Ooh! What a Lovely Pair: Our Story

by Ant McPartlin

  You may have worked it out for yourself by now, but these dogs were not, as previously claimed, housetrained. It was like having a baby in the house – and there’s only room for one baby in my house – and that’s me. You had to walk them, feed them, get up and let them out…

  You do realize you’re just describing what it’s like to have a dog? Millions of people all over the country manage it.

  I know, but we’re on the telly, we don’t know how to do stuff like that. My dog, Pudding, was never too keen to wait till she got outside to relieve herself. I’d carry her upstairs, then she’d get excited, run down the stairs and pee all over the cream carpet in my living room. By the time we arrived at the office for our final script meeting on the Friday, I was furious and exhausted – and, to make things worse, we had to bring the dogs to work with us. I sat around the table at the script meeting, ranting about how awful the week had been and how little sleep I’d had – all thanks to this puppy. Everyone there – producers, writers, directors – was sniggering, because they thought I was overreacting and being a drama queen.

  They know him very well.

  We were in the middle of a script meeting when Pudding proceeded to have a poo in the corner of the office. We didn’t think the script was that bad, but Pudding clearly wasn’t impressed. Suddenly, the very people who’d been laughing at my dog dramas started retching and leaving the room. Now they knew how I felt. It was the only good thing that puppy did all week. Anyway, the main thing is that, now, four years later, I’ve put the whole thing behind me and it doesn’t make me incredibly angry to think about it and talk about it.

  Yeah, listening to you, that’s pretty obvious.

  A couple of weeks after the hounds of hell, which Dec won, we faced possibly the most manly challenge of our entire career: riding motorbikes through a ring of fire. On the surface, it was simple, if a bit scary – we would be taught to ride the bikes off a ramp and through a ring of fire, standing up. The person who jumped the furthest would be the winner. Even saying it now, I can’t believe they let us do it.

  When we turned up for the training, and because I’m a slightly smaller gentleman, none of the bikes fitted me. The practice we did was frustrating because I just couldn’t ‘get it’. The thing is, as you go up the ramp, you’ve got to speed up, so you have enough momentum to land on your back wheel, because otherwise you’ll go over the handlebars. I just couldn’t get it right – at one point, I would’ve happily swapped it for another week of dog-training.

  You don’t mean that.

  You’re right, I don’t but, despite my shortcomings, I was determined to make a go of it for one good reason – I couldn’t stand the thought of Ant beating me in a single challenge. To make matters worse, we’d never rehearsed with the fire, it was too dangerous, so the plan was they’d only set it alight for the actual challenge.

  When they lit the ring, the whole thing felt more terrifying than ever. Despite all your instincts, you’ve got to go faster as you get nearer the fire and all the practising goes out the window. In the end, I just had to go for it. As I hit the ramp, the time came to go full throttle, and I pulled on the accelerator but, even as I did it, I knew it wasn’t enough. I had, in no uncertain terms, bottled it. The bike still hurtled through the ring of fire, smoke momentarily filled my helmet, and I took off through the air. I’d done it. I’d made it through the fire and was preparing to land. Then, at the peak of my jump, the bike slowly turned, the front wheel dropped and, next thing I knew, I was being thrown over the handlebars and the ground was heading towards me very quickly. I decided to let go of the bike, it went behind me, and I hit the ground – hard.

  I had no idea any of this was going on. I’d been taken to an ‘isolation booth’, where I had to wear a blindfold and earmuffs, so I wouldn’t know how Dec had done. And, by the way, when I say booth, I basically mean a balsa-wood box covered in glitter. I was in there for ages… and ages… and ages. I started to smell smoke. ‘Well, the fire’s lit,’ I thought, and waited some more. Still no one came to get me. Eventually, I ran out of patience, took off my blindfold and my earmuffs and got out of my balsa-wood box, sorry, booth. The first thing I saw was a group of the army display-team experts, stood in full military uniform and headgear, looking sombrely down at Dec, who was in a heap on the floor. I thought he was dead.

