by Chris Evans
I gave her a hug and asked if there was anything I could do to help.
‘No, there’s nothing,’ she said. ‘I’ll be OK.’
I gave her a kiss, another hug and went on my way, my head still reeling at the unholy mess this had all turned into. But stupidly not for one second did it occur to me that the scalp to which Lesley was referring would be her own. If I had known that I would never have left her office that night – in fact, I would probably still be there now protesting the injustice of it all. I knew someone would have to fall on their sword, but I presumed it would be one of the two hosts of the show or at worst the senior executive – responsible for green-lighting the broadcast of the taped programme.
But therein lay the problem. Lesley had volunteered that the person in question was her and that although she hadn’t heard the specific content contained within the show, she was aware something that might have been questionable made up part of it. She had indeed taken the advice of a senior executive who had heard the programme but nevertheless technically it was she who’d signed it off.
Her words to me later were, ‘It happened on my watch, so I had to go.’
It’s insane that a lady who did so many amazing things for the radio listeners of Great Britain, including turning around the biggest radio station in the country when it was heading for oblivion, was now going to lose her job as a result of two overblown egos who didn’t know when to shut up.
I know that by the letter of the law this is the way it had to be, and ultimately I know Lesley did the right thing in her own mind by stepping down, but it all just seems so unfair.
When I went into work on Tuesday evening, the newspapers had spent another day killing the BBC but as yet they didn’t have a body.
‘Lesley’s been at the TV centre all day,’ a red-eyed Helen informed me. She just didn’t know what to say next. As I surveyed the office, everyone was sombre and reluctant to look up. Something had happened, something big. ‘What we need you to do tonight is go on air and be the best you’ve ever been,’ Helen said, more serious than I’d seen her before.
‘Why, what is the matter?’ I asked, feeling like a child being protected from some awful truth. ‘Just do that, please.’
Shit, I thought. I had no idea what Helen was not telling me or why, but I trusted her well enough to know she would have her reasons. All I could do for now was as she had requested.
Not only was it Lesley who’d had to resign but the announcement was being held back till the six o’clock news on Radio 2 that night.
The lead story was too ironic for words. The lady who had resurrected my career and then seen fit to give me the biggest job in radio, was now about to lose hers and have it announced on my show. When I was told what was going to happen, I felt I’d been hit by an express train. I was completely crushed, and worse, totally helpless. It seemed there was nothing I or anyone else could do to help our stricken boss.
The first hour of the show was a sickening blur; with absolute dread, I introduced the news.
‘Good evening, this is Fran Godfrey. The controller of Radio 2, Lesley Douglas has resigned with immediate effect following the broadcasting of a telephone call to the actor Andrew Sachs during The Russell Brand Show
And so the story went on, each word hitting all of us like a fresh punch to the stomach. Here we were on Lesley’s own radio station, broadcasting her demise.
Of course we knew Lesley would be listening, which just about topped off the lunacy of the whole situation. How she was feeling we didn’t dare imagine. We were in bits, so she must have been inconsolable.
We came out of the news with Bruce Springsteen, Lesley’s favourite artist and his anthem ‘Born to Run’. ‘The Boss for the boss,’ I just about managed to say, as the song ended, fighting back the tears. It sounds really cheesy now, but it’s all I could think of at the time. I just wanted her to know we cared.
The rest of the show passed in a daze. When we came out of the studio our network boss, Tim Davie, was waiting for me outside. For the rest of the week Radio 2 would be under the media microscope and all the top brass would be on site in a show of solidarity, which was no bad thing. Tim and I went and had a chat, in Lesley’s office of all places.
He wanted to know if I was alright, which I was and wasn’t. I understood what had gone on and why but I was still in shock, sad and angry. Tim also wanted to gauge how I might react over the next few days. In the past I had had a tendency to air my grievances in public, a short-sighted philosophy that rarely if ever achieved its desired effect. This was the last thing the corporation needed right now.
I told him how I thought Lesley having to resign was a travesty, but I also assured him that my days as a loose cannon were over and I would do anything I could to help move the situation on. There had been enough irrational implosion over the last seven days and I was not about to add to it.
My ultimate responsibility was to the listeners and although they were aware of what had become the top news story of the last few hours on all media, come tomorrow teatime it would be no more than a fading memory to them and they would still want a bag of decent tunes and someone to keep them company on the way home.
I told Tim that there was absolutely no need to worry about me on any level. The only person that we needed to care about was Lesley.
‘I’m going to talk to the news crews outside, though,’ I said. ‘I think it’s important somebody says something,’ which so far nobody had. This was such a big story and a lot of my colleagues had elected not to say anything, worried that one nervous word out of place could easily have fanned the flames. I appreciated their concerns for the station and no doubt their own self-preservation, but at the same time I felt now was the time someone needed to speak up.
‘That’s no problem,’ said Tim respectfully. I think he could see that although I was in bits emotionally, I was very much aware that this was not the day for recriminations and finger-pointing.
I stepped outside the building to give several interviews. All the big news shows were represented and were ready to jump on me to get their soundbites. I think they were slightly taken aback when they realised that I was happy to stay and talk, as well as being surprised at how visibly upset I was.
