Biggins (21 page)

But it turned out that in very many ways I was wrong. For throughout these otherwise joyous years, life was going to get in the way. It seemed that a new world of sadness was always waiting in the wings. There were dark clouds on the horizon and so many tears to be shed. So many lives were going to get colder in these sad, sad years. For so many of us, everything was about to change.

I
t’s hard to pinpoint when exactly it began. It’s hard to say when I first felt it and knew it. But somehow, sometime, it was clear that the shadow of death was being cast over some of the most wonderful people in my life. So many of the men and women I loved and admired and respected were to be taken from us all. Too many of them. And they were being taken far, far too soon.

One of the first was a great girlfriend of mine, Pam. She died at just 52, of cancer. She had been an actress, a voice teacher, a therapist and a dear, dear pal. She was so young. It was such a shock to lose her. So hard to be without her in the years ahead. And her loss was only the start.

For with Pam’s passing it felt as if the call was out for Neil and me to attend so many funerals. I have had the grim task of trying to add it up. And I found that in the next few
months and years more than 60 of my friends were to die.
More than 60
. It was frightening. Sobering. Terrible.

Of course I could explain some of it. I could put some of it down to my age – as I got older so too did many of my friends. So departures from the stage were inevitable. I could also put some of it down to my large circle of friends. When you know and love so many people it will again be inevitable that a certain number will leave you. But 60 people? In such fast succession, in really such a short period of time?

Anna Nicholas was one of the next to leave our stage. She too had been such a firm friend. She had been beautiful. She had everything. She had a wonderful husband, two beautiful children, grandchildren, friends, money, all the things we should need. We’d met so long ago. We’d played together in
Connecticut Yankee
in Regent’s Park Theatre. We’d connected and never lost our connection.

Her passing was somehow slow and sudden at the same time. As well as all the other times we’d meet up we had a tradition. We would always meet at New Year, at panto. Wherever I was, whatever role I was playing, Anna and her husband Graham would always come.

But that one year they didn’t come. I played that full season in Hull without seeing her. She told me the family had bought a new dog that couldn’t be left. I was furious. Because of course I hadn’t known that the dog wasn’t the reason. The dog was an excuse. Anna used it to cover up how fast her health was declining. She didn’t want people to know. And she wanted to try and shield us all for a little bit longer.

As I’d not seen her in Hull we arranged to meet for
lunch in London when
Jack and the Beanstalk’s
run was over. We booked a table at the glorious Delaunay restaurant on London’s Aldwych, where we planned to exchange presents.

Anna cancelled. She told her husband: ‘Biggins won’t like this.’ And then, so very soon afterwards, she died. That simple, funny phrase was one of the last things she said.

A few painful years have passed now. I have still got Anna’s husband and her children as my friends. But oh how I miss the lady herself.

And oh how I miss Lynda Bellingham. We had been friends for more than forty years. We had been so close. She had been so brave. It’s not for me to repeat the story of her terrible battle with colorectal cancer. Her marvellous book,
There’s Something I’ve Been Dying to Tell You
, does that better than I ever can. Her decision to walk away from some of treatment to spare her family the pain of seeing her suffer is one I can’t forget and can only admire. Her loss, so soon, was so awful.

I was proud to be part of her funeral, as well as of her subsequent memorial service in London. And I tried to bring something I knew Lynda would have wanted to both occasions – a bit of laughter.

My dear old 90-year-old mother had given me just the line to use at the funeral. We had been speaking on the phone just beforehand. My mum had asked me what I was up to. I told her I was going to Lynda Bellingham’s funeral.

‘Oh the poor girl. Where is it?’ she had asked.

‘Crewkerne.’

‘Oh it’s lovely,’ my mum had replied. ‘I was stationed there in the war. She’ll love it there.’

I told the story at the funeral. It got a big laugh. It was what we all needed in our grief that day. And a big fat round of laughter was what Lynda would have wanted.

