Life's What You Make It

by Phillip Schofield

  I still didn’t know as much as Julie, though. Our coverage was a mix of interviews, films and live commentary, and I absolutely loved the size and scale of the news resources. If something happened, we instantly knew about it. It was a big undertaking for ITV and I deeply appreciated being trusted to be part of their team. The programme was very well received and everyone was very happy with the chemistry between me and Julie. It was also incredibly long! Unbroken by the usual commercial breaks, neither of us could have anything to drink because we wouldn’t be able to go for a wee for six hours! We both said that our bladders were like the Sahara. My favourite part of the day was after we had come off air. Julie and I walked past a spit roast. We were famished by that stage.

  ‘Fancy a sarnie?’ I said.

  ‘Damn right,’ said Julie.

  Watching the sheer delight on the face of this senior ITV journalist as she stuffed a pork sarnie into her mouth and wiped the juices from her chin was sublime.

  David O’Brien had, as always, sorted out my suit and made sure I remained uncreased. As I parted from the team, very happy after a job well done, he and I walked across Green Park, found a hotel bar and drank enough Jack Daniels to anaesthetize a rhino.

  I’ve worked with the news teams a number of times since then. The last time was in Windsor Great Park on a stunning day for the wedding of Harry and Meghan. As their carriage drove past our commentary position, all dignity left Julie and I and we got up from the sofa and turned to wave. Harry smiled at us both as he waved back. We both squealed with delight. Job done.

  My connection to the Royal Family doesn’t stop there. I’m very proud to be one of the longest-serving ambassadors for the Prince’s Trust. The day I knew I wanted to be involved was the day I introduced Prince Charles to give a speech. He was expecting a group of suited businessmen and as he took his speech from his inside pocket, he looked up and saw a room full of wide-eyed teenagers. He slid the speech back into his pocket and abandoned it. The next twenty minutes were among the most inspiring I’ve heard, and it was all performed completely off the cuff. I immediately thought, ‘I want to be in your gang.’

  His father, though, takes no prisoners. When I was asked to make a documentary with the Duke of Edinburgh to celebrate sixty years of the awards named after him, the first question I asked was ‘Does he want to do it?’ I didn’t want to be badgering him if he was reluctant because I knew he’d bite my head off and he’s preceded by a mighty reputation. They assured me he did, but I remain unconvinced. He definitely wanted to celebrate the awards, but I was told (and could tell) that he hates being on TV.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell, you again,’ was his usual greeting.

  As part of the documentary, I spent two days at Buckingham Palace with him. He was extraordinary – his memory is absurd. He can not only remember all dates and details, but what the weather was like sixty years ago on a given day. He walked and walked and walked around the palace gardens, shaking hands by the thousand. By the end of the day, my feet were killing me, but the Duke was still bounding around. Part of the Duke of Edinburgh celebrations involved individuals taking on a challenge. It could be anything – learning a language, climbing a mountain. I was asked if I would do something. My time was limited so I couldn’t learn to play the cello or hike in the Cairngorms, so I suggested a wing-walk. The team was delighted, and it would only take a day to film. At the start of filming for the programme, I was expressly told not to interview the Duke, or to ask him questions about himself. That makes the structure of a conversation for TV rather tricky. It turned out he had more fun teasing me. The producer asked me to explain my challenge to him.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell, you again.’

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘What are we talking about today?’

  ‘I’m doing a Diamond Challenge. I’m going to do a wing-walk.’

  ‘What the hell is that?’

  ‘I stand on the wing of a plane as it does aerobatics.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For the Diamond Challenge.’

  ‘Well, you’re mad.’

  After the chat he wandered off. It had gone okay. A couple of minutes later, one of our team said, ‘Phil! He wants you.’ I looked over to where he was in conversation with a small group of people and he was beckoning me over.

  Showing the Duke my wing-walk.

  ‘I want you to meet this man,’ he said, pointing to a gentleman in the group.

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘He’s going to jump out of a plane,’ said the Duke. ‘I thought I’d put two bloody idiots together, make sure you don’t die.’

  The last time I had wing-walked had been that fateful day in Southend when I was wearing purple leathers. My challenge this time was a wholly different experience. It was a sunny day in Oxfordshire and the aircraft was a bright yellow biplane. ‘Do you want the full works?’ said the pilot. ‘Damn right,’ I said.

  It was exhilarating in the extreme. The plane performed similar manoeuvres to the ones the Red Arrows did, except this time I was outside, strapped to the wing. As we flew directly down towards a lush, green field, I thought, ‘If he doesn’t pull out of this, they’ll be a week digging me out of the hole, but at least it’ll be a quick end!’ It was profoundly exciting in a ‘you’re very close to death’ kind of way. I don’t seem to get scared in moments like this, just exhilarated. The only time I’ve felt deep, undiluted fear was when I climbed to the absolute top of the Shard for another Text Santa stunt. The programme had hired a helicopter to get aerial shots of me at the pinnacle, and as I stood on a tiny girder 1,016 feet in the air, I knew that the best shot would be of me letting go and holding both arms above my head. Even though I was safely tethered and couldn’t fall, and I’m not scared of heights, every atom within me was screaming, ‘Do not let go!’ When I did, I can only describe the fear as … primal. But it was a hell of a buzz.

