The theme of the show was a contest between the North and the South, and the finale was a huge spectacular about one great nation united beneath one flag. The costumes and horses lit up and vast Stars and Stripes unfurled above the crowd. The people stood and clapped and cheered much as I imagine they did every night, but on that night their strident triumphalism seemed almost touching. These people had such faith in their great country, but as they cheered and clapped their greasy hands, their President was in a bunker. I do love America, but sometimes it can seem like an overgrown baby.
The next day we were filming with Dolly and the park was open. Men and women with the sorts of thighs you don’t see anywhere else in the world waddled around in shorts. Lots of people wore small American flags on their lapels, but that was the only way you might have guessed that not everything was completely normal. The planes seemed to have stopped crashing into things; although we couldn’t leave Pigeon Forge we just got on with our filming, hoping that planes would be flying again by the time we were ready to head home. We settled into our surreal world and went a bit native. New York did seem very far away, and because we were at the park all day we didn’t get the constant reminders of what had happened there: a grotesque smoking wormhole in the Big Apple.
One of Dolly’s ideas for the show was that we should sing a duet. This was very nice of her, but there was one slight problem: I can’t sing. Some people say this in mock modesty, but I truly cannot. Even when I’m by myself in the bathroom belting out show tunes I am aware that in terms of listening pleasure it’s up there with cats having sex – my singing voice is like an aural fart. Dolly wouldn’t be told. ‘It’ll be cute!’ Jon, who not only knew that I couldn’t sing but is also an accomplished musician in his own right, packed me off to singing lessons. It was decided that we would crucify ‘Islands in the Stream’. My singing teacher, Pepe, was obviously the person you turned to in an emergency; her other clients included the man from the Halifax commercials and the Spice Girls.
We were doing a very short version of the song, really just two verses and a couple of choruses, but I seemed to go to endless lessons. Eventually I ended up in a recording studio in London with Pepe and Dolly’s half of the recording. I bravely droned my way through it and we sent it back to her people. Word reached us that Dolly thought I sounded like Mick Jagger. I’m guessing from that comment that she was never much of a Rolling Stones fan.
The plan was to film the video for the song in the water park called Dolly’s Splash Country, which she had just opened opposite Dollywood. She and I would be in rubber rings floating down one of those long, gentle water rides that they have in many parks. All the people who worked there kept asking us with incredulous looks on their faces, ‘Dolly is going in the water?’ It was as if someone was suggesting that Linda McCartney was going to eat a pork chop. We knew that this whole part of the show was Dolly’s idea, but even we began to doubt that it would happen.
On the day of the shoot we arrived at the park and got set up. I went off to the men’s toilets and got changed into my borrowed wetsuit. I emerged looking like a cheap hot-water bottle with legs. Dolly drove up and came over to greet us. I loved filming with her because in all the waiting around I got to chat with her about all sorts of things. She is an incredibly wise and generous woman. The people of Pigeon Forge hold her in huge esteem, not just because she is a local girl done good, but because she is a local girl who has done so much good for the people of the area. Obviously her theme parks provide much-needed employment, but she is also involved in an extraordinary educational project. Every child who is born in the county gets a free book every month for the first four years of their life, and she started a reward scheme that saw the state’s lowest graduation rate become the highest. In addition to all that she funds a mobile kids’ library that goes to all the remote areas that don’t have access to bookshops or libraries. She told me that there are kids in Pigeon Forge who don’t even know that she’s a singer; as far as they are concerned she is just ‘the book lady’ who happens to have her own pair of fleshy bookends.