  At least that would’ve meant you won the challenge…

  I rode my bike over and was relieved to hear Dec making some nasty noises, because he’d been so severely winded. The reason everyone was standing around him was because there were paparazzi in the trees, and standing that way meant they couldn’t get a photo. To me, though, the circle made it look like they were paying their last respects…

  I was taken to hospital with concussion and a fractured elbow. You won’t be surprised to hear that the challenges for the rest of the series weren’t too physical – we did darts, memory games and anything else that could be done with one arm. But the most important thing was that I still won the series. As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve won them all, but the ones that are the most satisfying are the ones I did with one arm and still I beat him.

  All right, that’s enough; you’ll end up with another broken arm if you keep gloating like that.

  Chapter 36

  Right, time for Dec to shut up for a while, because I want to tell the readers how my beautiful girlfriend Lisa became my lovely wife Lisa.

  Sounds like my cue to go and put the kettle on.

  Thanks, and remember, I have one sugar in coffee but no sugar in tea, and I’d like a… tea. Oh, and also there are some Blue Ribands in the bottom cupboard next to the sink.

  This stuff isn’t really meant for the book is it? I’m sure someone’ll take it out.

  So, by the time I actually proposed to Lisa, she and I had been together for eleven years – you can probably tell that I don’t like to rush things. As anyone who’s been in a long-term relationship will know, when you’ve been together for ages, people start asking you one question: ‘When are you going to propose?’ Well, in 2005, I did it. In April, Lisa and I went on holiday to Dubai. What Lisa didn’t know is that, before we left, I bought a ring and made a few arrangements for when we would be out there.

  Once we got there and I’d finished worrying about losing the ring, we went on a trek over the sand dunes. It’s one of those expeditions you do as part of a convoy consisting of twenty or so 4x4 dune buggies that drive across the desert together. We’d been to Dubai together once before and had done a similar trip, so when I told Lisa, her response was, understandably, ‘What, again? That’s such a boysy thing to do.’ She wasn’t hugely keen, to be honest. But I had a few tricks up my sleeve. So there we were in our dune buggy, and when suddenly all the other buggies went right and I turned left towards a couple of camels waiting for us with a guide, Lisa was very surprised.

  After a bit of a camel trek, we arrived at a huge Bedouin tent I’d booked. There was a big rug that had been laid out on the dunes for us and, while dinner was being cooked, we lay down on it and looked up at the moon and the stars. By this point, Lisa definitely thought this excursion was a good idea. So, right there and then, in the moonlight, I asked her to be my wife. She couldn’t believe it, which I suppose, considering I’d made her wait eleven years, was fair enough. After she’d finished saying, ‘Really? Really? Really?’, I said, ‘Is that a yes, then?’ She told me it was, and I went to get some champagne that had been kept chilled in a cool bag inside the tent. We were engaged – and we were both over the moon, as well as being under the moon, if you know what I mean. Lisa was so happy that she couldn’t resist ringing everyone she knew at home.

  I was chuffed that everything had turned out so perfectly, especially considering that, twenty-four hours earlier, the whole thing was almost ruined. Because we were on holiday, I had turned my phone off and was just switching it on once a day to check my messages. The previous evening, I’d turned it on, and there was a message from Ali. It s
aid, ‘I hate to have to ask you this, but have you bought Lisa an engagement ring from Tiff any’s? I’ve had a call from the Sun, and they’re going to publish a story saying you’ve proposed.’ Someone had seen me in the jeweller’s shop, and had sold the story.

  I was really annoyed – we’ve never courted publicity as a couple, and this was a personal moment that was in danger of being hijacked by a newspaper. The worst thing was that, because of the time difference between London and Dubai, they were going to run the story before I’d actually popped the question. I knew that, if that happened, then all Lisa’s friends would call and text to congratulate us and I wouldn’t even have proposed yet. Plus, one of Lisa’s mates was expecting a baby any day, so she was constantly checking her phone for news. In the end, the Sun agreed to do the honourable thing and wait a day, but it was a close shave.

