Eamonn Holmes is finding it tough living in these times of political correctness – hard even for a man who grew up in the cauldron of Northern Ireland during the Troubles. The 58-year-old TV presenter, a natural-born anecdote-teller in the great Irish tradition of Dave Allen, has to keep reminding himself – out loud – to be very careful when he opens his mouth.
Holmes’s instinct is to say what he thinks, which is why, when he recently laid into Tim Hunter, Oxfam’s director of fundraising, who tried to wriggle off the hook over the Haiti sex scandal, his impassioned interrogation had This Morning viewers rushing to congratulate him. But the very same instinct has, in the past, nearly cost him his job.
When a rape victim came on the show to talk about how she was attacked walking home at night, Holmes – showing concern – asked her to promise him she would always in future take a taxi. It was a remark that prompted accusations of ‘victim blaming’, as women should be able to walk home without fear of being raped.
TV veteran Eamonn Holes tells Event: ‘A lot of presenters on television are vanilla because vanilla isn’t going to offend anyone’
‘When you say something out of genuine concern, something you’d say to your wife, your daughter or a friend, and then have people calling for your job, it makes you think twice about expressing your opinions,’ he says gravely. ‘Political correctness has changed the climate. There are people who wake up every morning wanting to be offended. It’s totally changed television. And that makes me sad. Political correctness has given rise to “vanilla rule”. A lot of presenters on television are vanilla because vanilla isn’t going to offend anyone. “Look at me, aren’t I nice?” It’s just so boring. And I never want to be boring.’
Holmes is neither vanilla nor boring. He’s been part of our television landscape since he got his first job on Ulster TV aged 19, and his no-nonsense approach is perfect for his latest role in Channel 5’s Do The Right Thing – a show that’s all about standing up for the little people against bureaucrats and officialdom. ‘It’s real people, real issues and we get stuck in,’ he says. ‘It’s not celebrity or big issues, but it’s giving people a voice, which is something that’s needed.’
He rallies on behalf of pensioners in old people’s homes who have been banned from enjoying bingo because of gambling laws, and champions a small business that’s been fined £300 for putting a cardboard box in a recycling bin. After decades in the business, everyday injustices still anger him. It’s part of the reason why he was last year voted the nation’s most popular breakfast-television host of all time, beating Event’s Piers Morgan, who fronts Good Morning Britain.
He refuses to rub Morgan’s nose in it. ‘Piers is the saviour of breakfast TV, which was in danger of disappearing down a vortex of complete vanilla before he came along,’ he says. ‘We’re both cut from the same cloth, both gunslingers, but what I admire about Piers is that he absolutely does not care what he says, what people think about him. He’s upped everyone’s game and made breakfast TV worth watching again. If we didn’t have him in television now, God help us.’
The Belfast gunslinger has had a few on-screen shootouts with his wife, the television presenter Ruth Langsford, as he cheerily airs their domestic spats rather than pretend they live a perfect showbiz life. (He recently thumped her on the back to demonstrate an anti-choking move, prompting her to scream: ‘Ow! That hurt! Don’t do that again.’) But this spiky relationship – seen on programmes from This Morning and Eamonn & Ruth: How The Other Half Lives to Do The Right Thing – has turned the pair into an unmissable double act. So how hard is it to work together?
‘My wife is a very beautiful woman and I’m very grateful to have her, though we can drive each other crazy,’ he says. ‘But we know each other inside out, and no one can put me straight like she can. Our relationship is very real. We row, we laugh, we have different views, but we actually like being together, and people can see there’s nothing fake about it. She’s a great television presenter and it makes me very happy that in the past few years people have started to see that.’
Holmes has had a few on-screen shootouts with his wife, the television presenter Ruth Langsford
And Langsford’s star has rocketed recently, culminating in her appearance on Strictly Come Dancing last year. ‘Ah, Strictly,’ says Holmes. ‘The thing was, she told me she could dance. And then when I saw her on the very first show it became apparent she absolutely couldn’t. But it was my job to button it and just be very supportive.
‘Judge Rinder told me never to make comments about the music, the outfits, the tan or the dance and I stuck to it, except once when I said I thought they were picking the wrong music and I got my head bitten off. She put absolutely everything into that show. She got better, but she still can’t dance.’
Would he ever go on the show? He bursts out laughing. ‘Never. It’s tough beyond belief. It takes over your life. I have two new hips [he had a double hip replacement in 2016], and I don’t intend to do anything unnatural to them. And I don’t care if I can’t dance. I never wanted to be Fred Astaire. I’d rather watch the football.’
He’s so committed to Ruth that he recently turned down a ‘life-changing’ bid by Russian TV to nab the fervent Manchester United supporter to present its coverage of the upcoming World Cup. ‘It would have been too tough on Ruth being away so much,’ he says. ‘And it just doesn’t feel right to be Russia’s television poster boy.’
