Seize the Day

M
Y FIRST ATTEMPT
at this book was lost when my laptop was stolen. Don’t ask me why I didn’t back it up. Did anyone ask Lawrence of Arabia that after he lost
Seven Pillars of Wisdom
when changing trains at Reading station in 1920? Of course not. He re-wrote it and it almost doubled in length. For that reason I suggested the title
Eight Pillars of Wisdom
, but the publishers weren’t having it. I also suggested
Read … The Book
, but that got the ‘thumbs down’ from the Caesar Sisters as being too common a phrase for Amazon and Google. As Sandie Shaw once said, ‘message understood’.

In many ways this isn’t a conventional autobiography, if indeed it is one at all. The stories are there, the various pathways I’ve followed, in my
carpe vitam
moments, for better or worse, but after much thought and consulting my diaries I’ve made a conscious decision not to make it linear. If it were, you’d be a sitting in a cricket pavilion or standing on a tennis court every other page and listening to the radio or watching TV on the ones in between. I have no desire to get ‘buzzed’ by Nicholas Parsons for repetition. Neither have I overly focused on my girlfriends. They’re mentioned here and there, of course, but I’m never convinced that people are particularly interested in the intimate details of somebody else’s love-life. Relations between human beings have been going since the serpent suggested to Adam that he gave up gardening, so there’s nothing new. (Unless of course you’re very, very weird, in which case I don’t want to know.) I’m still on good terms with all my girlfriends and wouldn’t want their children or partners to read anything that might appear salacious. More often than not they’ve been to many of the cricket matches, shows, gatherings etc., but I don’t feel there’s a need to drag them through every opening night, flight, cruise or event in the book. They feature, of course, but appear as and when. I have many great friends, but not all of them
are mentioned here if they don’t appear in the selected tales. It doesn’t mean that I don’t love them any less or that they’re not an important part of my life. It probably means their dance with me ‘upon this bank and shoal of time’ was brutally slashed by an unscrupulous editor. A cast of thousands, in a biography just as in a novel, is often confusing.

Also I decided not to write a book that my mother or grandmother would be embarrassed to read. As Ernest Betjeman said to his young son when he declared that he wanted to be a poet, ‘Let what you write be funny, John, and be original.’ I too have heeded the words of Betjeman senior, echoing down the years and now a century old. I may have failed but I have tried. I have, in the words of Horace, ‘seized the day’, although the literal translation of his phrase
carpe diem
is ‘pluck the day’, which adds another layer of meaning to one who plucks a guitar on a daily basis. I vacillated between
carpe diem
and
carpe vitam
as a title for the book. I hope it’s not too haphazard or labyrinthine.

I
N THE FURNACE
that was Surfers Paradise on Australia’s Gold Coast, ten jungle-bound sacrificial lambs were introduced to each other. The only one I’d met before was John Lydon, aka Johnny Rotten of Sex Pistols fame. I was aware of the unfortunate circumstances in which Charlie Brocket had found himself and that Razor Ruddock had ritually fallen on opponents on behalf of such clubs as Millwall, Liverpool, Tottenham Hotspur and Southampton, but some of the others were a bit of an enigma. Would Jordan lord it as a blancmange-chested page three model or pine for her horses as sweet Sussex girl Katie Price? Would Alex Best be mentally and physically battle scarred after her much-publicised bust up with George Best? Would ’90s pop star Peter Andre’s pecs have run to fat? Would Kerry McFadden have transmogrified from Atomic Kitten to Nuclear Kitten? Would royal correspondent Jennie Bond come on like the Queen? Would athlete Diane Modahl still be smarting over her infamous and unfair drugs ban?

