Paul Daniels

by Paul Daniels

  One night I was asked to come down to the stage door and this was quite a hike at the Opera House. The fly floor was very high and the dressing rooms were above that. You have to come down in a lift and pray that it doesn’t break down during the show. The doorkeeper had said that there was a young girl who didn’t seem very well, so down I went to see what the trouble was about. I stepped out of the lift and walked down the side of the stage area. Sure enough, there was a girl in her late teens and the doorkeeper had got her a chair. A man who turned out to be her father was with her. As I approached she seemed to go into a fit and I was really worried about her.

  ‘Oh don’t worry, Mr Daniels,’ said her father, ‘she even has orgasms like that when she sees you on the telly.’ There’s not a lot you can say in those situations so I signed her autograph book and went back to my room very quickly. See, I told you I was a sex symbol.

  Another group of women started following me around the functions and fetes I attended in the area. I didn’t mind them at all. They were a really funny gang and the ‘leader’, Karen, wrote very funny poems about their adventures following me around. Apparently, Karen’s daughter had developed a crush on me and, as I parked near the offices her mother worked in, asked her to keep an eye out for me. That’s how the Paul Daniels Spotters were born. They have all now left the office and got different jobs but from time to time they still turn up, hiring buses or whatever to travel the country, and I love them all.

  The Opera House was the last of the summer seasons I was to do for a very long time. That side of our business was dwindling and I had been lucky enough to perform in the big ones. I talked to the Delfont organisation about the possibility of doing a production show in Majorca or somewhere similar. I had, for a while, gone out with a lovely girl who was a manager with Thomson’s holidays and she told me just how many people they sent out every week. I thought that perhaps they would like a change from flamenco dancers, but the idea never went ahead.

  In a way, I am glad that I didn’t get involved with foreign seasons because I was able to throw myself into the world of corporate entertainment and do even more television.

  CHAPTER 12

  IT’S MAGIC

  It’s the Millennium that everybody talks about and very few can pronounce. The Nineties had seen Nelson Mandela released and apartheid ended; the information age had arrived with the home use of the Internet; and Michael Jackson married Elvis Presley’s daughter, Lisa Marie. There was hope for us all.

  Well, if I thought my life was busy when I was at the Prince of Wales, in the Eighties it went insane. Television, the great devourer of material, became my home. I did magic shows, game shows, guest appearances, specials and even a medical programme and QED. My mind was always whirring away trying to solve problems, usually related to magic, for future presentations. I exaggerate when I say ‘future’, it was usually for a programme that was being recorded the following day. I’m a devil for leaving everything to the last minute and rarely think things out until absolutely necessary.

  There is no way, in this book, that I can cover everything that happened to me in the maddest of the television years, but I’ll tell you some of the stories and maybe you’ll get a flavour of my life. I hope so.

  Take a week in the life of The Paul Daniels Magic Show. Months before recording, the team would have got together and discussed in general what was going to happen. A little later there would be another meeting and so on until we had all the tricks we would like to do with their titles on postcards.

  Just before the series began, there would be meetings with designers and prop-makers, special effects men and technicians, and those postcards would be divided up into ‘shows’ for the coming weeks. A certain illusion would be postponed because it would take longer to build, another kept as a ‘spare’ in case anything went wrong.

  If the show was to be recorded on, say, Saturday evening, on the Monday of that week we would all meet at the rehearsal rooms in Acton, sit around the table and discuss the items on the postcards. There would be the Producer, the Director, me, Debbie, Ali Bongo, Gil Leaney, Barry Murray, Graham Reed, the floor manager (that’s the television equivalent of the stage manager in a theatre) and at least one assistant floor manager known as a ‘gopher’.

  The floor of the rehearsal room would be covered in long strips of coloured tapes to outline where the set would be standing as well as any permanent fixtures. This was so we could get a feeling of how much room we had around illusions or in dance routines and the like.

  We would talk about the various routines that we hoped to do and the gopher would start to make phone calls to the props buyers as we expanded the concepts and brought in more gags. Sometimes, even that simple operation would lead to some wondrous errors.

  I walked in one morning to find a gross of drinking glasses and, when I asked what they were for, I was told that we had ordered them. The week’s programme was there in rough script form and I looked through it but could find no need of 144 drinking glasses. Slowly, an idea formed in my mind and I looked down the list again. There was a trick to which we had added a drinking glass. In case I dropped it, I had put in a request for two glasses, not to the gopher, but to a young person who was learning the job. They had gone to the gopher and, in case the fragile glasses were broken, had ordered four. The gopher couldn’t get through on the phone to the buyers so asked the floor manager to do it and said that we needed eight. You’re ahead of me now, aren’t you? The floor manager ordered 16 but the buyer responsible for our show wasn’t available so he left a message with his department. The message was passed along twice and became first 32 and then 64. The buyer, thinking that we needed 64 drinking glasses for some illusion or other knew that he would have difficulty ordering 128 and went for the round figure of one gross. We sent them back.

