It was May 1998 (according to this) and I turned round to my girlfriend and said “I bet I can get on the telly” having just decided that all you need is a decently worded letter to Right to Reply. I had a website devoted to complaint letters so I had an idea about what buttons I could push so I wrote (via my AOL.com account) an email to Channel 4 expressing my disgust that Johnny Vaughan was allowed to throw out endless European stereotypes and essentially have a political platform for his anti-EU agenda on The Big Breakfast.
I wasn’t really offended to a massive extent but it did irk me a bit that he was allowed to rant on unchallenged a lot of the time. I also figured it would make perfect Right to Reply material. For those that don’t know Right to Reply was a programme where viewers could moan about the shit that was on telly and the complainers got to do their own segments during the show.
Sure enough within a day or so Joanna Lumley sexily declared that I had received new mail and there it was, an email from Channel 4 telling me this was right up their street and could I come down for filming in a couple of weeks. After my seventh celebratory wank I made the relevant arrangements, booked the day off with work and started fantasising about being discovered and going on to win all manner of awards.
The day started off badly and just went downhill from there. I got on the train and had been told that Channel 4 would call me on the way down to let me know what was happening with the script. This was in the early days of mobile phones so my phone was this exact model
which I was very excited about flipping open and saying “WHY YES HELLO CHANNEL 4 I CAN TALK TO YOU ABOUT THE SCRIPT RIGHT NOW REGARDING MY TV APPEARANCE” when they called.
Fucking thing ran out of charge 5 minutes into the journey didn’t it?
So already I am worried about the arrangements but I know I can at least charge the phone up when I get to the hotel and talk to the channel 4 folk then to get the details about the script. A car met me at Kings Cross and took me to the hotel which was 5 minutes away from the station. Of course my driver took 90 minutes to get there not knowing where the fuck he was going. So I finally arrive at the hotel somewhat tired and stressed at about 7:00pm and get checked in and charge my phone up. Once the phone is charged up I do get to speak to the director that will be working on my section and she tells me the script will be faxed to the hotel shortly. This gives me a moment of unbridled joy where I can go to reception and tell them that I am expecting a script to be faxed through from Channel 4 and could they let me know as soon as it arrives.
The script is pushed under my door at about 9:00pm so I can’t thank whoever brought it up loudly and reading it through it’s based on my email to Channel 4 which makes me sound like a right pompous twat. I figure I can work on the delivery so I sound less pompous and retire to bed for a fitful night’s sleep as I dream about possible Oscar recognition.
I woke up in the morning super fresh and met the Channel 4 people then off we went to film around London. Now here’s a thing nobody tells you – when filming “Pieces to camera” the camera is about a millimetre away from your face and the big black lens of doom strips away any confidence or ability to speak. The crew reassured me I was fine but I felt like I spluttered my way through a lot of it and they had to do a fair few takes of lots of my lines. I did enjoy it, though, as people were staring and pointing as I was getting filmed. “Enjoy this” I thought “next time you will probably get mobbed by people asking for your autograph”.
The director had been attempting to secure an interview with Johnny Vaughan all day and we went down to The Big Breakfast house to film some stuff round there and to see if we could get in to talk to him. It wasn’t possible and a security guard made us leave making me feel like I was some kind of guerrilla film maker, sticking it to The Man. We managed to nab an interview with Johnny for the next day after filming of The Big Breakfast so we went back to the studio and I recorded a voiceover of the entire script in case they wanted to use any of it with a montage etc. I retired to bed having called my girlfriend and asked her to let my boss know what had happened and that I would need another day off. I was obviously thinking I would need the rest of my career off, because fame, but didn’t say that, owing to the fact that I am so modest.
We did a bit more filming in the morning then hung around so I could meet Johnny Vaughan and haul his ass all over the coals like the fearless citizen journalist I was. He was dead nice, greeted me and put me at ease and then we sat down to do our Frost/Nixon. Here is the entirety of my thought process for the next 15 minutes
“THAT IS JOHNNY VAUGHAN RIGHT THERE, OFF OF THE TELLY, JOHNNY VAUGHAN, I AM INTERVIEWING JOHNNY VAUGHAN, OFF OF THE TELLY, JOHNNY FUCKING VAUGHAN”
So he nailed me quite adeptly as my questions were swatted away and I just grinned and rocked backwards and forwards like Brad Pitt in 12 Monkeys. He said we could stay for breakfast after but I was too mortified to do anything other than slink off with my tail between my legs.
I returned home to find I had been sacked for taking a day off without asking (true story) and the show would be going out on that Sunday night. We went to some friends’ house to watch it and it was the most squirmy thing I have ever had the misfortune to see.
My hair was all over the shop thanks to a windy day and floppy hair, I sounded like a massive sanctimonious prick and the pieces to camera were in my best attempt at received pronunciation but then for the voiceover bits I had clearly got tired or was less afraid without a camera in my face so I went “Proper Hull”. I sounded like an idiot, looked like a twat and suffered a VAUGHNALITY as he pulled me to bits in the nicest possible way as I looked on, nodding like a simpleton.
I had a VHS of it and threw that motherfucker away quite some time ago. And no, it doesn’t exist on YouTube, you ghouls.