  Not only did we have a wedding to look forward to, but we were also about to make another big commitment – to star in our first feature film. For the previous few years, Paul, our manager had been sent various film scripts but, when we read them, we felt like none of them was quite right. We had a thing called the twenty-page test, which, as the title suggests, meant that, if it didn’t grab us after twenty pages, it went in the bin. Incidentally, the fact that you’ve got this far in the book means we’ve passed your twenty-page test, so thank God for that.

  Just before Christmas, Paul teased us by saying, ‘I’ve got something you’ll really like, but go away, have your holiday and then I’ll show it to you when you get back.’ I thought he was going to give me a late Christmas present, maybe a nice jumper, but it turned out to be a film script which he’d been sent and enjoyed which, in hindsight, was better than a nice jumper.

  At the beginning of the year he gave us the script for Alien Autopsy and, while we were filming some new opening titles for Saturday Night Takeaway, I started reading it between takes. Before I knew it, I was on page forty-five – the equivalent of passing not one but two twenty-page tests. When I’d finished it, I went and told Ant I loved it and that he had to read it. He did and, similarly, loved it straight away. It was a true story about Ray Santilli and Gary Schofield, two blokes from London who, in 1994, had filmed a fake alien autopsy and fooled the world into believing it was genuine footage from the so-called ‘alien’ spotted in Roswell, New Mexico, in 1947.

  It looked like the right script had finally come along. It had two great parts which, for a double act, is important, and we were really keen to do it. We met up with Will Davies, the writer, Barnaby Thompson, the producer, and Jonny Campbell, the director. Apparently, Jonny had been watching I’m a Celebrity… with his wife after reading it, and she’d said, ‘What about those two for your film?’ His response had been, ‘Great idea – but can they act?’ If I’d been there in their living room and heard that question, I would’ve said three words to him: ‘Blinded.’ ‘By.’ ‘Paintball.’

  At the meeting with Jonny, Will and Barnaby, we read through a few scenes for them. They seemed pretty happy and then said, ‘Great, now can you come and audition?’ The last thing we’d auditioned for was Byker Grove – and that was over fifteen years ago. Plus, we’d been messing about on telly for over ten years by this point. Did this sort of thing happen to Robert De Niro?

  I doubt it, but then I’m not sure he would’ve been any good at Wonkey Donkey either, so I suppose it’s swings and roundabouts.

  Preparing for the audition was strange – nerve-wracking, but incredibly exciting too. We had to learn some big scenes, and going back to acting was quite a challenge. It was completely different from The Likely Lads, which we’d done a couple of years earlier; it was a ‘proper film’ that would be shown in cinemas and everything. I remember being filled with some of the same fear and nerves I’d had at the auditions back at the Mitre.

  Despite our fears, the audition went well and we both got the parts – but then I don’t suppose they were ever going to hire just one of us. We were very excited when we got the news. It was a brand-new challenge, and the next thing to do was start rehearsals. Jonny, the director, pushed us hard. One of the first things we worked on was the pitch of our performance and the delivery. Because we were so used to entertainment shows, we were inclined to play everything for laughs – when there was a funny line, our voice would naturally go up at the end of the sentence, to draw the audience’s attention to the gag. Jonny wanted us to play the whole thing much straighter and more subtly and, at first, we found it difficult to know what he thought of our performances. He wasn’t the kind of bloke who’d say, ‘Yeah, that’s it – well done,’ so we were constantly questioning ourselves about how it was going and if we were pitching it right. It might have been a comedy film, but we took it very, very seriously.

