Ooh! What a Lovely Pair Our Story (48 page)

‘On
Star Trek,
William Shatner always used to call me George Tak-eye. He would constantly refer to me as George Tak-eye, no matter how many
times I told him it was George Tak-ay. Then one day I said to him, “It’s Tak-ay – Tak-ay. It rhymes with toupee, you should know!” He never got it wrong after that!’

We knew there and then George would be great fun – and also that we’d never get his name wrong.

The series was won by Joe Swash, who was a worthy King of the Jungle – he was true to himself from day one and stood up for people he thought were being unfairly treated, plus he struck up an unlikely but close friendship with George, who he christened ‘Gorgeous George’. The big stars of the series, though, were a hilarious double act.

We were good, weren’t we?

I meant David Van Day and Timmy Mallet. They were annoying, funny, confrontational and divisive – in other words, perfect
I’m a Celebrity…
contestants. When it came to David Van Day – well, how can you fail to love a man who walks around camp in red hot-pants, holding a fly swat and talking to himself?

This was our eighth year of
I’m a Celebrity…
with, by and large, the same people every year, which has made for a great atmosphere on the show. There are, among others, our regular make-up and wardrobe team of Claude and Toni; Andy and Mark the scriptwriters; Chris the director; and Richard and Natalka, the executive producers. The whole thing feels like one big family – if you think of a family as a group of people who spend three weeks filming, editing and Bushtucker-trialling a load of famous people, anyway.

And, of course, another upside is the air miles. Me and Lisa used up a few thousand of them on a trip to New York to see in the New Year. Lisa is always complaining that, when we’re in America, she never spots anyone famous – the best she’s managed in LA is the back of Mike Tyson’s head, and Fabio, a male model from the nineties. You know, Fabio? No, me
neither. Dec and me always seem to spot our fair share of celebs out there, including Matthew Perry in a restaurant and Harrison Ford at the baseball (thanks for asking), but poor Lisa never seems to do too well. Whilst waiting for our flight we treated ourselves to a glass of champagne in the Concorde lounge at a jam-packed Heathrow. Lisa complemented the bubbles with a packet of Frazzles, a copy of Closer and a bit of music on her iPod, and I was reeling from the football I’d just watched – Newcastle United 1–Liverpool 5. I’d already had a few ‘comments’ about my team from football fans and check-in staff at the airport when I saw a huge black guy smiling and heading towards me in a Liverpool cap. ‘Oh no, here we go again,’ I thought – yet another Scouser who’s going to rub my nose in it. I slid deeper into my chair and got ready to take some stick over the result and then, hopefully, get rid of him.

I took a deep breath and steeled myself for another bout of ridicule, but the ridicule didn’t come. He didn’t even mention the football; he just delivered an enthusiastic ‘Happy Holiday!’ in an American accent. ‘Who the hell is this guy?’ I thought. I stood up, reluctantly about to shake his hand, when I noticed who the hell he was: Samuel L. Jackson! Yes,
that
Samuel

L. Jackson. And he’d come over to say hello to me. Yes,
that
me. Before I knew what was happening, I heard myself saying ‘Happy Holiday’ back to him. I was standing at Heathrow, gleefully shaking hands with one of the most iconic men in film: it was brilliant – and he still hadn’t even mentioned the football.

As we stood there in the middle of a very busy lounge chit-chatting about golf, how we spent our Christmas holidays, golf and more golf, one thought was rushing through my head: ‘How the hell does he know who I am?’ He started asking how me and my ‘buddy’ were doing and I said, ‘Fine, thanks,’ as if this was the most natural thing in the world. I knew he’d been interviewed by Little Ant and Dec but I was sure we’d never met – but who cares? I was chewing the fat with Samuel L. Jackson.

After a few more rounds of fat-chewing, our chat finally moved round to the one subject I was dreading – football. Samuel had spent some time in Liverpool making a film a few years ago, and as a result had adopted them as his team. He teased me about the game, but even then I didn’t seem to mind – he could have slapped me round the face with a wet fish and I would have thanked him for it.

