Call the Midlife (37 page)

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

‘You all right?’ asks Will as I walk back into the living room.

‘No, not really,’ I reply.

‘What’s the matter?’

I have to tell him. We’ve shared so many things over the years, this will just be the latest in a long and mercurial line. Besides, I’m obviously in shock, it’s clear something major has just happened.

I take him through the conversation I’ve just had.

‘Fuck,’ he says.

‘That’s what I said.’

‘That’s mental, did you know they had you in mind?’

‘No fucking way. We all thought James and Richard were going to come back. They still were until last night.’ Which is 100 per cent true.

When it was first announced that Jeremy had ‘left’ I’d been playing with the idea of stepping in for him on the radio but only as a bit of fun. When the bookies then put me down as favourite to get the job, I very quickly, clearly and loudly ruled myself out. This was partly because I didn’t want to become a pawn in what could easily
become a very ugly game, but primarily because
Top Gear
is the Holy Grail of factual entertainment and one of the best-produced television shows of all time. The manner in which some people were glibly and shamelessly touting themselves to take over was to my mind insane. The perfect way of telling the world they didn’t have the first clue of what a monumental task that might be.

Not only were the vast majority of these names being mentioned nowhere near experienced enough in telly, none of them had any real conversations with the car world.
Top Gear
is one of the toughest gigs out there. That’s why it’s so bloody good.

‘So what do you think?’

‘I think I have to say yes. It’s what I do for a living and it is as big as it gets. If I say no, I might as well pack up and go home.’

‘But you are . . .’

After calling Mark back to scream, ‘YEEESS PLEEEASE, YOU BET YOUR GRANNY I WOULD LIKE TO TAKE ON
TOP GEAR
,’ this bolt out of the blue instantly had a positive effect on
TFI Friday
. From that moment on a mist lifted, Will and I began to relax. Tomorrow night we really were going to party like it’s 1999.

In fact within an hour, Will and I were back in the pub, still tinkering with the running order on Will’s laptop, but becoming happier by the minute with where we were at. The combination of
TFI Friday
, three pints and the
Top Gear
news was just what the muse ordered.

As Will carried on tap-tapping at his keyboard, my attention wandered to the crowd of enthusiastic drinkers on the pavement outside, bathed in the golden sun of a gorgeous summer evening. Looking closer I recognized one tall guy in the French-style black-and-white stripy top. It’s the lovely Nick Grimshaw, my BBC colleague and host of my old programme, the Radio 1
Breakfast Show
. Gradually Nick and I have become good friends, and now often exchange views and chat about a whole host of subjects.

He looks so cool, relaxing outside with his Ray-Bans on, his long
legs that seem to go on for ever and that signature Cheshire cat smile of his. I have no idea who the girl beside him is, but she looks even cooler: gold-rimmed shades, flip-flops, dark skin, blonde bobbed hair, gorgeous. Wow to both of them.

They’re doing their thing and we’re doing ours, so we leave them to it for now. A few minutes later, however, the girl comes inside to get another round of drinks. Will and I are sitting next to the bar by the door on two old, battered, wicker chairs – my favourite spot in my favourite North London pub.

‘Hi,’ she purrs ‘Nick’s out there, he says hi but doesn’t want to disturb you as he can see you’re obviously working.’

And he knows what we’re working on. Coincidentally, only yesterday I’d asked Nick to be part of the show, a bit where we were going to do the speed-dating version of a chat-show, at which point several well-known faces would run out one by one to answer a question each and take a bow: Noel Fielding, Kirstie Allsopp, Olly Murs, Stephen Merchant and Ricky Wilson had all agreed to join in.

‘Hey, no, tell him it’s fine if he wants to come and join us, we’re actually done for the day. We just didn’t want to bother you because you both looked so happy out there.’

‘Oh, OK, we will then, if you’re sure that’s all right.’

The more this woman talks and smiles, the more beguiling I realize she is.

After she leaves, ‘Do you know who that was?’ Will whispers under his breath.

‘No idea,’ I reply.

‘Only Rita bloody Ora.’

Bloody hell! I really didn’t have a clue. I’m not up with the current pop scene and when I do watch television, other than sport, the news and
Top Gear
, it’s almost exclusively via Catch Up or Netflix. I mean, of course I’ve heard of her and even caught her on
The Voice
a couple of times. I also remember the whole Brits thing that she was nominated for earlier this year. But she looks so different in the flesh.

A few minutes later, in come the two beautiful young things and
plonk themselves down with youthful aplomb next to us two crusties. Thier energy immediately takes the conversation and volume to a different level. They are excited, and for good reason.

Turns out he and Rita have both been signed up as the new judges on the forthcoming series of
X Factor
. The world has not yet been told officially, this is classified information. Cool. They are obviously great friends, thrilled to bits and looking forward to every minute of it.

Eventually, after more
X Factor
gossip and why Kate Moss recently had a fracas with an air stewardess on an EasyJet flight, resulting in her being thrown off the plane (Nick knows everyone!), talk turned to
TFI Friday
and Nick’s cameo role.

