A couple of days later I drove into Auckland to start planning the second show in the office. Peter was a happy man. The network executives were happy with both my and the show’s performance and, consequently, they were also very happy with Peter. We worked away on the planning of the next recording. At lunchtime Evelyn apologized for not pointing me in the direction of the large grey sack in the corner.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘It’s your fan mail.’
‘It’s what?!’
It had never crossed my mind. Throughout all of my love of TV and radio from the age of ten, and in my pursuit of a job in the industry I loved so much, my concentration had only been on getting into a studio. At no point had I considered that people might actually watch, let alone that I might have fans and that they might bother to write to me. I took the first couple of letters from the top of the sack. I had absolutely no idea what to expect, but mercifully the response was positive. I was going to have to practise a suitable signature for my replies.
Shazam! was a success. It didn’t seem to matter that I was British and had an accent. In fact, all eyes were on Britain at the time. It was 1982 and we were all watching the horrors of the Falklands War each night on the news. The phone rang in the Shazam! office. A man called Ross Goodwin was asking to talk to me. I recognized the name. He had been the guy who was with me during my audition at Radio Hauraki. He was also the programme controller and a DJ on the station and it was he who, very gently, had told me I was too English.
‘G’day, Phil, well done on the show. Do you want to complement that TV shit with some proper broadcasting?’
‘I would like that a lot.’
‘Great, fancy a tinny?’
Working in television was an unexpected surprise, and I was loving it, but the pull of radio was still very powerful.
Radio Hauraki was the Auckland station I loved the most. It had begun life as a pirate station broadcasting offshore from a ship called Tiri in the sixties. Ross was one of the original DJs. In my eyes, Hauraki was the coolest station, played the best music and had the best studio location. I was eager to have that beer with Ross as soon as possible. I asked Peter if he was okay with that. But what if he said no? I was hugely relieved when he said it was a great idea and that it would be a benefit for Shazam! if I was on the radio as well. I went for a beer and was given Sunday mornings on the station. I was ecstatic.
There have been many memorable, proud and exciting moments in my career, and just a few utterly sublime moments. Radio Hauraki provided a moment that was both sublime and, briefly, terrifying. The studios were about five floors up, in a glass building that stood on its own on the waterfront. My first Sunday show started just before dawn. There was only one studio, so you had to hot-seat. I waited for the night-time DJ to finish, then, during the news, he packed his stuff away and I slid into the chair. I’d been shown how to use the desk, the music was ready and I’d had a play to see which jingles I liked.
The news finished, I hit the button to play my first ever jingle – ‘Radio Hauraki Auckland’s best music’ – and segued into the first track. I was on my own and beaming from ear to ear. I was on the radio, with my own show, on the best station in Auckland, with the best music. The studio sat in the corner of the building with glass windows on two sides that looked out over the harbour, one behind, one to my right. The view to my right was the Auckland Harbour Bridge. The view from the window behind was even more spectacular – the waterfront of the city with ships and wharves. Beyond that, the perfect sloping volcanic cone of Rangitoto. Beyond that, the shimmering Hauraki Gulf. It was a view that was happening behind me. I had my back to it and was deeply embedded in being on the radio, oblivious to anything else and having the time of my life.
About ten minutes into the show and, thankfully, during a record, the studio was suddenly flooded with red and golden light. What the hell? I turned and was utterly horrified at the scene. Rangitoto was erupting – but it hadn’t been part of an eruption for six hundred years! I wondered if the next thoughts racing rapidly through my mind might be my last. If they had been, my final petrified, angry thoughts would have been: ‘Are you fucking kidding me?! I finally make it, I get a show on TV, I’m ten minutes into my first-ever radio show and I get killed by an erupting volcano? This is so unfair.’
