Big Beacon, page 14
She returns forty-eight hours later – not sure why she had to stay two nights, although I know Susan Boyle was playing in Eastbourne on the second night and I tell her that. She is clearly pleased with her work, her face betraying a pride in herself that borders on the unseemly. But when we look through the photographs, it becomes clear that, for reasons I can’t understand, she has managed to switch to the front-facing camera so that all of the photos are of herself: her torso, chin, a bit of her shoulder or the Macmillan Cancer lapel badge pinned to her coat.
‘Oh dear,’ she tuts. ‘They seemed fine when I was taking them; they’re never as good when you get them developed.’
‘For God’s sake,’ I said. ‘The screen is there as a viewfinder. If you can’t see it on the screen, it’s not going to be on the photo. This is exactly why I wanted you to stick to the Nokia.’
* * *
69 When my assistant found out I’d had intimate relations with Red, she rolled her eyes. But she also believes that immigrants arriving in rubber dinghies should be towed to Ireland and left there, so make of her judgement what you will.
70 The ‘renno’ referring to the renovation project rather than anything related to the similar-sounding French car brand with the distinctive rhombus logo.
71 This is the Birdseye Steakhouse Grills adverts from the mid-eighties again.
72 As is this.
73 Horrible image.
GOOD FELLAS
Summer 2017
Scissored Isle was urgent, needful, important television. Perhaps the first television show to feature working-class people that doesn’t include bailiffs or Scotland. I was delighted with how it turned out. It was proof, if proof be needed, that I was a talent to be reckoned with.
I waited by the phone and … nothing. Usually, this is because my assistant unplugs it at the wall when she hoovers, but this time, after a bit of a tongue-lashing from yours truly, she pointed out that she hadn’t unplugged it. It was just not ringing.
It.
Was.
Just.
Not.
Ringing.
Despondent, I punched three Easter eggs I’d been saving then grumpily unwrapped them and ate the shards with a spoon slightly too big for my mouth. Stretching the skin at the corners of my lips was painful and it annoyed me, making me need the chocolate even more and so I ate faster, causing even more pain. I could see my assistant’s look of concern. She’d seen me spiral like this decades earlier when the pointy bit of a Toblerone triangle had speared the roof of my mouth and induced a similar ‘suffer pain/need chocolate’ vortex that led to me gorging for over three days and ending in Dundee – which is a lovely part of the world if you don’t stay long.
‘I know what I’m doing,’ I grunted as I pushed the chocolate away. I was not going there again.
Instead, I drove to Gatwick Village and browsed and browsed, nosing my way through glossy magazines, electrical goods and sunglasses, the latter usually a surefire way to restore my good humour. Many’s the time I’ve put on a pair of sunglasses from a display rack, tugged the tag away from the bridge of my nose and then checked myself out in the one-inch mirror on the central pillar of the rack – accompanied by the expressions or catchphrases of whichever movie star matches that pair of glasses: ‘I feel the need, the need for speed’, ‘Are you talkin’ to me’, ‘Hasta la vista, baby’ or, ‘Will you please stop talking about fight club!’ But today, for some reason, Sunglass Hut was singularly unable to lift my spirits.
And it was there that I bumped into someone who would quite literally change my life.
Disgraced sports broadcaster Richard Keys is someone I’d known for a number of years. Despite not being particularly good company, he’s someone I’d always felt a slight kinship with. In the late eighties we’d been up for presenting a video for HM Revenue and Customs (then HM Customs & Excise, would you believe – funny how names for things change!) about the consequences of submitting your tax return late. On paper, it was a very strong video – taut script, compelling central idea (Don’t Be a Late Larry!), terrific location (Highgate Cemetery) and in Dominic Grelland, one of the best corp-vid directors in the business. Richard and I both wanted the gig very much. We screentested separately and chatted in the lift on the way out. In a quiet moment, Richard revealed that he was self-conscious about the back of his hands, which in adulthood had started to become slightly hairy. It really wasn’t that noticeable, but since it was bothering him I told him he should give them a quick shave.
