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Gyles on his rivalry with Nicholas

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Dean BedfordOct 21, 2009
 

 
Gyles Brandreth has burst into print with his diaries again and the
latest extract published in The Daily Mail has some interesting comments
on Nicholas Parsons and Kenneth Williams among others.






Broadcaster, novelist and former MP Gyles Brandreth has enjoyed unique
access to everyone from prime ministers and royalty to pop stars and
actors.

For more than 50 years he has faithfully recorded every encounter, every
shared secret and wild indiscretion, in his diary. Something Sensational
To Read In The Train is a rollercoaster ride through what Gyles happily
admits has been, at times, a ridiculous life.

Here, we join him in the Seventies, where he begins what will prove to
be an intense and enduring rivalry with fellow broadcaster Nicholas
Parsons.
Gyles Brandreth has recorded 50 years of his encounters with everyone
from prime ministers and royalty to pop stars and actors


Tuesday, April 6, 1976

Just returned from meeting the gang at Action Research For The Crippled
Child. They have had a novel idea: get 100 'personalities' to break 100
records from the Guinness Book Of Records, raising £1,000 in sponsorship
each time.

I am to make an attempt on the world record for the longest after-dinner
speech. The current holder is a Victorian clergyman who spoke at the
Rainbow Tavern, Fleet Street, in January 1874, without pause or notes,
for just on three hours. Beat that. (I will.)

Monday, May 17, 1976

At the Mayfair Hotel, London, this evening I established a new world
record when I talked non-stop for four hours, 19 minutes and 34 seconds.

I am hopeful that with sponsorship and donations we shall comfortably
exceed our target and that the record will stand long enough for me to
feature in the GBR. I am just looking down the list of donors again.
Terry Jones, Janet Suzman, Sinead Cusack and the Marquess of Londonderry
each sent £10. Nicholas Parsons gave £1.

Monday, August 2, 1976

Michael Winner is a monster. We booked him to speak at the Oxford
Theatre Festival [an event staged twice by Gyles in the mid-Seventies]
and that's when the trouble started.

The fuss, the bother, the phone calls from assistants with preposterous
demands - e.g. on the stage Mr Winner will require a side table, a large
ashtray and a new box of long Swan Vesta matches: the match heads must
be checked and must all be in the box pointing in the same direction.

We billed the evening as 'A Man and his Movies'. He came (in powder-blue
Roller) with dark glasses and cigar: I introduced him; he did his stuff.
He was not very funny and the films are self-evidently not very good.

Thursday, February 3, 1977

Last night, at 11.57pm, at the Middlesex Hospital, London W1, Saethryd
Charity Brandreth [the second of Gyles's three children] was born.
Mother and baby both doing well. Everyone is non-plussed by the name.

I now rattle off the explanation - 'Saint Saethryd was the daughter of
King Anna, the King of the East Angles in the late 600s. My friend Noel
Davis said: "Let's hope the poor child doesn't have a lisp."'

Saturday, February 5, 1977

The whole thing of the broken nights is suddenly coming back to me. (I
say that having children is 'the most beautiful thing that has ever
happened to me' and I mean it - but, at the same time, there's a part of
me that isn't really interested at all.)

Tuesday, May 3, 1977

I am working like a demon. I've just finished the Pears Quiz Book. Today
I start on The Big Book Of Secrets. I work every hour there is, but
still, steadily, the overdraft grows. It's a bugger.

Friday, June 24, 1977

A horrid experience. I went to my publishers Hamish Hamilton to have
lunch with my editor, John Henderson. I was sitting opposite him at his
desk when his telephone rang. He picked it up and I heard the voice on
the line ask: 'Is the appalling Gyles Brandreth with you yet?'

Tuesday, February 14, 1978

Last night, at 6.30pm, I arrived at the Hyde Park Hotel to make my
second attempt on the world record for the longest-ever after-dinner
speech. Since I got into the Guinness Book Of Records in 1976, Nicholas
Parsons has established a new record by speaking for seven hours, eight
minutes and three seconds.

Again to raise funds for Action Research For The Crippled Child, we had
a play-off: Nicholas and I, in adjacent rooms in the same hotel, vying
to see which of us could speak the longer.

My real anxiety had been the matter of going to the loo. I was confident
I could talk through the night, but could I survive the night without
needing a pee? That was my dilemma - resolved by Action Research who
sent me to the London pharmacy John, Bell & Croyden to be fitted with a
surgical appliance.

As JB&C's kindly Mr Park explained, when he produced the extraordinary
contraption: 'This isn't just for the incontinent. This is used by
generals and field marshals on parade grounds when taking the salute.

