by Chris Evans
I spent the rest of the evening attempting to stay glued to her side, exclude everyone else from the conversation, go to the toilet as few times as humanly possible, and be funny and engaging while trying to keep up with her on the drinking front.
All of the above I did reasonably successfully – successfully enough to find myself, at the end of the night, in the lift with Natasha. She had agreed to come to my room.
‘I cannot believe this’, I thought to myself, fearful my thoughts might be heard out loud. This woman, this creation of perfection, with all the right bits in all the right places, this woman who is fun and smiley and energetic and generally wonderful, is gonna be in my hotel room in less than a minute from now, providing there isn’t a fire or a war or some such disaster in the next few seconds.
The lift doors opened.
‘Don’t turn the wrong way out of the lift and forget where your room is,’ I was telling myself. One drunken slip now could be crucial in the grand scheme of things.
But I needn’t have worried.
‘I’m sorry Chris, I can’t do this,’ Tash said suddenly. ‘I don’t do this. I’m not doing this.’ And with that she ran off down the corridor in the direction of the stairs.
‘Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooooo!’ screamed the voice in my head.
That was so close to being one of the best nights of my life, right there, right now, yet, with Natasha’s swift exit, I had been transformed into no more than a lone and drunken ginger man merely swaying back and forth in an over-carpeted hotel corridor, pathetically waving my room key around like a magician whose wand no longer worked.
The next morning seemed to arrive in a second. I opened my eyes to see the thick brown goo of hangover dribble that was currently sticking my right cheek to the pillow.
As I staggered across the room and opened the curtains, the last thing in the world I felt able to do was swing a golf club. Then I remembered I was here to play golf, and according to my watch I was due to tee-off in fifteen minutes.
This was not a casual game on a Saturday morning with a couple of pals, this was a multi-million pound television production and I could already see the crowds gathering down below from my window.
My heart pounding, after half brushing my teeth and barely saying hello to a shower, I made it to the tee box with seconds to spare. All thoughts of what had gone on the night before would have to be put on hold, for the time being.
‘Ah, Mr Evans,’ said one of the organisers. ‘I believe you know two of your playing partners. However I am delighted to introduce you to the fourth in your group, Natasha the Golf Nurse.’
‘You have to be joking’, I almost said out loud, hoping this was some kind of sick joke set up by the other lads.
But no, there she was, all golfed-up again, except this time with knee-length tartan socks into the bargain, and managing to look miraculously as if she hadn’t been anywhere near a bar in years, let alone drunk me under one just a few hours before.
What could I do but take it on the chin and attempt to clear the air.
‘Hi, I’m the loser who tried to get you into bed last night,’ I whispered out of the corner of my mouth.
‘Hi, I’m the loser who almost said yes,’ she whispered back. I was in love all over again.
We enjoyed our round together, playing to the crowds and cameras whilst clearing our hangovers. But alas, I would come no closer to securing the affections of this golfing goddess during my visit to Wales. For the second time Natasha disappeared back to wherever it was she came from, whilst I returned to my usual pattern of going out and staying out in the hope of coming across someone equally gorgeous who might also like the odd round of golf and who would be prepared to put up with a geeky, slightly pink and podgy ginger bloke for the rest of their lives. Natasha had raised the bar.
Time now to tell you about the Once a Month Club. This little ruse involved me and two pals meeting up once a month to discuss anything that might be on our minds, whilst enjoying a few decent ales. Our get-togethers would often be infiltrated by guest members, either invited or chanced upon as we visited various pubs and bars.
One such night, following my return from Wales and the golf, we bumped into a couple of girls, one of whom was single, and I found myself buying a drink for her at the long bar in London’s Soho Hotel.
I was waiting to order when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I assumed it was one of the others requesting further refreshment, but I was wrong. It was Natasha.
‘Oh my goodness, hello to you,’ I guffawed.
‘Well, hello to you too,’ she said. ‘Is that your girlfriend?’
‘No, I’ve just met her tonight.’
‘Good.’ ‘Why?’ ‘No reason.’
Within five minutes Natasha had joined us, whilst also making it very clear to the other two girls that they might want to move out. Half an hour later they were gone, and a couple of hours after that, Natasha and I found ourselves in the back of a taxi, on the way to my flat in north London. Three strikes and I was in? Please God.
The first night Tash stayed she slept on the sofa – Scout’s honour. The next morning when I woke up, the Girl on the Sofa had vanished into thin-air.
‘Not again,’ I mused through bleary eyes. I hadn’t even managed to acquire her phone number.
This last fact hit me as I staggered back to the bathroom.
‘She was gorgeous, you idiot,’ I said out loud whilst taking a pee with one hand against the wall to provide much-needed balance. Things had calmed down on the drinking front but I was still happy to put a few away if the occasion called for it.
As I gently swayed back and forth, whilst also humming – something I do a lot when I’m in love – I could have sworn I heard the familiar creak of my front door opening. I looked up and cocked an eye. Next there was a loud clunk followed swiftly by the thud that always shook my walls as if they might fall down at any moment. Someone had gained entry to my humble abode.
‘Hiya,’ piped up a crisp, energetic voice.
