Paul Daniels

by Paul Daniels

  At about 6.30am I got up and used the toilet. Thankfully, as it happened, I only had a ‘jimmy riddle’. The toilet had a small handle by the side with which you pumped water into the bowl to flush it. No water came through. I peered at the various instructions stuck on the walls because it was a long time since I had used this loo. I pumped and pumped and twisted and pumped and nothing came through.

  I went back to bed. I lay there for a couple of minutes and my nose started to twitch at a particularly bad smell that was coming from somewhere. After a while, I couldn’t take it any more, got up, went back into the loo and pumped and pumped and pumped the handle. Nothing.

  I went back to bed again. Debbie, who normally has a terrible sense of smell, snuggled in and asked, ‘What’s that smell?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I answered, ‘but it is getting worse.’

  I got up, pumped a lot more; I ran taps to see if we had water on board and we had; I took up the floorboard that gave access to below deck and stuck my head down the hole. Below decks was immaculate, as new, and I offered the suggestion, after a few more pumps of the handle, that maybe the smell, now vile, was coming from outside.

  Shorts were pulled on and I went out into the morning sunshine. Not many people were about to see the half-naked conjurer sniffing the morning air like a Bisto kid. No smell out there. Several times I tried to go back to bed but couldn’t go back to sleep,. Eventually we got some Jeyes toilet fluid and poured that down, pumping all the time but it would go away.

  The back end of this boat (back end is a very nautical term) was very streamlined and where it sloped towards the water there were two locked screw caps, fitted flush with the bodywork. One was for fresh water and the other was for pumping out sewage. Not the best design, putting those two alongside each other, I thought.

  Debbie passed me the special tool for opening the caps, a double-pronged key. I should point out at this stage a couple of things, one I knew and one I didn’t. What I knew was that, even though we were tied up, Debbie was always very careful about getting on and off boats, once on the Norfolk Broads, she had fallen in while jumping ashore. What I didn’t know was that for hours I had been pressurising the toilet compartment. The pressure under the cap prevented me from unscrewing it, jamming it fast.

  I got Debbie to pass me a towel and increased the leverage on the key handle. It wouldn’t budge. I hit it hard and the cap spun very, very quickly out of its socket in the bodywork. In a replica of an oil gusher, a shower of shit shot into the air over the Solent, just missing my ear as it rose high into the air. Debbie, Miss Careful, leapt off on to the quay and was 50 yards away instantly. We have a law of nature that applies everywhere but which, unfortunately, did not come to mind at the time. As I looked up, gravity took over and the gooey, evil-smelling fountain changed direction.

  I was covered, head to toe. The stuff hung off me like thick cobwebs. Debbie was rolling about on her back screaming with laughter. Why do women find this stuff funny? Where’s the sympathy? All I could think about was, ‘I haven’t been here for 18 months. This stuff isn’t even mine!’ Sorry.

  Debbie hosed me down with icy cold water from the supply normally used for re-filling your tanks. She stayed upwind.

  We have a very funny, happy life, which again seems to upset some reporters who expect all showbusiness people to get divorced. We are always pulling gags on each other and as a comedian I have to express regret that, so far, Debbie is ahead. She pulled a superb gag that finished up with me literally rolling on the floor.

  When I write or design, I hate being interrupted. It stops the ‘flow’. One day, in an old drawer, I found a small leather tag, rather like a bookmark, with ‘do Not Disturb’ imprinted in gold. I put this on the back of my collar so that Dierdre, my then secretary, and Debbie, my then wife (that’ll keep her on her toes), would leave me alone. It didn’t work. They thought it was hilarious.

  Hours later, I went upstairs and God only knows how long she had been waiting, but Debbie was lying stark naked on the bed. Eat your heart out, fellas! She was wearing the sort of sleeping blindfold that you get on long haul flights. Printed on it was ‘DO NOT DISTURB’. Further down her body she had a sign that said, ‘DISTURB’. Perhaps ‘rolling on the floor’ was not a good choice of words.