  By the Tuesday of the recording week, you would have found us still sitting around the table tearing the routines to pieces and generally waiting for props to arrive. It was quite amazing the number of times they didn’t arrive until the actual recording day so we used to ‘talk’ the tricks through rather than physically do them.

  Wednesday, and a couple of bits would have drifted in, if we were lucky, and we would also start talking about the following week and what we might do in that recording. During the afternoon, it was common for the guest acts to have flown in and we would watch them rehearse, suggesting moves that would enhance their television appearance. Television is different to theatre, circus and cabaret and needs to be ‘shot’ for the small screen. That’s why theatre shows, recorded for television showing, are never as good as the show specifically created for the television screen in a studio. I guess it is difficult to cross from one medium to another.

  Thursday morning would see all the cameramen, lighting men, sound men, make-up and costume designers gathered round to see what we were going to do. If there was anything specifically needed for costume they would have been told well in advance wherever possible but sometimes we would pop a request in at the last minute. In those days, the BBC studios were much better served than they are now. The costume department, for example, could call on a vast range of clothing from within their own store; there were scenery and props departments, and even make-up could call on a stock of wigs and beards and even scars! When you are making creative light entertainment shows regularly you can often have a great idea at the last minute that will bring the whole programme to life. Sadly, nowadays, all those fabulous facilities have gone and I feel sorry for the programme makers.

  This was the morning when the lighting man would ask about, or if he was very lucky, see the colours of the costumes and the illusions to complement them with his lights. The cameramen, working with the director, would work out the choreography of the cameras. Most cameras are mounted on huge, solid wheeled bases that can be slid across the concrete floor of the studios. One of the director’s jobs, usually worked out in conjunction with the chief cameraman, is to make sure that when he is getting hi
s shots and they are zooming around the floor, that they don’t crash into each other, cross the shots in vision or even run over the cables. To see a camera’s metal apron cut through a cable is quite spectacular. Sparks and cameramen shoot off in every direction.

  You may have wondered at the number of people listed in the credits at the end of a programme or a film but, believe me, if they weren’t important they wouldn’t be there. They cost money, that’s why.

  On Friday we would go over it all again, and again, and again, hopefully with props and, if the studio was not in use and our set was being built, we would go down and have a very slow walk through on the studio floor.

  Saturday being the recording day, we would all be in the studios. Ali and Barry would sit by the director’s chair, up in the director’s box, watching all the shots to see whether I made a mistake or had the wrong angle. I would walk through the show very, very slowly in the morning so that everyone could make their notes and learn where they should be. After lunch we would do it again, a little faster, but inevitably there would be mistakes and we would all stop, go back and do that bit again. Just before tea we would do a fast run in the clothes we were using in the show, called a dress run.

  During tea, I would go over any last-minute changes or notes with the Producer and then, at around 7.15pm, the warm-up man would go on to the floor, greet the audience, explain what was happening and generally whoop them up. Then he would introduce me and as I, too, greeted them and cracked a few gags, I would be eyeballing the individual members of the audience and pointing to suitable people for the participation tricks. Ali would have them fitted with microphones. I never met these people before the actual recording of the tricks because I thought it gave a more natural, ad-lib feel to the show. How did I pick them? Generally I would look for happy, cleanly dressed people aged between 25 and 35 if I could. It didn’t always work out and, of course, there were exceptions but that was my general rule. In the clubs, I had learnt that under 25 they could be cocky and think that they were being funny when they weren’t. Over 35 and they could develop pomposity. Not everyone fits those descriptions, thank goodness.

  At 7.30pm the show would start to be recorded and it was all over by 10.00pm. You may be surprised that it takes that long but there were always stops for costume changes or lighting changes, and sets to be cleared or placed, so it takes time.

  Frequently, we were back in the rehearsal rooms on Sunday morning, especially when the panic started to set in the further into the series we got. Game, or quiz, shows were different. There would be a couple of meetings before the series started recording where the production team would sit around and go over the questions a few times trying to weed out those that were too hard, or unsuitable, or with doubtful answers.

  Then we would go into the studios on the morning of the show and while I was doing a final question check and reading up on the contestants, the cameraman and the director would be shooting the prizes for insertion during the recording. The computers and the lighting would all be checked at the same time.

  The contestants were brought in for lunch where I would sit and meet them, talk to them and try to become a ‘friend’. After lunch we would go into a small lounge where I would go over all the rules and the movements of the show and, most importantly, tell them ‘why’. I would try to ensure that they were as comfortable as they could be in this weird environment and then leave them to watch a previously recorded episode of the game so that they were brought ‘up to date’ in their minds.

  While they were watching that I would go and make notes on their fact sheets of details gathered over lunch. We would all meet up in the studios and both teams would get to play the game, but with different questions from the evening, of course. Then it was time for tea and at 7.30pm we would record the first show; I would get changed and then we would record the second show.

