Biggins (11 page)

‘What’s wrong?’ they asked.

‘I meant an operating theatre,’ she replied.

I do hope that story is true. But, either way, the doctor’s – and perhaps the hospital’s – bad luck is our good fortune as actors. It’s a bijou but lovely performance space. And that night in 1977 it staged some pure musical magic. I was buzzing with excitement after the curtain calls and got a pile of 10p pieces to ring Cameron, in New York, from the phone box in the hospital’s main entrance. ‘Cameron, you have to buy this show.’

So he did. Sight unseen.

He raised the money to take the production to the West End and, after a hugely successful run, he wanted to take it on tour. Unfortunately, the members of the original cast were committed to other shows, so it had to be recast. Everyone told Cameron that he had to cancel the transfer as no one else could play the key roles. It was ridiculous. Doom-sayers got even more negative when I was mooted to replace dear Ned. ‘Biggins can’t play that kind of role,’ went the rumour.

‘Biggins will be brilliant,’ said Ned. And Cameron listened, so I got the job. It was a marvellously flexible contract. The likes of Michael Aspel and I took turns to be narrator in various theatres around the country.

What fun that so many years later I was able to renew my connection to a more modern version of a Sondheim classic.

‘Biggins, Biggins, Biggins.’ In 2008, the crowds outside the Empire Leicester Square were screaming my name as
Neil and I arrived for the premier of
Sweeney Todd
. I probably sound like a classic luvvie, but there really were tears in my eyes at that reaction. And once inside the cinema I loved the film, I loved the ridiculously underrated Helena Bonham Carter and I loved Johnny Depp. There was a suitably big party afterwards – for some 2,000 people, I believe. Neil and I fortunately got let into the VIP area and in the corner I spotted director Tim Burton talking to Johnny.

I decided to go for it – if Tim is ever casting another Sondheim film I want to make sure I’m the first person he calls.

‘I just wanted to say congratulations, Mr Burton. It was a brilliant film,’ I gushed shamelessly.

‘No, congratulations to you, Christopher, for being King of the Jungle,’ he replied, to my huge surprise and pleasure. To think that Tim Burton watches
I’m A Celebrity
! Less surprising was the fact that Johnny Depp clearly didn’t have a clue who I was.

‘This is Christopher Biggins and he has just won a really big reality-television show,’ explained Tim.

‘Christopher, how fascinating,’ said Johnny, not entirely convincingly.

I decided it was my cue to melt back into the crowds. But I await a call from Tim. Once again, I am available.

N
ow, I’ve never really seen myself as a wicked, sex-crazed vicar. But others did. In the Queen’s Silver Jubilee year of 1977, I got my greatest, meatiest television role so far. I was cast as the monstrous Reverend Ossie Whitworth in
Poldark
. It was probably the most delicious part I could have imagined.

The show was based on the books by Winston Graham, a pal whose own life was as fascinating as his fictions – though not always in the way he might have wanted. He had written a novel called
The Walking Stick
, he told me. And the moment it got published his wife came down with a mystery illness and had to use a stick for the rest of her life. But what an inspirational woman Jean was. Her disability never got in her way. It never stopped her living, or having fun. Big groups of us from the cast went for days out on the beach in Cornwall with them and once I joined
them on holiday in Menorca. To this day I can picture Jean swimming around in a rubber ring and yelling, ‘Get me a gin and tonic, darling,’ as I watched from the shore.

One other time that week we were all laughing because a lady sunbathing near us was reading one of Winston’s other novels. So when she went into the sea for a swim he dashed over and signed it. Did she see him? Did she ever notice the signature? Did she dismiss it as a joke? Who knows, but it was lovely to conjure up a mystery for her. Maybe she can solve it by reading this.

All the exterior scenes for
Poldark
were filmed in Cornwall and cast and crew were all put up in hotels there for around six months at a time. Six months of pure bliss. As usual, I’d fallen on my feet and found myself surrounded by wonderful talents. Angharad Rees and my friend Robin Ellis from Salisbury Rep were the two leads and dear Jane Wymark was my wife. Trudie Styler, who had been at drama school a year below me in Bristol, was Emma Tregirls. Now, years earlier I had been sitting on the floor at one of my old friend the actress Miranda Bell’s parties next to a serious and seriously handsome teacher from the north called Gordon Sumner. He talked a lot about music, but who knew that many years later he would get divorced, meet and marry Trudie – and become richer and more famous than all of us.

