We spent most of the time chatting to what my mother called ‘two very nice girls’ but what anyone one else would have called a couple of bull dykes. We poked around the house as much as we dared. It was beautiful, lots of dark wood and a stunning view out towards Golden Gate Bridge. After a toilet trip that meant we saw a bit more of the house (leopard-skin Ralph Lauren towels slightly suspect), we made our excuses and left.
Back at the hotel my mother rang Paula to tell her all about it. ‘The house was beautiful . . . she was very nice . . . a buffet, I would have done it differently . . . and as for that Robin Williams, well, he didn’t exactly go’ (and here my mother launched into her best Mork impression) ‘“Nanou, nanou” but he might as well have.’ For once my mother and I were in complete agreement. It seems most people talk about Robin Williams in terms of being ‘on great form’ or ‘always hilarious’, but that day at brunch I just wanted to say to him, ‘You’ve won an Oscar, relax, we all know you’re funny.’
Back home the show was going from strength to strength. We were winning more awards and audience figures were growing all the time. Occasionally the press became a bit excited by something that happened. For some reason when we got Mo Mowlam to officiate at a dog wedding, the papers reacted like it was the end of civilisation as we knew it. I felt badly for Mo, because we hadn’t wanted to embarrass her or make her look foolish, it was merely a way of involving the guest in a game where we laughed at little dogs in costumes. Many people wondered why Mo Mowlam had agreed to appear on the show; after all she was a government minister and this was one of the stupidest shows on TV. I’m fairly sure various people strongly advised her not to, but at the end of the day Mo likes having fun and she enjoys being popular. My show was both of those things. Politically it probably wasn’t the wisest thing to do, but that is why people love her – she isn’t very politic. Happily Mo doesn’t blame me for the fall-out and she and her husband Jon have become good friends.
Another item on the show that provoked the wrath of the Daily Mail was a visit we made to a website that featured the Pipes of Pam. It was one of those fairly straightforward sex sites that offer live shows via webcam, but this one had the added delights of Pam, who was able to insert a penny whistle into what some people would call her tuppence and play a basic tune. Lulu was the guest and she looked on in fascination, horror and awe as Pam pulled down her panties and gave us a halting, but nonetheless beautiful, rendition of ‘God Save the Queen’. There were complaints, quite a few complaints, in fact several hundred complaints. It was referred to the Broadcasting Complaints Commission. In the office we were like shame-faced schoolboys who’d been caught shoplifting porn mags. We did sort of feel that things had got out of hand and that perhaps we had pushed the boat out a bit far. But amazingly, when the Commission delivered its conclusion we were off the hook. It was a long, dull report full of legal jargon which essentially said, ‘You were watching So Graham Norton, what did you expect?’
It must be so frustrating to the people who complain that all that really happens is that we sit around the office laughing at them. My favourite one was after we had featured a woman called Madame Pee Pee who did a show involving a brandy glass and bodily fluids. It sounds worse than it was. An irate woman called in and just shouted down the phone, ‘For God’s sake, what is this? I’m supposed to be taping it for the nuns!’ It was only later that we remembered that Daniel O’Donnell was supposed to be the guest that night, but like any good Catholic he had pulled out at the last moment. The thought of groups of nuns and Irish housewives huddled by their television sets watching Madame Pee Pee gave us a warm feeling inside.
Unbelievably, while all of this was going on the BBC were having meetings with me asking me to join the corporation. Part of me was tempted, but I wasn’t ready to quit Channel 4 so soon. They sent me a proposal detailing what shows they would want me to do and how much they would pay me. It was about the same amount of money as I was on at Channel 4. I politely declined and thought no more about it.
