Seize the Day (44 page)

Ten minutes before the scheduled meet at the Majestic came the call. ‘Steven can’t make today, can we re-arrange for tomorrow?’ We re-arranged. The re-arranging went on for three days. Miraculously, and against all filmic odds, it happened on the fifth day. Seated opposite him with a glass of something unmemorable, I launched into my two-minute pitch at roughly the pace of Plastic Bertrand attacking a live version of his 1978 classic ‘Ça plane pour moi’. I must have impressed him as I ran well over the two-minute mark. He showed no signs of being distracted by passing actresses or nodding off in the eighty-degree heat that surrounded us. We spent an hour chatting about this and that before retreating to his business suite to meet the rest of the team. I was in. No question. I got a call on my return home and we subsequently had several dinners in London, including one with the Crystal Sky lawyer. All terrific. Camaraderie, bonhomie, fine wines, part of the gang, being talked up, I was the ‘golden boy’, or so it seemed, but hey, that’s the US film industry. They love you and they keep on loving you, but not much happens.

Another cove was so enamoured of my creative writing that he asked me to look at doing a script based on a book he had the rights to. What I should have said was, ‘Show me the contract and the advance and we can talk.’ What I actually said was, ‘Great, OK,’ and got on with it. The gentlemanly way. Several months later, having put in more ‘Hard Work’ than American jazz saxophonist John Handy, I accidently discovered that he’d asked somebody else to do it. Now I try not to sally forth without putting on a stout pair of shoes.

My old friend Lisa Voice (great dinner parties and a good heart)
was in Cannes with a film script so we hooked up and had supper. She insisted that I went with her to a hotel, where she was looking to buy something. Security seemed unnecessarily tight around the suite where she was doing the deal. Having been scrutinised, checked and frisked I was allowed in. It was the only time that I’ve even seen a £7 million diamond, let alone held one. Was it possible to scrape some off under the fingernails? I doubted it.

Small screen appearances might not carry the kudos of a cinema release, but blimey guv’nor, do they get repeated. My fleeting, but crucial, role in
Only Fools and Horses
still comes around with incredible regularity, for which, I presume, a small postal order wings its way to someone, if not with equal regularity, at least occasionally. For a rather grand third billing in that august journal
Radio Times
, I did very little. The episode ‘It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll’ centred on Rodney’s group A Bunch of Wallies. Initially Del mocks them but he soon changes his tune when he smells money and becomes their manager, taking them to ever greater depths. It wasn’t a demanding role for me as I simply had to introduce them on
Top of the Pops
. However, being in formidable company, I didn’t hold back. I gave it my all … whatever that was. I read recently that David Jason would consider re-visiting
Only Fools and Horses
if the right scriptwriter could be found. Ahem…

I was let loose on the set of
Midsomer Murders
for the episode ‘The Axeman Cometh’. I played myself, which is always a tricky call. Getting into a role is far more rewarding (fill in your own cheese and ham gags here). The gist of the story was that Badgers Drift was playing host to the Midsomer Rock Festival, with an old local rock group, Hired Gun, re-forming for the occasion. The episode featured great actors including James Cosmo, Philip Davis and Rupert Vansittart, so clearly I had to step up to the mark. Wandering past John Nettles’s Winnebago, I poked my head in (why not? I was part of the gang now) as I’d heard the sound of a guitar. Was it Suzi Quatro, who was also a member of Hired Gun? I peered in. No leather-clad lady, but in her stead, John Nettles coming on like Jimi Hendrix. On his invitation
I went in, hung out, strummed a bit and discussed a mutual love of John Betjeman’s poetry. His sidekick Jason Hughes joined us and I now felt that I would be slated for every episode. We were a trio now, surely? I could berate sinister vicars, unmask wicker men, break up an ancient cult or spot the odd village psychopath with the best of them.