Eamonn Holmes with wife Ruth Langsford and their son Jack in 2002. Family is at Holmes’s core, and he’s happy to tell stories about himself and Langsford
Holmes is a happy man – successful and married with four children (three by his first wife, Gabrielle, and one by Langsford). His son, Niall, 24, now oversees his social-media sites and works with his management team. ‘He keeps me in check,’ he says. Family is at Holmes’s core, and he’s happy to tell stories about himself and Langsford that portray them as a very normal couple. Like the tale of his OBE, an anecdote that melds pride, fury, domesticity and a breach of royal protocol.
‘One morning in November last year I’m in the kitchen opening the mail and I see a brown envelope with a second-class stamp, which I assume is a bill. I open it and it’s a letter from the Prime Minister’s office asking me whether I minded being referred to the Queen to be made an Officer of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire but if I didn’t want this to happen, then to let them know. I’m thinking, “This is an OBE – why on earth would they think I’m not interested?” So I call Ruth, who’s cooking, and I read it to her.
‘She then stops and says very casually, “Oh yes. They wrote to me about that last summer but I completely forgot to answer their letter and it just went out of my head.” And then she carries on cooking as if it’s no big deal, and I’m sitting with steam coming out of my ears.
‘So I say very calmly, “You forgot?” And she says, “Yes. I was very busy. I had loads on.” And I say [his voice rises a notch], “You forgot? About me getting an OBE?” And she whips round and says, “I had lots to do.” And that is how I had my big moment brought down to earth by my wife.’ He rolls his eyes – failing to disguise a glint of pride at the feistiness of the woman he supported for hours sitting in the audience of Strictly.
The story moves on to New Year’s Eve, when Ruth texted him a photograph of a letter that had arrived with a Buckingham Palace crest on it. ‘She asks me if she should open it. “Not on your nelly, I tell her. This is my moment.” When I get home, I open the letter, which is from the Duchess of Cornwall saying how overjoyed she was to see my name on the list. I spent an evening with Camilla a few years back and she’s a great craic – but I won’t break any more royal protocols by going into that night.’
It was breakfast TV in the Nineties that transformed Holmes into a household name, though he had an infamously toxic partnership with Anthea Turner when they co-hosted GMTV between 1994 and 1996. But he drops the bombshell that they’re now friends.
‘We were in such different places back then, and I couldn’t believe I was never consulted about her appointment as co-presenter,’ he says. ‘She came from BBC Light Entertainment, where you were showered with flowers and gifts every time you moved. I came from belt-and-braces regional television, where if you wanted to get noticed you had to be the most competitive, you had to put in the most hours. I didn’t get her at all, but I’ve come to like and understand her. She’s very good at holding out the olive branch and she’s good at addressing things head-on. In her own way she’s very tough and she’s also a pro. We can laugh about ourselves. I’ve got a lot of time for Anthea.’
Holmes with Lorraine Kelly on GMTV. It was breakfast TV in the Nineties that transformed Holmes into a household name
Ireland made Holmes a man of war and a man of peace. He grew up in the Catholic quarter of Belfast, and by the time he was a teenager he was used to guns, soldiers, bombs and having a weapon pointed at his head. ‘I’m a child of the Troubles – they made me who I am. They gave me a sense of identity, a sense of community, an opposition to the legitimacy of terrorism, of bullying, injustice, social inequality and mob rule. ’
When he told his mother at the age of 18 that he’d been accepted to journalism college, she told him to go and get himself a proper job. ‘So I became a trainee manager at Primark, in charge of the ladies’ underwear department. I’d be in my three-piece suit, sweating, unloading a van delivery, then I’d be called to the shop floor where there would be an assistant waving a pair of knickers at me – “Mr Holmes, the customer wants a refund.” “Has she got a receipt?” “She has but do these knickers seem worn to you?” I stuck it out for a year, but the next year I applied to journalism college again and just went.’
Holmes worked three jobs outside college to keep his ‘mammy’ happy, and after he’d secured a regular job on Ulster TV he still worked bar shifts. ‘One night my manager asked me what I was doing reading the news on telly and then running to work to pull pints in the bar. I said I wanted to keep working because the telly may not last. He pulled the ribbon of my bow tie, unravelled it and said, “Don’t worry, the telly business will last.” We then sat and drank an orange juice together. ’
Orange juice? He laughs and admits that he’s never been a drinker – he just doesn’t like the taste of alcohol. Neither does he vote. ‘There’s no party that represents me and I’d rather be neutral enough to grill anyone from any party without being on one side.’
With his OBE, his plaudits and his 60th year approaching, are there any thoughts of retirement? He looks horrified. ‘That terrifies me. I’m never going to retire. You’re stuck with me for a few more years yet.’
‘Do The Right Thing’ is on Thursday at 9pm on Channel 5