  I started making game shows because the BBC wanted me to do more magic shows and I refused. The executives don’t really think things through. To explain this, I have to take you back in time a long way, folks.

  There were major stars of the Variety theatre, people like Max Miller, George Formby and Gracie Fields. If you haven’t heard of them then don’t worry, just accept the fact that they were major stars and as big as anything we have now. Even later, in the clubs, we had our own stars. Tom Jones was one example. Shirley Bassey was another. We got to see these people once a year and it was a big event in our entertainment calendar.

  When television gets its hands on a great entertainer, the bosses don’t really look at the long term, they saturate the screens with him or her. Russ Abbott is a fantastic live entertainer in many different fields but nobody can be fantastic 26 weeks in a row. The audience gets too used to the brilliance and it becomes too normal for them. Was there ever a better couple on the screens than the two Ronnies, yet even there, towards the end, I heard people saying they weren’t as good as they used to be. I think the real problem was that they were exactly as good as they used to be and, sadly, were over-exposed.

  I wouldn’t do more than ten magic shows a year, with a Christmas Special sometimes as an extra. So they asked me to do a game show. Odd One Out was the first, later Every Second Counts and finally Wipeout. So many of the other game show hosts told me that they thought Every Second Counts was the finest format of all the games that were on air. It certainly built up the tension and worked towards an exciting climax. Two stories from that show come to mind.

  A Scots couple walked down towards me, stood on the marks as they had at rehearsal and, as was normal for the game, I asked the wife to tell me all about her husband. She started to speak and I interrupted, ‘You’re not English, are you?’ This was obvious from her very broad accent and I was playing the idiot.

  ‘Och, no, we’re from Glasgow.’

  Taking the mickey, I came back with, ‘Now that’s a shame, because I have heard that the people from Edinburgh speak the finest English in the British Isles.’

  This was a red rag to a bull.

  ‘Edinburgh? EDINBURGH? I’ll tell you about Edinburgh. His mither comes from Edinburgh and they’re all mean.’

  She was totally oblivious to the cameras and her husband trying to shut her up.

  ‘When you gae roond to his mither’s hoose she always says, “You’ll have had your dinner then?” just so she does’na have to give you any?’

  The audience were howling and slowly it dawned on her that she was being recorded. Her face was, as they say, a picture.

  Another couple came down and my information was that they came from Yorkshire. At lunch they had talked with broad Yorkshire accents and I’ll change the names here to protect the innocent. He was a stocky, happy guy and his wife, slim and slightly taller, with a pretty face. I asked her to tell me all about him and before she could start, he came in with an American southern drawl, ‘let me introduce myself. I am Beauregarde Johnson and …’

  I stopped him. ‘What?’

  His wife explained, ‘He sings part time in a country and western band. He’s very good.’ She went on to explain what he really did and what he was really called. I asked him to tell me about his wife.

  ‘This is my beautiful wife Sheila. She works in a butcher’s shop but really she wants to be a nurse.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Sheila.

  He never turned a hair. He smiled at me. ‘She does.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘She does, she’s even got the uniform.’

  ‘I’ve got the hat and the suspenders and that’s all he cares about.’

  We collapsed – me, the audience and the cameramen.

  When I started doing the game shows, I could not believe how inefficient the system was. Whether it was mine or anyone else’s game, we would record two shows on, say, a Saturday evening and two shows the following Saturday and so on. The whole of the set with its electronics and lighting rigs would be erected and taken down and so on until eventually it got tattier and tattier. I asked w
hy we couldn’t do two on a Saturday and two on a Sunday, reducing the wasted time putting the sets up and down. They thought this was a great idea. I was amazed because I knew in America they do five shows a day for a week and then they have twenty-five shows in the can.

  After a season of four shows a weekend, I tried to persuade them that we could do the whole series in one bash by recording day after day until it was all finished. This, I pointed out, would be more economical for all of us. I wouldn’t have broken weeks in my calendar and could take on more live work and they would reduce their costs enormously because they wouldn’t have to put the sets up and down all the time, wouldn’t have to re-set all the lighting, and the cameramen would know all the shots.

  The bosses told me that the strain on the crew would be too great. What the bosses didn’t know was that I was very friendly with the crew, who were equally puzzled by the inefficiency of the system and had also asked why they couldn’t do shows day after day. They had been told that I couldn’t stand the strain.

  So eventually we started to do shows day after day, taking a day off half-way through the recording of the ‘season’ to make sure everything was working all right and so that we could take a breather to check the coming questions and prizes.

  In the meantime, the Magic Shows had developed not only a following of millions in the UK but they had also developed a reputation in the world of circus and cabaret. Video tapes came in from all over the world from acts hoping to be on the show. They knew that the BBC would make a better job of recording their performances than anyone else. At that time, the Corporation had the finest lighting, sound and cameramen in the world. They really did it better. I asked one of them about it and he commented that occasionally they would be having a drink with some of the crews from the commercial channels who would boast of better pay and conditions.