by Julian Clary
‘All right. But this is your last chance, Bernard, I mean it. Tell me what you’ve got planned for me. If I like it, I’ll stay. If not, I’m leaving.’ I took off my jacket. ‘You’ve got five minutes.’
Exactly five minutes later, when Bernard had outlined (with uncanny accuracy, as it turned out) the amazing new career that lay in store for me, I called Room Service and ordered a bottle of champagne.
My depression had lifted like the morning mist. Fate had done it again. Just as my musical-theatre adventure had made way for a more exciting, lucrative career on the game so that dubious occupation had run out of steam just in time to accommodate the new challenge of a job as a television presenter. Life seemed to evolve in the most unexpected ways. Student, hooker, murderer, TV star. Bring it on!
That night I fucked Bernard as if my future depended on it.
It took Bernard a while to reveal it, but the exciting TV role he had earmarked for me was, strictly speaking, on a kids’ programme. When he confessed, I was a little put out.
‘You’re being rather ungracious, darling, I must say,’ he remonstrated. ‘My kingdom only extends as far as the BBC children’s-television department. Much as I’d like to introduce you to the British public as David Hasselhoff’s replacement, it’s not within my powers to do so.’
But this time Bernard was true to his word. Two days after our conversation I had my screen test in a bare little studio in Hammersmith, nowhere near the BBC. I was filmed talking to a glove puppet and pretending to introduce Mariah Carey.
‘A sensation!’ declared Bernard.
A week after that I was taken to lunch at an expensive Italian restaurant in Shepherd’s Bush. It seemed I was moving closer and closer to Television Centre, which had to be a good omen. There, I was introduced to various suits and heads of departments who all seemed to have clammy hands and dry, flaky complexions. Over coffee and chocolate mints I was officially welcomed on board.
I could hardly believe it. Bernard had been telling the truth all along.
The BBC advised me to drop the JD and revert to my real name of Johnny Debonair. Then, after several high-level meetings, it was decided I should be known as Johnny D. I liked the change. It seemed to fit my new identity.
Bernard summoned me to his office to sign my contract. It had happened so quickly that I hadn’t had time to consider what I would be paid — and there it was in black and white. Ten thousand pounds a week for every week the show was broadcast, plus rehearsal fees.
‘That should keep you in condoms, my darling,’ said Bernard, locking the door and moving determinedly towards me, unzipping the fly of his slacks.
Catherine will be pleased, I thought. We were in the money again.
I immediately withdrew my adverts from the gay magazines, phoned round my regulars, told them I was moving on and changed my telephone number.
Madame was gracious. ‘It is good for you. You be happy. I always here if you need make money one day. Good luck.’
My mother was only slightly surprised by the news. ‘My little puddle-duck, you’re so pretty that it was only a matter of time before the world fell at your feet. I can’t wait to see you on the television. Perhaps I’ll buy one.’
And Catherine, as predicted, was beside herself with excitement at this sudden change in my fortunes. ‘Blimey, Cowboy. There’s a turn-up for the books. You lucky bastard.’ She got that far-away look in her eye, thinking intently about how this news might benefit her. ‘Of course!’ she exclaimed. ‘I can be your manager! You’d only fuck it up without me. I’ve been shagged by someone from Hollyoaks and he told me you can get a couple of grand for opening a supermarket. Imagine that! More than I get for opening my legs.’ She looked quite serious. ‘I’m not kidding — my snatch is red raw. I could do with a career change. Go on, let me be your manager. I’ll get some stationery printed and change the answerphone message. I’ll work from home initially, but offices in Holborn and a secretary called Kirsty are almost inevitable …
I had no idea whether Catherine would make a good manager or not but I didn’t know how to go looking for a proper one —and, anyway, I trusted her. If anyone could work out how to get on in a crazy world, it was her. ‘Of course you can be my manager, but don’t get too excited. The programme might be a terrible flop for all we know,’ I cautioned her. ‘Steady yourself.’
‘I’m going to need some new clothes,’ she said, disregarding my warning. ‘Power suits, designer briefcase, maybe some discreet platinum jewellery. Trousers will be a novelty.’
