David Jason: My Life

by David Jason

  We go on holiday to a quiet place in south-west Florida where we can take boats out and I can dive. We are blessed in what we have, of course, but I think you would struggle to describe ours as a ‘celebrity lifestyle’. That’s not how we see ourselves and it’s not what we want. Very occasionally, we might find ourselves on the red carpet at a film premiere or at an awards ceremony. But it amuses Gill and me how bad we are at that stuff. We know the score: you should linger in front of the photographers, smile graciously and lap up the attention, for it may not be yours forever, not even next week. But I’m normally clammy-palmed with a combination of fear and embarrassment, and we end up making a poorly disguised dash for it, rushing along the carpet, blinking blindly into the flashlights, hanging on to each other like a pair of silly old fogeys. Any photograph taken of us at any point on this dash will be nearly guaranteed to make us look uneasy. We don’t care. That’s not who we are.

  I get recognised when we’re out, and it can get a little out of hand. Gill and I were once invited to watch the tennis at Wimbledon by Bruce Gyngell, who was then the managing director of Yorkshire Television: champagne lunch, seats on Centre Court, the works. In the row in front of us, and just along a bit, was Jack Nicholson. Gill and I thought, ‘Great: no question of us getting bothered here. People will be too busy bothering Jack.’

  Wrong. While Jack sat there, utterly untroubled, watching the tennis, a steady stream of well-wishers made their way along our row to say hello – to the point where, eventually, people around us felt obliged to intervene: ‘Leave the poor bloke alone.’ Now, who’s the bigger star, do you suppose: me or Jack Nicholson? Well, naturally, it’s Jack Nicholson. But he’s such a big star that there’s something slightly intimidating about him. People kept their distance. Whereas I’m Del, I’m Pop Larkin: I’m approachable. Which is lovely of course, and better than having people cross the road to avoid you, I’m sure. And better still than having people cross the road to your side in order to poke you in the eye with a burnt stick. And yet … well, sometimes you end up deciding it’ll be more comfortable for everyone if you stay at home.

  Inevitably, it affects my life with Sophie a little. There are things I can’t do with her. I just have to accept that. Legoland, Thorpe Park … we’ve tried those places, but people gather. Still, what we do instead is go to matinees in the West End: Mary Poppins, The Sound of Music, Wicked, you name it. Anything with songs and ice cream in it is fine by us. That’s our time together and it’s a precious thing. I show her the theatre. I show her where I come from.

  And then, if it’s a nice day, I might fly my helicopter. Which sounds a bit flash, I suppose: a bit ‘TV’s Man of Action’, as the TV Times once had it – you might even say a bit ‘celebrity lifestyle’. But there it is. It’s all Gill’s fault anyway. For my birthday about twelve years ago, she bought me a chance to go up in a helicopter, flying out of High Wycombe. I really loved it and I decided to learn to fly one myself. It’s the most difficult thing I’ve ever mastered: your hands and your feet have to work in contrary motion to one another. It’s a bit like playing the drums, I guess, although with greater risk of death. Yet I did it, and I did it when I was in my sixties, and I’m very proud of that.

  With helicopters, you work your way up gradually: a little solo trip around a field at first, and then, as part of your exam, a solo cross-country flight to designated points. The first time I attempted that, I managed to get lost and I had to land in a field to ask a farmer for directions. Poor bloke. He was surprised enough to see a helicopter come down on his land and even more surprised to see Del Boy get out of it. I failed the exam, needless to say, and by next week the story of the bozo who got lost on his cross-country test was all around the airfield. Still, I passed eventually, and with the need I now had to get to meetings and locations up and down the country, I managed to rationalise buying my own little machine – a four-seater Robinson R44, my mechanical pride and joy.

  So, a wife, a daughter, a helicopter … the good fortune showered upon me in these recent years is, I am truly aware, more than any man would have a right to dream of.

  Oh, and the knighthood. I nearly forgot the knighthood.