My producer Jon and I were off to Japan to make a travel documentary called Ah-So Graham Norton where I stayed with a Japanese family and generally experienced all the weird and wonderful things that Tokyo had to offer. One night we were filming in some obscure part of the city and trying to get something to eat. Eventually we found ourselves sitting around a large, smoking fire pit. Our eyes streamed and our stomachs growled. Small plates of raw food were brought. We cooked little pieces of chicken and vegetables. The more we cooked the hungrier we seemed to get. After what seemed like hours, we had all had about a mouthful of food each. A tray of giant prawns arrived. We put them on the fire. ‘Oh my God!’ We watched aghast as the prawns started to writhe around. Alive and not having a good time, they waved their little claws at us. It was late and we were tired and hungry. Even the vegetarians amongst us began to laugh.
Somewhere towards the end of what we were reluctantly calling our dinner, the production mobile phone rang and one of the crew went outside to answer it. They came back in and handed it to me.
‘It’s your agent, Melanie.’
I took the phone out into the street. Across the continents I could sense her breathless excitement.
‘I’ve been trying to reach you all day!’
‘I’ve been filming,’ I said, hungry and slightly irritable, ‘what’s so urgent?’
‘The BBC have come back with another offer.’
Now I was really annoyed. We had been through all of this, I didn’t want to go.
‘They are offering you five million pounds.’ I nearly vomited badly cooked prawn.
I stood holding the phone not saying anything. Tokyo pushed by me and signs I couldn’t read flashed above my head. Five million pounds! Obviously I was tempted, who wouldn’t be? But then I thought about it more clearly. The money had changed, but the rest of the offer was exactly the same and it was an offer I had found very easy to turn down only a week before. I was already earning more money than I ever dreamt I would. I had no children, not even a dog to worry about it.
‘No,’ I said.
Melanie, sounding more serious than I had ever heard her, asked me if I was sure.
‘Yes.’
I hung up the phone and walked back into the smoking fire pit. I was in shock. Was it possible that I, Graham Walker, from Bandon, Co. Cork, had just walked away from five million pounds?
It was, and it felt good.
14
Friends in Dry Places
I ADORE DOLLY PARTON. EVER since I was a little boy there has been something about her that has drawn me to her. Maybe it’s the bright colours, maybe it’s the music, maybe it’s just a subconscious desire to breastfeed, I don’t know, but I love Dolly.
From the very beginning of So I kept asking for the Queen of Country to be on my show. Time and again dates didn’t work out, but then I would see her sitting beside other chat show hosts. I felt like a jilted lover. She was meant to be mine!
Normally I try not to get too personally involved in the booking of guests, but with Dolly it was different. I sent her letters, flowers and rare books about fairies (seriously). Such was my onslaught that the lovely woman took the time to send a personal note of thanks to me along with the promise that she would do her best to do the show. I clung on to the piece of paper which was really just a polite note telling me to fuck off and leave her alone, but to me it was as precious as a scrap of the Turin shroud.
We had a new booker on the show, a man from Ireland called Tony Jordan. We had worked together years before on The Jack Docherty Show and I had always been in awe of the dignified patience with which he daily suffered getting shat on from a great height by publicists and agents whilst simultaneously enduring mountainloads of abuse from us. I really don’t mean to belittle what he does in any way. As I’ve said before, it is by far the hardest job in the business and Tony is the best. Perhaps I didn’t always think so, but when he brought me the news that he had booked Dolly Parton he was a god
in my eyes.
The day before the show I was summoned to meet her in her hotel room. By now I had met a lot of celebrities and people I really admired, but I had never been this nervous before. I couldn’t bear it if she didn’t like me, and the sky would fall in if . . . if – it was too horrible to contemplate – if I didn’t like her.
The record label PR man showed me up to her room and I was left alone to wait on an overstuffed sofa. Dolly would be out in a moment. I could hear voices that were getting nearer; soon there was just a door between us; then suddenly it was thrown open and she came dancing into the room singing ‘He’s going to marry me!’, a lyric from the song ‘Marry Me’ that she was going to perform on the show. She twirled around the sofa and collapsed in a fit of giggles on the cushion beside me. Small, shiny and exquisite, she was like a Fabergéegg with tits. Although she is made up of so many elements that are fake and superficial, she exudes a genuine warmth and profound goodness. When you are with her you feel as if nothing bad could happen. Happy and relieved, I wallowed in my love for her.