Yes, those would have been my final thoughts on the planet, if indeed Rangitoto had been erupting. But it was happening too slowly. There was no explosion, no flying boulders, no lava rushing into the sea and no pyroclastic flow smashing through the windows to preserve me as a stone DJ statue for all eternity. What I was witnessing was … a sunrise, one of the most beautiful and sublime I have ever seen. That particular day, my first-ever day on the radio, was one of only a handful of days in the year when the sun rose directly out of the cone on the volcanic island. I didn’t speak when the track finished. I went straight into the next song and stood watching. From thinking I was witnessing my final moments on Earth, to witnessing one of the most beautiful natural events I’ve ever seen, all in about thirty seconds. The next day I told Ross Goodwin what had happened, and he roared with laughter and said, ‘Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you about that. Proper shits you up the first time, doesn’t it?’
I was outrageously happy: all the pieces of the jigsaw were falling into place. Shazam! was a success. We were showcasing home-grown talent in a nationwide Battle of the Bands and I was hosting live events in front of thousands of people. And, at the weekends, I loved my two hours on the radio and I was making some great friends.
I think perhaps the reason life in New Zealand was so chilled back then was because of the dope. It was taken very seriously. Kevin Black was the breakfast DJ on Hauraki and he was the biggest name on the radio and a very talented broadcaster. He was also a top bloke. As I’ve mentioned, we all used the same studio. There were two pot plants in the studio, and I’m assuming, at some stage, someone was having a midnight toke and stubbed it out in the pot plant that was directly in the eyeline of all the DJs. There must’ve been a seed in the stub, because slowly but surely green shoots started to show themselves and it really did become a pot plant. Kevin was the first to identify what was going on and, as the senior DJ, in an unspoken agreement, all the other DJs silently agreed that the spoils were his. He watered the plant lovingly during his show every morning. Conditions were obviously perfect because it was thriving and beautifully healthy. Kevin was so excited by his studio horticulture.
The station cleaners came during the breakfast show. When they were in the studio, they would go about their work as the music played, dusting, emptying the bins, cleaning the windows and vacuuming. Kevin would tell them he was about to open the mic and they would turn off the vacuum cleaner and stand quietly until the red light went off.
Some of us were listening to his show one morning when Kevin was reading the weather. Suddenly, during the report …
‘It’s going to be a fine day over the city, temperatures sitting somewhere in the region of … Oh God, no! … I’m so sorry, in the region of twenty-three degrees.’
A jingle played, then music. In fact, three records in a row. What the hell had happened?
They were still laughing about it later that day when I popped into the station. It turned out that the cleaner had been vacuuming and Kevin had asked them to hang on as he opened the mic. He said later that as he was reading the weather, the cleaner was looking around for something to do quietly, spotted the weed (meaning one thing to the diligent cleaner, another thing to us) and deftly plucked it out and threw it in the bin. The outburst on the radio was an involuntary yelp from a DJ who had just seen weeks of work ripped out in front of him.
That wasn’t the only time the DJs at the station dabbled with drugs. My mate was a DJ. He pulled into the station one Sunday after I’d finished on air to show me a car he’d just bought. I looked it over.
‘Yeah, very nice. How much?’ I said.
He told me. I was a bit surprised
at how much he’d paid. It was a reasonably throaty Mitsubishi, but not worth that much. I said I thought he’d been ripped off.
‘Nah, mate, look. It came with extras.’
He opened the glove box: it was full of dope. He walked round to the boot and popped it open: another stash in there!
‘See, mate, great deal.’
I had to agree: he had got a bargain. He was, to be fair, pretty sly with money. He still owes me quite a bit.
