Deflated, I drove us back to HQ, whereupon my jackbooted passenger smiled and told me I’d passed … I’d what? Yep, I had passed. He wrote me a licence application slip and gave me the ‘pass’ form, smiled convivially, got out and strode back to the building, nodding to Jim as they passed.
‘Well done,’ said Jim.
‘How did you know I would pass?’
‘I gave you the hamper slot. It’s when, every year, I thank the cops for all their help and wish them a happy New Year.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah, mate. No one has ever failed in that slot. You’d have had to have broadsided a bus or run over a vicar to screw it up.’
As I said earlier: ‘manipulated’.
I bought a green Hillman Hunter, reg. FR1865, and it was the key to a new freedom. I didn’t drive as much as I would have liked, because I couldn’t afford the petrol, but I could run errands to the mall down the road in Pakuranga and pick up my brother from his mate’s house.
I’m sure things have changed, and I don’t want to offend drivers in New Zealand in 2020, but they were terrifying times on the road back then, and that taught me to have sharp wits and rapid responses. At the time, you could drive when you reached the age of sixteen and, though the most popular cars were Japanese, many were huge American-style gas-guzzlers. One night I drove down the off ramp of a motorway with high concrete sides, and in front of me was a big Commodore with, seemingly, no one at the wheel. It drifted from side to side, scraping the wall on one side, then wandered slowly across the road to the other. Each time it touched, a huge plume of sparks left the bodywork. Was it rolling on its own? How had it got on to the motorway? I hung back at a safe distance – there was no one at the wheel for sure – so I was surprised when, a mile or so later, the brake lights came on and it slowed for the traffic lights and stopped and I pulled alongside. There were two small hands on the wheel. He may have been a very small sixteen or he may have been a child, I have no clue, but he could barely see above the dashboard. The lights turned green, I hung back again, and he meandered off into the night.
My first car, the Hillman Hunter.
Hanging back at traffic lights was an essential trick to learn. Thankfully, I’d been prepped by a friend. On a Friday night in the city, when stopped at traffic lights, ‘leave two car-lengths between you and the car in front’, a popular game was for the car in front to suddenly be thrown into reverse and lurch back into you. Everyone was ready for this, we all left a gap, and when the white reversing lights of the car in front came on and it jumped back, we all did the same, a whole row of traffic reversing back into the spaces that had been left by the car behind.
Each week the death toll on the roads was released, and each week I was stunned by the magnitude of the numbers in comparison to the country’s population of only 3 million. I saw more dead bodies by the side of the road and in car crashes than at any other time of my life. As I’ve pointed out, I’m sure that’s not the case now.
I’d given up on ever getting a shot on the radio; it obviously wasn’t going to happen and I had no idea what to do next. Yes, I was still homesick, but I had the car, we could swim in the sunshine and my dad had bought a pool table and put it in the garage. Every evening he and I would go down to play and I was allowed one cigarette per evening. Life was good, but I was uneasy and impatient: would I have to give up on my dream career? Or, to pursue it, would I need to leave the family and travel back to England on my own? I had no idea where I wanted to be.
Doreen from next door regularly popped in. She was hilariously funny in her haphazard approach to life. In either house, we never knocked during the day, just shouted, ‘Only me!’ as we walked through the fly-screen doors. And that’s what happened on the day that changed my life.
‘Only me!’ chirped Doreen.
She walked into the kitchen carrying the Auckland Star newspaper. Mum put the kettle on and they chatted a bit. I was just pottering around the kitchen.
‘There’s an advertisement in here you might be interested in,’ Doreen said.
‘Oh, okay,’ I said.
‘It’s been put in by Television New Zealand. They’re looking for a young TV host.’
‘Oh, right, thank you, I’ll have a look.’
The Schofield family next door knew us very well by now, so they all knew what I wanted to do. They knew how disappointed I was by the constantly slamming Kiwi doors. Doreen finished her tea and left.
I didn’t pick up the paper. In fact, it was only later, when everyone was home, that the subject was revisited. I remember it so clearly. We were watching Prisoner: Cell Block H in the sitting room.