In the end, I didn’t get the job, but neither did Richard – Hunniford gazumped us both – and I thought little more about it until a few months later, at a barbecue to mark the launch of Homebase’s new barbecues, when I saw him again. Seeing me, his face hardened and he stormed over.
‘Thanks a fucking lot!’ he said. I looked at him blankly and he held up his hands. How to describe them? Until then, the phrase ‘black forest’ made me think of the famous eighties gateau. But from that day on, ‘black forest’ will always remind me of the back of Richard Keys’ hands. Richard had shaved them as I suggested, but the hair had grown back. Boy, had it grown back. It was at least six times thicker than it had been, as if each follicle was sprouting a palm tree’s worth of jet-black hair, a frighteningly virulent jungle of pelt.
‘I didn’t … know that would—’ I spluttered.
But Richard suspected sabotage, convinced I’d tricked him into hairing up his hands to make him less telegenic and prevent him from getting any future work that he and I might be vying for. A darkness fell over Richard that day and our relationship never truly recovered.
You see, the old Richard – or Ricky, as he was more frequently known then – had harboured dreams of light entertainment. He saw himself as a Mr Saturday Night figure, hosting a shiny-floor show on ITV or the Generation Game/Blankety Blank slot on BBC One. But he developed a hang-up about his hands – a hand-gup – that marooned him in the more prosaic world of sports broadcasting, leading to a twenty-year career as Sky Sports’ face of football – a sport he has secretly never liked, much less understood.
I don’t propose to relitigate what Richard did or didn’t say off-air to lose his job at Sky – that’s between him and whichever women he spoke of hanging out the back of. All I know is that I’ve never been a fan of bawdy locker-room talk – both because it’s wrong and because the other boys don’t include me – so when he did get the old heave-ho74 from Sky, I didn’t pick up the phone.
Instead, Keys, and his exceptionally Scottish co-host Andy Gray, upped sticks to Qatar. A fresh start and good for them! In fact, it annoys me when people assume they didn’t learn their lesson just because they migrated to the Middle East to front football coverage for hardline Muslims. And while they sent round-robin emails boasting of their new life over there – with photographs careful not to feature too many Muslims in the background – I gave them short shrift and we lost touch.
So when I bumped into the two of them on the concourse at Gatwick, with my own television career in the toilet, I expected a smirk. If not a smirk, a snort. Or if not a snort, a sneer. Instead? Richard hugged me.
I’d enjoyed good hugs before then. Me and my ex-wife Carol were prolific huggers, with hugs, squeezes and pats gradually coming to replace kissing and lovemaking entirely – certainly once she started boffing her fitness instructor. I have hugged Sally Gunnell drunk; I have hugged former-DJ-and-now-busker Dave Clifton live on air; I hugged my maths teacher at least once a week before he was told to stop, and I’ve even hugged Sir Jeffrey Archer after the daft apeth won his libel case against the Daily Star, little realising the spotty-backed bastard had gone and bloody perjured himself. I once had a superb hug with a masseuse I hadn’t realised was a sex worker, and while that embrace cost me £150, it remains up there in my personal pantheon of good cuddles.
But the hug I received at the hands (and arms) of Richard Keys tops the lot. It had empathy, meaning, trust, wit75 and warmth.
‘It’s OK, Alan, it’s OK,’ he said and mock-punched me on the jaw, stopping his fist an inch away from my face, but close enough for his knuckle hair to brush me lightly. ‘The real Alan is still in there. You just have to tease him out.’
Andy grunted in assent and said: ‘Ye shay co tae Do’a.’
I looked to Richard.
‘He said, “You should come to Doha.”’
I smiled. ‘Tell him thanks.’
‘Thanks,’ said Richard.
‘Nae bo’er.’
I looked to Richard.
‘He said, “No bother.”’
I looked at Richard then looked at the planes on the concourse, then I nodded once, walked to the Emirates desk and bought a return ticket to Doha for that very evening. Enough time for my assistant to drive to my house, pack and bring my case to me at the airport, so long as she was brisk and didn’t dawdle.
