Ooh! What a Lovely Pair: Our Story Read online

  ‘A rat! There’s a rat on the table!’

  All the girls spun round to look out of the window, and there was the biggest, fattest rat you’ve ever seen, happily tucking into the plate of sandwich crusts. Lisa was mortified, and Ant and me were thrown out of the house for the second time that day.

  It wasn’t just because we were in the doghouse or, more accurately, the rat-house with Lisa, but shortly after that rodent left my garden, we went up to Newcastle, because we’d been invited to Alan Shearer’s testimonial. Ever since we started going to the match together on Boxing Day 1990, we’ve had quite a history with Newcastle United fans. When we were on Byker Grove, we used to go to the match, and we’d often get stick although, to be fair, it did vary. Some days you’d be surrounded by people who gave you a bit of abuse, and then other times, you’d have people pat you on the back and say, ‘Well done, son, good for you,’ with that sense of Geordie pride that makes us so, well, proud. As we’ve had a bit more success, the ridicule has decreased and the pride has increased, which has made going to the match a much nicer experience.

  In the summer of 2001, we went to a testimonial for Robert Lee, one of the best players ever to pull on a black and white shirt, and we were lucky enough to be sat in the director’s box. The game was a bit quiet and, one by one, people on the terraces spotted us. Before we knew it, the whole stand was singing ‘Let’s Get Ready to Rhumble’ followed by a chorus of ‘Wonkey Donkey, Wonkey Donkey’. It was genuinely one of the proudest moments of my life. Plus, it was much better than ‘What are you doing messing about on Byker Grove, you little poof?’

  Alan Shearer is a god in Newcastle. We’d been asked to go on and interview the great man in the centre circle after the game had finished and, of course, we accepted straight away, because it felt like such an honour for us. It was a huge night for the city – the stadium was packed and, with Celtic as the opposition, the decibel levels in the ground couldn’t have been higher. It was being televised, and anyone who’s anyone in Newcastle was there, including Jimmy Nail, Sir Bobby Robson, Gazza and Brian Johnson, the lead singer of AC/ DC. After the final whistle, we stood at the side of the pitch, ready to walk on to the hallowed turf of the best football stadium in the world. To a standing ovation, Alan did a lap of honour with his kids, finished at the dug-out, took his seat, and then it was over to us.

  This was it, our big moment. We started walking towards the centre circle, and the sound of an announcement on the Tannoy echoed round the stadium:

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Ant and Dec!’

  The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up as we arrived at the centre circle to warm applause. I lifted up my microphone, ready to speak but, before I could say a word, a chant directed at us began to swell from the Gallowgate end – the very end we’d stood together in back in 1990. It quickly gathered momentum and made its way round the ground. We tried to work out exactly what they were saying, it didn’t sound like ‘There’s only one Ant and Dec’ or ‘Stand up if you love Ant and Dec’, or ‘Walking in an Ant and Dec wonderland’, and then, finally, their words were clearly audible to everybody there and the TV audience at home:

  ‘Who are ya? Who are ya? Who are ya?’

  It was brilliant – it was proper terrace wit, and there was no clever response to it: we just had to stand there and take it. Alan Shearer was sat in the dug-out laughing his head off, and it was a uniquely Geordie way of making sure we kept our feet on the ground. Even though there were 52,000 people ridiculing us, I felt strangely proud.

  It’s not often we can say that our work is seen by people all over the world, but that happened the very same month as Alan Shearer’s testimonial match, on a lovely spring day at a little place called Highgrove. We’d been invited back to do a second interview with Prince Charles, and we were joined by two other people – you may have heard of them: William and Harry, they’re quite well known on the Prince scene. Five years had passed since we’d interviewed Prince Charles to commemorate twenty-five years of the Prince’s Trust and now it was the Trust’s thirtieth anniversary. I’ll let you into a secret – 2011 will be their thirty-fifth anniversary. Don’t ask me how I know this stuff, I’m just connected.