Anyway, back to
Poldark
. Our lovely bonding time in Cornwall was about to come to an end. There was a lot more work ahead.

For the interiors we rehearsed in London all week, then went up to Pebble Mill in Birmingham to record them. One of my favourite scenes was where the doctor had to
tell me I was too heavy to have sex with my pregnant wife. ‘Too heavy?’ I had to say, appalled, in a tight close-up. It wasn’t acting. I wasn’t thrilled to have my weight drawn to the nation’s attention. But this was far from the most embarrassing of my love scenes. The worst one – though not for me – was when I had to make love to my on-screen wife’s sister’s feet. Yes, to her feet.
Poldark
was as complicated as that. And that’s why it was so hysterical.

Dear Julie Dawn Cole had tried to make everything as wonderful as possible for this tricky scene. All week in London she had spent every moment she wasn’t on set down at Dr Scholl’s to keep her feet in tip-top condition. They were pummelled and pumiced into the feet of an angel, she swore. On the day we filmed the scene she bathed and scented them before being carried on to the set and placed on the bed for her big moment.

‘And, action.’

In a typically tight close-up I loomed up to Julie’s feet and out snaked my tongue to do its thing on her toes.

My tongue’s big moment was ultimately cut from the show. The producer told us that after much consideration they had decided that the public weren’t quite ready for a vicar with a foot fetish. All that effort from poor Julie to have the most fragrant feet in the land was all for nothing. Secretly, I had to admit I quite liked being cut – it made me feel a bit racy, as if Mary Whitehouse herself had deemed me a threat to the morals of the nation. And on this subject I did have a little bit of form. One other scene of mine that ended up banned in America was from
I Claudius
. I had gone to see my mother, played by Barbara Young, to complain that my wife had said she
wouldn’t have sex with me. ‘There are other things you can do,’ she said, deliciously suggestively as her hands pulled mine south on her body. We broadcast the scene in Britain, but not in the States. They’re happy to show someone getting out a machine gun and killing dozens of passers-by. But suggest a little consensual incest and the networks go crazy.

When
Poldark
was broadcast, the world seemed to go mad. It was a huge hit for the BBC and we all had such good times doing publicity for it. I was voted ‘Most Hated Man on Television’ by the
Daily Mail
. Which of course I absolutely loved.

One day when I was in the BBC’s marvellous rehearsal studios in the wilds of East Acton, I found out that everyone who was anyone was watching. The three main studios in west London were where almost all of the Corporation’s main shows were put together. I got into a lift one time to find myself standing next to none other than Eric and Ernie.

‘Oh, hi there. How are you?’ I asked them, relaxed and friendly as you like. I didn’t feel as if I needed an introduction because I felt like I knew them. In Britain we all did. They had been in all our sitting rooms all our lives, after all.

To their huge credit they were charm itself in response. Apparently, they loved my sex-mad vicar in
Poldark
, so they said they thought they knew me as well (which is a little worrying, now I think about it). That lift journey was the start of a lovely friendship. A little while later they both asked me to come on a
Morecambe and Wise
special, which was about the biggest honour in showbusiness. But
then Eric died and it never happened. We all lost a great man that day.

Did
Poldark
cast too long a shadow? Perhaps the Reverend Ossie Whitworth was too hard an act to follow. Either way I got a little lost as the 1970s came to their recession- and strike-hit close. Yes, I won several one-off and cameo roles. Crime and comedy dramas were doing well and I had bit parts in
Shoestring, Minder
and all the big shows in those worlds. I did a mini-series called
Crime and Punishment
. I still did my wonderfully well-paid pantos each year. I toured with some great theatrical companies. And I spent a lot of money and travelled the world meeting some quite extraordinary new friends – of which a lot more later.