  One morning early in 2005, Gill brought the post to the breakfast table. Among the usual bills, there was a letter from Downing Street. The Prime Minister, Tony Blair, and his government wished to know whether I would be prepared to accept the honour of becoming – to use the official title – a Knight Bachelor. There had been no word of warning of this. It was totally out of the blue. Naturally, I assumed a wind-up and checked the envelope for evidence of the hand of the usual suspects: David Reynolds, say, or Brian Cosgrove, or Micky McCaul. Micky had once sent Gill a very convincing summons to jury service at the Old Bailey. This kind of deception wouldn’t have been beyond him.

  But no. It wasn’t a wind-up. It was true. I was made a Sir in the Queen’s birthday honours of 2005. I felt very humbled – and maybe even a little awkward about it. For me, those kinds of titles go to heroes in battle or to heroes in charity. To get one for acting, which doesn’t seem to me to have any parity with those things … well, I found that a bit hard to get my head around. Still, it was on offer. I was hardly going to turn it down, was I?

  The date was set for my investiture on 1 December. On its own, it was a thrilling and momentous prospect for Gill and me, but just to make it even more interesting, we decided to combine it with our wedding.

  Gill and I often spoke about getting married, and especially after Sophie came along, but we could never come up with quite the right plan for doing it – a way that wouldn’t create stress and fuss. If someone could have come into the kitchen and quickly spliced us over breakfast, we would both have been happy, though friends and family might have felt a bit let down. I suspect Birley would never have spoken to us again. Now, there’s a thought …

  Anyway, the investiture solved our problem – and kind of obliged us to act, because Gill really wasn’t keen to go to the Palace as an unmarried mother. While she was organising a special lunch for the investiture at the Dorchester Hotel in London, Gill noticed that they do private wedding ceremonies there. We hatched a plan to get married, quietly and in semi-secret, on the eve of the investiture.

  We invited a handful of people to come to the Dorchester on 30 November 2005 – close family members and Gill’s best friend Sue Hallas. The only people who knew why they were really there were Sue, my soon-to-be mother-in-law Birley and my sister June – and, of course, Sophie. The others (Arthur and Joy, June’s husband Miggy, her two sons Michael and Mark and their partners, and Gill’s two brothers, also called Michael and Mark, funnily enough) thought they were coming to a party for the investiture. Only when they walked in did they find out they were guests at a wedding.

  The marriage took place at 5 p.m. in a beautiful room at the hotel. Gill wore a gold lace dress with a little jacket and I wore a lounge suit with a buttonhole. Sophie, who was four, was our bridesmaid. It was intimate and romantic and just the happiest time. Afterwards everyone came back to our suite for cocktails and canapés and to cut the cake. Even though it was a set of rooms with a separate sitting room, the hotel staff had put up a little bed for Sophie at the end of our four-poster. Sue quietly wondered whether we were OK with that on our wedding night and we laughed because it hadn’t even occurred to us that it was odd.

  The following morning, I arose a married man and went straight off to become a bachelor. Or, at any rate, a Knight Bachelor. I was allowed to take my new wife with me to the Palace and two further guests. I chose June and Arthur to be with me, we three siblings thus, in a manner of speaking, completing the totally implausible journey from Lodge Lane to Buckingham Palace. Well, if the royal family never showed up to use the front room the Whites kept ready, we’d just have to go to them instead. Sophie, of course, was too young to attend the investiture, but Birley brought her to the Palace for the photos outside afterwards.

  At the Palace, as Gill and June and Arthur
watched, I went down on one knee on the foot stool and the Queen stepped forward and touched me on both shoulders with the sword. I’ll let you into a little secret here: she doesn’t actually say ‘Arise, Sir David’. The whole ‘arise’ thing turns out to be an urban myth and is not a part of the ceremony. Shame, really. It’s a good line. She should use it. However, afterwards, I stood and the Queen said, ‘You’ve been in the business a long time.’ I don’t know why, but I found myself telling her I hoped I hadn’t done anything to offend her at any point. She laughed and said that so far as she was aware, I hadn’t.

