I loved Kenny with all my everything
Cleo Rocos remembers the joy of working with – and being engaged to – her ‘fellow Martian’, Kenny Everett, who died 25 years ago
It was a chance meeting with Jim Moir, the head of Light Entertainment at the BBC, that led to my being on The Kenny Everett Television Show (1981-88). Jim is a truly jolly, sharp and divinely witty man, exuding light-charged energy and major fun. A most superb being. He said that the The Kenny Everett Television Show had just been poached by the BBC from Thames Television and asked if I would like to come and audition for the 1981 Christmas show. So that is how it all started.
The first time I met Kenny, who would have been 75 on Christmas Day, was on the first day of filming. I was dressed as a majorette for the sketch, standing in the shadows in the BBC studio, watching everything and absorbing all that was going on.
Kenny was wearing his general’s outfit, with the huge shoulders housing small cannons. He was sitting in the middle of the set as the special-effects team were mending one of the cannons because it wasn’t firing. Kenny looked over and saw me standing and quietly watching.
‘Hellooooo,’ he said, and gestured for me to come over. He asked my name and we just started to chat. Something ignited and we were soon laughing away. With a look of total happiness, Kenny gleefully said to me, ‘Finally – a fellow Martian. We are going to get on.’
That turned out to be a most glorious understatement. At the end of filming of the Christmas show, Kenny asked me if I would like to be in the series.
‘Oh yes, I would love to,’ I said. Our friendship grew and we delighted in each other’s company. We started going to parties and dinners followed by nights out dancing.
Working together was edge-to-edge happiness and laughter. The Kenny Everett Television Show was getting record ratings, with 20 million viewers weekly. Kenny didn’t believe in learning lines; he liked things to be more spontaneous. We would often laugh uncontrollably and make extra bits of sketches up, too.
The sketches were very funny and ingeniously crafted by Barry Cryer and Ray Cameron. The four of us would go to lunch down the road from the BBC to either a Chinese or a restaurant called the Balzac. On a couple of occasions we had to buy the tablecloth, as ideas and sketches were excitedly scribbled between the plates and glasses, with punchlines written round blobs of food and splashes of wine – the souvenirs of another splendid lunch. There were many times when we arrived back in the studio a little over-refreshed by our jolly lunch.
Kenny was always ready for happy mischief and would quite often and innocently hurtle through boundaries he hadn’t even noticed. He relished in teetering on the edge of being a bit naughty and bypassing dreary limits imposed by some fun-crushing rulemaker or do-gooder.
Used to working live on his radio show, he didn’t like to film anything more than once. He was not at all selfimportant. Kenny just wanted everyone to enjoy working on the show as much as we did. We had a wonderful team – he loved it when the camera and crew could not control their laughter during filming.
We adored being together. Our secret codeword was ‘Banana’ – the happy, smiling fruit. Kenny once came back early from a short trip to New York and had a gigantic truck full of bananas delivered to my front door, with a note saying, ‘I am across the road in Han’s [a Chinese restaurant]. Come and have
dinner with me immediately, or I’ll die. I missed you.’
On 21st June 1989, after a blissful night of dancing in a Latin sweatbox, Kenny asked me to marry him. I was taken aback – but I managed to catch my breath and excitedly say, ‘YES.’
Every fibre of my being was in exquisite disarray with unquantifiable happiness. Still on one knee, Kenny looked directly in my eyes and earnestly declared, ‘I love you, Cleo. I even miss you when I have to go for a pee.’
Kenny made all the plans. He chose the church in Little Cherington, Warwickshire, for the wedding. As people started to find out we were engaged, there were some unnecessary comments. I could tell this was deeply upsetting for him – the comments were directed at him being gay and marrying me. I loved him and wanted to marry him more than anything.
We went to lunch in Han’s again and I said, ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t get married, after all.’
He looked upset but also relieved. His eyes filled with tears, as did mine. It took all my love for him, and all my strength, to say that. I didn’t want him to have to say it.
Ours was a truly fabulous, if unconventional romance. I said, ‘We are beyond marriage, anyway.’ Instead of our engagement party, we had an unengagement party. It was a triumph.
Kenny was very gentlemanly; he adored good manners. He was also extremely clever and had a great understanding of technology and how everything worked, from the universe to radio waves.
He was always on the cutting edge of any new gadget and special effect, yet he still had a great affection for tradition, old wireless sets and proper brogues.
Kenny had a recurring dream in which the Queen would invite him to Buckingham Palace for tea and they would get on famously.
If we were enjoying a wonderful evening and suddenly dawn was breaking, Kenny would jump up and close all the curtains so we could continue dancing, chatting and drinking cocktails. We never seemed to sleep, and when we did eventually open the curtains it was often a couple of days later.
One evening, after a rather grand event, Kenny was driving us both back. I was in a pink ballgown, with a skirt the size of St Paul’s Cathedral, wearing a tiara. Kenny said how my tiara twinkled with light – very much like a siren on top of a police car. Shrieking with laughter, I climbed onto the roof of his car and gripped by my fingertips onto the narrow rim – and then he drove round and round Trafalgar Square with me mimicking a police siren.
Suddenly, from nowhere, a police car appeared. The officers told Kenny to get out of his car. They pointed to me on the roof: ‘What do you call this, then?’
Kenny replied, ‘Oh, there you are, Clee – I’ve been driving round and round, looking for you everywhere.’
Just at that moment – luckily – the policemen recognised Kenny and me. With good cheer, they just told us to be on our way.
Kenny was born on Christmas Day 1944 – and so his birthday was not usually particularly noticeable. I always celebrated it, though – first, with a present he would love. We would both always try to find the most spectacularly hideous gifts for each other.
I once found the most dreadful wall light with metal filigree, depicting a scene of stags on a hill, set on an orange and yellow background.
Kenny looked stunned as he unwrapped it and held it up. He was speechless. He plugged it in and the thing glowed like a gaudy Balinese sunset. ‘I love it, Clee,’ he bellowed. ‘It is fantastic.’ He banged a nail in the wall and it instantly became a firm fixture in his living room.
On 4th April 1995 – 25 years ago – Kenny died, aged only 50. I felt as though I had fallen through a trap door into an abyss of emptiness and grief.
I loved Kenny with all my everything and more. We more than loved each other. We were quite simply the perfect temperature together and never ran out of things to talk about and laugh about.
My will to keep breathing lay scattered in his ashes. It was awful and still is.
I soon realised I have an important quest and legacy, which I fulfil every day: to have as much happy mischief and fun as can be crammed into 24 hours at a time.
May I raise a toast to one and all? Grab life by the cocktails and never drink with dreary people.
A belated merry Christmas – and happy 75th birthday, Kenny – and a throbbingly happy New Year!