by Chris Evans
‘Well … ‘I began, as my audience leaned forward expectantly, ‘the bachelor gets to pick one girl to be with out of fifteen women after a string of dates, dinners, kissing and basically whatever he wants – that we know.’
Everyone nodded.
‘So the girls spend the whole time fawning over him and trying to get him to pick them. Now for me, this is perfectly acceptable at the beginning, but as the numbers get pared down there is no jeopardy, it’s too one-sided.’
‘So what do you propose?’ asked Lloyd. I wasn’t actually sure what I proposed but I was too far in to stop now.
‘Well, how about, when the guy names his final five, there is a power shift where the girls then assume control and can decide what happens next – if the bachelor has been a good boy and can stay, or if he has abused his position and so must leave? If he stays, fine, but if he goes, then a replacement is called in – his best friend say, or perhaps even his arch enemy.’
I surprised myself with the second half of this solution. It wasn’t mind blowing but it showed there’s always somewhere else to go, even with an idea that’s already working. It doesn’t have to be bad to be better.
There was a pause. Had I passed the test?
‘See, there you go, that’s exactly what we want. That’s it, isn’t it Andrea?’ Lloyd asked.
‘Precisely,’ Andrea confirmed. We talked some more but I was mindful that I had probably peaked and it would be a good idea for me to quit while I was ahead.
I couldn’t wait to get back home to tell Bill about my exciting parking space and elevator journey all the way to the exec floor to meet my new friends at ABC. But when I arrived Bill had some breaking news for me that was a little more important.
‘Hascombe Court is finished, the builders rang today,’ she informed me.
Blimey, I had almost forgotten about that gorgeous old 170-acre estate that I’d bought a few years back and the renovation that was due to be completed any time now. This was a project that had consumed me for a good year or so before I met Billie. I was on site most days and was involved in every decision. The former seventeen-bedroom mansion was undergoing a no-expense-spared transformation into a six-bedroom wow house, complete with pub, cinema, library and games room – in many respects, the British equivalent of Mr Richie’s LA pad we were currently calling home.
After Billie came on the scene my priorities changed, with Hascombe Court slipping several places firmly down the list. But I still held the house close to my heart, having spent so long designing it. I knew that when it was finally finished it would be spectacular but that always seemed like such a long time away. Not anymore.
‘They called and said you need to fly back as soon as possible to sign it off, whatever that means,’ Billie said.
To be honest, I had no idea what it meant either. Apparently certain documents needed to be signed and agreed, due to the size of the project. Both Bill and I began to feel apprehensive.
‘Does this mean we have to go back to England?’ she asked.
‘It looks like it,’ I said. ‘We only need to go for a few days though. I could go on my own if you like and get back even sooner.’
‘No way, we go together or not at all. I’d rather we didn’t have to, but we both know all the work you put into that place, so let’s just get it over with. Do whatever you have to do and get back here before anything happens.’
This last phrase, ‘before anything happens’, may have sounded a little dramatic but I knew exactly what Bill meant. Our lives had changed immeasurably since we met and even more so since we had been in Los Angeles, a fact that neither of us was about to take for granted. We knew that what seemed so permanent here – our changed mindset, our more positive outlook on life and the infinite potential opportunities – could so easily come crashing down if we allowed the madness back in. That madness, as far as we were concerned, resided exclusively in the UK.
We were wary to say the least. However, once we got used to the idea of a quick jaunt back home, we decided it was probably more sensible to embrace the potential of the trip, as opposed to fear the anticipation of something going wrong. Rather than make this a smash-and-grab job, staying in England for the least time possible, we would book two first-class return flights, with the return scheduled for ten days later.
That seemed a reasonable length of ‘safe’ time for us to survive away from our newly beloved Los Angeles.
But as it turned out, the date of the return flights didn’t matter, because we would never use them.
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THINGS I LOVE ABOUT BRITAIN
10 The people
9 The weather
8 Winston and William (Churchill and Shakespeare)
7 A village green
6 The BBC
5 St Andrews
4 A Sunday roast
3 A fry-up
2 The Lake District
1 A good country pub
THE FIRST THING THAT TOOK US BY SURPRISE when we arrived back in Surrey was the house. It was simply magical, a masterpiece of craftsmanship and attention to detail.
All the hard work and planning had paid off. The forty-seven acres of garden had been dug over and replanted. It was resplendent during the day and brought to life at night with hundreds of outdoor lights. The interior was simply stunning. I had made a deal with myself when designing the layout that no one room would outshine any other. I was not to be disappointed. The hand-built kitchen, complete with a fifteen-foot long, nine-inch thick worktop, led through to the main hall; a sixty-foot by thirty-foot limestone-floored, oak-panelled, double-height reception area with a huge fireplace at the far end. This in turn led through to a more traditional games room, off which could be found an exact replica of the bar from the local pub down in the village.
