Nick Hewer has become one of our best-loved characters on TV — first, as one of Lord Sugar’s sidekicks on The Apprentice, and now as host of the words and numbers game Countdown.
In the first part of our serialisation of his memoirs on Saturday, he told how he was an unknown PR man until, by accident, he found himself auditioned for television.
Here, in the final part — with characteristic self-deprecation — he takes us behind the scenes of recording at Countdown…
Nick Hewer has become one of our best-loved characters on TV
Sitting in my dressing room on The Apprentice set, I was being rouged up by Mandy, the make-up artist, when Alan Sugar strolled in.
I had news for him: I’d been offered the job of presenting Countdown.
Always one to get to the point, he said: ‘What’s that?’
I gave him an outline of the long-running afternoon TV quiz show.
‘How much?’ he said. I told him.
‘Do it,’ was his rapid response as he strolled out again.
Suddenly, at the age of 68, I found myself heavily committed with two major TV shows on the go at once.
I was also, to put it bluntly, rather surprised at the level of income and flattered to have been asked to take the helm of the programme that can boast of more series than any other, as confirmed in the Guinness World Records.
The phone call had come completely out-of-the blue a few weeks earlier. On the other end had been Tom Mclaughlin, managing director of the country’s largest speaker agency, which had booked me over the last five years.
‘Countdown have been on the phone and want to know whether you’d be interested in presenting the show,’ he said.
‘What do you think?’ I asked.
‘Well,’ he replied, ‘it’s been running since 1982, very well established, probably Britain’s best-known afternoon quiz show, and I think you might like it.’
‘I’ve never watched the show,’ I said. ‘Let me have a look and I’ll come back to you.’
I tuned in that afternoon and asked around and came to the firm conclusion there would be a lot of experienced presenters going for this job, but I might as well throw my hat into the ring.
To my surprise, a few weeks later, I found myself sitting in the gallery of the old Granada studios in Quay Street, Manchester, watching Jeff Stelling silkily present Countdown in front of a live audience, with Susie Dent in Dictionary Corner and Rachel Riley handling the numbers and letters board.
After an hour or so in the darkness, the producer, Damian Eadie, turned to me and said: ‘Do you want a go?’
I thought it rude to decline, and next thing I knew I was on the floor of the studio being mic’d up by Denise. The floor manager, Jay, gave me some words of advice (now forgotten), and finally Denise plugged what felt like an onion in my right ear — the famous earpiece.
Damian came through loud and clear with a few curt instructions. The director Derek Hallworth took over and told me not to worry.
Nick Hewer on the set of Countdown with Susie Dent and Rachel Riley
Cindy came on the line and told me she would count me down, and then the sound engineer and lighting supervisor were on the line, checking on my comfort level. And thus, with all these voices dancing around in my head, off we went.
If Jeff Stelling was as smooth as polished marble, then I was a heap of rubble by comparison. After ten minutes of falling masonry, it was called to a halt and I staggered out of the studio.
I thought no more about it until, a couple of weeks later, the executive producer, Peter Gwyn, called me to ask how I felt it had all gone.
I told him I was clearly not cut out for such a role.
‘Oh, come on,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t that bad. In fact, we’d like to pursue it a little more . . . I will bring the team down to London together with a presenter trainer, and we’ll see whether we can’t knock off some of those rough edges.’
That’s exactly what happened, and the abiding memory and the best piece of advice that I was given is, when presented with a Countdown script, do not read it word for word — unless you have an autocue (which we don’t) — but just get the general gist and do it in your own words.
Another test, which I passed surprisingly easily, was finishing a piece on time: the director in one’s earpiece counts you down so that you hit the pips.
A few weeks passed and the executive producer called again to say that they were very happy and would like to offer me a contract.
I referred him back to Tom Mclaughlin, who was soon in touch.
‘This is a good gig,’ he said. ‘It involves 225 shows a year, with five shows recorded per day in three-day blocks. I have managed to increase their offer considerably and I think you should take it.’
‘But I’m already doing The Apprentice, so I’m committed to an eight-week shoot and all the other random days and events, so I’ve got to be a bit careful.’
‘Make hay while the sun shines,’ he trilled. I took his advice.
That was in 2011. Seven years, and counting . . .
FOR those who’ve been in a medically induced coma for the last 36 years and haven’t seen the show, then tune in to Channel 4 any weekday afternoon to find out what it’s all about.
It’s basically live Scrabble with a teapot as a prize.
This is, I think, what makes it so charming: there are no money prizes, no free holidays, no sets of stainless-steel saucepans to be won — just a dictionary and a teapot and the glory of being a Countdown winner. Indeed, the most frequent cry from a winning contestant is: ‘I’ve got my teapot, that’s all I came for.’
‘Sometimes, as I sort of wander off-piste, I see Rachel’s eyes widening in dread anticipation of what I might say next’
I was recently asked to acquire a teapot for a friend, who was somewhat irritated to learn that this was absolutely out of the question, as supplies were held in a locked room and carefully audited. Even I don’t have one; nor do Susie or Rachel.
People often say that I look very relaxed on screen, which surprises me, as in truth I don’t feel very confident.
Half the time I think I’m terrible at this, and the other half of the time I’m saying to myself, I’m just about getting away with it.
Last year, following the news that Channel 4 wanted to increase the number of shows from 225 to 260 a year and, furthermore, wanted me to sign a two-year deal, I called in on Jay Hunt, then the de facto boss, to thank her for Channel 4’s continued support.
‘Don’t thank us,’ she said. ‘We’re thanking you and the whole Countdown team. We’re very happy with the show.’ I thanked her again and she quietly said: ‘Learn to take a compliment.’
