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Jim Davidson No Further Action
The Truth Behind the Smile
By Jim Davidson John Blake Publishing Ltd
Copyright © 2015 Jim Davidson
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-78418-663-0
CHAPTER 1
JULY 2011
I love Richard Desmond. I always have. He is one of those incredible people who are extremely likeable even when they're being rude to you. He's a very successful man but when you're his friend you're his friend for life ... unless you piss him off!
Richard has a unique approach to business. He cuts through the surrounding bullshit and does what his instinct tells him to do, much to the annoyance of the people he pays to stop him doing it. He is brilliant, and a tad scary.
When we first met he owned a magazine publishing company and X-rated TV channels. He was great fun and had the knack of calling people 'arseholes' that I thought were arseholes as well.
He bought out OK magazine, which decimated Hello's market, and then bought the Daily Express and Daily Star – which joined Spank a Granny in the Desmond publishing empire. All this money, fame and power didn't change my old friend one bit. He's still not one for sitting back or biting his tongue.
He works hard and plays hard, too. Richard is a great drummer. He had a kit in his office for years before the neighbours complained, and has raised hundreds of thousands of pounds for charities like the Teenage Cancer Trust – some of it with an all-star band including Roger Daltrey as lead singer, no less. They're very good; I watched them in Ronnie Scott's one night and it was a joy.
When he bought Channel 5, rumour had it that he sacked nearly everybody within the first week. That surprised no one. But I got a call to come and visit him in his penthouse office. I jumped at the chance, arriving at lunchtime. It has to be the best office in London, with a sensational view of the river Thames.
His butler served lunch. With his right-hand man at his side, Richard chatted about their plans for the channel. If I'd had a swear box I'd have been a millionaire! To say he was in a buoyant mood was an understatement.
'Do you know the reason I bought Channel 5? To get Jim Davidson back on the fucking telly!'
What could I say? 'Well, thanks.'
'What do you want to do?
'What do you want me to do?'
'Look, I've bought Big Brother. I want you to go in the house and sort all those arseholes out.'
Richard's man looked on impassively. This was not Richard showing off; he was making a genuine offer.
'I'll put you in there, pay you a fortune, jam it full of crumpet and find a gay bloke for you to upset!'
'I'll speak to Laurie.' Laurie Mansfield is my manager.
'Look, you know I like Laurie, but bollocks to him, what do you want to do?'
'Well ...'
'And then we'll do a chat show. That'll make those other arseholes sit up, won't it?'
I knocked my glass over in shock.
It was a great meeting. I left with a smile on my face and a spring in my step.
I called Laurie, who instinctively knew what Richard really wanted. Big Brother was going to be his flagship and he wanted me to be controversial. But I'd had enough of that with Hell's Kitchen, in 2007.
The trouble with reality shows is they're not really 'real' at all. Only a tiny bit is live, which enables revenue to be earned from a phone vote. You can't vote on a programme that's been recorded last week.
Producers don't like live TV. Nasty celebs could say something horrid and the programme makers could get their arses sued. So the show is edited to show whatever storyline the producers want and to cut out the actionable bits.
During the filming of Hell's Kitchen, I fell out with former Big Brother winner Brian Dowling. Brian was very bright, full of life and extremely camp. It was also on my mind that he had no experience in show business whatsoever – apart from 'being popular for being popular', a celebrity just for being a celebrity.
It was edited to look as if I was bullying Brian over his homosexuality – you couldn't get further from the truth. I always try to treat everybody equally. That means everybody is up for grabs or a piss-take: gay people, straight people, black people, white people, stripy people. You're all in my sights; everybody is in my comedy crosshairs!
Later on, when we were sitting down having a drink, Brian came in and said, 'How much do you think Lee Ryan got when he stormed out of the kitchen?' He was another contestant on Hell's Kitchen, who then sold a story to the newspapers.
I said, 'How much?'
'I think he'd have got a hundred grand.'
I said, 'You're mental, that'd never happen!'
Brian also said he was offered over half a million pounds for his story by the News of the World. I called him a liar. The two girls leapt to his defence by saying, 'That's what we get nowadays.'
Then the crying started and Brian said through the sobs, 'You called me a shirtlifter!'
During the show I'd met that bloke from Dancing on Ice, the Australian with the new hair. He was sat in the restaurant bit with my old pal Bonnie Langford. She introduced me; he gave me a wet-fish handshake and a camp, disapproving, bad-smell-under-the-nose look.
I didn't know but I assumed he was gay. So I'd asked Brian earlier in jest why 'shirtlifters' have a certain look. I used the term because I assumed that, Brian and I being matey, he wouldn't take offence.
There are many slang piss-takes for homosexual men: 'poof', 'uphill gardener', 'little brown engine shunter'. I thought 'shirtlifter' was a light-hearted bit of fun. It was certainly not used as a way to insult him – if I'd wanted that I'd just have called him an 'untalented fucking arsehole'.
