It's Not What You Think (26 page)

10 You stop looking at bills in bars and restaurants, just handing over your card instead. You pay for everything for everyone all the time

  9 Everyone you call a friend is on your payroll

  8 You stay in hotels because it’s easier than getting a taxi home

  7 When you’re in a bar, tired, you order another drink instead of going to bed

  6 You think it’s alright to wear sunglasses any time of the day or night inside or out

  5 You start to call people ‘man’

  4 You look for yourself first in the papers before considering what might be happening in the rest of the world

  3 You think you are as talented as the artists you interview

  2 You contemplate there may be at least one comedian in the world that might not be insane

  1 You advise your boss to fire you as the best way forward from a job you love and have dreamt about doing since you were a kid

The day after my thirtieth birthday party,
Matthew asked if he could see me. He asked me to meet him at a restaurant called The Heights—an establishment no more than half a minute’s walk from Broadcasting House and, as its name suggests, it’s pretty high—high enough to see a spectacular view of the north-London skyline.

Matthew smiled nervously—he was obviously concerned and wanted to discuss something. He asked me how that morning’s show had gone.

‘Fine, it was fine, thanks, now what’s up ?’ I thought it best to cut to the chase as I could see his mind was elsewhere

‘Alright, well, seeing as you ask…’

‘Here it comes,’ I thought.

‘Look, Chris, we have a situation and that situation is that things are becoming difficult to say the least with the powers that be.’ The powers that be that he was referring to I presumed was the BBC’s board of governors.

‘What do you mean?’ I enquired.

‘Well, Chris, you’re in the papers every day…’ This was true—there had been a recent report out that the three most written about people in the UK with regards to column inches were Princess Di, me and then the Prime Minister.

‘…and not always for the right reasons,’ he continued, ‘things have been fun for a while but there is growing concern that maybe we should be reigning things in a little—i.e. reigning you in a little. All I’m really asking is that you give me a chance to defend you, something I’m finding it increasingly difficult to do.’

I could completely see where Matthew was coming from. The lack of ideas on the show meant that I had begun to become more self-indulgent on the air, all I ended up talking about mostly was myself. When I wasn’t doing that I was talking about things that had little or no place on a national breakfast show. I was playing fewer and fewer records—one morning I went almost an hour without playing a single song at all, thinking that what I had to say was far too important and interesting to be interrupted by something so trivial as music. In short, I had lost all perspective.

As well as that, the shape of the show had all but disappeared—something I used to pride myself on.

I was also becoming more ‘outrageous’, another euphemism for someone running out of steam. Outrageousness, unless you’re nineteen and in a band, is no substitute for creativity—it never has been and never will be. When outrageousness begins to creep in, everyone should sit up and switch to code red because unless somebody does something about it—and quickly—time will be called and everyone will be asked to leave.

Both Matthew and I knew this but whereas Matthew was trying to do something about it—for all our sakes—I was still very much away with the fairies.

‘You know what you should do, Matt?’ I suggested excitedly.

He looked at me almost shocked that such a grave topic of conversation could elicit this kind of frenzied reaction.

‘No, I don’t actually,’ he said, almost indignantly, ‘please—do tell.’

He was now looking at me as if he didn’t recognise me, like I might be ever so slightly insane. He wasn’t far off the mark. No sleep and twelve months of going out does that to a person, but no matter—I had big news for him.

‘You should sack me,’ I declared triumphantly.

‘What?’

‘You should sack me,’ I repeated with the glee of the crazy man who’d taken up residence in my head.

Matthew was speechless—had I just said what he thought I’d said?

‘I don’t understand,’ he remarked, but there was more, I hadn’t finished yet.

‘Come on, if you think about it, it’s simple,’ I went on. ‘You had the balls to bring me here—it worked—everyone acknowledges that. Now if you further have the balls to dispense with my services—you’ll be the complete hero. He knows when to hire and he knows when to fire.’

What on earth was I rabbiting on about? I must have been so far gone. I honestly thought it was a brilliant idea—like when The KLF burnt a million pounds in cash in the name of art—filmed it and then nobody gave a hoot. D’oh!