I tried to help strike the same note at the memorial that was held later, in London. I was asked to speak just before her dear husband Michael Pattermore. I tried to lighten the mood, to disperse some of the clouds. ‘Every actor longs for a full house,’ I said, to that very full house. Then I turned to her two sons, Robbie and Michael, boys who had grown up to be fine young men. Fine young men who I wanted to see smile, on this saddest of days.

I turned to them. ‘I was there the night she met your father. He was the most handsome man in the room. It was a toss-up which of us was going to ask him for his phone number. So think about it, boys. If Lynda hadn’t got in first I could have been your mother,’ I said. I saw their smiles then. We all cry, still, about Lynda’s loss. But we smiled too, which is what she wanted us to do.

There was more of the same as the guests talked and remembered Lynda afterwards. I was talking to another Lynda, the author Lynda la Plante. ’She’s out-sold you,’ I told her, as the sales figures for that most moving book,
There’s Something I’m Dying to Tell You
, were quite rightly going through the roof. All our tears turned, somehow, to laughter. Again, it was just what the Lynda I had loved would have asked for.

But what is so truly sad is that these first few funerals were only the beginning. I say I added up 60 of them. But in truth I think begin to lose count now of all the sadnesses in those years.

There was another of my very dear girlfriends, Jeannie,
who walked into the shadows in these months. Her son-in-law had a massive stroke at just 52. He was paralysed, brought to hospital in an air ambulance – another extraordinary charity, by the way. And in the awful aftermath the other terrible lesson is how far tragedy spreads, how many people it can affect – and of course how quickly all our lives can be changed.

In what felt like a series of grim, sad times, it seemed as if everything was there to remind me of the people I had lost. It couldn’t be avoided, even at work. I found that out in a big blast from the past when the 40th anniversary of
Porridge
approached. Forty years! Can it be that long, I asked? Yes it could. Forty years. Gold, the lovely retro channel beloved by old timers like me, decided to do a three-part documentary about it. It was lovely to catch up with old faces and to remember good, old times. But, of course, very few of the original cast are still around, so there were still more shadows of the past to stride through. Ronnie Barker and Richard Beckinsale were gone, of course. And so were so many more. But the work – our work – lived on.
Porridge
had been voted one of the greatest sit coms of all time. I’d been in it. And I was still there to tell the tale.

Of course I don’t want to dwell too much on these gloomy thoughts. Sadness can be the stuff of life, after all. All of this is bound to happen, as the years pass. All you can do is hope that when your number is called you will have lived the life you wanted, loved the people you could and left the world with more than you took from it. And, of course, to have laughed as much as you can. So I’ll move on now with one last story of a funeral service where I did, again, try to bring memories of joy to all the tears.

It was the memorial for Jimmy, the pianist at Joe Allen restaurant in London’s theatre land. He had been there since day one. Everyone knew and loved Jimmy. We gave him a wonderful memorial in St Paul’s Church, the actors’ church in Covent Garden. I’d reminded us all of the fact that Joe Allen’s owner at the time, Richard Polo, never really liked it when people sang over their supper.

‘You have to tell people not to sing. It’s policy,’ he’d told Jimmy. But that had been easier said than done.

So at Jimmy’s memorial I reminded everyone of the night the much-missed Elaine Stritch had been in for a late-night supper. She had got up from her table, gone to the piano and begun to sing.

Dear Jimmy had asked her to stop. He’d told her to stop. He’d said she had to stop. But she didn’t stop. So he got desperate. He played his final card. ‘The only people who can sing are the ones who’ve shagged Joe Allen,’ he declared.

‘I have. Play on,’ this very grand dame had declared in that legendary, raspy voice.

I
n showbusiness we say the show has to go on. I say something a little different. I say the panto has to go on. And so it does. After
Jack and the Beanstalk
in Hull Neil and I took our usual holiday to recharge our batteries and prepare for the year ahead. Neil still flies the flag, with British Airways, and it is nice to fly in style. I’m torn, sometimes, between an urge to explore, and a need to lie flat on a sun lounger doing nothing after a long run in panto. But we normally get a bit of both. We love grand old cruise ships as well. I’m lucky enough to be invited to give talks on many of them – and what a wild and fun bunch some of the passengers can be. Talking about old times and old shows while the oceans glide by is quite wonderful.

