I’ve always enjoyed Gyles Brandreth’s charming, quick‑witted appearances on Just a Minute and across radio and television, so I picked up his autobiography hoping to learn more about the person behind the persona. Unfortunately, the book left me disappointed — and, if anything, more uncertain about he really is.
Brandreth undoubtedly possesses remarkable energy and an almost compulsive industriousness. He is eccentric in the fullest sense of the word: a man whose interests range from visiting prisons to collecting teddy bears, and whose career spans acting, producing, directing, writing, broadcasting, a stint as a Conservative MP, European Monopoly Champion, founder of the National Scrabble Championships, and much more.
The autobiography dwells heavily on his school days, early life, and an endless catalogue of achievements. Above all, it is dominated by the sheer number of celebrities he has known, befriended, or encountered. Judging by these pages, he could qualify for a Guinness World Record for the most famous acquaintances.
Among them are Robert Maxwell’s children, though, as he carefully notes, he has never met Ghislaine.
What is striking is not just what is included, but what is missing. Beyond a vaguely sketched relationship with his father, there are virtually no interactions with his siblings. None were invited to his wedding, and his parents were informed of the marriage only two years later, when his son was born.
In the end, the book feels like a relentless, tiring roll call of celebrity names, peppered with a few anecdotes, rather than a portrait of a person. It reads more like an autistic diary of a networking life than a memoir with emotional depth.
Only a handful of its stories linger in the mind, the most memorable being his account of a dinner at an upscale restaurant:
“When the dinner was ordered, and the wine was served, we began to relax and I stopped talking so much and started listening to Sally’s godmother, who came from New England and had lots of stories to tell.
We, youngsters, were fourteen and sixteen years old, and Sally’s godmother, I suppose, was in her late thirties. When she smiled, she looked alarmingly attractive. That’s what I was thinking when suddenly I felt her hand on my knee. All at once, my heart stood still. I had no idea, no idea at all what to do. I looked away. I watched the waiter carving the roast. I couldn’t think what to say.
I felt I could hear my heart thumping, louder and louder still. I swallowed hard and looked back at her. She smiled and turned towards Sally. As she turned, her hand travelled up my leg. It stopped. Then it travelled further. I had no choice. My hand went down to meet hers.
Without hesitating, she took my hand in hers and, to my bewilderment, pressed a florin, an old two-shilling coin into my palm. She turned to look at me and narrowed her eyes, gently and slowly, in the most soul-melting way.
My head swam, my mind raced. What is going on? Why is she trying to pay me? This is madness!
Then she took her hand away, leant towards me and whispered in my ear, You’re supposed to tip the carver.”