Biggins (16 page)

The audience just loved it, though. They knew that I was a very last-minute replacement, so they were in a forgiving, supportive mood. There was such a buzz that week and I was so glad I had taken Jamie up on the challenge.

Towards the end of the week I decided to let my hair down a little. I went to a bar in town and met this lovely air steward called Neil. We had a short, sweet fling and I just thought he was the most wonderful man. He made me laugh and seemed to be able to read my mind. We were finishing each other's sentences within a few days. But then it had to end. I was with someone else and so after much soul-searching Neil and I said goodbye. Our Highland fling would have to be the end of it. But as I headed south I couldn't stop thinking about him. Could he actually be ‘the one'? Had I been a fool to let him slip through my fingers? Fourteen years would pass before I found out.

I was on a plane back from Barbados after going out to discuss that first season there. I had been put in Club – thank you, British Airways. And one of the cabin crew, Liza Higgins, a close friend of Neil's, came up to chat to me. ‘Mr Biggins, I think we have a mutual friend,' she said. ‘His name is Neil Sinclair.'

In that one moment I remembered everything. ‘Could you give him my number?' I asked, feeling like a teenager.

She passed it on and he called. And for no other reason than that it was the closest date we could make, we met up on 14 February, Valentine's Day, in 1994. We have been together ever since.

Neil was living in Hove but we knew we wanted to be together straight away. So he sold his house and bought into mine in Hackney. That helped me clear my final remaining debts from the voluntary bankruptcy. And it gave us the foundation for the life we have had ever since. Neil is funny, caring, a typical Cancer and a home-maker. He still flies, so we have plenty of space, and we're not glued together when we do go out. I remember that when we first went to showbusiness parties I used to worry about how he would get on. As if I needed to. One early, ridiculously over-the-top date was at a charity dinner party where Neil was placed on the top table next to an ambassador's wife. ‘Will he cope?' I asked myself. Then I looked across the room. The two of them were talking so much they hardly drew breath. At the end of the night they exchanged phone numbers.

Neil was a total star. He fitted into my world from the start and he loves it. So nowadays I'm quite happy that we arrive at places together and then I often leap off and leave him for the rest of the night as I talk shop with other theatrical pals. What I love is that at the end of the night we leave together. And we relive the whole night from our different perspectives.

Best of all, Neil and I are both very good about laughing when things go wrong. Which, of course, they do. Just after we got together I was showing off about being offered a new Saab convertible to road-test for a
Daily Express
article.

‘Won't it be a bit dull if we just drive around near here?' I said to Neil beforehand.

‘Where else can we go?'

‘Well, the Channel Tunnel has just opened. Let's try that. And I'll treat you to a night at the Ritz in Paris.'

So off we went to France. This time I did have my passport. But once more I didn't prove to be the sharpest tool in the box. For some reason I thought the tunnel went underground in Kent and popped back up slap bang in the middle of Paris. Neil and I were two men without a map and without a clue. But somehow, through the laughs, we made it to our destination. That's when we started laughing again. ‘I can't drive this up to the Ritz. I just can't.'

As we got to the centre of the city I was overcome with embarrassment. Because, while our car might be brand new and expensive, it was also bright orange. And I mean bright, bright orange. It looked appalling. And understandably, the moment we parked at the Ritz it was whisked away by the staff to protect the sensibilities of the other guests. If I knew the French for ‘That man in the horrid orange car was the one who stole his hostess's flower arrangement last summer', I'm sure I would have heard it that day.

But as it happened our Parisian adventure was only warming up.

Now, there's nothing I love more than getting a bargain. So I had been on the phone to Mohamed al Fayed's office the moment I had the idea of driving to Paris. Can we get a deal on our room? Unfortunately we couldn't. ‘We don't do deals,' I was told. ‘But we will make sure you are well looked after.' And the lady was absolutely right. Neil and I had a to-die-for suite. The Ritz is the essence of Paris and has tremendous style. And there was more to come.

When I had been talking to Mohamed al Fayed's office I had decided to be cheeky. (Thanks, Dad, for teaching me
that if you don't ask you don't get.) I had been reading about Villa Windsor, the home in the Bois de Boulogne where the Duke and Duchess of Windsor had lived and which al Fayed had lovingly restored. ‘Would it be possible to have a tour of the property?' I asked. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

‘You do know that it's a private house? It's not open to the public.'