‘Have you looked at that advertisement?’ Mum asked.
‘Nah, not yet.’
‘What advertisement?’ said Dad.
He was informed of Doreen’s visit earlier that afternoon.
‘Go and get it, let’s have a look,’ he said.
‘I’m not really interested,’ I replied.
I fetched the newspaper and we all had a look. It was an ad for a young person to host a new teenage-magazine-style pop show. My family were all very enthusiastic; I was less so.
‘Apply,’ said Tim.
‘Call them,’ said Dad.
‘But I don’t want to work in telly, I want to be on the radio’ was my forceful response; strangely ironic, if you consider how many years I’ve now been in front of a television camera!
‘For God’s sake,’ said Dad, ‘it’s something to do. It’ll get you out of the bloody house for a bit, and at least it’ll be interesting and different. Phone them for an audition.’
I sighed. They had a point. I called the next morning. A couple of hours later a lady called Evelyn phoned me back. There was an audition slot available the following evening; could I be at the studios at 7 p.m.? I said I could. My folks were right: it would be interesting, if nothing else.
I drove into Auckland city centre, down Queen Street, and turned right into Shortland Street. At the top on the left was a windowless, fort-like red-bricked building, the home of Television New Zealand in Auckland. I walked into reception and stood next to their star newsreader, Philip Sherry. Okay, it was turning out to be interesting to have come after all. I waited until I was called. Evelyn, who I’d spoken to
on the phone, came to meet me. She was obviously very efficient. I was to follow her to the studio, where I would meet Peter Grattan, the producer. It was the second time I’d walked into a TV studio since my visit to the BBC in Plymouth to watch Joe Pengelly read the evening news on Spotlight South West and my snoop around Television Centre. I liked the smell. Peter met me. A tall, smiley, curly-haired Brit, he seemed fun. They were taking it seriously: there were three cameras, a makeshift set and a member of the crew sitting on a stool who I was to interview, pretending they were in a band.
Maybe it was because I was just doing this for a night out and out of nothing more than curiosity, but I wasn’t nervous. I sat on my stool and, for the first time in my life, looked into the black, glassy eye of a television camera. I was asked to talk about myself, introduce a couple of pop videos and then conduct a mock interview with the crew member, who I think I turned into Smokey Robinson. I was enjoying myself; it was fascinating. I was remembering the key advice I’d been given: ‘Don’t address the world at large’ and ‘Be yourself.’
The audition was done. I said thank you to the studio crew, which I’ve done in every studio I’ve been in since, even today, to our Covid-19 skeleton crew on This Morning thirty-nine years later.
Peter and Evelyn came on to the studio floor and said they’d give me a call in a day or so. I thanked them and drove home to tell my family that I’d stood next to Philip Sherry.
Next morning the phone rang. Could I pop into the TVNZ offices on Queen Street to have a chat?
About an hour later, I was met by Evelyn, who told me about her Maori heritage. She chatted convivially to me, asked if I’d like a cuppa, and we talked a bit more. She was l
ovely. She apologized that Peter Grattan was running late but said he’d be back in a minute. I wondered if they were going to question me more on my very sparse CV. I had listed ‘presenter of a regular radio show in Plymouth’, omitting the fact that it was hospital radio; ‘extensive work at the BBC’ – for that, read booking clerk; ‘worked on Radio 1’ – that was the twenty-second link with Jimmy Savile; ‘produced and presented a star-studded Christmas special for radio at the BBC’ – well, yes, it was at the BBC, just not for the BBC. Oh, and I was twenty-two, when I was actually nineteen.
If I was quizzed on the details, I was going to come seriously unstuck.
Affable Peter bounded into the room. He was sorry he was late, hoped ‘Ev’ had looked after me, did I need another tea? He chatted about his ideas for the show: it was going to be called Shazam! and would be a half-hour pop-video show with interviews of any guests that were in town and, if he could get the budget, some interviews could be done in Australia. It all sounded great. Obviously, whoever got the gig was going to have a ball. I was beginning to get confused. Why was he telling me all this? The conversation went like this:
‘It sounds like it’s going to be great,’ I enthused through my confusion.