‘It’s only children’s television,’ I said. ‘How successful can it be? Let’s wait and see.’
My life as JD, prostitute extraordinaire and snuffer-out of old men, was officially over. I had a chance to be reborn.
I woke and we were sailing on
As in a gentle weather:
‘Twas night, calm night, the moon was high:
The dead men stood together
When Bernard had said I was doing children’s television, he hadn’t really explained what he meant. It wasn’t going to be quite as dreary as introducing cartoons at three thirty every weekday. Instead I would co-host a programme called Shout!, a hip teenage news show with live bands performing in the studio, broadcast on Saturday mornings.
‘Are you really sure I can do this, Bernard? I haven’t a scrap of experience,’ I said, one night, as we lay in his bed together. I was being nicer and nicer to him as the reality of my new future sank in. Every day I woke with a feeling of pleasurable anticipation and excitement, as though I was about to get a particularly lovely present.
Bernard was blossoming under all the attention. ‘Of course you can. It’s easy as pie! Don’t listen to those silky lies about how difficult it is to do television. If you can read aloud convincingly, you’re almost there . Just practise on a newspaper or something —as long as you can do the autocue, you’ll be fine.’
‘I’m sure I can manage that.’ I knew it wouldn’t be a problem because I’d read all those books to my mother over the years as she reclined picturesquely on the sofa.
‘Your job is to smoulder in a subtle, suggestive but, above all, masculine fashion for the camera. I want teenage girls to play with themselves under the duvet as they’re watching you. Boys, too, if that’s their inclination.’
I understood my brief. This would be a walk in the park.
Six weeks before the show went into production, Bernard summoned me to a meeting at Broadcasting House. The long corridors and the dreary public-school types who haunted them sucked the life out of me, but Catherine clicked alongside me in her killer heels, her blonde hair pulled back in a tight, business-like up-do, and a new shiny leather briefcase tucked under her arm. As my manager, she had insisted that she accompany me to the meeting, even though she had no real idea what a manager’s job was. She seemed to think it meant being as close to me as she could get at all times and she steered me by the elbow as if I was partially sighted, and said a bright, ‘Good morning!’ to everyone we met. Much to my mortification she handed out business cards to the people we stood with in the lift.
‘I think that was Esther Rantzen, presumably on her way to make-up,’ she said excitedly.
‘No, Catherine. It was Simon Fanshawe. After make-up.’
When we found our meeting room, she marched in confidently and shook hands with a bemused Bernard. ‘How do you do? I’m Catherine Baxter, Johnny’s manager.’
‘Er, how do you do?’ said Bernard, and raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Please do come over and sit down.’
We joined the other people at a table laid with a jug of water, glasses and a plate of nasty-looking biscuits, still in their individual cellophane wrappers. Before we’d taken our seats Catherine tapped the water jug accusingly. ‘Is this tap water? Not quite what one expects. My client’s body is a temple, I’ll have you know.’
Bernard coughed and patted the chair next to him. ‘Of course it is, Miss Baxter.’
Next she lunged for t
he biscuits. ‘What’s this muck? Don’t touch them, Johnny!’ she cautioned me, as if she had discovered a landmine. ‘He’s wheat, meat and dairy free,’ she explained to the room in general. ‘He can’t come within ten feet of a Scotch egg.’
‘We’ll see that all his needs are catered for,’ said Bernard. ‘Now, if we can get on. Everybody, this is Johnny Debonair, our new host for Shout!. Johnny, I’ll go round the table and introduce you to everyone. This is Ruby. She’s going to host the programme with you.’
A pretty and demure Asian girl gave me a warm smile. ‘It’s great to meet you, Johnny. I’m really looking forward to working with you.’
I liked her at once.
Next I met the series producer, an unfeasibly thin Geordie woman called Mo, who sat with her legs spread wide apart like a barrow boy.
