18. Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow

Make It Big went straight in at number 1, hitting the top spot not only in Britain but Australia, Holland, Italy, Japan, New Zealand and, after a while, America. Even by the high standards we set ourselves, this was undoubtedly a massive success. Make It Big eventually went on to shift around 10 million copies worldwide. By the time of the album’s release in October, ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’ had been followed to number 1 by ‘Careless Whisper’ under George’s name in July. Make It Big included both singles. Alongside global chart success, we were also beginning to enjoy a measure of the critical acclaim we felt was due, but had been a long time coming.

Since the release of ‘Careless Whisper’, though, people had started to wonder aloud whether the end of Wham! was in sight. They’d speculated that George’s first single was a sign that he wanted to break up Wham! and go solo, but while that was very much his long-term goal, they hadn’t understood how serious we were about first becoming one of the biggest pop bands on the planet. As well as number 1 records, we wanted to sell out stadiums. Our plan was to tour the world and, ultimately, conquer America. We wanted to be as big there as we were in Britain and so breaking Wham! apart before achieving that would have been a failure in our eyes. And there was no way George was going to allow Wham! to be tainted by any suggestion of failure. If he was to go solo, he needed Wham! to be as successful as the likes of Duran Duran, Prince or U2.

Of course the rumours weren’t entirely wide of the mark. As the success of Make It Big unfolded, George was becoming increasingly interested in becoming a solo artist and began to make more and more solo appearances on the TV and radio. I also understood we didn’t have long to achieve our ambition. We were a band built on the idea of youth and exuberance. There was no way we could stay kids forever and I’d always liked the idea of us going out at the top rather than fading away – nobody liked a guest who outstayed their welcome.

Simon and Jazz were also aware of George’s plans to disband, though I’m not entirely sure they really believed him. In a couple of interviews he’d mentioned the possibility of us recording a third album together. As shrewd businessmen, they couldn’t take the risk of not cashing in on Wham!’s money-making potential while they had the chance. They booked a lucrative arena tour in support of Make It Big, but despite the announcement of dates in the UK, Far East, Australia and the States, gossip columnists kept on making guesses about our demise. George, though, had another trick up his sleeve that might throw them off the scent.

Wham! had recorded a Christmas number-1-in-waiting.

‘Last Christmas’ began its life one afternoon in 1984 at George’s parents’ home. As we watched football on the telly, George was suddenly struck by inspiration. He quickly sketched out a chorus and verse on his keyboard upstairs. But with the addition of some tinkling synths and, of course, sleigh bells, George’s initially memorable melody had the makings of a festive classic. I only had to listen to the demo once to realise ‘Last Christmas’ was a huge hit; after George added his bells and whistles in London’s Advision Studios, shortly after the recording of Make It Big, we set a December release date and waited expectantly. The likes of Slade and John Lennon had already shown that if you were capable of writing a killer Christmas single, it had every chance of becoming a perennial favourite. There was also George’s Christmas Eve party to look forward to. George loved Christmas and the previous year he had hosted a gathering that would become a regular fixture for the next few years. After a boozy dinner, all twenty-five guests had gone carol singing, though rather than knocking door to door with charity boxes and hymn sheets, we had taken a blow-up sex doll for company. Not everyone had been amused.

I’m not entirely sure what this added to the show!

Christmas seemed to bring out the worst in us, as a similar spirit of mischievousness attached itself to the filming of the ‘Last Christmas’ promo video. Our directors had arranged a shoot in the mountain resort of Saas-Fee in Switzerland that November. In the 1980s, skiing holidays had a distinctly aspirational feel to them and so the idea of filming in a cosy ski chalet, roaring fire and all, felt like the perfect winter companion to the sunny hedonism of ‘Club Tropicana’, where George and I had spent a couple of glorious days messing about in Ibiza. This time round, accompanied by several excitable friends, we messed around in the snow for days, drinking plenty of local wine and enjoying more than one display of public nudity.

On the face of it, this storyboard offered a bittersweet glimpse of lost love and new romance against the backdrop of an opulent Christmas house party, but behind the scenes it became a riotous affair. The fact that our friends were there as extras in the video to a sure-fire Christmas hit single seemed to get lost in their excitement about getting a free holiday. There was an expense account to blow and they were determined to make the most of it. In fairness, so were we. When George and I arrived in Saas-Fee a day late, everybody was already well oiled. Our first evening together came to a premature end when, after a group of us jumped naked into the swimming pool, one friend swallowed half a gallon of chlorinated water and projectile vomited into one of the filters.

With us were George’s friend Pat Fernandez, Pepsi and Shirlie and a bunch of other long-term chums, including my friend Dave. The over-exuberance of our skinny-dipping disaster extended into our first day of filming. Laid out on the table of the ski-chalet set was a Christmas banquet: roast turkey and all the trimmings lit by candles and fairy lights. But when our assistant director walked in his face dropped.

‘What wally thought that would be a good idea?’ he asked, pointing to the wine glasses that had been inelegantly filled to the brim. It hardly suggested the level of sophistication required of our ‘Last Christmas’ party.

‘Not to worry, chief,’ said Dave as he pushed past the cast and crew. ‘I’ll see to that for you.’

In a leisurely but thorough fashion, Dave made his way around the table, adjusting all sixteen glasses, and in the process guzzling the equivalent of at least two bottles of wine. By the time his selfless task was complete, Dave was clearly struggling to stay upright. By the time we wrapped, we were all in the same boat. While there was a seemingly bottomless vat of wine in play, we were forbidden from touching the feast in front of us. And so, in the interests of continuity, we all drank on empty stomachs and got more and more rowdy. Eventually, after crying with laughter had made my eyes puffy and bloodshot, the unimpressed director had to excuse me from the final shot of the dinner scene. I was a mess.

Discipline didn’t improve much the next morning when we started filming outside. The script required us to have a snowball fight. Manfully ignoring our hangovers, we gave it our all until, in a scene that would feature prominently in the final cut, I was tossed over a fence and landed so badly I genuinely thought I’d broken something. It would have taken a neck brace for George to notice, though. During breaks in filming he was often found next to the director’s chair, looking over the rushes in forensic detail, scrubbing any footage that he felt made him look scruffy, or podgy. Shots in which his hair seemed ever so slightly out of place were also dispatched to the cutting-room floor. On one occasion he became so fixated on his appearance that, after rolling around in the snow with his fictional girlfriend, George insisted on running the film backwards in search of a shot in which he was pouting broodily, rather than a take where he had been laughing and joking that seemed to better suit the scene. In doing so, he unwittingly composed a shot that gives the impression he’d just taken a snowball to the knackers.

The evening concluded with a drunken steeplechase around the hotel balconies. Naked, save for a pair of snow boots, we hurdled the partition walls. The freezing cold ensured that it was a less than impressive sight. After landing breathlessly at the finishing line I turned round to see the director and his wife, quite reasonably thinking they were safe from prying eyes, enjoying some fun of their own. His wife shrieked at the sight of our bums pressed up against the glass as we looked over our shoulders and waved. If our behaviour over the course of the shoot had given him good reason to want to see the back of us, I doubt that this was quite what he had in mind . . .