I fear, though, I’m getting ahead of myself. There I was backstage at the rock festival, the cameras were rolling. Allowed free rein on the script, I was issuing last-minute instructions punctuated by such deep and soul-searching comments to Hired Gun as ‘have a good one’, and then I bounded onto the stage to announce the group that the Midsomer area had been waiting years for. John Nettles and Jason Hughes were at the front by the crush barriers, with John, as Barnaby of course, about to re-live his youth. After my big moment, I was to join Laura Howard (Cully Barnaby) at the side of the stage to watch the band in action. No sooner had we passed a few pleasantries than Suzi Quatro was electrocuted. Well, her character, Mimi Clifton, was. I’m sure it’s easier for an actor or actress to die than to react. Does one throw one’s hands up as if in a Victorian am-dram melodrama, stagger a little, like someone at turning-out time at the Dog and Duck or underplay it? I underplayed. The episode also featured snatches of other acts on stage, to give it that sense of authenticity, including former Family frontman Roger Chapman and my old pal Geno Washington, with his Ram Jam Band.

That day’s shoot was at Twinwood Arena in Bedfordshire, the airfield from which Glenn Miller had taken off back in December 1944, so naturally it was worth exploring. The control tower still stands, and there are three typewriters from the era, clothes from the period hanging up, a board marking planes that have or haven’t returned and a wealth of photographs. Down the cold, stone steps you go to the side door where Miller’s UC-64 Norseman would have been waiting, and imagine the decision being made that the fog wasn’t too bad and they would make it to Paris. A pity Chief Inspector Barnaby wasn’t around then; he’d have solved the mystery.

T
HIS ISN’T THE RIGHT TOME
in which to expound one’s theories and beliefs in detail, but here’s an overview. Despite the snappy chapter headline, I am not actually a political man; I am just one of some sixty-three million people with a view. It goes without saying that not all sixty-three million will agree with each other. That doesn’t mean one can’t be civilised and allow other people their points of view. I thank God we are a democracy and enjoy freedom of speech, which also means that everyone is entitled to an opinion, be it right or wrong. If we didn’t have different views, the world would be a rather bland place.

I’ve spoken at four Conservative Party conferences in support of William Hague, sometimes adding a song with political lyrics to the event. Satire, if indeed it is perceived as such, is not always construed in the way it was intended. One such ditty, in 2007, brought forth two entirely different results. The lyric, not exactly biting, but with enough thrust to make it work, included the line ‘turning the country Brown’, which was erroneously bandied about in the following day’s nationals as a blatant piece of racism that caused many angry folk to storm out of the room in disgust. Confronted by one dogged
and determine journalist on the phone, I explained that is was ‘Brown’ with a capital ‘B’, in other words Gordon Brown, who was poised to become Tony Blair’s successor. If any humble pie was eaten by the press, it was an exceedingly small slice.

The other side of the coin was being almost set upon by various key figures muttering something that sounded extraordinarily like ‘London mayor’. They couldn’t be serious? It seemed they were. It was something that had never crossed my mind. Within a couple of weeks I was summoned, in a polite way of course, to meet with the then Conservative Party chairman, Francis Maude. There was no coercion. No press gang offering me the King’s shilling. The gist of the meeting went something along these lines. I telescope them to make it more digestible.

‘Why me?’

‘You’re intelligent.’

‘But surely I don’t know enough about politics.’

‘But you’re interested enough to speak at the conferences.’

‘Well…’ I was losing ground.

‘And you’re known. We have a lot of up-and-coming politicians who are interested in standing for London mayor.’

‘Probably better qualified than me.’

‘Not at all. You’re smart, you can absorb facts very easily, and as I said you’re known.’

‘Does that have a bearing on it?’

‘Very much so. We’d have to spend millions on trying to give someone else a profile as high as yours, and in a very short space of time. It just wouldn’t work.’

‘Isn’t there anyone with a high profile?’

‘No one has thrown their hat in the ring.’

I reasoned that I wasn’t using my brain at that time at anywhere near its maximum capacity. That’s like not exercising and putting on weight. I didn’t want a fat brain.

Francis Maude could see me wavering. ‘Look, you’re used to the
media. However much we train someone, they’ll have to get used to being in the limelight, appearing live on television and radio and knowing how to deal with the press. That’s what you’ve done for years.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Anyone else will have a standing start. You’d have a flying start. You’re up to speed.’

Francis dispatched me to have tea with Gillian Shephard, once billed as Margaret Thatcher’s successor. It was a delightful occasion and Gillian a most gracious hostess. On the business end of things, she sent me along to the corridors of power at City Hall, that odd glass thing plonked near Tower Bridge by Norman Foster in the name of architecture. It has the appearance of a pile of those streamlined modern cycling helmets just about to keel over. Inside it feels like a combination of the Tower of Pisa and one of those caterpillar rides at the fair. I had more meetings, was given literature to absorb and was informed that although the party were enthusiastic about me pushing forward, they couldn’t be seen to only be supporting one person. Fair enough.

