by Chris Evans
This weird time factor was the most fascinating aspect of what alcohol used to do for me, or to me, if you like. The hands on the clock lost all meaning. It was this disconnection from reality that I enjoyed the most. I saw booze as my key to the ever-elusive philosophy of living in the moment. Living in the ‘now’, as they say in all those books and not having to worry about the before or the after. Simply focusing on being in the present, except of course – it’s not that simple.
I’m not excusing my drinking or trying to justify it, I’m merely trying to explain what it felt like. I remember taking various drinks on board, and waiting for these periods of cerebral protection to kick in. With the thought of this safety blanket wrapped around me I could look forward to forgetting about the growing muddle of things in life I didn’t understand – or perhaps more accurately, didn’t want to face. Within a couple of hours I knew I would be free.
This pattern of behaviour became almost pathological, no matter what was going on in the rest of my life, whether it was the afternoon or evening, raining or sunny. In fact I dread to think of the number of beautiful, God-given days I lost to the allure of booze.
I invented all kinds of rules to convince myself I was still in charge. If I could put off the start to my drinking until at least twelve hours after I had last stopped, then I would deem that a good day, a great day in fact, fooling myself into thinking I had attained some kind of control. Ridiculous, I know, but this was typical of the kind of justification I would cling to.
I also made another ‘rule’ that once I’d had a drink I would not talk about anything to do with business. Everyone knew that when I was out, I was out. They were more than welcome to come and join in, but all talk of work and anything to do with it was strictly off-limits.
With lunch over, the company would often dwindle as most people had jobs to get back to. This is when I would find myself hanging around with strangers while I waited to see who was coming out to play next. I’d put in a few calls to friends who might be up for a drink or two later, before heading off to the fifth-floor bar at Harvey Nicks in Knightsbridge – the perfect venue for an afternoon pick-me-up.
Harvey Nicks bar was always guaranteed to be in full swing by mid-afternoon with ladies taking what they believed to be a well-deserved half-time glass of fizz in a break from another credit-card-melting shopping spree. ‘God help their husbands,’ I used to think, as it was obvious that the vast majority of these wives, mistresses and whatever the others were, probably did little else with their days other than perhaps associated visits to the hairdresser, manicurist and other diversions that cost as much money as possible.
From Harvey Nicks I might move on to Motcombs, a local wine bar and a complete throwback to the eighties, with a cast to match – a more experienced and, dare I say it, more sagacious group of professional drinkers you would be hard pushed to meet. If Ernest Hemingway had drunk his whisky in London, it might well have been in Motcombs.
The guys that patronise this place are a breed unto themselves – an irresistible mixture of saints and sinners, all of them capable of belonging to either group, depending on which way the wind is blowing. From silver-haired songwriters to sport stars of yesteryear, you can never be quite sure who you’re going to bump into when you drop in to Motcombs …
My early evening port of call would be for a couple of cleansing pints of beer at one of Belgravia’s excellent cluster of pubs. I used to convince myself that after what I had been drinking, these pints were the equivalent of water and would help to sober me up, ready for the evening session back in Soho. When I felt enough ‘sobriety’ had been achieved, I would grab a cab and prepare myself for the home straight, where the really serious action would begin.
Just writing all this down makes me wonder how on earth I kept going and, more importantly, why on earth I kept going with such pointless marathons of self-destruction. At any point I could have gone home to bed but I never considered that option. Home to me was where everything stopped, and all there was to do was wait for tomorrow.
And so it continued. After the bars in the late evening, I would take another cab to the clubs, where I would stay until the lights came on and it was chucking-out time. This was invariably somewhere around three o’clock in the morning and yes, I know, I had a breakfast show to do less than three hours later, but I considered myself invincible and somehow I managed to pull it off.
My ability to get blitzed on such a regular basis and yet still be able to host a radio broadcast come 6 am the following morning inevitably gave rise to the suspicion that some additional stimulus might have been part of my daily diet. This not unreasonable conclusion – that I was hoovering up the white stuff in between downing the hard stuff – was, however, entirely misguided.
I think if I had strayed into the world of cocaine and whatever else was around at the time, then I really would have been in serious trouble. The thing is, drugs scare the life out of me, they always have and always will. I have an inbuilt off-switch where they are concerned and I’ve never even dabbled.
The joke is that I was unofficially blacklisted on several occasions because I didn’t ‘subscribe’ to being one of the coke in-crowd. Those who did indulge in this particular vice became suspicious of those who did not and once it became common knowledge I was in the ‘did not’ camp, I was frequently persona non grata in certain circumstances. What they didn’t realise is that I was usually so out of my mind on booze anyway, it would probably have taken half of Bolivia’s national product to register even a mild high where I was concerned.
The bizarre thing is that I was hardly ever offered drugs anyway which, when you think of the circles I’ve moved in, is bordering on weird. Maybe I give off a natural anti-drug signal to any ne’er-do-well who might otherwise think to darken my door, or maybe God thought I was doing just fine ruining myself as it was, without the need for any additional help.
There was one exceptionally polite offer of drugs that I did encounter, however.