It was very clear that none of those children was at the park that day. From the reaction of the people standing by the water you might have thought that the least Dolly was going to do was walk on it. She went off to a dressing room to get ready. We couldn’t imagine what she would look like ready for a swim. A short while later she returned. Her regular wig had been replaced by a loose, wet-look one and she wore a custom-made wet suit that hugged every nook and cranny of the Parton package. Jessica Rabbit would have looked flat-chested in comparison. On her feet she wore a pair of extremely high-heeled mules. Just as she reached the water’s edge she slipped off the shoes and I noticed that she was still on tiptoe. I can’t be sure, but I think that after years and years of wearing six-inch heels, the muscles in her legs have shortened so that she can now no longer stand with both feet flat on the ground. We clambered into our rubber rings and, holding hands, set sail. The music blared out of a big ghetto blaster and as we lip-synched to it I could sense the excited crowd thinking, ‘Christ, it doesn’t take much to become a famous singer in Europe!’ Sadly, of course, they were right.
By the time we finished filming the first few commercial flights had begun to take off. The staff at Knoxville airport behaved as if it was the number-one terrorist target in the world. Luggage was all unpacked; everything was X-rayed and X-rayed again. They had thought of everything except that after we got through all the security and into the departure area there was a cheery restaurant with a large steak knife at every place setting. People were still learning.
I hadn’t imagined that I would be back in New York anytime soon after that September, but So was nominated for an International Emmy so a happy band of us headed off to what was left of Manhattan. We weren’t staying near ground zero, but somehow I could feel the city had changed. People were truly grateful that tourists were there, strangers chatted, and everyone wanted to tell you where they’d been on 11 September. Trendy shops had uncool signs in their windows saying things like ‘Dare to love New York’. Who could help loving this city that received such a huge punch to the stomach and yet was still going on with the show?
The International Emmys are not quite the same as the regular Emmys – they are less like the Oscars and rather more like the Heating and Plumbing Awards held in the bland function room of some hotel. When it came time for our category, Joanna Lumley and Jennifer Saunders came to the stage. To say that they were the most famous people there is to suggest that there was somebody else famous at the event. That would be wrong. They read out the nominees: a German comedy programme, the Channel 4 sitcom Spaced, the Miss China pageant and us. We were the winners. Truly the makers of the Miss China show were robbed. They had staged something only slightly less ambitious than the Second World War, whereas we had a man hanging in a home-made sling being serenaded by Elton John. Still, I was delighted when they called out the name of our show. Graham Stuart and I went up to collect it and then posed backstage with Joanna and Jennifer for photographs. I had an Emmy.
Because I had the show to do I was flying back on Concorde. Now, I know one should never speak ill of the dead, but why all the fuss? Despite the special places to check in and wait for the departure, once on board it was like the shuttle flight to Glasgow. My Emmy award was too big to put in my luggage and I didn’t want to check it in because I thought I would never see it again. Security stared at its very sharp wings, but because it is such an iconic thing in America I don’t think they could imagine it being used for evil purposes. In the end the captain had to come and examine it and give it the all-clear. I gave him a reassuring look that I hoped said, ‘I promise not to stick these sharp bits into your neck and let you bleed to death while I aim your plane for the Houses of Parliament.’ He must have heard me, the Emmy was on.
You could sort of tell that the plane was full of really rich people. Before take-off a nice steward came up to each passenger. ‘Once we are in th
e air, would Sir like some champagne?’ Now, given how much the tickets for this plane cost, the correct response is, I believe, ‘Yes, please, and could you serve it in a bucket?’
He asked the lady sitting behind me, and she enquired, ‘Are you still serving the Tattinger ’88?’
The steward beamed. ‘Yes, madam.’
A cold voice responded, ‘No, thank you.’ Now that’s too rich.
That Christmas both my sister and mother were coming to stay with me. I supposed we would do all the normal things like watching TV and eating and drinking too much, but I didn’t quite know how to entertain them on New Year’s Eve. Happily Mo Mowlam came to the rescue. She and her husband Jon were going to see George Melly playing at Ronnie Scott’s jazz club in Soho. Would we like to join them? It was a perfect idea. Mum would like the music, and though she would never admit it, I knew she would get a kick out of meeting Mo Mowlam. There had been some disappointment the year before when she’d got home to find that many of her friends didn’t actually know who Sharon Stone was; Mo would be a much stronger hand to play at the bridge club.