And sitting back a little, while life glides by, is just as nice. I realise that at my grand old age I’ve learned to say
an important new word. It’s the word ‘no’. It’s actually a great word. You don’t use it when you’re young. When you’re starting out in your career – in any career – you can never say ‘no’ to any job. You never know if it will be the one – the one that changes everything and propels you where you really want to go. And you never say ‘no’ because you’re terrified that every offer of work might prove to be your last. So you swallow your pride, your reservations, your doubts and you say ‘yes’. That’s why I’ve said ‘yes’ so often and to so many jobs that might have inadvertently taken me in the wrong direction or pushed me on to a road I didn’t want to follow.

But today I have the courage to use the other word. ‘No,’ I’ll say. It’s vital to learn that word as you get older. I often look around when Neil and I are together. We’ve got a wonderful home, a wonderful life and we know wonderful people. We should live in it, really live in it. We should enjoy it. And we should enjoy all the others pieces of good fortune we get. Which of course includes our chance to travel. One last word on that. If we’re not flying far then I’m not proud. I’ll sit at the back of the plane if I have to. But if it’s long haul then I’m not as keen on the cheap seats. I’ve seen plenty of flying carpets in panto. And I do like a flying bed when I travel!

The other beauty of learning the word ‘no’ is that it means more when you say ‘yes’. If I sign up for something now it’s because I really want to do it – not because I’ve nothing else to do or because I think it could be a useful means to an end.

So when I was invited to be on
Celebrity Masterchef
I went back to my old ways and gave them a resounding
‘yes’. The world thinks I’m always darting from theatre to restaurant and back again. People think I eat out for England at The Ivy or the Wolseley or some other celebrity haven every night. But in reality I love to cook. I’m as happy as Larry in my little kitchen. I love rustling up a storm, knowing the people I love will soon be eating and laughing around the table next door.

So when I was asked about
Celebrity Masterchef
I said yes straight away. I knew I’d love it. But what I didn’t know was how tough or terrifying it would be. Forget eating kangaroo penis or whatever else it all was in the jungle. Cooking odd ingredients in front of the
Masterchef
team is the biggest bush-tucker challenge of all.

When you sign up for shows like this you’re told they can be a big commitment – though I knew that if my soufflé deflated I could be out on my ear after the first week. But I wanted to do it anyway. And I wanted to make it well past the first week. Funnily enough I prefer the idea of cooking for 150 to cooking for just two. I live big. So I cook big. I like to throw it all together and hope for the best. So I thought the crazy extra challenges in
Celebrity Masterchef
would suit me. I was as excited as a little boy at Christmas. And the show didn’t disappoint.

We started off in a big studio somewhere out in west London. Lots of people think we know who the other contestants will be beforehand. But we don’t. I had no idea who I would be cooking with – it was just the same as turning up in Australia for
I’m A Celebrity
. They really do keep their secrets, the producers and crew on these shows. But they do like throwing surprises, so a tiny flash of worry did cross my mind at one point. Surely Janice
Dickinson couldn’t be here as well? My nemesis. In a kitchen full of knives and pots of hot oil. It wouldn’t end well, I felt. So surely they wouldn’t risk that.

And they didn’t. And this is what I love about shows like
Masterchef
. They choose nice people! They don’t set things up in the hope of conflict. And my team was fantastic. I was there with the likes of Tina Hobley, Kiki Dee, Jason Connery, Charlie Boorman, Jodie Kidd and Sophie Thompson. So many other great people would join us as the show went on. But I was thrilled to be with such a lovely bunch from the start. But could I cut it in the kitchen?