‘Yes, I know that. But I do know some other people who have seen what Mr al Fayed has done and they say it's magnificent. I would so love to have the chance to see the property myself. Would you please just ask Mr al Fayed?'

Clearly she had done so. And she must have found her boss on a very good day. As Neil and I left the hotel for dinner that evening the concierge approached us. ‘Mr al Fayed's chauffeur will pick you up at 11am tomorrow,' he told us. We had been granted our royal tour.

Our driver was none other than Henri Paul. At the time we had no reason to pay him particular attention – and I can certainly say that I don't remember us driving too fast, or being nervous in any way in his charge. He was neatly dressed and conservative, just as he appeared to be in those awful CCTV pictures of Diana and Dodi's last moments. As he didn't seem to speak much English and our French is limited, we didn't talk very much. But he seemed professional and competent. Both the man and the mood must have been very different those few years later when Diana and Dodi were in our place in Henri Paul's car and the paparazzi were on their tail.

As an aside, I do have an opinion on Diana's last summer. I think the bright girl I had spent some lovely evenings with would have enjoyed her summer fling
enormously. But I don't feel that marriage was ever on her mind, especially to someone as controversial as Dodi. Diana loved her boys too much to put them in the middle of that sort of situation. She knew, none better, that being royal was complicated enough already.

The Duchess of Windsor's former butler opened the doors to us at the villa – he had been retained, which is wonderful in itself. And what a property. The words ‘lovingly restored' just can't do it justice. Apparently, the place wasn't in great condition when the royal family moved on. But now Mohamed al Fayed had spared no expense. He had also shown extraordinary good taste. For an arch-royalist like me it was a dream come true to be inside such a treasure trove. The al Fayed family have rooms somewhere, I believe. But the rooms the Duke and Duchess used are left just as they were. And I mean just as they were. Neil and I opened drawers to see her panties and stockings laid out, his underwear folded and stacked. There were suits, coats, dresses on hangers. It was eerie, as if their owners had just popped out for lunch. A true slice of living history. I ran my fingers over the desk where the Duke had written his abdication speech. How many people are lucky enough to have done that?

Back to the next set of Barbados shows. Taking control of those seasons was fabulous fun. Casting my plays was the highlight. Well, normally. As I got ready for the second year I rang Nichola McAuliffe to offer her a role in
The Taming of the Shrew
. And there was something funny about the way she agreed to take part. She was so flat, so matter-of-fact, that I was worried she might be ill. Then,
seconds later, she rang me back. ‘Biggins, I wasn't paying attention. Did you say Barbados?'

‘Yes, Barbados. In the Caribbean.'

At that she screeched so loud I nearly lost my hearing. She had misheard me first time around. I think she thought the play was in Battersea.

So many other great names and good friends were able to join me on the jaunts. But I didn't always push my luck. In London I was leaving a restaurant one day when I passed Maggie Smith and Joan Plowright at their table. They called me over with fabulously imperious gestures. ‘Now, Biggins, we want to go to Barbados and do your season there,' said Maggie.

‘I'm sorry, I have to say no. You would both be far too diva-ish,' I said. I like to think I'm one of the few to refuse Maggie Smith and Lord Olivier's widow a job. Though I'd have got them plane tickets faster than you can say ‘And the winner is' if I'd thought for one moment that they were serious.

In my third season in Barbados I directed
Tosca
– who says I'm not up for a challenge? Richard Polo's enthusiasm for opera had finally rubbed off on me, though I often felt that in Barbados it was never staged as well as it could be. This was my chance to see if I could do better. But who to cast? Richard Wagner's niece Rosemary Wagner-Scott was training to be an opera singer and I called her for an audition. She was breathtakingly good and it was lovely to give her such a good role to play.

These wonderful seasons ended in a spat over money. For three glorious years we had attracted some extraordinary talents. Our performers always had their
flights paid and were put up in the island's gorgeous hotels. But should they be paid as well?

From the start I had made sure that we all were. It was pocket money, but I felt the principle was important. We worked very hard to rehearse and put on such strong performances in the short time we were on the island. But I think the question of fees began to grate.

‘Why do we have to pay these actors to come out here?' I was asked in the third year.

