Life's What You Make It

by Phillip Schofield

  As the curtain lifted and I stood before the brothers, who were all ranged before me, there was pandemonium. This professional group of highly talented singers, actors and dancers completely fell apart. They were literally crying with laughter. Some couldn’t even sing. I had no idea what the matter was. As they attempted to pull themselves together I could see Mike Dixon in hysterics as he conducted in the orchestra pit. They were obviously laughing at me. I felt on edge: was there a costume malfunction? Only as one of them ran past me and was able to say, ‘Well, hello, Barbara Cartland,’ did the penny drop. Every bit of blue make-up that I had applied and thought invisible was very visible onstage. What the brothers saw as the curtain lifted was a face that resembled a small child’s when they have got hold of their mother’s make-up bag. All around my eyes was completely blue; there were huge smears that covered my eyebrows, went to my ears, over my cheeks and on to my forehead. We all went to the pub afterwards and our sides ached for days.

  Linzi Hateley and I discovered that we were both hopeless gigglers. It got to the point where we could barely look at each other in the final song because we knew we were going to laugh. One afternoon, the company manager called us both into his office and told us, thankfully while smiling, that we had to behave ourselves and that we weren’t to laugh any more. People had paid good money and it was not professional that, on a regular basis, neither of us was capable of singing the final note. We both apologized and promised to do better. That evening as we came together at the end of the show to sing, neither of us was looking at the other. We looked past each other’s heads, over each other’s shoulders and up into the lights. On the last note, Linzi figured that it was safe to look into Joseph’s eyes because we had been so well behaved. As she looked at me, I slowly closed my eyes. I had painted two big eyes on my eyelids. She fell apart.

  I didn’t want it to end. I had discovered something new and unexpected – a love of the camaraderie of theatre. I know of one ‘stage star’ who, when introduced to her new company, said, ‘Don’t bother with names, I won’t need them.’ I always thought what a terrible shame, she will spend her days alone in her dressing room, rather than throwing her head back in uncontrollable mirth.

  On 23 February, my six weeks were up. I had laughed myself senseless, I had made new friends, and also, I knew I wanted to do more. Eventually, that wish would nearly destroy my TV career.

  There had been one casualty during my six weeks onstage at the Palladium. Because I was onstage on Thursday evenings and Sundays had been my only day off, I had to make the unbearable decision to give up Radio 1. Something had to go, and I was distraught that it had to be radio. Before I left, I had a few weeks on the breakfast show, filling in for Simon Mayo when he went on holiday. Breakfast-show timings do not suit my body clock. Getting up at 4.30 a.m. proved to me that I didn’t want to do it full time. One morning I was so tired that as I passed Stamford Brook Tube station and got

  to the right-hand turn on the Goldhawk Road, my hands slipped off the steering wheel and I thought, I literally can’t be arsed to steer. Obviously, I did, but I realized that theatre suited my body clock perfectly. Get up whenever you want, work in the afternoon and evening and stay up late. Ever since I was a kid, I had hated going to bed early. The clocks changing in the spring were torture to me – I was sent to bed and it was still light?! I think that’s when my FOMO (fear of missing out) started. I can’t stand going to bed and missing out, and theatre was my perfect timetable. Which is funny when you think about it, considering I’ve spent the last eighteen years getting up at 5.30 a.m.

  Sarah and I were also beginning to wonder if six years of Going Live were perhaps enough. We both wanted to be sure that we left at the peak, and we agreed that if one of us went, both of us would go. The show was still riding high. Anna Home, the Head of Children’s, would still phone Chris and ask, ‘Is there any possibility you could actually aim this show at children?’ Among our team, we had no intention of doing that. It was the secret of all the BBC’s Saturday-morning shows: make them for the family so everyone can watch; don’t alienate anyone. It was also extraordinary how many restaurateurs watched. Sarah and I could always get a table in any restaurant.