‘It’s going to be so much fun. I can’t wait,’ smiled Peter.
‘I bet,’ I said.
‘Are you excited?’ Peter asked.
‘It’s a great idea,’ I generically answered.
‘Er, you’re being very calm, mate. Oh, hang on, did Ev tell you that you’d got the job?’
‘Er … no.’
‘Oh shit, well, yes, you have, Evelyn?’
‘I thought you wanted to tell him, Peeteeer!’
‘Oh, right. Well, welcome on board.’
And that was it!! Without the slightest fanfare, I had just become a TV host. No, wait: I had just become a broadcaster.
The conversation continued, though. I had to come clean.
‘I might have exaggerated a bit on my CV.’
‘Oh, I don’t care! You got it because you were great in the audition.’
‘And … I lied about my age, I’m not twenty-two, I’m nineteen.’
‘Oh! That’s good, you nearly didn’t get it because you were too old!’
It seems to be a pattern when I’m hired for a big gig – it seems to just … happen. When I got the job on Going Live six years later, Chris Bellinger said to me, ‘Would you like to come and play on Saturday mornings?’
I couldn’t believe it. I had my own show. I was going to be on the telly. My family exploded with excitement, partly because they had pushed me to go to the audition, partly because I had a foot on the ladder, but mostly because we could all stay together. Doreen was thrilled to have played a part, too, and for ever more said, ‘I took the paper over, you know.’
Work on the show started in earnest. We sorted out my fee. I didn’t haggle, I’d have done it for free. It wasn’t a big salary, but it would keep me in petrol and meant I could afford to take the family out for dinner occasionally. There were just the three of us in the office: me, Peter and Ev. I wasn’t hired just to be a presenter, I was expected to be part of the production team, too. In the UK, much like in America now, the unions were all-powerful. If it wasn’t your designated job to move a chair, you didn’t touch the chair. New Zealand was nothing like that. Jobs were wonderfully fluid, and part of my job was to drive to the record companies around the city and watch the music videos they would pitch to me. I would then take a long list back to Peter, who would build the show. I made some great friends at those record companies and there was a real buzz about music in the city, not just international music, but also a very healthy and exciting ‘home-grown’ music industry: Split Enz, DD Smash, The Chills, Auckland Walk – just some of the many great Kiwi bands of the time. One afternoon in 1983 I drove to CBS because they said there was a new video we had to see; it was unlike anything that had been seen before and was utterly ground-breaking, it was over thirteen minutes long! What? The show was only thirty minutes, with commercials, so that was a full part! They said I shouldn’t be put off by that, that we’d want to show it, to drive over and watch. I walked into the viewing room and spent thirteen minutes and forty-two seconds with my mouth agape as I watched Michael Jackson’s Thriller for the first time.
Publicity stunt for Shazam.
The day of recording the first show was getting very close. Peter and I had one slightly awkward conversation about my hair.
‘Er, mate, can we just talk about your hair?’
‘What’s wrong with my hair?’
‘Well, you’ve got a few, well, you see, you can see them on camera, and, well …’
‘Pete, what are you talking about?’
‘Mate, you’ve got grey hairs.’
‘I know, the first ones appeared when I was sixteen. It happened at the same age to my mum.’
‘Well, you’re going to be the young host of a new pop show.’
‘And?’
‘They have to go.’
A couple of days later, and for the first time, I had my hair dyed the same brown that most of it was. My real colour wouldn’t see the light of day until I moved from the BBC to ITV years later. I decided to take the opportunity to let it grow out, and was quickly told, ‘ITV say they didn’t hire a grey guy.’
So, I dyed it back. I’ve always been a bit sheepish and embarrassed that I did this. A local TV newsreader in London saw that I had come out of the ‘grey closet’ and, inspired by me, followed suit. He proudly showed his new hair colour on the news, citing me as his inspiration. Two days later, I was brown and had left him out there alone. It was only when Fern Britton finally persuaded me to embrace it that I allowed myself to be a ‘silver fox’.
