Biggins (14 page)

So after her luggage had been piled into this stranger's car we began our watching brief. We drove away from the city centre. And we drove. And we drove. About 45 minutes later we were on some dreadful council estate in the absolute middle of nowhere. I'd never seen Barbara's eyes so wide. She was horrified.

‘Now, you've got my number? You absolutely must ring if you need anything. I can leap in a cab and be here in no time at all,' I said as loudly as I could, to warn Babs's host that at least someone knew where she was and who she was with.

‘I'll be fine, darling. Don't you worry about me,' Babs said, not too convincingly.

After I had gone it turned out that the lift wasn't working, and it was about a thousand steps up to the flat (not that dear Barbara would ever exaggerate). And I know she wasn't exaggerating about the final detail: the fact that the flat itself was a shrine to – you guessed it – Barbara Windsor. That night she rang her husband, he rang me and I set off to rescue her. We got her into a box room in William's house, which wasn't up to her usual standard but was most certainly better than where she had been. It was the last time she ever organised her own lodgings.

One of the many things I love about Barbara is her belief that everything always comes right in the end. It did that
night and she's the living proof that it does in life as well. Her lovely husband Scott is adorable and totally right for her. And her career in
EastEnders
has finally shown the world what I always knew. ‘It's only Barbara Windsor' indeed. At last everyone now knows that that's enough.

Back in London after the
Guys and Dolls
tour, I had been at yet another London dinner party where the introductions didn't quite go to plan. Penny Keith had introduced me to the trichologist Philip Kingsley, whose shampoos really are the only ones I'll use. I then introduced him to Dinsdale Lansden, the hugely successful actor.

‘Dinsdale, this is Philip, the famous trichologist,' I said.

‘Oh, marvellous. I used to ride a bike when I was a child,' said Dinsdale, to everyone's total confusion.

It took quite a while, and a bizarre conversation where everyone was at cross purposes with everyone else, to work out what he was on about. ‘He's a “trichologist”? I thought you said he was a “trick cyclist”,' Dinsdale explained. So a trick cyclist was what Philip would always be to us.

Back then I fell in love with Philip's wife, Joan, as well. She loved theatre and organised some wonderful concerts. The three of us clicked. We had years and years of wonderful holidays together. They had a marvellous apartment in New York, as well as other homes on both sides of the Atlantic, and they were generous with all of them. Over so many glorious years of friendship we spent Christmases together and built up so many memories.

One early highlight, at their apartment just across from Central Park, was the night Tennessee Williams came to dinner.

Now he was my idol.
A Streetcar Named Desire
and
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
are classic texts with marvellous roles. Which actor hasn't wanted to play Blanche Dubois? And I do include all the men in this question. The thought of meeting Blanche's creator made me shiver. I wanted an evening of
bons mots
, words of wisdom, poetry, ideas, a celebration of language and literature. This I didn't get.

The outrageous Dodson Rader had set up the supposedly literary dinner. He was a very political writer, a great friend of the Kennedy clan and as off the wall as his name sounds. The evening promised to be a corker. Joan had made one of her usual wonderful meals for our big night. We had all boned up on literature. And then Tennessee himself arrived. That was when it all started to go downhill.

Tennessee was so drunk he was incoherent. He was paralytic and didn't string two words together all night. Worse still, he hadn't arrived alone. His sober, calculating companion turned out to be a male escort. When the boy kept excusing himself from the table to go to the loo we all assumed he must be taking drugs. He wasn't. He was rifling through all the bags, coats and drawers around the apartment, stealing money. The pair took off just after midnight, leaving us all in shock – and much the poorer.

Fortunately, the boy got his comeuppance. Tennessee had installed him at the Plaza Hotel, but somehow snuck out and left town without paying the bill. The rent boy, so we heard, wasn't allowed to leave without handing over all his cash to cover it.

B
y the late 1980s and early 1990s, I had pretty much disappeared from the television screens. I still did panto every year, and I was on tour in countless marvellous musicals and plays. But what I mainly did was have a good time. I was still more focused on meeting an extraordinary cast of characters than I was on climbing up any theatrical career ladder. In 1992 I met two of the best: Joan Collins and my ultimate golden girl, Bea Arthur.