Mo introduced us to a couple of assistant producers, four runners and a director called Maxwell. I had seen Maxwell out and about at gay venues that favoured military haircuts and camouflage trousers. ‘Can we have pyros?’ was all he seemed interested in. He clearly spent much of his time at the gym but had concentrated somewhat on his upper body ‘T-shirt’ muscles. Wisely, his spindly neglected legs were hidden under the table.
Catherine made lots of notes, which seemed to put everyone on edge. Then she lit a cigarette, which Mo told her curtly to put out. ‘We don’t allow smoking in this department.’
‘Sorry, Mo,’ she said, then dropped it under the table and trod on it. ‘I suppose you go outside when you fancy a pipe, do you?’
Mo gave her a withering look. She explained the format. ‘The show is basically Blue Peter with balls—’
‘My client won’t work with dogs,’ said Catherine. ‘No disrespect to you, Mo.’
I nudged her hard. I was so used to Catherine, and so fond of her, that I hardly noticed how mean she could be, but suddenly I was seeing her as a stranger would. She couldn’t help cracking jokes, no matter how cruel or inappropriate, and she always did it with a completely straight face . I could see that lots of people might not get her.
‘Miss Baxter!’ said Bernard. ‘This is no place for cheap jibes. We’re not at the WI now.’
‘Sorry, Mo,’ said Catherine breezily, but she shut up after that. She wasn’t going to jeopardize this whole TV adventure of ours.
‘Bernard, you carry on,’ Mo said frostily.
‘Very well.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Buzzwords for this show are: funky, energetic, unpredictable and sexy. Our research has shown that our target audience of twelve- to eighteen-year-olds is interested in music, comedy, sexy popstars and clothes. We’re going to give them two hours of their favourite things every Saturday.’
As he spoke Bernard reached under the table and laid his hand gently on my thigh, his fingers undulating in what he imagined was a seductive fashion.
‘Johnny and Ruby are to be über-hip, achingly trendy, gorgeous, clever and very “now”. In fact, they sum up our show. Our viewers throughout the United Kingdom must want to be Johnny and Ruby, speak like them, wear their clothes, have their babies.’
Ruby and I looked at each other and smiled.
‘I’ll do Wakes if you do Scotland’, I scribbled on a notepad, then passed it to her.
‘I’ll toss you for Northern Ireland’, she wrote back.
This was going to be fun, I could tell.
Straight after the meeting, Ruby and I were whisked to a photo studio in the basement. There we posed against the show’s DayGlo logo while Bernard jumped about behind the photographer, shouting, ‘Rest your arm on his shoulder, Ruby! Show us those beautiful teeth, Johnny! Think pow! Pizzazz! Hit series!’
The sight of this middle-aged man wearing M&S jeans and snowy white deck shoes punching the air and trying to do young-people-speak was too much: Ruby and I began to laugh, and the flashbulb popped away merrily. These were the photos that would soon be printed large in every TV listing in every newspaper and magazine in the country.
Slowly the form and shape of the show was revealed to us. The entire studio was to be done out in geometric black and white shapes. There were three performance areas — one in which the bands would play; another, cosier, interview ‘den’; and a games-and-sketches playground where anything might happen. We had a resident troupe of ex-Cambridge Footlights types, who performed topical sketches making fun of current affairs. A live audience of two hundred carefully selected punks, Goths and bright young things would be hyped up to laugh at and cheer our every utterance. Standing, not seated, they would swarm from stage to stage to catch the action. Even the camera angles would be wild and crazy, with cranes and cameramen suspended from the rigging on bungee wires.
I looked at sketches, models and scripts but nothing prepared me for the scale and brightness of the reality. There seemed to be hundreds of people working on the show, climbing ladders, cradling cables as if they were new-born lambs or barking into walkie-talkies and calling for barn doors. It was madness.
My first experience of walking into the studio and standing on the set in front of all those cameras was pretty terrifying. It was only a rehearsal but my legs were shaking. Ruby had already done a series of The Basil Brush Show so she knew the ropes. She took my hand and must have felt how clammy I was. She gave me a squeeze. ‘Television’s easy,’ she said. ‘If Nicky Campbell can do this, so can you.’