My diary for 6 January 2004 reveals the more mundane matters of oil delivery, the installation of a new radiator and the revelation that I needed a new boiler. These are important January-type issues.
Admittedly, no decent autobiography is complete without at least a smattering of pointless minutiae, lest it be assumed that life is one long bunfight at the OK Corral. In this case, though, it has its value, for there on the page, juxtaposed with the words ‘boiler’ and ‘radiator’, is the name Natalka Znak. To anyone finding my diary under a tree in the year 2099, it would almost certainly conjure up a potent mix of
noms de plume
, Eastern Bloc espionage and a James Bond conquest. In reality, and I use the word advisedly, Natalka was the head honcho for the TV series
I’m a Celebrity … Get Me Out of Here!
, and I had been summoned for a second time to the TV show’s HQ on the south bank of the Thames. I had all but wiped it from my mind, as I knew they must have seen hundreds of wacky showbiz folk, the bulk of whom they could eliminate to leave a suitably eclectic and disparate mix that would kill one another on sight in the name of television ratings. It smacks of showbiz cool to say that I dismissed it from my mind, but I’d read the hit list picked up from internal tabloid spies and assumed that the die was cast and the ultimate dramatis personae of Marxists, Boudiccas, pugilists and psychos had been assembled. Still the official word came that nothing had been decided and I was still on the shortest of shortlists.

Bracing myself, I knew that I was in for more grilling from the Gestapo on the ninth floor. If I was vaguely uncomfortable at this level of a high-rise block, how the hell could I fly to Australia and why was I prepared to answer questions if I had no intention of saying ‘yes’? To be honest, the importance of being picked pushed my fear of flying to a temporary hidey-hole at the rear of my brain. It was that old school throwback: it was no good being the reserve. No one remembered the reserve, however good a bloke he was and however unlucky he was not to get onto the pitch. ‘I was nearly there!’ ‘So what?’ Remember poor old Jimmy Greaves and the 1966 England World Cup squad? Well, you don’t have to, but it gives you the idea. Meetings and work on a promotional DVD for a potential film about pirate radio meant that I couldn’t dwell on even the possibility that I might have to fly to
the other side of the world, even though I hadn’t flown for over ten years and had never been in a plane for longer than a nail-biting two hours. ‘Radio Cool’ was a gritty, humorous and hard-hitting script that didn’t see the light of day. When
The Boat That Rocked
came out, other potential offshore radio films were dead in the water.

Then came the interrogation.

‘What do your friends think of you?’

‘Well, I guess they all have different views, but I hope that they veer towards the “he’s a terrific chap … sex god … rippling muscles … loves animals … always smiling” camp.’

‘Are you a leader?’

‘Only if people want to be led. Sure, I’m an adventurer, wit and flag raiser but not a control freak.’

‘Are you good with your hands?’

‘Yes, with one of them, but only when it’s holding a pen or a tennis racquet.’

‘Is there anyone you don’t get on with?’

‘A poisonous snake, a deadly spider perhaps … nothing personal, just a hunch that we might not see eye to eye.’ Always good to bring the impending enemy into the conversation.

I felt a mixture of elation and nerves when the call came about Australia. I
was
going … I was in the team … part of the mix that I guess they hoped might kick off in some way … but the spectre of the silver bird awaited and I hadn’t taken to the air for over a decade! I called Paul McKenna. I wasn’t convinced, but if anyone could help, he just might.

‘Hypnotise me,’ I pleaded. ‘I’ll travel as a chicken doing Elvis impersonations. Anything.’

‘I don’t have to hypnotise you.’

‘It’s the only way I’ll get to the other side of the world.’

‘How scared are you, out of ten?’

I couldn’t say ten, although eleven was probably the right answer. ‘Nine.’

He took me through various routines for an hour while we sank a cup of tea or two and asked again. ‘What about now?’

It would have been rude to say nine again. ‘Err … eight?’

He saw through me, of course. ‘OK, you’ll be fine now.’

‘Really?’

‘You’ll have no problem.’

‘How much do I owe you?’

‘Nothing. I don’t charge mates.’