Joan and I met in New York. I love that city – and very many of the people I know there. In more than 20 years of visits I’ve never once stayed in a hotel. I’ve always had dear friends who have offered me their hospitality. One dear American pal is the theatre-loving and dryly hilarious Weston Thomas. She always persuades me to have a manicure when we meet up in the city. She’s a fabulous,
sophisticated lady with a marvellous daughter. And, like me after a visit, she has great nails.

I may well have been looking at my nails in the lobby of the Carlyle Hotel when an extraordinarily handsome man came up to me. He was mesmerising. Just drop-dead gorgeous – and, better still, he seemed to know who I was. ‘We’ve met before,’ he said, after shaking my manicured hand.

Perhaps for the only time in my life I was (almost) speechless. I couldn’t imagine how I, of all people, could have forgotten someone as good-looking as this.

‘Come and join us,’ he said, with a relaxed, open friendliness. And by ‘us’ he meant he and his girlfriend, Joan Collins. She was looking fabulous and I was so excited it wasn’t true. Joan Collins! With me! I talked non-stop I was so thrilled to meet her – and fortunately I was able to say all the right things. Joan had been working in the US for a while and was desperate for gossip about the industry back in London. Who better than me for a gossip?

It turned out that we were all at the Carlyle for the same reason – to see the new cabaret act there. Joan and I ended up sitting next to each other and very naughtily we carried on gossiping right through the performance. I remember thinking that Joan was an absolute riot. As gloriously dry and as wonderfully sharp as I had hoped. What an absolutely marvellous evening, I thought all the way back to my friend’s apartment. But would it be repeated?

A few days after I had got back to London I got a call from Stella Wilson, Joan’s PA. ‘Joan loved meeting you in New York and would love you to go to a charity event with her,’ Stella began.

I was beside myself with excitement. Perhaps there is always a lonely child in all of us, an insecure figure who craves affirmation that people like us. My inner child was certainly in a good mood that day. Joan liked the man I had become. Her PA was telling me so. My bubble only burst when Stella got to the end of the conversation.

‘It’s £100 a ticket,’ she said of the event in question. Well, hell. For an evening with Joan I’d have happily paid double.

Being close friends with Joan and her partner Robin opened up a whole new world for me. He was an art dealer who knew everyone in London and pretty much everyone in the rest of the world as well. And Joan, of course, was Joan. They were a couple made in social heaven. The pair moved in the most exalted of circles. Or, should I say, they glided in those circles. Everything seemed effortless, though the actor in me always knew how hard Joan had worked to get everything that she had.

We had wonderful times in the South of France in the beautiful house Robin had found for his lady. He had decorated it as well, with impeccable taste. And they were my hosts in the hills of Los Angeles as well. My classic Hollywood moment came at the iconic Mr Chow’s restaurant in Beverly Hills. When we arrived Tony Curtis was at the bar. Then, suddenly, across the room came Spartacus himself – the incredible, unmistakable Kirk Douglas. I’m just a boy from Oldham, by way of Salisbury Rep, I kept thinking. The cheek of it that I should end up here. The joy of it. The sheer wonder of life.

As usual, from one new friendship sprang another. Sue St John lived above Joan Collins in Belgravia and through Sue I met Michael and Shakira Caine. We would all spend lots of weekends at their house in the country – Michael does an amazing roast.

‘What’s going on? What are you girls laughing about now?’

Michael always ended up on the mezzanine level of the house watching sport on television in the afternoons while ‘the girls’ sat below gossiping. No prizes for guessing that I was one of the girls driving him mad with loud giggles.

From Michael Caine to Michael Winner – Joan and I were in the film of Stephen Berkoff’s
Decadence
with Winner and I adored him. What a character. What a zest for life.

Someone else I met through Joan was dear Tita Cahn, whose husband Sammy Cahn had written all those Frank Sinatra and Doris Day songs. I accompanied Joan to the shiva for Sammy and as I didn’t know that many people I was trying to be quiet, and staying at the edge of the room. It was then that I saw Tita struggling, of all things, to get a stereo to work. I tried to help and, amazingly, succeeded. And, as a result of that tiny event, I made a dear pal that day.

