No Holding Back

by Amanda Holden

  The next day, he texted me with the number 9. What did that mean? I agonised over it for days. Was that what I scored on the night? In the end I decided that it meant ‘room for improvement’ and left it at that.

  When my agent got The Call for ‘a new talent thing’, it was all very last-minute, and they were in the middle of doing the deal, but my agent said that if they closed it successfully, I’d need to go to Birmingham on the Sunday. That was in two days. Obviously, my next thought was ‘What am I going to wear?!’

  Further investigation revealed it was originally to be called Paul O’Grady’s Britain’s Got Talent, but Paul had dropped out after the pilot. The premise was that contestants would audition for a place in the final and a prize of £100,000 and a chance to perform in front of the Queen at that year’s Royal Variety Performance. My agent described it as being like Opportunity Knocks and New Faces, which of course after ten years with Les I was totally familiar with. I couldn’t wait. I knew it would work. I had come from a marriage steeped in people I loved and admired from that background. I felt like we could finally do that genre justice again and give it back its good name.

  My agent came back with a finished deal the next day. Chris, Lexi and I were all in the park, and I literally had to leave straight away and get on a train that night. I didn’t have a stylist or anything and I was so grateful that Jess – now married with children – was prepared to drop everything to come and be my make-up artist. Even so, by the time I arrived in Birmingham I was extremely nervous.

  I asked Simon, ‘What do I do? How do I do this?’

  He smiled, as always. ‘Say exactly what you think. Be honest! If you can’t think of anything to say, say you can’t think of anything to say.’

  He confided that the show was considered a risk, and that some TV executives were less than convinced about it. I was gobsmacked. ‘But this is variety!’ I said. ‘It’s what people have been asking to be back on telly for ages.’

  But Simon had been told by executives that it might not work, which had only made him more determined. That, I have since discovered, is where we are very similar. If anyone puts us down, or we are on the back foot, we will come back fighting – it’s like fuel to us. We share determination, and Simon recognises this in me. He has since said I am made of steel, but these days, I would say more like titanium!

  There was some ‘bad’ news, however – our fellow judge was to be Piers Morgan, the former editor of the Mirror who had made my life such a misery when I split up with Les. I dreaded working with Piers and by all accounts he felt the same way because he told Simon, ‘I turned Amanda’s life upside down. She’s going to hate me.’

  The first thing I said to Piers when I met him in Birmingham was, ‘I think you need to apologise to me!’

  He fixed me with a stare and replied, ‘I think you need to thank me.’

  I was speechless (almost). ‘Thank you?!’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied with a cocky grin, ‘because if I hadn’t exposed your affair you wouldn’t be with your good-looking music producer fiancé and have your daughter.’

  I said, ‘That’s true.’ I laughed. ‘But I’m never thanking you.’

  He smiled and said, ‘Well, I am sorry.’

  I still hate that I love Piers. I must be one of the few people in the world who likes him. He is arrogant, charming, self-effacing, and extremely knowledgeable, which is annoying as he can be such a pompous pain in the arse. When it came to giving his opinion on an act, he never stopped talking. We’d just want a ‘yes’ or ‘no’, and he’d drone on, using up all the adjectives I’d thought of. I don’t know how he was ever a newspaper editor. He needs editing himself!

  On Britain’s Got Talent, he’d start talking about the ‘youth of today’ when no one gave a damn and it was all going to get cut anyway. Simon would say, ‘You’re so dull and boring,’ and then they’d have a big row about who has the best car, who has the best ratings on what show, who has the best gig. Even when they both appear wearing suits for the show’s promotional shoot, they’re needling each other. Once Simon said, ‘This is how you wear a suit, Piers.’ (Piers always wears a suit, even when we go out socially.) But I’d like to see him lighten up and try a really good tailored jacket with a T-shirt, instead of the predictable suit. He’s only in his forties, but he seems so much older.

