Authors: Graham Norton
I hated leaving, but I would be back in a couple of months to get the keys and discover if I really did love Cape Town or if I’d just made quite an expensive mistake.
15
And So Endeth
C
APITALISM, BAD. TRADE, WICKED. SHOPS
, evil. Rainbow-coloured home-knitted jumpers filed across Waterloo Bridge making their way to Oxford Street for the 2002 May Day protest. I, on the other hand, was on my way to have lunch with the Channel 4 boss Michael Jackson at the Royal Festival Hall on the south bank of the Thames. Helicopters throbbed overhead, and as I watched six policemen on motorbikes chaperoning one man with a beard pedalling his three-wheeler over the bridge, I couldn’t help but think that the police had perhaps overestimated the threat of this particular group. Unless the smell of wet wool was considered a chemical weapon, I felt fairly safe walking along the banks of the river.
Lunches with executives are always a bit weird. They feel that they have to invite you and you feel that you have to go. Sometimes the small talk can dwindle to tiny talk by the time coffee and a blessed bill and release arrive. Michael Jackson, however, is almost the opposite of this. His penchant is for big talk. Most of the time I could sort of keep up, but sometimes the French film or American architect he mentioned were just too obscure and I just had to nod and smile like one of those plastic dogs people sometimes put in the back window of their car.
The lunch didn’t begin well. Michael asked me if I’d like some wine. Using my Concorde mantra, I, of course, said, ‘Yes please,’ and then stopped myself from blurting out the ‘in a bucket’ bit. Having asked if I preferred white or red – ‘White, please’ – he perused the Bible-like tome that was the wine list. Finally he chose one. We looked at the helicopters flying over the capital. The wine arrived. It was red. A flustered Mr Jackson went back to the list while the gleeful waiter pointed out wines that were white. I have never been more interested in helicopters in my life.
Finally food and wine had arrived and we were talking about Channel 4, and since my contract was going to be up for renewal quite soon, what I’d like to do next. I really didn’t know what to say. I was still really enjoying
So
, but my worry was that I thought that the public would start to get bored of it after another series. He seemed to agree and then, almost casually, he mentioned the idea of going five nights a week. My eyes lit up. Ever since filling in for Jack at Channel Five this had been my dream.
I knew that Graham and Jon back at the office would be as excited as I was. For anyone doing a chat show this was the Holy Grail. It had never worked in Britain, but we believed that we could make a success of it, or at least have an amazing time trying. Talks began between Channel 4 and SO Television, the production company that I had started with Jon and Graham. Meetings followed about how many weeks a year we would do it for and what time in the evening it would be shown. In order for it to work I felt it had to be on for as many weeks as possible and always on at the same time. The idea was to make it a part of the TV landscape rather than anything special. In America the five-nights-a-week
talk show succeeds because of its inevitability. Very few people would watch it every night, but most people would dip into it once or twice a week. It was decided that we would start later that year, during the summer. We began production on our last ever series of
So
.
Since I had come back from South Africa I had become closer and closer to Tim until finally, very drunk, we rolled around some bar in Soho and decided we would give dating a whirl. Poor Tim. I think he thought that going out with the guy off TV would somehow be cool, but of course all his smart lawyer friends were just faintly embarrassed rather than impressed when he showed up with the ridiculous poof from Channel 4 on his arm. I suspected that I wasn’t exactly the love of his life when on Valentine’s Day he took me to the media brothel that is the club Soho House and then over dinner confided that he thought we made ‘a very plausible couple’. Just what I’d always wanted to be.
‘Who’s coming to dinner?’
‘Tim and Graham.’
‘Oh, they are so plausible!’
I had gone back into the dating game full of good intentions, but after a few weeks we decided to go back to being friends, which is what we still are.
It was also after getting back from South Africa that I discovered one of the great loves of my life – driving! Up until that moment, whenever someone had suggested that I learn how to drive I had always pooh-poohed the idea. I had lived all my adult life in London where a car really never seemed like a necessity and I quite liked feeling a little bit eccentric – ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly drive! I’d kill myself!’ In order to fully enjoy my new house in Cape Town, however,
I realised that I would have to get behind the wheel. I rang a central London driving school and was booked in with a saint called Howell. It sounds stupid to call a driving instructor ‘inspirational’, but he really was. He made me believe I could drive. He was the human equivalent of that feather Dumbo had to have in order to fly.
