Memoirs of a Fruitcake Read online

  I’ve often thought we pass through time, as opposed to time passing by us and this was the strongest proof so far that I might be onto something.

  The last half hour, post 11 o’clock, was like the last few miles of a marathon. If there was a wall, we’d just hit it. We needed Billie to turn up.

  I’ve never been happier to witness the arrival of a Mercedes-Benz than I was that night. I am not the biggest fan of the Merc; for me they are all about practicality as opposed to passion but the midnight blue boxy E-Class that drew up that night was like Cinderella’s carriage arriving at the ball.

  Billie fairly skipped out, straight into the bar, where we just started talking – and never stopped.

  Billie is unique in so many ways but most of all when it comes to her sensitivity and fragility, two qualities that are vital in order for someone to become a true artist. It’s impossible to be any good in her business unless you are able to hear, see, touch and feel the poetry of the world.

  Artists look at things in different ways to most people. Different things matter to them. What a thing it must be to know what moves people, and how to achieve that. This is surely the most powerful tool known to mankind. Where warmongers destroy, artists create.

  And so it was with Bill. For the next five years I would experience what it was like to be close to one of these intriguing and complicated enigmas.

  Before the end of our first date, I realised I was dealing with the human equivalent of platinum here. Billie simply shone, from the inside out. She was so magnificently alive, more alive than anyone I had ever met. I decided to go for broke. I would ask Billie Piper to marry me.

  The next morning, the radio show that I was due to present came and went but I was not there to witness it. I woke up in a hotel bed, several hours after the show had ended.

  And there was more. I was not alone. As I attempted to prise my eyes open, I felt the warmth of what was unmistakably the skin of another human being against my back.

  ‘Shit, who the hell am I in bed with?’ I thought.

  I became instantly rigid, lying stock still.

  ‘Think you prick – think.’

  I was trying to do just that but my brain was more like a blancmange than the computer I needed it to be.

  As I struggled with my total lack of recall, my body was in protest. It demanded to know whose skin this was against mine. My shoulders ached, my neck was hurting, my throat had dried out and my heart was pounding.

  And then it hit me.

  ‘Oh my God, I’m in bed with Billie. Shit, shit, shit.’

  This was not what I wanted. This was not my plan. I didn’t want a one-night stand, I wanted to marry this wonder of the solar system and live happily ever after, not have a quick bunk-up that I couldn’t even remember.

  I had begun to sweat, the cold sweat of absolute fear and loathing for oneself and one’s situation. The more I tried to relax, the more the rivers of perspiration cascaded across my back. The sheets beneath were becoming damp.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Evo, you’re sweating buckets,’ came a voice.

  Not the voice of a teenage pop sensation, I realised ecstatically, but the voice of a hairy, rough and tough, tattoo-covered West Ham-supporting John ‘Webbo’ Webster.

  ‘Webbo, you beauty,’ I declared as I turned around, splashing in the sea of sweat that continued to engulf our shared berth. There to behold was one of the most beautiful sights a worried man can lay his eyes on – namely anything other than the woman who shouldn’t be there.

  Apart from my dad, I don’t think there is another man I have ever loved more than I loved Webbo at that precise moment. It’s a love that will last for ever.

  Once I’d explained to my trusty pal the reason for my unfathomable delight, he suggested that we grab a shower – not together, of course. We were both still covered in sweat; unfortunately for Webbo, almost all of it mine.

  After that I needed a debrief on what had actually happened the night before. There was also the small matter of proposing to Billie to attend to.

  Webbo informed me that after we left the bar where we met, we went on to a rather famous but sleazy nightclub. That explained the headache that felt like several sledgehammers beating down on my skull. But I didn’t care. There was work to be done. Within ten minutes Webbo and I were out on the street, hailing a taxi.

  ‘Where to, guv?’ said the driver. I’m not meaning to stereotype London cabbies here but a lot of them really do say that.

  ‘Brompton Road, please,’ I replied.

  I was going straight to the Ferrari showroom. I had no idea whether or not Billie was a fan of the famous Italian marque, or if she could even drive (I later discovered she couldn’t), but I wanted to stop this girl in her tracks, and how better than with the gift of one of the most magnificent sports cars known to mankind?

  ‘Morning, Mr Evans,’ said the salesman, trying to suppress a smile of expectant glee. ‘What can I do you for?’

  ‘I’d like that silver Ferrari in the window please, but I need to be able to take it now.’

  ‘Of course you do, Mr Evans,’ he laughed.

  I was not laughing and neither was he when he realised I was deadly serious.

  ‘Er … right, well, that’s not possible, it’s gonna take a couple of days,’ he went on.

  ‘Well then, it’s no deal. I need to drive it out of here within the hour, otherwise the moment will have passed, never to return. I will be loveless and alone, and you will be one car down on your monthly target.’

  The salesman seemed to freeze momentarily while he had a word with himself.

  ‘Alright Mr Evans, wait right there, I will make this happen,’ he declared.

  He was back no more than three minutes later.

  ‘As long as we can confirm payment for the vehicle now, I have been assured by my superior that you can do what you bloody well like with it.’ Er, his words by the way, not mine.