Dolly was the first guest ever to sing on the show. She burst out of a giant wedding cake and sang ‘Marry Me’ while the audience went mad. Never had I felt less like I was working as we chatted and laughed – it felt like people just happened to be watching. At the end of the show she was obviously tired and headed back to the hotel to try and get some sleep before flying off to the Grammies the next day. She quickly said goodnight and walked off set. I suddenly had awful doubts – maybe she didn’t like me.
The next few days were strangely flat, not just for me but for everyone in the office. It was as if we were all experiencing a sort of comedown from our Dolly high. The PR people from the record company called to thank us for the show and to tell us how much Dolly had enjoyed herself. They also mentioned the idea of me doing some sort of special with Dolly where I would go to Dollywood, her theme park in Tennessee, and she would show me around. It sounded like a pretty slim premise for a whole show, but we took it to Channel 4 and they bought it. I tried not to get too excited because the chances of Dolly having a break in schedule at the same time as me were pretty slim. I pushed it to the back of my mind.
A producer called Laura Parfitt had worked with me at Loose Ends and on various occasions had tried to get me to do something else with Radio 4. I did want to keep up my connection with it, because I saw Radio 4 as a sort of pension plan. If I just hung on, I too could be eighty and still play Just a Minute. However, because of TV commitments and a private fear of the posh and educated Radio 4 audience, I had never been able to accept one of Laura’s offers. Finally she came up with a proposal that I found very hard to refuse. We would go to New York for about a week and make a series of programmes about the city in front of a live audience. Each show would be a themed exploration of an aspect of living there, be it death in the city, money, sex or politics. I would interview a different panel of expert guests on each show and talk to the audience. That is more or less how Laura explained it to me. All I really heard was ‘a week in New York’. Yes please!
Because of my TV schedule we wouldn’t be able to record the shows until early September. Autumn in New York, what could be nicer? We had a wonderful time. The guests were great and the audience were so receptive that it suddenly made me think that maybe I could work in America. Each night after the show we headed into Soho or the Village and sat outside eating dinner and talking about how good life was. We finished recording the last show on 9 September 2001. The series was called Graham Norton’s Big Apple Crumble.
It was never to be broadcast.
The day after we had finished the radio series I flew to Knoxville in Tennessee. Yes, Dolly had found some space in her schedule and our Christmas special from Dollywood was happening. I was thrilled. Although I had never heard of Knoxville before, it is in fact quite a big town, a city if you speak to the locals; however, we weren’t staying there. We were heading for real Dolly Country, a place called Pigeon Forge, home of Dollywood and little else. To call it the middle of nowhere is to make it sound too central. It is really just a highway with a few fast-food joints and the occasional peculiar tourist attraction, like a full-sized concrete dinosaur or a shop selling nothing but Christmas ornaments all the year round.
The other thing about Pigeon Forge, which the same reader who is still using this as a travel book might well want to take note of, is that it is dry. That is to say, you cannot purchase any alcohol there. But of course, who needs drink or drugs when you are at home to the wondrous madness that is Dollywood? The place is enormous and is part folksy, homespun charm, part Hollywood camp and part fairly basic park rides. Only one woman’s name could rightly sit on top of the gates. The Dolly Museum, the replica of the cottage she grew up in, the Dollywood gift shop, the piped Parton music that plays all over the park all day every day . . . yes, it’s true, the place could make you hate a lesser woman. Somehow, though, Dolly makes you realise that she gets the joke, and also, in a very odd way, although the place is about her, she makes it seem as if it is actually all about the visitors and their enjoyment.
