Ooh! What a Lovely Pair: Our Story

by Ant McPartlin

  After a while Lisa would come to our PJ and Duncan gigs – that’s how nice she was – and she’d get the kind of abuse any boy-band member’s girlfriend faced from teenage fans. She handled it brilliantly and, being in a band herself, she knew that kind of thing came with the territory. Deuce released one album before going their separate ways. Lisa always says Steps came along and stole their thunder, but thank god Deuce did that album – I never would have met Lisa without them, and she’s been by my side for the last fifteen years.

  And they make a beautiful couple. Not as beautiful a couple as me and Ant, mind, but beautiful nonetheless.

  By December 1994, after a year of working non-stop and trying to get our music careers off the ground, we only had one thing on our minds, and that was Christmas at home. We’d spent the last few months of the year looking forward to it, like a couple of kids looking forward to Christmas. Apart from the occasional weekend or a night here and there, we hadn’t been back to Newcastle all year. We’d been far too busy seeing the world – the world of under-18s discos and single rooms at the Travelodge. We couldn’t wait to enjoy the peace and tranquillity of home, a place where we wouldn’t be bothered and where we were safe from the outside world. Basically, we saw Newcastle as a giant version of The Prev.

  What we didn’t know was that everything had changed for us at home. Don’t get me wrong, our bedrooms hadn’t been rented out or anything, but things were definitely different. Local fans had found out where our houses were, and they decided to celebrate that fact by standing outside them morning, noon and night. And these girls were tough. They stood there for weeks on end, despite the fact that December in Newcastle is what a weatherman would call ‘absolutely bloody freezing’. They didn’t care about that, though; nothing could cure their adolescent obsession with staring at the front door of PJ or Duncan’s house. You were always caught in two minds about fans like that. On the one hand, they were the whole reason you sold records and had a career; on the other, when they were in your garden or sticking their noses to the kitchen window, it felt like a bit of an invasion. The best approach was to go out, sign some autographs, pose for a few pictures and hope that a trade-off like that would be enough for them to – how can I put it? – Go Away.

  It wasn’t always that simple, though. There was one day during that Christmas holiday when my mam took pity on a couple of the fans. I came home one afternoon, walked into the kitchen and found two girls, who both let out huge screams when they saw me. I thought I’d walked into the wrong house at first, then my mam explained. She’d seen the girls freezing outside and invited them in for a cup of tea and some quality time in the McPartlin kitchen. It was an act of great compassion and generosity, which was to be applauded. Although obviously not by me – she’d left me alone with two of Newcastle’s biggest PJ fans. I stood in the kitchen with them for the longest twenty minutes of my life. They spent the whole time in complete silence, which seemed strange, considering the talent they’d previously displayed for making noise. I stood there trying to make small talk about digestives, and they just carried on staring at me. The whole thing was very awkward, I couldn’t stand the heat but, unfortunately, I couldn’t get out of the kitchen.

  That Christmas was hard work. Everyone would be asking me about where I’d been and what I’d been doing and, to be honest, it was the last thing on earth I wanted to talk about. I was wanting a nice, relaxing Christmas. Frankly, I was sick to the back teeth of PJ and bloody Duncan.

  Going back to see my old mates felt different too. The first time I met up with Ginger, Boppa, Athey and Goody that Christmas, it took most of the night to get up to speed about what they were doing. They’d ask about Top of the Pops and, to their credit, they managed to keep a straight face but, generally, I tried not to go on about life in the Top-65 fast lane too much. I was especially keen not to tell them about being second on the bill to a herd of cows and getting spat at by the teenage boys of Great Britain. Partly because I didn’t want to sound like I was bragging, and partly ’cos there was nothing to brag about. After all, I wasn’t head over heels in love with every single part of pop-star life.