I looked round at Lisa, who was in her own little world, thanks to the distractions of her iPod and
Closer,
so I tapped her on the shoulder to reveal my new best friend. She looked up and nearly dropped her Frazzles. She whipped out her earphones and shook hands with him – although she later told me she was worried she’d smeared crisp dust on his palms – and the three of us had a little chat before he went off to do whatever it is film stars do in airports. To celebrate her best ever celeb spot, I bought Lisa another bag of Frazzles.

There aren’t many gentlemen left in the world but, Ant McPartlin, you are one of them.

Chapter 44

Apart from taking Lisa to New York, there’s one other way I like to celebrate the start of a new year, and that’s with a round of
Britain’s Got Talent
auditions. This year, for the third series, we were due to start in Manchester, and we couldn’t wait to get going. The previous year’s series had been huge, and we were looking forward to getting back to what we laughingly call ‘work’.

We arrived at our hotel and went down to the bar for a meeting with Nigel Hall and Andrew Llinares, two of the executive producers, Ben Thursby, the series producer and Clair Breen, the producer. We sat down and they told us they had some news – Simon Cowell had decided there was going to be a fourth judge and it was Kelly Brook. It came completely out of the blue to both of us, and for twenty seconds we sat there in complete silence.

We had two questions: ‘Why is there a fourth judge?’ and ‘Why is it Kelly Brook?’ None of them could answer us. Obviously, as hosts of the show, we have to justify that kind of thing to the audience, and no one could give us a good reason why Kelly was on board. The simple answer was that Simon, without talking to anyone, had decided it was a good idea. We didn’t agree. Three judges on the show works, it means someone always has the casting vote, and our reaction was ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’ We were also annoyed we hadn’t been consulted – we’ve always had a good relationship with Simon and there’s a mutual respect between the three of us, so this was disappointing. Plus it had all happened so fast and it had a negative effect on the morale of the crew – everyone seemed a bit confused by the whole thing, and most people didn’t find out about it till the next day, when the auditions started. We might not have been happy, but we were stuck with it, so we went to the theatre to start the auditions, not knowing what to expect.

When we arrived, we got a call asking us if we wanted to go up to the judges’ room and meet Kelly, which we thought was a good idea. We went in there, said hello to Piers, Simon and Amanda, and then welcomed Kelly. She looked nervous, so I told her it was going to be great fun and to just relax and enjoy it. She nodded, then looked at me and said, ‘And what do you do on the show?’ I looked at Simon, who was sat next to me, he turned to Kelly and said, ‘Kelly, you have seen the show, haven’t you?’ To which she replied, ‘Yeah… well, bits.’ I don’t want to sound like an egomaniac, but the last person who said, ‘And what do you do?’ was the Queen when I met her at the party for ITV’s fiftieth anniversary, and that was excusable for two reasons – she’s the Queen and I’m still chasing that MBE.

Once the auditions started, it became clear how confusing it was to have four judges. When two of them said yes to an act and two of them said no, no one knew what to do and it just didn’t work. It also made the days much longer: the judges speak for two minutes after each act, which takes enough time when there’s three of them, so a fourth judge meant adding two minutes to every audition, and there’s usually about forty of them in a day, which means each day was longer by… a lot, let’s not get bogged down with figures. At the end of the first day, Simon rang me and asked us if we wanted to go up to his hotel room. There was nothing funny going on, he just wanted to talk about the fourth-judge situation. When we got there, the first thing he did was apologize – he said he knew he should have consulted us and was sorry that he hadn’t. He was already reconsidering his decision, and it was a good, honest chat and that cleared the air, which was just as well – Simon’s such a heavy smoker that it’s always good to clear the air when you’re anywhere near him.

We got through the three days in Manchester, still unsure what was going to happen and then, the following week, Ant and me were away for a weekend playing golf between auditions and we got a call from Richard Holloway, one of the executive producers. Richard told us that Kelly wouldn’t be coming back. It wasn’t that it was anything personal with Kelly; it was just that four judges didn’t work. We both felt sorry for her, because she’d been thrown into this whole thing, and it hadn’t worked out.

