It is his 37th tome – he has written everything from biography to children’s books to crime novels – but his first memoir. He is the king of the anecdote – when you Google his name, one of the questions that comes up is “Are Gyles Brandreth’s stories true?” – and there are plenty of them in his new book, Odd Boy Out. People just want to hear me sing a couple of songs and tell some funny stories.”īrandreth is always thinking about the audience, even when it consists solely of one person (me) sitting in the garden of his west London home. “I’m glad I’m doing this now with you and not while addressing an audience on Friday. He shakes his head and breaks into a showbiz smile. Instead I offer him a crumpled-up tissue.

“Oh my goodness!” he says, choking back a sob, and for a moment I wonder if I shouldn’t call an ambulance. His famously rich, velvety voice goes hoarse, before dropping to a whisper. One minute we are eating Victoria sponge cake in his garden, me lapping up a fantastic anecdote about the time, aged 22, Lord Longford asked him to be on a Pornography Commission with Cliff Richard (“He had a gorgeous chamois leather suit!”), the next Brandreth is shaking with emotion, putting down his cup of tea so as not to make a mess. It’s as much of a surprise to him as it is to me, I think. At first, I mistake his tears for laughter – for he is a jolly good fellow, after all – but I realise quickly that no, Brandreth is not chuckling, but weeping. Gyles Brandreth begins to cry about 15 minutes into our interview.

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