It’s Not What You Think and Memoirs of a Fruitcake 2-in-1 Collection - Chris Evans

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      I was twenty-one by now and financially things were going well for me, by that I don’t mean I was on the way to my first million or anything like that, but well enough for Alison and I to buy our own house. Which we did, a sturdy old three-bed terraced house with a tiny front garden, a yard at the back and a knockthrough living/dining room downstairs. But a baby was something neither of us had planned and it wasn’t long before it became obvious things were not going to work out.

      Alison had been nothing but supportive of me when it came to my efforts in the world of entertainment, especially when I mooted the idea of getting back into radio. I had arrived home one night and seen a guy who I used to work with at Piccadilly who was now on the telly; somehow he’d managed to bag his own slot and although not bad, he was a little bland to say the least. If he could make it, I knew I definitely had a chance, and the difference now was I also had the funds to back me up.

      I discussed my feelings with Alison and she was nothing but encouraging and positive—this is her natural disposition. In fact it was she who pushed me to make the initial call to get back into Piccadilly. I remember specifically what she said:

      ‘Go for it, if that’s what you really want, you have to go for it.’

      Alison was totally selfless when it came to my ambition but I simply wasn’t around enough to be supportive of her in the far more important task of bringing up a young child—in short, I was a selfish prick. I came back to the house one day and Alison had had enough: she had gone back to her mum’s with the baby.

      What did I feel at the time? I’m ashamed to say relief. I saw Alison going back home as leaving me free to carry on chasing my dreams—pathetic, I know, but that’s where my head was at the time. To think now what it must have been like for her to be effectively abandoned by the father of her child and, being such a young age herself, left to bring up a little girl all on her own makes me feel awful. Not surprisingly it’s the one thing I wish I could go back and change.

      Thank Christ, Alison is the decent person she is and has continued always to put Jade first. She could so easily have let her feelings towards me dictate her decisions but she instead has remained steadfastly loyal to Jade and her well-being, and has done all she can not to let her own feelings get in the way of any chance Jade and I may have of getting to know each other. Jade has always come first with Alison, regardless of whatever else may be going on, testament to what a truly fantastic mum she has been and is one of the many reasons Jade loves her to death.

      Inevitably, from the point Alison moved back to her mum’s we grew further and further apart. With our relationship effectively over I decided to move to Manchester, but before I did so, Alison insisted we meet to talk about the future as far as Jade was concerned.

      We arranged to meet one evening to discuss what we would do as a long-term strategy considering we had a child together. We met in a pub called the Britannia in Warrington. I’ll never forget that night. Alison laid it on the table, plain and straight. That’s her style. She said if I couldn’t be relied upon to be around on a regular basis it would be best if I stayed out of the picture altogether.

      Alison had had enough of me not being there when I said I would be and stated in no uncertain terms that she was more than capable of bringing up her daughter on her own. If I wasn’t prepared to help her, she would much prefer to get on with things by herself rather than having Mr Unreliable hovering around, wondering whether or not he was going to turn up or not. Understandably her support for me and my career was no longer what it once had been—her priorities had changed and Jade came first, now and forever.

      Alison and I both agreed that if one day when Jade was older and wanted to find out who her real father was, then that would be up to her. In the meantime Alison wanted to be free to find someone else to be with in life and if that person came along, then she also wanted Jade to have the chance of having a proper full-time dad. So we decided, for the next few years at least, that it would be best for me to disappear from the scene altogether.

      I talked to a friend who had grown up without her real dad being around about my situation. She told me that she loved her stepdad, i.e. the guy her mum had got together with when her real father had left, and furthermore she neither cared nor wondered who her real father was, nor did she have any inclination to track him down.

      So that is what we did, we parted company and went our separate ways. There was no screaming or shouting, just a flat sadness. As I drove back to Manchester that night and away from my responsibilities I felt a nagging sensation deep in my gut. I’d convinced myself it was the right thing to do and in many ways it was, but at the same time I knew of course it was entirely wrong. I supported Alison and Jade financially from day one but so what? Jade was my daughter and I had decided to leave rather than look after her. Something that I now realise was unforgivable.

      Having said all that, I’m pretty sure this arrangement would have worked out fine if it weren’t for one thing—the fact that I would one day become famous and with that would come a whole load of unexpected consequences, including the inevitable intrusion into innocent people’s private lives, which Jade and her mum would have to deal with. Neither Alison nor I thought for one second that this would ever really happen—at least not to the extent it did—not that night in the Britannia pub in Warrington over two halves of lager and a bag of salt and vinegar crisps.

       Top 10 Memories of the great Piccadilly Radio exponential learning curve

      10 Take calls

      9 Send out prizes

      8 Prep callers for on air

      7 Log records

      6 Perform characters

      3 Operate the radio car

      2 Operate the studio

      1 Present a show

      Now that I had moved to Manchester, the radio station completely consumed my every waking hour. I had more or less picked up from where I left off, going in during the day when the place was entirely different from how it was at night and weekends.

      The sales, promotions and admin teams rushed around all day whilst the whacky commercial production guys with the loud shirts and funny voices (honestly) could be found in full flow, hidden away in their studios, lost in the throes of creation. The newsroom buzzed with an impressive roster of journalists—many more than you would find at a similar station today. News was very important to independent local radio in those days and many of the stations were home to proper old hacks with the legendary drinking habits to match.

      As the days, weeks and months went by, I got to know more and more people and was asked to do more and more odd jobs, working on other shows, more studio management and lots more work in the radio car.

      I loved the radio car. It was a Ford Cortina estate with the Piccadilly logo plastered across the bonnet. On its roof was mounted a bulky retractable thirty-foot aerial—a proper bit of kit which always caused a fuss wherever it pitched up.

      The radio car was a real workhorse, taking the radio station to the listeners and putting the listeners on the radio station. One of my jobs was to drive it to wherever it needed to go and set it up ready for action. Having located the site this basically involved pressing a button, waiting for the mast to elevate and then pointing it in the general direction of Manchester city centre. A highly hit-and-miss ‘fine-tuning’ operation would then commence which usually involved a quite

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