A very good and immensely talented friend of mine who liked the odd ‘toot’ was celebrating his birthday, to which he had invited me. Halfway through the night, he beckoned me to the loos where he informed me that another pal had bought him the present of a small ‘wrap’. He assured me that contained within the wrap was the crème de la crème of cocaine and, although he was aware that I did not partake in such practices, he wanted me to know that if ever I was going to have a go, then this was the stuff to have a go with…
For a moment I must confess I was tempted, but again, thank God, I declined.
Alcohol may well have got the better of me at various stages of my life; this is something I completely accept but I’m almost sure, had I ever wandered down the drugs route, I would have been in my box and six feet under a good few years ago.
TOP
10
QUOTES TO GET YOU THROUGH MOMENTS OF DOUBT
10 Don’t mistake knowledge for usefulness
9 The present is short, the future doubtful and only the past certain
8 Passions must be attacked by brute force and not logic
7 Strive not for a fine life but for a fine day, every day
6 Beware those who long for the future and claim to be weary of the present
5 Neither a second nor a year is replaceable
4 There is nothing above the man who is above fortune
3 Prosperity is nothing without inner peace
2 Don’t spend too long getting ready for the best days otherwise they will be over before you get started on them
1 Life is long if you know how to use it
INCREDIBLY, SUZI AND I were still together during my early days of post-sale paradise seeking. For a while she arranged to meet up with me in the evenings after she finished work, in an attempt to remain a part of my life, but as there was less and less of me to meet, this was only destined to end one way.
Eventually she would give up on me after our lives became too much of a party she no lo
nger wanted to be at.
It was never a party that was organised, it just sort of happened. And like most parties, when I first arrived, and for some time after that, it was most enjoyable. We all just forgot to go home.
I think it would be fair to say that very few people involved around my company and my shows during this period did not have a riot. There were simply too many fabulous things happening day-in, day-out, and we felt this was our time. We were old enough not to be considered kids any more, but not too old not to behave like them. Either side of 30 is the age I recommend to sow whatever wild seeds you possess. At least, it was for me and my lot.
Let’s have a look at what was going on. Oasis and Blur were friends, rivals and then enemies. Oasis died; Blur (it seems) live on but now the mad, bad, often sad lads of Britpop are approaching middle age and their muse threatens to move out on a daily basis. When I presented Top of the Pops – the only time I did so – the two bands went head-to-head in the battle for number one. I can’t even remember being there.
Everyone was banging down the door to come on TFI Friday: McCartney, Bowie, Iggy Pop, Aerosmith, even Van Morrison. And how about the Stones, who thought it might be an even better idea if we went and made a whole documentary on them? Me and a production team of five, all flown first class to Chicago, to make a one-hour movie of them on tour. Fine by me.
‘Chris, Jon Bon Jovi’s making a movie. Do you wanna go out for dinner with him and his wife to talk about getting involved?’ I declined, but we went and filmed him on location for TFI anyway. Michael Caine invited us to film a skit in his Chelsea penthouse. Helen Mirren took me on as her new DI. One week, in our opening titles, James Belushi served behind the bar and stayed – all night and most of the next morning. Sean Bean went to the pub in a car we’d provided for him to go home in and kept the driver waiting ten hours – no problem. We acquired special gold-leaf tequila for Jimmy Page – well, you have to when he and Robert Plant agree to turn up and play.
After every show, without fail, there was a party. Close to two hundred of them, drinks all round at the studio, at the pub over the road and at the house we’d seconded next door for the five years we were in residence.
Famous faces, energy and access. We were festooned with an endless army of gorgeous girls and boys, each one of them desperate to be part of the action. And all this fuelled by PR reps appearing from every side, flashing their company credit cards to pay for whatever we wanted.
For the first two years, such levels of excitement seemed entirely sustainable and, throughout everything, Suzi was by my side. We may have parted for some or all of the night when we were partying, but one way or another we would always end up bundled in the back of a car together come home time.
As well as being one of the main players behind TFI making it successfully to air every week – and at a profit – Suzi ran our lives completely. Having said that, I was basically allowed to do whatever I liked. I had not yet become unreasonable but was nevertheless still very much full-on. Not that Suzi was a shrinking violet, by any means, and not that she minded the party coming home from time to time, which it did a lot.
Our house in Notting Hill was generously sized and quite posh for two 30-somethings working in the media, and it often found itself home to the waifs and strays of another night of enthusiastic debauchery. Pals like Shaun Ryder and Ronnie Fraser came back to party with us, along with a whole string of other friends, acquaintances and hangers-on.
And then there was Gazza. Paul Gascoigne – England’s finest-ever No. 8, who was a hero first, a friend second and now, frankly, I don’t know where he’s gone.
The first time Suzi and I met this much misunderstood phenomenon was at his wedding. I should have known when he sent an abnormally large white limo for us that this was not going to be a normal relationship. The second time I met him, I was invited to dinner for his wife’s 30th birthday party. Would I ever meet him under normal circumstances? Not really, no.
Here’s just a taster of the kinds of thing that could happen when Gazza was around.
On one occasion he had an injury that was keeping him out of the England team. He was still due to go to the game, which was being held at Wembley, and he asked me to accompany him. We were supposed to be sitting next to Sir Bobby Charlton in the royal box.