Two others who had been at the shiva were Barbara and Marvin Davis, the billionaires who owned MGM. I was at Joan’s house when Barbara called the next day. ‘Hello, Christopher. We’re having a 97th-birthday party for George Burns. We’d like you all to come,’ she breathed.

So Joan, Robin and I all did just that. It was the night of a thousand stars, all squeezed on to just six tables of eight. And I was on the top table. I was sitting with Frank
Sinatra, Sidney Poitier, Carol Channing, Shakira Caine, our hostess Barbara Davis, Frank Sinatra and, of course, George Burns. Dan Aykroyd, with whom I chatted just before we took our places, could clearly read my mind. ‘Pinch yourself, Biggins, you don’t often get evenings like this,’ he whispered with a wink.

Indeed you don’t.

The only thing the evening lacked was a microphone for George Burns himself. His stories, all night, were pure Hollywood and comic gold. But only our table could hear them.

There was one other thing that only I could hear that night – though I soon repeated it to all my friends. It was what Frank Sinatra said to me. I was in awe of that man. Sure, I’ve met plenty of queens in my time. But he was a king. Pure, solid showbusiness royalty. Not only was I unsure what to say to him, I didn’t know what to call him. Christopher Biggins doesn’t do tongue-tied or shy or false modesty. But I came close that Hollywood night. The first time we spoke I think I called him ‘sir’ – the way Americans often do. Then I tried ‘Mr Sinatra’. Then he interrupted.

‘Christopher, call me Frank,’ he said. Four words I wish my parents could have heard. They would never, ever have believed it.

‘A few years ago I played Nathan Detroit in
Guys and Dolls
,’ I said, thinking back to that wonderful tour with Barbara Windsor.

‘Christopher, so did I,’ he replied, as if I really needed to be told.

Then Frank asked me to be his bodyguard. The man infamous for mafia links, heavies and strong men wanted
an old fruit like me to protect him. Though it was from no ordinary enemy. ‘Christopher, will you come out and guard me from my wife while I have a cigarette?’ he drawled.

From Frank Sinatra to Bea Arthur via Darlington. Years ago I had been doing panto up north with an ambitious, starstruck and supremely talented dancer called Jeff Thacker. He loved Cilla and he loved me because I knew her. From such superficial connections great friendships can be born.

One of the many things I admired about Jeff was his ambition. He was focused and hard-working – he soon left Darlington behind and had become a huge producer in America. His partner, the singer Robert Meadmore, is just as good a pal and just as talented a performer. But it was Jeff who opened a brilliant social door for me.

‘Biggins, I’ve met this woman. It’s Bea Arthur,’ he told me by phone. I had roared with laughter over
The Golden Girls
. And the tall, gravelly Bea was my favourite actress in the group. ‘She’s over here renting Jerry Hall’s flat and I want to throw her a dinner party. You have to come. Bring friends,’ Jeff instructed.

I didn’t need to be asked twice. So, on the night, myself, Una Stubbs, Julia McKenzie and my great friend Paul Macbeth were all present and correct nice and early, awaiting the arrival of the star. We got a shock.

When Bea finally arrived she was slightly inebriated. She had been indulging in a spot of vodka. She was quite cutting to me, and sharp with Julia and her own American friend, whose name I’m afraid I can’t remember. Una was only saved because she was too smart to say much and remained out of the line of fire. It was a bit like Tennessee
Williams all over again, but nowhere near as bad. Though at least tonight we didn’t get robbed, I thought afterwards. But it wasn’t quite over.

‘Is that Christopher Biggins?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘This is Bea Arthur. I must apologise for my behaviour last night. But my friend says that you are quite adorable, so I would like to see you again.’

The second time around we hit it off. Bea was charming and we have been having fun and sharing good conversation ever since. Once, when we went out for dinner in LA, I was the designated driver charged with getting her home. I wasn’t drinking because I was driving but we had a wild time and Bea ended up drinking a bit too much wine. The end result was a bit like that first night in London.