  Every year of my life was getting better and better. It’s time I namedropped and, OH BOY, can I name-drop.

  I was invited to do a Royal Variety Show for the Queen Mother and I knew how Prince Charles adored her, so I wrote to the Prince, who is, after all, a member of the Magic Circle and a Companion of the Grand Order of Water Rats and I had the nerve to ask him whether he would like to appear out of a box, on stage, as a surprise for his grandmother, who wouldn’t know he was going to be there.

  A ‘standard’ letter came back expressing regret that Prince Charles would be unable to assist. I just assumed that some member of the Royal Household had given the idea the brush off. On the night, I did an act and Prince Charles and Princess Diana were in the Royal Box with the always lovely Queen Mum.

  After the show, they all walked around the cast, complimenting them as they do, and eventually Princess Diana came to me and said, ‘I am so sorry that my husband couldn’t help you, Mr Daniels. We thought it was a wonderful idea but I am afraid that it was turned down by security.’

  I had a wonderful picture of the royal couple sitting at the breakfast table, her in curlers as they ate their cornflakes and opened the post.

  ‘Ooh, look at this, Charles. That funny little man off the telly wants to stuff you in a box.’

  Princess Michael of Kent asked me to do a children’s party for her. How do you say ‘no’? I hadn’t done a children’s party since Newquay but I got some props out and went down to the house. When it was my turn to perform I gathered the children around me and everything was fine except for one child who was a terror. There’s always one. Nothing seemed to work to keep him down. I invited him up to do a trick with me, the classic Chinese Linking Rings. This routine never lets me down and a lot of the credit must go to my son Martin, who wrote the routine with me when we were at the Prince of Wales. This routine had been a major factor in my television show winning the Golden Rose and was a total baffler because, unlike most routines, in this one all the rings are handed out and in the possession of the helper at some stage.

  This child had some knowledge.

  ‘There’s a hole in one of them.’ I showed him in great detail there wasn’t. He grabbed one end of the chain as I held on to the other, leaned back and he yelled, very loudly, and despite being able to see that if there was a ‘hole’ the chain would fall apart, ‘I KNOW THERE’S A HOLE IN ONE OF THEM.’

  He was starting to spoil the party. Not his fault, he was just over-exuberant. I pulled him towards me. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked. ‘William,’ he said.

  Someone in my eyeline nodded and I can clearly remember thinking, ‘Oh, that William.’ Too late to stop now, Daniels, I grabbed him by the lapels and held him nose to nose with me.

  ‘Well, now listen, your Royal Highness,’ (it’s very strange saying that to a child), ‘one day you may well be King of England and have my head chopped off, but in the meantime you will sit down there, shut up and BE GOOD.’

  The latter was shouted louder than he’d been shouting. He looked at me in amazement, sat down, shut up and was good. What he didn’t know was that if he had bitten me, I’d have bitten back. Been there, done that.

  As a fund-raiser for charity, Prince Edward organised three other members of the Royal Family to be team captains in a television show called It’s a Royal Knockout. How he got them to agree to this I don’t know. I was asked to play the part of a judge, a sort of super referee. It seemed like fun but I already had a booking for that evening. No matter, I was told, the event would start rehearsing early and be over by midafternoon. Even so, the Knockout was in the Midlands and my show was at the Savoy Hotel in London. I said I would do it and went off on the day, with Deb
bie, to join in the madness.

  Because it was for charity and even more so because it involved the Royals, the stars came out of the woodwork to take part in games that you normally couldn’t have got them to do for money. The morning rehearsal took place and the most senior Royal asked for a special meeting to discuss the rules.

  I had studied all the rules most carefully as, if I got them wrong, perhaps I would be exiled, or worse. Perhaps Prince William had gone home and told his family. Ted Daniels, now Paul, from a two-up, two-down in South Bank, sat down at the head of the table. On my right was the Duchess of York, popularly known as Fergie, and next to her was Prince Edward. Directly opposite Edward was Prince Andrew and on my immediate left was Princess Anne who would become the Princess Royal a few years later.