As soon as the news leaked, as news does, I found myself having to give interviews on the possibility of standing for London mayor, TV crews turned up at Radio London (Big L) the radio station where I was working and the press called for quotes. They were much fairer than I imagined. Iain Dale suggested I appear on his political internet station, 18 Doughty Street, which ran from 2006 to 2007, to discuss my candidature and generally answer questions from both him and viewers. I believe I was the last of the ten people in the running who appeared on there and apparently gave such a good showing that I was pointed up as being the most likely to succeed. I had a massive vote of confidence from the London taxi drivers and the Jewish community, neither camp being major supporters of the then mayoral incumbent, Ken Livingstone.

Global PR guru Chris Lewis, who had his finger very much on the political pulse, started to build a team for me. We had many meetings and suppers at Westminster, with the likes of Liam Fox and other
powerful MPs. I guess they were sounding me out. We had meetings with Steven Norris, who had been the official Conservative candidate for the mayoral office in 2000 and 2004 and had lost both times to Ken Livingstone. He imparted his knowledge of, and passionate interest in, public transport, saying that if I landed the position, he would love to be responsible for Transport for London and if he became mayor I could head up Culture, Media and Sport. From that I assumed that he intended to stand for a third time. Our spies in the Commons chamber and the Strangers’ Bar informed us that Steven Norris was indeed not only intending to stand for a third time, but had a strong team and the money for his campaign in place. I wavered. If that were true, I wasn’t off the starting blocks. I was told not to believe all I heard and also to sharpen up. I’d assumed that I was smartly dressed for these occasions at Westminster. Clearly not. For one very important meeting I turned up in suit, tie and polished shoes only to be informed by Chris Lewis that I wasn’t smart enough.

‘You’re joking?’

‘No I’m not, this is a seriously important meeting. You have to look 100 per cent.’

‘Not much I can do about it now, the shops are closed and there’s only half an hour until we convene.’

‘You’ll find a suit of clothes, another tie and a pair of brand new shoes in the bedroom … just through that door.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Absolutely.’

It was at that moment that I realised that this was business.

Chris also put me through my paces on the media front. ‘This would be a doddle,’ I reasoned, ‘my strong point.’ I had to think again. With the cameras rolling he fired questions at me from all angles. I thought I’d acquitted myself reasonably well. Until we watched the playback, that is.

‘Look at you, you’re lolling back in the chair as if you’re not interested.’

‘I was being laid back. I was relaxed.’

‘Not good enough. You sit up straight and look like you mean business.’

‘OK.’ If it was only my posture, I could deal with that. It wasn’t only my posture.

‘You’re looking around the room. You must look the interviewer right in the face. If you don’t want to look in their eyes, look at the bridge of the nose and keep your gaze right there.’ It was a good lesson. I still try to adopt a ‘hold the bridge of their nose’ policy.

Like a rebellious tube train announcer, Chris told me ‘not to mind the gap’. ‘Although a one- or two-second silence will feel as if you could drive a bus through it, don’t worry, it’s fine. It looks as though you’re thinking about a point that has been raised or considering the question that’s been put to you. Don’t trot your answer out so fast, even if your brain works that quickly, that it sounds glib.’

Another ploy he used ‘to sharpen the brain’ was to answer a question with a question.

‘Did you come here by car?’

‘Is it important?’

‘Are you refusing to answer my question?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Why are you being so evasive?’

‘Do you seriously think I’d be evasive?’

And so on … you have to be up to speed, that’s for sure.

With one week to go before the declarations, Ian Sanderson at party HQ called to ask if I had my papers ready to send in. I did. There was still talk of Steven Norris making a strong bid and rumours abounded. Just when it seemed that the declared runners were heading for the final furlong a backmarker appeared to be making headway with the odds shortening all the time. I was at a tennis party at Tony Samuels’s house in Burhill, near Weybridge, when I chanced to be paired in the doubles at one point with the backmarker’s father. ‘I hear you may be standing for London mayor,’ he beamed, admiring my backhand.

I gave a self-effacing laugh. In hindsight, as a response that was probably a tad weak. A real leader would have boomed in stentorian tones, ‘Yes I am.’