I tried to convey what the atmosphere inside Radio 2 had been like. I said we were all aware that the phone call should never have happened in the first place, let alone gone out on air, and the fact that it had done so was completely unacceptable. Nobody was hiding from this, but we were all very saddened by the fact that this had resulted in our brilliant boss having to step down from the job she was born to do and loved so much. I went on to add that although few of our listeners would ever have heard Lesley’s name before, I could assure them on behalf of all the staff that the reason their favourite radio station was in such fine fettle was largely down to her.
As a result of my willingness to talk I was asked to appear later that night as a studio guest on Newsnight and on ITV, but I had said all I needed to say.
Instead, I reverted to type and went for much-needed pints around the corner, an antidote to the craziest week I had ever experienced. A week that could have and should have been so easily avoided.
The pub was packed. It seemed that everyone who worked at Radio 2 had had the same idea and instinctively knew where to go. They were all at a loss at first but as the drinks flowed, the grieving process became more vocal and animated, as it so often does. To begin with there were more questions than answers. Would Lesley be the only one to have to resign or were there more heads yet to roll? What would happen to Jonathan and Russell? What would Lesley do next? And now that her quickly cooling controller’s chair was vacant, who was going to replace her? Hers was one of the most powerful and prestigious jobs in British broadcasting and there was sure to be a hotly contested race to find a successor.
Once the main questions had been established, conjecture began to fly around the room. And as with all wakes, after the lull and initial sa
dness, some much-needed laughter began to filter through, as we raised a toast to our fabulous boss and agreed there would never be another like her.
While I was still in the pub, my phone started ringing and Lesley’s number came up. Hastily I jostled my way outside to answer it. She wanted to meet the next morning, and asked me whether I knew somewhere we wouldn’t be spotted. I said I did and arranged to hook up with her in a pal’s office, no more than three minutes away from Radio 2.
I woke up the next day with the hangover from hell. It had been a long and emotional night. After stumbling around my flat for a while I suddenly looked at the clock and realised I was due to meet Lesley in half an hour. Get a move on Evans. You cannot be late.
The first tearful words spoken between us that day were, ‘I’m so sorry, I’m just so sorry.’ But it wasn’t me saying them to my hard done-by boss. These were Lesley’s words to me!
What the blazes was she apologising for?
‘I’ve let you down,’ she went on.
Had the woman lost her mind? The last thing she had done was let me, or anyone else for that matter, down. If anything, we had let her down, the system had let her down, two people in particular had definitely let her down, but Lesley, to my mind, had done nothing wrong. For the duration of our conversation Lesley was very upset. I could see there was much grieving that needed to be done and this was only the beginning.
‘I feel I’ve let you down because there’s no way Terry can walk away now, the BBC and especially Radio 2 will need to close ranks, to get over this madness.’
She was right, I could see that, but it really didn’t matter. All I cared about at that moment was her well being.
‘Lesley, nothing is important apart from the fact that you know how much people love you and I mean really bloody love you and care about you and want to do anything they can to help you.’
I think, to be honest, I was in denial, still hoping it might all blow over and suggested Lesley would be back in a month or so. But when I said as much, she left me in no doubt.
‘That’s never going to happen, Chris, not in a million years. You’ll have a new boss soon enough, I promise you.’
‘What are you going to do with yourself then?’ I asked her.
I hasten to add that this entire conversation had to take place intermittently as Lesley’s BlackBerry kept buzzing with messages from well-wishers, George Michael and Elton John being just two of the names I recognised as they flashed up on her screen.
‘To tell you the truth, I’ve already been offered a job at Universal Music,’ she said, modestly. ‘What do you think?’
‘Blimey,’ is what I thought. They don’t mess about do they? I was surprised at the alacrity of their offer. No time for tears with these guys. ‘Lesley Douglas is available for work, shit – hire Lesley Douglas quick before someone else does.’
For what it was worth I told Lesley to take the job, although I think she was going to anyway. I said to her that the heat around a situation like this is so intense at the time that it’s tempting to think it’s going to last for longer than it actually does. To resign honourably from one big job and walk straight into another had to be the best option, in my opinion. Sure, there may have been more offers around the corner – lots of them perhaps. But why take the risk?
Having said that, the job Universal had in mind for Lesley was no small-fry part-time post sympathetically offered to make her feel better whilst buying her off the market. On the contrary, if she chose to take this new position, she would be exclusively accountable to the worldwide head of the organisation.
Lesley had arranged to see people all day, so we agreed that I would inform some of her now senior troops of a quiet drink session that evening and that she’d say goodbye to the rest of the staff at a bigger do a week or two down the line. Both these events subsequently took place and Lesley was left in no doubt how we all felt about her.
For the record, Lesley is still at Universal today and loving every second of her new life. She’s even making movies in amongst her many music- and artist-related projects.
However, the fallout for the BBC continued long after Lesley had left and, as she had predicted, the handover of the breakfast show ground to a halt. Terry agreed to stay until everyone had screwed their heads back on and normal service was resumed.