Both of us were reluctant to go, so we stopped off on the way for a pint and ended up giving away his tickets to two ‘bubbly’ ladies. We then watched the game in the pub and duly witnessed Sir Bobby on the telly at half-time, wondering who the heck his fellow spectators were.
Another time, Paul asked me to acquire a tour bus – ‘Ya kna, like them bands have’ – to meet him outside the ground at Wembley after the game. He assured me he could get the gaffer to take him off with ten minutes to go, so we could beat a hasty retreat. ‘Get some pals and some beers and wait for us in the lay-by outside the conference centre, why aye.’
I did as he requested but whilst waiting in the lay-by it suddenly dawned on me how unlikely it was that Gazza would be taken off just so he could meet up with us ahead of the crowds. Of course, I was wrong. With seven minutes to go, Paul was substituted. He ran straight off the pitch, straight out of the ground, took his boots off and ran full-pelt towards the bus, still in his kit. We could not believe it. Within seconds he had swapped clothes with one of the lads who was now smiling ear to ear, proud as punch to be wearing Gazza’s sweaty, muddy kit whilst the game was still going on.
My favourite Gazza story, though, has to be the four days I spent in Glasgow with him when he played for Rangers. Too long to tell in full, so how about this potted history?
Land Glasgow airport with Will from TFI Friday, meet Gazza at Ibrox, go training with the team, meet Walter Smith, the manager. Go back out to pitch, to play one-touch whilst Gazza gets them to put The Simpsons on the big screen. Gazza disappears, drives onto the pitch in his new Merc SLK, tells me to get in. We are meeting some of the team at the Cameron House hotel. We drive there but decide to give his car away. We flag down a family in a red Astra and ask if they want to swap. They say they can’t because they need more than two seats. We give them the car anyway and hitch a lift to the nearest garage to buy another.
‘Can we have the worst car on your forecourt, please?’ we ask.
‘We have a death trap round the back for 300 quid,’ says the guy.
We buy it and ask for a pot of black paint to black out the windows with. We then drive directly to the Cameron House Hotel, straight past everyone who is now wondering where we have got to, and into the waters of Loch Lomond.
Why? I have no idea. Because we could, I suppose, and to make ourselves and everyone else laugh.
The following day, Gazza hired a cruiser to take us camping on an island in the middle of the loch. Five brand-new tents, ten sleeping bags – all the gear and absolutely no idea.
Heinz, the German captain of the boat, and his wife could not have been happier to have us on board but when it came to docking at the island Heinz suddenly lost any ability to steer the boat. We smacked into the jetty at a considerable speed. We said nothing as he tried again but before he got near he struck several buoys.
‘Heinz, man! What the hell are yee dan?’ said Gazza, no longer able to hold his silence.
Instead of showing any repentance, Heinz became angry.
‘Vass are you doink’ on my boat anyvay. I haff never dreeven eet before, today ees zee first day my wife and I haff effer been on eet.’
It turned out that this was not our charter and Heinz was not our captain. We had climbed on to the wrong boat in the marina and Heinz had been so excited at seeing Gazza, he had just gone with it. Our skipper had since headed home as he thought we were a no-show.
Gazza was a frequent house guest of Suzi’s and mine in Notting Hill and again there was never a dull moment, like the day he met the Pet Shop Boys after they had been on This Morning and brought them back for a plate of pasta and a sing-song round the piano – what a combin
ation of personalities that was. There was also a particularly memorable afternoon when Peter O’Toole was passing and clumped down the stairs to our basement kitchen unannounced after noticing our door was ajar.
He was due to appear on TFI that week and decided a spontaneous ideas meeting might be in order.
Every inch the actor, he was wearing an impressively large hat, which I can only presume was intended to aid disguise but instead served only to draw attention. His dramatic sartorial theme continued with a navy blue, double-lapelled overcoat that had a belt wrapped around the waist, not buckled as the designer intended but tied rebelliously in a clumsy knot. Beneath this he wore a pair of grey trousers hitched up high enough to reveal a pair of those questionable see-through socks favoured by the older gentleman. An impressive pair of big black Chelsea boots completed the outfit.
It was one of these boots he plonked upon our battered old pine kitchen table as he lifted up his leg before commencing to strum on my ancient classical guitar almost as if his life depended on it. After a few bars of painful twanging he proceeded to sing a country and western song, the like of which I’d never heard before and hoped never to hear again.
‘Here, how about we do this?’ he said, an obedient cigarette now hanging precariously from the side of his mouth. ‘Better than a bloody boring interview!’ he laughed. How could anyone have disagreed?
Of all the people I have met, O’Toole is probably the most impressive. He’s certainly the most magical and unpredictable. The stories about what his lot got up to in their day leave most rock bands – and the likes of me back then – looking like little boys wandering around the playground wondering what their willies are for.
O’Toole, Harris, Ollie Reed and Richard Burton – there’s no doubt about it, they were the original hell-raisers, with the diseased livers and death certificates (three of them to date) to prove it. We had some serious work to do if we were ever going to catch up with these guys.