  And, in the pub, you just couldn’t win. Either you got a round in and everyone accused you of being a Flash Harry, or you tried to just pay your fair share and they’d think you were being tight. When you’re in your late teens, everyone’s life changes pretty drastically – people get jobs, go to university or appear on Top of the Pops in large orange shirts. In Newcastle, I’d always just been ‘Fonsey and Anne’s youngest’, just another one of the Donnellys, but now it seemed like people were looking at me differently, which is quite a disconcerting thing to happen. Suddenly nothing seems to be how it was, and when everything changes it can leave you a little disorientated and unsure of where to turn.

  One day of that Christmas holiday really stands out, because I was the victim of a heinous crime. I was at home, and my mam had just finished what is technically known as ‘a big wash’. I came downstairs and, as I walked past the windows, I heard the by now familiar sound of the fans outside screaming – it always sounded like someone was showing horror films in our front garden. Walking into the kitchen, where most of the washing was drying, I suddenly saw this hand shoot in through the open window and grab a pair of my boxer shorts. My immediate reaction was ‘That’s burglary, I should call 999,’ then I began to imagine the scene if the police were called out to investigate The Great Boxer-short Mystery of ’94 and decided there was probably no point calling them. I always assumed it was one of the female fans whodunnit. She might even have been one of the girls who’d thrown bras and knickers at us on stage, but if she was trying to start some sort of underwear-exchange system, this wasn’t the way to go about it.

  I managed to keep all my underwear, but I did have my own problems at home. Problems with, of all things, the telephone. My mam and dad were still in the phone book, so anyone could get our number – it was 0191 272 4321, in case you’re interested. Fans would find the number, then ring the house and ask to speak to me. You’d think that sort of thing could be slightly irritating, but you’d be wrong. It was infuriating. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that, on Christmas Day 1994, the phone rang solidly for fourteen hours. We got through the presents, breakfast, Christmas dinner and the Queen’s Speech, all to the sound of the phone ringing. We had relatives trying to phone and wish us Happy Christmas, and they couldn’t get through. The fans would just ring and say ‘Is Declan there?’, and I’d hang up, but before I could sit down, it would ring again. And again. And again. It never stopped, but my parents wanted to keep their number, because it ended in 4321, and they liked that set of numbers (at the time they were also huge fans of the chocolate bar 5-4-3-2-1 – they love a set of descending digits, my mam and dad). Only a month earlier, PJ and Duncan had released ‘If I Give You My Number’, and people were taking it a bit too literally for my liking. I was keen to record a Christmas single called ‘Please Stop Ringing My House, The Turkey’s Getting Cold’, but no one at the record company seemed very interested.

  1994 became 1995, as you might expect, in early January, and that was when we got a call from Dave Holly. He had some amazing news. Psyche had gone platinum. It had peaked at number five in the album charts and had now sold 500,000 copies. We were stunned, it felt like a real achievement. I think the Christmas-present market probably accounted for a lot of that – at the time, we were told that an estimated 300,000 people had been given Psyche as a gift.

  I think most of them rang my house on Christmas Day to tell me about it.

  To celebrate this, we’d been booked to go on Top of the Pops’ special show on 5 January. We were due to perform heart-rending ballad and Truck Fest favourite ‘Eternal Love’, but it meant our Christmas was cut short. We had to leave for London immediately. In the space of a few days, I’d lost the rest of my precious holiday and a pair of boxer shorts. 1995 had not started well.

  By February, we’d released our sixth – yes, s
ixth – and final single from Psyche, ‘Our Radio Rocks’, and, if you thought a platinum album and a second appearance on Top of the Pops was exciting, what happened next was probably the single biggest achievement of our music career. The record company tipped us off about what was one of the freakiest occurrences in the history of British pop music – PJ and Duncan had been nominated for a BRIT Award. I couldn’t have been more surprised if we’d made the shortlist for Rear of the Year. We were nominated in the category of Best Newcomer, and we just couldn’t believe it. Clearly the record industry was starting to take notice of Psyche’s success, and the fact that we were shortlisted for a BRIT award was a fantastic accolade.

