Gyles Brandreth on doing Celebrity Gogglebox with the wonderful Sheila Hancock
I am a creature of habit. As regular as clockwork, I wake up at five in the morning and start worrying.
It makes no sense. I’ve got nothing to worry about, really, but low-grade waves of anxiety overwhelm me nonetheless, like a dismal dawn chorus, and I lie there for about 40 minutes, with my head racing and my stomach churning, until I nod off again.
Last week, ludicrously, I was fretting about my decision to turn down ITV’s invitation to take part in their top-rated reality show I’m a Celebrity … Get Me Out of Here! I like Ant and Dec, but it’s so not my thing. I’ve never fancied dining on kangaroo testicles and I know I look like Steptoe senior in my swimming gear. My agent tells me Harry Redknapp’s victory in last year’s series has turbocharged his career and I know the handsome six-figure fee on offer could pay off one of my children’s mortgages, but still I can’t face it. To say ‘yes’ would smack of career desperation and lead to personal humiliation. I won’t do it.
As a rule, I steer clear of anything with the word ‘celebrity’ in the title, largely because I know I’ll not have heard of any of the other ‘celebrities’ involved. That said, I am currently doing Celebrity Gogglebox because it’s a show I like and I’m teamed up with one of my favourite actresses, Oldie of the Year award-winner Sheila Hancock.
This week I’m waking at break of day, worrying that on Gogglebox I will inadvertently say something so politically incorrect (‘Just look at the muffin on her…’) that I have to spend the rest of my time on earth in sackcloth and ashes tweeting abject apologies.
Never one to miss an opportunity to be snubbed by Julian Barnes, I went to the Hatchards Authors of the Year party again.
It’s a grand literary gathering generously hosted by London’s oldest bookshop. At it, a year or two ago, I approached Julian Barnes and told the revered Booker Prize winner how, that very week, I’d found myself being interviewed on French TV about my latest murder mystery, in which Arthur Conan Doyle featured as my detective.
The French TV channel thought they were getting the great Julian Barnes to talk about his novel Arthur and George. Because the opening question was about Arthur Conan Doyle, I answered it fulsomely and took it from there. It was only at the end of the interview when they showed the cover of Julian’s book that I twigged – and simply repeated the title of my own. I thought the tale of mistaken identity would entertain JB. Not so. The distinguished man of letters was not amused, but affronted.
In the event, I couldn’t see him at this year’s party, and I didn’t dare approach Michael Frayn (in case he was Peter Nichols – or vice versa), so I settled for spending the evening with Jilly Cooper (who is the best company in the world) and a man whose name I never caught, but who, apparently, had taken the photographs for the Duke of Edinburgh’s book on carriage driving.
He told us what he claimed is one of Prince Philip’s favourite jokes. Question: ‘What’s the difference between roast beef and pea soup?’ Answer: ‘You can roast beef.’
The weather must be improving: just one funeral and two memorial services this month.
The celebration of Fenella Fielding at the Actors’ Church in Covent Garden was a particular joy. My favourite story came from the actor Jim Dale: ‘The film was Lock Up Your Daughters. The place Kilkenny. I had my wife and four children visiting. Rushes from the previous day’s filming were being shown in a large refreshment tent. Fenella was very short-sighted. She arrived late and fumbled her way in the dark to the back of the tent where I was standing. I whispered, “Hello, Fenella… Jim.” In that deep, husky voice of hers, she whispered back, “Oh hello, Jim,” and then, leaning forward and looking down, she added, “Hello! Hello! Hello! Hello!” I thought, Who is she talking to? Just then the lights went up and I saw she was standing behind four huge, black plastic garbage bags. “Oh dear,” said Fenella, “I thought they were your children.”’
Fenella was unique. She always carried a Sharpie pen in her handbag, explaining, ‘It’s useful for autographs, and in emergencies also doubles as an eyeliner.’
At the end of Fenella’s service, there was a collection at the church door. The plate was piled high with £5 notes. Having only £10 on me, that’s what I put on top of the fivers, sensing resentment from all around me. ‘Ostentatious bastard – who does he think he is?’ Two days later, at the service for another friend, the former MP Toby Jessel, I found I had only a fiver on me. So that’s what I put on the plate – this time piled high with tenners. Mean bugger, I could hear them all thinking as we filed out. I shall be worrying about that as dawn breaks tomorrow, I know.
