How I landed TV fame – the day the bailiffs came knocking!
A penniless Dale Winton had just one chance to land his dream job ... as his glorious memoirs reveal, the lengths he went to get it amazed even him
Any budding young television stars who want a career on the box, here’s how it’s done. And pay attention at the back — I ought to know all the tricks, because Lord knows I had to battle for my breakthrough.
By the time I was summoned to an audition for a new daytime game show called Supermarket Sweep in 1993, I was 37 years old and I’d been in showbiz for more than half my life. But I was no star — after many years on local radio, I’d been struggling to make ends meet by selling timeshares in holiday apartments.
I wanted to host Supermarket Sweep from the moment I heard it was in the pipeline. A mad mixture of a quiz and It’s A Knockout, it seemed tailor-made for me.
The producers didn’t think so, though: when I persuaded them to look at my showreel, a videotape of me performing for the camera, they weren’t impressed. ‘ We’ve got a real problem with you,’ they said. ‘you are not a “name” — and you are too camp.’ Lesson one: don’t accept rejection. I asked them to give me a proper audition: ‘I’m a professional,’ I insisted. ‘Tell me the style of performance you want, and I’ll deliver.’
no such luck — they gave the job to Keith Chegwin. But that deal fell through and, lo and behold, I did get a call inviting me to audition at Central TV’s offices in London.
The day of the screen test did not start well. The first thing I heard was the ominous plop of a letter on my doormat — a missive from my bank to warn that they were fed up with waiting for me to pay my overdraft, and they were sending in the bailiffs. I put my money worries out of my mind, and set about dressing in a navy blue suit, a crisp pale-blue shirt and a really smart tie. That’s lesson two: look the part. And lesson three is, be prepared. As part of my prep, I’d watched every episode from the American version of Supermarket Sweep I could lay my hands on, and I was gratified to be told by a producer as I walked into the meeting, ‘you obviously know the show, and that’s a good start.’
But then another body blow: ‘What we don’t want is a camp host in a Lurex boob tube.’
Is that how the TV industry saw me? I’d presented some low-key shows, but this was my first chance of a smash hit. Did they think no one would see past my camp persona?
‘I can be as camp or as non-camp as you want me to be,’ I said. ‘I’m not Joan Crawford, but I’m not Arnold Schwarzenegger either. Between you and me, I’d quite like to be Diana Ross, but that’s another story.’
As the laughter died down, we exchanged a few pleasantries, but by the end of the meeting I knew it had all been too superficial. They weren’t going to offer me the job. Lesson four: never give up. As I stood up, I paused and found my strength. The words just flowed, as if I was delivering a piece to camera. ‘I’ve not quite finished yet. There’s something else I’d like to say.’
The TV executives all looked up at me as if to say, ‘What on earth is this man about to do now?’
‘you should give me Supermarket Sweep,’ I said, ‘because I am the best presenter that you’ll ever find for it. you’ll find Lord Lucan sooner than you will find a better host for this show. Do you understand?
‘What’s more,’ I added, ‘don’t be afraid of camp. Women love a bit of camp. It will work. Do you hear what I’m saying?’
now in my stride, I found I was using all my well-proven timeshare techniques, littering my sales pitch with ‘Do you understand?’, ‘Do you hear what I’m saying?’.
This might not be a property deal for a Spanish seaside apartment, but I was trying to close the sale just the same. I needed to. I felt that I was fighting, literally, for my life in show business.
‘I am not an arrogant man,’ I insisted, ‘but I want you to know that I am the best man for this job — and that you have to give me this job. And I promise you I will not let you down. Do you understand? Trust me. Just trust me.’
SUDDENLY realising how I must sound, I abruptly stopped myself, closed my eyes and fell silent. The impact this had within the room was dramatic. But I wasn’t play-acting.
As I walked out of the building, I was shell- shocked. I had never behaved like that before. It’s not acceptable for artistes to lecture heads of entertainment.
Still in a daze, I found myself in the food hall of Selfridges, thinking that I needed to find a phone and pick up the messages on my answering service.
The first one was from my agent. ‘They loved you,’ he said. ‘you’ve got the job.’
I sank forwards on to a cheese counter. ‘ Say that again — several times!’ It was one of those moments when you feel like running into the street to kiss everyone in the universe.