  I don’t think a Ferrari should ever be referred to as a ‘vehicle’ but not to worry; there were bigger fish to fry.

  Coffee was had, calls to the bank were made and keys were handed over.

  With Webbo by my side, I sped off in the spanking new Fezza, through Hyde Park, in the direction of north London. This is where I would deliver the world’s most expensive envelope to my equally spanking-new and exciting little friend, but not before a visit to the florists.

  ‘Hello, friendly florist,’ I gushed with almost unbearable jollity.

  ‘Hello, famous person,’ he responded, wittily.

  ‘May I purchase all of your red roses, please?’

  His roses were actually crimson, with dark green leaves, and theatrically long stems. They were amongst the finest roses I had ever seen.

  ‘How many do you really want, sunshine?’ he enquired.

  ‘No, I really do want them all. I’m going to propose, you see, and I need enough to fill up a car.’

  We counted them together. There were one hundred and ten.

  ‘Perfect,’ I assured him.

  One dumbfounded florist later, it was time to confront the porter at Billie’s apartment block.

  She had been advised to buy an apartment in a secure block of flats and it was the job of this smiling, avuncular gentleman, whom I was now facing, to protect her and all the other residents from whatever evils lurked outside. How, I’m not sure, but no matter. This man was my key to Billie’s door.

  ‘I’m here to deliver some roses and a message to Billie Piper that I would very much like her to read. It’s on the front seat of that car over there, which is also for her.’

  My proposal took the form of a handwritten note that I had slipped in amongst the roses. It read, ‘I know you don’t care about any of this and neither do I, but I had to stop you in your tracks. This car is for you. If you don’t want it sell it and give it to charity. I think you’re wonderful. Will you marry me?’

  ‘The front seat of which vehicle, Sir?’

  ‘Er, it’s no
t a vehicle, it’s a Ferrari, it’s silver and it’s over there.’

  I hoped I hadn’t snapped at him. He looked like a good man and one I was sure the residents must be fond of. I couldn’t help feeling that he had probably witnessed many things he didn’t understand and here was another one.

  ‘Of course, certainly Sir,’ he replied.

  ‘Thank you so, so much,’ I could have kissed him.

  My delivery complete, I could do nothing more for the time being.

  Whilst I had been depositing, Webbo had been on the phone organising transport back into town and was waiting for me over the road. I was about to exit the main gate of this mini fortress Billie called home, when a cry came from an upstairs window. It was my girl and she was screaming.

  ‘Come back, come back,’ she howled.

  Two minutes later I found myself outside her door.

  ‘What the fuck have you gone and done, you crazy guy?’ she laughed.

  ‘I have delivered a letter for you in a rather smart Italian silver envelope, no more, no less,’ I said, trying not to sound too pleased with my efforts. ‘That’s what the keys are for – it’s outside, waiting for you.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking!’ Bill exclaimed, her mouth staying open for at least a good five seconds after she’d stopped actually speaking.

  There, that was it, right in front of me; that snapshot. Exactly what I wanted to achieve – total shock and awe. Billie was gobsmacked. It was a home run, a slam dunk, six sixes in just the one over. She might not say yes to my marriage proposal but she would definitely never forget the bloke who’d given it to her.

  The Ferrari-and-roses episode wasn’t a money thing, it wasn’t meant to impress Billie that way. But it was my one-stop-shop attempt to blow any competition out of the water. The roses and the Ferrari were my way of buying Julia Roberts a string of pearls and then flying her to the opera, as happened in Pretty Woman.

  Over the years I’ve been lucky enough to have been in the position to purchase many things for people other than myself. There is a fine line between being generous and being perceived as a Flash Harry or a Champagne Charlie. I realised that the Ferrari-and-roses gesture was in severe danger of crossing the line but it was a chance I was prepared to take.

  Whatever people’s conclusions, let the records show that it worked. We became man and wife, for heaven’s sake.

  Bill and I had seen each other only the once, on our date, and then again briefly when I stopped off at her apartment that morning, so when she rang me on Christmas Day saying that she was coming round that afternoon, it was she who left me open-mouthed.

  I mentioned that I was due to go on holiday to Madeira the next day.

  ‘Brilliant,’ she enthused. ‘I’ll come with you – if that’s alright?’

  Oh, OK then – if you must.

  Bring on the big Merc again with the nice driver for one last time. Bill’s trusty chariot would whisk her from her parents in Swindon to my house in Surrey that Christmas afternoon. She brought with her nothing more than a large brown leather bag stuffed with several rather cheeky outfits. When she arrived she flung her arms around me, gave me a smacker on the lips and said, ‘Right, let’s try some of these on shall we? I need to know what you think I should take on holiday.’

  Happy Christmas everyone!

  Madeira duly came and went but Bill moved in and stayed.

  I had found my new friend. A friend with no agenda, in fact quite the opposite – Bill never asked me for a thing, which of course meant I wanted to give her the world.

  As a result of our chaotic lives, we both needed fixing, and we had a suspicion we could fix each other. If anything, Bill’s life was more of a mess than mine. She’d had years of success but had nothing of any real value to show for it. She had also been suffering from an eating disorder and was burned out and exhausted, emotionally and physically. She desperately needed out from a life she could no longer sustain.