‘Ah, that sounds well fun,’ says Rita.

‘Well, you can do similar if you like,’ suggests Will. The more celebs we can get on and the less time they appear for, the funnier the ‘bit’ will be. Seconds later we’ve confirmed another guest. Rita is in.

Marvellous.

Will and I stayed for one more beer before bidding our young friends night-night and heading for our regular steak frites
avec vin rouge
.

Friday, 12 June: 3.06 a.m.

Ding! Bolt upright, wide awake as awake can be. Not the best news ever, with a radio show to do in three hours and then the most important television show of my career twelve hours later. But with the prospect of
Top Gear
on the horizon, sleeping for longer than absolutely necessary would be impossible.

Try for half an hour to nod off again. It’s a lost cause. Turn instead to going through Part 1 of what is now ‘tonight’s’ running order in my head. It feels good, concise and most importantly a comfortable watch, which is usually a good watch.

I send a 140-character tweet:

Barely any abuse, another first and another good omen. Not that I get much abuse anyway – yet, that is. I’m bound to get loads next week when it’s announced I’m the new face of the show whose owners received a petition signed by a million Clarkson fans demanding he not be sacked. Not that abuse of any kind bothers me, especially from people I’ve never met.

I really don’t understand why some famous people declare they are suddenly ‘leaving Twitter’ in a hissy fit of exaggerated outrage after someone publishes a post slagging them off. Trolls, yes, I agree they are nasty, rotten and spineless individuals who should be banned life forever, let alone from social media. But as far as being on the receiving end of their bile is concerned, I have found they get bored of themselves way more quickly than we could possibly be offended by whatever they’ve written. From a Twitter following over two million I generally have a relatively abuse-free time. Twitter for me is a useful source gauging what people are thinking, as well as a constant source of fresh ideas, observation, reflection, humour and information.

No chance of me getting back to sleep. I surrender. I’ll have to catch up this afternoon.

Make a quick cup of tea before going through interview’s for Friday’s radio show, guest and live music day. Today: Gary Barlow,
Boris Becker, Stephen Merchant, Rod Stewart and live music from Joss Stone. It’s 4.30 a.m. That should be just enough to take my mind of
TFI
for a while.

9.30, radio show over. Never seen Messrs Barlow and Becker so chilled and up for a laugh; Stephen Merchant was his usual delightful self, so funny and always with such great warmth. Can’t wait to see the West End play he’s appearing in. As for Joss Stone, she fairly tore the roof off the studio with the four stunning live numbers she treated us to.

All good.

By 10.05 I’m back out in the London sunshine. Nooo! Really don’t want it to be such a nice day; ‘the hottest this year’ the papers are saying. Hot weather and balmy, sunny Friday nights are TERRIBLE for viewing figures.

We shall see.

Go to the gym for a steam, my throat and voice are on the brink of waving the white flag. Please God not that, not today. Today is a good day to go to church. I seriously consider doing just that; if I have time, I will. In the steam room, a guy asks me if am I going to take the
Top Gear
job, the question I’ve been asked every five minutes since ‘Punchgate’.

But this is the first time I have genuinely had to lie, because I have taken the
Top Gear
job. A good lesson – I need to get this story out there as soon as poss. It’s OK to fib to a bloke in the steam room, but if a heavyweight journalist comes at me with the same question and I deny it, well, that’s how wars start and careers go up in smoke.

After showering I go for a quiet five-minute relax by the pool. In between sips of water I lie back and close my eyes to contemplate what the rest of the day might have in store.

Most important of all, though, like the last mile of the marathon, I drill myself on how I mustn’t forget to enjoy what’s about to unfold. I am content beyond words, to the extent I feel myself unexpectedly drifting off into a bonus power-nap. I must need it.

But no.

No way.

Not so fast, sonny.

Suddenly I am wide awake.

As alert as I have ever been. Cold almost with realization.

A realization that has just hit me smack-bang between the eyes.

‘Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!’ I yell out loud.

‘What the fuck are we doing, dropping the kids who lost out on the speedboat and the car?’

Where this thought has spontaneously sprung from, I have no idea. I wasn’t even thinking about it. Bloody subconscious up to its tricks again.

The reason we were bringing them back in the first place was because we’d originally made them cry in front of millions of people for no good reason whatsoever. A much-deserved apology was more than a decade overdue, and now what had we gone and done?

The show that had made two gorgeous innocent little souls cry proper upset tears, live in front of the nation as small, vulnerable, children, had booked them, got them all excited, and bloody well CANCELLED them!

Had we learnt nothing?

There was no way I could let this happen. It would be such bad karma. ‘Hey, kids we made you cry then and look! Nothing’s changed. We’re still lost in showbiz having lost all sense of what’s right and what’s wrong.’

But the fact remained, as the show stood at the moment, we still didn’t have enough time.

All this week, however, I’ve been in a really good place in my heart and head. It’s been as if every time I’ve needed an idea, it was there, almost like it was on tap. And – ping! It happens again: I decide there’s only one thing for it. I will call the boss of Channel 4 and request more time. Actually, I send a text.