Bernard had arranged for us to have an hour or so to practise with the autocue, and after five minutes I knew I had the hang of it. God bless my mother and those late-night reading sessions.
The floor manager was a talk, agitated man with a shaved head, and it was made clear to me quickly that I must keep my eye on him and follow his instructions. He would cue me, point to the relevant camera or signal for me to move on to the next item when the time came. My make-up artist, Anita, who smelt of exotic incense and had an elaborately tattooed neck, said I was so beautiful I only needed a light dusting of powder. She leant in towards my ear. ‘And I have a variety to choose from, if you catch my drift.’
On our very first show we had the Backstreet Boys and Björk performing live, and Ruby and I chatted to M People about their new album and tour, joined in with sketches and improvised or flirted our way out of trouble. One of the quirky rules of the show was the klaxon: whenever a deafening fog-horn sounded, everyone had to join in a Mexican wave while singing a bastardized salsa version of Jason Donovan’s ‘Especially For You’. No one explained why.
The two hours of my television début flew by. With Ruby’s calming influence and Anita’s invigorating powder, I felt very comfortable indeed.
‘You’re a natural! A star is born! Words fail me!’ said Bernard afterwards, wiping a tear from his eye.
Shout! was an instant success, lauded immediately as the epitome of cool, youthful broadcasting.
After the second week’s show I found a gaggle of breathless, excited young girls waiting for me outside Television Centre, wanting me to scribble my name across a publicity still they’d got hold of. Next week the show was ‘Pick of the Day’ in almost every paper, and Ruby and I were on the cover of the TV Times. What was more, the Daily Mirror said I was the sexiest thing on television since Starsky and Hutch.
Fanmail began to arrive, scores of letters each day, and people on the street did double-takes, pointing, whispering excitedly and calling my name. As the weeks went by and fame crept up on me, the public’s reactions became increasingly vocal and adoring. Catherine enjoyed nothing more than pushing my fans out of the way, acting as my bodyguard and informing them she had a black belt in origami.
I loved doing Shout!. The adrenaline high of live television was like nothing I’d ever known. Ruby and I sparked off each other beautifully and we were full of energy and raring to go as the clock ticked down to nine a.m., the camera lights went red and the stern floor manager made the hand signal that told us we were live on air. We felt confident and euphoric. We were a hit.
‘This doesn’t happen very often in a television career,
’ Ruby said to me, after rehearsals one week. ‘We must enjoy it, savour our moment. Most TV is crap, after all.’
Viewing figures multiplied at a terrific rate. Our catchphrase (‘Shout! Everybody, shout!’) and games (‘Call My Bluff for obscure, mild expletives, and ‘Name That Condom’) were a national obsession. Our disrespectful version of ‘Especially For You ‘was a playground craze in schools everywhere, and Shout! merchandise was quickly designed and rushed into the shops. Even though she was inundated with requests for me to make personal appearances, Catherine made sure I got twenty-five pence from each novelty mug that was sold and tenpence from Shout! toothbrushes.
In the evenings she and I would sit together in our flat, making plans, taking drugs, laughing and generally marvelling at the change in our lives.
‘I can’t believe it, Cowboy. You’re famous! You’re a star.’
‘Maybe not quite yet,’ I said modestly. ‘More of a starlet.’
‘Yes, but you will be. I can feel it in my waters, like the first tingle you get that indicates the mother of all orgasms is heading your way. The sensation is remarkably similar. I’ve got big plans. I’m getting those offices I told you about. We’re going to be mega. Mega-mega!’
‘Mega, smegma,’ I said carelessly, shrugging my shoulders. But inside I was thrilled.
My only worry was that one of my clients might recognize me and decide to spill the beans, but I put that out of my mind. Most of them — particularly the married ones — wouldn’t be over-eager to describe their sexual predilections, and the rest would either not recognize me out of situ or wouldn’t care if they did. A few of my favourites would probably just think, ‘Good on you, JD. Go and get a bit of the high life …’
And why not? After all, I’d been lowlife for long enough.