  The decision over when to call time on Going Live would have to wait, though. I had a party to host. I love fireworks. One thing better than watching other people set off their fireworks is setting off your own. It had become a tradition that I would host the bonfire-night party. The bonfire was always too big for the garden, and so were the fireworks! The house was rammed with all our friends, and this was the moment that Chris Bellinger drank overproof rum and, as he chatted to me with his back to the wall, began to slide down it. Andy Crane was out in the garden when I set off the fireworks. At the precise moment I lit a Catherine wheel and set fire to the fence, I also set fire to Andy. Thankfully, we put him out. Andy also went on to drink more overproof rum than is sensible.

  When I woke up the next morning I looked into the spare bedroom. There was a mass of forgotten coats that would have to be returned. As I sorted through them, I yelped as I uncovered a pale and lifeless face. Oh shit, I’ve killed Andy Crane! Mercifully, that wasn’t the case and, after a couple of cups of strong coffee, Andy was well enough to leave.

  After another night, gathered around Midge Ure’s kitchen table drinking Jack Daniels, the decision was made. This would be our last series of Going Live. At the time, Midge was married to Annabel Giles, who was one of the faces of Saturday mornings. Many of the wrongs of the world were put right around that kitchen table in their beautiful house by the river. Sadly, I could never remember the decisions we had made to actually make the world a better place. I’m pretty sure it involved pledging not to drink so much Jack Daniels.

  Another consideration in my decision to leave Going Live was that Jason Donovan had decided his time as Joseph was over. My six weeks had gone well, so I was asked if I’d like to take on the role full time. There was no hesitation in my answer. On 23 May 1992, I became Joseph again, first at the London Palladium and then on the nationwide tour. I would go on to do 1,147 performances.

  7

  Life with Steph was enormous fun. We continued to eat our way up and down Chiswick High Street. We’d been on holiday to Thailand, the first of many holidays in our lives as we explored the world together. We were complete soulmates, and inseparable. Steph had also discovered a foolproof way to my heart: her ginger puddings are the best I’ve ever tasted. In fact, a few weeks ago, along with my girls, she made them for me again for my birthday. Still just as good. My family adored her, and there was no question I had fallen very much in love. From those days until now we have shared everything, and no man could be loved more than Steph loves me.

  Steph has said in her own words that she was born to be

  a mum, and that is certainly true. As well as all her other accomplishments, our two girls couldn’t have hoped for a better mum. She literally never puts a foot wrong, whereas I’m always the one apologizing and saying, ‘Sorry, I could have handled that better.’ However, at first it seemed that being a mother might cruelly elude her. Her doctor had said that having children may not be that straightforward. He said, ‘Are you with the man you want to marry? If not, get rid of him and find Mr Right, because time is running out.’ Thankfully, she stuck with me. If having children was going to prove difficult, then we’d better start trying even harder. In one of the greatest miracles of our lives, Molly proved remarkably easy to make.

  I had found exactly the ring I wanted on Bond Street. Every year, I made an advent calendar for Steph, little boxes filled with bath oils or chocolates. In the box for 11 December (Steph’s mum Gill’s birthday) was the ring. As she opened the box and found the ring, I leapt starkers from our bed and proposed. We kept it mostly among our family and friends until, on Going Live the next day, Des O’Connor let the cat out of the bag. But we were happy he had.

  I had been a guest at Sarah and Mike’s wedding and, though it was a re
ally beautiful day, the behaviour of the newspaper paparazzi was pretty intrusive. I watched as they got in everyone’s faces and, as the married couple left, the paps were bouncing off the car. I vowed in my head that, on my wedding day, I wouldn’t let that happen.

  Organizing our wedding was a top-secret affair. I was onstage every night as Joseph, so timing was difficult. Marriage laws in England at the time prohibited weddings outside of a church, and I also knew a church would be a pap fiasco. We looked at flying somewhere romantic in Europe, but most countries required that the couple live there for a week before the wedding, and I couldn’t take that amount of time off. I looked into the laws in the wider UK. Scotland seemed to fit the bill – a plane ride away, and we didn’t have to get married in a church. That might work! We set about looking for a castle. Russ found Ackergill Tower near Wick in Caithness. It looked perfect. Steph and Russ flew up secretly to check it out. It was perfect.