But in the shop-window world of prime-time television I was in danger of fading away.

‘Something’s going to come up,’ I told myself, the way I always have. And in 1981 something did. My career was about to take another bizarre turn. I was on my way to Hollywood.

I
was cast in a big-budget American television film called
Masada
. It was serious stuff, telling the story of Mount Masada in Israel. Legend has it that high up on that plateau the Jews had a secure little piece of paradise. They kept their animals, grew wheat and other crops and lived self-sufficient, totally impregnable lives. The Romans, though, wanted some of the action. Our show followed the final assault by the Romans, who apparently built vast ramps up the hillside to the encampment. When they broke in, they found that everyone in the settlement was dead. It was a huge mass suicide and it all added up to a marvellous drama. So much for me being typecast in light entertainment and panto.

The production was told almost entirely from the Jewish point of view, with these good guys all played by American actors. The Romans were the baddies. So they were all played by us Brits. Nothing ever changes there.

It was celebrity city with big-name actors all around. Peter Strauss was there to show us the ultimate in method acting – apparently he had lived in seclusion for months before arriving on set to get fully into the tortured character he had to play. As an aside, however, I must add that he hadn't got Hollywood out of his system entirely. When he found out that another actor's Winnebago was one foot – one foot! – closer to the set than his, it was as if the Third World War had begun. I think this was my first taste of true Hollywood diva-like bad behaviour. I absolutely adored it.

Heading up the list of baddie Brits was Peter O'Toole, a wonderful face from my Bristol days, but if anything a man who had become somewhat aloof since then. He also proved to be a lot less fun.

My role was as a sort of aide-de-camp to Senator Pomponius Falco, played by David Warner. The first set of filming took place on Mount Masada itself in Israel – we had been flown there first class and I was in my element. Even on that first flight I lived the dream. I had fillet steak and scrambled eggs at 35,000 feet and thought it was, quite literally, the height of chic. The good times carried on rolling when we got to the location. On our days off most of the actors lazed by the pool, getting drunk and throwing furniture into the desert. I probably did my fair share of that. But Clive Francis and I also wanted to get out and see some of the country. David Warner was kind and lent us his driver, so we had a chance. I loved it.

Back on set, Clive and I had an obvious way to repay David's favour – by trying to help him out on what turned out to be a very difficult shoot. David was strangely
nervous about his role – and Peter O'Toole was for some reason being difficult with him, which just made everything worse. Clive and I tried to hold David's hand and keep up his confidence. But it wasn't easy. As an actor, once you lose confidence in your ability in a role, it's very hard to get it back. Directors, other actors and even audiences are like sharks – they can smell fear. I know that David triumphed through this bad patch. If you watch the show today I don't think you'll know how tense it all was at the time.

After the location work in Israel, the interiors were due to be shot in Hollywood. No surprise to hear that I was beside myself with excitement. But for a while my California dream was under threat. The unions weren't happy with these uppity Brits coming over and taking jobs from all the American actors busy bussing tables in restaurants. But sanity prevailed and our passports got the right stamps.

I was handed another first-class air ticket to LA – but just before the flight date I cashed it in. I wanted an even ritzier experience. I used my refunded ticket money to fly Concorde to New York. As this cost more than the LA fare I needed to squeeze on to a cheap and far from cheerful commuter flight across to the west coast. But I didn't regret the journey for a moment. Concorde was a truly wonderful plane. With Neil's help I managed to fly on it twice more before it disappeared from the skies. I still think it was a tragedy – and a mystery – that it got taken out of service. Yes, it was small and cramped and noisy inside. But the people. The glamour. The thrill of it. You just can't feel that special on any other plane.

When I finally made it to sunny LA, I found another way
to fiddle the system and make some extra cash. We were given money to cover the cost of whatever accommodation we chose. I chose the apartment above LA's Joe Allen, kindly lent to me for free by the man himself.

I adored California. I was having a ball and partied and networked like a man possessed. I loved the mood of LA and was convinced my future would be played out under those tall palm trees. So many doors opened for me when I was in Hollywood with the
Masada
crew. If only I'd known how fast they would close.

