by Chris Evans
‘You’re not going to do it, are you?’ said a guy I worked with.
‘Why not?’ I replied.
‘Well, it’s for McDonalds and you know what they stand for. Your shows are cool and McDonalds definitely isn’t cool, at least not to your audience.’
Hmmm, this thought had never crossed my mind, I’d never had to consider such a dilemma before, maybe he had a point. The money would have come in handy as I still had a hefty mortgage on my house to pay but what he’d said had made me apprehensive. So much so, I decided to pass.
Imagine my surprise a few weeks later when the ad finally aired with the voice of none other than the guy who told me not to do it…and he was a bloody vegetarian.
The guy in question was Andy Davies. Andy used to sell ad space in the back of a computer magazine whilst listening to Emma Freud’s weekday morning show, the show I was brought in to produce. He called up one day and asked if he could come in and sit in to see the show go out as he was a big fan, hated what he did for a living and would love to have a chance to help out if we ever needed a spare pair of hands. Good for him—that’s exactly what I had done several years before at Piccadilly Radio.
When I began my evening show I called Andy to see if he was still interested as we were short of people to man the phones. From there, again like me, he started to work on other shows and it wasn’t long before he was able to leave his telesales job and come and work at GLR full time.
When we set up the Saturday morning show Andy was very much the third member of the team—along with Carol and myself—going by the on-air name of ‘Handy the Producer’. We were the perfect radio threesome, although Carol and I were about to break away and form a splinter group of our own.
We had been on and off as a couple for a while now and although for the majority of the time we got on like a house on fire, there were several cogs to our relationship that kept on getting jammed. It was as if we were both reluctant to admit we wanted to be with each other on a permanent basis, especially having enjoyed such a wild time together for the last few months or so. Could two people still have as much fun as we were having if they were more of an item? Or would this change the dynamic too much? We had to either shape up or ship out, I think there is a point in most relationships when this happens and Carol and I had reached ours.
One day the subject turned again to the future and whether we were wasting our time or not when out of nowhere I suggested, ‘Why don’t we just get married.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ she said. ‘You and me married? That’s insane!’ She was laughing her now famous laugh hysterically.
To say that Carol was not the marrying type would be putting it mildly. She was fiercely independent and to my knowledge hadn’t been involved in any serious kind of relationship for a good few years, certainly not since I’d known her. But I genuinely thought it could work, maybe this was what we both needed. A reason to commit and there’s no bigger reason than marriage.
I think it must have been the gravity of the proposition that eventually cajoled Carol into saying ‘yes’. And we were both slightly mad, why not be slightly mad together?
Once we had made the decision to go through with it, we wasted no time in booking a slot at Camden registry office. Although we only told a couple of people about the actual wedding, we organised a party the same night where we announced our nuptials to the world in the form of fifty or sixty open-mouthed guests who didn’t know whether to believe us or not. Carol and I thought it was hilarious. We set up home together and changed the title of our radio show. Round at Chris’s had now become Round at Chris’s and his Mrs.
Top 10 Things to Take to a Meeting if You Think You are Going to get Shafted
10 A clear head
9 Perspective
8 A plan
7 Self control
6 More people than the other guys
5 A smile
4 A bottom line
3 A walk-away figure
2 A lack of ego
1 A lawyer
The broadcaster TV-am was to be the final bridge in my journey to Channel 4. Andy and I had pitched a show to them based on what we had done at the Power Station for a Saturday morning slot. We had called the show TV Mayhem and it was to be my second bona fide television experience as well as being my first experience of independent production, something that would one day make me a multi-millionaire. Andy was well ahead of the game and knew the value of owning your own content. Carol for her part, an experienced television production manager, came on board to look after the pennies, something she was uncannily gifted at.
The show itself was fab, unlike TV-am’s fortunes, which after a cracking ten-year period of popularity and profit were suddenly anything but. During the first few weeks of our run, TV-am lost its contract to GMTV in a franchise bidding war and although the network handover date was several months away, it was decided maximum revenue was now paramount and all costs at the station were to be slashed immediately. Big and Good Productions (named after ‘Big Bird’ and ‘Good Evans’) were last in so it was a safe bet we would more than likely be first out.
‘What do we do now?’ I asked Andy,
‘We take the money and scarper,’ he replied.
‘What money?’ I said, ‘we don’t have any money, they’re cancelling our show.’
‘Yes, they are but we have a contract for forty shows. They might not want to air them but they’re still going to have to pay for them.’
I had no idea what he was talking about, surely we couldn’t get paid for shows we weren’t going to have to make?
TV-am called us in for a ‘friendly’ meeting where they had intended to thank Andy, Carol and me for all our efforts with the new show, apologise for what must have been a big disappointment and give us a pat on the head. Andy was having none of that, however—that’s why he hired a lawyer to come with us to the meeting.
The expression on the exec’s face when we walked in was a picture, he had no idea what had hit him. Within fifteen minutes, TV-am had settled with Big and Good Productions and to the tune of several hundred thousand pounds.
