Murder Most Fab (25 page)

The
sight of this middle-aged man wearing M&S jeans and snowy white deck shoes
punching the air and trying to do young-people-speak was too much: Ruby and I
began to laugh, and the flashbulb popped away merrily. These were the photos
that would soon be printed large in every TV listing in every newspaper and
magazine in the country.

Slowly
the form and shape of the show was revealed to us. The entire studio was to be
done out in geometric black and white shapes. There were three performance
areas — one in which the bands would play; another, cosier, interview ‘den’;
and a games-and-sketches playground where anything might happen. We had a
resident troupe of ex-Cambridge Footlights types, who performed topical
sketches making fun of current affairs. A live audience of two hundred
carefully selected punks, Goths and bright young things would be hyped up to
laugh at and cheer our every utterance. Standing, not seated, they would swarm
from stage to stage to catch the action. Even the camera angles would be wild
and crazy, with cranes and cameramen suspended from the rigging on bungee
wires.

I
looked at sketches, models and scripts but nothing prepared me for the scale
and brightness of the reality. There seemed to be hundreds of people working on
the show, climbing ladders, cradling cables as if they were new-born lambs or
barking into walkie-talkies and calling for barn doors. It was madness.

My
first experience of walking into the studio and standing on the set in front of
all those cameras was pretty terrifying. It was only a rehearsal but my legs
were shaking. Ruby had already done a series of
The Basil Brush Show
so
she knew the ropes. She took my hand and must have felt how clammy I was. She
gave me a squeeze. ‘Television’s easy,’ she said. ‘If Nicky Campbell can do
this, so can you.’

Bernard
had arranged for us to have an hour or so to practise with the autocue, and
after five minutes I knew I had the hang of it. God bless my mother and those late-night
reading sessions.

The
floor manager was a talk, agitated man with a shaved head, and it was made
clear to me quickly that I must keep my eye on him and follow his instructions.
He would cue me, point to the relevant camera or signal for me to move on to
the next item when the time came. My make-up artist, Anita, who smelt of exotic
incense and had an elaborately tattooed neck, said I was so beautiful I only
needed a light dusting of powder. She leant in towards my ear. ‘And I have a
variety to choose from, if you catch my drift.’

On our very first show we
had the Backstreet Boys and Björk performing live, and Ruby and I chatted to M
People about their new album and tour, joined in with sketches and improvised
or flirted our way out of trouble. One of the quirky rules of the show was the
klaxon: whenever a deafening fog-horn sounded, everyone had to join in a
Mexican wave while singing a bastardized salsa version of Jason Donovan’s
‘Especially For You’. No one explained why.

The two
hours of my television début flew by. With Ruby’s calming influence and Anita’s
invigorating powder, I felt very comfortable indeed.

‘You’re
a natural! A star is born! Words fail me!’ said Bernard afterwards, wiping a
tear from his eye.

Shout!
was an instant success, lauded immediately as the epitome of cool,
youthful broadcasting.

After
the second week’s show I found a gaggle of breathless, excited young girls
waiting for me outside Television Centre, wanting me to scribble my name across
a publicity still they’d got hold of. Next week the show was ‘Pick of the Day’
in almost every paper, and Ruby and I were on the cover of the
TV Times.
What
was more, the
Daily Mirror
said I was the sexiest thing on television
since
Starsky and Hutch.

Fanmail
began to arrive, scores of letters each day, and people on the street did
double-takes, pointing, whispering excitedly and calling my name. As the weeks
went by and fame crept up on me, the public’s reactions became increasingly
vocal and adoring. Catherine enjoyed nothing more than pushing my fans out of
the way, acting as my bodyguard and informing them she had a black belt in
origami.

I loved
doing
Shout!.
The adrenaline high of live television was like nothing
I’d ever known. Ruby and I sparked off each other beautifully and we were full
of energy and raring to go as the clock ticked down to nine a.m., the camera
lights went red and the stern floor manager made the hand signal that told us
we were live on air. We felt confident and euphoric. We were a hit.

‘This
doesn’t happen very often in a television career,’ Ruby said to me, after
rehearsals one week. ‘We must enjoy it, savour our moment. Most TV is crap,
after all.’

Viewing
figures multiplied at a terrific rate. Our catchphrase (‘Shout! Everybody,
shout!’) and games (‘Call My Bluff for obscure, mild expletives, and ‘Name That
Condom’) were a national obsession. Our disrespectful version of ‘Especially For
You ‘was a playground craze in schools everywhere, and
Shout!
merchandise
was quickly designed and rushed into the shops. Even though she was inundated
with requests for me to make personal appearances, Catherine made sure I got
twenty-five pence from each novelty mug that was sold and tenpence from
Shout!
toothbrushes.

In the
evenings she and I would sit together in our flat, making plans, taking drugs,
laughing and generally marvelling at the change in our lives.

‘I
can’t believe it, Cowboy. You’re famous! You’re a star.’

‘Maybe
not quite yet,’ I said modestly. ‘More of a starlet.’

‘Yes,
but you will be. I can feel it in my waters, like the first tingle you get that
indicates the mother of all orgasms is heading your way. The sensation is
remarkably similar. I’ve got big plans. I’m getting those offices I told you
about. We’re going to be
mega.
Mega-mega!’

‘Mega, smegma,’
I said carelessly, shrugging my shoulders. But inside I was thrilled.

My only
worry was that one of my clients might recognize me and decide to spill the
beans, but I put that out of my mind. Most of them — particularly the married
ones — wouldn’t be over-eager to describe their sexual predilections, and the
rest would either not recognize me out of
situ
or wouldn’t care if they
did. A few of my favourites would probably just think, ‘Good on you, JD. Go and
get a bit of the high life …’

And why
not? After all, I’d been lowlife for long enough.