On the night I ordered a taxi and we picked Mo and Jon up as they didn’t live far away. We headed for Chinatown for dinner and then walked the few streets to Ronnie Scott’s. The evening couldn’t have gone better. The atmosphere was fantastic, the music was great and even my mother hit the dance floor. There was none of that usual New Year’s Eve pressure of wondering, ‘Is this fun? Am I at the right party?’ We knew that the answer to both those questions was ‘Yes’.
The one cloud that hangs over every New Year’s Eve if you go out is the worry about how you are going to get home. This year, despite the great time we had all just enjoyed, it was to be no different. We stood huddled outside the door of the club and finally someone managed to procure us a taxi. It turned out to be a minicab, but what the hell, we could all pile in. Jon, who was the largest in the group, sat in front while Paula, Mo, Mum and I squashed into the back. We were all wearing our coats, it was hot, the journey was taking for ever and then I heard an odd sound. We had all been wearing little cardboard party hats, and out of the corner of my eye I could see that Paula was being sick into hers. Poor thing. I wondered if anyone else had noticed – certainly nobody mentioned it. First stop was Mo and Jon’s house. The car stopped and out they got. As I said goodnight to them I could see that all down the side of Mo Mowlam’s outfit there was a long stream of my sister’s vomit.
Once you have vomited on someone I don’t believe there are any set rules of etiquette. I apologised on Paula’s behalf, but Mo assured me that it was all right and headed off into the night. My sister was still being really ill and we got home as quickly as we could. I tipped the driver so much he probably bought a new car. Poor Paula was mortified. Terrible to vomit on anyone, but somehow worse when it is the nice lady who brought about peace in Northern Ireland. You could understand how Mo managed to do that because she did a very sweet thing the next day. Rather than wait for my sister to make her obligatory grovelling apology phone call, she rang us first thing in the morning to see if Paula was all right. If ever someone vomits on me, I hope I have the grace and good humour to do the same.
Once Paula and Mother went back to Ireland I had about a week before So started up again. I fancied a bit of sunshine and my friend Tim Lord phoned me from Cape Town encouraging me to go out there and see him. With a slight ‘nothing to lose’ attitude, I managed to get a flight and a room in a hotel. I was off to South Africa.
At the time I didn’t know Tim as well as I do now. He is a successful lawyer and I first met him through Simon Fanshawe. He’d invited me to a dinner party and, classy person that I am, after coffee I had sex with another of the guests. Not in front of people, but it’s still not the done thing, I find. Since then we had seen each other now and again, but this idea of taking a holiday together was quite rash.
The flight to Cape Town is a long one – eleven hours – but it is overnight and there is only a two-hour time difference, so when you arrive you are tired, but at least you know why – you didn’t sleep very well. It’s a lot better than jet lag. I had been to South Africa once before when I went to do some gigs in Johannesburg, but I’m guessing I wasn’t that impressed by the place because I noticed that trip hasn’t managed to make it into this book. When I was in Jo’burg everyone was very rude about Cape Town. ‘The people are horrible, everything is really expensive, you wouldn’t like it.’ Of course when I actually arrived, I realised why they told me such tales. They must barely be able to live with their jealousy. Cape Town is as close to paradise as I have found on earth. Not in a tropical beach kind of way, though they do have great beaches, nor in a glitzy South of France fashion, even if they do have some brilliant restaurants and bars. It is just an atmosphere. The people couldn’t be nicer, the weather more beautiful, the setting around the slopes of Table Mountain more spectacular. It all conspires to turn a fairly ordinary small city into a truly special place. Maybe they put something in the water, but from the moment I got off the plane I was in love with it.
I was only staying for five days, and on about day three I had just finished a boozy lunch with Tim (I haven’t even mentioned the delicious wine!). We started walking back to the car. Obviously I had drunk most of the wine because Tim was driving. I weaved past an estate agent’s and was drawn to a photograph of a beautiful white house that reminded me of something you might see in the Hollywood hills.
‘Look at that!’ I said to Tim.