  Piers has had an indecent amount of good luck. It’s small wonder he’s smug: he’s reached mid-life without the crisis. He’s got money, fantastic cars, a beautiful wife and gorgeous kids. But we have great chemistry together and I am very fond of him. While we were filming, we had a connecting door between our dressing rooms, we would leave the door open so that we could gossip and have a good old catch-up.

  Completely by chance, it seemed, Simon had created what someone called the best judging panel in the world – although, of course, he would say that was all part of his master plan. I have always said that Simon is Frankenstein and Piers his monster. Simon helped create a TV career for Piers in the UK and then he put him on his show in the US, which made him a star over there as well. (Simon has made no secret of the fact that he takes the entire credit for Piers’ success!)

  The first day was amazing. I look back and can’t believe how casual it all was! I wore jeans – can you imagine the big fat cross I would get in a magazine for that now! At least Simon would have some competition. Everyone always asks if I get nervous, doing live telly in front of millions of people, but honestly, Simon, Piers and I got along so well that up on that stage between them I felt really comfortable and natural and happy.

  We complemented each other – and took the piss out of each other!

  Technically, of course, I was the only one who had ever done any performing so, strictly speaking, I was the only one qualified to judge . . . Although, secretly, Piers and Simon are both softies too, the two boys pretended to be made of stone and, as a mum and a girl, I was the softie in the middle. I was always the first to start crying. I became a professional weeper and I know it was the thing that Simon and the producers homed in on a lot. Every time a child came on they’d have me introduce them, box of tissues at the ready. I’m amazed I’ve never got a Kleenex commercial, as during the first series I never seemed to stop. From early on, I coined the phrase ‘The audience is the fourth judge’ (well, technically Chris gave it to me) and it’s now used so much it’s practically a cliché.

  Even now, eight series on, the live shows are like Christmas Day every day – I still wake up with butterflies and have a normal day until 3 or 4 p.m. (I go from feeding ducks by the river to watching ducks performing on stage!) I love my dressing room. Team Mandy (Ben, who does my hair, Jane, who does my make-up and Sinead, my stylist) put mood boards on the walls (we don’t pay much attention to them but we like to have them there!) and there are always pictures that Lexi has drawn. It’s filled with fairy lights, chocolates, candles and champagne – and most importantly, people. Everybody comes to my room – I’ve got all the bubbles for after the show! – and even Simon pops in for a cigarette during the ad break. It’s always manic right up to the last minute as well – we never know what is coming up or what we’re doing. It’s the most amazing buzz – like getting on a rollercoaster without strapping yourself in.

  On set, none of it is scripted or rehearsed, so it’s edge-of-the-seat stuff and we have to think fast. We don’t even make notes. All we are given is a piece of paper with the next contestant’s name on it. I sometimes write a tick or a cross to show that they are through to the next round. If I’m bored I might draw flowers and hearts. Simon draws cars on his piece of paper – they look very phallic – whereas Piers used to doodle mad squares and circles. I should send them off and get them analysed!

  Working so closely with Simon has been a revelation. We have a lot of fun but it’s remarkable to witness in person the phenomenon that is Mr Cowell. Having been insolvent before the age of forty, he’s a workaholic with something to prove to those who once regarded him as a joke.
He oversees every aspect of his vast empire and has a memory like an elephant, which is a worry. With millions in the bank he has gone way beyond the desire for money or success and treats everything like a game. He rarely goes to bed before dawn and seems to exist on very little sleep. He does push-ups and has chin bars set up in his toilet, but then he drinks and smokes and loves to binge on fish and chips or Chinese takeaways.

  We talk about food a lot on the show and I’ll be like, ‘I’m bloody starving. I’m having a jacket potato with baked beans for my tea.’ He’ll roll his eyes and say, ‘It’s dinner, Amanda, not tea!’ before calling up Brenda, his housekeeper, and asking her to have jacket potato and beans waiting for him when he gets home, too. He tries to offset his worst indulgences by munching on raw organic carrots, drinking green slime that looks as if it’s been dredged off the bottom of a swamp (apparently it’s some kind of elixir of life!) or a special ginger infusion he has someone blend for him, or having colonic irrigation.

