One Chance (25 page)

“The first act,” Ant announced, “going through to the final of
Britain's Got Talent
is . . .”

“. . . Paul Potts!”

I felt a rush of relief wash over me. I cupped my hands over my mouth. I'd made it through to the final!

For the first time in a long while, I was feeling successful. However, this emotion was tinged with sadness. That wasn't only for Amanda Holden, who had lost her father, but also because one of Julz's favourite aunts had lost her long fight against cancer the previous week. Aunt Sheila had made our wedding cake, and I'll always remember her lying on the floor in front of me, with a rose in her teeth, as I sang Robbie Williams's “Angels” at our wedding reception. Julz's side of the family have always been a laugh a minute; being a large family, they're a bit like a travelling show. This was Aunt Sheila's way of messing around.

There wasn't much time between the semi-final and the final: just three days. I had plenty of rehearsals to keep my mind off
things, and also the introduction to my spot on the final to record. The location the crew chose for that was a little crazy; they wanted me to walk to and beyond the camera on a very crowded Oxford Street at lunchtime. What should have taken just a few minutes ended up taking three hours, as I was repeatedly stopped by passersby who wanted to congratulate me. It felt strange yet touching to have people I didn't know giving me encouragement.

That was just one sign of the impact the programme was having. The media were now taking a real interest, and not just in the UK but all over the world: the first audition seemed to have made a splash everywhere, and I was being interviewed by journalists from Australia to South Africa and the United States. It was really quite bewildering. I spent much of my time in the hotel lobby taking calls from journalists on my mobile.

At first, the media interest was very positive and supportive. But as the final neared, it started to become more cynical. I had one call from the
Sun
newspaper accusing me of misleading the public and suggesting that I was already a professional. I explained that while I'd had some coaching, it had been years earlier, and that one master class with Pavarotti didn't amount to being trained by him. I told the journalist that I had supplied all of this information to the programme, and it was there for everyone to see on the
Britain's Got Talent
website. I had never made any money from my singing before, so I felt justified in saying I was an amateur.

Many other interviews went in a similar way. While I did feel a little embattled, I knew that if I refused to answer the questions, the newspapers would add two and two together and come up with whatever number they wanted. I remained polite but firm
about my history of singing and held my ground. In many ways, this was the first time I had ever really stood up for myself without losing my temper.

The nastiest interview was yet to come. In spring 2007, a young girl named Madeleine McCann had gone missing from the accommodation in Portugal where she was staying with her parents. It was, and still is, big news. As the final approached, I had not one, not two, but three calls from a reporter with the
Daily Star Sunday
. The call didn't start well. He began by asking what I thought my chances were of winning the competition. The journalist was attempting to get me to say I was a sure thing when I knew full well that I wasn't. He asked me what I thought of the sweetheart of a little girl, Connie Talbot. I told him that she was as bright as a button, and her maturity belied her young years.

“Do you think she will win,” the reporter asked, “because she looks like Madeleine McCann?”

I was horrified. How could anyone be so incredibly insensitive and nasty? Worse still, I felt I knew exactly what he was trying to do. It seemed he was trying to entrap me into giving them a headline that might read “Paul Potts says Connie will win because she looks like missing girl, Madeleine McCann.”

The journalist phoned me three times, and on each occasion asked me the same question. I made a point of telling Jenna, who looked after both Connie and me and let the other contestants know as well. It turned out that I wasn't the only one this journalist had tried to entrap; he'd tried the same trick on some of the others, too. I sat down with Connie's parents, explaining what had been happening, and also to warn them in case the subject was raised with them.

I felt there was a very real risk the reporter would try to suggest that, despite our denials, one of us had said yes to his question. When he rang me for the third time and once more asked about Connie, I was extremely firm with him.

“Listen,” I told him, “I have refused to answer that for the last two days. It is a blatant attempt to cause mischief. What makes you think I will be stupid enough to justify your spiteful question with an answer?”

That was the only time I have ever had to hang up on a call from a journalist. I was furious that he would be so nasty, and that he was trying to kill any hope that I might just get some success after the show. It was quite the revelation for me. I was fighting for something for myself, for a change, rather than lying down and allowing someone to walk all over me.

Dealing with journalists wasn't the only thing I had to get used to. I also met the people who were to become my managers after the show. Richard Griffiths and Harry Magee told me that not only were they going to be looking after me, but that there was already considerable interest from several record companies. They came across a bit like “good cop–bad cop,” Harry being the gentler one and Richard the firm one. I've since learned this to be true. They were, and are, a great double act and perfect foils for each other. The whole situation was difficult to get my head around; for years, no one had seemed interested, yet following a coin toss and two performances, my life was now doing an about-turn.

All of this put added pressure on me to succeed. I didn't dare to believe it too much, though, because I knew that once there was expectation, it would play on my nerves. So far I had kept
my jitters in check by having no expectations at all. Having nothing to lose helped me not think about what was happening. For all Richard and Harry's talk about record companies, I needed to maintain that feeling and keep my expectation levels down. As the final approached, I genuinely thought little Connie Talbot would win the show. That, too, was the thinking amongst the other finalists.

In the final rehearsals, I went through “Nessun Dorma” a few more times. By the end, I really felt I had sung it well. So well, I worried whether or not I could replicate it on the night. In addition to the singing, the producers also wanted to rehearse talking with the presenters. I made a conscious decision that I didn't want to say in an interview with Ant and Dec what I would actually say in the final itself.