As anyone who has learnt how to drive will know, the first lesson is a huge shock to the system. Somehow I thought day one would be a lot of chatting in the car, but no. Within minutes I was driving down a road – a public road. Although Howell had dual controls, a perverse part of my brain couldn’t help but think, ‘If I really wanted to kill someone in this thing I could!’ Howell did his best, though at times it was difficult. Reversing around a corner for the first time was never going to be easy, but somehow I think that having a crowd of schoolboys all waving in the windows shouting variations of the ‘Hello, Graham, you big poofter!’ theme really didn’t help. I learnt in an automatic, because I can’t understand why anyone could be bothered with a manual. It’s like walking across the room to change channels after they invented the remote control. Technology is our friend, let’s use it.
Finally Howell declared that I was ready for my test. At the time I still vaguely believed that I got nervous before I did a show, but on my way to west London on the morning of the exam I was suddenly reminded of what real nerves felt like. I was terrified. Happily, I think my examiner was equally terrified to be trapped in a small car with a renowned homosexual, because I passed.
I love driving, but a bit like the way I am with sex, much as I enjoy it I can’t pretend that I’m very good at it. I try to
tell myself that I will get better with experience, but in truth I have as much chance of parallel parking now as I did the day I took the test. I drive quite fast, using the brake as if I were trying to shake the head off a crash test-dummy. On the upside, so far, apart from the walls of multistorey car parks and the occasional parked car, I haven’t hit anything – well, apart from one woman who crashed into me, but because I was a new nervous driver I decided that it must be my fault. She happily agreed.
I started driving into work every day. Plans were under way for the five-nights-a-week show, which we had decided to call
V Graham Norton
. We were incredibly excited, but we made the decision not to announce to the media that it was to be the last ever series of
So
just in case
V Graham
Norton
was a disaster and we wanted to go back to it. As the countdown began to the last ever show, we became unexpectedly emotional. Getting a show is a huge stroke of luck, but having a hit show is a miracle. I was doing what I had always said I wouldn’t – I was walking away from a hit.
I was going to have three guests on the final show: Cilla Black, Cybill Shepherd and Orlando Bloom. Cilla was very concerned about coming on the show and was the only guest ever to come into the office during the week to have a meeting about the content. When she left she seemed happy about everything. I’m not sure why she was so worried, and as it turned out I wasn’t the one she should have been concerned about. The night before the show I went to the Dorchester and had a drink with Cybill Shepherd in her room. She was very funny and up, and I thought she would make a great guest. Annoyingly I didn’t get extra time to spend with Orlando Bloom. Sigh.
Cilla was going to be guest one, and although nothing was said, I think Cybill was a bit miffed by this. I have long been a fan of Cilla, but somehow she didn’t really work on the show. I think she fell into that trap that happens to some guests of being so worried about what’s going to happen that they forget that they are just there to relax and enjoy themselves. She seemed a bit stiff and was being very proper. Somehow I thought she would be a real laugh and a little bit racy, and actually I’ve seen this first-hand many times since, but on the show there wasn’t a hint of that. I can’t be sure, but I’m guessing that Cybill Shepherd was watching this on a monitor in the green room and thinking to herself, ‘Right, I’ll show them who should have been guest one.’
I introduced her, and on came a woman who seemed to have had a personality transplant since the night before. The woman I had met was funny and bright, but this woman was like a wild creature unleashed. She sat down and immediately started talking about sex. I believe one of the first stories that came out of her mouth was about teaching Elvis Presley how to go down on her. I could see that Cilla was taking an instant and profound dislike to the woman.
Cybill then went on to mention something about being in a sandwich.
Cilla asked, ‘What’s a sandwich?’
Cybill turned to her. ‘Two guys at once. You don’t know what a sandwich is?’
‘Well, no,’ responded Cilla, ‘I’m not easy like you.’
I may have blurted out the word ‘Catfight’. I had never had this on the show before, where two guests so obviously loathed each other.