Jay, whom I’ve known since she was controller of BBC1 and in charge of The Apprentice, has a fearsome reputation but somehow has always been kind to me.
I normally arrive in Salford’s Media City, where the show is now recorded, the evening before the first day of recording.
I spend the journey in the car marking up my scripts and familiarising myself with the biographies of the Dictionary Corner guests, together with thumbnail sketches of the anecdotes they are due to deliver over the following three days.
Remembering the advice I was given on that initial training session six years ago, I try to flesh out the intro scripts, written by assistant producer David Smith, so that I can put in some personal anecdotes.
Most of the BBC newsreaders traipse over from their nearby studio to our studio once a year as Dictionary Corner guests, and they’re always amazed that I’m not working from an autocue.
I must admit that an autocue would save me a lot of stress, but budgets are budgets and, it’s also claimed, the producers want a slightly haphazard and spontaneous approach.
Sometimes, as I sort of wander off-piste, I see Rachel’s eyes widening in dread anticipation of what I might say next. In truth, it’s anybody’s guess because I often don’t know myself where I’m heading.
In the very early days, I once worked out the word CONIFERS on the board — a creditable score of eight — and, with the clock still ticking, I was so excited I shouted it out.
When the clock had finished its sweep, and with the rebuke of the director ringing in my earpiece, I asked each competitor for their word and was not surprised to find that each had also chosen the word ‘conifers’. To my huge embarrassment, we had to do it all over again.
Susie, on the other hand, is the mistress of self-control, and I never cease to be amazed at her professionalism and extraordinary learning as she delivers, over each three-day block of 15 programmes, 15 perfectly crafted and executed little essays on her chosen theme — an exceptional talent.
And Rachel, an Oxford maths graduate, blazes her way through the most difficult challenges without a moment’s hesitation.
The day starts when I leave the hotel at 9.30 am and head for the studio. Then it’s into the Dock 10 building at Media City, lift to the first floor and let myself into the Countdown corridor.
Dropping my stuff off in my rather luxurious dressing room, I head off to the make-up room where we all mill about before and after each show. (We record five episodes a day, so it’s necessary, after every game, to get a fresh set of clothes to differentiate between the days.)
So, there we all are in Dock 10, plunged into the parallel universe that is a TV studio with no natural light — a kind of crepuscular half-world in which, beyond the painfully bright key lights which the lighting director deliberately and sadistically insists on pointing straight at me, I can see nothing of the audience that lurks in the darkness beyond.
Most of the Dictionary Corner guests come because they love Countdown — none more so than Jo Brand and Gyles Brandreth, who’ve been on since almost the beginning of time.
Nothing fazes performers like these, but there are those who come and, while acting in a nonchalant manner, are unable to disguise their nerves as they enter the studio, for there is no place to hide for those who airily wave away an earpiece. It always amuses me to see that same celeb call for an earpiece two games later and be attached to Damian’s lifeline.
For me, the success of a show, or certainly the enjoyment, depends on the chemistry I have with the Dictionary Corner guest.
That certainly applies to Jo and Gyles, but add to them celebrities such as Janet Street-Porter, the remarkable wildlife experts Chris Packham and Steve Backshall, Jimmy Osmond, the hilarious Rufus Hound, Gloria Hunniford, Hugh Dennis, Jon Culshaw, Richard Madeley, Tim Rice and the twinkling-eyed Louise Minchin, to name just a few.
A recent guest, the great boxer Barry McGuigan, proved to be delightful. It gave me great pleasure to tell him that my mother, who was born in Northern Ireland, adored him and, when watching him fight on television, used to plead: ‘Don’t you hurt my Barry!’
A more unlikely fight fan would be hard to find, but strangely she loved boxing and fell into a long and friendly correspondence with the commentator Harry Carpenter.
I was surprised to be told by my sister, Annabelle, recently that Mum was a daily Countdown viewer, slipping away to the TV room with a cup of tea, pad and pencil and a cigarette to watch the first presenter, Richard Whiteley.
Princess Margaret also revealed in an interview that her sister was a keen viewer, although she failed to say whether HMQ played along.
The pressure on the contestants is intense, for though they’ve all passed an audition to test their ability in the game and they all play at home (no doubt brilliantly), once they enter the arena, with the big clock behind them and the bright lights and a live audience, any over-confidence soon evaporates, particularly for those who are now facing a player who has already accumulated five wins.
My greatest fear is for the contestant who hasn’t managed to get on the scoreboard while his or her competitor racks up a massive score.
He/she stands at zero, the competitor at 55, and I pray that the underdog will score at least something before the final round.
He/she starts to panic, I start to panic, praying that the competitor in the lead will just ease off the throttle a little bit, but of course this is a very competitive situation.
I’ve yet to preside over a game when one player stays on zero, and I hope that situation never occurs.
While I can have fun with the celebrities sitting next to Susie, I like to gain some rapport with the contestants, not always easy given the stress they must be under.
There are exceptions, contestants who can relax and enjoy the experience, notably, in recent times, the famous Moose, an ex-copper who charmed us all; and I’ll never forget Liam Moloney from Galway who went home to a hero’s welcome and free pints of the black stuff for evermore after a successful Countdown run.
It’s an exhausting schedule, and by the end I’m thrown semi-conscious into the back of the car to return to my home in Northamptonshire, where my partner Catherine awaits with the words: ‘You must be sick with exhaustion. There’s duck for dinner.’
Until the next time.
My Alphabet: A Life From A To Z by Nick Hewer is published by Simon & Schuster at £20. © Nick Hewer 2018.
To order a copy for £16 (20 per cent discount, valid until September 5), visit mailshop.co.uk/books or call 0844 571 0640. P&P is free.