I got really, really nervous as we all waited to walk into the kitchen area. The work spaces with cookers and fridges and so on were waiting for us. As was the box of ingredients, all covered up. Oh, and the judges, of course, at the end of the room, standing there like, well, real-life judges in some awful court of cooking law. I think I wanted to die, not cook, at that point. I’d forgotten how to boil an egg. But there was no going back.

We get a very, very quick welcome. Then they say what they want us to cook. We get to look in the box. And we’re off. On your marks! Go!

I lifted the lid to see what was in store for me. I was transported back to the jungle. Lots of raw fish. Lots of food that, when raw, looks a little bit scary and a whole lot unappetising. The octopus tentacles, the prawns all the other bits of cod, halibut and all. It was like a bush-tucker trial without Ant or Dec. So what to do? What to make?

I decided to be a true Brit. I would keep it simple. I went for fish and chips. But I tried to do it really, really well. I
double fried my chips and the judges seemed to like them. Phew. I could wipe away those beads of sweat. And I could start to laugh. We all laughed, when it was all over. Lovely Jason Connery had gone mad. He had cooked every last bit of his pile of fish. Talk about an over-achiever. His plate was piled so high he could have fed us all.

As the weeks pass and the show goes on you really get into it.

Our first big set-piece occasion took us to the London School of Music by the Albert Hall to cook for 150 hungry students. Kiki had gone, sadly, and I was alongside the terrific Tina. Things didn’t go entirely to plan. We began to run out of food, for a start. But the students were fantastic.

So I stayed in the competition for at least another week. Wonders will never cease. Jason had gone – and oh boy was he competitive so he hated it, poor lad. Tina had gone too.

And the surprises kept on coming. We were cooking in a real-life restaurant for one show. We were all set up and to go, ready for the off – when the lights went out! The hotel had lost all its electricity. We stood stock still and waited. The wonderful woman in charge did a lot of shouting and screaming at people and in the end the power was back. And so it began. I burned my hand then on a hot pan. There is so much danger in real restaurant kitchens. They are so small, so crowded and so hot! How I respect all the people who have cooked every meal I have ever eaten.

We had little and large alongside us by then: Wayne Sleep and Jodie Kidd. We had Sophie Thompson, Emma’s
sister who had been such a wicked
EastEnders
villainess. Not so in real life. I fell in love with that girl. The funniest sense of humour. And the fun went on.

For the next big show we were all taken to Stratford in a bus – oh the glamour of showbusiness. It was the year of Shakespeare’s 450th birthday, if you know what I mean. We were off to the farm where his mum had been brought up, Mary Arden’s Farm, a working Tudor farm today. And we weren’t alone. There were about a hundred Shakespeare fans, all in fantastic, costumes, waiting for a birthday banquet. A birthday banquet we had to cook in a field kitchen using only ingredients that were around in the 16th century. Oh, and it was boys versus girls for a bit of added zest.

It turned out to be the funniest day ever. The boys and I went for risotto from pearl barley, old-fashioned food from that period. And yes, you’ve probably seen the episode. So you’ll know that, yes, I stole things from the other team. All is fair in love and kitchens. Didn’t Shakespeare say something like that?

Then we moved on to do afternoon tea in Richmond for the lovely ladies of the WI. That was one of my favourites. I love afternoon tea. And the WI. And then, at the semi-final stage, I made a mistake. We had to pick something that meant a lot to us. And I thought back to my childhood when my Aunty Vi had made trifle. She’d taught me how to make it, and to make it properly, all those years ago. So her trifle meant a great deal to me. And I made it. I made my own custard and really tried to get the details and the extras right.

The crew adored it, I’m thrilled to say. But the judges?
They thought it had been too easy. I’d finished first, I think. So they had seen me loafing around a bit when I was done and the others were still creating. So off home I went, feeling it was a little bit unfair. Should I have chosen to cook something complicated, even if it hadn’t meant as much to me?

But I’d been thrilled to get so far. And I was thrilled that funny girl Sophie won. And I’m even more thrilled I’ve been asked back as a judge for the next series – and hopefully for many more shows after that. I’ve eaten some quite disgusting food from some of the poor contestants. But how I love the good stuff.