Top man. I left feeling I was still on eleven out of ten. What the hell was I going to do? Yet the following morning I went flat calm, like the Atlantic taking on the appearance of a mill pond. I was very relaxed and cool about the trip and almost looking forward to it. My girlfriend, Eileen, dropped me at Heathrow, convinced that I’d duck out of the airport in a pile of baggage and be back in St John’s Wood before her. I wasn’t. I flew to Bangkok, changed planes, continued to Sydney and changed again for Brisbane. I enjoyed every minute of it. I called Paul to thank him profusely and sang his praises to whoever would listen.

On arrival, after travelling for almost twenty-five hours, Razor Ruddock and I played tennis, having booked a coach to come and have a hit with us. The coach failed to materialise. The following day I raised the matter with the hotel.

‘Are you kidding?’

‘No, he didn’t turn up.’

‘Midday, you say?’

‘That’s right, twelve noon.’

‘Mad dogs and Englishmen,’ was his literary reply.

I traded him Coward for Coward. ‘But Englishmen detest a siesta…’

He shook his head and walked away as I gave him a parting shot from The Master: ‘…though the English are effete they’re quite impervious to heat.’

Another English tennis player, young Cliff Richard, had also
materialised Down Under, having come to watch the Australian Open and support Gloria Hunniford, whose daughter Caron was living there, but far from well. I discovered later that they’d arrived at the hotel to say hello, but security was so tight that they were turned away. It turned out that we all had code names and if the incorrect name was given you didn’t get in. I seem to remember that we were all colours and my code name was Mr Red. Inventive stuff from the Antipodeans.

The luxury of the Versace Hotel didn’t prepare us for the jungle. Razor, Peter Andre, Charlie Brocket, John Lydon and I were taught the rudiments of survival by a delightfully grizzled and gnarled bushman. He took us out into the jungle for a day to get us acquainted with things that had the power to terminate our lives prematurely. I seem to recall that it was the brown snakes and black spiders that were the culprits in the killing fields … or was it the other way round? We learned to use a compass, had a crash course in Aboriginal tracking and were given tasks. Like making tea in the middle of the jungle.

‘Come on, guys, I’m thirsty,’ growled our guide, whose bare feet had so much matted hair that he resembled a hobbit. We made such a poor show of trying to light a fire that he shook his head in frustration and shooed us away. Within seconds he got a fair blaze going, erected two tripods out of sticks, bound them together and hung leaves between them that contained enough moisture for them not to burn. Amazing. Within minutes the ‘kettle’ was boiling.

‘Well, don’t just stand there, guys. I want a cup of tea, not hot water.’ Away we scuttled, to return with handfuls of likely-looking foliage. He dismissed our offerings. ‘Guys, guys … those are just leaves.’ He dipped into his pocket and extracted something that he tossed into the boiling water. ‘You can’t make it without a bloody teabag.’

We flew into camp in two choppers flying side by side (without Sondheim but with Jordan pressing her assets against the window of the
neighbouring machine). A scary start, but as we yomped through dense jungle one of the crew watching from some hidey-hole was whisked away to hospital having come off second best against a snake. We victims meanwhile, had discovered a pile of ropes, pulleys and something that was a cross between a baby bouncer and slightly weird lederhosen, on a stony bluff that was clearly meant for us to leap off into the unknown and wipe out some of our number. I strapped, leapt and although not lethally damaged, found myself dangling 200 feet above the ground like a mobile circling from the ceiling of a kid’s bedroom. After a minute or two of garbled instruction from somewhere in the undergrowth I plummeted down at a rate of knots that would have given Japan’s elevator at Taipei 101 a decent run for its yen.

With its canopy of trees that blotted out most of the sun, the jungle had an oppressive atmosphere, which sent us scurrying to find the odd shaft of sunlight. To ward off
ennui
I made a backgammon set out of stones for Peter, Charlie and me, learned dozens of football chants from Razor and listened to Peter working on his song ‘Insania’. As the cigarette smokers were allowed something like half a dozen a day, I claimed that I had a biscuit habit and, surprisingly, succeeded in being allowed two ginger nuts every twenty-four hours. I considered this a major victory. When Jordan’s breast implants came up in conversation, she circumnavigated the questions by insisting that I had a look. ‘Well go on, push them up or you can’t see the scars.’ I wasn’t sure that I wanted to, but pushed anyway regardless of personal danger. I felt more like a doctor than anything else.