From always being on the sidelines and from studying media as part of my degree, I had learned to read body language and to judge people's intentions from their eyes. I had watched shows like
Britain's Got Talent
before, and recognised the expression on people's faces that made it look like they were reading something: they were recollecting what they'd said before. I didn't want to rehearse what I would actually say, as I didn't want it to come across as practised and therefore insincere. It is how I have continued to handle interviews ever since.

I had a very nervous wait after rehearsals for stage time, and eventually we were called down. When we were taken to our holding room, Amanda Holden was there having her makeup done. It was great that she wanted to spend time with us all before we went on stage. We got a real sense that she had been in that situation before, and knew how we were all feeling.

It was little Connie who broke the silence first. “I'm going to make you cry again, tonight, Amanda!” she said.

Everybody laughed, and no one doubted that she was right. Yvie was there, and came over to speak to each of us individually. When it was my turn, she came over and whispered in my ear. “Paul! Your flies are undone!”

I was hugely grateful for her spotting that. Thanks to Yvie, I wasn't after all going to be walking out in front of fourteen million people with my trousers unzipped. I'd learned my lesson from the semi-final, too, and made a point of making sure that my mobile phone was safely locked away in my dressing room.

There were five other acts in the final: dance group Kombat Breakers, Connie Talbot, Bessie Cursons, jugglers the Bar Wizards, and Damon Scott. Once again, I was chosen to perform last. Once again, the time soon came for me to enter the stage. Although I had performed “Nessun Dorma” at the start of competition, singing it again felt anything other than easy.

I was aware that at the start, any success was unexpected, whereas now expectations were raised, and this increased the pressure on me. So much so that I could feel my legs beginning to shake while I was waiting for the doors at the back of the stage to open. I found I was checking the words of “Nessun Dorma” under my breath, and I told myself to shut up. It was too late to think about that now.

“He's our final act of the night,” Dec announced. “It's Paul Potts!”

The doors opened, and to cheers from the audience I walked out through the dry-ice fog effect to the microphone. I gave a
wave to the crowd and then the very short introduction started. I felt my knees trembling and the nerves still trying to take control of my body. The tension I'd lost during the rehearsals had returned with a vengeance. I could feel the tension in my neck, signaled by a tightness across the back, and knew this would affect my tone, making it tighter and thinner.

To me, for all the applause from the audience at the end of the song, I had given an unsatisfactory performance. Tension had been my enemy, and I felt sure this was the end of the road. At least I made it this far—that's a real achievement, I thought to myself. I was resigned to defeat when Ant and Dec came across. I appreciated the lift in confidence the show had given me, and wanted to express this in the interview.

“I don't believe in all honesty that this has happened to me,” I told them. “It's so difficult to believe, and I'm just so grateful that I'm able to gain a bit of confidence. I should have more faith in myself, and I'm working on that. It's really shown me the way.”

It was time for the judges' comments. Piers began, recalling my original audition back in Wales.

“I remember you coming on stage in that terrible suit,” he said. “The expectation level was very low. I turned to Simon and we both raised our eyebrows when you said ‘opera.' And then you began to sing . . . when you finished that audition, I remember thinking, I have just seen the winner of
Britain's Got Talent
. . . having watched you perform again, that same song, I still think we have seen the winner of
Britain's Got Talent
.”

“You won't be going back to Carphone Warehouse,” Amanda
went next, to cheers from the audience. “You won't be on any kind of pay-as-you-go. You'll be on a contract from Monday.”

“Your story touched everyone when you came out,” Simon spoke last. “A shy, humble man with an extraordinary talent. I want to give the underdog a shot on this show, and I'd love you to win after that performance.”

These comments were heartening, but I knew it was the public vote that would matter most, and who would decide the winner. I'd felt the judges' comments would be made irrelevant by my not getting enough votes to win, due to my performance. I didn't feel worthy of the comments, so inwardly brushed them aside. The finalists had to wait a very long hour before the result would be announced. It was the longest hour of my life! I went to the canteen, but I couldn't eat a thing. In the end, I decided I didn't want to be around other people, so I went to the dressing room and had some time to myself.

After what seemed like an eternity, we were called down to the holding area to return to the stage. It was results time. I was asked to look after Connie, as we would be entering from the same set of stairs, me after her. I just prayed that, bearing in mind my clumsiness, I wouldn't trip and fall down the steps.

Ant and Dec called our names one by one, and we walked out to our allotted spaces on stage. We stood all in one line, and Ant and Dec recapped what the judges had said about our performances.

“And this is it,” Dec said to a hushed silence from the audience. “The winner . . . of
Britain's Got Talent
. . . is . . .”

The wait for the announcement was agony. My heart felt like it had stopped. The audience were cheering and shouting out the names of who they wanted to win. Please, I thought, just shout out a name, any name—just let the agony be over!

And then my life changed forever.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

On Record

“. . . PAUL POTTS!”

In my disbelief, I exclaimed into my cupped hands, “How the hell did this happen?” I felt a sense of elation and disbelief rush over me. I had won! The studio audience were on their feet, cheering and applauding. Ant and Dec tried to interview me, but the noise was so loud I couldn't hear what I was saying. Then, as the judges offered me their congratulations—Piers: “You've earned it. You deserve it.” Amanda: “God, well done and good luck with the rest of your life; it's going to be fabulous!”—Simon took my breath away. “Paul, I am so proud of you, and I want to say something very quickly. Next week you are going to be in a recording studio, making your debut album.”