by Danny Baker
If we were photographed in a pub on a Monday and then again on a Thursday, it was presumed and indeed printed that we had been at it for the whole four days. To be fair, sometimes Chris actually had. (I have never in my life known anyone who could keep up an almighty pace like Chris Evans, but that truly is another story.)
Me? I could manage the occasional long day’s carousing, but like most men, not the way I could in my teens and twenties. Besides, I had a terrific home life with young children and, though the idea that I was part of some new hell-raising elite could be flattering and amusing in equal part, it certainly did not fit with the lifestyle of a middle-aged dad making the school run most mornings. Also my wife is not exactly the long-suffering little woman who waits and weeps.
Then there’s Gazza himself. Gazza never could and never will be able to drink alcohol. In those days this was true in every sense of that phrase, literal and physical. Not only would two beers have him swaying on his axis with the world doing a Watusi around him, but he never seemed to really like the stuff. Whenever possible, he did his best to avoid alcohol.
An early trick I observed, and a common one for men who feel intimidated by the capacity of those around them, was to surreptitiously pour booze away when he thought everyone else was distracted. I’d see him take a drink from the table and, while keeping his eyes directly on whoever was talking, slowly drop his arm down by his ankles. The glass would quickly emerge a couple of inches less full. He would then wink at me and silently motion that I should keep quiet. He would do this, of course, while regularly motioning the bar staff to keep them coming for everyone else. He loved nothing more than being part of – indeed, being the cause of – a good time. The fact that he was always slightly apart from and outside the euphoria might only be detected through longer exposure to his hosting technique.
In the early days, with just the three of us, Paul would actually seek ‘permission’ to either miss a round or have a soft drink. ‘Lads, I’m lagging, I can’t do it any more – do you mind if I have a Coke or something?’ Yet if somebody else joined us he would say he was on the vodka and Cokes and, subsequently being bought one, dutifully drink it down in one huge gulp. Never wanting to disappoint, he would slip into the cartoon Gazza of red-top legend.
Later, he took to ordering bizarre and comical combinations as if to satisfy both sides of this ludicrous social pressure. If you hadn’t seen him for a while it was intriguing to see which two disparate drinks he might have moved on to in the interim. Brandy and 7-Up. Malibu and blackcurrant. Pernod and Sunny Delight.
‘Paul,’ I would say, ‘that is ridiculous, disgusting. There is no such drink.’
But he would be quite serious.
‘Danny, it’s brilliant – have one. It gets you blootered, but you can carry on drinking it.’
That desperate ambition to numb himself round the clock was still some way off at this stage.
Initially, with Chris and I, he didn’t need to keep up any act. We were drinkers and he liked that. But the drinking wasn’t why we all got on so well, and he liked that even more.
In Chris he’d met his restless equal in terms of keeping the ‘craic’ in constant motion. Chris, for his own, different reasons, lived his life then as a travelling circus of possibilities with an ever-changing backdrop of locations and faces, each pub becoming an essential base station as he mounted that day’s sensory Everest. The point was simply to be out, to be doing something, and that dovetailed perfectly with Paul’s dread of being alone.
Conversely, in me, or perhaps more pertinently my family, he saw a home. He loved our extended family with all the kids, the noise, the meals, the motion, the neighbours, the sense of permanence. On the many times when he came to stay and all that was planned was a big dinner and a night in, he would lie full-length on the sofa repeating over and over to himself – all who know Paul will attest he continuously carries on a personal mumbled monologue – ‘This is it. Staying in. Stay in. Door’s shut. Fook off, that’s me in now. Done. Door’s shut. Telly’s on. Love it. In. IN.’
None of this is to say that there weren’t times when Paul, Chris and I would get pleasantly lit up, but to my knowledge none of these excellent sessions were carried out within a flashbulb of a press pack.
So, back to that Tuesday morning with the phone ringing and the suggestion of a day at the races.
