Interview: Richard Wilson

RICHARD WILSON is grinding through the gears of a pea-green and cream VW Campervan. "I've gone into reverse," he hisses, spitting out the words like tin tacks and sounding exactly like Victor Meldrew, that rasping wrinkly of One Foot in the Grave with whom the actor is fated to be for ever identified.

He sighs: "Of course, that's what they wanted. They wanted me to lose my temper, to do a Victor – and I did. Rather too often."

"I've warned them, they must edit out some of the temper tantrums," Wilson mutters in his cultured, clipped accent.

"They" are the production team behind the award-winning actor's latest small-screen adventure, for which he shed the dun-coloured dressing-gown and long, silvery locks of Gaius, resident sage and delightfully vague court physician in BBC1's popular Saturday night series, Merlin.

Soon, though, Wilson will be seen in a new light – in the driving seat of a nostalgic BBC4 documentary series, Britain's Best Drives. Sitting behind the wheel of half a dozen classic cars (like a latterday Toad, minus the leather gauntlets), he's journeyed back into "the golden age of motoring".

Wilson took on the series, despite the fact that he didn't learn to drive until he was in his forties, passing his test on his second attempt. "I always resisted driving because I couldn't afford a car and I felt that travelling on public transport was essential for an actor. I never wanted to be cut off from people; I love observing them.

"It's an actor's job to look at people. Now, though, they look at me all the time. However, I still feel that a car insulates you from people."

He bought his first vehicle second-hand from a cousin, but the Vauxhall Chevette broke down on the motorway. Since then he's changed cars every couple of years, and has owned only automatics – BMWs, two convertible Mercedes, and a Jaguar. Now he has a pearly-grey BMW 645i – "a beautiful car" – which remained in the garage at his London home while he was exploring Britain in vintage models.

With the aid of cloth-covered, post-war maps and, presumably, a pair of string-back gloves and a Thermos flask in the picnic hamper, Wilson wended his way through the Wye Valley and the Forest of Dean, motored around the moorlands of North Yorkshire, and scooted around central Scotland, the Lake District and North Wales, recreating life as it was lived in the slow lane of the 1950s, the days of Bakelite steering wheels and calf-leather door pulls.

"It's a toss-up between the Trossachs and the Lake District as to which landscape was the more beautiful," he says.

He puttered along, sometimes annoying the traffic but always drawing admiring glances, since he was driving makes of cars that have long been parked in the blue remembered hills of days gone by: Morris Minor Traveller; Ford Zodiac Mark II; Triumph TR3A; Austin Cambridge A55; Bentley Mark VI; and that dratted Campervan, in which he managed to rustle up a very acceptable dish of corned beef hash. "It was awfully tasty," he recalls. Now, a split-screen VW Type 2 is hardly a classic car. Variously known as the Kombi, Camper or Splitty, it was neither a joy nor a pleasure in which to explore the North Cornish coast, especially for a chap who is more used to the automatic gears of his own rather plush wheels.

"Although, to be honest, I haven't driven my car that much lately, what with making Britain's Best Drives all summer; then being away for weeks on end filming Merlin in France," he says.

Fastidiously wiping cappuccino foam from his top lip, Wilson says that he's just seen all the films and was appalled that no one told him he had cappuccino froth on his mouth in one scene. He was doubly appalled to view how often he's seen birling along some leafy lane with his mouth hanging open.

"I told them," he says, a beady look in his intensely blue eyes, "I want that editing out." I believe it. Wilson is such a thoroughly nice, polite man, despite the aura of strict austerity, that the programme makers will doubtless bow to his bidding. They're so pleased with the series that they've given him carte blanche to make another on any topic he chooses.

How about great hotels of the world, I suggest, indicating our glamorous surroundings. "It's an idea," he replies.

He's a bit of a charmer is Richard Wilson, as opposed to the miserable old git you might expect if you were to make the cardinal error of assuming that he'll be a dead ringer for his curmudgeonly, cloth-capped creation, who's had both feet in the television grave since 2000.

As an actor and renowned director – despite his TV fame, he's always kept one foot on the stage – Wilson's watchword is believability. "Be totally believable," he tells his actors when directing new plays. It's ironic, for Wilson can't walk down the street without some wag thinking that he's the first person ever to call out the grumbly crumbly's infamous expression of disbelief.

"Nonetheless, I owe a lot to Victor," Wilson says of the cantankerous old codger he played so brilliantly for so long. He bought me the freedom to direct and act on stage. I've no wish to escape him, he changed my life utterly. The series was so good, the writing so clever that I would never wish not to have done it."