Bernard basked in the
glory that came with producing a hit show and finding the hottest new face of
the year.

Those
were our happiest times together — if you can call it happiness. If you can
call it togetherness, come to that. I was so excited by what was happening, and
so grateful, that I was sometimes reasonably nice to Bernard, though with
hindsight this might well have been a mistake. The thrill he got from making me
a hit soon turned to possessiveness. He seemed to be with me all the time. At
the studio he had a legitimate reason to hover at my side, and while I was on a
steep learning curve I was glad of his advice and instruction. He watched me
with an eagle eye, making sure I was always presented in the best possible way,
with the best camera angles and lighting. But it wasn’t rocket science and my
natural, relaxed style was something I myself brought to the show. It wasn’t
down to him or even the original concept.

Out of
the studio, he was desperate to be with me, showing off his discovery. He
wanted to come with me to every interview, every photographic shoot and every
personal appearance. That wasn’t so bad, but he also wanted to come to clubs
and parties as well, cramping my style horribly. Suddenly, wherever I went, I
was fêted, spoilt and able to pull with even greater ease than before,
sometimes several times a night — but it wasn’t the same when Bernard was
there, red-faced, balding and generating static in his nylon trousers as he
burnt with jealousy. He still clung to the belief that I was his boyfriend —
and even suggested moving in together. I managed to quash that idea at once,
saying I couldn’t possibly leave Catherine, but I slept with him on occasion to
keep him happy. Of course I was grateful for the opportunity he had given me,
but I began to feel as if I’d be indebted to him for ever.

Being
famous was turning out to be great fun. The only thing spoiling it was Bernard.

Shout!’s
initial six-week stint was quickly extended to three months, by
which time I was a bona fide celebrity. My fame grew and grew, and I was soon a
tabloid favourite, with stories about me appearing every day. Shots of me
getting into the back of a taxi after a night out at a trendy Soho nightclub,
or mingling backstage with the hottest bands, seemed to confirm my ‘cool’
celebrity status. I was thrilled when the press called me a ‘TV star’ for the
first time, and indignant if they failed to thereafter. I was invited to music-awards
shows, first nights and exclusive parties. Initially I went with Bernard, but
he was not the most photogenic escort and was frequently edited out of the
picture or, worse, pushed aside by ambitious starlets when the flashbulbs
popped. When this happened I could expect punishment by pouts and sarcasm.

Once,
as we were leaving a restaurant, we met Rachel Swooney, star of a tacky ITV
show called
Bitches At Brunch,
going in. She squeaked with excitement
and threw her arms round me just as the paparazzi took their shots. Lunchtime celebs
were generally to be avoided if there were cameras about. Even I knew that.

‘Opportunistic
little mongrel!’ seethed Bernard, in the back of the taxi. ‘She’s never even
met you before. Scheming Welsh cow. She’s got a mouth the size of Tiger Bay.
And those teeth! The only work she’ll ever get is if they decide to do a remake
of Jaws.’

Poor
Rachel — she didn’t deserve such abuse but I knew from experience that the
worst thing I could do was defend her.

‘The
publicity’s good for the show. Calm yourself,’ I said.

The
next day the
Mirror
had a picture of Rachel slobbering all over me with
the caption: ‘Swooning for Johnny! Rachel and Johnny nuzzle up together outside
the Ivy. Is this the latest showbiz couple?’

As if!

I still felt obliged to
have sex with Bernard from time to time, though I was doing my best to get out
of this grisly chore. He was my producer, after all, with the power to pull the
rug from under me, and if I declined too often, or professed more headaches than
were believable, he just might replace me, unlikely as it seemed.

Bernard
enjoyed the fact that I was lusted after by most of the female population. When
I was voted top heart-throb in
Smash Hits,
he was delighted. ‘Though
it’s the throb of your cock that interests me, dear heart,’ he purred.

As long
as I contained his jealousy as best I could, and sorted out his needs
occasionally, all was well. I had enough of a life apart from him to keep me
happy. I loved going out, drinking and taking drugs. I was popular and
fashionable, and I was whisked into all the chic nightclubs, frequently exiting
through the back door with a handsome youth at closing time. I had my own
driver, whose job it was to see I got home at night. Roy was always there to
keep me out of trouble. He was discretion personified. ‘I’ve seen it all
before, mate,’ he told me. ‘I used to drive Gloria Hunniford.’

In
interviews I became coy when journalists asked if I had a girlfriend.
Officially I was looking for the right girl still, and the trick was to keep
the tabloids at a fever pitch of speculation. Ruby, my co-host on the show, was
happy to be my beard. (She’d known the score since she’d seen one of boy band
Big Thing leaving my dressing room and spotted some jism on his shoes.)
Catherine once arranged for her to be ‘papped’ leaving my flat at dawn so in
the eyes of the general public my heterosexuality was beyond doubt.

The following year, with
the second series of
Shout!
our ratings went through the roof. Catherine
took her role as my manager seriously and worked hard at her smart new office
in Fitzrovia. She read my scripts, helped me choose photographs for publicity
and fantasized with me about the almost tangible excitement of what the future
might hold. She learnt to deal with any request and made sure I featured in the
right magazines. She was audacious when it came to discussing fees for colour
spreads in the glossies, plucking figures out of thin air, doubling them and
playing one editor off against another. The money was flooding in. I’d had no
idea how lucrative it was to be well-known. You could get ten thousand for
leaving the house in the morning, if you were canny — and Catherine was.