  With me she found the courage to say ‘no’ to people, something she would have to do if she wanted to survive. As our relationship developed, where I gave her experience and confidence, Bill gave me light and innocence.

  Every day was like a breath of fresh air and saw us staying in the country more and more, even during the week, when I had to go to London to do my radio show. Finally, we had each found someone to build a few walls with to give us that independence from the rest of the world.

  Conversation followed conversation, be it in the pub, lying in front of the fire or snuggled up between the sheets. With our new-found companionship, the days of not knowing quite what we were doing with our lives and quite why we were doing it, began to make way for a new dawn. Exactly what that new dawn might eventually become, neither of us knew, but for the moment the faint whiff of sanity was enough to keep us going.

  With the security we gave each other, we slowly began to feel ourselves flowering back into life. I remember the relief as I woke up each morning to find Bill still there and not being able to believe I was going to get to spend another day with her.

  Nobody understood what we were up to but we didn’t care. In fact one national newspaper became so confused about us, they tried to convince themselves and their readership that Billie and I deserved to be buried from day one. They splashed us across their front page, alleging we were masquerading as a couple solely in a shameless attempt to halt my flagging career whilst also promoting Bill’s latest single.

  Poisonous, or laughable? You decide.

  Nothing could have been further from the truth; the last thing on either of our minds was our careers. All we wanted to know was how could we keep the confusion of the last few years at bay for long enough to be able to breathe life back into each other.

  Now, I don’t know if you have ever seen the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, but in the final scene Butch and the Kid find themselves holed up in a derelict farmstead. They are surrounded by lawmen and various posses of bounty hunters. Vastly outnumbered, they have nowhere to go.

  As they crouch down out of breath inside, wondering what few options they have left, Butch briefly looks across at the Kid as if to say, ‘How the hell did we get ourselves into this unholy mess?’

  A second later, they nod to each other as a signal to go out fighting. Sometimes it’s the only way.

  This was almost exactly the same scenario Bill and I were subconsciously heading towards. With me as Butch, Billie as the Kid, and airline tickets instead of guns. We would soon have to plan our own quick getaway but first of all I needed to back us into that corner.

  TOP

  10

  FAB HOTELS I’VE STAYED IN

  10 The Butlins Metropole in Blackpool – the first proper hotel I ever stayed in

  9 The Berkeley in London – I lived there for a while

  8 The Carnegie Club in Scotland

  7 The Four Seasons in Las Vegas

  6 The Hôtel du Cap d’Antibes (complete luxury but at a price – and what a price)

  5 The Groucho Club

  4 The Sunset Marquis in Los Angeles

  3 The Chewton Glen in the New Forest

  2 The Voile d’Or in Cap Ferrat

  1 The Kurokai in Palm Springs

  AFTER WE GOT TOGETHER, Billie almost immediately left the recording career that had been dragging her down for so long. She took some much needed time out whilst she figured out what she really wanted to do with her life. For my part, I was still doing The Breakfast Show at Virgin, but other than doing the minimum of turning up in the mornings, I wasn’t paying attention to much to do with the world of work and broadcasting. This would go some way to explain why I had not the first idea that it was about to come crashing down round my ears.

  TFI Friday had finished in December 2000. It had been a big success for over four years, but had come to the end of its natural life. And to be honest, it suited me. Billie and I were closing ranks with little regard for the outside world.

  Having handed over control o
f the radio station and indeed my whole production company via the sale of the Ginger Media Group, I knew that my spell as a would-be media mogul was over. What I didn’t know, however, was that my breakfast show was now under threat, too.

  The Scottish Media Group had paid a lot of money for their asset and they were going to run it the way they wanted. When I was in control we had taken huge chances on ideas we believed in, whereas these guys were much more measured, and that’s putting it mildly. They were intent on edging forwards slowly and surely, contemplating and calculating even the slightest move for what seemed like hours on end.

  This is fine to an extent, but you’re never going to take the world by storm with such a pedestrian philosophy, especially in a highly competitive market like radio and television production where you have to make big splashes to stay ahead of the game. Safety nets do not thrill the crowd.

  However, this was never going to be the case with the new regime – the brakes were on from day one. A month or two after they took over there were a few uncharacteristic ripples coming out of the normally painfully placid executive ideas meetings. These mooted that my breakfast show was slowly going off the boil and needed to be freshened up. The consensus of opinion as to what to do to rectify the situation was even more surprisingly radical, inasmuch as it was suggested that the best way to move forward was for me to cut loose from my team and start afresh. The team in question being made up in the main by Johnny Boy Revell, Holly Hotlips, and Dan Dan the Soundman, all of whom I had been working with for the last five years since we got together to put on The Breakfast Show at Radio 1.

  I couldn’t deny that there was more than a grain of truth with regard to the state of the show, but to part company with these guys was something I had never even contemplated before. They were friends first and colleagues second, but in retrospect perhaps that was part of the problem. We had become too close to be professionally objective and that’s always a mistake. We had lost perspective, along with the collective spark that used to make us shine so brightly.