If there had been any cheating, then John, ever outspoken, would have exposed it. Well, there was acceptable cheating, as in Charlie concealing several miniatures of champers about his person or me stealing pencils, snapping them in half and hiding them – in my boot, wedged in my water bottle or in the braiding of Jordan’s hair. I felt this was justified as the powers that be refused to let me have both pencil and paper as my luxury; I could have one or the other. They also refused to let me take a guitar. Maybe they didn’t want
several contestants shouting ‘I’m a celebrity … get me out of here!’ simultaneously.

My most exciting moment was climbing a sheer 300-foot waterfall. Kerry Katona and I had to navigate some 6 miles of jungle to arrive at our destination, but for her every step was fraught with danger.

‘It’s OK, come on,’ I said. ‘Just walk where I’ve walked.’

‘There might be snakes.’

‘That appears to be the name of the game.’

‘And spiders.’

‘Arachnids pretty much guaranteed, I’d say.’

‘I can’t go on.’

‘You can always go back.’

Neither appeared to be an option.

I’m still not certain how she managed the journey, but somehow we made it to the waterfall. Perched at the top was a treasure chest, which might contain something for starving jungle folk. All bets were off as to which one of us was to hold the check rope in case the climber fell. Up I went in full kit with thousands of tons of water hammering on my protective helmet and any other part of my body that was exposed. It was a tough climb, but I took it steadily. Returning to camp empty handed was not an option. I was about 150 feet up when I slipped. Without the incessant pounding water I might have managed to re-gain a foothold, but the force of nature was too great. This was where Kerry was to come into her own, checking my fall with the rope. I felt no check as my glasses smashed against the rock to keep my knees, hands and elbows company. I took a fair battering before coming to a dangling halt thanks to a quick-thinking cameraman grabbing the rope. Bob the medic spent almost an hour reviving, checking and testing Kerry, who declared that all she wanted to do was to go home and suck her babies’ toes. Understandable in the circumstances. As we’d apparently failed the task, commiserations were forthcoming.

‘Can I still do it?’ I asked.

‘You seriously want to climb again?’

‘Yes.’

I climbed the 300 feet, secured the chest, got back down with it and yomped the 10k back to camp. The worst of it was that, as far as I remember, there was nothing of any great consequence in the chest. A bit like life, some pessimists might say. Not so, us
carpe diem
boys.

Always inventive, I wrote a potted version of
Oliver Twist
to keep the camp amused and occupied. Charlie was the ‘toff who lived in the big ’ouse wot took Oliver in’. Razor, at eighteen stone, brought a new depth and dimension to the part of Oliver, while Jordan was Nancy and Peter Andre Bullseye, Bill Sykes’s dog. The latter scenario meant Jordan leading Peter around on a lead. You can text or email your captions and the most poignant will receive a slightly used 2004 Jordan calendar. John agreed to perform as Fagin, the former Sex Pistol disappearing into the bush and emerging with floral décor that made him look a little more Fagin-esque, singing ‘You can go but be back soon’. The show lasted for an hour. They didn’t screen any of it. Heathens.

Nor did they show the intriguing and in-depth conversation about Keats, Byron and Shelley between John and myself. The punk and the DJ discuss the Romantic Poets – fascinating TV, one might have thought. No, they wanted more salacious stuff than that. I spent a whole day writing out unusual words for a game of
Call My Bluff
, their meanings and the necessary false definitions, but when it came to it, the camp was bribed with chocolate brownies if they played a game instead where we felt each other’s bottoms and guessed who they belonged to. It was intellectual stuff, you must admit. A few years later when John’s group Public Image Ltd performed together for the first time in twenty years, he asked for me to do the chat, as it was going live around the world. ‘Mike and me should be running this country. We know what people want.’ We’d previously understood what was wanted in the jungle.