Life's What You Make It

by Phillip Schofield

  It was time to return to London. I packed my bags, kissed the family goodbye and started the drive that I have done hundreds of times over the years. On my way to my folks it was always joyous to pass the sign that said ‘Welcome to Cornwall’, but it was always sad when it flashed by on the other side of the road on the way back to London and I knew I had left my family and the county.

  Work was quiet. Ian had now moved on and my producer was a compact bubble of blond energy called Tim Robinson. What should we do on air in these dead days between 27 December and the thirtieth? I decided to take in the silly golden-coloured hand puppet. Maybe it would be fun.

  I played with it for a couple of links and then Tim decided that, in order for me to have both hands free, he should operate it. That seemed like a reasonable idea. It was brilliant chaos. Tim was bringing it to life. In the first link of him operating it, the puppet knocked over my tea and soaked my lap. It needed a name. During a cartoon, I set about thinking, and by the end of the cartoon I had thought of one. The silly Christmas present from my auntie had become Gordon the Gopher.

  At that moment, neither of us realized what we had done or how far it would go. Certain subtle changes had to be made to the puppet so that we didn’t infringe copyright. His legs and arms were shortened and he was given red hands, and that seemed to cover the problem. In the days that followed he became a star in his own right. The kids were unhappy with the fact that he was naked, so families up and down the land knitted him clothes. Later, on Going Live, record companies soon cottoned on to the fact that although I probably wouldn’t wear their promotional T-shirts, the Gopher, who was a freebie tart, would wear anything. His clothing progressed from T-shirts with ‘T’Pau’ on the front to the most beautifully stitched leather jacket commissioned by Adam Ant’s record company and signed on the inside by the man himself.

  As his popularity grew, it became clear that there was

  a potential business opportunity here. I phoned the department in charge of licensing and asked if they would be interested in mass-producing Gophers. They couldn’t have been less interested. The gentleman on the end of the phone said he needed to look into it and would call me back. Later in the week he called.

  ‘I’ve been looking into this Gary the Gaffer. I’m afraid the BBC aren’t interested in any marketing.’

  ‘Would you mind if I pursued this myself, then?’

  ‘Be my guest, but from our point of view, we believe there will be little commercial interest.’

  Gordon went on to buy a sizeable proportion of my house in Chiswick and sent Diane and her family on the trip of a lifetime to Disneyland Florida. Marketing were considerably more alert when Ed the Duck came along after Gordon and I left the Broom Cupboard.

  Each producer that looked after the Broom Cupboard also had to have a hand in Gordon, so to speak. It was fascinating how he magnified their characters. With Tim, he was mischievous; with Sue Morgan, he was outrageously dramatic; with Mike Harries, he was wistful; and with Paul Smith, he was dry and cynical. I’m sure the others won’t mind me saying so, but Paul became the spirit of Gordon the Gopher. In fact, I just WhatsApped him to tell him that I was writing this book and he has just told me that he has Gordon in his office at this very moment, down from his Perspex box in Salford, wearing that very jacket because ‘the Observer wanted a pic for an article’. The Gopher lives on, and we are all powerless to stop it.

  Cutting out Gophers for manufacture.

  Paul Smith and Sue Morgan, two Gopher wranglers.

  I had to invent an entire back story and a family tree for Gordon when Jeremy Swan asked if I’d like to do a mini-series of Gordon ‘sitcoms’ with him and Paul Ciani for CBBC. Jeremy had produced Rentaghost, Galloping Galaxies and Jackanory and was a gentle, kind producer with a soft Irish lilt. I created Gordon’s girlfriend, Glenda, most of his family from back on the Prairie, and the fact that he owned and ran a cactus-juice farm. Paul and Jeremy created a whole world for Gordon under my flat. It was the first time I’d had to learn lines and act, and I had a ball. My now-grown-up girls were watching it the other day and it was a good sign that it wasn’t too embarrassing.

  These days, if I’m asked where he is, I usually say he’s in rehab.

  One afternoon, as I was sitting in the booth and watching Blue Peter, a new presenter was introduced. I sat up. Caron Keating was welcomed to the team, and I was instantly entranced and set about orchestrating a meeting. We had a few drinks and ended up going out for a while. How to describe Caron? Beautiful, artistic, stubborn, wild, unpredictable and one of the world’s greatest party animals. Caron would leave a black-tie event and insist she knew a short cut out. Thirty minutes later, we’d be lost in the kitchens of the Grosvenor House and sitting with the staff, drinking whisky.