  When the Duke of Edinburgh documentary was broadcast, my mum was watching. Now, my mother is not an adventurous woman, but her words left my mouth open.

  ‘Oh, Phillip, of all the things you’ve done in your whole career, that’s the only thing I’m envious of. I’d so love to do that.’

  Defying gravity!

  Possibly the most senior loop de looper in the world! My 80-year-old mum loving life.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a dream. Your dad would have never let me do it.’

  ‘Mum, are you saying you want to do a wing-walk?’

  ‘Yes, just like you did, the whole thing, the loops and the twists.’

  ‘Er … okay.’

  A few months later the whole family were back at the airfield. I watched as my mother got on to the wing and was secured. The girls laughed at the absurdity of their grandmother thundering down a runway while standing on top of a plane. She was spectacular and absolutely loved it. It’s disconcerting to watch your eighty-year-old mother, a tiny speck on top of a plane, as it loops high in the sky. A few weeks later she received her DofE Diamond pin. We believe she is one of, if not the oldest woman to have looped the loop! My dad would have been going bloody spare.

  Discussions were being had about a possible move for ITV. The famous Southbank studios were on prime real-estate land. There were grand schemes of a temporary move while they built a new residential and studio complex, similar to TV Centre. If we did move, where would we go? Where would our new home be?

  The London Studios, or TLS, were a strange, higgledy-piggledy affair. They had the slowest lifts in the world and it was very easy to get lost. The three main studios were on the ground floor, the dressing rooms on the first. Most presenters took the stairs from their dressing rooms to the studio, not because it was only one flight, but because the light in the studio lift was so unflattering it made you feel like you were ready to retire from the business, even if you were twenty!

  For newbies, getting from the main building to Studio 8, the home of This Morning, required the homing instincts of a swallow.
If you found yourself on the bridge, you were on the right track.

  Our little complex was perfect, neat and tucked away and all self-contained. My favourite thing about it, though, by far, was the view. The river behind, constantly changing, was very calming. I always found that in the commercial break after a particularly harrowing interview on the sofa, if I stood looking out of the window for the four minutes I had before we were back on air, it would re-set my head. I enjoyed watching the world go by. People going about their business was a great distraction. The windows had a one-way filter on them. We could see out, but it was very hard to see in. If you looked up, you could see the darkened studio lights and maybe a silhouette, but you wouldn’t know that Holly and I were standing there. We’d stand together side by side, taking in the same view, but as I focused my view on a new boat, Holly would be admiring the sartorial choices of someone walking by. ‘Ooooh, I like her shoes.’

  We used the outside a lot in the summer. There was a set of stairs beside the studio that led to a secret door on the Southbank. Holly and I would zip in and out for various items. On one occasion, we had used the door to get to an army inflatable which would take us up the river. As it happened, the boat broke down and, live on air, Holly and I ended up drifting helplessly towards Southend. We used the door to get to cooking items, fashion slots and musical performances. The door always had a security guard on it … except when it didn’t. One day we all ran back up the stairs and to the studio after an item, and as we carried on with the show we noticed two people we didn’t recognize behind the cameras. They had big smiles on their faces, were looking very interested and loving life. They were politely asked who they were.

  ‘We’re tourists from Canada and we’re thrilled we managed to get on to this studio tour. We were just passing.’

  They’d seen us all re-entering the building and tagged along! Fair play. Holly and I had our picture taken with them and they went happily on their way.

  On one of the days that door was open, it let in the studio fly. I’m convinced it was always the same one; it loved being on the telly. Year after year it found ways to appear. It was like a B52 bomber. No one could ever catch it, though I did successfully flick it once.

  Richard and Judy were back on the show for a chat and the fly landed on Holly’s leg, so I flicked it. Unfortunately, I flicked it on to Judy and there was pandemonium. It was also the studio fly that sat on Barbara Taylor Bradford’s chest for so long that it was mistaken for a brooch, and the one that got caught in Denise Robertson’s hair and none of us could get it out.

  We had a lot of very happy times in that studio, but the decision had been made. We would move out of the Southbank studios and the temporary new home for This Morning would be … Television Centre! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Very few people (now including you) could know the significance of that decision.

  Our last show from Studio 8 was on 29 March 2018. Holly and I posted a black-and-white Instagram pic of us both looking through the window for the final time. It was also my and Steph’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, so I’m glad she was there to share the moment with me.