When the
Masada
shoot ended I spent three months tying up loose ends in Britain before returning to Hollywood in triumph, ready for acknowledgement as the leading actor of my generation. Oh dear. Three months in Hollywood is like three millennia. I had been forgotten faster than you can say ‘valet parking' or ‘facelift'.

Kids' TV saved me when I came back from America with my tail between my legs. In 1982, when I was a rapidly filling-out 33-year-old, the producer Tony McLaren approached me about a new show he was planning. It was to be called
On Safari
.

‘We think it's perfect for you, Christopher. Are you interested?'

‘I'm so sorry but I'm not.'

Another catastrophic career misjudgement was on the cards. But once again I was blessed. Because the more often I turned the show down the more Tony and his team increased the money.

When it reached £1,000 an episode, I knew I had to say yes, if only to save my agent's sanity. It was incredible.
After several fallow years when I was spending most of my time socialising and spending money, I was suddenly catapulted into the big league. Unlikely as it seemed, I was apparently the highest-paid children's television presenter in the country. You could buy a house for £30,000 back then, I'm told. So when people asked me about the show I told them I was doing it purely and simply for the money.

Like hell I was. Just like panto, just like
Rentaghost
, just like everything else I ever turned down,
On Safari
turned out to be a blast. I loved it – not least because I was lucky enough to be given such a big part in the pre-production meetings. We all sat around talking through the format, the challenges, the structure of the show. Then we had a session trying to think of decent catchphrases. ‘Safari So Goody' was mine – if only I could have earned royalties every time someone used it.

The show we came up with was full of challenges, eliminations, endurance ordeals and an awful lot of swampy, gungy mess. No wonder I took to
I'm A Celebrity
so easily when the time came. Best of all about my new show was the chance to get all my favourite old pals on board as guest stars. We had a famous guest each week. So I could repay an awful lot of favours and spend time with all my favourite people. Liza Goddard was one of the first pals that I called. A few years earlier she and I had done a very forgettable show where, I think, I played an advertising agency boss, and I got on famously with both Liza and David Cobham, her husband. What I loved about Liza was that she never stopped laughing. But I was so mean to her. I would do terrible things to wind her up. I would dry up on set and make it look as if it was her fault. And I would be so
convincing that she would end up apologising to the crew for messing up the scene. Off set she never stops laughing. So as pals we were pretty well suited from the start.

In other
On Safari
shows I brought in everyone: Bonnie Langford, Wayne Sleep, Suzi Quatro, Ruth Madoc, Christopher Timothy – the list goes on and on.

Even better news came when the ratings were announced. We were incredibly popular, so one season turned to another, then another. We had long runs, we did Christmas specials, we lasted right until 1984.

Throughout most of it I also had one other great pal at my side: Gillian Taylforth. Right at the start the producers had asked who I thought they should approach to be my Girl Friday for the show. Gillian is one of the funniest women I have ever met, dry and quick, and I adore her. She was an obvious choice and loved the programme as much as I did. Best of all, she didn't even mind our awful closing lines.

‘Say goodbye, Gillian.'

‘Goodbye, Gillian,' she chimed up as the theme tune played. I don't know how we got away with it for so long.

Kenny Everett was another great
On Safari
guest – though, through no fault of his own, some of our other meetings ended in disaster. I went to his last Capital Radio broadcast, where they were serving canapes and little snacks around the room. I thought the smoked salmon looked and smelled a little bit suspect. But look at my waistline. I'm hardly a fussy eater. So I tucked in anyway. What was the worst that could happen? One poor lady out for a big night at the theatre was about to find out.

I began to feel ill later that afternoon. A bit sweaty, a bit
sick. But I had a dozen or so people coming round to the flat at the Phoenix Theatre that night before we all headed off to see a new production of
Oklahoma
just down the road at the Palace Theatre. The lead took a deep breath and sang out his first note – and I threw up all over the hair of the poor, poor lady in the row in front of me. It was explosive and awful. I staggered out of the stalls and threw up again all over the carpet in the lobby. As I stumbled towards the street the last thing I saw was the poor lady who had been in front of me rushing to the ladies' loo. She was so well dressed. She had probably spent all afternoon at the hairdressers for the big night. Whoever you were, I do apologise. And if it is any consolation at all, you weren't the only one to suffer in this fashion.

