Huw Edwards on the BBC: "We represent 100 years of incredible achievement"

We know it was rehearsed, and Edwards knew the gig was his. But when it actually happened, was he nervous? "I do get quite nervous when I’m broadcasting sometimes," says Edwards, who has fronted the BBC’s News at Ten for nearly 20 years. "I can’t work out why. But this time, I was very calm and not nervous at all, I think because I was really focused on getting it right. Also I had [royal correspondent] Nicholas Witchell with me in the studio, and he’s the best in the business."

But how considerable was the pressure of telling the nation, indeed the waiting world, that the Queen had died? "It was 30 seconds of air time. And we all knew the announcement had to be right. With the right tone, the right demeanour, everything. You desperately want to get it right and not let anyone down."

Were you emotional? "Not in terms of struggling to speak, but I was sad, because I felt I was announcing the end of something very special, something that really meant a lot to people. It was the end of an era in British history, the end of a presence that has been with many people throughout their entire lives, and the removal of a person who was a source of reassurance and constancy. I felt very strongly that it was a big moment."

A lot has been made about who knew the news, and for how long, before the nation was told at 6.30pm. How far in advance did Edwards know it? "About ten seconds before," he says. I challenge him on the notion that he only found out more or less when we all did. Did he not put a black tie on at around lunchtime? Apparently not. "It was a navy tie," counters Edwards. "A dark navy tie, which then became a black tie after the confirmation on the wires."

"My colleagues were brilliant," he says. "Usually, when you have a breaking story there's a lot of shouting in your ear from the gallery, saying, 'Go to the news, go to the news,' but this time was different. The announcement came up on the wires and the gallery said, 'The announcement is here. Take your time. Speak when you are ready. Don't rush.' So I was able to pause for a few seconds, to make sure I would do it flawlessly, to ensure I was happy with the announcement being in place, to check that it was correctly on the autocue. The important thing was that it had to be done properly. So I paused, and only then did I do it."

He says the run-up to the official announcement of the Queen’s death was more stressful. "Nick and I were broadcasting for five hours before that. When you’re filling airtime like that, the capacity for making mistakes is limitless, and we could have been filling for another four hours." After the announcement, a broadcasting marathon ensued. "Every day seemed to melt into the next, with programmes of five to six hours each day as the coffin left Balmoral, went to Edinburgh, went to London, the Queen lay in state, and then the state funeral."

How did he manage? "My spare time was limited, but in between I did some long walks, and a couple of boxing sessions." (Edwards famously keeps in shape thanks to workouts in the boxing ring and the sport has helped him through bouts of depression.)

During the funeral, he decided to say less rather than more. "I think that was a good call, keeping the commentary to a minimum." Indeed, and not just because it lent an enormous air of respect and solemnity to the proceedings. "With all those hours on air, I was desperate not to make a terrible mistake. When you are on for that long, and tired, you are very nervous about tripping up."

He didn’t put a foot wrong. Indeed, there’s a rumour (given a tabloid headline Suits Huw Sir), that he has been cited for a knighthood following his faultless performance. "Excitable journalism" is his analysis of this. "I am embarrassed by it. I have been involved in nominating people for honours and, in a few cases, people who have spent a lifetime giving time to deserving causes and don’t get anything. So, although I don’t mean it disrespectfully, the idea of a knighthood embarrasses me."

Yet plaudits for Edwards came from all quarters, bar one. "My mum kept on messaging me saying, 'You look exhausted, there are huge bags under your eyes.'" At least she wasn’t commenting on his famous scowl, which is usually rolled out at least once during a normal bulletin. It seems this is a rather sore point with the Welshman.

"You don’t try to scowl but that’s how I do it. I don’t think of myself as a severe person, but the job lends itself to seriousness. I often turn up for events and one of the first things people say with surprise is that I have a good sense of humour." And a twinkle in his eye, particularly when his home nation is mentioned (he was born and raised in Bridgend, Glamorgan). "Oh, I do love mentioning Wales, as long as it’s a happy story, of course," he says. "If it’s anything to do with Welsh sports success, I can’t contain myself."

As anyone who has worked alongside Edwards will know, he has a true cultural hinterland. I once bumped into him on a train bound for Hull, where he was going to play the organ, one of the largest in Britain, at the City Hall. Indeed, his knowledge of pipe organs would make a spin on Mastermind a breeze. "Yes, as a special subject I’d do the Welsh church organs built by Yorkshireman Peter Conacher from 1854–98.” He pauses. "Actually, no, I would pick medieval French romance."

I tell him Clive Myrie, host of the famous quiz and a colleague, has confessed to me that he has no special subject to speak of. "Ha!" says Edwards, with unfiltered glee. "Medieval French romance! Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Myrie!" Edwards studied it as part of a French degree (at University College Cardiff, where he got a first), and then got two years into a PhD, "before I chucked it in for journalism."

At which point Edwards, Gallic bit firmly between his teeth, gallops off into the heart of his PhD. "Well, it is Arthurian, and some of it is anonymous, but some of it is attributable to the great French writers, including the first female French poet Marie de France, and she wrote courtly romances, including one whose title I use for my hardest ever computer password."

Huw! Come back! But we are now into the life and times of someone called Chrétien de Troyes, and he’s unstoppable. "Oh, he’s the great star of medieval French romance, he’s responsible for Cligès, a poem written in 1176, which is about a knight who gets into trouble, as they always do… then the Roman de la Rose, of course…"

Stop! Huw! I need to ask you about the centenary of the BBC, and your future.

"Well, I have perhaps been too honest about this in the last couple of years," he says, following a few more forays into the world of wimples and manuscripts. "When I was approaching my 60th birthday, I said to a journalist that it might be a normal time to think about my future. That became translated as 'He’s on the move'. Ultimately, it’s not my decision. I’m not going to walk away from something as prominent as the Ten. I’ve had a good run, but I genuinely do enjoy it. I like what I do."

Meanwhile, how does he feel about the BBC at 100? "I think it would be a mistake if at any point it takes audiences and the licence fee for granted, especially now that younger people have different consumption patterns. It has a bigger job than ever before to justify its place and funding."

Is it embattled? "Those of us who’ve been there for a long time have known pressure from both Tory and Labour governments. We are constantly under attack from parts of the press who have a commercial interest. People are more cynical than ever before and that is partly to do with the way people consume social media and tell themselves that certain things are not right, or genuine.

"Our job is to demonstrate we are still a force for good – that means news, but also culture. Supporting the arts and education is a crucial function of the BBC, especially those parts which wouldn’t make it in a harsh commercial world. I would argue that it is very good value for money. We represent 100 years of incredible achievement and some of the best programming in the world."

Huw, you are director-general for a day. What would you do? "It’s a filthy question, but I will give you an answer," he chortles. "For the first time in 38 years, I would like my own desk, and my own chair, and my own set of drawers because I have never had that in all my time. That would be my order if I was DG for the day. All presenters to get a desk and chair of their own. It’s not unreasonable!"

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