In a nutshell, everything would have to be shelved for a year. It would be ‘as you were’ for the next twelve months but yes, Terry still intended to step down come Christmas 2009, and yes, I would still be the kid to replace him.
TOP
10
MOST PIVOTAL MESSAGES I HAVE EVER RECEIVED (IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER – NOT IN ORDER OF IMPORTANCE)
10 Tina (my first girlfriend)’s mum telling me it was over because of my affair with the captain of the netball team
9 ‘Dad’s not going to make it’ (Mum in the kitchen whilst I was fixing my bike when I was 13)
8 Letter from Tony Ingham (boss of Piccadilly Radio circa 1983) inviting me in for an interview to work on Timmy Mallett’s show
7 Telephone call on Christmas Day from Sara the newsreader telling me our one-night stand was under review as perhaps the beginning of something more
6 Telephone call from my pal Andy in London offering me a job at satellite radio station Radio Radio when I was the most down-and-out I have ever been
5 Forty-seven messages on my answer phone after I returned from holiday telling me I had landed the job on The Big Breakfast
4 Matthew Bannister calling to offer me the Radio 1 Breakfast Show
3 Call from Michael (my agent) informing me I had lost on all counts in my case against SMG in the High Court
2 Call from Lesley Douglas telling me she needed to see me regarding a certain knight of the realm hanging up his headphones
1 Call from home telling me Tash was in labour
BACK AT THE HOMESTEAD, Tash was glowing brighter day by day with that beautiful bump of hers. Our baby was due in early February 2009 and we couldn’t wait.
Thankfully, we had finally moved out of the caravan and into our new home, where the nappies, piles of babygros and cuddly toys were now threatening to take over.
Tash finally hit labour one chilly morning a whole two weeks after the predicted date. It was a forty-minute drive from our home to the Portland Hospital, where she was checked into her room by early afternoon. I made sure she was settled in, before getting the all-clear to nip off to Radio 2 – which was fortunately only a couple of minutes down the road – to do my show. There was nothing happening any time soon, our paediatrician said, so I was good to go.
When I returned just after 7 pm Tash was, well, bored really.
‘Let’s go out for some food,’ I suggested. ‘Can we do that?’ asked Tash.
‘I don’t know, maybe it’ll help,’ I offered, having no idea what the heck I was talking about.
After discovering from our man Patrick that it would do no harm whatsoever to go for a meal, providing it was close by of course, Tash threw some comfys on and out we strolled for one of the most romantic and special evenings a couple could ever hope to have. Our destination? Locanda Locatelli – the finest Italian restaurant in the world, owned and run by our good friend Georgio.
What could be more apt than a mamma mia in labour going for dinner in an Italian restaurant? When we told the staff, which we couldn’t resist doing, all the waitresses melted, whilst the waiters afforded me the kind of man-to-man respect that I knew was going to last for one night only and that I’d better make the most of.
Tash hadn’t had an alcoholic drink for weeks, maybe even months – mostly because she was aware of the risks involved, but also because she just didn’t fancy it which, considering what she’d been like when I first met her, was almost inconceivable. Not tonight though.
‘May I have a glass of champagne, please?’ she asked.
‘Wow, look at you,’ I remarked.
‘What the hell,’ she said. ‘It’s not every da
y you go to your favourite Italian restaurant when you’re in labour. I think the occasion calls for it.’
She was beaming from ear to ear and I’m guessing this was the best night of her life – all Tash ever really wanted was a family and God willing she was about to get her wish.
The food at Georgio’s was, as always, fabulous – we both had a starter, a main and a dessert. I’m not a dessert man, but whatever force had steered Tash towards her first glass of champers in ages, also steered me towards the sweet trolley.
All in all, after about two hours we were done and on our way back to base. As midnight passed I was pooped and it was the same old story: the man fighting to stay awake as his woman’s greatest hour of need approached. It’s so clichéd but so true. I must have eventually dropped off and I was woken up by the sound of Tash having a hot bath in an attempt to induce further dilation while I had been snoring happily along on her hospital bed.
Come 6 am on 10 February 2009, however, we had full-on main-engine start and it was time for Dad to wake the bloomin’ hell up, as Mum was almost ready to drop.
With the baby’s heartbeat monitored throughout, it was time for Tash to start pushing, blowing, breathing as she’d practised, and for me to realise how useless men would be in the same situation. My wife is a tough cookie, made of strong stuff, fit, healthy and all that goes with it, but she was struggling and sweating as I’d never seen her before.
‘Shit,’ I remember thinking. ‘This is a really big deal going down here.’
The baby’s heartbeat speeded up with every push but slowed down dramatically in between and Pat, our man on the inside – literally – began to look ever so slightly concerned.
‘Alright Natasha,’ he said. ‘The baby’s struggling a little bit and I want to get him or her out as soon as possible, so I’m going to have to employ a little extra help.’
It’s at moments like this that you fall in love with people who are really good at what they do and this is the moment I fell in love with Pat. It was clear from the deliberate and calm way he had switched from suggesting what ‘might’ be going to happen to telling us what ‘was’ going to happen that there was something quite seriously wrong. Normally über-relaxed and laid back, in front of me now was a man earning every penny of what he was paid for.