When it comes to socialising, booze has been my only real downfall. I think I'm a pretty happy drunk. I don't pick fights, I don't get maudlin, I don't start singing unless people really insist. But back in my party years I did have one key failing. I threw up. Really quite often.

One of the first dear pals to experience this first-hand was the wonderful former hotelier Sally Bullock – who I learn, as I write this book, has sadly died. But I shall tell these few stories because I know they would make her smile. When we first met she was managing the gorgeous Pelham Hotel in South Kensington and threw a lot of lavish parties for guests and friends. I loved to be there. The first time I threw up in Sally's presence was after one of these parties at the Pelham. I did at least make it to the lavatory in time. Though I fear I made such a mess it was out of service for about a week afterwards.

Anyway, dear Sally ensured I was put in a room in the
hotel to sleep it all off. And it's just as well as I simply didn't remember a thing about it. The following morning I woke up with no idea where I was. Or even who I was. I wasn't at home and as I was alone I didn't seem to have got lucky with any kind stranger. It's a hotel, I decided, after looking at the layout of the room. But where? And who was I, again? I picked up the phone by the bed. ‘Good morning, Mr Biggins,' said a charming lady. ‘Can we bring you some tea, coffee or perhaps some breakfast?'

It all came flooding back. As did a sense of overwhelming nausea.

‘No, thank you. But I do need a toothbrush,' was all I could think of to say before hanging up and rushing to the en suite. They brought me the toothbrush within five minutes. Hotels don't get much better than that.

Scrapes with Sally became a feature of my life at that time. And they weren't all my fault – at least not at the start. A classic example came when we went to watch some polo at Windsor Great Park. At the end of the event, Sally decided she had drunk too much to drive, so she headed home with friends, leaving me in charge of her Porsche. Oh dear, oh dear.

I headed to a house party given by some very wealthy friends nearby and when I parked I somehow managed to sever the cable that took the brake fluid to the brakes. When I left the party – still sober – I accelerated towards the main road and realised I couldn't stop. It was my typically trivial
Sophie's Choice
moment: crash into the line of Rolls-Royces, Bentleys and Porsches or crash into a tree. I chose the tree.

How to tell Sally? I rang her, mortified. And she didn't
just forgive me, she helped get the AA over to transport me, and the wrecked car, back to London. The only thing she didn't do was wave or smile when my very, very nice man and I pulled up outside the Pelham. She was standing talking to her boss and really didn't want a tow-truck spoiling the ambience of her chic hotel. We were dispatched to a side street so I could hand her back the keys in private.

But back to my now legendary ability to throw up in all the wrong places.

Many years ago I was having Sunday lunch with casting director Marilyn Johnson and a group of other equally great pals. All was going well until someone suggested a few glasses of some thick yellow liqueur. Then a few more. ‘Let's go dancing,' someone said.

We all headed off. I was squeezed into the tiny front seat of the tiny Fiat Uno driven by my pal Catherine Hale. I could blame the car's poor suspension as well as the drink for what happened next. But either way I was feeling distinctly queasy by the time we pulled up outside the very ritzy Intercontinental Hotel in Mayfair. And the very moment the charming and uniformed porter opened my car door I let go. I threw up all over his shoes. He stepped back in shock and I threw up again. This time it reached his knees.

Mortified, I slammed the door to try to hide. Catherine slammed on the accelerator and we shot off into the night. To this day I still think of that poor man. What could he have thought of the monster who drove up, threw up and then disappeared?

Maybe Leo Dolan could answer the question. I was at Leo and Sheila's house one New Year's Eve. I'd had too
much to drink and was on my way to the loo when I saw their big bed lying empty and inviting through an open door. ‘If I just lie down for a few moments I'll feel much better,' I told myself. So I did. I nodded off and when I woke I knew, in an instant, that I was about to be sick and wouldn't make it to the loo. So I did what I had to do. I threw up in Leo's slippers.