Behind the Mask.
What a month January 2016 was for the culling of my erstwhile executive coaching clients. I had no notion that the passing of Bowie and Rickman would so soon be followed by Parkinson and Wogan. (Not Michael Parkinson that is, the greatly admired interviewer, comparable only to Wogan as a celebrity spearer, but Cecil the politician.) I was appalled as I think we all were by the outpouring of pseudo-grief from D list celebrities claiming association to the two greats that were Bowie and Rickman, when their real motive was to reflect glory by association upon themselves and their thin meagre second-hand lives. I would never presume to indulge myself in such a fashion.
By happenstance both Terry and Cecil came to me in late 1983, at time of profound personal crisis for each of them. But then as you know it is at that moment of crisis so profound as to be destiny altering that the great and illustrious turn to me, imperilled yet confident of succour and life long anonymity. In this instance Cecil’s crisis related to his being unceremoniously sacked by Thatcher the career snatcher. The story put about was that he had to resign as he had gotten his secretary pregnant.
This was partly true; but as only i can reveal, the whole truth was that Margaret was furiously jealous that her most handsome and most lustrous of ministers should be found so undiscerning as respond to a sexual magnetism other than her own, unassailably and indissolubly paired with Dennis though she was. For Terry’s part, he was deeply anxious in that he did not share the BBC’s optimism that his loquacious radio talents could transfer so easily to the constrained format of TV chat show. In fact, off air, Terry was a mass of neuroses.
In line with my group breaking Celebrity Co- Coaching (CCC) technique, I brought these two conflicted characters together in November 1983 in my fashionably tatty Earls Court consulting room to see what light they may be able to shine upon each other’s plight. What was immediately noticeable was the contrast between their respective private as opposed to public demeanours. Cecil in the confines of my sacred space was as knock-about funny and charming as Terry was anxious about everything around him, catastrophising that every element of his life was soon to be falling apart, not least his TV show.
Cecil, on the other hand had – with my support – discovered that he had progressed through the Kubler Ross grief curve in four short weeks and was well down the road of planning his next career as a whimsical stand up comedian ready to challenge the Ben Elton and the whole emergent alternative comedy scene. His only real obstacle was getting his name out there in this different context. And somehow to get beyond the perception that he was standing on the shoulders of Bernard Manning.
Terry was confident that he could get him a few Home Counties golf club gigs to get him going. As Terry stumbled on through his litany of misery, Neither Cecil nor I could divine why he was speaking in a mock Yorkshire accent, his mutterings barely comprehensible as he mixed personal reminiscence with lengthy, complex questions seemingly addressed to us both. When we were at last able to inquire as to this modality, he explained that he was modelling his TV persona on Michael Parkinson’s delivery, though the personal transformation project was in the early stages.
As confession fell upon confession, he also revealed that he was deeply concerned that his increasingly lengthy, hedonistic lunches with his fellow early morning performer Frank Bough were descending into stimulant fuelled chaos that were bound sooner of later to attract the attention of the paparazzi. Cecil with all his recent painfully won learning concerning press intrusion was able to tender some street-wise advice to Terry , such as always to use a condom.
In a well meaning attempt to rehabilitate Terry’s mellifluous Irish brogue, Cecil prompted that we make our way along the Fulham Road to the Chenye Arms, where George Best was to be found for a craic laden lunch. Terry was all for this, so long as he could bring Bough along too. And Kenny Everett, who was in his foam-rubber hands ‘let’s kick Michael Foot’ s stick away mode. And Ernie Wise. (All of whom later were to become long term customer’s of mine – word of mouth you see, the golden marketing rule.) In that sage company, Cecil found a safe place to try out some of his more outre far right alternative jokes, while Terry and George rehearsed some spontaneous repartee for George’s forthcoming slot on Terry’s studio sofa. I gazed fondly on this tableau, basking in the realisation that not only had I manifested this legendary event, but that all of the secrets divulged therein would follow me to my grave and beyond. `Cigars all round’ I should say say.Behind the Mask.