  Most of the items were trivial and easily dealt with, but suddenly Princess Anne asked that the rules be changed completely for one of the games and it didn’t make a lot of sense. The other captains had no real objections, but I had. I refused to change the rules and the Princess looked deep into my eyes. You never think of the Royals as sexy, do you? Well, I am here to tell you that Princess Anne can make your hair curl, and I think I was wearing a wig at the time.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ma’am, but I think that you only want the rules changed because at rehearsal this morning Tom Jones couldn’t pull himself out of the water and climb the rope. You picked your team and I am afraid you are stuck with it.’

  I got the look again and wondered if William had squealed on me to his auntie. Her Royal Highness let the matter drop and I walked away.

  The recording ran late – very late – and it was early evening when it finally wrapped. I ran across the field to say my goodbyes and to apologise for having to dash off. Princess Anne asked what the rush was and I explained that I was late for a private cabaret at the Savoy. Without hesitation she took command.

  ‘Edward, get Andrew.’

  He ran away and while he was gone she asked whether I had anyone to take my car back to London. The job fell to Debbie, who has never really forgiven me for that. Prince Andrew ran back.

  ‘Have you still got the Queen’s Flight helicopter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then take Mr Daniels to Windsor, he’s late for an appointment. I’ll telephone ahead for a car to take him to the Savoy.’

  Quick thanks and goodbyes were said and he ran for the helicopter while I ran to get my clothes and my act box out of my car.

  We loaded the helicopter (the biggest, reddest helicopter I had ever seen) and, as Prince Andrew climbed the ladder into the cockpit, I climbed into the luxuriously upholstered lounge area with a couple of bodyguards and the Duchess of York. The bodyguards, in case you were wondering, were for her, of course. We flew to Windsor and landed in the grounds. On the way, I showed the Duchess and ‘the boys’ some card tricks.

  As we landed, corgis ran out yapping and there was a very clean black limousine waiting for me. More quick thanks and I was whisked along the M4 to London, changing in the back of a Royal car. As the doorkeepers saw the car approaching the river entrance they went into a right panic. They were not expecting a Royal and it caused a major fuss. I wish I’d had a camera to snap their faces when they opened the door and the conjurer got out!

  I was due on stage at 9.30pm and I was spot on. My opening line was, ‘Now you’re not going to believe this …’ and they probably didn’t.

  I also went to St James’s Palace for a cocktail party to honour charity workers. It’s a really nice palace with lots to see inside. Standing there, drink in hand, a young boy came up to me. Everyone else was an adult. Very confidently he held out his hand, which I shook as he said, ‘Gosh, Mr Daniels, are you going to do some magic?’

  I explained that I was only there as a guest and not as a performer and his face fell.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I’ll get shot if someone finds out but come over here.’ We went to a slightly screened-off area of the room and I took out a pack of cards. He saw some tricks for about ten minutes and then said, ‘I wish I could do magic.’ I asked him if he had ever had a magic set or book, and he said that he hadn’t.

  This boy had been so polite and so excited by it all that I said that I would send him one of my marketed sets of magic.

  ‘I’ll have to ask Mummy,’ he said and shot away through the crowd. He wasn’t long.

  ‘Mummy said it’s OK.’

  I took out a pen and pad. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Frederick.’

  ‘And your surname?’

  He looked at me as if I was bonkers. ‘Windsor.’

  I tried to act as if I had known, ‘Oh, of course, silly me. Where do you live?’

  I was not doing well.

  ‘Here,’ he said.

  So that’s where I sent it.

  CHAPTER 14

  AND NOW, THE BALLET

  So many people write to me, email me, fax me and stop me on the streets, all with the same question: ‘Why aren’t you on the telly?’ It came about like this. The BBC started to change. New ‘gods’ took over and tried to turn the huge broadcasting company into a commercial concern. It was to become much more ‘news’-orientated and where once the corridors churned with programme-makers, more and more accountants moved in. It all seemed very strange.

