Terry Wogan: the intriguingly subversivenational treasureInspired by satirist Brian O’Nolan, Wogan was often considered cosy but knew a gentle tone can

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Mark Lawson

Sunday 31 January 2016 15.40 GMT

S ir Terry Wogan, who has died at the age of 77, owed much of his success to onestereotypical attribute of the Irish: a fluent and mellifluous delivery. But hisenduring popularity was also underwritten by another quality found more often in

his home country than most others: a love of language and literature.

He was a keen reader of Irish authors from James Joyce to William Trevor and, above all,Brian O’Nolan, the satirist and surrealist whose wild but jaunty tone Wogan knowinglyadapted to the airwaves. Possessing a natural high intelligence – honed by education inLimerick and Dublin from Jesuit priests, the intellectual SAS of the Roman Catholicchurch – Wogan became one of the few presenters on radio music stations whoseaudiences routinely wanted the singers to shut up so that they could hear more of thehost talking.

His career-defining work came in two long stints on the Radio 2 breakfast show, from1972-84 and then 1993-2009, the first after a rather ill-fitting spell at the newly formedRadio 1 in the late 60s. He had been recruited to the pop station following a short buthigh-profile Irish radio career that began after Wogan, having fulfilled his family’swishes by becoming a bank clerk, answered a newspaper advert for an announcer.

In his two occupations of the Radio 2 morning slot, Wogan memorably applied a vitallesson – the benefit of building up a stock of catchphrases and characters – learned fromO’Nolan, who wrote novels, including At Swim-Two-Birds, under the name FlannO’Brien, and whose newspaper columns, under the byline Myles na gCopaleen, Woganhad read when growing up.

So, for example, on air, Wogan’s wife, Helen, was always the “present Mrs Wogan” or,after he became Sir Terry in 2005, “the present Lady Wogan”, wryly implying animpermanence that was actually the opposite of their devoted 51-year marriage. Olderlisteners were “coffin dodgers”, while radio colleagues received nicknames; theannouncer Alan Dedicoat becoming “Deadly Alancoat.” Sir Jimmy Young, for a long timea senior Radio 2 colleague, would feature, reportedly to his disgruntlement, in word-sketches featuring “the ancient broadcaster, trundling into the studio on his portablecommode”. The final flourish in that riff was very O’Nolan.

If a supply of recyclable references had been a godsend for a newspaper columnist, it

was perhaps even more so to a broadcaster with up to two and a half hours to fill fivetimes a week. Wogan also understood, long before modern communications made this astandard part of broadcasting, what a valuable resource the audience could be. Drawingheavily from that old fashioned social media device, the postbag, he read out letters,stories and limericks – a deliberate nod to his beloved Irish birthplace – that not onlyprovided a free script but created a sense of community with listeners who, in their latteryears together, styled themselves “Terry’s Old Geezers” or TOGs.

Although sometimes considered cosy – and, in latter years, often admitted bycommentators to that body of harmless charmers known as national treasures – Woganhad, in his personality and patter, an intriguingly subversive, even dirty streak. Amongthe ranks of the supposed treasures of the nation, he was perhaps closer in sensibility toAlan Bennett, who hates the tag, than to Dame Vera Lynn.

A regular feature of his Radio 2 breakfast show in its second incarnation were the “Janetand John” stories, sent in by listeners, in which the children from the Ladybird books,now in adulthood, became involved in adventures that culminated in punchlines of eye-popping innuendo. If the same material had been read on air by Jonathan Ross or RussellBrand, investigations and suspensions might have followed, but Wogan, in anotherlesson from O’Brien, understood how gentle tone and persona can distract from boldercontent.

Another of his tricks in this direction was to leave the audience to supply the joke.During a brief fashion for celebrated women to wear the name of their husband on theirT-shirts – so that Madonna might be seen sporting the word “Ritchie”, in honour of herspouse at the time – Wogan murmured between records one morning: “I’d fancy the wifeof the present director general will not be doing that.” The BBC’s DG at the time wasGreg Dyke.

In common with some of Wogan’s other on-air fantasies – including the “dance of theBBC virgins” that supposedly took place on the roof of Broadcasting House each morning– these gags may have benefitted from occurring before the time when social groupscould take instant collective offence at things said by presenters.

His wit could be more openly wicked away from the microphone. Wogan once remarkedin a BBC hospitality box at the Proms that he no longer played much golf because the restof his foursome had all been arrested by Operation Yewtree. This was comicexaggeration, but he was deeply relieved by the complete exoneration of his friendJimmy Tarbuck, and viscerally horrified by the revelations about Rolf Harris, anothermember of the Thameside showbiz set.

Such sharp humour was most apparent on air in Wogan’s laconic televisioncommentaries on the Eurovision Song Contest, which were reputed to have broughtprotests to the BBC from the broadcasters and even ambassadors of some of thecountries whose competitors he skewered. He escaped discipline, though, because thesevoiceovers were another example of his clever use of found material. Most often, he wasmerely reciting, with a slight inflection of scepticism, the descriptions of the hostnations or songs distributed by publicists.

This critic’s gift, rare in a form of broadcasting where presenters tend more naturally to

be optimists or publicists, was also on display, during his first run of Radio 2 mornings,in the acerbic demolitions of the American soap opera Dallas They could be as sharp-eyed as the critiques of the same series that were making the name of Clive James, theObserver TV critic, at the same time.