I hadn’t for one second contemplated that there wasn’t another Radio 1 for me to go to if Matthew did take up my idea. I had forgotten that this was the job I had always dreamt of having—the show I used to listen to while driving in the Mini my mum bought me to go to work collecting trolleys at the local supermarket for £40 a week. The very same show I was now recommending I be relieved from—and by a very nice man to whom I owed a good chunk of my career.

I even went on to suggest to Matthew who he might want to replace me with!

‘Chris, have you considered taking a holiday?’ he sighed.

10 Forget about the things that made them famous

  9 Fight their battles in public

  8 Forget those who helped put them where they are

  7 Forget it’s the public who keep them there

  6 Fall in love with the press

  5 Disrespect the old-timers

  4 Refuse to sign an autograph if they have time—ever

  3 Google themselves

  2 Appear smiling in a picture with a politician

  1 Complain about anything—celebrities are the luckiest people on God’s earth and can bow out any time if they want to

The situation at Radio 1 was clearly no longer sustainable—
and sustainability along with consistency, I have come to realise, is what real success is about. Anyone can make a splash in even the biggest of pools but not many of them stick around to see if they can swim.

It was now evident to all concerned that this particular incarnation of Britain at breakfast was living on borrowed time. We had set the bar too high. This kind of show is a marathon and we had committed the fatal error of setting off at a sprint, and we were quickly running out of legs. For me the writing was on the wall—all good movies must end but if they take too long to do so, the audience will already have gone home.

And so it was.

I decided to force the issue and asked Matthew if I could have Fridays off—a ridiculous request and one that I knew was bound to end in tears.

My reasoning behind the plea (as if reasoning was any part of my world at all by now) would be—
TFI
was causing me to hold back my energy on the breakfast show in the morning and yet when I arrived at the television studio in the afternoon I was so tired anyway I was unable to do either job sufficiently well—so why not let me have the radio off so I could concentrate on TV?

Matthew responded in the only way he could. He said the request was highly unreasonable and smacked of disrespect and ingratitude. The same breakfast show had to run five days a week—no question. This was not now, nor had it ever been, negotiable. He stated in no uncertain terms that I was backing him into a corner and, if I continued to do so, there was only one course of action available to him. If I persisted with such a ludicrous demand we would have to part company.

This was all I needed.

I decided to jump before I was pushed but I did what you should never do.

I resigned on the air.

When it comes to being a DJ, resigning on the air is the single most defining quality of the loser—the drama queen—the coward—the desperate individual so consumed with his own hubris he decides to drag us all through his turgid suicide in the hope of gaining some kind of sympathy in the process.

I remember listening to a DJ who had done exactly the same thing several years before. I had the radio on in my car and had to pull over to fully appreciate what I was hearing. He was pompously declaring how his situation on one of the greatest radio stations that had ever existed had now become untenable and how the management no longer ‘understood’
him. I remember thinking that he sounded like the most ungrateful sanctimonious prick I had ever heard.

What he was saying was bordering on fantasy—was this guy for real? The more he droned on and on and on, the more excruciating and unbelievable it became.

‘Hey pal! Like any of us give a damn.’

‘Who would think to do such a thing?’ I felt like shouting at the radio. ‘When exactly did you have your brain removed? Precisely how far up your own rectum have you disappeared?’

The misunderstood DJ—please, do us all a favour. Has there ever been a less worthy cause on Planet Earth?

When it comes to being a DJ there is no message, there is no art—sure there is a connection with his/her audience and there is a lot of hard work (sometimes) but it’s not art, it never has been and it never will be.

What it is is one of the greatest jobs in the world and the lucky buggers who get to do it should be on their knees from morning till night praying for thanks, not bleating about how they can no longer go on.

For Socrates the hemlock, for George Best the bottle, for Hemingway the barrel of a shotgun, but seriously—a DJ!!! And this guy wasn’t even threatening to kill himself, more’s the pity, he was merely informing us that he was not going to be on the air any more!