  During breaks in the shows we made there, I would ask the audience who was unhappy with the licence fee. Most would raise their hands and I would offer up an alternative point of view.

  ‘Consider the price of a ticket for a night out at the theatre, or even the cinema. If I was to tell you that the seats would only cost you 50p to come and see my show, would you think that was an amazingly good offer?’

  All the audience would agree.

  ‘So I would get 50p off all of you. Of course, you would have to get dressed up to come and either drive in or take transport. There may be parking fees involved and, at the very least, a snack or drinks. The price goes up and up, but 50p is not bad at all. Our last show got 15,000,000 viewers and, at 50p per person, I should have been paid £7,500,000 for performing.’

  This comparison always surprised the audience. I went on to point out just how much they were getting for their licence fee in terms of hours of broadcasting both on television and radio and I know a lot of them changed their minds about the cost of the licence. Nowadays people are paying three times that amount to watch a wider range of channels showing exactly the same range of stuff they got from the BBC.

  Once you have covered sport, films, comedy, cartoons and the like, there isn’t anything else. The terrestrial channels already covered our range of available interests.

  The concept of the BBC was brilliant. All the viewers would pay a little towards the service and the volume of income would pay for a totally independent service, free of having to kowtow to commercial interests and free of politics. It was never supposed to be commercial, it was supposed to serve us, the viewers who were paying for it.

  Over the years, the money bought great studios, great wardrobe and props facilities, easily the best rehearsal rooms in London, and so on. The place buzzed as day after day, night after night, producers and directors, lighting and sound, wardrobe and make-up, writers and artists, painters and builders would all be rushing about involved in artistic endeavour, and all trying to outdo each other in the quality of an amazingly wide range of programmes for all ages. It was exciting to be there.

  Suddenly, a couple of things happened at the same time. You have to understand that in America the advertisers control the broadcasting to such an extent that they practically control what the viewers are given to watch. Advertising agencies in America decided that they couldn’t change the buying habits of older viewers so they started to plough their money into programmes specifically aimed at the young audiences. To me, this is a declaration that they couldn’t do their job properly. They should have been able to create adverts to suit and to sway the older audience, but no, they gave in. This is even more surprising whe
n you realise that the older audience is growing very rapidly and I don’t know about you, but when I was young I didn’t want to stay in watching television.

  As is usual in this country, we followed suit. I could understand, possibly, the commercial stations following the advertising trend, but so did the BBC, abandoning traditional shows and transmitting ‘young’ comedy with ‘naughty’ words that drove away their older audience.

  Then they started to sell off the facilities and lose their professional production staff and crews. The new system required having nothing in stock and ‘buying’ in anything that was needed, including production crews. It is true that the old way did need a major pruning and streamlining, but the new regime missed the point. They pruned the wrong end, keeping the already top-heavy management and losing the people who actually made programmes.

  There was an end result that perhaps they had never considered – all the terrestrial channels started to look the same. Whereas the BBC used to have its own style, its own ‘look’ and its own quality, by using the same lighting, sound and set designers who were being used by all the other channels we, the viewers, lost choice and the other channels had nothing to try to live up to.

  Also, more than ever before, the terrestrial channels started to show the same type of programmes opposite each other. If the BBC had a game show, then ITV had a game show, police drama opposite police drama, and football opposite football, ad infinitum. Such a move was bound to reduce the number of viewers for each type of programme and we were being offered less and less choice. I began to wonder if the people who planned the schedules had shares in satellite television companies.

  There was a lot more. There was the moment when one of the ‘bought in’ make-up girls, approaching my face with Polyfilla in hand (I need a lot of make-up!), said, ‘Ooh, I’ve never made a man up before.’ I asked where she had learnt about make-up and all her experience had been gained on a Selfridges counter. She knew nothing about wigs, beards, moustaches or prosthetics that are used to change the appearance of a performer. She knew nothing about the different types of studio lights and the effect on make-up.