  If I went out with her for a quiet, romantic meal, by the end of the evening we were sharing our table with thirty drunken revellers and someone had invariably found a fiddle to play.

  It was great fun, brilliantly chaotic, but not easy to understand. We parted the very best of friends and, one day on a train, Russ nervously asked me if he could ask her out. Would it break ‘the lads’ code’? ‘Absolutely fine by me, mate. You’re perfect for each other. I’m thrilled,’ I said.

  And they were perfect for each other. They had two wonderful boys in Charlie and Gabriel. Along with Steph and our girls, we all went on holiday together. My mind always goes to the memory of Caron and I dancing round the pool table to ‘Fairytale of New York’. Caron was a wonderful friend to have, a shining light in all our lives. Russ was indeed the perfect man for her. He tenderly and selflessly cared for her as she fought breast cancer, and he was devoted to her right up to the moment she tragically succumbed to it. Her boys are a constant credit to her.

  Another person in the Presentation gallery who had become a very good friend was Stephanie Lowe, a very pretty network assistant and, I would discover, without doubt the kindest, most devoted soul I will ever have the good fortune to meet. To be honest, I think it was fair to say that she spotted me first. I walked through the gallery, said hi to the team then set up in the booth each day, but I had caught her eye. Quite what Steph ever saw in a lanky bloke in highly questionable jumpers, I have no idea, but thank God she saw something.

  We got to know each other over time because we shared the same circle of friends so we were often out together. Nights as a group to the cinema, big, raucous dinners, evenings in the BBC club. One afternoon, Steph was the production assistant on a film I was making with Gary Numan. I finally plucked up courage at the end of filming to ask her out. She went to work the next day in the same clothes as the day before. I know she would agree that I wasn’t the perfect boyfriend. If I’m honest, I was totally wrapped up in my job and extremely reluctant to commit, but she played the long game beautifully.

  Things were moving rapidly at work. I had been asked to present Take Two, a sort of kids’ Points of View, and I was also presenting Song for Christmas, where I introduced a young singer-songwriter who was appearing on TV for the first time. He obviously had a very promising career in front of him. Yes, Gary Barlow was very good on the show that night. In fact, Gary and I would meet again twice in the future, before the world fell at his feet. I was hosting a promotional tour for Coty, who were launching a new fragrance called Exclamation. Part of my job was to introduce new bands. One afternoon, I introduced a new group who bounced enthusiastically on to the stage in one of their first-ever try-outs. Both Russ and I thought Take That were really very promising, but Russ thought they should ditch the leather. Which they had, by the time they appeared as a warm-up act on my Radio 1 Roadshow in Falmouth. Shortly after that they became international superstars.

  Aside from waking with a hideous pain in my groin in April 1987 and the doctor coming around to my flat to confirm that I had appendicitis and needed to be admitted to hospital immediately, things were going well. I was doing more and more for Saturday Superstore, and things were looking increasingly
promising.

  I had fought off Biddy Baxter, and I had been in the Broom Cupboard for two years, earning my stripes and having more fun than I could possibly have imagined. The phone rang.

  ‘Hi, Phillip, it’s Chris Bellinger. Would you like to come and play on Saturday mornings?’

  The ‘Hallelujah!’ choir in my head burst forth once more.

  Leaving the Broom Cupboard was going to be a wrench. I had started it, we had built it up, and we were all incredibly proud of how much a part of afternoon life it had become. There was so much to be proud of, so much I would look back on with such fondness. I was a kind of older brother to the viewers. I felt protective of everyone who watched. At one point, there had been a spate of cruel chain letters going around that threatened death to anyone who didn’t forward them, and the kids watching were terrified, so I told them to forward them to me so I could tear them up. Doreen and I tore up hundreds. I’m still alive, guys!

  I had launched an afternoon sing-along, sent out lyric sheets to any viewer who wanted them, and we all belted out the theme to Mysterious Cities of Gold together. We had also pledged to get Petula Clark’s ‘Downtown’ back in the charts. The devoted afternoon club loved it, and Petula charted triumphantly once more. About two months ago, Petula appeared on This Morning and asked why I’d picked that song all those years ago. I told her that it was the song that me and my friends had belted out one night as we walked down Ealing High Street, full of exuberance and wine and the joy of life.