‘Well, because they have mortgages and bills and need to eat,' I suggested.

But by this point I think the seasons were going so well that the family thought they would run themselves. And they had just had an amazing offer from Pavarotti. He agreed to do the following year's season for free and clearly my band of travelling players could hardly compete with that. As it turned out, though, we might have been a better bet. By all accounts Pavarotti gave a magnificent performance. But, while he didn't charge for his services, the bill for the orchestra and his entourage was rumoured to have topped £1 million.

I
showed Tommy Steele my dick shortly after going back on tour in the UK. And he went on to show it to pretty much everyone he could find. I was in the Frederick Lonsdale play
On Approval
which Lee Dean produced (who would get that invite to Liza Minnelli’s wedding ahead of me), the mouthy
Liver Bird
Polly James, Tessa Wyatt and Robin Sachs (Leonard’s son). The play is a comedy of manners about two couples going away for a weekend. Polly was a bit of a diva, but we coped. She had just done
Half a Sixpence
with Tommy Steele and was off on holiday with him towards the end of our run. She turned up at the theatre that night with a new camera for her holiday photos and was snapping away as the curtain rose.

‘Oh my God, I’m on!’ she whispered, thrusting the camera at me.

I couldn’t help myself. I dropped my trousers and pants.
‘Take some pictures of my dick,’ I told Robin. He did, but then it was my cue and after the show Polly got her camera back and I forgot all about it.

Fast forward to Tommy and Polly’s mini-break. After finishing the film she took the camera in to get the pictures developed – and of all places she chose one of those camera stores where developed pictures are hung up in the window for everyone to see. Tommy was dispatched to collect the prints – and returned hysterical with laughter. He proceeded to pass the offending pictures around a restaurant, saying it was the funniest thing he had ever seen. Polly, I feel obliged to say, was less than thrilled. Our friendship has survived because I think that we’re in the right world. Theatre seems to breed eccentrics. I love larger-than-life characters – and the larger the better.

I’ve already talked about several of the great ladies in my life. Here are a few stories about the most outrageous of the men.

George Borwick was a divinely eccentric man, an old-school gentleman straight out of central casting. He was the heir to the Borwick’s Baking Powder fortune (I kid you not) and we had one very larger-than-life friend in common: Kenneth Williams. Get me, George and Kenneth together and you were in for a very good time indeed. George had a home in South Africa and there were many happy afternoons when he returned to England with packs of photographs of naked South African men from around his pool to show off. Yet again this proved to me that the rich are different. When he got down to his last quarter of a million, George panicked. So he did what so many others have done over the centuries. He married for money.

The bride-to-be was a wealthy fellow South African lady he had known for years. I sat with Kenneth gossiping in a restaurant one night. ‘Well, George has fallen on his feet as usual. He should finally be able to relax a little about his finances. And his wife seems nice enough. She must know the score. At least he won’t have to do it,’ I predicted.

‘No! No! No!’ trilled the incomparable Kenneth. ‘He’ll have to do it all the time. She loves the dick!’ Never have so many fellow diners choked on their soup en masse before.

Sir Ralph Richardson was another eccentric hero of mine. My favourite story about him is set at the fabulously old-fashioned Savile Club on Brook Street in Mayfair. The
Poldark
author Winston Graham had made me a member and every time I went – thanking Mrs Christian for my elocution lessons – it was always full of classic old colonels. It wasn’t really my scene and I loved it and laughed at it in equal measure. The club has a rigid set of rules. If you are on your own you are seated at a long table next to other members and left to sink or swim in conversation. Fortunately small talk is something I’m good at. I swam away happily. Ordering meals took some getting used to as well. The waitresses aren’t allowed to interrupt the members to ask them for their orders – instead you have to write down what you want on a bit of paper and they have to peer across at it. How quintessentially English, and bonkers, is that?

Anyway, my favourite Ralph Richardson story is when he was so engrossed in conversation at the Savile Club that he didn’t write down his order. At 1.45 the waitress felt she had to interrupt him. ‘Excuse me, sir, I’m very sorry but the kitchen is about to close. Can I take your order?’

‘Of course you can. I’d like a jam omelette, please.’

And off she went, only to return within moments. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’ve asked the chef and he wants to know who it’s for.’