Peculiarly, the agreed rendezvous was a pub in Shepherd’s Bush – a part of town that is only matched in its complete lack of promise by its total inconvenience for all three of us as a location. The meet was set at eleven-ish and upon convening it soon became clear that leaving the bustling metropolis and going to some racecourse to slog it through seven wallet-sapping races was something that only maniacs might consider progress, so what were the alternatives?
Now here I should perhaps re-cap how well-known a tabloid trio we actually were at this point. Yes, even me.
I had recently been noisily fired from 606 for suggesting on air that appalling refereeing, and one referee in particular, was a constant threat to law and order and should a mob one day decide to go to an official’s house with lighted torches and demand a sacrifice, I could totally understand their ire. In fact, I might support it. The fallout from this glorious tirade made the front or back pages of most newspapers and even the nine o’clock TV news. I will deal more fully with the various times I have been fired and re-hired a little later in these recollections, but will have to speed past them for now or this particular chapter will end up about the thickness of a Harry Potter compendium.
Chris had of course raised his own profile just a little since teaching me how to play records on the radio and at the time of the Shepherd’s Bush liaison was quite simply the best-known media personality in the whole of the UK.
And Paul was, well, Paul at the height of his pomp, one of the most famous people in the whole world and, as it turns out, not even supposed to be in London that day at all.
So given all that and our penchant for keeping a pretty low profile, it seems an unlikely course of action that we eventually decided upon.
We decided to pitch up at a nearby media award ceremony.
For those of you who don’t live in London, award ceremonies are as common in the capital as branches of Starbucks or McDonald’s. Most large buildings are hosting one of these events at any given time, sometimes several simultaneously on different floors.
This one was happening about twenty minutes away and was the Television & Radio Industries Club – or TRIC – bash, the same academy whose award had fallen from my mantelpiece a few years previously. If you are unaware of the TRIC Awards, that is perfectly understandable. Nobody has ever referred to the TRIC Awards as ‘the traditional curtain-raiser to the Oscars’. It is a low key, un-televised, industry do that can sometimes be a little under-nourished in the high-profile recipient ‘actually being there’ department.
Chris’ radio show had been nominated for two awards at this affair and his office had sent a message in reply to the invitation saying he would do his best to attend, diary permitting. This is agent-speak for ‘no’.
However, as we huddled in that pallid pub, mulling the way forward, it did seem like something to pass the time before we decided what to do. My only objection was that, being grotesquely unshaven and wearing an enormous shapeless WW2 navy duffel coat, I was hardly likely to be mistaken for David Niven promenading around Cap Ferrat. Would the TRIC people mind? Chris said that, seeing as Paul and I weren’t invited anyway, we shouldn’t let such social niceties cloud our thinking.
And this is where the story really starts.
To get to the hotel on Park Lane from Shepherd’s Bush is straightforward and takes about five minutes. Except that it doesn’t, because the road is always so choked with traffic it takes about six months. And on this day it was going to take twice as long.
Stuck in the back of a stifling taxi, Paul, as usual, simply could not sit still. Head continually turning to spot some action, he
was acting as though somebody had told him Michael Jackson had come back to life, was in London, and if you looked through the right cab window at exactly the right moment, you’d see him. Then there was the ever-running dialogue:
‘Shall we get out? Is it far? Shall we get out? Shall we just leave it? I might walk – shall we walk? How ’bout we run through that park? Come on, let’s run. Driver! Drive on the pavement, go on! Go through that sweet shop – I’ll give you fifty quid. I’m getting out. Look at her in that Porsche. Look at that bloke’s tie. I’m going to buy it off him and wear it roond me heed. I’m boiling. I’m gonna take me shoes off. How many legs has that dog got? Is it a dog or a rubbish bin? Look at him! Look at him! Jogging! Ha! Jogger! [Window down] Hey, mate! Git ya lig o’er! Run, Forest, run! Ya daft bastard! Come on, let’s catch him up. Let’s run with him. Driver – have ya got a cigar?’