  When the call came through to our management to ask if we would be interested in doing the first ever interview with all three princes together, we didn’t even need to talk about it – you don’t say no to royalty, do you? And, besides, we’ve always thought ‘Ant and Dec MBE’ has got a nice ring to it. Just like five years earlier, they wanted a more informal interview, and one that would be guaranteed to cover all the work the Trust does, rather than anything too political or heavyweight. Let’s face it, being political and heavyweight are two things you could never accuse us two of being, well, not unless we’re carrying a bit of holiday fat, which happens from time to time. It would be very easy for us to sit here and say we were honoured, flattered and proud, so we will: we were honoured, flattered and proud. Plus, it was one in the eye for Little Ant and Dec – they’d got Tony Blair, but we’d got one better and got the three princes.

  When we arrived at Highgrove, we were shown into a private room in the main house. The plan was for the five of us to have a cup of tea, a little chat and break the ice before the cameras started rolling. We were being shown into the room by an actual real-life butler when William came down the stairs, and Harry appeared from a room nearby. We all introduced ourselves and, observing royal etiquette, asked the young princes how they would like to be addressed. The immediate answer was ‘William’ and ‘Harry’, which seemed easy enough to remember – and obviously we told them we were happy with ‘Ant’ and ‘Dec’.

  Just then, William, who was wearing a blue jumper, shirt and chinos, noticed that his younger brother was also sporting a blue jumper, shirt and chino combo. They both eyed each other up, and we could tell they were thinking the same thing: ‘Oh no, we can’t go on TV wearing identical outfits.’ Someone would have to get changed. ‘How do these things work themselves out in royal circles?’ we thought. ‘Does it come down to who’s first in line to the throne? Do they get their father, the future king, to adjudicate? Or is everyone just relieved that Harry’s picked an appropriate outfit for the occasion for once?’ In the end, it came down to one of the oldest laws known to man: William looked at Harry and, with a gesture of the head, said, ‘Well, go and get changed then.’ After a quick sigh, Harry obediently went off to change his jumper. Big brothers always win. I should know, being the youngest of seven.

  After the royal-wardrobe malfunction had been resolved, we made our way into the ice-breaking room (I don’t think that was its official title…), and that was when Prince Charles came in. We sat opposite the three of them for ten to fifteen minutes of dedicated ice-breaking. Before long, we’d turned to the subject that men fall back on when they don’t know what else to talk about – football. William is an Aston Villa fan, while Harry is an Arsenal supporter, and he took great pleasure in ribbing us about Newcastle United. He stopped short of chanting, ‘Who are ya? Who are ya? Who are ya?’ though. It immediately put us at ease – if there’s one thing us two are experienced at, it’s being teased about how bad Newcastle are.

  The ice was well and truly broken and we were getting on famously when the tea arrived on a tray in a massive king-sized teapot – although it might have been a future-king-sized pot, I couldn’t be sure. The butler put the tray down and backed away from the table. The conversation carried on, and nobody seemed to have any intention of pouring any tea. Then, suddenly, me and Dec had exactly the same thought: ‘What’s the protocol? Are we supposed to pour? Are they expecting me to pour? If I do pour, am I being presumptuous? What if I pour and spill it?’ Being clumsy in front of royalty is not something I was keen to do. One thing was certain: none of the princes had any intention of pouring – they probably have someone to put their socks on for them, they’re not likely to bother making tea for a couple of blokes from the west end of Newcastle. It
had become very clear – we were locked in a tea stand-off.

  After what seemed like forever, the butler reappeared and made his way towards the tray. He picked up the future-king-sized pot and poured the tea. Oh, the relief. But our problems didn’t end there: we quickly realized, now it was poured, it would have to be drunk, and that meant picking up the cup and saucer. I knew my hands would shake because I was so nervous and so, in turn, I became very nervous about showing my nerves, and causing my cup and saucer to rattle in front of the future kings of England. My mouth was so dry by this point that this tea seemed like the most appealing, thirst-quenching beverage in history. I tried to pick it up a couple of times but, after a quick wobble, quickly put it down again.