How much Stanley Johnson knew of his son’s intentions to stand for London mayor I didn’t know. In between volleys and half-volleys I asked him the question, but either he was keeping his cards close to his chest or genuinely had no idea.

A week later the final phone call came from HQ. ‘Could you ensure your declaration papers are faxed in by eleven o’clock, to be on the safe side?’

‘Has Steven Norris declared yet?’

‘Not yet.’

Boris Johnson?

‘Not yet.’

Maybe the field was clear.

Half an hour later Boris declared. Steven Norris didn’t declare. I didn’t declare either, reasoning that Boris must have had talks with David Cameron so there would be heavy support at the top. One or two doubting Thomases asked what I would have done had I been chosen. The answer is I’d have stepped up to the mark without any qualms, given it my very best, learned where necessary and delegated when I needed to.

A year or two later it was mooted that the government were after ambassadors in various areas to act as a bridge between them and the people. Crikey, I thought, in true schoolboy annual style, if they feel they’re that out of touch with the public, there’s a problem. Following a lengthy phone call with Nigel Farage in the summer of 2012, we agreed to meet and have a chat. I found him charming and intelligent with a pretty good take on where the country was going and where the country should be going. I liked his policies and I delivered my first speech alongside Nigel at the UKIP south-east conference in 2012 and spoke at the National Conference a few months later. I became their spokesman for Culture, Media and Sport, three areas I love and in which I work. I have since spoken all around the country,
in Birmingham, Wiltshire, Gloucestershire, Hampshire, Tyne and Wear, Oxfordshire, Sussex, Humberside and Kent. The extraordinary thing is that despite not yet having a single seat in the Commons, the daily YouGov polls consistently show UKIP in third place. The party also created the ‘earthquake’ that Nigel predicted by securing the most MEPs at the 2014 European elections, UKIP becoming the first party for 100 years to beat the two main parties in a national election.

What has slightly soured the world of politics for me is the smear campaigns and the deliberately misleading information and propaganda that’s put about. I’m a great believer in being positive about yourself rather than being negative about someone else. When parties openly admit that they’re trying to knock back any potential opponents it all becomes pointless. If you are selected to serve, either as Prime Minister, governing party or MP, your primary duty is to serve the country in the best way you think possible. Executing U-turns and appropriating other parties’ policies to maintain popularity, when they have never been part of your manifesto, is shallow and weak. The racist nonsense which had been levelled at UKIP was suddenly and deliberately brought back with a vengeance as the party’s popularity rose. In every field I work in I’m friends with people of all creeds and colours. Just diving off-piste for a moment, I was recently at a gallery where my very talented friend Ros Lloyd had an exhibition of her sculptures, and met a triple amputee called Dan. Having had a good chat with him, I reflected on the drive home how difficult life must be for him now. He was upbeat and trying to be positive, but facing an uncertain future. Not surprisingly the phrase ‘there but for the grace of God’ came into my head and by the following morning the emotion had become a song, the chorus of which was:

During 2014 the BBC made me aware of a possible conflict of interest with regard to being a spokesman for Culture, Media and Sport, especially as part of my brief included broadcasting. This meant having to turn down various programmes on which I was scheduled to appear. I still do talks every few weeks but without wearing an official hat. Several papers reported that I was going to stand as an MEP, but that was never discussed. I have been approached to stand in the 2015 general election, which is flattering and of course I have to give that serious consideration. How extraordinary that a party with, at the time of writing, no MPs could have such an effect on British politics, create so much media interest and shake the foundations of a structure that has possibly outlived its usefulness. Nigel Farage is a leader who communicates. We talk on the phone, or text. Even the morning after the EU elections, when the media circus was pursuing him after UKIP’s historic victory, we remembered a conversation from two years ago. I told Nigel then of a day when I went to a local pub in Weybridge. I’d just started the Radio One breakfast show and was forever being given pieces of paper to say hello to someone the following morning. I was always pretty good about remembering, so stuffed some thirty scraps of paper in my pocket and took them in with me the following day. Even though they were from different groups of people and both sexes, virtually all of them asked me to play Duran Duran’s ‘Planet Earth’, which had just been released. I looked at my producer and said, ‘This group is going to be huge.’ I told Nigel that he would know when that moment came for UKIP, which is why he texted after the EU earthquake to say, ‘This is the Duran Duran moment.’