Later that year the only way was Essex for me. I was off to Southend to play in
Peter Pan
– for the very first time. Mad, really, after all my pantos, that I’ve never been in this most famous one. But it’s not got a part for a big, loud dame in a crazy dress. So we re-wrote it. We turned Mr Smee into a very sexy (some may disagree) Mrs Smee. We wrote in ten different entrances and exits for me. We found ten different madly over the top costumes for me to wear for each and every entrance – the giant, multi-coloured cupcake on my head being a big favourite.

We were at Cliff’s Pavilion on the sea front. And I was there alongside anther stellar, talented cast, including one David Hasselhoff. What a lovely man he proved to be. And oh, what a show. We broke all box-office records in Southend. We did phenomenal business. And we had fun – even though the people in charge tried to stop me.

Some of that illicit fun began right at the start. I decided I wanted to wear a red swimsuit and do a Pamela Anderson,
Baywatch
thing to sort of take the mickey out
of my co-star. Of course I did. It was David Hasselhoff. He was going to be Hoff the Hook. I had to make fun of him. So I had to do it.

But our producer said no. He said David wouldn’t like it. You can’t do it, he said. David doesn’t like to be sent up.

Nonsense, I thought. Everyone likes to be sent up. So I did it anyway. I got the fabulously talented costume people to run me up a vast red bathing suit. I got my mad hair and madder make-up done. I had some pictures taken on my phone.

And then I decided to show them to the Hoff, whom I had really only just met. As I did so, I did hold my breath a bit. Had I made a massive miscalculation? Would this Hollywood star prove to be as humourless as some of the other Hollywood types I’ve met (Janice Dickinson, for example)?

But guess what? David almost fell over laughing. He loved it. The Hoff doesn’t like to be sent up? Nonsense. He’s an old pro. He knows what works. So we put it in the show. That vast red swimsuit was one of my ten big costumes. And we got the biggest laughs of the night, every night. We got wave after wave of laughter and goodwill. We sailed away on that laughter for the rest of the night. Everyone left the theatre on our high.
Peter Pan
was panto magic in Essex. I was thrilled to have finally added it to my list of productions.

And the Hoff and I have become real friends. He’s one of the good guys. He even got me a cameo part in one of his new TV shows, a series he was making for Dave. The run was long and as draining as ever. But it was a good one. And as the show came to the end in Essex I came to
the end of my latest contract with Qdos, the people who put on all the good shows. I thought long and hard about what to do at that point. Then I signed a new contract. I signed up for another three years, starting with
Aladdin
with Blue’s Simon Webbe at the Theatre Royal Nottingham for the 2015–2016 season. That three-year commitment will take me through to my seventieth birthday, I realised. At which point I would probably be getting to old to be the dame and to play the fool. I’ll think again when we get there. But my feeling now is that it will be the time to take a panto bow at seventy. A final bow, to retire and to say goodbye, goodnight and thank you for some amazing panto memories.

In the meantime, I am still available for work, darling. Aren’t we all? I’ll listen to any proposals, I’ll consider it all. But I must admit that one thing I don’t think I’ll do as much of in the future is pure acting. I’m losing my interest, after all these roles and all these years. To be more specific, I just hate learning lines. It’s so dull, so dreary and I struggle so hard to do it nowadays.

There are ways around this. They say Marlon Brando never learned a line in his life. You can find ways to manage it, places to read things from and ways to cover it up. But I don’t want to get into all of that. I can’t take the pressure any more. If I can’t learn the lines then I shouldn’t be saying them. It’s only fair to give the role to someone who’s got the brains.

And there’s a little bit more. I’ve turned into one of those old fools who bangs on about the olden days. But in the olden days it really was different. When you did TV or theatre back then you had fun. You had time and you had
rehearsals, for a start. We’d turn up for a show. We’d meet up, cast and crew. We’d talk, we’d work and sometimes we’d make lots of mistakes. But we’d get it by the time we did the take or took to the stage for real.