Hardeep: I have a lot to be grateful to my parents for, and one thing
in particular — moving from England to Scotland. That helped me and Sanj
define who we are, because there’s something unique about being Scottish. My
parents came to the UK in the 1960s. I was four and Sanj was two when my dad
drove us from west London to Glasgow in an old Vauxhall Viva estate. There
were five of us sharing one room in a horrible flat, but my dad had such
positive vibes about Scotland he made it feel like an adventure.
Sanj was a lovely, sweet boy who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. He’s still very
special and would do anything for you. Actually, he doesn’t have any faults,
which is really f***ing annoying.
Sanj and I were a year apart at school, and, as one teacher said, like chalk
and cheese. He was the model straight-A student. I wasn’t. When Sanj was
five, he spelt the word “physics” correctly. His teacher was so impressed,
she took him to the head teacher, but didn’t say why. Being Sanj, he thought
he’d spelt it wrong, so when he got there he changed the spelling! My father
will tell you that if I worked half as hard as Sanj, I’d have had double the
success.
Mum was a social worker, Dad was a teacher, but to finance us through private
school they ran a corner shop. So my mum was on her feet 13 hours a day,
seven days a week. Incredible woman!
I did a Radio 4 documentary series recently about the demise of the Indian and
Pakistani corner shop. But for our parents’ generation, working in a shop
was the last thing they wanted for us.
My dad is this really cool guy who got wealthy in the ’90s through property.
He loved TV comedy, The Two Ronnies and Morecambe and Wise — the start of
mine and Sanj’s comedy education. We’d record The Young Ones and Blackadder
and watch them over and over so we could do entire episodes.
Our Sundays were amazing days. Scrubbed, dressed and in temple by 10, followed
by lunch — a Sikh tradition. Then a Bollywood double bill at the cinema. We
had a rare old time with the entire community. But we had difficult times
too. Sanj was a brilliant footballer but he nearly went blind when he was
younger and my parents ended up suing some doctor who gave him the wrong
medication — he has severe glaucoma. Then, when I was 13, I woke up one day
paralysed from the chest down and stayed that way for two months. It was
terrible for my parents, but not so bad for me because I was in the middle
of it. But how lucky was I? Hospital visiting was from 2 to 8pm. My mum was
downstairs every day at 1.30 waiting. When I got home, Sanj did everything
for me, with never a word of complaint.
Sanj and I went to the same school, then on to Glasgow University. For two
weeks my mum was the happiest mum in the world; Randeep was at university
studying engineering, I was doing law and Sanj was doing medicine. Then it
all fell apart. Sanj went through a worrying existential period — “Why would I
want to be a doctor?” — so he ended up doing maths. And because he’s just a
bit clever he got a first-class degree, then he got accepted on this amazing
PhD course.
I encouraged Sanj to get into radio and telly, but my parents were pissed off.
It was bad enough with me f***ing wasting my life in the media — don’t
encourage Sanj. Sanj started off presenting and doing a bit of writing on
the Indian programme for BBC’s Radio Scotland. Soon they realised he was
quite a funny guy. Now he plays the most popular character in the sitcom
Still Game. I firmly believe his character has done more for race relations
in Scotland than any legislation.
Today Sanj is really successful, but hopeless at self-promotion and not
ambitious. Unlike me! I am nakedly ambitious. I want Jonathan Ross’s job.
The amount of hustling I’ve done, and I’m only 38! Exactly like my dad. I’ll
never forget the look on his face when he was buying property and interest
rates went up to 15%. This big, good-looking Sikh guy — my dad, my hero —
ashen. Now he says: “I got through that, son. Nothing’s going to break me
now.”
It’s been the same for me. Now I’m doing jobs I could only have dreamt of —
Question Time, Loose Ends, Saturday Live. I cried when I was asked to
present Newsnight Review. Today, even my mother is proud of me and Sanj.
Clearly I’d arrived when she told me: “The ladies of the Gujarati Society
thought you were very good on Masterchef.”
Sanj met his soul mate, Fiona, and they got married exactly seven years ago.
He makes her laugh all the time. He asked me to give the best-man speech at
their wedding. Basically, I’m in Scotland, where he’s well known, in a room
full of all their friends. Then Sanj makes the most hilarious speech, which
is so funny people are lying on the floor. I have to follow this! I just
about got away with it. I think that was the day I realised that it wasn’t
the best-kept secret about what a cool guy Sanjeev was — everyone else
seemed to know too.
Sanjeev: Hardeep has always been a very big personality. As a kid I was
his wee brother, the quiet, studious one who didn’t have many friends, while
Hardeep ran the debating society, started the school magazine and had all
the friends. And he wore a turban. I’d cross the road to avoid confrontation
but Hardeep would fight in a vacuum. We shouldn’t get on, but we do. We’d be
good friends even if we weren’t brothers.
As a child I was very shy and suffered from low self-esteem. I don’t know why;
I was brought up in a very loving family and was a straight-A student. Hardeep
should have had a self-esteem problem, because he didn’t do well at school,
but he’s very, very sharp and has shown himself to be a Renaissance man.
Growing up, we felt like square pegs in round holes, mostly because we were
the first Asian family in our street and the only people not to cut our
front lawn — we let ours grow to Borneo standards. We went to a Catholic
school because my dad had heard it was a good education and disciplined. We
were coconuts — brown on the outside and white on the inside. Not only did
we feel different from the white kids, we felt different from the Asian kids
too. My parents were highly liberal people and weren’t bothered that we were
into heavy metal and TV comedy.
There’d be days when they’d decide we were only going to speak in Punjabi, but
it never lasted more then 10 minutes. Being the cool guy he is, my dad said
he’d rather we were good people than bad Sikhs. They didn’t grow Randeep’s
or Hardeep’s hair, but decided to grow mine. So when I was three I had long
hair, tied up in a plait, and I cried my eyes out when Mum combed it. When
she eventually did cut my hair, her mother-in-law didn’t speak to her for
three days. On our first trip to India Randeep and Hardeep “got” the culture
and decided to grow their hair. At school Hardeep got a lot of stick for it,
though today he’s very much the metrosexual, with his shoes,
different-coloured turbans and his man bag. He complains about being stared
at when he comes to Glasgow. I say: “But Hardeep, you’re wearing pink
brogues!”
I can’t escape Hardeep. He got a place on the prestigious BBC production
training scheme, then eventually I got a job presenting a local radio show.
I was shown to an office where there was a phone with “Kohli” written
on it — from Hardeep’s time. It was like he was sitting Buddha-style on a
cloud over me.
Hardeep has so many plates spinning at the same time. I’d panic if I had as
much going on. He used to text me when he was on TV; now he doesn’t have
time, he’s on so much. I watch him on Newsnight Review and think: “How does
he have the balls to deal with Germaine Greer on that level?” But he’s a
natural. It’s got to the stage when you wouldn’t be surprised to turn on the
TV and see Hardeep doing the weather. He wasn’t built for TV: TV was built
for Hardeep
Interviews: Ann McFerran.
Portrait: Philipp Ebeling