  Michael Grade was Controller of BBC1 at this stage of my career. He had a particular quality that I’ve seen in few bosses I’ve had since. Michael would arrive in his office after watching a day’s television and write small notes to some of those on the channel. I know this for two reasons: firstly, because for a time Steph was one of his two secretaries and would send out the notes he had written while sharing a Mars Bar with him; and secondly, I know because I was sent one.

  He would drop a note to anyone and everyone, from executives to researchers. Imagine the power of a little thank-you note arriving randomly in the internal mail. He would watch a music show and congratulate the sound team, or a documentary and compliment the work of the research team, or a drama and send a ‘well done’ to the lighting crew.

  One afternoon I opened my mail and on headed paper was the handwritten note:

  I watched you yesterday afternoon. You really made me laugh.

  Thanks for all the hard work, Michael

  The power of those words was astonishing. Here was a kid who had studied Television Centre as if I was swotting for an exam, who had had seemingly wild dreams of some kind of broadcasting future, and now I had got a note from the boss. For me, it was a great place to work and, in my eyes, everyone working at the BBC wanted to make him proud. It’s a great example to all bosses: a little unannounced thank-you note has immeasurable weight. My ITV boss does exactly the same now over text.

  As my last afternoon in Presentation arrived, my final producer there, Paul Smith, and I decided to ask Michael if he would record a little sketch to send me on my way. He happily agreed. We arrived in the boss’s office on the sixth floor with our camera crew. Paul would, as usual, produce and direct, but also have his hand up the Gopher. We ran the idea we had had past Michael, and he loved it.

  Outside my spiritual home.

  And so, my farewell to the Broom Cupboard was Michael Grade, Controller of BBC1, sitting jacketless in his chair, red braces resplendent, cigar in hand, thanking me for all my hard work but saying it was time for me to move on: he had secured a position for me in the post room.

  ‘Now, Gordon,’ he said. ‘I see great things ahead for you, a really promising future. Perhaps we could talk contracts? Would you like a cigar?’

  I backed out of the Controller’s office and left the Gopher to it. I left the Broom Cupboard in the capable hands of Andy Crane on 21 August 1987. I was moving downstairs to TC7. In a month’s time, Going Live would take its place in the roll call of Saturday-morning shows.

  All the Children’s BBC presenters together.

  5

  The roster of artists on the books of James Grant Management was growing. Caron Keating had signed up, then Mark Goodier, Simon Mayo and Anthea Turner. The management team had also grown. A young, eager guy from Bolton called Paul Worsley joined in 1987, and in 1990 Darren Worsley (no relation) would join to sort out the accounts because Russ had a habit of rounding everything up! Darren also became phenomenal at firmly but fairly negotiating contracts. With Daz’s arrival, so was formed my closest group of friends in the world, the people I trust with my life and whom I adore. Pete, Russ, Paul, Daz and me are ‘The 5’. They are the friends who would guide me through my life, help me negotiate my career, keep my feet on the ground, make me laugh until I ached and, much later, guide me through the most difficult decision of my life.

  My besties. Paul Worsley, Darren Worsley and Peter Powell.

  Either Russ or Paul or both drove me the length and breadth of the country for personal appearances. There were usually a couple in the diary each week, and we travelled for miles. I had put together an hour-long show of games and competitions, and they were always great fun to do. It was a fantastic way to meet the viewers. If we could, we’d stop off at Watford Gap services for breakfast; we called it a ‘train wreck’ because it was a disaster on a plate. In all the many, many miles we drove, we only nearly fell out once. Paul, Russ and I were all on the way to Nottingham, where I was to turn on the Christmas lights. Russ was driving my car. The traffic was hideous and it was becoming apparent that we were going to be late. We phoned ahead. ‘No problem,’ said the organizer. ‘We have friends in the police force.’ They phoned back ten minutes later. As we came off the motorway, a police car was waiting at the junction under a bridge. We spotted it and pulled over.

  ‘Okay, guys,’ said the officer. ‘Switch on your headlights and your hazards and stick very close to me.’

  ‘Russ, I want to drive,’ I said.

  ‘No, it’s okay, I’ve got this.’

  ‘Please swap seats.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Russ, I want to drive behind the police car.’

  ‘It’s okay, Phil, I’ll do it.’

  ‘No! It’s my car! I want to drive.’

  ‘It’s fine, mate. Look, it’s too late, he’s setting off.’