Shit the bed again…this media world was getting goofier with every deal.
For the next few months, as the GLR show rocked happily along in the background, other than having more fun with my new wife, I basically filled my whole day working, keeping fit and then going for a beer. I was now going to the gym five days a week and spending any spare time I had at home where I would constantly be writing new ideas, trying to come up with anything that might work on the television or radio.
I had decided to let business take care of itself. It was a ploy that had seemed to work thus far. I would do the creative work and let other people take care of the money. Besides it was becoming ever plainer to me that very few people in the media actually did anything discernible at all other than feed off the ideas guys in one way or another. It was ideas that made this business tick and as far as I could see anyone who came up with them was bound to be on to a winner sooner or later. Over at Channel 4 there was a group of such people about to do exactly that.
Breakfast television, which had been a disaster to start off with, was now big news—there was money in them there hills and Channel 4’s Michael Grade had decided it was about time they got their hands on some of it. Invites were put out to tender for their own early morning slot.
The pitching process for this much-coveted contract consisted of several rounds, culminating with two companies going head to head and actually making programmes to be broadcast in real time, although not to the general public but rather directly back to the bosses at Channel 4.
The first I heard about all of this was when I was asked to go and see a company called Mentorn—one of the biggest independent television production companies at the time, responsible for producing such hits as Challenge Anneka. They had sailed through the initial bidding stages and were now, from a shortlist of ten, hotly tipped to get down to the final two. Mentor
n now wanted me to be part of their bid as they thought I would strengthen their appeal—it was well-known that Channel 4 were looking for something different and had suggested new talent might be the key. Although flattered, I was surprised by their interest as I still hadn’t really achieved anything on television, but the radio show was gaining more and more notoriety and it was obvious that people in high places were beginning to tune in.
Mentorn wanted to be able to say that I would be the presenter of their show and no-one else’s. They were willing to buy me off the market in an exclusive deal to be part of the package to take into the final pitches and for this privilege they were willing to pay me £10,000.
Out of all my experience with the media and money thus far, this was the craziest I’d encountered to date. Ten thousand pounds for doing nothing except agreeing to have my name on a piece of paper. Television really was a strange world full of even stranger people but if they wanted to keep sending cash my way, that was fine by me. This was my third significant payment from a television company which, added together, now totalled more than I had earned in the rest of my working life.
But this is the most unpredictable of businesses and to everybody’s surprise, along with Mentorn’s disbelief, they were kicked out at the penultimate stage. No one was more shocked than the boss of the company, Tom Gutteridge, a relative giant in TV. They had been a shoo-in to get to the final and although I felt some sympathy for them I could hardly say I was devastated, having been involved very little with their bid either emotionally or creatively.
The ten thousand pounds, however, meant I could buy the next car in what was now becoming an impressive list of vehicles I had owned—a 1956 MGA Roadster in old English white with red leather interior. Thank you, Mentorn.
Back at GLR I continued with my trusty radio show, not really any the wiser and not really knowing what was going on with the whole Channel 4 breakfast thing. Not that this would remain the case for long as I was about to receive a phone from a man called Charlie Parsons offering me a job that would change my life beyond all recognition.
Charlie was a very respected programme maker, specialising in new styles of television. He had worked on Network 7, a diverse rolling alternative news show for Channel 4 on Sunday mornings where all the reporters were young, had trendy haircuts and wore black. He was also the creator of Club X and the infamous The Word, which he produced through his company Planet 24. Both programmes, though often annoying, were without doubt signature shows of their time and now Charlie wanted me to be involved in his bid for the Channel 4 breakfast show, a bid which unlike Tom’s and Mentorn’s had made it through to the final two.
Channel 4 approached Charlie because they knew he would come up with something different and he hadn’t disappointed them. He had his finger well and truly on the pulse; he knew how important it was to employ younger brains to come up with ideas for younger audiences. This was one of, if not the, key ingredients of his success. His development department was an exciting albeit exhausting place to be.
Charlie invited me for a cup of coffee. Immediately I liked him, instantly we met I could see he was different (hyper is another word you could use here) and so enthusiastic—about everything, even the word hello.
‘Alright, tell me about your idea—shoot,’ I said. I could see he was gagging to get on with it.
‘Well, it’s not my idea exactly, it’s an idea dreamt up by an old friend of yours,’ he replied with an intriguing glint in his eye. ‘Actually, it was Duncan Grey.’
My evening show at GLR, just like Timmy’s at Piccadilly, was staffed mostly by helpers—college students looking for some experience in broadcasting, some boys, some girls, the boys usually spotty, the girls usually absolutely beautiful for some strange reason. One of those boys was a young man called Duncan Grey, a very intense individual whose overriding expression was a permanent troubled frown. Duncan had found himself at odds with his recent Oxford University career and had decided instead to drop out in order to chase a life in the media. Everyone who knew him thought he was crazy as here was a boy with a big brain, a born academic if ever there was one, but Duncan had other plans. He was fascinated by entertainment, obsessed with it almost, entertainment was where his big brain longed to be.