That night, I landed in the sweltering Gulf state, tired but excited and bursting with information about the little-known nation, thanks to the inflight magazine and the tedious man I’d been sitting next to. So much so that I thanked the guys on passport control for providing the very oil that had propelled the aircraft over. They frowned at me and I moved on.
Richard had suggested lunch the next day, and we reconvened in a steakhouse where Richard was very much the star of the show, waving and nodding at anyone who said hello. ‘These are all expats. Expats who enjoy beef,’ he said.
Andy chuckled. ‘Thi shuh coll’m coi pa’s.’
I looked to Richard.
‘He said, “They should call them cow pats.”’
‘Oh, that’s good,’ I said. ‘That’s very good. Tell him that’s very good.’
He nodded. ‘That’s very good, Andy.’
It would be the last time I laughed for some time. Because seemingly out of nowhere, Richard started to behave in an extremely mean way.
For example, when I said, ‘This steak is wonderfully tender,’ Richard repeated, ‘This steak is wonderfully tender,’ but in a mewling whiny baby voice. I wasn’t sure what he meant by it so said nothing.
But later, when I said, ‘Do you know where I can buy some Bermuda shorts?’, Richard glanced at Andy and said, ‘Do you know where I can buy some Bermuda shorts?’ in a baby voice, before shouting to the waiter, ‘Alan’s getting this.’
To my chagrin, I didn’t find out where I could buy Bermuda shorts, but I did pay for steak, onion rings, chips and drinks for the whole table. Confused and hurt, I nevertheless agreed to meet the next day.
Their behaviour the next morning was, if anything, even worse. For example, Andy had his telescope with him and kept looking at distant holiday makers. If he saw one he liked the look of, he’d nudge Richard and hand him the telescope so he could look too. But whenever I asked if I could have a turn, both men ignored me.
They also made disparaging comments about my lack of suntan, my sandals and my career failures. In front of their sniggering friends, they’d ask me about the viewing figures of my chat show or the aging demographic of my radio audience.
It was Alan-baiting as sport. And suddenly I remembered hearing rumours that they’d treated other presenters in a similar way. Ray Stubbs had supposedly endured a similar teasing a couple of years ago and flew home in tears after nine days. Patrick Kielty didn’t even last a week. But this?
This wasn’t just mean. This was really, really mean.
Of course, I’d assumed these horror stories were just tittle-tattle. No one would believe that of Messrs Keys and Gray. But here I was, being pulled apart like carrion in the Middle Eastern sun.
The final straw came the following day. Richard and Andy offered to drive me out to soak up the sights and sounds of a local marketplace so that I could experience what they called ‘the real Qatar’.
But no sooner had we arrived than Andy started hopping from foot to foot. ‘Gottae goan pesh,’ he said.
I looked at Richard.
‘He has to go and piss,’ he explained, before adding that he also needed a wee. I was told to wait there and the two disappeared to find a lavatory. But twenty-five minutes later, I’d come to accept that they weren’t coming back. I’d been tricked.
And now in the midday heat, I was stranded in a foreign land, far from home. I felt lost and queasy among the teeming locals and bustling vendors. Where the hell was I? This was a place where the indigenous people would come to buy and sell produce and trade the latest finery. But I felt dizzy – struggling to process the swirl of unfamiliar people and unfamiliar culture. I admit, I felt frightened.
If this market hadn’t been an air-conditioned shopping mall, I shudder to think what would have become of me. At least we had these back home, but some of the brands were new to me and the experience was completely disorientating. Where was T.M. Lewin? Where was M&S? Nowhere to be seen.
One of the elders, who bowed deeply and wore a badge that said ‘customer services’, guided me to the metro station and, despite being shaken and thirsty (certainly until I bought some 7Up), I was able to find my way back to the apartment complex.
By now the scales had fallen from my eyes. It was all so obvious. Far from rising above our fall-out all those years ago, Keys had held on to it like you would a dry-cleaning receipt and allowed it to fester. This was revenge. How could I have been so foolish?