Theoretically, like Victor, he's been in possession of a bus pass for years since he's now 72. But there's no sign of Wilson retiring and putting his feet up in a pair of carpet slippers. And since he's a bit of a peacock, with a penchant for Armani tailoring and Paul Smith suits and shirts, his slippers would probably be hand-embroidered velvet.

Today, he's immaculate in black suede trainers, a crisp pink-and-white shirt and well-cut grey jacket, worn with blue trousers.

"You know, I keep thinking I should wind down a bit," he sighs. "I've great plans to do this, that and the other, but I so enjoy my work and I keep fit – I exercise, I swim. And as long as the memory holds up, which it seems to be doing, I'll carry on working. When I'm invited to act in an interesting piece or to direct a rich new play, I can't refuse."

He's very amusing about growing old, although fears creaky old age. "My sister Margaret said to me the other day after watching an episode of Merlin, 'How long does it take for them to give you all those prosthetic wrinkles?' Of course, they're all my own, but Margaret couldn't credit I look that old. I'd like to think it was good acting, but frequently I'll catch a glimpse myself in a window or a mirror and there's this bloke with terrible posture and I think, who's that old man? The image thing's weird," he muses.

Despite being in his eighth decade, Wilson has refused endless blandishments from reality show producers. He's turned down everything, from I'm a Celebrity… to Strictly Come Dancing – "many, many times".

Certainly, Wilson could show John Sergeant a move or three since he took up dancing in the 1950s, a skill at which he remains famously adept since he's a bit of a party animal. Tango, salsa, foxtrot and samba were soon mastered; but he says: "It was a great day for me when you didn't have to…" (indicating a complicated bit of partner-twirling) "… and you became freer, groovier…" (doing a Travolta-esque Saturday Night Fever move with his hands above his head) "… and could do your own thing."

"But Strictly Come Dancing! No! No! No! They will keep asking, even though I've told them my little legs and feet aren't what they used to be. I'd very much like a new pair of feet," he says, adding that the only show that he's even been tempted by is Maestro, in which he could see himself magisterially conducting an orchestra. Sadly, the dates didn't work out.

GREENOCK-BORN, Richard Wilson and his elder sister Margaret were brought up in the Presbyterian work ethic. Their father, John Wilson, was a bowler-hatted, shipyard time-keeper and elder of the kirk. Their adored mother, who died of a brain tumour when Wilson was 19, rejoiced in the name of Euphemia Colquhoun.

He was the class clown, so skinny, shy and unsporty that he survived only by making others laugh. His teacher, Miss Mabel Irving, who was awarded an MBE in the Queen's Birthday Honours last June, told him he could never be an actor because he mumbled through his teeth. His elaborate diction and exquisite articulation have since become a positive work of art.

At 17, he left school to work as a lab technician. Following National Service with the Royal Army Medical Corps, Wilson moved to London and started doing amateur dramatics. He met an actress at a party who told him he could get a grant to go to RADA. The week he graduated, at 29, he had a job playing a stonemason in Dr Finlay's Casebook. Years of work as a jobbing actor followed, then he began directing and giving improvisation classes for students.

He was in his mid-50s before he became a cult comedy figure, much loved by the nation, playing a bitter, twisted old man, although he had already made his mark in John Byrne's Tutti Frutti, in which he was the rock band's manager, Eddie Clockerty.

A bachelor, Wilson is fiercely protective of his private life. He said some years ago that he'd like to have married and had 2.4 children, but he refuses point blank to discuss his personal affairs, although he admits one big love affair, with a woman doctor, when he was still working in the lab.

"I think actors need to be mysterious," he says.

For years he's strictly observed three teetotal days every week, drinking his favourite white wines on the other four, because he discovered early on that a glass or two boosted his confidence and helped him battle his chronic shyness. He's immensely houseproud because he has his home furnished exactly the way he wants it – "with no clutter" and a collection of contemporary Scottish art, although he's determined that no journalist will ever darken his doorstep, shuddering at the very idea. "My home's my last bastion."

Currently, Wilson is considering two sitcom proposals from BBC1. "Two! Maybe you shouldn't mention that," he whispers. He's also in negotiations for Merlin's second series, and there's that offer from the Best Drives team to make his own documentary.

Wilson's heart, though, is in new writing for the theatre. "You get to work on plays that are relevant to the society we live in, and that's what interests and excites me."

Britain's Best Drives is due to begin on BBC4 later this month. Britain's Best Drives: Journeys Through the Golden Age of Motoring by Richard Wilson and Nigel Richardson is published by Headline, priced £16.99.