Jim Davidson lifts the lid on his boozing, money problems and the woman in his life

His life, or at least the darker times, have been underlined by a series of misadventures, with women (four times married at a cost of millions), drink (costing hundreds of thousands in cancelled venues), and with his reactionary mouth (at a cost of a reputation amongst younger comics).

Today however, in the London office of the charity he co-founded, Care After Combat, which he works for “almost full time”, another side of Cameron James Davidson emerges. 

The man who appeared on New Faces 1976 and took on a West Indian voice is speaking in a voice that’s soft and reflective. 

Jim Davidson is rewinding on his 62 years on the planet in a new stage show which takes the form of a play, 40 Years On. 

“I thought I would cut down on tours, but go out with a bang, so I’ve come up with a production that lets me tell stories,” he says. 

“I wanted to talk about my life, about growing up in an ethnic (Scots, his dad came from Glasgow’s East End) family in South-East London.”

Jim talks about his own comedy epiphany. 

“Well, I wasn’t a very good window cleaner,” he recalls of his teenage job, smiling. “I was terrified of heights. And it wasn’t at all like Confessions of A Window Cleaner. I was too scared to even look into a bedroom. I just got up to the glass and waved my rag around.

“I’d been telling jokes to mates however, and I thought I was funny but the honest truth is I think my career had a lot to do with amphetamine sulphate.” 

Seriously, Jim? “Yes,” he continues, grinning.  

“I was in a pub in Woolwich and the comedian hadn’t turned up. It was suggested I get up there and I was terrified. But then someone said to me ‘Sniff this, sonny!’ And that was it. I did a two-hour set in seven minutes. 
“I was frothing at the mouth when I came off.”

As if he’d been bitten. And he had. By the fame bug. Davidson picked up £6 for his Sunday lunchtime efforts, gave up the dirty windows and changed his name to Jim. 

“So I didn’t have to pay tax on it,” he says. “But I’ve made up for that since.”
He has. Davidson became a national celebrity in the Seventies, fronting a sitcom, storming TV variety shows, fronting the Generation Game. He had a Rolls Royce once. “I remember parking it outside the London Palladium, with a speed boat attached, waiting for me when I finished a Royal Variety Show to drive off to Torquay. And off I went with Miss Great Britain, Carolyn Seward, on my arm.”

IN 2013 however,  the comedian was arrested over a series of historic sex abuse accusations. Operation Yewtree cost him more than £100,000 in legal bills. 

“What became slightly upsetting for me, and I think for the police as well, the bobby on the beat, is that the complainant is assumed to be the victim,” he says in surprisingly reasoned voice. 

“But I think the Jimmy Savile situation forced the police and the government to an extent to act, because they were so afraid of another public inquiry. And although people like me were used as human fly paper, I understand that. It’s unfair on celebs, but what do you do?”

Jim Davidson reveals he’s been in talks with radio presenter Paul Gambaccini and Sir Cliff Richard, who are campaigning to change the law as regards anonymity for those accused of historical sex crimes. 

“I can understand their anger. But when it comes to suing the BBC and the police I’d say ‘Let it go.’ My first thought to my lawyer was ‘Who do I sue?’ But he told me to write a book instead.” 

Or a play? What the comedian will talk about is his great fear. Of not being Jim Davidson anymore. 

The subject comes up when he talks of the loss of great friend Keith Emerson, the keyboard leader of Emerson, Lake and Palmer, who took his own life this year. 

 “On the day Keith shot himself in the head he had had the result of an MRI scan, taken because he had lost his ability to use his fingers. But what he had also lost was his relevance. 

“I call it the Alvin Stardust problem. What happens when an Alvin has no money and he has to take a bus? 

“Michael Barrymore suffers this to an extent and, in a way, me. Thankfully, I’m ok at the moment, and I don’t need much money. And I can still go on tour.”

His voice softens, and he reveals an introspection Britain doesn’t usually attach to the man.   

“I’m still Jim, but there are two things to bear in mind about carrying on. You have to be able to deliver and enjoy the performance. And the audience have to come and see you. They never leave you overnight, but they do leave you one row at a time.” 

We talk about money. Jim Davidson doesn’t have very much. “I want to put on a show for Keith at the Royal Albert Hall and a bank manager told me they’d back me, if I gave them a personal guarantee. He asked about my assets and I told him ‘Carp fishing gear.’ He said ‘Don’t you have a house?’ and I said No. The current wife owns it.” 

Jim Davidson can’t not see the funny in his comment. “I’ve never sold a house in my life. They all just seem to go.”

He doesn’t have millions in the bank, but does he regret the past that’s created the present, the fights with the ex-wife that produced black eyes, the non-PC alienating comments, the mad man moments fuelled by drink? 

Jim offers a wide grin which suggests otherwise. “I remember an Andy Capp cartoon with him saying to Florrie, ‘I’ve just read that alcohol is bad for you so I’m giving it up.’ She says ‘You’re giving up drinking?’ And he says ‘No, reading the papers.’” 

Forty Years On, The Clyde Auditorium, November 24.