  Simon has said before that Botox is ‘just like brushing your teeth’. He also sprays his mouth with pure oxygen from a canister he keeps on his make-up table and offers to anyone who’s passing. (One day I’ll replace it with helium and see what he sounds like with a Mickey Mouse voice!) He once sent Dr Wendy Denning, the woman he calls his ‘white witch’, so that I could try a multi-vitamin injection. Jane said, ‘Don’t do it, Amanda,’ but I was assured it was natural so I sat with Dr Wendy’s drip in my arm, chatting to people and drinking champagne. The combination went straight to my head and I felt like I’d had eight gin and tonics. I was totally drunk!

  Simon is very old-fashioned and can’t stand any talk of medical details, womanly problems or toilet matters. I often say, ‘Oh, I really need to go for a poo now!’ just to wind him up. He’ll pull a face, hold up his hand and say, ‘Amanda! Amanda! Don’t kill the magic!’ And, after an edge-of-your-seat magic act on a live show, I said I might have to consider using Tena Lady pads. He was literally speechless, until he found his voice and told me I had ruined it for him for ever. If I want to get him off a subject I just start talking about his bowel movements, which he hates, so I’ll laugh and tell him, ‘Simon, I adore you and when you’re old and decrepit I promise it will be me who wipes your arse and brings you meals on wheels!’ I understand him and how his mind works. I know each of his alleged girlfriends. They aren’t stupid – they know the score, but I am glad I am his friend only. His private life is fascinating. You can’t help but be intrigued with the drama – and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Professionally I do have to give credit to Simon for allowing me to be me. It’s enabled me to change some people’s perceptions of me which were entirely based on what they had read. I have always said there is nowhere to hide on this show and I stand by that – of course, not everyone is going to like you but at least the audience have the chance to make up their own minds. That really matters to me. Best of all, 20 years of working my arse off and going through the agony of auditioning myself has meant I can be in a position to judge.

  Doing the show has also helped me remember who I was when I left drama school, and why I went into the business in the first place. Seeing people with their dreams in our hands, their hopes and fears so close to the surface, has made me realise that Britain’s Got Talent isn’t just some reality television show but a life-changing moment that we have the power to make happen. It’s reminded me of back then when I was that person on stage who also naively believed I was capable of anything.

  I always had my family behind me but on Britain’s Got Talent sometimes we judges are the first people to ever see a person’s performance and that matters to me. I record every show, and have them all on tape, but I’ve only ever watched it back once, because I wanted to see Pudsey!

  We judges were invited to dinner at 10 Downing Street by the then prime minister, Gordon Brown. (Well, to be accurate, Simon was . . .) Simon said he was ‘too shy’ to go alone and asked Piers and me to go with him. I thought, ‘What do you take as a present for the prime minister?’ I mean, you can’t turn up with a bottle of tequila, can you? So I took some Moon Sand mouldable material for his boys – although I was a bit worried about getting through security, in case they thought it was Semtex.

  It was really relaxed and informal. I was the first to arrive and when I got there Gordon’s wife, Sarah, was reading the kids a bedtime story. I was looking at a cabinet of silverware when Gordon tapped me on the shoulder and then took me up in the lift to their private apartment. It was just like anyone else’s house, with the kids’ drawings pasted on the kitchen walls.

  The boys had been given some cupcakes covered with glitter, and I told them that when they did a poo it would have glitter all over it. A few weeks later, at the News of the World Children’s Awards, Sarah came over to me and told me that the following day both boys had been on the toilet checking for sparkly poo!

