being able to lie back and chat about myself. But one of her final questions brought me up short. ‘How’s your libido?’ she asked.

‘I beg your pardon?’

And so we got on to the subject of masturbation, the way you do. Apparently the only place to do it was in the dunny – which, of course, was the least conducive place for such an activity. As an aside, the men did all talk about this when we were in the camp – I’m not sure if it was broadcast. It seems that whatever we had said to the libido question from Sandra it wasn’t an issue in the jungle. Forget waking up with a hard-on. We all said we didn’t even consider sex once. I hardly thought of it. Maybe the final secret of the show is that they put bromide in the water.

‘You’re going into the show a few days after the other contestants. We want to surprise people.’ This set-up meant I was flown to Australia on my own, which was lovely. The first two days I spent high up in the Meridian
Hotel on the Gold Coast and managed to get some sneaky intelligence from home. My minder didn’t know I had an extra mobile phone in my bag. So, while we couldn’t see any TV or log on to the internet to find out about the show, I could ring Neil to get some early warnings. At least I could until I was overheard, ticked off and had my phone confiscated. So I was left in the dark – just the way the producers wanted it.