  I lingered for a long time after that last show. There were so many incredible memories, mostly good, some bad, one that was physically painful! There had been a huge internet craze called ‘The One Chip Challenge’, in which a tortilla chip covered in Carolina Reaper dust (in 2013, it was declared the hottest chilli in the world by the Guinness Book of World Records) had to be eaten. The person eating the ‘chip’ was then up against the clock to see how long they could stand the intense heat without water, milk … or throwing up. It was in that studio that I decided to take on the world and beat the times set (I unofficially did). As Holly watched and Alison Hammond sat beside me eating ice-cream, I ate the fiery tortilla. It set fire to my mouth, then my throat, then the lining of my stomach. Holly and Alison watched with interest, initially laughing and then with growing concern. As I finally gave in to the pain and sickness and ran from the studio, Holly shouted after me, ‘Shall I hold your hair back?’

  This was the studio that Holly and I had stumbled into the morning after the National Television Awards. We were so happy to have won and to have picked up the award for our amazing team, but the wheels came off quite quickly. After the show, we went up to the ITV box to see everyone. Steph and Holly’s husband, Dan, were there to congratulate us and the champagne was flowing. It was a raucous evening. We ended up in McDonald’s, pissed and brandishing the award in front of the confused staff. At that point, we split up. I had, apparently, decided to go home. I’m not sure I remember! I know I got a call from Holly, who had turned into Martin Luther King.

  ‘Where are you?’ she said.

  ‘On the way home.’

  ‘Don’t be that man!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t be that man. Don’t be the man who lets the moment pass. Don’t be the man who doesn’t celebrate success. Don’t be the man who goes home. Don’t be the man who is a disappointment. Don’t be that man.’

  ‘Okay. Where are you going?’

  ‘We’ll meet you at Ant’s.’

  The party continued at Ant McPartlin’s house. Out came the ‘Pie Face’ game. Rather than whipped cream, we put piccalilli in the scoop and then sweet chilli sauce. I think mustard followed! The stakes were very high. At the end of the game, Holly’s beautiful cream National Television Awards dress was covered with yellow stains from the piccalilli. This was desperately risky behaviour – we were due to be live on TV at ten thirty. I don’t actually know how either of us found our way in. I remember slumping in the doorway of the make-up room, before and after the show, head in hands. My head was spinning, my words were slurred. Holly and I just kept looking at each other and saying, ‘Oh no. Oh, no no no.’

  The wonderful NTA-winning Emma Gormley and Martin Frizell.

  In a lift at the NTAs.

  I was still in my clothes from the night before, and make-up wasn’t going to help my red eyes. Holly, of course, looked magnificent. I have never seen her looking anything other than beautiful. First thing in the morning, she is gorgeous; drunk off her face, the same. Last summer in Portugal we all had a party and Holly fell asleep. Steph said, ‘Only Holly can look like Sleeping Beauty when she’s pissed and asleep.’

  Today, the morning after the National Television Awards, she looked like a fifties Hollywood star, a piccalilli-stained Marilyn Monroe. We staggered into the studio. The crew were in hysterics. The head of Daytime came down and said, ‘My God, you both smell like old bar mats.’ Just before we went on air we both started to laugh, hysterical laughter at the fact that this was about to happen. Holly seemed to be getting more pissed.

  As the titles rolled, the gallery was laughing. Our editor, Martin Frizell, shouted, ‘Get them another drink!’

  Some people tweeted that it was shocking that we had been allowed on air in such a condition – the ‘professionally outraged’ were not happy. The rest of the country, with a sense of humour, enjoyed the fun. The truth of the matter is, yes, we were in a state, yes, we were still mildly inebriated, but everyone knew, including us, that it would be okay, that we were on the right side of the line. If that hadn’t been the case, we would never have been allowed on air … I don’t think.

  The morning after the night before. Should we be allowed on air like this?!

  We’re about to present a show …!

  We stumbled and giggled our way through the first part of the show. Holly was beginning to feel sick. In a commercial break, we looked at each other and agreed that we had to get our shit together. It was funny up to a point, but there’s a fine line. We both straightened up and tried a lot harder to be professional … ish.

  When we won again the next year we tried to get matching tattoos, but no one would come out to us because we were too drunk to be responsible. The actor James Nesbitt volunteered to do it for us, but we couldn’t find ink or a needle … thankfully!

  Holly c
an be a dangerous friend to have. In my old school reports, some of the teachers would write that I was ‘easily led’. In my adult life there are a very few friends that I trust to lead me into mischief, but Holly is at the top of that group. We have enjoyed wonderful and outrageously drunken lunches, when, just occasionally, we had the time to let our hair down and reflect on life. Once, after a particularly ‘long’ lunch in Nobu, we parted and staggered off to our respective homes. The next day, I phoned Holly because I couldn’t remember paying the restaurant bill. Holly said, ‘Check your coat for the receipt.’ When I put my hand in my coat pocket I found a full container of hand soap. I was mortified. Had I stolen it from the loos?! I told Holly and she checked her bag. ‘Oh, Christ, I’ve got one, too,’ she yelped. Oh my God, we’d robbed Nobu. I immediately phoned them to confess. Through their laughter the manager explained that we had both returned from the Gents and the Ladies loudly praising the ‘wonderful quality and beautiful smell of the soap’ so they had kindly given us both a bottle. Oh, and yes, I had paid the bill.