‘Sir Ralph Richardson.’

Off she went again, and back she came. ‘I’m sorry, sir. The chef says no.’

You hardly need Sir Ralph’s punchline (‘Who the hell do you need to be in this place to get served a jam omelette?’) to love that story.

Finally, in a roll-call of mad old actors, how can I leave out John Gielgud? In my favourite story about him he was directing a cast of dreamy-looking military men in a new opera. The cast were lined up on stage waiting for his instruction. ‘Right, I want you over there at the back,’ he said to the first to present himself. ‘Now I want you to the left. I want you next to him and I want you – oh my God, I want
you
,’ he spluttered as the most handsome young man yet reached the front of the queue.

Ever since our risqué little Regent’s Park chat I had worried that I might have offended Her Majesty. Fortunately, I found out a little later that, in fact, she has a surprisingly sharp sense of humour. We were reintroduced in the interval of a charity function at a gala performance of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s
Bombay Dreams
. ‘This is Christopher Biggins, who is going to be hosting the charity auction after the performance,’ her omnipresent guide told her as she approached.

‘How lovely,’ was her typically noncommittal comment. Everything in me told me to smile and simply say I was
pleased to see her. But one tiny part of me decided to be cheeky. That part of me won.

The Queen was wearing a most incredible set of pearls. They were glowing and gorgeous in the softly lit room. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got anything we could auction?’ I heard myself ask, looking very pointedly at them.

It seemed that the Queen took great umbrage. She moved on to the next group of people a little too fast for my liking. And then, breaking all convention, she turned around and came back to me.

‘What are you auctioning?’ she asked.

‘Well, I’ve got some art, some memorabilia. I’ve got holidays and, yes, I’ve got jewellery.’ My eyes fell again to those pearls.

‘How lovely,’ the Queen said one last time, putting her hand protectively over her necklace. She left me. But there was a twinkle in her eye that was so pronounced it was almost a wink.

There was never any doubting that Princess Diana had a sense of humour. I met her at several charity events over the years and was impressed at how well she remembered people’s names. Of course, I also respected the charities she chose to represent. Names and causes so many others felt were too hot to handle. The first time I met her in a purely social situation came about because of Liza. She was headlining at the Albert Hall and rang me just before one performance.

‘Biggins, I’ve got a friend in tonight, who I wanted you to come in and look after,’ Liza said.

I said yes, without even asking who the friend might be.
It could have been Liza’s pool boy, for all I cared. In fact, I’d have been very happy if it had been Liza’s pool boy. But in the end it was Diana. She was bright and funny, tactile and warm. And, oh, how she loved her boys. When we met at the Albert Hall she had just been photographed on the royal yacht in Canada. It was that famous picture of her with her arms stretched wide as she reaches out to hug them. It’s one of my favourite images of her. ‘It’s so rare to see anyone in the royal family being so demonstrative to each other,’ I said.

‘How could I not hug them?’ she asked me. ‘I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about them all the time we’d been apart.’

In the months and years ahead, Diana and I had plenty of gossipy lunches, dinners and laughs together. And after a while our friendship made the news. An
Evening Standard
reporter was always writing humorous references about us. In one full-page article he and the picture people mocked up a shot of Diana wearing a big Miss World-style sash over her dress saying, ‘Miss Biggins 1995’. I thought it was hilarious. So did Diana.

A letter arrived the following week. ‘I hope life is treating you kindly and yes, a big smile was evident from a particular lady in W8 last Friday,’ she wrote.

Diana’s big mistake, her tragedy, was falling in love with Charles. I like and respect him a great deal as well. I believe in his charities, which have often been in fields as unfashionable as those chosen by his former wife. But no one told Diana she was applying for a job, not marrying her hero.

The only major member of the royal family I didn’t get the chance to meet properly was the Queen Mother – though I once sat opposite her at a church service and am convinced I got a smile. But I did hear a lot about this grand old lady, through the much-missed Billy Talon. Billy had joined the royal household at just 16 – and never left. The Queen Mum was the Queen of England then. He told a wonderful story of how they had become so close.

It was at a Christmas party when the dance called the Paul Jones was about to start. The men and women lined up in circles around the room and when the music stopped you had to do the next dance with whoever was in front of you. For the poor, nervous Billy, that person was the Queen. ‘Do you dance?’ she asked, clearly sensing how uncertain he was.

