Clive Myrie: ‘I cry a lot. I’m a real gusher’

On my first day at primary school I threw up in the middle of the classroom. It was nerves, I think – being away from family. For the following two weeks I was totally mute. Eventually I spoke – and haven’t stopped since.

My parents arrived in Bolton from Jamaica in the early 1960s with my older siblings. I was their first to be born here. It was a loving family, but Dad didn’t adapt well to the UK. It was cold and the northern industrial town was alien to the Caribbean countryside he knew. His way of coping was to work, work, work. He’ll tell you himself he hasn’t really enjoyed it here. He did it all for his children.

Journalism was always on the cards for me. I had a paper round and after every shift devoured my own product. In the evenings, I’d watch documentaries from around the world. Then I saw Sir Trevor McDonald on ITV. A man who looked like me in the job? I knew it was possible.

I studied law at university and had a place to become a barrister. It’s what my Windrush-generation parents wanted. But I was also accepted on to the BBC training scheme. Parental forgiveness took a while. TV appearances helped. Reading the news, more so. Then I got the Mastermind gig – and all was finally forgiven.

I’m an analogue man in a digital world. Social media? I absolutely hate it.

My wife would say I’m a hoarder, though I’d dispute that. It’s just that I have old newspapers from the late 90s, and constantly collect all sorts of bits: candles, hotel soaps, ashtrays…

American presidents have an aura of power. It’s not from the individual, but all the secret service, staff and fussing around. I felt that around Clinton, Bush and Obama… but funnily enough not with Donald Trump.

Reporting on disasters, violence and war is tough. For many, PTSD is a real struggle. I know it might hit me one day. Certain images lives with you forever, but I compartmentalise and rarely keep track of the news when I’m not working. The separation is important, even if memories bleed through.

Driving through Ukraine last year back to Kyiv, our car flipped when a tyre exploded. It would’ve been curtains if we’d not been belted in. We flew down a bank, then rolled and rolled. During the Iraq War, a soldier fired a grenade in my direction across a bridge. I literally swerved to avoid it. Somehow, that felt less scary than the road accident.

Anything slithery or slimy can stay away from me. Very weird. Very.

Due impartiality isn’t a struggle for me. I have views on everything, but the point is that when I walk into the BBC you don’t know them. That’s crucial at our national broadcaster. Still, it means giving arguments the weight they deserve. If 99% of scientists say the climate crisis is human-made, I won’t put the 1% on the telly.

In the words of Michael Caine, separate bathrooms make a marriage. Figuratively speaking, at least. Having a space that’s your own; spending time alone, to bond when reunited. My wife, Catherine, has her own interests. I do, too. We celebrate out 25th anniversary this year, and each still have our own identities.

I cry a lot. I’m a real gusher. There must be something wrong with my tear ducts. Soppy movie? Great injustice? Man City winning? That’s me gone.

Clive Myrie’s Italian Roadtrip runs on weekdays on BBC Two at 6.30pm. All episodes are available on iPlayer