And yet here was I, the same prize penis, the same high-falutin phallus, about to do exactly the same thing.

‘Please somebody stop me from sounding like a total cretin and throwing away one of the best jobs on the planet,’ I should have begged. But it was too late, for now I had also disappeared all the way up my own back passage.

CHRIS EVANS 1996-1997: A NATION YAWNS

That’s how
Private Eye
put it. How right they were.

So.

Brilliant.

What a genius.

I now had Fridays off.

In fact I had the whole week off.

All supposedly to get ready for just ‘48’ minutes of television. ‘Oh my art.’

As a result of my ‘resignation’ I had caused absolute carnage, lost much of the respect I had worked so hard to build up over the years as well as a whacking great pay cheque in the process. And the worst thing of all? I had acted like a spoilt child—something I had never been and something that inherently represented everything I was against.

In short, I think we could safely say I had lost the plot, like when the participants of reality shows burst into tears because they haven’t seen their family for three days whilst there are soldiers that haven’t seen their family for months getting shot at in Afghanistan—that sort of thing.

And you know when you get that feeling deep down inside that tells you you ‘know’ you’ve made a grave error?

Well—I knew. I knew for sure. I knew that I had made the most colossal, misguided error of judgement. I didn’t let on of course, not to anyone, but inside I was already dying.

I was dying because I knew that for the first time in my career, for the first time since asking Ralph for a paper round, for the first time since finishing with Tina for a quick snog with the captain of netball team, for the first time since walking out of the miserable git’s shop after he confiscated my radio, for the first time since dropping a fat fryer on Bill’s car when I was a forklift truck driver, for the first time since setting fire to the OB truck at Piccadilly Radio, for the first time since recording over the Geldof tape, for the first time since kissing Kim in the tent on
The Big Breakfast
, for the first time since I bought my first flash car, for the first time since I had been married to Carol, for the first time since having the conversation in the pub with Alison about Jade, for the first time since I made all those mistakes along with the countless others that you are bound to make if you dare to get out of bed in the morning and live this thing called life—for the first time since all of those things, I had
really
messed up and although I had messed up many times before, the thing was—on this occasion—I should have known better. Therein lay the difference.

Everything that I had experienced up until this point I could square with myself one way or another. Regardless of whether it ended up being right or wrong—I could reason in my head as to why or why not it may have happened. But this was not like that.

Success, once achieved, exists, whereas before it did not. Therefore it can no longer be ignored—hoping it won’t have an effect, hoping it won’t change things. Success has to be dealt with, it has to be fed and watered and looked after and given a place to sleep. Success is a wonderful thing, in the right hands—it is wholly good and can achieve many things if harnessed and exploited in the right way. But if abused, it can be lethal, a ferociously powerful racing car on a wet road being driven by a blind man wearing lead boots.

In the last four years I had undoubtedly achieved ‘success’, success beyond my wildest dreams, but it was obvious I didn’t have the first clue what to do with it.

It was time for a think.

10 Life

  9 Death

  8 Flying

  7 Number plates

  6 Cars

  5 Getting old

  4 Sex

  3 Work

  2 Food

  1 My belly

I’m very happy when I am thinking.
I often wonder how other people think. Do they think quickly or do they think slowly? Do they think only when they have to? Do some people not think at all—scared of what their thoughts tell them? Are these the sort of people who deal with life by ‘getting on with things’ to occupy their mind?

TFI
was still on the air and was now more of a priority than it had ever been. After having made such an unnecessary fuss about how much effort it took to make, I was now thinking how I needed to ensure the next few episodes were up there with the best.

Cut to:

My house in Kent.

As soon as the house in Kent was mine I spent as much time there as I possibly could. The commute to work was a long way—especially at four in the morning—but whenever I returned after the radio show around lunchtime, it was always worth it. It didn’t hurt that I was also now travelling to and from London in a sparkling black Bentley complete with tinted windows and a dark green leather interior—the next little beauty in my life-line of automobiles.