‘Where do I go?’ I asked as I pulled away from the restaurant.

‘Whad-daya-mean?’ she drawled.

‘I don’t know the way.’

‘Neither do I.’

Tension mounted as I drove aimlessly round the Hollywood Hills hoping something would remind my companion of where she lived. In the meantime I decided to try some light conversation.

‘What was it like making
Golden Girls?
’ I asked.

‘Betty White’s a c**t,’ she said, with a mischeivous smile on her face. I nearly crashed her car.

Somehow, in the midst of this wild, global socialising, I did manage to do some work as the 1990s got under way.
Too little, as it turned out, but every little helped. I did
Country Cousins
in a club in the West End – a step up from the Maximus disco, but only just. Then Marilyn Johnson and our old pal Bryn Lloyd put together a spoof show called
Mr Warren’s Profession
. Linda Bellingham, Linda Marchal (soon to re-emerge as Linda La Plante), Jackie Anne Carr, Tudor Davies and I were all signed up. It was dinner theatre and at one point I was on a huge swing, sailing over the audience while singing ‘Keep Young and Beautiful’.

One time I got a really fantastic reception. The whole place was a riot: everyone cheered, no one ate a thing. And why? Because my voice was so mesmerising? My characterisation so spot on? No, because my flies were open. When the swing swung back everyone could see everything. Just everything.

My short but sweet return to prime-time television was in
Cluedo
, where I was once again playing a vicar. Surely the oddest piece of typecasting ever. My dear pal Peter, the true vicar in my life, reckons I will have a head start on other applicants if I ever decide to take the hints and join the church properly. In
Cluedo
, I was the Reverend Green and played alongside the booming Tom Baker as Professor Plum. Our season also had Pam Ferris as a comely Mrs White and the glamorous Susan George as Mrs Peacock. We had fun, but not for long. We were contracted to do just half a dozen programmes, with a whole new cast called in for the following year.
Cluedo
certainly didn’t make any of the performers rich. But because it was a prime-time ITV show the ratings were pretty good. My phone didn’t ring off the hook afterwards, but hopefully it reminded a few
people that I was still alive. If they were casting another dodgy vicar they could always count on me.

More seriously, I was well aware of the importance of getting back on TV as often as possible. The entertainment industry has the memory of a goldfish. You can blaze your way across theatre stages and win every Olivier Award going (unaccountably I have won none) but if you’re not on the telly every now and then you struggle to pay the bills. In the 1990s one great way for actors to earn big money was to get into the soaps – as dear Babs would soon do in seemingly effortless style. But that wasn’t the way I wanted to go. I wanted to be me. I wanted people to know Christopher Biggins, not to shout out some soap character’s name when they saw me in the street. I also knew how hard my dear friend Helen Worth worked on
Coronation Street
. In the years ahead I would see how hard Babs worked in
EastEnders
. Never say never.

But I didn’t feel ready for all that in the 1990s. I had a few nice cameo roles in shows like
Minder
and
Shoestring
. But then I started to relax even more. For a while I even considered giving up my life’s one big anchor. For the first time in so many years I said no to my next panto.

It was 1993 and I was feeling exhausted. Can one man drink too much bubbly and go to too many parties? I was testing the theory to the limit.

The bookings for pantos tend to be done, and the contracts signed, in April. That April Billy Differ had called as usual to try to book me for a season at one of my favourite theatres up in Glasgow. Billy was such a dear friend and had booked me for so many shows – including
that
Guys and Dolls
tour with Babs. He was just like Peter Todd, a great theatre manager with a real instinct for knowing what audiences wanted to see.

I don’t think he could believe it when I turned him down.

‘But you always do panto. You are pantomime,’ he said.

‘Billy, I need a break. It’s time I branched out into something else. I’m sure that if I keep my diary free something even better is going to come up.’

But of course it didn’t. April turned to May and May turned to June. My diary remained stubbornly empty. By July I was twiddling my thumbs and worrying about the bills. In August I rang Billy for a chat and a gossip and he seemed distracted and depressed. ‘What’s wrong?’