  It wasn’t until we got on to set and started filming that we got to know Jonny better and struck up a bit of a rapport with him, and it was great to be there, working with other actors. The buzz you got after doing a good scene was amazing – and totally different from the buzz you get from a live TV show, because it wasn’t so instant. On a film set, there’s no audience laughing and cheering at you – we’d asked for one, but were told it wasn’t the done thing. When you’re acting, it’s more of a slow-burn process, but just as satisfying. We had to learn to pace ourselves in more ways than one. Normally, our week builds up to one intense hour of live TV, but with acting you’re off and on and, particularly with films, there’s a lot of waiting around – although you do at least get a trailer to wait around in, which makes you feel like a film star, even when in our case, you’re clearly not one.

  After eight weeks filming in London, it was time to get even more showbiz and fly to Hollywood. It was another one of those experiences when you pinch yourself: we got to film on the Sunset Strip, driving a Cadillac in the middle of the LA sunshine. People were looking at us from the pavement – sorry, sidewalk – and, once they’d clocked the cameras, you could see them straining their necks, thinking, ‘Who is it? Who is it?’ I wanted to shout, ‘It’s me! It’s me!’ I didn’t though – they would’ve thought I was mad, as they didn’t have a clue who I was.

  One of the other big thrills about filming in the States was working with Harry Dean Stanton, a craggy-faced American character actor who was in Paris, Texas, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and played Molly Ring-wald’s dad in Pretty in Pink. Every line on his face seems to tell a different story – at least it would, if he was in the habit of telling any stories: we quickly learnt that Harry likes to keep himself to himself.

  I had one very long scene with Harry, just me and him, on our own, in a car, on a night shoot. We sat in a pick-up truck together for hours, while he gave an incredibly convincing performance as a chain-smoking actor on a night shoot. No matter how much I coughed – which was a lot – he didn’t stop. He didn’t give a toss and, although I wasn’t keen on inhaling his smoke, I admired him for his dedication to cigarettes.

  Because he was such a private guy, not really the sort of man who enjoyed small talk, we were never sure what Harry thought of us. One night, he invited us to go for a drink with him, which was a real thrill. We immediately accepted, and he took us to a place called Dan Tana’s on Santa Monica Boulevard. It was one of his regular haunts and was like something out of Goodfellas – all empty wine bottles with candles in, red-and-white-checked tablecloths and a clientele perched at the bar who looked like they could be close business associates of Tony Soprano. Although, if they’re reading this, I’m sure they weren’t – I don’t want to end up sleeping with the fishes.

  One by one, Harry’s friends joined us, and each one was scarier and weirder than the last. There was a detective from the LAPD homicide department, a black guy who ran an after-hours drinking den and, finally, an ex-boxer who’d only ever had one professional fight, which he insisted on telling everyone about in great detail. It was one of the most terrifiying meals of my life.

  About six months later, we were back in LA for some meetings about TV shows, a
nd we went out for dinner in a restaurant and, who should be in there, but the world’s most dedicated smoker, our old friend Harry Dean. He was deep in conversation with some of his mates, and we didn’t want to disturb him, so we waited till we were leaving. I went over (seeing as I’d had the most scenes with him), and opened with, ‘Hi Harry, good to see you.’ He looked back at me, smiled and said it was good to see me too. I knew it wasn’t, and I can confidently say, even though we’d only been filming with him a few months earlier, he didn’t have a clue who I was.

  They say you know you’ve made it in Hollywood when your fellow actors start recognizing you in restaurants so, for us two, that was when we knew for definite we hadn’t made it in Hollywood. We went back to doing what we do best – British telly.

  A year or so earlier, we’d come up with an idea for an innovative, multilayered high-concept TV show that was all about… playing golf. We started playing golf ourselves in 2004, when, with a load of our mates, we formed the Chiswick Royal and Ancient Golf Society. The society includes, among others, Jonny Wilkes, Paul and Darren, Alan Conley (our floor manager), David Staite, Andy Collins (our warm-up man for Takeaway), and Si Hargreaves. Every year, we play four tournaments, and they often mean going abroad for a weekend of committed drinking with a little bit of golf thrown in. I love those weekends, because you can just be yourself, and it doesn’t matter who you are, or what you normally do, this is just a chance to be one of the lads.