No, surely it couldn’t be.
Hastily I threw on my dressing gown and stumbled down the three stairs which led to the kitchen. The Girl on the Sofa had returned, and not only had she returned but she had brought gifts of fresh milk, orange juice and other very welcome consumables that come criminally over-priced from the 24-hour shop round the corner.
Within seconds the kettle was boiling, bacon was sizzling under the grill and the toaster was whirring away in the corner. Not since I’d taken up residence had my city-slicker kitchen seen such a frantic assault before midday.
‘Plain bread or toasted, red or brown sauce?’ enquired the chef.
‘Er, plain always – and red please.’ ‘Red always?’ Almost always. You?’
‘Both, red and brown, on the side – always.’ This response alone prompted me to consider a proposal of marriage.
As much as I adore bacon sandwiches and fry-ups generally, I couldn’t remember the last time I had enjoyed such a treat midweek.
‘You go and sit in the front room, and I’ll bring it through.’
This was contentment porn.
I lay on the sofa and clicked on the telly.
Within seconds a mug of strong tea was plonked in front of me.
‘Won’t be long, just waiting for the bacon to crisp up.’
Crisp up? Yeeeeeeeees. This got me thinking about whether we should have a big or a small wedding.
There’s making bacon sandwiches and then there’s getting them right; an entirely different discipline.
After joining me to eat these masterpieces Tash disappeared back into the kitchen and began tidying up. I lay in the living room, listening to the sound of dishes being rinsed, wondering if all this was a dream.
‘Oh Lord, please tell me this is really happening and I promise to be good for the rest of my life.’
I waited with bated breath. Footsteps were heading in my direction. I could hear bare feet on the oak floor.
‘May I have a shower now?’
We were married eight months later, in August 2007, on top of a mountain in Portugal.
I hit the jackpot when I met Tash and with God’s good grace I hope I’m going to be counting my winnings for years to come.
For some reason Tash loves me to death. She’s my biggest fan, my fiercest defender and my most candid critic. She also has me by the balls on a daily basis which, quite frankly, is exactly what I need.
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JOHNS/JONS/JOHNNYS/JONNYS/ JOHNNIES/JONATHANS I KNOW
10 Jonny Lee Miller (actor)
9 Jon Bon Jovi (rock star)
8 John McEnroe (tennis player)
7 John Inverdale (sports presenter)
6 John Morgan (Ferrari dealer)
5 John Collins (Ferrari dealer)
4 Jonathan Ross (TV personality)
3 Johnny Saunders (sports reporter)
2 Johnnie Boy Revell (entrepreneur)
1 Johnnie Walker (disc jockey)
IT SEEMS WHENEVER ANYONE TAKES OVER A SHOW AT RADIO 2 there is a backlash. The listeners love their DJs where they are, and change is seldom welcome. And so it was with Drivetime. When I took over from Johnnie Walker, the BBC message boards exploded with calls for me to be thrown in the Tower for the rest of my days. How dare the BBC presume I could possibly replace such a legend of the airwaves?
There was no arguing with the status of Johnnie on the radio and in the hearts of his fans, but he was on the move from Drivetime anyway, whether I stepped in or not.
The natural reaction is to want to defend yourself, but I was advised to keep my head down and get on with racking the hours up. ‘The more you are on, the quicker people get used to you and the more you can relax and start doing your own thing,’ I was told.
Solid advice, which I followed, and the objections very quickly started to fade away.
‘How you getting on?’ asked Steve Wright one afternoon.
‘Oh, I’m doing alright now that all the fuss has died down,’ I said.
‘You got off easy mate,’ he laughed. ‘I had two thousand complaints a day for a good couple of weeks when I started, my old son.’
Now he tells me!
I continued to mention Johnnie’s new weekend show at every opportunity and read out the odd anti-me email, just to underline the fact that both the team and I knew our place and were respectful for the chance we had been given.
Jeez, I remember thinking. If it’s like this when you take over Drivetime from Johnnie Walker, what the heck is it going to be like if you ever take over the breakfast show from Terry?
This was a notion that filled me with such dread and nausea that I decided never to think about it unless I absolutely had to.
Drivetime didn’t hit its stride for a good few months, perhaps even as long as a year. The show was as good as we could make it, but to be honest it was still a very conscious process for us and quite a rigid experience for the listener. The best radio shows tend to just happen, or at least sound that way, but it’s not something you can force, it’s something you just have to wait for.
As the show eventually did begin to feel right, the tension lifted and everyone involved relaxed a little more. And the more we relaxed, the more organic and natural the show became.
Our conscious philosophy of being positive was also having the desired effect, as was evident from the correspondence we were receiving. People said we were the tonic they needed after a hard day’s work, and before a cosy night in or a special night out. It was a similar story when it came to our decision to focus on passionate real people as opposed to less passionate famous people only interested in self-promotion. We began to discover ‘real’ stars on a daily basis and often had to ask them to come back, due to public demand.
With our consistently strong content came our first volley of awards – another sign that we were winning the battle, if not quite the war.