After a rocky start to the audition tour, things settled down into their usual pattern – boozy nights in the hotel bar and long days by the side of the stage. One of the things people don’t know about
Britain’s Got Talent
is that, when you see us in the wings, there’s usually another curtain and behind it are a few chairs, where we occasionally grab a seat between auditions – sometimes you just need a breather from the talent madness. In an average day by the side of that stage, you’re surrounded by dogs, fire breathers, dance troupes and sword swallowers and, after a while, there’s only so much ‘entertainment’ you can take.

Initially, that area just had those few chairs and a packet of biscuits, in case we fancied one with a cup of tea or one of my lattes. Over the three series, though, the amount of food in that area has grown and grown and, on the latest tour, there was a huge plastic box containing every kind of snack imaginable – fruit, crisps, sweets, chocolate and biscuits. The box has a sign on it that says, ‘Ant and Dec’s – keep off’, but the last people who actually eat any of that food are us two. There’s so much of it round there now that we’ve christened it the picnic area. There are more chairs too, and people come and sit there at various points in the day. There’s Georgie, one of the executive producers, Andy, our writer, Claude who does our makeup – they’re the regulars – and then there are various other visitors: Ali will sit there if she’s come to the auditions, my missus, who does Stephen Mulhern’s make-up on the ITV2 show pops in, and Ali Barker, Simon’s assistant, will sometimes put in an appearance. You can hear the rustle of crisps and sweet packets being opened on stage and it has been known for us, in the middle of talking to an act, to have to put our head round the curtain and tell the picnic area to keep the noise down.

During the auditions, there’s usually someone showing round foreign TV producers, who are hoping to make the show in their country and have come to see how it works. On this series, there was a group of Scandinavians being given a guided tour of the backstage area and while we were taking one of our breathers, they came over for a quick chat. They were keen to know about our role, and were scribbling things on a notepad as we answered their questions:

‘So you interview all the acts, yess?’

‘Just about, yeah.’

‘And you are always watching all the performances, yess?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I have one final question about ze job you do – why isss there always so much chocolate next to you?’

Every single person in the picnic area looked at the floor, sniggering and embarrassed at the same time.

There really is food everywhere on
Britain’s Got Talent.
We were doing auditions in Birmingham this year, and we’d had a late one in the hotel bar the night before. I’ll be honest: I had a stinking hangover and a real craving for a packet of smoky bacon crisps.

Very wise – salt and vinegar just won’t cut it when you’ve got a hangover; you need a specialist flavour like smoky bacon.

I’d seen a bag in the picnic area the day before and that had put the idea in my head. Needless to say, it wasn’t there the next day – one of the picnickers had no doubt wolfed it down. I asked Georgie because, obviously, as executive producer, one of her main roles is to make sure we have the right flavour crisps, if I’d be able to get a bag, and she went off to speak to someone. Ten minutes later, a runner appeared. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said, ‘there’s none in the building… but I’m going out to get coffees anyway, so I can get you a packet?’ I told her if she was going out anyway and it was no trouble that would be great.

Half an hour later, the runner came back with a bag of smoky bacon. Not a single bag but a carrier bag with eight individual packets in it. I had
one, which did wonders for the hangover, and was as happy as Larry. Ten minutes later, we were in the middle of yet another fascinating interview with a couple of knife throwers who worked at Kwik Fit, when I heard a rustling come from the picnic area. I quickly worked out what was going on – the picnickers had started tucking into the rest of my crisps. I pulled back the curtain, ready to shush them, only to find another lot of smoky bacon crisps being delivered.

Little did I know that, when the word got out about the smoky-bacon emergency, a second runner had overheard the request and had gone and bought a load too – another seven packs.

It was starting to get embarrassing – I’d only wanted one bag and now most of the city’s supply had arrived. We got back to work and got talking to another contestant. In the middle of the interview, I cracked a joke about Simon Cowell’s teeth and there was a ripple of laughter from the picnic area. We finished the chat and I turned to the picnickers, ready to revel in the glory of my Cowell’s teeth gag. I pulled back the curtain and was struck with déjà vu – there was a third runner emptying another half a dozen packs of smoky bacon into the giant Ant and Dec snack box.