What a month January 2016 was for the culling of my erstwhile executive coaching clients. I had no notion that the passing of Bowie and Rickman would be so soon be followed by Parkinson and Wogan. (Not Michael Parkinson that is, the greatly admired interviewer, comparable only to Wogan as a celebrity spearer, but Cecil the politician.) I was appalled as I think we all were by the outpouring of pseudo-grief from D list celebrities claiming association to the two greats that were Bowie and Rickman, when there real motive was to reflect glory by association upon themselves and their thin meagre second-hand lives. I would never presume to indulge myself in such a fashion. By happenstance both Terry and Cecil came to me in late 1983, at time of profound personal crisis for each of them.
But then as you know it is at that moment of crisis so profound as to be destiny altering that the great and illustrious turn to me, imperilled yet confident of succour and life long anonymity. In this instance Cecil’s crisis related to his being unceremoniously sacked by Thatcher the career snatcher. The story put about was that he had to resign as he had gotten his secretary pregnant. This was partly true; but as only i can reveal, the whole truth was that Margaret was furiously jealous that her most handsome and most lustrous of ministers should be found so undiscerning as respond to a sexual magnetism other than her own, unassailably and indissolubly paired with Dennis though she was. For Terry’s part, he was deeply anxious in that he did not share the BBC’s optimism that his loquacious radio talents could transfer so easily to the constrained format of TV chat show.
In fact, off air, Terry was a mass of neuroses. In line with my group breaking Celebrity Co- Coaching (CCC) technique, I brought these two conflicted characters together in November 1983 in my fashionably tatty Earls Court consulting room to see what light they may be able to shine upon each other’s plight. What was immediately noticeable was the contrast between their respective private as opposed to public demeanours. Cecil in the confines of my sacred space was as knock-about funny and charming as Terry was anxious about everything around him, catastrophising that every element of his life was soon to be falling apart, not least his TV show.
Cecil, on the other hand had – with my support – discovered that he had progressed through the Kubler Ross grief curve in four short weeks and was well down the road of planning his next career as a whimsical stand up comedian ready to challenge the Ben Elton and the whole emergent alternative comedy scene. His only real obstacle was getting his name out there in this different context. And somehow to get beyond the perception that he was standing on the shoulders of Bernard Manning. Terry was confident that he could get him a few Home Counties golf club gigs to get him going.
As Terry stumbled on through his litany of misery, Neither Cecil nor I could divine why he was speaking in a mock Yorkshire accent, his mutterings barely comprehensible as he mixed personal reminiscence with lengthy, complex questions seemingly addressed to us both. When we were at last able to inquire as to this modality, he explained that he was modelling his TV persona on Michael Parkinson’s delivery, though the personal transformation project was in the early stages. As confession fell upon confession, he also revealed that he was deeply concerned that his increasingly lengthy, hedonistic lunches with his fellow early morning performer Frank Bough were descending into stimulant fuelled chaos that were bound sooner of later to attract the attention of the paparazzi. Cecil with all his recent painfully won learning concerning press intrusion was able to tender some street-wise advice to Terry , such as always to use a condom.
In a well meaning attempt to rehabilitate Terry’s mellifluous Irish brogue, Cecil prompted that we make our way along the Fulham Road to the Chenye Arms, where George Best was to be found for a craic laden lunch. Terry was all for this, so long as he could bring Bough along too. And Kenny Everett, who was in his foam-rubber hands ‘let’s kick Michael Foot’ s stick away persona. And Ernie Wise. (All of whom later were to become long term customer’s of mine – word of mouth you see, the golden marketing rule.) In that sage company, Cecil found a safe place to try out some of his more outre far right alternative jokes, while Terry and George rehearsed some spontaneous repartee for George’s forthcoming slot on Terry’s studio sofa. I gazed fondly on this tableau, basking in the realisation that not only had I manifested this legendary event, but that all of the secrets divulged therein would follow me to my grave and beyond. `Cigars all round’ I should say say.