  At dinner, there was no standing on ceremony. Ten of us sat round the table for dinner and there was a veggie dish and chicken, and we just tucked in. We were talking about a Michael Jackson impersonator dressed as Darth Vader who had auditioned for the show in Birmingham. Gordon knew all about it. He is so charming and charismatic, and looks more attractive in real life, and yet we never saw that side of him! We just saw this rather stuffy politician. I suggested, ‘You two need your own fly-on-the-wall reality show.’ We all had such a laugh that evening – so much so, in fact, that when I went to say thank you to the lady in the kitchen who’d cooked for us, she said she’d never heard such high-spirited laughter round the dinner table since Gordon took office. (Piers, of course, was at the other end of the table boring the arse off people.)

  It was in that first series that a chubby Carphone Warehouse salesman named Paul Potts turned up at the Cardiff auditions. It was March 2007 and when he opened a mouth full of crooked teeth to sing Puccini’s ‘Nessun dorma’, the hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention and my skin broke into goose pimples. Welling up as he rose to the final note, I held my breath and then jumped to my feet, along with every one of the 2,000 people in that Millennium Centre. Simon’s face cracked into a broad grin and he said, ‘I wasn’t expecting that. That was a complete breath of fresh air. Fantastic!’

  Piers predicted that Paul would win the competition and I told him, ‘I think we have a little lump of coal here that is going to turn into a diamond.’ When the show was eventually aired that summer, the footage of Paul’s performance went viral on the Internet and attracted more than 100 million viewers. He’s gone on to have a glittering career, sold millions of records and even had a film made about his life, starring James Corden and called One Chance. Needless to say, Paul did win Britain’s Got Talent that year and, wearing a floor-length silver dress, I presented him to the Queen alongside Simon and Piers in Liverpool.

  It was as we took to the stage that I first realised Simon needs to wear glasses. (He was too embarrassed to wear them at that time – he does now!) Back then, though, he muttered under his breath, ‘Darling, I can’t see the autocue.’ ‘Don’t worry,’ I told him. ‘I’ll say most of your words with Piers, and you can just say the last bit.’ So Piers made a speech and I said something and Simon managed a few words he’d memorised before saying, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to introduce Paul Potts.’

  Paul did a wonderful job and brought the house down. We met the Queen and then drove to the airport to fly back to London in Simon’s private plane. As I sat back in the leather seats of his Lear jet, I was on such a high. I told Simon, ‘This is like a scene from Pretty Woman except that I’m with you two! Where’s bloody Richard Gere?’

  He smiled and asked, ‘More champagne, darling?’

  ‘Of course!’

  It was probably the most fabulous thing ever to happen to me. We had some cracking conversations en route, too. Piers is a bloodhound when asking questions, but Simon was amazingly trusting – we have been privy to some really juicy stuff mid air!

  It�
��s funny to think that Britain’s Got Talent wasn’t a huge ratings winner when it first went out on telly, but it grew every week by literally millions. Critics didn’t want to like it – in fact, they still try really hard not to, but the ratings just kill them! The great British public are the best judges in the world, and the show is now quite rightly described as a juggernaut of entertainment. We get on board for a very fast ride. (I can only seem to use vehicles to describe my feelings for this show but that is how it feels.)

  Every year, it seems I’m a normal mum one minute and then suddenly Britain’s Got Talent throws me head first into the spotlight more than any other job I have ever done. The press attention the show attracts is enormous, and with Twitter, social media forums and the Internet it just gets bigger and bigger (take the week-long coverage after the egging incident in 2013, for example). I take a deep breath, close my eyes and jump into its glare. The comforting phrase ‘It’ll be tomorrow’s chip paper’ (or in my family’s case if we ran out during my childhood, toilet paper) doesn’t hold any more.

  That first year of Britain’s Got Talent was a strange one for me personally. It was full of extreme highs but also horrible lows. My brave, strong Nan spent most of it recovering from breast cancer and then my Papa died in June. I was on holiday in Italy when my mum rang to say Papa was in hospital having surgery on a benign tumour. I asked if I should fly home and she said no, he was stable. Sadly he later caught the superbug C. difficile and died, aged eighty-nine. I was gutted not to have said goodbye.