  My stag night.

  Saturday, 27 March was Steph’s birthday. On that day in 1993 she and our immediate families and three of our best friends travelled in a coach to Luton airport. I had two shows at the Palladium, and Russ came to pick me up afterwards and we set off for Luton. We all met up at the airport and boarded a private plane I had chartered to carry us north to Scotland. A couple of hours later we were being picked up by a fleet of Land Rovers that pulled up next to the plane on the tarmac and we were driven the short distance to Ackergill. The driveway was lit by flaming torches, and the sound of bagpipes drifted across the lawn. The tower was built in the early sixteenth century and had a rich history, and we all fell instantly in love with it and its staff. It sits on the coast of Sinclair’s Bay and its seaward wall drops straight down to the rocky shore.

  The atmosphere at Ackergill was homely and informal, yet it was also sumptuous and grand. By the end of our stay, no one could find where they’d kicked off their shoes. We met the vicar, who was jovial and very easygoing. We would get married in front of the huge fireplace in the great hall and a harpist would play throughout.

  Because of limited space, both on the plane and in the tower, our numbers were small. I had my mum, dad and brother, along with Pete, Russ and Paul. Steph had her mum and dad and her brother, Tim, her sister, George, and her best friends, two called Alison and one called Candy. Steph had gone to school with Candy at the age of nine and still works alongside her now.

  On the way to Ackergill to get not-so-secretly married.

  Back in London, the only indication that anything was different at the London Palladium was a sign placed by the box office explaining that I wouldn’t be appearing on Monday, 29 March due to ‘filming commitments’.

  However, some secrets are impossible to keep for long.

  ‘Phil, there are photographers and journalists at the gate.’

  Ah well, it didn’t matter. The castle had been impregnable in battle over the centuries so I was pretty sure we’d be okay. It was cold and windy outside, not the best ‘stake-out’ conditions.

  They tried everything to get in, but the staff were unbribable, the castle was locked down. I felt sorry for the paps and journalists shivering by the walls on the rocky shore so I sent down a bottle of whisky and some glasses. The Old Pulteney distillery is just up the road in Wick, and every time I see their whisky or drink it, it brings back a flood of lovely memories from very happy times.

  One of the journalists said to Russ, ‘If you don’t tell us who is in there or what’s going on, we’ll just have to imagine.’ Nothing was said to them, so their imaginations ran riot.

  Apparently, I got married in a kilt, which didn’t go down well among the Scots. I actually wore a blue suit. Noel Edmonds arrived by helicopter; Mike Smith and Sarah Greene were there, alongside Jason Donovan and others. Andrew Lloyd Webber also jetted in. It was hilarious to read their inventions. The reality was much lower key.

  Steph was absolutely beautiful as she walked through the door to the great hall in her wedding dress. My heart melted. My mum made a speech, but was sobbing with such emotion, to this day I have no idea what she said. Steph’s sister, George, was more coherent with a beautiful poem, and her brother, Tim, videoed the day so he ended up watching the entire ceremony in black and white on a tiny viewfinder! My brother was best man and photographer, and the harpist was so engrossed by the proceedings she forgot to play.

  ‘You may now kiss the bride.’

  Mum, Dad, Stephie and I.

  We went back to Ackergill a number of times in the coming years, filling it with family and friends. It was a very happy place. It has changed hands a couple of times over the years, but last year it was apparently sold to a millionaire as a holiday home. I was very sad to hear that.