As soon as I laid eyes on it, I thought it was such a special car, or ‘motor car’ as Bentley refer to them. It was also the first car to which I had a car
phone fitted. This phone, although cutting edge at the time, was a big old brick of a thing that somehow managed to fit into the central console. I remember being highly amused when I had to record the answer phone message, which was the opposite of the one I had on the phone indoors:

‘Hello, this is Chris. I’m at home right now but leave a message and I’ll call you as soon as I go out.’

The most important phone call I took on this revolutionary new innovation was from none other than Michael Grade during the second series of
Toothbrush
when the BBC were after me to sign an exclusive television contract with them. I was on the M20 when Michael, still in charge of Channel 4, rang to tell me in no uncertain terms that this was not something that was going to happen and he had a cheque for £500,000 waiting on his desk for me that said so.

‘So, Michael, let’s be clear about this,’ I shouted into a microphone the location of which I had no idea, ‘what do I have to do to get that cheque again?’

‘You have to sign a piece of paper with us that says you won’t sign a piece of paper with anyone else,’ echoed his reply.

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Cool.’

Having the carphone fitted to my marvellous new Bentley was one of my better decisions.

By now I had left the penthouse and bought myself a new place in London back in my old manor of Belsize Park, where my first little studio house was and where Carol and I had enjoyed all those crazy times when I first moved down to London. This latest place was a modern two-bed flat but set in a period building. It was very ‘of the moment’. I bought it off a woman who seemed to become agitated every time any men were around her. At first I thought she ‘batted for the other team’ until I learnt that she used to be married to a bloke in a well-known band who had ended up running off with the female lead singer. As a result of which she had decided to hate all men for the rest of her life, and she could barely bring herself to speak to me.

As much as I loved my new little crash pad, after Radio 1—The End, I decided it was probably a good idea if I holed up in Kent more
permanently for a while. It was the secure gated fortress that I needed. The press were intent on following me everywhere and although I was more than used to this ‘intrusion’ (if you don’t want to be intruded upon don’t become famous), I hadn’t yet decided where my story was going to go from here and I didn’t want to give them the chance to write the next chapter.

It was now the following Tuesday after the Friday I walked out of Radio 1. Tuesday was always the day we would get together to talk about
TFI Friday
and this was to be no exception. Myself, the producers, who consisted of Will and another couple of characters—Dave and Stephen—and our writer, none other than Mr Danny Baker himself, would meet up at wherever I was staying and after an hour or two of shooting the breeze, we would eventually turn our attentions to what we thought might be interesting and fun to put on that week’s show.

We would draw up a wish list of ideas that the producers would then research while Danny would go off and conjure up a script. Thursday would see the script emerge—hopefully—and then we would be all set for rehearsals on Friday.

As the script often made reference to some of the week’s more popular news stories, we were first faced with the question of whether to include anything with regards to what had happened between myself and Radio 1 as it had been the story on many of the front pages.

We decided I would acknowledge it at the top with a quick remark or gesture but other than that we would steer clear. Instead we would concentrate on what was going on in the rest of the world and the guests we had already booked—one of whom just happened to be the legend that is John Cleese.

John Cleese rarely appeared on chat shows and had only agreed to appear on ours if he could help write his part of the script. We had no problem with this—on the contrary, we were very much looking forward to working with a real-life Python and co-writer of the great
Fawlty Towers.

Now what you need to know next is that John is a perfectionist and is renowned for his attention to detail. He had acquired my home number and had already been on the phone the week before, enquiring as to how the script was going and when he could have a copy. After several minutes
of my explaining to John that this wasn’t how
TFI
worked and how we didn’t write the script until a couple of days before the show to keep it fresh and current, he said he understood and was happy. In the course of our conversation I also told him that we would begin writing his show on the following Tuesday morning and assured him that as soon as we had anything worth reading he would be the first to know.

So, one hour into the
TFI
meeting at my house in Kent, with the press still camped outside the main gates and us scratching our heads inside over ideas for the show, the phone rang. After excusing myself from the meeting, I went to answer.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Ah, hello, Chris, John here, John Cleese. Hope I’m not interrupting—how’s the writing going?’