  Neither of us ever managed a single sip of that tea. It just sat there and went stone-cold. I’ve never been so thirsty in all my life.

  Finally, and despite the fact that our throats were almost too parched to speak, we went to the main room and did the interview. All three princes were articulate about the Trust, and the interview was going so well that we quickly started straying into other subjects, like music. Before we knew what was happening, William was ribbing us two about our previous life as PJ and Duncan. He explained to his dad that we’d been pop stars – for some reason, PJ and Duncan had passed Prince Charles by, but I suppose he can’t make time for everything – and we all had a good laugh about it, or they laughed at us, to be more precise. We asked them if they ever got starstruck meeting any celebrities and Charles answered that he was starstruck by us two. Sitting in front of Prince Charles saying he was starstruck was one of the most surreal things that’s ever happened to me, although I don’t think he actually was starstruck – he certainly didn’t have any problem drinking his tea.

  Charles gave most of the answers while William chipped in, and Harry was the classic younger brother – teasing everyone and not taking things too seriously. Walking round the gardens afterwards and admiring the topiary, I asked William and Harry if they had anything to do with how the grounds looked. Had they perhaps chosen any of the – flora and fauna? Harry gave a very short, simple and honest answer: ‘No – if it was up to me, the whole thing would be concreted over.’ This made me laugh out loud but, fortunately, I don’t think Prince Charles heard, although if he’s reading this, I’ve just shot myself in the foot, not to mention put that MBE in serious jeopardy.

  William explained that tours of the grounds were often given as prizes in charity auctions, which meant that he would regularly wake up, draw open the curtains and see a load of strangers walking around admiring the garden. Which, I suppose, gives strength to Harry’s argument. If he had his way, that wouldn’t happen – after all, no one wants to go on a tour of a concrete garden, do they?

  Just as with the first Prince Charles interview, there was a big part of us that was thrilled when it was over – it had gone really well and, even better, Conor McAnally hadn’t been there to ask about jam. And it’s a real privilege to have spent some time with Prince Charles. Whenever we bump into Tara Palmer-Tomkinson, she always tells us that ‘Sir says hello’ – I’m not sure if he really does, but it’s nice of her to say it. We’ve also seen him at various functions since, and he’s always very polite. So, even if Harry Dean Stanton doesn’t recognize us, at least Prince Charles does. I’m not sure he would’ve been any good in Alien Autopsy, but Prince Charles gets my vote every time.

  This may be the only book in history to feature Prince Charles and Jonny Wilkes on the same page, but we can’t help the people we hang around with, can we? We got to know Jonny and Robbie Williams when we were doing sm:tv, and what cemented our friendship was our weekly West London kickabout together, which also featured, at various stages, Ralf Little, Dane Bowers, Craig David, Brian McFadden and Michael Greco. Before kick-off, opponents, on seeing our squad, would often ask, ‘Is the Met Bar shut tonight?’

  For as long as we’ve been friends with Jonny and Robbie, those two have been coming up with hare-brained schemes – like the four of us racing across America in the Gumball Rally ( for charity), flying to Argentina to challenge Diego Maradona to a game of football (for charity), or putting together an enormous international football event featuring celebrities and legends from around the world (for charity). The last one, Soccer Aid, actually came off – twice.

  By far the most hare-brained of the lot, though, was when they asked us to join them on stage in front of a stadium full of people. At the time, Robbie was in the middle of his world tour and, every night, he’d do a little set with Jonny where they’d perform ‘Me and My Shadow’. They decided it would be a laugh if me and Ant joined them for Robbie’s concert in Milton Keynes. In front of 65,000 people. Like the Gumball Rally, we didn’t think it would ever happen; the next thing we knew we were getting measured up for jackets to match Jonny’s and Robbie’s.

  Every night, at the start of the show, Robbie would make his entrance by coming up through a trap door and on to the stage, and it was decided Ant and me would be introduced in the same way. The plan was that Jonny and Robbie would say they thought they were the best double act in Britain, at which point, we would pop up through the same trap door and put them right.