Complete misfire! But Brian had laughed when I said it, though he also said, '"Shirtlifter" is an awful word.'
It only had an effect later – when he was pissed. After a glass of wine or two, with his two henchwomen with him and the cameras rolling, he played the protected-species card.
I tried to explain that I wasn't homophobic. The actor Victor Spinetti, who was gay, once said to me: 'You know what "gay" stands for? Good As You!' And I totally agree.
Victor was in Help! with The Beatles and A Hard Day's Night; he was also in Oh What A Lovely War! and introduced me to the brilliant producer Joan Littlewood. His partner, Graham, died years ago; I used to have chats with him and Graham as he was lying in his sickbed. It was then I decided I'd vote for gay marriage, if ever the chance came. Because after Graham died there was terrible litigation over the money, and it just didn't seem like a level playing field.
Later, at Victor's funeral, I spoke about him and said goodbye. I got a tap on the shoulder from someone who said, 'Well done, Jim, Victor would have loved that.' It was Paul McCartney.
Brian's henchwomen didn't understand what I was trying to say though. They took it as an insult. I gave up then.
'How can you say that to him?' screeched that lanky footballer's bird, Abbey Clancy, and the other one whose name I can't remember. They used it as ammunition to stick up for their fashionable gay friend; it's like they wanted him to be their little Chihuahua. This pissed me off and prompted Dowling to wail even louder.
I said he was disgraceful to play the homophobic card. Of course, the producers edited my side of the argument out to leave me saying, 'You're disgraceful.' Nice!
So reality TV isn't that real.
I don't use the term 'shirtlifter' now – not because I've been persuaded it's offensive but because people take offence, and there is a difference. The main thing was, as I said on a TV programme to make the director laugh, before they edited it out: 'It wasn't because he was gay that I didn't like him, it was simply because I didn't like him!' Do you have to like everyone because they're gay?
I think some people's perception of me is as a homophobe – they look at every little deviation from political correctness as a stick to hit me with. If I was to cure AIDS, feed the world and eradicate malaria, I'd still be that 'homophobic racist'. If it was a gay black guy I'd been talking about, could he hate me twice as much?
* * *
Laurie called Richard's man and, as it turned out, I couldn't do Big Brother anyway as I'd be in Australia at the time of recording.
The first BB show on Channel 5 included those two idiots from Ireland with the sticky-up barnets and the speaker's wife, Sally Bercow, who was having a break from the poison dwarf.
Paddy Doherty, the traveller and bare-knuckle fighter from My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding, should have knocked those two morons Jedward spark out; he won the show. I enjoyed it, but I was pleased I was busy. It was full on and, to be honest, I didn't think I'd have the stamina.
The second series included Julie Goodyear. I've employed her for panto and know this talented actress can be a bit diva-ish. She lived up to all the stories I'd heard. One day she called me and said, 'If my frock's not here in an hour I'm fucking off!' A girl after my own heart.
She was perfect for the house. Julie is one of those people who share the same fans – her, Barry Manilow, Josh Groben, John Barrowman and Joe Longthorne all appeal to gay people and middle-aged women. She got lots of votes for being herself. As for me, I don't know if I ever am myself. I'm not sure who myself is.
Martin Kemp and the eventual winner, Julian Clary, just sat about, did nothing and paid off their mortgages. Julian is another person with similar fans to Julie. I can't remember him in it much, but he didn't upset anybody. He was just himself: a charming gay man with no nastiness. He'd attract the majority of votes from viewers of the show, which peaks at ages 16–24. These are people who like TOWIE and Jordan and wear Ugg boots.
Julian was odds-on to win right from the start. No matter how nice a guy Martin is – and he is – he was onto a loser by being straight. Gay people seem to have the edge on this show. They're funny, different and outrageous. Just look at the gays on telly: Alan Carr, Dale Winton, Graham Norton, Stephen Fry, Craig from Strictly and the little Italian chap from the ice-skating with the speech impediment. Although I've never seen Stephen Fry play the gay card, he can be hilariously camp, as can David Walliams and his little baldy mate.
Rylan Clark is favourite to win CBB this year, as he's funny and loveable. And who can forget Brian Dowling? I bloody can't ...
You can't help but like some of these gay chaps unless you're a complete bigot – which, contrary to perception, I am not. To me, people are people – or, as Richard Desmond would say, 'An arsehole is a arsehole no matter how he shags.'
I emailed Richard and congratulated him on a great series. The returning email just read: 'Right you're in the next show call me.'
CHAPTER 2
MARCH 2012
I called Laurie. 'He doesn't give in, does he?'
Laurie is not a lover of reality TV. It's alien to him. He was raised on great performers; seeing people whose only talent is reading the autocue is not up his street. He started life in the business as a record salesman and then moved on to be a producer, progressing to manage some great, great talents: Cleo Laine, Charlie Drake, Tommy Steele, Peters & Lee, Cannon & Ball, me! All great live performers. His company, International Artistes, has managed the cream of the variety world.