Lesley, however, had already seen – or should I say heard – enough. She had found the apprentice she needed to take over her flagship show, and just in the nick of time, as somewhere in deepest, darkest Buckinghamshire the proud elder statesman of British broadcasting had decided the time was right to hang up his headphones.
It was January 2008 when Sir Terry Wogan, the most respected broadcaster in his genre, decided to call it a day. We all knew that once it was announced there were bound to be tears, not to mention uproar and outcry as to who might replace the King, but while everyone would begin to speculate and put forward their opinions about a worthy successor, a select few of us knew that the task would be down to me.
Contracts had been signed and the decision had been made, but those of us in the know were sworn to secrecy. Terry would announce that he was stepping down on the Monday after that year’s Children in Need on 20 November. Until then, none of us could say a word about anything. This was the biggest secret of my life concerning the best job I would ever have, but I would have to pretend it didn’t exist – it was the only way I could trust myself not to say anything. I felt like an unexploded bomb.
Assuming that this would be our last year on Drivetime and that come January 2009, Wake Up to Wogan would be the sole right of Lady Helen Wogan, our plan for the next twelve months was to make Drivetime the best it had ever been. We would throw everything at it during our third and final year, to ensure we went out on a high.
What we didn’t know then was that it wouldn’t be our final year after all. Everything would change when the dynamic duo of Russell Brand and Jonathan Ross decided to get together for a late-night radio programme and make a breathtakingly distasteful telephone call to much-loved actor Andrew Sachs. Not only would this call mean that the secret I was already having trouble keeping would have to be kept for an extra year, it would also change the way the BBC was run, for ever.
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THINGS I WANTED AS A KID
10 Striker
9 Gat Gun
8 Minolta camera from the Argos catalogue
7 A dog
6 Carbon-fibre fishing rod
5 Two zebra finches
4 Raleigh Arena 5-gear racer bike
3 Eddy Merckx 10-gear racer bike
2 Yamaha FS1E motorcycle
1 Ferrari 328 GTS
ONE OF THE MANY THINGS I LEARNT LISTENING TO TERRY is how to break up a year on the radio to provide it almost with seasons of its own. Although he claimed to just turn up and turn on the magic, he was of course much cleverer than that.
Four major events gave Terry’s show its shape: Eurovision, Proms in the Park, Children in Need and his abnormally lengthy holiday entitlement. All were fair game for his listeners to comment on, usually to the detriment of their beloved host.
Terry would spend the weeks approaching each of these events decrying and belittling his own involvement in them, for the amusement of his listeners and as a beautifully subtle way of building their profile. After each event took place, he would spend the next few weeks reading out emails about what happened as a result, and once again taking on the role of the reluctant fall guy who perhaps should not have been there in the first place. It was a simple but brilliant formula and one that endeared him to his legions of fans.
Taking a leaf out of Terry’s book, we started to spike our year on Drivetime with similar key high points to build up to and climb down from, the biggest of which was our annual Children in Need Drivetime Dine and Disco, and for our last year with Added Drive.
The Added Drive was to come from seven Italian stallions in the shape of seven of the finest motor cars ever to take to the road. The successful bidders in our auction would get to drive seven fabulous vintage Ferraris over two days and a whole heap of money would be raised for Pudsey and his pals in the process.
The collective value of the cars was over £10 million, they were all mine and part of a collection instigated by my wife’s love for a Saturday morning cappuccino. As long as we are all happy an
d healthy, there is little Tash desires in life other than the odd nice frock and her beloved treat of a frothy coffee on a morning, especially at weekends.
And thereby hangs the tale.
Just before Tash and I got together I had sold some land I’d had in Portugal for a while and decided to reinvest the money in a farm back home. Tash and I moved into the farm together just in time for Christmas 2006. Tash wouldn’t let me come home until she had lit the whole place up with candles and decorated a fabulous tree in the hallway.
The farm was small but perfectly formed, consisting of fifty south-facing acres, a bluebell wood, a tennis court, a stream, a swimming pool and a helipad. Yes, I’d done the helicopter thing as well; bought one and learned to fly it – forever the cliché, I know.
One thing we didn’t have, however, was a frothy-coffee machine. This meant that a frothy coffee, the weekend must-have consumable, was only available via a car ride, either to the local pub, which we had also bought (that’s another story) or a trip to our local Waitrose in Godalming.
Now marriage, as most of us are aware, is about making a situation work for both of you, rather than one of you having to put up or make do while the other one gets their way. Tash and I have lived by this credo from day one, and so it was with Tash’s coffee cravings. We had a deal that whenever we went into the village for a coffee, I was allowed to drop into the classic car shop nearby – to have a browse.
My car-buying days had been curtailed somewhat in recent years and whereas I had once owned over twenty – don’t ask – I now owned only three: the old Mark II Jag Tash and I drove off to register our marriage in before flying to Portugal, a Land Rover Discovery (dog wagon) and a Merc 500 for me for work – I know, it’s a Merc and I hate them, but it was a bargain and very practical and blah, blah, blah. Alright, guilty as charged.
So while I still loved cars, I had very much been there and done that, or at least I thought I had.
Coffee purchased, we walked over the road from the car park towards the huge plate-glass windows that had some seriously classy old motors glimmering behind them.