  And then it was back to the Dorchester, and a slap-up lunch for fifty. Nick Lyndhurst, sadly, couldn’t make it, but so many other pals and companions were there: Humphrey Barclay, Micky and Angie McCaul, Johnny Dingle, Malcolm Taylor and his wife Annie, Brian and Angela Cosgrove, John Sullivan and his wife Sharon, Meg Poole, Johnny Lyons and his wife Anne … At the beginning of my speech, I stood up and said, ‘First of all, Gill and I were married yesterday …’ and the place erupted with cheering and thumping on the tables.

  Amazing. A married man, a Sir, and all inside twenty-four blissful hours. I would have loved Ronnie Barker to have been there that day and shared this with us all. He was a man whom I thought more deserving of a knighthood than me. Alas, Ronnie had died two months previously. But earlier in the year, when my knighthood was announced, he had, typically, sent me a poem to commemorate the event, and at the lunch I declaimed it, so at least he was there in word:

  Congratulations, Little Feed,

  Her Gracious Majesty decreed

  That Granville, little errand lad,

  And Del Boy, Frost, and others had

  All served their nation passing well,

  So here’s to Granville, Frost and Del!

  The old ex-Guvnor’s proud to see

  His comrade reach such high degree,

  Knight of the Realm, and TV star

  Who never thought he’d get this far.

  ‘Arise, Sir David,’ she will say,

  The sword upon your shoulder lay.

  I raise a glass filled to the brim

  And truly say, ‘Good Knight from him.’

  My mother Olwen looking radiant in Wales in her youth.

  My dad, 1930, doing his bit for King and Country.

  The White clan, circa 1947. I’m the ugly mug in the front, third from right. Mum behind me to the right, Arthur behind me to the left and Dad the short one in the middle at the back. June still to come.

  Me, sister June and brother Arthur in the backyard at 26 Lodge Lane.

  Me and my big brother – even then a vent act.

  Christmas with the Whites, circa 1950. How we laughed.

  Post-war knees-up for the children of Lodge Lane. At least it kept us from throwing tomahawks at each other.

  Me at 14. Note prefect badge and Brylcreemed hair.

  Cousin John wearing the latest après-mining gear.

  Me being a minor miner. On holiday in Wales, circa 1955.

  Dad (left) at work in the fishmonger’s. A song, a dance, a pound of hake.

  At 14, proudly wearing my costume for the school production of Wayside War – my breakthrough moment.

  June, sophisticated and with beehive at 17, posing casually, holding the wall up by our outside loo.

  Brian Barneycoat and me, Jack the Lads on our most prized possessions. Note absence of cars.

  Arthur in his twenties, playing Puck in Regent’s Park. He’s still got those horns.

  Micky Weedon and me, at 16, suited, booted and ready for international jet-set pleasure.

  Aged 18, outside the builders’ yard opposite our house, trying to look like a film star.

  Micky and me modelling cheap waterproofs and enjoying a brief gap in the rain en route to Cornwall, late 1950s.

  Val Doonican goosing my mother and my Aunty Ede. Val was a good friend of my brother Arthur and this was taken at Arthur’s house.

  Arthur and I audition for the Mafia at somebody or other’s wedding, circa 1962.

  With Bob Bevil on holiday in Jersey. London boys, ladykillers, electricians.

  Me and Micky Weedon in Tony Brighton’s backyard playing horseshoes because we thought it made us look like cowboys.

  Early thesping in The Glass Menagerie with the Incognito Theatre Group at Friern Barnet at the beginning of the sixties.

  With Brian Babb and Vera Neck in an Incognito production of Epitaph for George Dillon. Already working the sofa for business.

  Early 1960s. Having a lovely war in Journey’s End. The Incogs took up more and more of my evenings.

  Weedon and White roll up their shirtsleeves and get down to some serious acting. Rehearsal for the Incogs’ Noah.

  Me on the phone to my agent during The Teahouse of the August Moon in the mid-sixties.

  The Teahouse of the August Moon again. I was on loan to the St Bride’s Players of Fleet Street.

  Best man at Malcolm Taylor’s wedding. This was the only time in the whole day that I took off the top hat.

  With the inimitable Leslie Sarony in Peter Pan, 1966. Pirates ahoy.

  Return of the vents. Arthur and I give it some gottle of geer in the late sixties.

  Clockwise: Denise Coffey, Eric Idle, me, Terry Jones and Mike Palin before the operation.

  Serious business. Touring The Norman Conquests with Roger Hammond and the Oxford Theatre Company, late 1960s.

  With Lynda Bellingham in some exciting knitwear. The Norman Conquests again.

  Buttons in panto. To the left of me, Sylvester McCoy, warming up for Doctor Who. To my right, David Rappaport warming up for being David Rappaport.

  First big West End role: the hapless Brian Runnicles in No Sex Please – We’re British, Strand Theatre, 1973.

  Touring No Sex Please in the Far East with Helen Gill and Geoffrey Davies.

  Changing into leaky equipment for a diving lesson in Swanage.

  And then having that diving lesson. Despite this, diving grew into one of my great passions.

  As Dithers the 100-year-old gardener with Ronnie B. and company and an enormous sign so we don’t forget what we’re doing.

  The Top Secret Life of Edgar Briggs. The beginning of my stunt career and, by the look of it, very nearly the end of it.

  My name in red lights in the West End – exactly as foretold.

  Getting the slap on in order to play Lord Foppington in The Relapse. This was one of my favourite parts.

  Lord Foppington fully made up and in glorious costume. Note the two poodles on my head. Getting them to sit still was hellishly difficult.

  With the Guvnor. Arkwright and Granville, Open All Hours, circa 1981.

  Richard Wilson, delighted to be posing with me during A Sharp Intake of Breath in the late 1970s.

  At a recording of Danger Mouse, with Brian Trueman and Jimmy Hibbert, writers and performers. I loved that mouse.

  My name, placed subtly above the title. And me pointing at it, in case you hadn’t noticed.

  Skiing in the Alps and wearing comedy glasses. A good comedian is never on holiday.

  The cast of A Bit of a Do gather round its writer, 1989. Left to right: Nicola Pagett, Paul Chapman, Michael Jayston, David Nobbs, me and Gwen Taylor.

  Derek Trotter Esquire. An unused still from the original title sequence of Only Fools and Horses.

  My mate Nick Lyndhurst on the set of ‘Miami Twice’. Barry Gibb of the Bee Gees not in shot.

  Rodney, Del, Grandad. Or the Three Stooges. With Nick Lyndhurst and the late, lamented Lennard Pearce.

  During ‘Miami Twice’, looking grubby, just after I was chased by a crocodile.

  Nick and me – a pair of silly Buddhas. On location for Only Fools and Horses, west London, late 1980s.

  Myfanwy in her ‘Spotlight’ portrait.

  Filming the 1989 Only Fools and Horses Christmas Special, ‘The Jolly Boys’ Outing’. Everyone acting their socks off except the late Ken MacDonald, right of Buster Merryfield. Trust jov
ial Ken.

  The Only Fools and Horses team clinches BAFTA glory. Left to right, Nick Lyndhurst, John Sullivan, Tony Dow, me and Gareth Gwenlan. Happy days.

  Publicity still shot in 1991 for The Darling Buds of May, my mother’s favourite programme. One big happy family, with Pam Ferris, Catherine Zeta-Jones and Philip Franks. Even more happy days.

  Nobody would fix the cracks in my dressing-room wall, so I did it myself. At Yorkshire Television during Darling Buds. I love having a practical project.

  Me as Scullion in Porterhouse Blue, in 1987, not looking at all well. A BAFTA for Best Actor appeared shortly afterwards.

  Detective Inspector Jack Frost, circa 2000. Moustache: model’s own.

  Peas in a pod. A happy father and his lovely daughter. Catching up on some sleep with Sophie, 2001.

  A fistful of National Television Awards. Mantelpiece getting a little crowded.

  Awards don’t get any bigger than this. Arising as Sir David, December 2005, the morning after my wedding. Heady, heady times.

  Hanging about as Rincewind in The Colour of Magic and waiting for a better job to turn up.