What radio crucially gave Wogan was time to digress and invent. One reason that histhrice-weekly BBC chatshow, screened from 1985-92, was regarded as a relative blot onhis biography is that the short 35-minute format, generally with three guests, inevitablycramped his verbal imagination and flow. Also, by instinct an improviser, he struggled toadapt to scripts on Autocue and briefs written by producers, who would sometimescomplain that he was busking his way through interviews. Revealingly, his bestmoments on that show depended on reaction rather preparation, as when he warnedDavid Icke, the former Coventry City goalkeeper who had unexpectedly declared himselfto be the son of God, that the chortling audience was “laughing at you, not with you”.

And, despite the tendency of the TV series to be regarded, to his annoyance, as a failure,no show in the BBC1 7pm slot has achieved equivalent ratings in the two decades sinceWogan was axed. Having guessed the way the commission was going, he had asked toleave a year before it ended, but was begged to stay on. He subsequently learned that theextension was to allow the set for Eldorado, the soap opera planned as a replacement, tobe completed in Spain.

Although at heart a kind man, Wogan declared himself unable ever to forgive the BBCtelevision executive, still a very prominent presence at the organisation, who truncatedhis career at the broadcaster and, Wogan believed, had been less than straight with himduring the process of demotion.

He always refused to name his nemesis publicly, less from kindness than the survivalinstincts of a freelance. It has recently been reported that he was “too busy” to giveevidence to Dame Janet Smith’s inquiry into his former Radio 1 colleague, Jimmy Savile.And, while Wogan’s diary was often scarily packed, his elusiveness may also have owedsomething to his belief, genially passed on to younger broadcasters, that it was safer tokeep well away from any matters involving BBC managers.

True to this creed, on 18 December 2009, during his final Radio 2 breakfast show, Woganintervened during a record to thin out the ranks of corporation bosses who had gatheredbehind the studio window to witness his last moments on air. He was also furious whenone high-up suggested that he might be “overdoing the sentimentality” during thatprogramme.

However, though distrustful of BBC bosses, Wogan was notably supportive, both on andoff the record, of Chris Evans, who replaced him on the radio, and Graham Norton, whotook over the Eurovision commentary on TV. It is often tough to be appreciative of asuccessor but Wogan recognised worthy and appropriate replacements in Evans’srapport with the audience and Norton’s facility with language. It helped that, with thesingle exception of his sacking from the TV talkshow, Wogan had the unusual luxury ofalways having chosen his own moment of departure from major shows.

A benevolent mentor to many other broadcasters, Wogan would pass on pieces ofwisdom including: “Television is about innovation, but radio is about repetition.” He

meant this to explain why sound careers tended to be longer than screen ones, and itproved so in his case, with his post-chatshow return to Radio 2 leading to his finest workas a broadcaster.

Despite this, his strong sense of professional pride led him, when BBC TV ended anexclusive television contract, restricting him to the charity telethon Children in Needand occasional documentaries about Ireland, to turn up on channels 4 and 5 in order tosignal that the reduction in demand had been internal rather than external. But, thoughhe expected TV Centre executives to get the point, he was careful not to be bitter inpublic about career reverses.

Where he could become tetchy, both publicly and privately, was at any discussion of hishair. From relatively early on, fellow DJs would refer to him behind his back as “TerryWig-On”, a tag that became public in the reviews of the TV critic Victor Lewis-Smith.

Wogan had a prepared monologue for interviewers, along the lines of “if a man were totake steps in that direction, would he [gesture at the dark curve across his scalp] takethese particular strides?”, which can be seen as a non-denial denial. However, in contrastto other odd coiffures such as Donald Trump’s, Wogan’s arrangements, whatever theywere, did change shape and shade as he aged.

He had a canny understanding of the mechanics of fame. When he was on BBC1 threetimes a week, and it was difficult for him to walk down a street or visit a restaurantwithout harassment, he became worried that his children were taking flak at school dueto his fame. The advice he gave them – “Whatever they say about me, just agree withthem” – was both practical and anti-egomaniacal in a way that was very him.

Strikingly, the other broadcasters he most admired – including Alistair Cooke, JohnArlott and John Cole – were often those who had a way with words on the page, and healways planned, with the time freed by giving up the daily Radio 2 show in exchange fora Sunday slot, to do more writing. Last October, a book of short stories, Those Were TheDays, bitter-wistful for a lost Ireland, was added to his already heavy shelf of memoirsand anecdote collections that famous entertainers more routinely produce.

In November last year, Wogan withdrew at the last moment from hosting Children inNeed, due to undergoing what was described as a “procedure on his back”. When hesubsequently took leave from his Radio 2 Sunday show as well, there were ominousrumours in broadcasting of serious illness, but Wogan, always determined to protect hisloved ones from the consequences of his recognition, chose to complete his life in totalprivacy. And so, for the TOGs, this will be their Bowie moment.

Wary of public shows of emotion, especially in broadcasting studios, Wogan had beendetermined to deliver the closing link of his final Radio 2 breakfast show in a mannerthat he characteristically described as “manful”. However, he had tellingly taken theprecaution of making written notes for possibly the only time in his radio career and,reading from them, audibly broke down. The next broadcaster on air, Ken Bruce, left anappropriate pause, before thanking Wogan and saying: “We will never see his likeagain.”

Well, an equivalent may, perhaps, be seen as he was a very good, rather than great,

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television presenter. Radio listeners, though, are unlikely ever to hear his like again.Although a lapsed Catholic, Wogan once expressed the hope that, when the time came,people might light a candle for him, a traditional way in the religion of remembering thedead.

Millions will want to do so now, either literally or metaphorically, because Terry Woganchannelled his love of literature and Ireland and his innate good-nature to become oneof the most original and enjoyable talkers in the history of British broadcasting.