Because he was a good deal more sober than I was, he converted the price into pounds. It was cheap – really cheap.
‘Will I buy it?’ I asked, full of booze and bravado. Tim was delighted. ‘Yes!’
Luckily for me the estate agent’s was shut, so we decided that first thing the next day we would come back. I thought that I would go along with this ridiculous plan until I sobered up, but when I woke in the morning it still seemed like a good idea.
I went into the estate agent’s with Tim. My show isn’t broadcast in South Africa, so as far as the charming lady behind the desk was concerned we were just a couple of poofs wanting to have a nose around some gorgeous houses. She couldn’t have been nicer. She was called Louise and she drove us to the house in the picture. Now, as a shopper I do have a fatal flaw. If I try on a pair of trousers, for instance, so long as I can physically get into them, I somehow feel like I have made a commitment to them and buying them is the honourable thing to do. If I put them back on the hanger it would be like teasing them. Sadly I have discovered I’m a bit like that with real estate. I walked into this house and immediately felt like it was mine. I pretended to do sensible things like ask about the hot water and how old it was, but all I really wanted to do was yell ‘Sold!’ and start buying furniture. I held out for a few minutes, but because time was short I simply told Louise that I’d like to buy it. Now, estate agents in Britain don’t have a great reputation, but this lovely woman refused to let me buy it until I’d looked at other houses on the ocean side of the mountain. Reluctantly, I agreed.
The other side of the mountain was terrifying. The houses looked like they had been built by porn barons and the other estate agents showing us around them looked like they had got some sort of bulk discount on their botox. After a long afternoon of pretending to be interested in gold taps and marble stairs, I rang Louise.
‘I’ve looked. Now will you please let me buy my house?’
She did.
That was nearly four years ago, and Louise and her husband Craig are now friends. What I didn’t know at the time was that I was her first sale. In the end, houses are just bricks and sinks and bits of wire and pipe and I completely understand people who see them as nothing more than that, but perhaps because of my slightly gypsy childhood I find that I respond to them in a very emotional way. Because they are real estate and therefore ‘an investment’ I somehow get away with buying them, but in reality to me they are just a huge indulgence, way beyond clothes or hotels, and ye
t like a combination of both.
I hated leaving, but I would be back in a couple of months to get the keys and discover if I really did love Cape Town or if I’d just made quite an expensive mistake.
15
And So Endeth
CAPITALISM, BAD. TRADE, WICKED. SHOPS, evil. Rainbow-coloured home-knitted jumpers filed across Waterloo Bridge making their way to Oxford Street for the 2002 May Day protest. I, on the other hand, was on my way to have lunch with the Channel 4 boss Michael Jackson at the Royal Festival Hall on the south bank of the Thames. Helicopters throbbed overhead, and as I watched six policemen on motorbikes chaperoning one man with a beard pedalling his three-wheeler over the bridge, I couldn’t help but think that the police had perhaps overestimated the threat of this particular group. Unless the smell of wet wool was considered a chemical weapon, I felt fairly safe walking along the banks of the river.
Lunches with executives are always a bit weird. They feel that they have to invite you and you feel that you have to go. Sometimes the small talk can dwindle to tiny talk by the time coffee and a blessed bill and release arrive. Michael Jackson, however, is almost the opposite of this. His penchant is for big talk. Most of the time I could sort of keep up, but sometimes the French film or American architect he mentioned were just too obscure and I just had to nod and smile like one of those plastic dogs people sometimes put in the back window of their car.
The lunch didn’t begin well. Michael asked me if I’d like some wine. Using my Concorde mantra, I, of course, said, ‘Yes please,’ and then stopped myself from blurting out the ‘in a bucket’ bit. Having asked if I preferred white or red – ‘White, please’ – he perused the Bible-like tome that was the wine list. Finally he chose one. We looked at the helicopters flying over the capital. The wine arrived. It was red. A flustered Mr Jackson went back to the list while the gleeful waiter pointed out wines that were white. I have never been more interested in helicopters in my life.
So Me Page 21