Immediately behind us in the stationary parade was a double-decker London bus. Kneeling backwards on the taxi seat, Paul, via the rear window, began miming to its driver that there was something wrong with the bus’s wheels. The driver wasn’t buying it. So Gazza upped the ante and feigned horror because apparently the radiator now had flames coming from it. The driver shook his head, but, with a squint, suddenly realized who this antsy alarmist was and smiled broadly with both thumbs up.
This was when Gazza got out of the taxi.
Chris and I watched him walk up to the bus driver’s roadside window and reach up to shake his hand. In an instant, most of the bus passengers became aware who was paying a visit. Cars in the jam began to sound their hooters in salute. Paul acknowledged all this but was carrying on a pretty intense dialogue about something with the driver. Whatever was under discussion was taking some thrashing out, but its purpose became clear when Gazza grinned triumphantly and then hauled himself up into the driver’s cab alongside his new friend. The bus driver had to really budge up, but soon they were both in there . . . with Paul’s hands firmly on the wheel.
In fits and starts Paul Gascoigne drove that bright-red double-decker London bus right along the Bayswater Road. Sometimes he came dangerously close to the rear of the cab Chris & I were sitting in, now helpless with awe and laughter.
When the bus eventually trundled up to Marble Arch junction we figured the fun was over and London Transport would get their bus back. Marble Arch is as dangerous a circuit as the capital has to offer. Vehicles are coming at you from all angles. It is not for sky-larking amateurs.
Arriving at the intersection, our taxi awaited its chance before quickly accelerating out into the mayhem. We turned to see what the bus was going to do and, Sweet Mother of Mercy, there it was – right behind us, picking up the pace and honking its horn. Paul, still at the wheel, was shouting something at us, pantomiming an irate motorist. As the bus careered across the junction, he even shook his fist.
Let me say this. Whenever I have told friends this story I inwardly wonder whether, like most men’s tales, it has become polished and embellished over the years. But it hasn’t. With Gazza stories, you don’t need to. Paul Gascoigne really did drive a London bus full of people around Marble Arch in broad daylight. And still he wasn’t done.
He brought the bus to a stop about fifty yards into Park Lane, where the traffic had once again solidified.
Jumping down from the driving seat, he pumped his sponsor’s hand and then stood, arms spread wide, in front of the cheering passengers – none of whom I believe had any idea that he had actually been driving the thing and dicing with their very lives for the last ten minutes.
Jumping back into our cab, Paul’s face was giving off sparks. It was clear the world had once again become his playground and that he hadn’t felt so alive in ages. We all spoke at once but, within seconds, he was off once more, this time exiting through the other door.
What he had seen were a gang of council workmen digging up the pavement.
The group greeted him explosively and once again Paul quickly outlined to them his latest idea. After a brief consultation, on went a high-visibility vest and ear-protectors and one of the chaps hauled a huge pneumatic drill his way. Thundering the thing into life, Gazza began randomly digging up sections of London several feet from where work had commenced. I remember thinking that was as close to the philosophy and antics of Harpo Marx as real life ever comes. In a communal panic, the men eventually guided him toward the area that needed excavation and for a couple of minutes Paul concentrated intensely on his task.
He stopped. Chris and I, watching breathlessly from the sluggish cab, thought this might signal his return to us. It didn’t. Gazza was merely negotiating a cigarette. One was provided, lit, placed between the lips and he was off drilling again. Gas mains would have to look out for themselves.
It was here, for the first time, that the driver of our taxi remarked upon the surreal events unfolding behind his back.
‘Your mate,’ he said drily, ‘he’s not all there, is he?’ Then, narrowing his eyes toward the drilling, confessed, ‘You know, that’s the one thing I’ve always wanted to do – what he’s doing now. Fair play to him.’ Plainly the whole bus-driving episode was a bit down-market for a cabbie.