I seem to have a habit of changing my appearance just as I become known for it: just as I won ‘Spectacle Wearer of the Year’ in 2015, I had my eyes lasered.
Recording day for Shazam! had arrived. I was ready, my hair was fully brown, I’d done all the publicity, I’d bought new clothes and we were walking from the office, up Shortland Street to the studios.
It was the first time I had ever sat in a make-up chair, and the ladies were so reassuring. I’ve come to learn that make-up is the last calm place you’ll be before you walk into a studio. After make-up, it’s back to the dressing room for production briefings and final checks. It’s a bit like an airport: make-up is an emotional ‘land-side’ for me; anything after is ‘air-side’. All good make-up artists are very clever at reading the mood of whoever is sitting in their chair. Would that person like to chat, did they need quiet, did they need reassurance, did they need counselling? A make-up artist can be a therapist at the same time as making you look considerably better than you actually do. Massaging your ego, telling you how great you’re going to be and that there is ‘absolutely nothing to worry about’.
Fern Britton once told me of a presenter who was sitting in a make-up chair with a gown covering his body. As his face was being attended to, the make-up lady noticed that he was vigorously ‘fiddling’ under the gown. Quite rightly, she was deeply offended, smacked his hand and told him, ‘Stop it!’ The presenter was equally offended and lifted the gown to show her that he was, in fact, filling his pipe with tobacco.
That first day in the make-up chair in Shortland Street, I needed reassurance. I surprised myself by how nervous I was. I really didn’t want to arse it up. The lady powdering my face was utterly charming. I would very rapidly come to love that building and everyone in it.
After make-up, I walked down to the studio. The news studio was by reception; the bigger entertainment studio – where I was to go – was downstairs. I walked on to the studio floor to be met by Jimmy Biggum, the hilarious Scottish floor manager. There in front of me was the brand-new Shazam! set. Not elaborate, but perfect for the show. It was going to be recorded, so I knew if I messed it up I could have another go. We were ready, and I took my place on the sofa and the opening titles rolled, elec
tronic graphics of a TV and the stylized image of a guitarist, which I’m pretty sure was Peter Grattan (he had a band called PG and the Hot Tips). An electric guitar provided the music. The red light on camera one lit up, Jimmy waved his cue, and I began. Looking back at the footage, I’m more alarmed by my flat hair than anything else, but I’m pretty sure that style was acceptable at the time. In future shows, I occasionally wore glasses that were so large they looked like two perfectly aligned satellite dishes. Watching it back afterwards, I could see that I looked nervous, but not too much. I picked nervously at the cushion as I introduced Quarterflash’s ‘Harden My Heart’, but other than that, I was happy with how it went. It’s both deeply nostalgic and a little unnerving how many of the moments I’m recounting can be found on YouTube. It has been invaluable for research as I write this, but it results in more than an occasional wince of embarrassment.
When I finished recording, Peter and Evelyn were thrilled. It had gone well; it was what they had envisaged, thankfully. Now all we had to do was to transmit it a couple of days later and hope that the viewers felt the same.
I felt a sense of calm once I got into my stride in that studio. It was easy for me to see the camera as the person I was talking to. It would take a few programmes before I’d feel totally at ease, but I knew even on that first day that it wasn’t going to be intimidating, that a studio, to me, was a friendly, happy place, not a hostile, scary one.
My first studio set.
I watched the show go out with my family at home in Howick. They all watched in silence and I held my breath for thirty minutes. As the closing credits rolled the room was full of ‘That was great’ and ‘You did so well, we’re so proud.’ From that day on, my family have been my most honest critics. What they think is immensely important to me. They have all become very good judges of what I got right and when I’ve got it wrong. Telling me they’re proud has a huge currency, and telling me I messed up keeps my feet firmly on the ground. The Schofields next door were also thrilled, and Doreen was happy to reiterate that she was so relieved it had been her that had brought over the newspaper that set everything in motion.
Life's What You Make It Page 8