Along the corridor from the bar was a curved glass wall, behind which lay the open-plan library, flanked by a waterfall on one side, lit with different colours, against a backdrop of blue slate. Upstairs the six bedrooms were all unique in their own way, from the no-holds-barred master suite through to the RAF-style dormitory, where ten single beds lay in wait for a mass sleepover. The master suite was complete with floor-to-ceiling windows, limed oak floors, vaulted ceilings, four-poster bed, leather sofa and flat-screen telly. To the left of this lay an open-plan wet area with his and hers showers, a steam room constructed of stone, glass and steel, with yet more oak around the limestone sinks and finally the centrepiece of the whole show, a 1.7-tonne limestone bath that I’d imported from Italy, via two lorries, a ship and finally a thirty-five tonne crane to haul it precariously over the roof and into position.
The story of the bath was an epic in itself. It was originally the winner of a ‘block of stone beauty competition’, as I’d been sent various photographs of several different stones from a quarry just above Rome and asked to make my selection. From the very stone I chose, my bath was fashioned and it was now here in situ, so thick that the hot water had to be double temperature in order for it to stay warm when it hit the stone surface.
Once in my new bath, the now-relaxed bather could settle down to music from the sound system or watch the waterproof flat-screen telly, while for the more adventurous bathroom guest, the glass doors on either side of the tub could be opened by remote control for that ‘oh so fresh’ al fresco bathing experience.
Linking the bedrooms on the first floor was a mezzanine area that I had created after dispensing with four of the old bedrooms to provide a wide-open space. Flooded with light, it featured a galleried balcony looking back down into the hall, along with a glass and stainless steel spiral staircase leading up to the cinema.
‘Wow,’ said Bill as we drove through the gates and the garden lights faded up. ‘Wow,’ she said again, open-mouthed, upon entering the hallway. Jackie, our housekeeper had lit the whole place with church candles; there were over fifty in the fireplace alone.
‘Wow’ again, as we rushed from room to room, laughing hyste
rically. This wasn’t a house, it was a playground that had been dragged, kicking and screaming, into the 21st century. Now bristling with pride once again, as it woke up to a new beginning, borne out of a respect for its past, but with both feet firmly in the future.
The house was wonderful, so wonderful it was about to present us with a major problem. When couples are close there are many things that are felt before they are said. Bill and I both knew we faced a dilemma. What America had given us was the very thing that now meant we no longer needed to go back there. If Lionel Richie’s house had been the reason we stayed in LA, this house was now our reason for moving back.
After we’d examined every nook and cranny and ran around screaming a bit more, we went to the local pub. Not the one in our new house, but the real one.
‘Babe,’ I said, after we’d settled in a quiet corner.
‘It’s alright, I know what you’re going to say and I agree,’ Bill interrupted.
I laughed. ‘How do you know what I’m going to say?’
‘It’s easy,’ she replied. ‘You think, the house is to die for. It’s so you and therefore it’s so us, and you’ve put all that time and effort into it, and life’s not really about where you are but who you are with. Plus, we both feel so much better now than we did when we left, so why don’t we stay here and make a go of it? And before you say anything, that’s what we’re doing.’
Well, that was about the size of it I suppose. Bill had nailed it, with very little left for me to add. It didn’t matter where the house was, we just wanted to be there.
Calls were made to LA. I declined ABC’s kind job offer, our belongings were to be packed and shipped over to England, and Lionel’s house was to be put back on the market. Courtney Cox was about to get yet another shot at it, and this time we both hoped she’d get a move on.
People heard we were back home and all shiny and new. I hadn’t been this healthy for years, and Bill was looking tanned and terrific. Not only that, we were brimming over with optimism. Where once there had only been thoughts of doom and gloom, the future was now looking brighter than it had ever been.
We were back but did Britain want us?
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TURKEYS I HAVE BEEN INVOLVED IN
10 Lock, Stock- the TV show (Channel 4)
9 Live withh Chhris Moyles (chat show for Channel 5)
8 Live withh Chhristian O’Connell (same as above)
7 Live withh RichhardBacon (BBC Radio 5 Live)
6 One Man and His Hob (cookery show)
5 Tee Time (golf show for Channel 4)
4 Boys and Girls (game show for Channel 4)
3 Terry and Gaby (daytime show for Channel 5)
2 OFI Sunday (chat show for ITV)
1 Johhnny Vegas: Eighhteen Stone of Idiot (Channel 4)
IT WAS TIME TO THINK SERIOUSLY about getting back to work. As I still had my agent, I asked him if he would consider representing Billie as well.
‘What, as an actress?’ he protested.
‘Please, just do it Michael,’ I said. ‘I promise you, she’s amazing.’
He’s still her agent today.
Michael started to send Bill scripts and got her a small part in a movie alongside Orlando Bloom, a boxing flick entitled The Calcium Kid. Bill was thrilled to work with the young Bloom; she said they spent most of their time talking about sword fighting as he’d just been cast in a new movie, some lame old no-hoper by the name of Pirates of the Caribbean.
More work came Bill’s way when she was given a co-starring role in an ensemble piece called Thirty Things to Do Before You’re 30; not a huge film but again, more valuable experience. She was clearly loving it, and with every day she was growing in confidence.