  The awards were held on 20 February and were hosted by TV’s golden – or ginger – boy of the time, Chris Evans. Having been in the music biz for almost sixteen whole months by this point, we were pretty sure of one thing: when it came to winning a BRIT Award, we were a long shot but, you never know: we might just surprise everyone and take the title. Our management told us that, ‘The record company thought it would be a good idea’ if we did something that would get us some attention on the night, something that made a bit of a statement about PJ and Duncan – a statement that, for once, wouldn’t include the words ‘Geordies’, ‘pint-sized’ and ‘cheeky’. Telstar came up with a plan for us to make a splash – we were going to make a grand entrance by arriving in a mode of transport no one else would be using and that would guarantee press attention. We would turn up to the BRITS in an ice-cream van.

  It’s hard to think of a worse idea than turning up to the BRIT Awards in an ice-cream van, but Telstar talked us into it, and the ice-cream van was booked. I doubt that was a difficult job; I don’t suppose there’s much call for ice-cream vans in the middle of February. The plan was we’d turn up in the ice-cream van, jump out of the serving hatch and have our photos taken, which would be hilarious and ‘crazy’. I still have no idea why it had to be an ice-cream van; none of our songs had anything to do with frozen desserts.

  The night of the ceremony came around. It was being held in Alexandra Palace in North London. We were coming from a hotel in another part of London, and we told the record company there was no way we’d travel all the way there in the ice-cream van. After all, we had our dignity. Well, okay, we didn’t have any dignity, we just didn’t want to get cold. They arranged for a car to take us there – it wasn’t The Prev, it was probably in the car wash having the lipstick removed – and the plan was to wait until we got round the corner from the venue and then get out of the car and into the ice-cream van.

  To make sure it arrived on time, the van set off early from the depot – sometime in mid-January I think and, as planned, we met it round the corner from Alexandra Palace. That’s when we faced our first problem. What with the BRITs being a huge international music event and everything, the traffic was horrendous. We were in that van for ages, inching our way there. We’d had a few drinks back in our hotel before we left, and a few more in the car, all of which meant that we were both desperate for the toilet. It made a very slow journey very painful. I remember eyeing a few empty ice-cream tubs but resisted the temptation and, besides, it would all be worth it because, when we arrived, we were going to get so much press attention.

  So although we were stuck in an ice-cream van, perched on a couple of boxes of cones, sweating our crushed velvet suits off and dying for the toilet, we were dead excited. It took what seemed like an eternity but, finally, we arrived at Ally Pally, ready to make our big entrance. The van pulled up, we clambered out of the hatch and jumped down, striking our best ‘wacky’ poses, only to find there was absolutely no one there. Not a soul. The journey had taken so long that all the celebrities had already gone in, the pit of paparazzi had emptied and the red carpet was actually being rolled up. The only people who saw our dramatic entrance were a few door stewards and the driver of the ice-cream van, and I think he was reading the paper.

  We put it behind us, made our way inside, had a massive pee and took our seats. The ceremony itself was brilliant. Blur were the big winners that year. They won best album, video, British group and single, for ‘Parklife’. Finally, our moment arrived, the Best Newcomer category. They showed a bit of each nominee’s video, and a nice little cheer went up in the room for ours. Then it was time. The envelope was opened, I remember my heart beating in my chest harder and louder than it ever had done before and, although the sensible, rational part of me was saying, ‘We’re not going to win, we’re not going to win,’ there was still a mischievous voice saying, ‘Maybe. Maybe you’ve won it. It could happen.’ That’s how drunk we were.

  Along with the three other bands in our category, the night ended in disappointment. Us, Echobelly, Eternal and Portis-head all left the BRITs empty-handed. As for the winners of the 1995 Best Newcomer Award, well, apparently they’re still together and they’re doing okay. They were a little band called Oasis.

  Shortly after the BRITs, the PJ and Duncan adventure took a whole new twist, with a strange and unpredictable experience the record company called overseas promotion. Over the next few years, we were to get very used to punting our own unique brand of ‘pop with a smile on its face’ round the far-flung corners of the globe. We went round Europe, Australia and the Far East, and it was, at times, bizarre, surreal and insane – and that was just our choice of outfits. It was a great way to see the world. We saw TV studios in Germany, TV studios in France and even a radio station in Stockholm. It’s true what they say: travel really does broaden the mind.

  We also learnt something about French pop-music policy. If you’re not, and I sincerely hope you’re not, a nineties-French-pop aficionado, you might not be aware of this, but 40 per cent of the songs played on French radio must, by law, be by French artists. It really is the law, and you go to pop-music prison if you break that law. After hearing that, our management had wisely decided that the chances of PJ and Duncan getting a look-in were about the same as me getting my stolen boxer shorts back. Then the record company got a call with news that surprised us all: ‘Our Radio Rocks’ was rocketing up the French charts. They told us to take our spectacular and visually stunning live show out there immediately, so Dec grabbed the CD, I dug out my favourite baseball cap, and we headed for the airport.

  I’ve never understood why you have to promote something that’s already doing well, but ‘the record company thought it was a good idea.’ You can guess what’s coming next, can’t you?

  We arrived in Paris, where we’d been booked to appear on the French equivalent of the Smash Hits Poll Winners Party. I can’t remember the name of the event itself, it may have been Le Poll Winners Partie de Smash Hits – my French is a bit rusty. It was in a massive arena that had been filled with ten thousand French teenagers, and it was being broadcast live on French TV. It was the same mime and the same dance moves we’d done a hundred times to ‘Our Radio Rocks’, so we didn’t need any rehearsal, we were perfectly happy to just turn up and do it. We didn’t speak a word of the language, but these French pop fans knew how much our radio rocked, so what could possibly go wrong?

  In a word: everything. We went on stage to the opening bars and struck our usual poses, ready to go into our normal radio-rocking routine. The song carried on playing and – there’s no other way to say this – it was a track we’d never heard in our lives. I felt sick. Our dance moves didn’t fit the music, the vocals had changed – the whole thing was our worst nightmare. The French TV producers had forgotten to tell us that the track that was doing so well in the French charts was the 12-inch dance remix. We were live in front of ten thousand screaming French teenagers and in millions of people’s homes, performing to a track we were hearing for the very first time. And, because it was the twelve-inch extended mix, it seemed to last about three and a half hours.

  On the off chance that any of you lovely readers aren’t familiar with ‘Our Radio Rocks (The Loony Toons House Mix)’, then let me explain. As with most dance remixes, they’d stripped out a
lmost all of the vocals, and when those vocals did come in, they were sampled and r-r-r-r-repeated, so they bore no resemblance to the original track. We quickly worked out that the best strategy was to keep the microphones clamped to our lips at all times, because we had no idea when the vocals would start or stop.

  It was a disaster. Deprived of our usual routine, we ended up inventing dance moves on the spot, and we were both completely out of time with the music and each other. There were cameras pointed in our faces and we had no idea what to do, so we kept criss-crossing the stage to try and stop the cameras following us. Vocals were coming in left, right and centre, and I was just thinking, ‘Is that me, or is that Dec?’ In a pop career full of unmitigated disasters, this was one of the largest-scale cock-ups of the lot. The whole thing made Truck Fest seem like a walk in the park. Or a walk in the field, which is actually what it was.

  Usually, after a gig, you’d come off stage and the other bands would congratulate you on your performance. That night, no one even looked us in the eye and, if they had, they would have burst out laughing. Our French pop career began and ended that day.

  Foreign promotion wasn’t all disastrous live performances though. Just like in the UK, we used to do days on end of interviews. They’d start at nine in the morning and finish at six at night, and you’d spend the whole time being interviewed, previewed and reviewed. Believe me, there’s only so long you can talk about what you do for a living. So, to keep ourselves amused, we started to make stuff up. For some reason, this tended to happen a lot in Germany. One interviewer asked about the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to me. I said to Dec, ‘Remember that time my trousers fell down on stage, and then I fell off the stage and then I landed on a fan without my trousers and ended up doing the rest of the gig in a pink tutu?’ After a while, delirium would set in and we’d say anything to try and make each other laugh. I’m not sure we made a very good impression.