When I was first introduced to him at the radio station, I was at my desk one afternoon preparing that night’s show. I remember him barely being able to say hello: he was so nervous.
‘Who is this kid?’ I thought to myself.
‘This is Duncan, can he have a week on your show?’ one of the bosses asked.
‘Sure,’ I said, ‘why not?’
If I’d have had to bet, I would have said he wouldn’t last a day, let alone a week, not only on the show but in life—I don’t think I’d ever seen anyone look so unsure of why they existed.
As it turned out, I couldn’t have been more wrong: he stuck around for almost a year and turned out to be an invaluable member of the production team. Now Duncan had gone on to work for Charlie…interesting. What had the bespectacled brainbox managed to come up with that had Charlie in such a froth—literally?
Duncan is a theorist, almost forensic when it comes to thinking about and preparing ideas; he had decided that kids were the key to a new audience. Whatever Planet 24 did, they had to make sure it was an out and out alternative to what was on the other two channels, basically shows for grown-ups—both pretty dull and bland as far as the younger viewers were concerned.
Duncan’s idea was simple, all the best are. He had suggested that the Planet 24 pitch should be based around a mirror image of what was happening in most houses at that time of the day. Indeed the show would come from a house, a real house with real rooms and even a real family, a different one every week. But the house would be like a cartoon house, with bright colours reigning supreme, a house all the kids watching would want to live in—a throwback to the type of hangouts The Monkees and The Banana Splits had on their TV shows.
At the helm of the proceedings would be a regular presentation double act, a younger couple with their own television family, this would include the crew, a computer whizz kid, various ‘experts’ and two alien puppets from planet Zog by the names of Zig and Zag. There would also be regular appearances from Charlie’s business partner Bob Geldof as well as his gorgeous wife—the ice-cool Paula Yates, who would interview/seduce the latest stars every day whilst they reclined in her boudoir.
Already it sounded like fun and the more he told me about it the more he became animated and the more the show came alive. By the end of his spiel I was completely sold while Charlie was completely exhausted. I told him he could count me in. Charlie thanked me for my time and rushed off to deliver the news back to his team—but hang on a minute, there was something missing. He hadn’t offered me any money. Isn’t that what all TV people did?
Not Charlie, he knew he didn’t need to. For Charlie the idea was the thing, personnel could always be hired. If I didn’t want do it he would get someone else who did. Ideas were where the real value was. Ideas had to be dreamt up. People were everywhere, but ideas were priceless—ideas were everything.
Top 10 Memories of The Big Breakfast
10 The dead body in the river
9 Don’t phone it’s just for fun—my first run-in link and catchphrase
8 My pre-show bath—6.46-6.50 every day without fail
7
6 ‘More Tea, Vicar’
‘One Lump or Two’ } Two tunes that still hijack
my headspace from time to time
5 Ben the Boffin—we had a big bro’—little bro’ bond going on
4 Zig and Zag—simply the best
3 Paula—telling the shark experts to eff off
2 Gaby—the Hutch to my Starsky, the Bodie to my Doyle
1 The first ever show—when I got stuck in the loo as the handle came off in my hand two minutes before we were due to go on air*
The Big Breakfast ended up winning the franchise by a mile. It was
bold and brash and most importantly a direct alternative to anything else on offer at that time of the morning. It was like Saturday morning kids telly but every day, which caused it to evolve more quickly. Again it was a deluge of ideas, which only served to make it more compelling—no one knew what was going to happen next because we didn’t know what was going to happen next. It was never going to last for ever—this we did know—but it would certainly cause a huge fuss whilst it was around.
On the first day of broadcast The Big Breakfast more than quadrupled the Channel 4 audience from 100,000 to almost half a million; by the end of the first few weeks this had risen to 750,000 and within a year we were over a million. After that the next target was to beat the once indomitable GMTV.
Both the show and everyone on it were hailed as an overnight success, and that’s exactly how it felt even though, especially as far as I was concerned, it wasn’t the case. But whenever things come good it suddenly feels like it’s all been so much easier than it actually has. Success has a knack of taking away the pain of hard work and I had never experienced or even imagined success on the scale of The Big Breakfast.
Gaby Roslin was my co-host, but it was oh so nearly somebody else who just happened to drop out at the last minute. Thank heaven they did as
Gaby turned out to be the perfect partner. She was just a tad older than me and from the more traditional school of television presenting, she was also a drama student. I’m sure she won’t mind me saying that I added the humour while she steered the ship. We were a good team together, covering each other’s backs whenever things started to go wrong, unlike some presenters who use such situations to score points against each other. A fruitless exercise that serves no purpose whatsoever, especially to the viewers who just want you to get on with things.
Every single day on The Big Breakfast was an unforgettable pleasure. Sure, we shouted and screamed at each other behind the scenes—me in particular—but we all just wanted to get things right and sometimes this involves ‘difference of opinions’.