The second morning we were in Pigeon Forge I got up fairly early to go down and meet the film crew for a day’s filming. Because it was off-season the park was closed that day and Dolly wouldn’t be available for filming until the following morning, so it was a good opportunity to film lots of dull set-ups. I started the coffee pot and turned on the TV. There is a daytime show on American television called Live with Regis and Kelly, sort of like This Morning but with better soft furnishings; however, this particular morning it was late starting because the news was still on covering some stupid story about a light aircraft that had crashed into a building. How annoying. I had my shower.
When I came out of the shower I felt like Bobby Ewing in Dallas, except that surely this was the dream. In a few minutes the world had changed. A second plane had flown into the World Trade Center. Unbelievably the news anchor was telling me that they weren’t little planes but full-sized commercial aircraft. I stared at the screen. Could the Twin Towers be that big? I went downstairs to find the crew and a few other guests standing in the lobby in front of a large television. We all expressed our disbelief about what was happening. My mobile started to ring, people making sure that I wasn’t still in New York. I reassured them and headed off to the Dollywood site.
There is something so special about being in a theme park when it isn’t open to the public. We walked along the pretty winding roads till we found Dolly’s apartment. She has never actually slept in it, but she does use it as a dressing room when she performs shows in the park. The decor suggests that the person who did it knew only two English words and they were ‘pink’ and ‘frilly’. We worked steadily all morning filming various set-ups in the bedroom. One of the guys who worked in the park brought us some batteries we had asked for. He casually told us that a plane had crashed into the Pentagon and that another one might have hit the White House, he wasn’t sure. He ambled off. No one said anything, but if we had we would have all just let out a long slow ‘fuck’. We worked on but were desperate to know more. We pounced on the young man who delivered coffee. ‘Some tower fell down, I think.’ Well, he was obviously mentally subnormal, how could that be possible? By lunchtime Dolly was no longer singing throughout the park. Out of every speaker came news. We sat eating sandwiches listening to a large plastic rock under a bush. It told us the awful news in full.
America was under attack. We couldn’t make any international calls, all flights had been grounded, we were under siege. No one knew where it would end, but we did all feel fairly safe. On the list of terrorist targets we were pretty sure that Dolly Parton’s theme park in Pigeon Forge ranked quite low. The other odd thing we learned was that we seemed more distressed and shocked by the news than any of the locals. One of our drivers had a cousin who lived in New York, but most people had never even visited the place. It was a real lesson in just how enormous a country the United States of America is. The
feeling seemed to be that the good people in Tennessee, at any rate, had always known that New York was a dangerous place and that building things that tall was just an accident waiting to happen.
That night we had been planning to film at another of Pigeon Forge’s attractions, Dolly’s Dixieland Stampede, a cross between a rodeo and dinner theatre, but we assumed that the show would be cancelled. ‘No Sir! We got nearly two thousand people coming to the show tonight!’ And so on the very night of 11 September I was sitting in a huge arena with two thousand proud Americans. The lights dimmed and an announcer welcomed us and told us about the amazing dust-free sawdust that the arena was covered in. Out came the troop of performers on horses, and while they did their tricks a small army of waiters invaded the auditorium, dumping food in front of us like a blanket bombing. Bang, bang, a large brown thing landed on each plate. What was that? Bread perhaps? I stared closer into the darkness. No, that would be a whole chicken. Lovely as it looked I wondered how we were supposed to eat it. The audience looked at one another unsure of what to do, and that was the precise moment when the Master of Ceremonies, sitting on his big white horse, began to sing his haunting melody. I seem to recall that it was called ‘Suppertime’, but what is really etched on my mind for ever is the bit of the song that went, ‘We don’t need no forks or spoons, we just eat things like raccoons!’ I don’t know what the lyricist charged them for that little couplet, but it was worth every cent when you consider how much it must have saved them on cutlery and washing-up. Then, no sooner had we picked up our chickens than the show moved on to the chicken races. If anything is going to motivate a hen to run fast it must be the smell of cooking chicken. They repeated the trick when they served the next course of pork ribs and the pigs lined up at the starting flag. By the time the ostrich races started I felt very full.
So Me Page 20