Deciding to walk the rest of the journey, we paid him off and crossed to the far pavement where Paul was hammering away. The watching workmen proffered both Chris and I some power tools too, but we politely declined.
‘What shall we do now?’ Paul asked, curtailing his shift. We reminded him of the awards show thing.
‘How’re we getting there?’
I told him that as it was barely half a mile along Park Lane, we were walking the rest of the way.
Paul’s face registered that he felt this answer was a complete abdication of the better and more readily available options.
‘Howay!’ he announced and strode out into the traffic again. What had caught his eye this time was an enormous old-fashioned Rolls-Royce, of the type you will see decanting brides at weddings. We called after him but it was no good.
He strode up to the car and tapped on the darkened rear passenger window. It opened a little. A conversation ensued. Then the door open and Paul disappeared inside.
Amazingly the traffic immediately began to loosen up and so began a farcical period wherein Chris and I, now walking toward our destination, were continually parallel to the Rolls with Gazza at its window smiling and waving, heckling the pair of us as ‘peasants’, ‘riff-raff’ and much worse. The four people sitting inside with him found the gag as hilarious as Paul did. Only he could manage this sort of thing.
Thanks to some aggressively red traffic lights, we arrived at the hotel just ahead of the Rolls. What happened next we really should have predicted. Instead of it stopping and allowing its stowaway off, it simply glided on past us, heading towards distant Piccadilly, Gazza’s hand regally twirling away in our direction.
Now what?
Chris and I sat down resignedly on a patch of grass and waited for our careering loose cannon to return. Or not.
Ten minutes later he was back, this time in a Toyota, driven, he informed us, by ‘an Everton supporter called Tom’. He’d asked Tom to join us at the awards, but Tom had to get back up North.
And so, at last, in we went and . . . boom. A blitz of camera flashes, not unlike when a high-profile defendant arrives on the court steps, ricocheted around the foyer.
If you study that notorious photograph you can see that both Chris and Paul have simultaneously started to realize what a terrible idea this was. I am actually in mid-sentence, saying to one of the photographers, ‘Snap away, matey, you’ve missed the scoop. You should have been with him the last half-hour . . .’
Now the fun had well and truly stopped. Paul had by far the most to lose by being seen lotus-eating the day away at some brash show-biz booze-up in the West End.
He was supposedly injured. He was supposedly in Scotland. He had promised, promised, his boss Walter Smith that he was going to stay put at the lodge by the lake that Rangers had rented f
or him, doing nothing more physically strenuous than channel-hopping.
As a table was made available and we shuffled our way toward it, Paul kept up a self-berating dialogue, albeit with several bursts of cathartic laughter. ‘I’m finished, I’m finished,’ he’d splutter. ‘I’m dead!’
At one point he grabbed a waiter and told him that on no account must there be any alcohol visible on our table. This was done. But never underestimate a good Fleet Street photo editor. What there was on the table were several bottles of Highland Spring water. With a little cropping of the shots, the distinct tapering green-glass top of these bottles can look an awful lot like copious amounts of white wine just waiting to be quaffed. No further questions. Your witness . . .
Within five minutes of sitting down, and with every camera trained on our table, Chris made the obvious executive decision. ‘We’re going to have to run away,’ he said. Rising as one, we made for the exit again before the ceremony had even got under way. For once, Gazza’s magical feats of persuasion with car drivers had a practical edge. Trotting up to a waiting chauffeur whose client was obviously inside for the duration, he negotiated our getaway.
In the back of this commandeered Bentley – and by the way, don’t ever try this spontaneous method of getting around town, it is exclusively a Gazza thing – Paul, as usual, looking out of the window and mentally miles way, let us all in on his continual inner dialogue.
‘I’ll ring Walter. Ring him. I’ll say I had to come down to give you an award. Charity. You’d asked special. Presenting an award. Forgot to tell him. You’d asked me and I flew down on the spur of the moment. Just for the morning. Flew straight back . . .’