Wear this and you can stand out in the freezing cold for hours without
having to worry about a thing. The Duke of Edinburgh has one. They're
invaluable.'

Essentially, the device is a lengthy piece of rubber tubing that you
strap to your leg. It has a four-pint capacity and a 'no spillage'
guarantee.

All strapped up, ready and willing, a little after 7.30pm, Nicholas and
I shook hands, smiled for the cameras, bowed to the toastmasters and
moved into our separate dining rooms. My voice held. I paced it nicely.

At about 2am, I began to feel the need for the loo. I thought: 'When am
I going to do this? What will it feel like? How much is four pints?'

The more I thought about it, the more eager I was to pee and the more
inhibited I became. The problem was knowing that I would be peeing in
front of people. Of course, they wouldn't be able to see what was
happening, but would they be able to tell?
And would there be a noise - a terrible swooshing? I thought I'd 'go for
it' at the end of a story, on the punchline - letting it happen 'masked'
by laughter or applause...

Anyway, the moment came. I finished the story: there was laughter, a
smattering of applause and I said to myself: 'Now - now, Gyles - now!
Let it flow.'

Then I looked down and suddenly saw it - a long, thin sausage-skin of
pale white rubber tubing snaking its way from my left trouser-leg and
slowly moving across the floor. My contraption had shifted its moorings
and come adrift.

At once (and, oddly, without difficulty) I put the notion of peeing
right behind me and forged on with the speech. (Interestingly, it's now
12 hours later: I am writing this at 2pm and still I haven't been for a
pee. Perhaps I never will again?)

But the pee that didn't come in the night was not the worst of it. The
worst of it was this. At about 6am, one of the Action Research people
passed me a note asking: 'Are you ready to stop?'

I declared I was just warming up. Another note came, then another.
Apparently, Nicholas was still going strong and so was I. The organisers
had therefore decided we should both stop, simultaneously, at 7am and
share the new world record: 11 hours. I thought: 'F*** that.' Another
note came: 'We are worried about Nicholas's heart. We're a health
charity. You must both stop.'

At 7am, the toastmaster got up and said: 'It's over.' I was very angry.
It was a challenge. It was a duel. And, suddenly, for no good reason,
the wretched organisers had decided it was to be a draw. I'm afraid I
did not behave graciously or well. I gathered up my notes, collected my
coat and went.

I am still angry now. Of course, it's only a stupid little competition
to raise money for charity. But I am going to have to share a world
record with Nicholas Parsons. Of course, I'm effing angry.

Tuesday, July 4, 1978

Yesterday, we went to Norland Place School. It is the school for Benet
[Gyles's eldest child, then aged three]. Only problem: no room. We
should have put Benet down the minute he was born. (Seriously.) We
didn't and consequently he's way, way down the waiting list.

I did my best to flutter my eyelids at Mrs Garnsey, headmistress. She
said there was very little hope. I said: 'Nevermind, I'll keep badgering
you.' She said: 'You do that, Mr Brandreth. Keep badgering.'

So I did. Yesterday afternoon I went to the Harrods toy department and,
at vast expense, bought a huge, soft, cuddly toy badger. I delivered it
to the school in person. The school secretary has just called. Benet
starts in September. Yes!

Tuesday, July 18, 1978

This morning at 11.05am, our lovely little baby girl - Aphra Kendal
Alice Brandreth - was born. Aphra is named in honour of Mrs Aphra
Behn - the first woman to earn her living as a writer. She's healthy and
all's well with the world.

Friday, September 22, 1978

This afternoon packing my case for the flight to America tomorrow, I dug
out my passport and, to my horror, discovered that it had expired. By
Underground and on foot - running all the way - I reached St James's
Park Station at 4.27pm and the Passport Office at Petty France at 4.29pm.

As I reached the doors they were being closed. 'Sorry, sir, we're closed
now until Monday.' 'But I need my passport renewed.' 'Sorry, sir.' 'But
I must have my passport renewed, I must.' 'Sorry, sir. We're closed.'

Suddenly, exhausted and overwhelmed, I burst into tears. 'I need my
passport. I must go to New York tomorrow. My mother has died.' Within 40
minutes, I had the new passport in my hand. I perjured myself: on the
form they gave me I declared my mother's date and place of death as 21
September 1978, Brooklyn, New York.

To secure my American visa, at 6pm I repeated the whole exercise (tears
and all) at the U.S. Embassy in Grosvenor Square. May God and my mother
forgive me. If she dies tonight, I shall feel guilty indeed. (Mrs
Brandreth is still alive, aged 95, and living in Kew).