When Kevin left the breakfast show he was replaced by Pat Courtenay, a very high-flying, high-octane Irish DJ who had just arrived from Australia. At the time, I believe, he was the highest-paid DJ in the country. He was amazing on the radio and was a massive asset to the station. His show was fast, original, occasionally controversial and very funny. I absolutely loved it. We were all a bit in awe of Pat. Our paths didn’t cross at the station, but he took offices above the production office of Shazam! and I was hoping to bump into him to say hi. It took about a week. He was fast-talking, took no prisoners, brash and sharp as a knife. We hit it off instantly and became great friends. We both joined the press club, an industry-only speakeasy kind of place. When you were accepted, you were sent a key. It opened a nondescript door in a bland building, on Wellesley Street, I think. Through the door, up a flight of stairs, and there was the private bar, a sort of Kiwi Soho House, full of industry professionals who were all very discreet, especially if you fell over full of whisky, which Pat and I regularly did. We played pool into the early hours and he educated me on Irish politics, a subject he was extremely passionate about. One evening we were playing pool and talking about the sectarian divide. Pat was in full, passionate flight. He stopped playing and looked me dead in the eyes. I met his gaze as he told me, that under different circumstances and in a different place, he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot me. I believed him.
It was after one of those very long nights of pool-playing and challenging conversations that Pat caused me to frighten the life out of my parents.
Dad had decided we were too cramped in our house. Unable to suppress his creative urges, he designed and built an extension to the Howick house. A new, large bedroom for him and Mum with an impressive en suite. He was extremely proud of his creation. They had been waiting to move into their new bedroom with increasing anticipation. Eventually, it was completed and they decided it was the night to move in. I may have been on the TV and radio, but I still lived at home and slept in the same bed in the same small room as I had when we moved in. Their departure from their old room would free up a bit of space for me and Tim.
On the night in question, they were proudly and comfortably tucked up in their new ‘suite’ for the first time. I was out with Pat. It was a very long night and it had been a tiring week. As I was driving home my eyes were beginning to droop. I was in reckless danger of falling asleep at the wheel. I swung the car off Alexander Street and up the drive, not concentrating and too fast. I got to the end of the drive, misjudged the stopping distance and ran into the metal garage doors. The noise was spectacular, a huge reverberating boom!
In the new bedroom, the eyes of my parents flew open at the deafening roar and, for the first time, my dad doubted his building skills.
‘Christ, Pat, it’s coming down!’
‘What?’
‘The bloody extension is coming down. Get into the garden, quickly!’
I surveyed the damage: nothing to the car, dents in the garage door. I shrugged and walked up the steps into the house. Walking into the kitchen and looking out of the window, I saw both of my parents, in their night clothes, holding on to each other and looking at the extension. It still makes me laugh. It took a long time before they did.
Although it was fun being around my occasionally stoned friends, I’m not suited to marijuana and I don’t like it. On the rare occasions I’ve tried it, it has either made me sick, or made me feel like I have been darted with a tranquillizer. The first time I ever tried it was with Pat. He invited me over to his house for dinner; his lovely girlfriend, Trish, was going to cook. His hefty salary at Hauraki had enabled him to rent a house that, to this day, I’d like to revisit. It was on stilts, built of beautiful local wood and set in a silver-fern grove in the swanky Takapuna suburb. Big double doors opened on to a large veranda that was built out into the ferns. It was stunning.
Trish cooked a lovely dinner, we drank wine and whisky, chatted and listened to music. I think Pat played the guitar. Then he rolled a joint. I was hesitant but decided to give it a try. It seemed like only moments before the waves of nausea hit me, followed by the tranquillizer effect. Obviously, I was now rubbish company. Pat told me the next day that I just crumpled on the sofa, but I had a smile on my face. He carried me into the spare bedroom and he and Trish tidied up the dinner things. As they did, they put on some music. They wouldn’t know, but in my stoned state, I was about to have an intimate relationship with an album.
The album they were playing as they did the washing-up was Dire Straits’ Love over Gold.
They assumed I was asleep on the bed in the spare room. That wasn’t the case. I was in the album, living every note and loving every word. It was an intense musical experience, and I feel I know that album more than any other, not just to listen to, but to be an integral part of … like … to really know, maaan … you know? When I’ve subsequently told that story, some have said, ‘That’s a shite album.’ I won’t hear a word said against it, because … I know. Haha.
