Show born out of a schoolboy wheeze to avoid six of the best!
ALTHOUGH chairman since the start in 1967, the much-teased Nicholas Parsons was never meant to be in charge. He was originally hired as a panellist, and when producer David Hatch asked him to take the chair, he baulked at the idea.
Comedian Jimmy Edwards, the money-grubbing headmaster in school sitcom Whack-o!, had been chosen as host, but after recording the pilot edition he wriggled out of the engagement, claiming to be too busy.
As a compromise, Parsons (pictured) was told he could chair the first few episodes, then hand over to a different panellist each week. The result was chaos — and since then, the notion of having anyone else in charge has been inconceivable.
After a rocky start, the arrival of Carry on actor Kenneth Williams in 1968 did much to cement Just A Minute’s popularity, but many other players — such as the actress Beryl Reid — failed to establish themselves.
It was not until actors Derek Nimmo and Peter Jones joined regulars Williams and Clement Freud that the classic line-up was complete (Freud, a school friend of Parsons, was exposed after his death as a serial sex abuser and paedophile).
It had been at another public school that the seeds of Just A Minute were sown. A boy at Sherborne School named Ian Messiter, there before World War II, was caught day-dreaming in a history lesson and given a choice of punishments by the teacher: six of the best, or two minutes standing in front of the class, talking about Henry VIII and his wives — no hesitation or repetition allowed.
Messiter chose the latter, and was shocked by how difficult it was. He never forgot the experience, and developed it with his wife Enid into a party game, which he called off The Cuff.
After pitching the idea to BBC radio in 1951, Messiter hit on a new name: one Minute Please! The presenter was Roy Plomley, creator of Desert Island Discs, and the rules were convoluted. A team of three men faced another of three women, who were required to stick to a subject without repeating themselves or pausing . . . otherwise known as hesitation, deviation or repetition.
A jury, which changed for every show — one week it was three police constables, another three showgirls from the Windmill Theatre’s nude revue or The Beverley Sisters — judged if a rule had been broken.
When the Home Service was reborn as Radio 4, Messiter got his favourite game back on the air.
Its shaky start was compounded by the fact Messiter kept changing the rules: for example, he introduced novelty rounds, where players were forbidden to say ‘the’ or ‘I’. once the regular team
was in place, it became obvious that what worked best was an eloquent flow of words, punctuated by witty challenges and heated arguments about cheating, which usually turned into mockery of the chairman.
Each player had his own style, with verbal tricks to propel him through the minute.
Kenneth Williams could talk at a phenomenal rate: he was timed at 6.1 words a second. But he could also give himself time to think, by elongating words such as ‘reee-mmaaarrrkable’. The American musical star Elaine Stritch, a frequent guest in the Eighties, claimed Williams could make ‘one word into a three-act play’.
Freud liked to list ingredients in recipes, which earned him derision from other players. He was ruthlessly competitive, and would time his interruptions for the final seconds of a round — players were forbidden to wear wristwatches, but Freud watched slyly to see when Messiter reached for his whistle, to blow for the end of the minute. It’s no coincidence that Freud still holds the records for most wins. It is Williams, however, who clocked up the most uninterrupted minutes.
Derek Nimmo liked to open his monologues with airy descriptions of his travels: ‘At the Batu Caves outside Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia, these great limestone rocks tower into the sky . . .’ But he had a competitive streak, too. ‘He was a relaxed, easy-going man,’ remembers Parsons, ‘but there was a rod of steel running through his spine.’
The only one who didn’t play to win was Peter Jones. He would challenge reluctantly, because he had no desire to talk on the given topic. Selfdeprecating and droll, his ego never overpowered his performance.
When Williams died in 1988, Radio 4 executives considered ending the show. But they were met with furious protests. The game’s saviour in recent times has been comedian Paul Merton, a lifelong fan whose surreal wordplay was ideal for the show. He is unlike all his predecessors, except in one regard: he baits Parsons mercilessly.
Any reference to history is bound to end in an insult — for instance, arguing about whether dandies went nightclubbing in 18th century Soho, he turned to Parsons and said: ‘Nicholas, can’t you remember?’
However, Merton has his foibles. He and actress Wendy Richards of EastEnders disliked each other so much he asked that they should not appear on the show together.
Merton helped attract other comedians — Graham Norton, Jenny Eclair, Sue Perkins, Ross Noble, Liza Tarbuck and Josie Lawrence. Other guests have included the Labour minister Barbara Castle and Terry Wogan.
At 93, Nicholas Parsons insists he’ll never retire. He has been present, he says, throughout every moment of every show since 1967.
‘The more you use your brain the younger you remain,’ he declares. ‘I have to remain sharp, maintain the fun, listen intently and concentrate throughout every second. It’s the very nature of the job that keeps me younger than my years.’ Don’t bet against him still being chairman when he’s 100.
Welcome To Just A minute! by Nicholas Parsons is published by canongate at £9.99. To order a copy for £7.49 (offer valid to December 31), visit mailbookshop.co.uk or call 0844 571 0640. P&P free on orders over £15.