Trudging back to my apartment, I saw Keys and Gray (plus a coterie of their chuckling chums) eating pizza on the sun loungers by the pool. In the corner of my eye, I saw a patch of hot cheese slide from the slice Gray was holding and fall, steaming and sizzling, onto his naked thigh. He hissed, ‘Fugenhil.’ This time I didn’t need Keys to translate: ‘Fucking hell.’ But I didn’t even allow myself a smile.
I packed quickly, furiously and neatly. Then I wheeled my case back down to the ground floor to call a cab. Gray, Keys and friends were still munching the much-loved Italian snack, but I strode in the other direction. I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. But then, another thought: No. I will.
And with a clenched jaw and two tensed buttocks, I marched over to the pool area. Keys looked up.
‘You and you are dicks!’ I shouted. ‘Do you hear me? You’re not nice. And while I’m getting things off my chest – get this. I can’t tell what you’re saying! And I think you have too much hair on your hands, and if that was my fault then I’m glad. Because bad things should happen to bad people and you are bad people. So stick this country up your arses, Richard, and I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Uhndeh.’
I looked at Richard, angrily.
‘Andy.’
‘Andy,’ I repeated. ‘Now, I’m going to the airport, and if you think we’re still friends you can eat swivel.’ I’d been caught between the phrase ‘eat shit’ and ‘swivel’, but fortunately I’d pretty much run out of breath when I arrived at this part of the sentence so I’m not sure anyone noticed.
Silence. And then, almost imperceptibly, the sound of a single clap. It had come from Andy. He clapped again, and then again. Soon, Richard joined in, louder and faster. They were applauding me. I was incandescent. Like when Kirstie Allsopp sees a single mum.
But before I could react, I noticed they were both smiling, and I mean genuinely smiling. And Richard was approaching with his arms outstretched like a very hairy Jesus.
‘You did it,’ he said. ‘I knew you’d do it.’
‘Do what?’ I replied.
‘You found it, Alan. You found … the fire.’
That’s when I realised. This whole thing had been engineered – brilliantly engineered – to stoke the flame that had died inside me. It was their contention that I had allowed the inferno that had rocketed me to the very top to dwindle to, at most, glowing embers. And so they’d taken a wrecking ball to the weak, diminished Alan I had become. They had squeezed together their bellows and blown out warm air on to my glowing embers, reigniting the inferno inside me, and in doing so had given me the vigour for what lay ahead. For they were helping me to create Alan 2.0.
Andy offered me some of his pizza. I was immensely grateful but declined because he’d scooped off the meat bits, leaving deep trenches where his fingers had gouged through the now-cold cheese.
I stayed in Qatar, sleeping in Richard’s spare room for another four months. It wasn’t all plain sailing. Sometimes it was actually quite tedious, but the oil-rich Gulf nation seemed to chime with the freewheeling creative person I needed to become. I found the country – its geography, its culture, its ‘anything goes’ attitude,76 its profound spirituality – deeply, deeply inspiring. People think it’s all sheikhs and futuristic skyscrapers, but it also has underwater restaurants where you watch fish swim while eating dead ones. Mind-blowing.
At weekends we’d fly out to Dubai or Saudi and soak up the culture there, visiting a shopping mall, hotel or a Gordon Ramsay restaurant, anywhere with air conditioning and toilets. My mind constantly being opened to the new, the fresh, the different. I could feel my eyes widening, my soul swelling, my ears widening as well. And my horizons also widening.
At night, as we ate steak or pizza, Richard would tell a long story about persecution and redemption. It was clear he regarded himself as a kind of Christ figure, mainly because he often used the phrase ‘me and Jesus’ when discussing his career blip. Less appallingly, he said encouraging things about my own skillset, and was firmly of the belief that with a change of mindset I could achieve great things.
How right he was. Over the coming weeks, Richard and, to a much lesser extent, Andy completely dismantled my approach to broadcasting and rebuilt me from the ground up.
Over time, I was able to secure corporate broadcasting work in the area for a private airline, a fledgling hotel chain, helicopter tours and forex trading. It was utterly fulfilling and demonstrated beyond any doubt whatsoever that I had what it took to be an on-camera television broadcaster. And Richard and Andy couldn’t have been more encouraging.