A while later, Pat was too controversial for the radio to take any more, and he resigned. That was it. I was distraught. I drove to the Takapuna house, but he and Trish were gone and I never saw them again. He’s on the radio in Dublin now, I think. I should call.
I don’t think there are many areas in which both Tim and I disappointed Dad, but sport was definitely one. In his youth, he’d played for the feeder team for Oldham Athletic. We have newspaper cuttings from those days. ‘Schofield scores 6’ – that type of thing. He could have been a pro, but he hated the politics. He was always watching the footie; it was his passion. Tim and I couldn’t have cared less. He tried to get us involved, but it was never going to happen. So, when I was asked by TVNZ if I would play for the station in a charity match, I couldn’t have said no fast enough. But they were having none of it and Peter was exerting enormous pressure.
‘It would be great for the show, mate.’
‘No.’
‘Great publicity.’
‘No.’
‘The channel would be really appreciative.’
‘No, Peter.’
So I played, obviously.
I didn’t breathe a word of it to anyone. My folks didn’t know, and I was not going to tell them.
On the day of the match, it was pissing down. I was given shorts and a shirt (branded) by the station. I borrowed the boots from the wardrobe department and I was in a very bad mood.
I don’t like being pressured into things, and this had been extreme pressure.
The rain was relentless, and it was cold, too. Wet and cold and football. Seriously?
I think the team realized very quickly that I wasn’t interested, and they made sure the ball didn’t come anywhere near me. I made a few obligatory runs, but nothing that merited anyone risking a pass in my direction. I was wet through to the skin, shivering with cold and pissed off in the extreme. The match ended and I got changed and went to the pub with everyone, where I was heartily ribbed for my performance.
There was no mention of where I’d been when I got home, and I was not going to tell for sure.
Three days later I walked into the kitchen and on the table were about twenty pictures of me, lanky, bedraggled, cold and sullen. My dad had found out about the game somehow and hidden in the trees with his camera.
‘I thought you did okay.’ He laughed.
‘Sod off.’
Becoming a recognized face of TVNZ came with responsibilities besides charity football matches. Before I ever considered answering that fateful ne
wspaper advert, I’d spent hours watching TVNZ as I tried to figure out what I was going to do with my life. Sometimes I watched until the channel closed down at around one in the morning. The close-down sequence was a cute animation featuring a Kiwi who was switching everything off, accompanied by his friend the cat, who followed him up to bed. The Kiwi put in a cassette to start the ‘goodnight’ music, walked through a deserted studio, put the milk bottle out and then went up in a lift, to where they both slept, in a satellite dish. You can find that 1982 sequence on YouTube – it is called ‘The Goodnight Kiwi’. Now I was one of TVNZ’s presenters, I was occasionally asked if I would help with a bit of brand promotion. I got a call from publicity. Would I be prepared to do a handful of public appearances with the iconic Kiwi & Cat from the close-down cartoon. Of course. I’d be honoured.
The appearances were in large shopping malls in the Auckland area. I would go onstage and give away a few TVNZ T-shirts and introduce the Kiwi and the Cat, both of whom were girls of about fifteen dressed in costumes that were a very good representation of the animated characters. The children in the audience were to line up to have their pictures taken with the three of us. It went down a storm. The audience loved it. We had successfully completed the first two shows of the day that morning. After a quick break, we set out to do the final two in other malls in the afternoon. It was getting hot, the day was sweltering and, combined with the lights on the stage, it was pretty uncomfortable. I was in a shirt and shorts, the Kiwi and the Cat were in full, heavy character costumes. The crowd was clapping and cheering, and children’s faces beamed up at me. It was time to introduce the characters.
‘You all know who I’m about to introduce, the stars of TVNZ and icons to all of us. Please welcome the Goodnight Kiwi and the Cat!’
Life's What You Make It Page 9