No longer with International, he still manages great talent, and produces some of the best musicals in the West End: Buddy, Dreamboats and Petticoats and loads more. He also manages Nigel Lythgoe, who is a mate, and Lord Lloyd Webber, who I think looks like those fish blokes who chased Troy Tempest in Stingray! So it's fair to say Laurie knows good telly when he sees it. He also knows what he doesn't like, and a load of C-list celebrities poncing about in the Big Brother house do not float his boat.
'Hi Jim, it's Laurie, I missed your call.'
'Richard Desmond has emailed me and asked me to do the next Big Brother.'
I was expecting the usual 'Don't do it', but instead I got an 'Oh'. The phone went quiet for a bit.
'Well, it wasn't right to do it the first time; maybe this is the right time. Richard has certainly given it a new lease of life ... what's to lose? Let me give them a call.'
We called each other back later and agreed that, if I played my cards right and stuck to a game plan, I could get through Celebrity Big Brother without any collateral damage.
We went to see Richard in his office. This time he was joined by the head of Channel 5 and a charming lady who introduced herself as Ros from Endemol, the company that produces Big Brother. We had a great lunch, with Richard ignoring the fact that we had a lady with us.
'Don't be an arsehole, Laurie, you know you should do this. Jim, there's a generation of people out there who don't know who the fuck you are. Let me walk you around the building – you won't like it.'
He had a point. Richard was saying I was living in a shell – that I should get out and grab this new audience. It was encouragement rather than a slagging off.
The series would begin in the New Year. It was now the summer, so we had plenty of time to discuss it. We ate Richard's food and drank his wine and thoroughly enjoyed his company. It's impossible to dislike this charismatic man!
We walked to the taxi rank and decided we'd do it, if the money was right. That'd be Laurie's job. It'd be a good contest: the best agent in the business against the best businessman in the business.
A week later, Laurie called – the deal was done. Big Brother here I come, God help me. Get this wrong and I really would disappear.
Meanwhile, it was back to the grindstone for the stand-up shows. I needed to think of a way to break the news to the missus. Thank God we'd been given planning permission for an extension to our cottage.
'Mitch,' I called to my wife, Michelle, 'you know that I said we couldn't afford the extension? Well ...'
CHAPTER 3
OCTOBER 2012
You know something is wrong when there are lurkers! Two guys were hanging about outside the house. They were standing by Lady Bridget's driveway. We call her that because her husband was Sir So-and-So – a colonel in the army. Lady Bridget often pops in to share a tipple or three. She's one of those wonderful people who remain young no matter what their age.
When they buggered off, Bridget came over and told us they'd gone down the road to get a signal on their mobiles. I smelled a rat ... a great, big rat. A while later the rodents reappeared. I hummed a little tune I'd written for panto:
'I'm King Rat, I'm thinking that
My time has come to reign,
I'll take your loot and then I'll scoot
To a tax-free life in Spain.'
I took a deep breath, crossed my fingers and approached them. I always look guilty. When I pass through customs, even though I haven't got anything hidden, I walk through the metal detector at the airport like a terrorist trying to look like a priest.
'Hello, Jim' said the braver, older man. He was a photographer, dripping with Nikons, and had one of those 'don't blame me' faces.
'I've seen you loads of times. Sorry I'm here for this.'
'Here for what?'
The reporter said he was from an agency. 'I'd like to hear your side of the story.'
'Weren't me,' I said with a grin. But curiosity got the better of me, as they well knew it would.
'What's the story?'
'We want to know about the allegations.'
I'd thought some bird might have grassed me up to the papers and they were after a kiss-and-tell story. I've often got up and read in the paper about women I'd 'been with' that I'd never met before in my life. I was so used to some reporter coming up to me and saying, 'There's some Page Three girl who's done a story about you.' I'd had so many in the past that were just upsetting and annoying, because no matter what your current wife says, in her mind she thinks, 'Hmm, there must be something going on.'
But then I thought: 'Ah, they're here to find out who I think the next Jimmy Savile could be. Jimmy fucking Savile!' This was after that investigative documentary on ITV. 'They want to know what I know. Phew!'
A week before, I wrote an article on my blog about the Savile enquiry: 'The Jimmy Savile witch-hunt is going a bit silly now. We all are starting to speculate and accuse ... even in jest. So no, I don't know who's next. Well, if I was in the pub with the lads it would be a different story.
'Everyone has had the nod. Everyone is now an expert. Just pick someone you don't like and say it's them. So I'll be the first one to knock it on the head and belt up. How's about that then?'
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Jim Davidson No Further Action by Jim Davidson. Copyright © 2015 Jim Davidson. Excerpted by permission of John Blake Publishing Ltd.
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