Guest Hugh Leonard wrote of his experience on the show in the Sunday Independent (Dublin, 29th July 1990).
Leonard revealed: "At the Bombay Brasserie, off Gloucester Road, a lady at the next table leans over and says: "May I compliment you on the manner in which you interviewed Terry Wogan this evening?" I choke, sending a fine mist of pulverized pappadam floating through the sandalwood-scented air. There is an art to Woganing. One should not, for example, attempt it during the hours of daylight. For my first appearance, in November last, I arrived at Shepherd's Bush after dark and was conscious of no more than a vague, murmurous crowd queuing outside the BBC Television Theatre. One simply scuttled towards the stage door, hoping to be mistaken for the milkman or a bailiff, which, given my own magnetic charisma, was a doddle. My enjoyment of a grilled sole is tempered by galloping waiters who unfailingly bump into my chair as to suggest that they receive a bonus for every direct hit. For my second Wogan last week, the westering sun shone upon perhaps four hundred eager faces, all so young that one wondered if they had been borrowed or rented from creches around London. And, as I ran the gamut, their eight hundred eyes held the fast-waning hope that I was perhaps Madonna in disguise - why does that young woman unfailingly remind me of a cloned armpit? Mr. Wogan himself could not have been more kindly. He and I had a friendly natter, although now and then I was obliged to divert his attention from the huge cardboard squares on which his questions are printed in black marker. "I think you were going to ask me," I ahem diffidently, "about Mr. Ridley . . . " He is the most gracious of men, and his success has received the ultimate accolade, inasmuch as he is undergoing more knocking than the back door of a bordello."