Cybill told us that Elvis was doing drugs when he had gone out with her.
Cilla remarked, ‘Doing drugs as long ago as that?’
Cybill glared but just said, ‘Yes.’
Poor Orlando Bloom wandered wide-eyed out into the middle of this, and immediately Cybill turned all her attention to him. I feared for his safety, and the look in his eyes said that he did too. She grabbed the Orlando Bloom action doll from
Lord of
the Rings
out of my hands and started rubbing it between her breasts while staring at Orlando. He giggled nervously, and to be honest I wouldn’t have been that surprised if he had burst into tears.
Finally the show was over, and although it had been a very strange one we were all quite pleased because we knew it would make good television. Afterwards I spoke to Cybill, and she was restored to the nice funny lady I’d met the previous evening. The person on the show had just been some sort of showbiz creation. Up in the star dressing room, Cilla sat with her entourage drinking champagne, asking everyone in turn, ‘Did you know what a sandwich was?’
I always tend to get a bit out of control at the wrap parties at the end of each series. At one such event, after several glasses of absinthe, I failed to recognise Jon or Graham. That’s drunk. At the party for our final
So
, I did quite well pacing myself, though I do remember at one point being sucked into a drunken rant of ‘I’m so proud, I’m so proud’, saying it to everyone and crying. I obviously managed to dry my tears because I ended up going home with a very cute young man who I had never seen before, but who said he was a friend of one of the stagehands. We got back to my house in Bow, and as we were staggering from the taxi to
my front door, he grabbed my arm and out of the blue said, ‘I’ve never had gay sex before. It better be good!’ Luckily for him we were both too drunk for him to find out.
I had six weeks before the start of
V
Graham Norton
. After heading back to Cape Town to pick up the keys for my new house (yes, I still loved it!), I was off to America. Although I had turned down the BBC, by some odd quirk of good fortune BBC America had decided to buy
So
. I was delighted because working in the States on projects like the ill-fated radio series and the Dolly documentary had made me realise just how much I loved the place. If I could find a way of working there more, then I could spend more time in the place. It was as simple as that.
I was being flown to LA in order to promote
So
to the great American press, and my Internet sister Carrie Fisher kindly insisted that I stay with her. She has a beautiful old sprawling house in Beverly Hills with a sweet little guest cottage. Although Carrie is a true friend, at that point I still couldn’t quite get over that I was staying at Princess Leia’s house and Debbie Reynolds was living next door. Who’s that on the tennis court? Oh, it’s Matthew Perry from
Friends
.
One night there was a party. It was Carrie’s daughter’s birthday and a host of people had been invited to celebrate. The director Penny Marshall was there, Al Pacino, Beverly D’Angelo and of course the Hollywood royalty that is Debbie Reynolds. I lurked in dark corners drinking white wine, occasionally talking to the other people who didn’t seem to know anyone. There was cake, there was singing, it was an ordinary party except that it was in Hollywood. People started to leave, but of course I couldn’t because I was staying. Oh, and there was still wine left. Eventually even
Carrie had gone to bed and that was when I found myself alone with Debbie and a bottle of Chardonnay.
We sat by the fire and she chatted to me as if we had been friends for ever. She told me tales about old Hollywood, Elizabeth Taylor, the studio system . . . It was like I was in a dream: me sitting with Debbie Reynolds. She has an amazing memory and is a wonderful storyteller, but I’m ashamed to say that my old friend, drink, was about to play its usual cruel trick on me: the wine had greater power than the Queen of Hollywood and I fell asleep. I’m not sure how long I was gone for, but when I woke up, I am happy to report that Ms Reynolds was still talking. Apparently she hadn’t noticed that she had temporarily lost her audience.
The reaction of the American press to the show was very positive and I began to notice that sometimes it was Americans in the street and not British expats who were coming up to me to say hello and that they liked the show. BBC America was advertising the programme quite heavily, and it seemed to be getting a cult audience. Because of this I was approached by a production company to see if I wanted to do stand-up in New York. Given that I hadn’t been very good at stand-up in Britain, I was a bit reluctant to try it in America, but they reassured me that it would be in a theatre space and I could do a full-length show in the same way I had in Edinburgh for so many years. I said yes.