Indeed, unlike his contemporaries and later wannabe successors to the throne, Parkinson’s original run of high-profile chat encounters relied not on the subject attempting to remorselessly plug his or her latest book, film, or marriage, but rather on a relaxed career overview in the guest’s autumn years. It was the 1970s, when vintage films were gradually being accepted as something more than cheap television time fillers on a Sunday afternoon. Parkinson reunited veteran gangster pals James Cagney and Pat O’Brien, showcased a laid-back singing set from Fred Astaire, chatted with awe with a typically ebullient Orson Welles, and sat back openmouthed as Bing Crosby, on his final trip to Europe, reflected on years in the lime-light, and more. Only Frank Sinatra seemed to elude this one-stop London chat shop for visiting American entertainment gurus.

Parkinson also had—and has—a fondness and familiarity with comedians, both established and upcoming. Most famously, he was the first to champion and promote Billy Connolly south of the Scottish border, with Connolly delighting the presenter and eventually becoming the most oft-repeated and warmly greeted guest. Reunions are always good television, and for admirers of anarchic British comedy none was more welcome than the special “Parkinson Meets the Goons” edition, so popular that the BBC released the sound track as a record. Manic architect of the Goonish movement, Spike Milligan, was ill in Australia and joined the show via television link, while Harry Secombe and Peter Sellers joined Parkinson in the studio. Parkinson also delighted in the unpredictable insanity of Tommy Cooper and the flamboyant camp of Kenneth Williams, who was once beautifully partnered by his friend Maggie Smith in a solemn and moving poetry reading.

It was often Parkinson’s love of incongruous gatherings of interviewees that made even the most average or uninspiring guest list literally come alive with tension, admiration, or a mixture of both. The very first program presented the tennis ace Arthur Ashe on the same bill as comedian Terry-Thomas. Later in the run, Peter Cook, with his almost estranged cohort Dudley Moore, sat back and waited for the comic inroads as British boxer John Conti explained the need for sexual abstinence before a big fight. Beloved British comedians Eric Morecambe and Ernie Wise were pitted alongside a stunningly attractive, lowcut-gown-wearing Raquel Welch, who, initially straight-faced, described the time when her famous “equipment” (her shapely figure) arrived. Violin virtuoso Stefan Grappelli, from the jazz school, and Yehudi Menuhin, from the classical school, delivered a mesmerizing rendition of “Honeysuckle Rose.”

However, in 1987 Parkinson the show and Parkinson the man were ousted from British television. Various suggestions—ranging from a lackluster attitude on the part of the BBC to Parkinson’s own disinterested reactions to the so-called stars who joined him in the same studios that once hosted the now-departed Hollywood royalty he adored—could not fully explain why the program was pulled from the air. ITV tried to resurrect the format, first with Parkinson One-to-One and then with Parky in the late 1980s.

Then, in a climate of chat show slump and “personality” overload, a glut of classic Parkinson-hosted compilation repeats proved ratings winners. Therefore, after a successful and ongoing Sunday Supplement program for BBC Radio 2 (which allowed Parkinson to play his favorite music and, once a show, interview a famous guest), the BBC television show was resurrected for a new generation. Parkinson’s hair may have become grayer, his suits slightly more trendy, and the format a bit more commercially minded, but very little else had changed in the decade-long hiatus. Whole programs were now devoted to the great and the good of show business, with the elusive John Cleese, the charmingly reticent Woody Allen, the beguiling Victoria Wood, and the omnipotent Sir Paul McCartney gracing the program, itself an almost sainted and revered part of the British national consciousness. Cocky rocker Robbie Williams summed it up when, with gleeful amazement, he turned to the camera, addressed his watching mother, and exclaimed, “Look, I’m on Parky!”

Comedy was still crucial to the mix. Paul Merton (lately of Have I Got News for You) was the first guest on the brand-new programs, while Connolly made a clutch of appearances with his world-weary and energetic observations on life very much intact. The guest mixtures were as effective as ever, with old alternative comedian chums Ben Elton (plugging his latest novel) and Robbie Coltrane (fresh from creating the role of Hagrid for the Harry Potter series) sharing the stage with Hollywood hard-hitter Samuel L. Jackson.

However, the overshadowing demons of Parkinson’s own reluctance to continue were unintentionally but pointedly embraced with one particular edition of the show. Football (soccer) legend George Best and extravagant pop musician Sir Elton John were juxtaposed with new-millennium football hero David Beckham and his Spice Girl wife, Victoria. The contrast and unspoken contradiction was typically electric.

In the long interim between the show’s runs, the replacements and pretenders to the Parkinson chat throne (from Terry Wogan to Jonathan Ross) all seemed to be bigger personalities than the guests they were trying to hype. In contrast, Parkinson did not try to justify his name as the star attraction of the program; he was more than happy to sit back and be entertained with familiar or unfamiliar anecdotes from the worlds of film, music, and sports.

Still, as an elder statesman with his hands still very much on the steering wheel, Parkinson has passed beyond criticism into that reassuringly and untouchable bracket of national treasure. Even the brilliant lampooning of Parkinson on Alistair McGowan’s Big Impression, which superbly highlights Parkinson’s often brusque, unrelenting, and incoherent interviewing style, cannot damage him. It may well be that arguably his greatest interview, with Muhammad Ali on October 17, 1971, will remain the chat benchmark, as Parkinson bristled and shone opposite the erudite fighter, who with menace sweetened with tenderness muttered, “You can’t beat me mentally nor physically!” Parkinson, for all his faults and foibles, remains the best of the bunch for one simple reason—he lets his guests talk.