  The police car burst into life, a cascade of blue flashing lights and sirens. Russ drove behind as the cars parted to let us through. Wrong side of the road, through red lights, we scythed through the traffic jam. I looked at Russ’s face. He was smiling with glee. I was furious, and dripping with envy. I phoned Pete back at the office.

  ‘Russ won’t let me drive.’

  They all, quite rightly, burst out laughing.

  I’ve only had that opportunity for a police escort on one other occasion: leaving Windsor after Harry and Meghan’s royal wedding. A very kind police officer said that it would take hours for me to get out of the town and that he would escort me. With almost uncontrollable excitement, I got into the car, turned on my hazards and headlights and set off behind him. There was absolutely no traffic on the road. He turned off his lights, I turned off mine and we drove sedately to the M4, where he cheerily waved me goodbye. I was gutted. The first time I had had an escort, I wasn’t driving; the second time, when I was, there was no traffic to clear.

  The first transmission date of Going Live was getting closer. I knew most of the team from my guesting on Superstore, but this was very different: this was now our show. I’d spent some time with a Gopher as a partner, but now I had my first real co-host, in Sarah Greene. We hit it off immediately. We had the same sense of humour and the same very naughty streak. Thinking about it, I didn’t know I had a naughty streak until Sarah let it out.

  Our office was on the twelfth floor of the now-demolished East Tower beside TC. The lift only went up to the eleventh floor, so we had to walk up the final flight of stairs to the twelfth. Sar
ah and I soon discovered how great the acoustics were on that walk. A tiled concrete staircase with a drop of twelve storeys was joyously echoey. As we belted out song after song, our voices reverberated down to the ground floor. We’d sing until someone on the staircase below leaned over the banister and looked up to see where all the noise was coming from. Every annoyed face was a point.

  With ‘Greeno’.

  Chris Bellinger headed the team. The colour of his jumper and socks always matched, which was immensely endearing. Chris was assisted by Cathy Gilbey and Angela Sharp. They were a dream team. Chris knew exactly what worked and what didn’t; after all, this was the man who had created Swap Shop and Superstore. He was kind and fun, but firm when he had to be. On numerous occasions on the studio floor in the future, as Sarah and I were getting naughty, Chris would just say, ‘Stop it,’ into our ears and we instantly obeyed.

  We all visited Studio 7 on the Wednesday before the first live show to look at the set. On the Friday we returned and recorded the opening titles and promotional trailers. Trev and Simon had been booked as a comedy duo and had made us howl with their left-field humour. Chris had suggested Gordon came with me from the Broom Cupboard and Paul Smith had agreed to continue as his operator.

  The mighty Chris Bellinger with Pete.

  I went to bed on that Friday night and couldn’t sleep a wink. From the day I had watched the first ever Swap Shop launch in 1976 to the night I lay in bed on the eve of presenting Going Live was eleven years. It was a dream about to come true.

  I got up on that Saturday morning way too early, I drove to Television Centre way too early, I was in TC7 way too early, but I was determined to make this day last for as long as I could. I wandered around the set, chatted with the crew, drank endless cups of tea. Sarah Greene (now Greeno to me; even all these years later, she is still saved as Greeno in my phone) arrived in Make-up and made me laugh to put me at my ease. We were buzzing. I was very nervous. The titles ran, the transmission light outside the studio went from ‘rehearsal’ blue to ‘transmission’ red. Sarah and I walked from behind the scenes and on to the studio floor to unveil the new set. On 26 September 1987 Going Live was live for the first time, and would be for another joyous six years. In my career, the first time I do something huge and new it usually goes by in a blur. I’m concentrating so hard on making it work I don’t tend to allow myself the luxury of enjoyment. The two hours flew by, and Sarah and I instantly worked well together as a team. As the show finished we looked at each other and laughed and hugged – it had worked. Sarah had been a main presenter on Saturday Superstore, the predecessor to Going Live, so everyone knew that she was a safe pair of hands. The unknown quantity was me! But Chris Bellinger was thrilled and the team were quick with their congratulations. I had done it: the show I’d wanted to do since I’d seen the first Swap Shop eleven years earlier was mine. The following week, and the weeks after, I could relax and enjoy myself. If Television Centre was my spiritual home, TC7 was always its heart to me. I loved every moment in that studio with those wonderful people. When the centre closed down in 2013, a friend of mine, Ray, was in the building late at night. People were taking souvenirs, much to the annoyance of the bosses. Ray called me.