The children’s superstar
Phil Gallagher – or his alter ego, Mister Maker – is the rock star of children’s television. He chats to Steve Kilgallon.
It’s 4.30am at Phil Gallagher’s house in Kent, England. He’s just got home from a nationwide tour, is surrounded by five suitcases in states of (dis) organisation, and is packing for a flight in five hours to Singapore, where adoring fans await.
Gallagher isn’t some crusty old rocker readying himself for a reunion tour. He wears a multicoloured waistcoat and makes things out of bits of toilet roll and papier mache on children’s television. The Sydney Daily Telegraph called him a ‘‘children’s superstar’’.
The kids, of course, don’t know him as Phil Gallagher. Children know him as Mister Maker, star of a BBC arts and craft TV programme syndicated worldwide – including New Zealand, where it aired on the recently-deceased (and much lamented in our house) Kidzone channel.
In an initially croaky voice, he apologises for his tiredness. Singapore will lead him to Hong Kong, to Australia, and then here next month, for a three-city tour of New Zealand, delivering a live stage version of his television show. ‘‘It’s amazing,’’ he says, and sounds believable.
‘‘It does sound a bit of a cliche, but it is a dream come true for me. I am so honoured and privileged to be doing this. I’m really lucky. I’ve been Mister Maker for 10 years and never in my wildest dreams when I went for the job did I think I would still be making TV shows now.’’
My 6-year-old, Henry, has been sitting patiently, wanting a word. Mister Maker is a personal hero. Gallagher, admirably, drops right into character to chat to him with unlikely energy, and answer, in considerable detail (including the estimated weight of the Doodle Drawers) a difficult question about whether the Maker Mobile is a genuinely roadworthy vehicle.
Gallagher was originally a BBC local radio sports reporter. After completing a degree in radio, TV, and film production, he got a runner’s job at Disney Channel, worked his way up, and did some producing, directing and front of camera stuff with characters he’d written for himself. After almost 10 years, the opportunity came to audition for Mister Maker, ‘‘and I was lucky enough to be given the spotty waistcoat’’.
The waistcoat, which combined with an extravagantly gelled coiffure, is the de facto Maker uniform that has helped Gallagher avoid one aspect of celebrity – the public scrutiny. He gets recognised a bit, he says, and loves it. But it’s almost always by the parents – without the waistcoat, he simply isn’t Mister Maker to the kids, as he’s found when he’s emerged from the stage door in civvies to be met with blank looks by the waiting children. But when it’s on, they love him.
The shows he’s flying to in Asia are his first ticketed arena shows there, but when he did a free event in a Jakarta shopping mall last year, an estimated 10,000 people turned up. ‘‘I’ll never forget that day and be forever thankful for that experience’’.
This will be his first time in New Zealand and he gushes about the ‘‘incredible, amazing, great places’’ the gig has taken him to.
Over the decade, he’s learned the art side on the job.
He genuinely makes everything, gathers all the craft materials, writes the script, and says he really wants to inspire people. It has a pleasantly old-fashioned feel, reminiscent of the art shows fronted by Tony Hart, and Neil Buchanan’s Art Attack.
‘‘At its core, Mister Maker is a traditional arts and craft show,’’ he agrees. ‘‘Hopefully trying to inspire the little ones and the grown ups who watch to try new arts and craft techniques. It’s performed and produced in a different way . . . very comical, colourful, and with slapstick humour, but at its heart, that’s what it is about.’’
As a parent, there’s an element of guilt about watching the show and then not summoning the wherewithal to collect crepe paper, glue, felt-tip pens, and glitter to make your own crocodile or whatever. Well, says Gallagher adroitly (he’s adept at working the conversation back to the live shows), anyone who comes to the live show should get inspiration to have a go because it’s all broken down into idiot-proof steps.
‘‘The thing about art is there is no wrong or right answer. It’s really about having a go and gaining confidence to go for it.’’
He sounds, genuinely, like a man who knows he’s been exceptionally lucky. If the price of that is a chirpy chat at 4am to a 6-yearold on the other side of the planet, then it’s a pretty good equation.