I could tell you that I failed my maths O-level, got pretty average A-levels, and still got to Cambridge, but you still wouldn’t know much of any interest about me. And that’s the way I plan to keep it. I’ll throw in the odd bone – I got depressed once – but otherwise you’re going to get out of me what I used to get out of most of the half-witted politicians on Newsnight. Jack shit.
So what’s the point of me writing an autobiography? Who needs another memoir about a news presenter when there are dozens lying around unread? You tell me. I’m the one asking the questions. Come on, come on. Answer the question. I haven’t got all day. Let me give you a clue. The advance: £1 million for three books. Nice work if you can get it.
I don’t remember being born. Some people say they do, but I don’t believe them. My father was a bully. On a bad day, I hated him. On a good day, I merely disliked him. My mother was my mother. We had what would now be called a dysfunctional family, but that’s all I’m prepared to say. My schooling was quite normal for the middle classes of the 1950s and 60s. Some of the teachers were sadists and others were undoubtedly paedophiles, but I had no first-hand experience of either and that’s all I’m prepared to say.
After leaving school, I went to St Cat’s where I occasionally wrote for the student newspaper. Which was sometimes quite interesting but mainly not. I was then fortunate enough to get a job at the BBC when the person who had originally been offered the post turned it down. Are you still following this? I’m amazed. What on earth was the point of me trying to make my life seem so dull, if you’re still reading on page 130?
I suppose I had better tell you a bit about when I reported from Northern Ireland, Jerusalem and Nicaragua. Sometimes it was quite frightening, but mainly not. I also met some people there. Though too few to mention in any detail. Gerry Adams was a bit of an enigma. Some might say he still is. That’s that section of my life dealt with.
At some point or other, I was asked to become a presenter on breakfast TV. It was OK for a while, I suppose, but I didn’t much enjoy it. Who would want to spend more than a few seconds with Nicholas Witchell? What a useless nobody he is. I did have a lot of time for Frank Bough, though, and I felt it was unforgivable he is now only remembered for his sex and drugs scandal, which I am now bringing up again.
I then joined Newsnight where my basic task was to interview junior politicians who had been sent on to the programme to answer questions their bosses didn’t know how to answer. It was a waste of time for all of us, really. Some people used to object to my combative style of interviewing, but how else is a presenter supposed to cope with the existential sense of futility brought on by talking to halfwits while most sensible viewers are switching off and going to bed.
After a while, I even stopped going to the morning ideas conference as I could always second-guess the contents of the evening’s show. Item 1: “Isn’t this government rubbish?” Item 2: “Will we all be dead soon?” Item 3: “But is it art?” Item 4: “Closing credits.”
University Challenge is a long-running game show that I am proud to present. I’m sure you all know the rules by now, so I will just say this: I don’t know the answer to every question. There’s always one or two of the popular culture ones thrown in for the thickies who didn’t go to Oxbridge that I manage to get wrong.
Have I mentioned that I quite like fishing? Well, I have now. Unfortunately, I still have 50 pages left to fill, so perhaps it would be best if I were to end by answering some of the questions I often get asked:
1) Do you still get nervous? No.
2) Do you tell interviewees the questions in advance? No. If they’re too stupid to know why they’ve been invited on, they deserve everything they get.
3) Can we believe what we read in the papers? Don’t be silly.
4) How do you keep your feelings out of it? Quite easily. Just read this book.
Digested read, digested: Your starter for £330,000.
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