A fond farewell to the afternoon quizmaster king
The blast from the past just grew colder. It may be 14 years since the original Fifteen to One disappeared from our TV screens, but for quiz fans of a certain vintage, the passing of William Gladstone Stewart sounds the buzzer of parting day.
Yes, I know they’ve revived it. But for all the amiable wit of current host Sandi Toksvig, the drawn-out, dumbed-down, new model show can never hold a candle to its progenitor. Even calling it Fifteen to One has an air of sacrilege, like trying to pass off a can of Tasmanian lager as a locally brewed pint of real ale.
‘Real’ Fifteen to One was a no-nonsense, quickfire affair, with William G like a rigorous grammar school master who was not above setting extra prep. “No mother-in-law jokes on 15-1,” he once boasted. “Just a pile of tough questions.”
And how we weekday afternoon viewers – we motley crew of unemployed, self-employed, part-employed and hoping-never-to-be-employed – used to love it. It was the ultimate ego massage: a chance to self-congratulate on how much one knew, without leaving the sanctuary of the sofa.
Best of all were the winter Grand Finals transmitted on Christmas Eve. Light fading, angels clearing their throat, ox and ass limbering up for their improbable walk-on role in world history; and then on it would come, the familiar music ushering in the top contestants of the year.
But it was William G who made the show, his measured control investing proceedings with a gravitas rare in the quiz show firmament. If a contestant answered just on the buzzer, he or she would receive a withering look, followed by the reproving Stewart catchphrase: “OK, but quicker next time.”
For some reason he seemed to have a down on Charlton Heston. If the latter were the answer to the question ‘Who starred in...’, Stewart would follow it up with: “Notice I didn’t say ‘act in’.”
Then there was the oft-repeated question: ‘Who said to his MPs “Go back to your constituencies and prepare for government?”’ The answer, of course, was the leader of the old Liberal Party, David Steel. “And the funny thing is,” remarked a sardonic Stewart, “they believed him!”
More famous was his ding-dong with Trevor Montague, a series winner in 1997. Balding Montague had competed in violation of a rule barring past losers, having previously gone on disguised as slick-haired Italian Steve Romana. Stewart sued successfully for the return of Montague’s Greek vase trophy.
Me, I never got near the trophy. In fact, I never even made the auditions, though I always told myself that I would. However, I did once see the man himself in the flesh. We were in the same post office one December and the queue was interminable. He was still waiting when I left, but I knew exactly how things would play out.
“Can I help you, sir?” the assistant would have asked.
A stern pause, laden with displeasure and disdain. And then the voice of William G:
“Ok… but quicker next time.”
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