Saturday, September 30, 1978

I am writing this at JFK Airport. When I get home I shall speak of the
trip as a triumph, but in truth it's been a disaster. Why did I come? To
promote The Great Big Funny Book - my first children's book to be
published in the U.S.

What did I expect? To wow the nation, I suppose. In fact, my one and
only TV show was on a channel no one appears to have heard of a long way
out of town.

They did all the talking.

I was just brought in at the end. I told my story - ridiculous, absurd,
every word of it a fabrication - and as the host leant towards me,
clearly urging me to finish, I rounded off my hysterical spiel with
this: 'Pope John Paul was a lovely man, a happy man.

He had laughter in his soul. And I have a feeling that when he gets to
Heaven he will be going straight to the celestial bookstore and ordering
this' - and here I held my tome up to the camera - 'The Great Big
Funny Book by Gyles Brandreth'.

Monday, July 9, 1979

Lunch with Kenneth Williams at Pomme d'Amour. He is so funny - if not
totally easy. He arrived, all demure and buttoned up, keeping himself to
himself, hiding under a hat so as not to be recognised; then, over
lunch, he began telling stories so loudly that no one in the restaurant
(or possibly within one mile of the restaurant!) could have had any
doubt as to who was there.

He is obsessed with his health (his bowels mostly) and money (his lack
of it; and the amount of tax he has to pay on the little he does earn;
the maximum he got for any of the Carry On films was £5,000).

Wednesday, December 2, 1981

Went to the BBC at lunchtime to record two editions of Just A Minute.
Nicholas Parsons said the only reason they hadn't asked me before is
that I sound too like Derek Nimmo and they didn't want to 'confuse the
listeners'.

The truth is I was only there because Kenneth Williams badgered them on
my behalf.

Sunday, April 4, 1982

At around 9pm last night, at the Embassy Hotel on the Bayswater Road, as
they were clearing away dinner, I got to my feet and began to speak.

At around 9.30 this morning, as they were clearing away breakfast, I sat
down again. I spoke non-stop for 12-and-a-half hours. Once more, and
this time without having to share it with Master Parsons, I hold the
record for making the world's longest-ever after-dinner speech.
HOW FRANKIE HOWERD LEFT ME REELING . . .

As well as making his many television and radio appearances, Gyles set
up a lucrative sideline, ghost-writing books for celebrities. In 1980,
this led to an excruciatingly awkward encounter with one of the nation's
best-loved comedians. For once, Gyles was lost for words.

Tuesday, December 9, 1980

John Lennon has been shot dead in New York. The world is reeling.

I am reeling, too - but for a slightly different reason. I have had a
curious afternoon with Frankie Howerd. We took a taxi to his agent's
office in Mayfair to work on his book. I followed Frank up the wide
wooden staircase as he called down to the receptionist: 'This young man
and I have a great deal of work to do. We do not wish to be disturbed.
Is that understood, Madam?'

On the first floor, Frank showed me into a spacious panelled room and
gestured towards a leather sofa.

As I went towards it, I heard him locking the door. I turned. He was
putting the key into his pocket. 'We don't want intruders.'

I opened my briefcase and pulled out the manuscript we were supposed to
be working on. 'Never mind that,' he said. 'I need to take the weight
off my leg.'

He began to ease himself on to the sofa next to me, but halfway down,
suddenly, his face contorted, he clutched his thigh and began to yelp
with pain. 'What is it?' 'It's my groin! No, ooh, ah, ow. . .' Clutching
himself, he collapsed in a heap at my side.

He closed his eyes and murmured: 'You know what to do.'

'I don't,' I blanched. 'You do.' 'I don't.' I did not know what to say
or do. I couldn't make my excuses and leave because the door was locked
and the key was in Frank's trouser pocket. I walked to the window and
stood there staring out.

Then, as if nothing had happened, Frank said: 'Now, let's get down to
it, young man. There's work to be done.' We did the work and shared a
taxi back to Kensington. As he got out of the cab, I hugged him. Odd as
this may seem, I felt somehow that I had let him down. 'You won't tell
Dennis [Heymer, Frankie's partner for 30 years] will you?' he pleaded,
looking at me pathetically. 'Promise?' 'Promise,' I said.

POSTSCRIPT: Nine years later, on Tuesday, September 5, 1989, Gyles wrote:

At breakfast, Max Bygraves told me that the experience I had with
Frankie Howerd is exactly the experience he had with Frank when they
appeared in panto together almost 40 years ago. 'He's doing it all the
time,' said Max.

 
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