Fair enough, I suppose, it may have only been mid morning but it was Tuesday after all and Tuesday is the day I had told him we would be working on his script.

‘Ah, hello, John…we’re just getting on to your bit now,’ which we were—sort of. ‘As soon as we have something I’ll get it to you.’

‘Ah, good, good, that’s excellent. Now the thing is I’m on a plane, you see.’

He was calling me from a plane! I had no idea that was possible.

‘Really?’

‘Yes, I’m calling you from a plane on my way to my apartment in New York.’

This was cool, a little mad—but cool.

‘Do you think you could fax whatever you have to me there so I can get to work adding my bits and bobs when I get home?’

‘Yes John, of course, sure thing.’

I took down his fax number, said goodbye and returned to the boys.

‘It was Mr Cleese,’ I offered. ‘I don’t know what he’s expecting from us but it’d better be good. He wants us to send whatever we come up with to him in New York to his apartment so he can add his “bits and bobs”. He’s on a plane by the way.’

‘He called you from a plane!’ remarked Danny.

‘Yeah—I know, how cool is that?’

‘Man—you’ve got to love The Pythons.’

After talking about the plane aspect of the scenario for a while (on script day we loved to talk about anything but the script until we absolutely had to) there was now ever such a slight note of tension creeping into our meeting.

What could we offer John that was different? What kind of thing was he expecting from us?

After a few minutes chin stroking and temple thumbing, I suddenly had a lightbulb moment. The kind that comes out of nowhere but seems to solve all your problems at once as if someone’s been working on them secretly for years on your behalf.

‘How about John wanting the script so badly and us getting it to him is the thing?’ I suggested.

‘Go on,’ said Danny, intrigued.

‘Well, how about I tell the story of how it’s such a big deal to have John Cleese on the show and how we didn’t want to upset him and how much he wanted to see the script and how we decided, in the end, the best thing for us to do was hand deliver the script to John himself at his apartment in New York.’

‘And so?’

‘And so—we go to New York.’

‘What do you mean we go to New York?’

‘We all go to New York to do what I just said.’

‘When?’

‘Today—and we film it. That’s the joke. We play in the film and on walks John with the script in his hand and we start the interview.’

‘Marvellous!’ declared Danny.

The producers giggled nervously, wondering whether we were joking. One hour later with the six of us hurtling towards Heathrow in the Bentley, they realised we were not.

The budget for
TFI
was very healthy to say the least, although naturally some weeks we spent less than others. This was not going to be one of those weeks. In fact we were on our way to film what is probably the most expensive thirty seconds of video footage in the history of light entertainment television.

As we made our way from Kent to the airport, the press whom we’d all but forgotten about were back, hot on our heels, bless them. We thought
it was hilarious that they had no idea we were off to New York and if they wanted to stick with us they were going to need more than a car—namely:

A. Their passports

B. A return ticket on Concorde.

No sooner had we convinced the producers that this idea was a runner and that we were serious than the great wheels of television production started to swing into action—an impressive machine when firing on all cylinders.

Motorcycle couriers were dispatched to retrieve various passports from incredulous wives and girlfriends. Travel agents were deployed to organise airline tickets. Cars were booked on both sides of the Atlantic and a laptop computer and printer was being delivered to Heathrow’s Concorde lounge. The Concorde aspect of the ruse was what took the whole episode on to a different level and one that would provide our adventure with a twist all of its own even before we took off.

We had discussed ‘briefly’ the cost of what we were about to do and had somewhere along the line managed to convince the production manager that Concorde was a necessity if we were to get there and back in time.

There—in time to deliver Mr Cleese his script.

Back—in time to prepare the rest of the show for Friday.

It was a distinct advantage that I also owned the company, of course.

Six tickets for Concorde at £7000 each—that was £42,000—plus a further couple of thousand on top for who knows what.

New York, here we come.

But not so fast, sonny, it was time for the twist.