‘No, Ma’am.’

‘Then walk with me.’

And he walked with her for the rest of her life.

I spent a lot of time with Billy at his tiny house on the Mall, a treasury of royal family photos and keepsakes. He was a joy as a man, someone who loved his life and loved his job. That, I am sure, is why we always got along.

Another of my favourite Billy Talon stories about his extraordinary employer concerned another terrified new recruit.

‘Tomorrow you will take Her Majesty her breakfast,’ he was told.

‘But I can’t.’

‘You must.’

‘Please don’t ask me to. I can’t do it.’

But the following morning the terrified youngster was
one of the four men outside the Queen’s bedroom door. One was there to supervise. One to knock. One to open the door. Our young friend had to walk in with the tray.

‘Only speak if you are spoken to,’ was the breakfast rule. And as the boy had put the tray down and was leaving the room he thought he was in the clear. Then the Queen Mother spoke. ‘You’re new here,’ she said.

‘Yes I am, Ma’am.’

‘Are you gay?’

‘Yes I am, Ma’am.’

‘Then you’ll love it here,’ she pronounced.

‘Economise, Biggins. Economise.’ I really did try hard in the quiet years after
Cluedo
.

But there always seemed to be one more party to attend. And, really, they were often too good to miss.

Some of the best were thrown by Teddy and Bee Van Zuylen. He’s a big bear of a man and she’s a beautiful, slim and charming lady. I bumped into them at Nice airport when they were setting off on their honeymoon. But fortunately, after gatecrashing Jeremy Irons’s honeymoon all those years earlier, I had since learned to leave newlyweds alone. Perhaps as a reward for my newfound manners I was soon invited to Teddy’s family home, Kasteel de Haar, just outside Amsterdam. It has a moat, spires, battlements – everything you could expect in a fantasy castle. It’s open to the public for 11 months a year and is his for all of September.

If you are lucky enough to be invited there, chauffeurs pick you up from the airport, butlers take your luggage at the castle door and maids seem able to unpack and iron all
your clothes by the time you get to your room. I should have taken a few duvet covers with me to save my dear cleaning lady a job. All the vast rooms have four-poster beds and every night someone runs you a vast bath at 6pm and tells you that at 7pm the water will be the perfect temperature.

That, surely, is how I was born to live.

After that perfect bath I remember dressing in black tie and playing Oh Hell, a poor man’s bridge, after dinner. And amid company that can hardly be described as poor.

On another occasion Neil and I went to Paris on Eurostar to another of the couple’s parties. Sitting opposite us on the train was a fellow guest, Tessa Kennedy, and we had a picnic of bread and wine along the way. In Paris we met one of Tessa’s pals, the film star Leslie Caron, then headed to the Van Zuylens’ house on an island in the Seine. It was like a Disney fairytale. Our car swept through a deliberately ordinary gate and into a heart-stoppingly beautiful courtyard. Practically a whole orchestra was playing inside on the staircase, and there was room after room of unbelievably glamorous people to meet. And meet them I did. Feel intimidated and fade into the background? I don’t think so. I mingled to the manor born. And that was just the start.

When Teddy’s 70th birthday came around, we all arranged a surprise party at Tessa’s place in Runnymede near Windsor. We tried to recreate the vast dining table from Paris – though things were a little more cramped on this side of the Channel. We certainly didn’t run to a waiter for every second guest, which was the ratio over there. ‘I want to come as the baroness,’ I joked when we laid down the dress code. ‘That way I’d get the best bedroom in the house.’

Nice joke, Biggins, everyone was thinking. But I did want to come as the baroness. So I got a white panto outfit with acres of diamante and bucketloads of fake jewellery. We had some very grand, very serious French people at the party that night. The world’s banking industry was particularly well represented. But, thank God, they knew how to laugh. And, thank God, Teddy saw the joke.

Late in the evening he admitted he had guessed that some sort of surprise party was on the cards. ‘But when I was told to come out to Windsor I thought I was having dinner with the Queen,’ he said.

‘You are, dear, you are,’ I told him.

When you are living the high life with such marvellous friends you really don’t want to be arrested for shoplifting. In 1996 I was arrested for shoplifting.