  It was a truly magical weekend, but we did lose a couple of friends, because they didn’t understand why they hadn’t been invited (after all, Jason Donovan was there and they weren’t, if the papers were to be believed!). We both wanted to celebrate with a much wider group of friends and family so, two weeks later, Steph’s mum and dad, my wonderful in-laws John and Gill, held a huge reception on their lawn. Everyone could come to this one, and it was a joyous occasion. My nan got drunk on whisky and, as we left for our one-day honeymoon at Cliveden, I leaned down to give her a kiss.

  ‘We’re off now, Nan.’

  ‘Oh, piss off.’

  Such a charmer.

  Another of my nan’s perfectly placed and cruel putdowns involved a photo for Woman’s Weekly. I was asked if I’d like to be on the front cover with my mum for the Mother’s Day edition. We both agreed – it was a great idea. The photoshoot was lovely. They pampered Mum, full-on professional make-up and hair – she was having a ball. The selected photo was a beauty. Mum looked stunning.

  Every Wednesday in Newquay, my mum would meet up with my nan for a coffee and to shop. The magazine was out, and obviously Mum couldn’t wait to see it on the newsagent’s shelves. They walked in, and there it was. Mum was thrilled. She looked at her mother and asked, ‘What do you think of the picture?’

  The controversial cover. Nan: ‘Well, it’s a nice one of our Phillip.’

  After a few seconds of appraisal, my nan replied, ‘Well, it’s a good one of our Phillip.’

  Over the years, we’d had some pretty mad conversations in the office. I walked in one afternoon and Russ said:

  ‘You’ll never believe who just called.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘No, tell me.’

  ‘Madame Tussauds. They want to do a waxwork of you.’

  ‘No way! I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  It was.

  Tussauds said that they wanted me to be in the Joseph white linens, wearing the cowboy boots and, over that, a Technicolour Dreamcoat. Could I please go to the offices above the exhibition galleries on Marylebone Road and could I please bring a pair of small shorts and the cowboy boots. Intriguing.

  The staff were delightful. The office had been asked what sandwiches I liked. Tussauds had been informed that I was happy with anything but egg, but I particularly liked prawn. Every time I stepped through the door there were always gorgeous prawn sarnies.

  I was shown upstairs to a light, airy room that looked out over Marylebone Road. A camera was set up on a tripod. In the middle of the floor was a circular revolve the size of a dinner plate, similar to the hydraulic lift on the Palladium stage, but this one didn’t go up, it went around. Could I please go into the changing room and just put on the shorts and the cowboy boots? As I was getting undressed and re-dressed, I was beginning to think it might be another wind-up.

  I stood on the dinner plate in the centre of the room in only tiny shorts and cowboy boots. An assistant stepped forward and began to place small blue dots all over me, on my face, down my legs, just above my nipples and on my stomach. The photographer took his place behind the camera and in his hand was a remote with two buttons.

  ‘Okay, I need you to stand very still and
keep looking forward.’

  He took a picture, then pressed the button on the remote, and the dinner plate on which I was standing turned by a degree clockwise. He took another frame, pressed the button and I went round by another degree. Those of a certain age will know what I mean when I say that I felt like Windy Miller in Camberwick Green about to go down into the music box.

  As I went slowly round, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the office window. Almost naked, covered in blue dots, my Twiglet legs in cowboy boots. Oh, bloody hell, Noel had got me again.

  Except he hadn’t. It was totally above board and taken incredibly seriously. They didn’t laugh when I asked if the Queen had gone around on the plate in just her bra and pants.

  The most fascinating part of the experience was the eye department. Drawers and drawers of eyes. I had no idea they went to so much trouble. Past the blue eyes and the brown eyes to green and then hazel. The drawer was opened. Hazel with blue flecks, hazel with green flecks. ‘Ah, here we are, hazel/gold flecks.’ I was staring back at my eyes.

  The waxwork was impressive. It stayed there in the Dreamcoat for as long as I was in Joseph at the Palladium. When I went on the road with the tour, for a while I was in jeans, shirt and jacket. Then one day someone told me I had gone. I think they save the heads somewhere. I hope so, or maybe I could say to some other head, ‘You’ve got my eyes.’