  Using Robbie’s trap door, the pair of us shot up on to the stage, much to the surprise of the 65,000 watching the concert, and proceeded to take the two of them to task over their claims.

  ‘Who do you two think you are?’ Robbie said with mock incredulity.

  We both looked at him. ‘Who do we think we are? Who do we think we are? We used to be PJ and Duncan.’

  Immediately, ‘Let’s Get Ready to Rhumble’ began booming out of the PA system. The whole place went absolutely bananas. It was amazing. As they screamed, I looked out at the crowd, shook my head and just smiled – no matter where Dec and me go, no matter what we do, that song will follow us for the rest of our lives. As the crowd sang along to our number-nine smash, we laughed our heads off. But it was a great feeling, and we felt strangely proud. Then, as planned, Robbie asked for the music to be cut. What wasn’t planned, though, was the crowd’s reaction. They let out an almighty chorus of boos. Robbie and Jonny looked shocked and even slightly hurt. ‘Hang on,’ pleaded Rob. ‘You can’t boo me – it’s my name on the ticket.’ The four of us performed his hit ‘Strong’ together and had a really great time doing it. We were messing around like mates do, except on a stage in front of a packed-out stadium.

  Those ten fateful minutes on stage in Milton Keynes had whetted our appetite, and we realized what we’d been missing. Me and Ant immediately hatched a plan to hit the road with our own tour. We instructed our management to make all the necessary arrangements and start selling tickets. We began to work on new material for what would be our fourth album and put in a call to Truck Fest 2006: ‘Keep those cows where they are, the boys are coming back.’

  No, we didn’t – we went back to the hotel and got drunk.

  Oh yeah, thank God for that.

  Chapter 38

  Marriage is a sacred and special thing but, before a man takes his vows, it’s very important he experiences humiliation and embarrassment in front of his closest friends or, as it’s otherwise known, a stag do. As Ant’s best man, my first big decision was that he should have not one but two stag dos – I know, I spoil him, don’t I? One was in London and one was in Latvia, which, believe it or not, is a very popular destination for people who want to humiliate their friends.

  The London one was first, and it featured all the usual suspects – Boppa, Athey, Goody, and most of our golf posse. We were also joined by Robbie and Jonny later in the evening.

  The theme was the Monopoly Board. Don’t worry, we didn’t spend the day playing board games – especially not after the trouble we had with the Who Wants to be a Millionaire? one. The Monopoly approach to stag dos is fairly common and it involves a pub crawl round the monopoly board. You start at a pub on the Old Kent Road at eleven o’clock in the morning and finish up in Mayfair at eleven in the evening
.

  That’s not quite the whole story, is it?

  Oh yeah, I almost forgot, the stag gets either Community Chest or a Chance card in each pub, just like the board game. The card will typically say something like ‘Congratulations, you’ve won a beauty contest,’ and then the stag will get made up and dressed as a beauty queen. Looking back, it’s hard to know which one of the costumes Ant was forced to wear I enjoyed most – the gay biker, the chav, and Wolf from Gladiators all spring to mind.

  I’ll never forget, as the full-time whistle went in England’s World Cup warm-up game against Jamaica, leaving the pub to head to McDonald’s for some much-needed sustenance. And the reason I’ll never forget it is because I was dressed as a French maid – thanks a lot, Dec.

  You’re welcome. I’d also like to point out that, as the best man, I took precautions to make sure things ran smoothly. Normally, you’d travel around London on the tube as part of the Monopoly-board stag do, but I decided the easiest – not to mention safest – thing to do was hire a minibus – and, out of my own pocket, a security guard to keep an eye on the groom.

  That’s supposed to be the best man’s job – to be sensible and keep an eye on the groom.

  I know – and that’s exactly why I had to pay a responsible adult to do it. Despite the precautions I took, there was still the odd hitch. We got snapped by the paparazzi pretty early on, and whoever took those pictures obviously sent them back to the newsdesk of one of the tabloids and, from that, some bloodhound of a journalist worked out we were doing the Monopoly-board route, and knew exactly where we’d be for the rest of the day.