The fee for the first series of Supermarket Sweep wasn’t enough to let me be extravagant but it did pay off my overdraft and keep the bailiffs away. A different sort of stress rose up in place of my money worries. I had 75 episodes to present, across 15 weeks. That made for some very long days.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved the show, and the set — a huge replica supermarket, fitted out with shelves and freezer cabinets packed with everything found in any major food store.
even before the audience arrived, the child in me couldn’t resist a few practice runs up and down its aisles, pushing a trolley with all the highspeed artistry of a Formula One racing driver.
But I always felt for the audience, by 5.30pm they had often had enough. We were shooting the programmes in July and August which meant it was boiling hot outside but, to keep me cool and the audience awake, the air-conditioning was always full on and the studio was like an iceberg. The afternoon audiences would arrive in their light summer clothes, and by the time we finished they would be sitting there with their headscarves on.
DESPERATE to make the series a success, I was working hard to keep my weight down. I knew that when I was under stress, I was most vulnerable to over-eating.
I used to order a continental breakfast in the hotel, which included croissants, a Danish pastry with custard and another with fruit.
I managed to resist the pastries in the mornings but I used to put them in a drawer in case I needed a midnight feast. I realise that this was very silly, but . . .
On one occasion at about ten at night, I was so determined not to eat a Danish pastry that I threw it in the waste-paper bin. At about 3am, though, I woke up wanting that pastry.
As I stood over the bin, I checked myself, saying: ‘ Dale, what are you doing? you’re thinking of fishing a Danish pastry out of a waste-paper bin. Stop it!’ Then, to make sure I wouldn’t weaken, I emptied all the cigarette butts from the ashtray on top of it.
I’m also a chocoholic and whenever I’m stressed or unhappy I’ll go to desperate measures to get hold of some. I’ve even been known to send a taxi driver to an all-night filling station to buy me a few bars.
I had plenty to be stressed about. A year earlier, when I was really desperate for work, I had agreed to present a very dubious video for a Sunday newspaper — called Sexual Olympics, Sporting Girls. I knew it was dodgy, but the production company was offering me a muchneeded £1,500.
It was filmed at the Circus Tavern in purfleet, essex, with a boisterous crowd all eager to ogle topless girl wrestlers in a mud bath. My job, and thankfully I kept my clothes on throughout, was to referee the rounds.
Some of the audience got a little too carried away, and wanted to join the girls. When I intervened, a burly guy grabbed hold of me and dumped me in the mud bath, too. Oh, it was dignified. Watching the finished
video with my head in my hands, I thought, ‘This will come back to haunt you, Dale.’
I wasn’t wrong — now I was famous, the newspaper remembered they had this footage of me, and called to say they were running the story. Did I want to comment? I bit my tongue. Central TV’s head of entertainment rang me, sounding rattled. ‘ Dale,’ he said, ‘ were you . . . naked?’
Apparently, that made e all the difference. The story was published but, instead of wrecking my reputation, the story just faded away. I must have kept my cheeky-but- clean image intact because I was invited to appear on Celebrity Family Fortunes, which felt like real recognition. The actor Shane Richie was a guest that night too, and after the show we shared a car from the Birmingham studios back to London.
Our travels came to an abrupt halt when the car coughed, spluttered and died in a motorway service station on the M1 at 3am. While a replacement car was summoned, Shane and I took refuge in the cafeteria.
He had just had huge success with a show called Win, Lose Or Draw, while Supermarket Sweep was edging up towards three million viewers in the ratings. And there we were, wondering if we’d have to thumb a lift home.
‘Just look at us,’ said Shane, as we carried two none-too-clean plastic trays of eggs, sausages and bacon to a grubby table, ‘here h we are stranded miles from an anywhere . . . the king and queen of daytime television!’
W When our laughter died away, I thought th about another car journey ne with a much-loved comic hero he — Larry Grayson, star of the Generation Ge Game.
D Despite owning a Rolls-Royce, he couldn’t drive, and one lunchtime tim in about 1980 I gave him a lift back bac to his home in Nuneaton in Warwickshire, Wa after he had kindly appeared app on my mid-morning show sho on Radio Trent.
Larry La was over 50 years old when he got his big break as a gameshow host.
He knew I was frustrated with my failure to make the big time, and he gave me the best advice I’ve ever had: ‘Whatever you do, Dale, never give up on yourself. It’s the stayers — those who persevere against all odds — who make it in our business.’ And he was right. The breaks may seem elusive, but they do happen.
AdApted from My Story by dale Winton (Arrow Books, £9.99). to order a copy for £7.99 (20 per cent discount), call 0844 571 0640 or go to mailshop.co.uk/books. p&p is free on orders over £15. Offer valid until May 7, 2018.