First, there is the voice. Unmistakably his own, though a little weaker of late. Nasal, clearly north country in origin, and with the air of a clever working-class boy made good. The style is cultured everyman — ranging over a kaleidoscope of art, religion, science, history — all without any apologetic flannel. “Hello. Catherine of Siena was born in 1347…” Whether it is fossils, quantum physics or the philosophy of Schopenhauer, there is no witty foreplay. Unashamedly highbrow, In Our Time has been an excuse for academics to show what they can do at what might otherwise have been the dreariest moment of the radio schedule. And, for nearly three decades, Melvyn Bragg has been a one-man Reithian powerhouse, single-handedly keeping alive the holy trinity of Lord Reith’s vision for the BBC: to inform, educate and entertain.
In Our Time will continue. But finally, after 27 years on the job, Bragg is hanging up his headphones, retiring at the age of 85. Almost like a podcast format before they were even invented, he gets academics to do the one thing academics find it difficult to do — to talk straightforwardly about their specialist subject, without defensiveness or distracting verbal footnotes. Somehow, Bragg manages to get them not to waffle, or to qualify every statement into oblivion, at which point most of us would tune out.
At its best, which is often, it’s like eavesdropping on an idealised high table at Oxford, where the mathematician explains to the geographer the basic outlines of string theory. Here, Bragg is a master, constantly deploying that most valuable of radio virtues: curiosity. And when professor so-and-so drops into frustratingly academic equivocation, Bragg is there to return things to the big picture. Without being argumentative or patronising, he takes the ordinary listener on a journey of discovery into worlds too often confined to upper reaches of the Bodleian Library.
“It’s like eavesdropping on an idealised high table at Oxford, where the mathematician explains to the geographer the basic outlines of string theory.”
In that, he has been the perfect expression Reith, and his unashamedly moral mission for the BBC. “And they pray that good seed sown may bring forth good harvest,” as a 1931 Latin inscription in Old Broadcasting House proclaims, ”and that the people inclining their ear to whatsoever things are lovely and honest, whatsoever things are of good report, may tread the path of virtue and wisdom.” Over at BBC television, certainly, the seed increasingly seems cast onto shallow ground. It’s hard to see Reith in Mrs Brown’s Boys.
Why does television fail where radio can succeed? No, not just because the pictures are better. But because it can be on whilst you are doing other things – the washing up, the ironing, driving – in a way that the television cannot. And it’s more intimate, a part of the general hubbub of the house. I probably would not deliberately tune into a programme about Xenaphon, but catching it unexpectedly, it can be just magical. That’s the joy of radio.
Yet amid the grim fayre offered by TV, Radio 4 sticks close to the original purpose of the BBC. Today, the glorious Shipping Forecast, Front Row, Moral Maze (I would say that) the new Whats up Docs, they are great radio. More to the point, and despite those who predict or actively seek its demise, Radio 4 remains the nation’s most popular non-music network, with well over nine million dedicated listeners. And it is growing: notwithstanding explosive competition, Radio 4 enjoyed 2% growth over Q2 2025.
There is an interesting compare and contrast here with another semi-nationalised industry that claims a nationwide moral mission: the Church of England. Both have an audience that averages in the mid-50s; both are (too) middle class; and both have an understandable obsession with reaching a younger crowd. But this is a tricky balancing act, because many of the things that are perceived to work for a younger audience may alienate a more mature crowd. And without the mature crowd, both Radio 4 and the C of E are doomed.
What Radio 4 has learnt, and what In Our Time exemplifies, is that punters, whatever their age, are eager for high-brow content. In 2023, Bragg’s programme enjoyed two million live listeners, while In Our Time remains one of the BBC’s most-downloaded weekly podcasts. Nor is it alone. Call Her Daddy, for instance, has an average audience of 10 million. OK, it’s got its raunchy side, but also proper interviews with psychologists, psychotherapists, and then Vice President Kamala Harris. This is not down-with-the-kids patronising nonsense. Rather, it suggests the attention economy is changing. “Big social is dead. X a cesspit. Facebook has been taken over by boomers,” generation historian Eliza Filby explains to me. “Gen Z want something different. Smaller communities. Belonging. They are not put off by more demanding content but they also want their say.”
The challenge for Reithianism, and for C of E, is to be less top down — but not less challenging. If In Our Time is to live up to its name, it will have to factor in this new mood. Bragg was old school, and it worked, both on its own terms and in how it inspired others. You cannot imagine something like The Rest is History without In Our Time. Neither the growing popularity of academic posts that style themselves “the public understanding of”.
Who can replace Bragg? Tempting as it is to think that the answer to every one of the BBC’s new presenter challenges is Amol Rajan, he can only do so much. How about Mary Beard, she’d be great. With a younger crowd in mind, the new-look In Our Time will perhaps need to find a way to be a little less Olympian, more open to challenge, somehow more interactive, without losing that sense that, when it comes to Plutarch or Rosa Luxemburg, there are such things as experts, and they have something to teach us. Whoever succeeds Bragg will need to have his natural curiosity. And perhaps, if I am being hyper-critical, a little less of the grandee. And I do sometimes wish the guests were challenged more. But these are niggles.
In an age where cheap populism is still too often the lazy default option — in broadcasting as well as politics — being a bridge between the academy and the public realm has never been so critical. The Latin inscription in Old Broadcasting House takes its inspiration from the Parable of the Sower in the Gospels. The farmer sows his seed, some of it on stony ground where there is no depth of soil. Here the seed sprouts quickly, and grows impressively fast, but soon it withers and dies because of the shallowness of the soil. Those who chase only ratings and bums on seats in churches may be tempted by this quick return, but it doesn’t last. Bragg has presented well over 1,000 episodes of real depth, surprising many of us that we have a hunger for this kind of seriousness. It was only intended to be a six-month run. Long may it continue.