After this the word began to get around the industry that there was more to Billie Piper than just being an ex-pop star. Her next part confirmed this and banished any lingering doubts anyone might have had about her ability. Bill was cast in a harrowing television drama entitled Bella and the Boys, where she turned in a blistering performance, to rave reviews.
Billie’s star was most definitely in the ascendant and next came a call from the mighty BBC Drama Department.
They were going to film six stories from The Canterbury Tales and wanted Bill to star in the opening episode. This was the job that would take Billie’s acting career to a whole new level.
‘Babe, this sounds amazing,’ she said, after being offered the role.
‘It is,’ I agreed.
‘But there’s one thing,’ she said, wearing the frown I had come to recognise meant she was unsure about something. ‘They want me to play opposite Dennis Waterman.’
‘So, what’s wrong with that?’
‘Well, isn’t he a record producer, you know, in Stock, Aitken and Waterman?’
Obviously, reruns of The Sweeney and Minder had completely passed her by. Once I’d stopped laughing it was time to go out and get a few DVDs.
Luckily there was no need for any explanation about her other co-star, that lovable Northern Irish rapscallion James Nesbitt. And, yes, he would get to jump her bones – the devil.
The Miller’s Tale from The Canterbury Tales was another big hit for Bill, as well as a critical feather in the BBC’s cap. Once again Bill had nailed it, and this time before an audience of millions. The viewers’ eyes had been opened and a new star was born.
In the meantime I wasn’t sitting around doing nowt – promise. I too was back working in television, after a call one day from an old acquaintance who was now running Channel Five, for his sins.
Kevin Lygo had been my boss on various channels a few times over the years and had been charged with the task of lifting Britain’s fifth terrestrial broadcaster out of the shadows and into the sunshine. But it was not going to be the easiest of challenges.
Kevin asked me to a breakfast meeting in the Berkeley Hotel, in my old stomping ground, Belgravia. He explained that he was looking for a live show that would make the channel more relevant and give it energy. This was my home territory, as ‘live’ was my thing. Excited at the possibilities, we began to discuss the most important aspect of this kind of show, namely the key talent.
I always believe that if someone already has a following then – budget allowing – buy them and you get their flock at the same time. The two guys with the biggest untapped wells of followers were the country’s two biggest DJs: Terry Wogan at Radio 2 and Chris Moyles at Radio 1. And neither of them had been on television much in the previous few years. By the end of the meeting I had agreed to produce two new daily live shows; the first, a mid-morning show starring Terry along with Gaby Roslin, the second, an early-evening show starring Moyles.
WHEN BILLIE MET CHRIS
I set up a brand new company in order to produce both shows, and only weeks after landing back in Blighty I was once again steeped in the process of casting, writing and creating, whilst also searching for office premises, staff and studio facilities. Sadly it was to be a slow and painful realisation, over the next two years, that I was never meant to produce anyone other than myself.
The Terry and Gaby show sank without a trace, as did the Moyles show, which was so weak that when the host decided to slip off quietly and wait for the next television bus to come along, no one even noticed.
As if I hadn’t already spent enough British broadcasters’ money, I sealed my production fate with another live show, this time a much bigger and more expensive one. Boys and Girls was a concept I had dreamed up whilst lying by my pool in LA. The format was simple – one hundred boys, one hundred girls and one hundred thousand pounds. By the end of the show there would be one winner, the twist being that they would win the jackpot but have to spend every penny of it in the next seven days. After that they had to come back and try to keep what they had bought. If they failed, everything would have to go back to the shops.
The problem with this show was that the pitch was far better than the actual show. Even reading it again now, it sounds like
it might play, but alas it bombed like a plane without wings. When the show hit the screens it didn’t know whether it was a dating show or a game show, and as a result, nor did the viewers.
That was it – I had scored a hat trick of high-profile, expensive flops; huge, big belly flops into a bottomless pool of dismal ratings so low they barely managed to register. Not that I ended up being down on the deal. I was paid a set fee for producing these duds and so did fairly well out of the experience financially, as did everyone involved but of all the things I have ever done professionally, those are the two years I would ask for back first.
No one’s fault more than mine, I hasten to add.
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THINGS TO DO WHEN THE SHIT’S ABOUT TO HIT THE FAN
10 Be aware it’s going to happen
9 Figure out from which direction it’s likely to come
8 Figure out the worst-case scenario
7 Figure out how long will the stink last for
6 Analyse whether it’s your fault
5 If it is – accept it
4 If it isn’t – stay cool but don’t react, yet
3 Figure out whose fault it really is
2 Warn anyone it may affect
1 Buy some deodorant
TO HEAP IGNOMINY ON TOP OF FAILURE, a year or so after Bill and I moved back from the States, I faced my former employers, the Scottish Media Group, in court, and lost. Well, when I say I lost, it was more like I was annihilated.
After I left Virgin, angry and hurt at realising they wanted me out, I stupidly attempted to sue them. The case took two full years to come to court, finally arriving before the Honourable Mr Justice Lightman in June 2003.
Gather round, everyone, as I share with you the story of how not to win a court case, via a little tale, also known as:
