Some people take to life like a duck to water. Their lives are full of social and professional successes and the only way, for them, is up. But not everyone’s life is an effortless triumph. The world may be full of round holes, but there are just as many square pegs out there, forever banging their heads against the periphery of normality. These are the lame ducks of life. They don’t mean any harm and, like everyone, they just want to be happy. But they’re not designed for the rewards of normal life. What happens, though, when they gather together into a flock of Lame Ducks?

Brian Drake (John Duttine) is a man of sober tastes. He’s never worn denim and the idea of European food is enough to cause him great anxiety. And he’s trapped in an unhappy marriage with the upwardly mobile Jean Drake (Primi Townsend). Mr Drake’s destiny, however, is about to take a sharp sidestep. Out on his lunch break, Brian is knocked down by a lorry full of turnips. Waking up in hospital, he is informed by his wife that his employer is terminating his contract. And, as a result, she’s leaving him for Ray (Giles Cole), a moustachioed gent with his own car and a love of European cookery. 

Rather than sinking into the depths of depression, Brian uses his misfortune to start afresh as a free man. And his immediate aim is to move to the country and live as a hermit. But he won’t, contrary to the definition of a hermit, be on his own. Also in hospital with him is Tommy (Patric Turner), a reformed pyromaniac who is perpetually cold and clad in gloves, scarf a woolly hat. Desperate to make a break from his endless cycle of drifting from hostel to hostel, Tommy teams up with Brian. But Brian must first attire himself in double denim and purchase a clapped out psychedelic van which he fills with farm animals.

Stopping off at a roundabout to dig up some of Tommy’s secret fuel supplies, the pair pick up a hitchhiker by the name of Angie (Lorraine Chase). A strong-minded individual who has lived with 18 “fellas”, Angie is trying to make her way to Hengistbury Head to reunite with one of her fellas. But first she takes Brian and Tommy to a vintage steam rally to track down an aging alcoholic who dabbles in country properties. With Tangledown Cottage secured, the trio become a quartet as they adopt ex-postman and aspirational ball walker Maurice (Tony Millan) who is the rally’s star attraction.

Tangledown Cottage, located in Scar’s Edge, appears safe and remote. But it’s not secure from the attentions of Jean Drake. Determined to screw her ex-husband for every penny he has, she employs the services of Ansell (Brian Murphy), a private investigator with an allergy to almost everything. Ansell, though, being an outcast ends up joining forces with Brian once he tracks him down. And it’s at Scar’s Edge that these lame ducks will attempt to grow vegetables, help the wealthy eccentric Mrs Kelly celebrate Happy Harvest Day and plan for their futures.

One element that will not feature in their futures is Tangledown Cottage. Following a séance arranged to remove resident spirit Harold – keen on Friars Balsam and leaving flowers for the ladies – Maurice’s ball comes to life and causes the crumbling cottage to finally collapse. But the gang are not homeless for long. The charity of Mrs Kelly finds them taking up residence at the disused Stutterton Stop train station. This new environment is the setting for a number of encounters with stilt-walking vicars, ravenous ballroom dancers and Tommy’s ghoulish new girlfriend. And, just maybe, Mrs Kendall will finally get a steam train running on the line again.

Lame Ducks ran for two series of six episodes between 1984 - 85 initially on BBC2. The first series occupied an 8.30pm Monday timeslot whilst the second series was bumped up to the 9pm slot on Tuesdays. Both series were repeated in a bulk run during 1986 on BBC1 in a 7.40pm timeslot which is more in keeping with the content of the series. Since then, repeats have been non-existent. And, for any of you sitcom enthusiasts planning to make a visit to Stutterton Stop station, please be aware that this is a fictional name. Thankfully, the station filmed is still active as a heritage railway site in Devon under its true name of Staverton Station.

Peter J. Hammond is a writer for who respect will never be in short supply. Having created the innovative and complex world of Sapphire & Steel, Hammond’s back catalogue also includes episodes of The Bill, Ace of Wands and, if you can track it down, one of the most atmospheric TV plays ever in Lost Property (also starring John Duttine). But what would a Hammond sitcom be like? Well, it’s far from a high-concept programme such as Sapphire & Steel and it’s light years away from the gritty days of The Bill. Nonetheless, Hammond weaves his magic throughout Lame Ducks.

If you were to peer momentarily into the world of Lame Ducks then you could be forgiven for thinking you had stumbled across a Roy Clarke sitcom. The programme is coated with a veneer of cosiness and there’s certainly plenty of gentle farce, such as people tumbling into old wells and the chaos of a trolley dash in the local Co-op. But look over the hedges and walls of Lame Ducks’ warmth for a second or two longer and Hammond’s offbeat brand is alive and well. It’s there with the charming, flower giving ghost Harold, it’s present in the nightmarish Sally and Angie’s dream sequence on meeting a mysterious stranger on the platform is far from conventional.

Lame Ducks, though, is not defined by these idiosyncrasies and therein lies its strength. Episodes are breezy affairs with only occasional sidesteps and this combination makes for a brief pace. It could be said that the first series takes some time to get going, what with the central quintet only coming together by episode five, but, if anything, it adds a pleasing continuous nature to the series. This approach is mostly abstained from in the second series, but the episodic structure does little to detract from its appeal.

Laughs are, on the whole, gentle little jabs at the humerus, but much like the wider universe of Lame Ducks, Hammond teases in a number of deeper gags throughout. In amongst the many jokes regarding Angie’s countless relationships, Maurice’s obsession with world records and Ansell’s constant need for medication, there is time for a more surreal brand of comedy. The appearance of Tommy’s girlfriend Sally (Juliette Grasby) may be vaguely terrifying, but her character is steeped deeply in the ridiculous and adds an intriguing layer of darkness. Likewise, the eccentricities of Mrs Kendall are in rich supply.

A large proportion of Lame Ducks engaging nature can be attributed to the characters and performers behind them. The central quintet have all been on the receiving end of a judgemental society and are underdogs of the highest pedigree. These qualities endear them to the viewer and, again, contribute to the series’ welcoming air. John Duttine and Lorraine Chase occupy the forefront of the action, delivering an unlikely relationship and one that teeters perilously close to romance. Brian Murphy is, as you would expect from a sitcom legend, effortlessly comedic with his authoritative gentility. Tony Millan and Patric Turner, meanwhile, bring a rearguard action of character acting to complete the set.

The lesson to be learned from Lame Ducks is that there’s a square hole for even the squarest peg. Loneliness, and enforced hermitage, isn’t the solution to being a society-prescribed outcast. You simply have to build relationships with the right people. And it’s a worthy message which Hammond is to be commended for bringing to life on the screen. So, put away your prejudices, and embrace the amiable (and occasionally offbeat) charms of Lame Ducks. It’s a flock worth joining.

Men, as we all know, have a tendency to strut, pontificate and make silly tits of themselves. It’s a misguided attempt to keep the embers of patriarchy flickering when all it really does is fan the flames of equality. But, deep down, men are aware of this. Because they do have feelings. And, as such, they need strong friendships and they need love. Nonetheless, these desires are insulated by thick coats of arrogance and delusion which make them perfect for comedy. Want a quick demonstration of these social dynamics in action? Just look at the Men of the World.

Lenny Smart (David Threlfall) may be nearing 40 and have a broken marriage behind him, but all is not lost. He is, after all, the proud owner of TV’s Greatest Theme Tunes Volume 1 and 2. More important though is his friendship with Kendle Bains (John Simm), a twenty-something clutching frantically at mid-1990s idealism whilst trying to get his end away. And the pair of them are trapped together for not only do they both work at the same travel agents, but Kendle is renting Lenny’s spare room.

Despite these trappings there’s more to Lenny and Kendle’s lives than selling package tours to the Algarve and arguing about the washing up. Along with input and observations from Lenny’s childhood friend Gilbey (Daniel Peacock), our intrepid duo will take on a number of intriguing challenges. Kendle, on his birthday, becomes convinced that the neighbour across the road is a murderer. Lenny strives to prove that he was the scorer of a winning goal in an under-11s cup match. Meanwhile, Kendle appears to have found love when Becky (Eva Pope) enters his life, but will he be able to hold on to her?

Landing bang in the middle of the 1990s, Men of the World garnered two series of six episodes and was produced by Alomo Productions (the company set up by Laurence Marks and Maurice Gran). Both series aired at 8.30pm on BBC1 with neither series securing a repeat. All of the episodes are up on YouTube, albeit in a rather fuzzy VHS transfer, but to get an even deeper understanding of the series I got in touch with Daniel Peacock. It may be over 25 years since Men of the World was last seen on our screens, but Peacock's memories remain fresh:

"After the success of Teenage Health Freak on Channel 4, I was approached by Marks and Gran to see if I had any ideas for a prime time comedy. I’d always been a fan of The Likely Lads and wanted to write a two hander. The title Men of the World came about when I decided that they should work in a travel agents. With the characters, I was trying to show that the older you get the more bitter and twisted you can become. Young people shouldn’t always listen to their elders. Without wanting to or knowing it, an older generation can often give bad advice born out of their own mistakes. After writing a first draft, Alomo took it to the BBC and within weeks the pilot was commissioned.

Both John and David were a delight to work with. Hard working and very funny - the perfect combination. It really was great working with them. I’d acted in my own written work many times before so I was used to it. I took direction like everyone else. Only once did I find myself in a scene enjoying David and John's banter so much that I’d forgotten I was in the scene and my line was next. I bump into them from time to time and we always end up laughing. Both great guys.

I changed things in the second series as I wanted to clash John's happiness with David's misery. Hence it was important to give John something/someone to make him happy. Hence, Eva Pope. Eva fitted right in and became one of the gang. There was plans for a third series, but when it started to get compared to Men Behaving Badly the BBC decided not to continue. As far as I was concerned, the two shows were completely different apart from having Men in the titles. If I had to write it today, I’d do the same, except make it funnier"

If you ask people to name a mid-1990s BBC sitcom centering around two men living together and exploring masculinity then almost everyone will answer Men Behaving Badly. And that’s a perfectly fine answer. But it’s not the only answer. There’s also Men of the World. Are the similarities between the two, however, enough to render Men of the World redundant? Sure, Men Behaving Badly captured the laddish zeitgeist of the 1990s with an unerring accuracy. And, yes, it’s still referenced decades after it finished. But Men of the World is a very different and interesting kettle of fish.

Daniel Peacock has, in Men of the World, crafted a tale of male solidarity. Neatly conforming to sitcom regulations, Kendle and Lenny may be mates, but their differing personalities throw up all manner of conflict. Kendle, seemingly caught between New Man and New Lad, is the voice of naïve youth full of optimism, hope and foolish pretension. Lenny, a decade older, embraces his life experience and uses it to his advantage – such as pinching bonus holiday weekends from high spending customers – but, as Kendle puts it, he remains an oik. Both characters, however, elicit sympathy.

Lenny is clearly still smarting from the emotional heartbreak of his divorce. Despite trying to soften his pain with a string of frivolous relationships, he craves long term security. This is laid bare where he tries, with a disturbing gusto, to adopt a family as his own within days of meeting them. And then there’s Kendle, poor young Kendle. Still searching for his identity – he’s a closet historical saga fan and has Oasis posters on his wall – Kendle struggles to find a romantic soulmate. When he does, Becky unfortunately provides the perfect opportunity for Kendle to display his immaturity.

Bringing these characters to life are a fantastic set of performers. David Threlfall may have been popping up on TV since the late 1970s, but back in 1994 he wasn’t quite the household name he is today. Nonetheless, his comic timing and dramatic ability is deployed effortlessly in Men of the World. Even further back, in terms of experience and recognition, is John Simm. Only a few years into his career, Simm takes the bait of his big break and ably demonstrates why a special career lay ahead. Eva Pope, meanwhile, may only appear in a few episodes, but as with Simm, it’s an impressive performance which defies her fledgling status.

These performances need fine scripts behind them and Daniel Peacock is only too happy to oblige. Men of the World takes in farcical narratives played out by characters foolishly trying to get ahead. It’s very much a traditional sitcom and, given its pre-watershed timeslot, does little to shock as other series of the time did. Nonetheless, Peacock’s scripts play out with a modern, youthful feel where there’s precious little room for meandering. And, watching many decades later, there’s a pleasing nostalgia to spotting all the 90s references peppered throughout the episodes.

Men of the World may have retreated into one of the lesser visited recesses of the public consciousness, but it manages to stand on its own. It’s a completely different series to Men Behaving Badly and, whilst it’s not exactly a family-friendly sitcom, Men of the World can boast a wide appeal. An absorbing case study of male friendships, Men of the World is, if you really want a mid-1990s Manchester reference, the sitcom equivalent of Acquiesce by Oasis. And, just like Lenny and Kendle need each other, we all need Men of the World.

A short stature is not one that tends to be celebrated in our society. There’s a tendency to ridicule those who don’t conform to specific measurements and an unfair labelling of them as weak and ineffective. It’s all part of humanity’s kneejerk reaction to anything that’s slightly different. An approach to thinking which has been responsible for all manner of prejudices since humans took their first breath and started to eye their neighbour suspiciously. And a lack of inches is far from an endorsement of weakness, Mahatma Gandhi, for example, was only 5ft 4in. But prejudice takes no prisoners and it’s more than possible that height could cause A Small Problem.

The Britain depicted in A Small Problem is one where the scourge of society is anyone considered a “small”. This prejudice is one which Roy Pink (Mike Elles) had been more than happy to indulge in and, truth be told, still is. But his circumstances have recently changed. Roy, who stands at 5ft ¾in, had previously avoided the 5ft limit used to classify a small. However, a recent change in EEC regulation means that this limit must now be measured in metric units as opposed to imperial. And, to bring British smalls in line with their European counterparts, this limit is now 1m 55cm which Roy, excuse the pun falls just short of. He is now a small.

No longer deemed a worthy member of society by “normals” it’s time for Roy’s life to change. Aside from being beaten in the street by a woman wielding a baguette, Roy’s dog has been shot by the council and he’s been evicted from his house. His new home is south of the Thames in Adelphi House, a crumbling tower block in the heart of a ghetto for people of a diminished stature. Roy resolutely claims that his reclassification is merely a clerical error, but his pleas fall on deaf ears – most notably his tall brother George (David Simeon) and George’s wife Heather (Joan Blackham) who are so horrified by his new status that they tell their friends and family that Roy has suddenly died.

Whilst Roy attempts to have his reclassification overturned he will have to put up with with his fellow “shrimpos” at Adelphi House. Howard (Christopher Ryan) may appear to be little more than a cinema projectionist, but he’s a hardline member of the Small Liberation Front. Fred (Dickie Arnold) is constantly trying to make the best of a bad situation and heads up the Residents Association group with his wife Lily (Christine Ozanne). Libertarianism is the foundation of everything that the petition-wielding Jenny (Cory Pulman) stands for while the conniving Sid (Big Mick) favours calling everyone a dickhead. Meanwhile, Mr and Mrs Motokura (Tetsu Nishino and Sayo Inaba) have been frogmarched into Adelphi house following a trip to Britain to scout out a new factory.

Mike Walling and Tony Millan were best known, in 1987, for their acting roles with significant parts in Brush Strokes and Citizen Smith respectively. But as with many actors there was a burning desire to be writing scripts as well as performing them; A Small Problem was their first full series commission. Providing a little more experience on the production side of things was director David Askey, a fixture of BBC studio floors since 1957’s My Pal Bob. The transmission time for all six episodes of A Small Problem was 9pm on Mondays over on BBC2. There was to be no second series of A Small Problem and repeat runs proved to be equally elusive.

Satire is, and always has been, a powerful tool for getting points across about the state of the world. And, in 1987, when it came to prejudice, there was a pressing need for the megaphone of satire. Britain had experienced numerous race riots in its crumbling cities throughout the 1980s and South Africa’s apartheid was very much the poster boy of prejudice and subjugation. A Small Problem takes the tensions and discriminations of these social issues and uses them to inform its universe. The ghettos that the smalls are relegated to in South London mirror the segregation of apartheid and the demeaning terms of “shrimp” and “midgo” are the ugly, yet instantly recognisable face of bigotry.

It’s very easy, in unskilled hands, to blunt the focus of satire and, inadvertently, celebrate the powers that need to be toppled. But there’s no evidence of this in A Small Problem. Walling and Millan’s scripts never punch down, only ever highlighting the ease with which toxicity can flourish against an accepted backdrop of prejudice. Police brutality is frequently referenced throughout the serial, an accusation which dogs the establishment to this very day, be it through threatening to break the legs of the Motokura’s or casually ripping up Jenny’s legal travel warrant. And the social hysteria exhibited by Roy’s brother and sister-in-law over his reclassification highlight the dangers of mob mentality and propaganda.

But satire has a dual-purpose, so, as well as having to inform, it also needs to be funny. A task which A Small Problem manages to achieve with little trouble. The comedy is a nice balance of alternative and traditional sitcom whilst the seriousness of the situation takes it into dark territory. The strongest strands of comedy within the series centre around Roy’s refusal to accept that he is now a small. This “delusion of height” marks him out as the archetypal fall guy with his ignorance frequently fashioning its own noose. Whether he’s getting arrested for being caught with a copy of Little Women or being framed as an arsonist it’s deliciously satisfying to see him fall from grace.

Episodes are powered along by plots which, although not complex works of art, keep the narrative going forwards. And there’s little room to get bored thanks to the numerous threads unfolding through each episode. One moment you’re watching Howard plan meticulous bombing campaigns. The next it’s time for Fred’s attempts to get a tree installed at Adelphi House. And, then, Roy is desperately seeking a “tall” reference from his brother as an anti-smalls episode of The Archers plays in the background. The three worlds combine effortlessly and episodes fly by with the type of pace that comedy gets up for in the morning.

No single character hogs the camera, so the series has an ensemble feel and allows all the performers to have their time in the spotlight. Christopher Ryan is on terrific form with a character which is more nuanced and refined than his most famous role as Mike The Cool Person. There’s further excitement from Mike Elles as Roy Pink who grasps the comedy and drama aspects of the piece with a measured brilliance, how he didn’t secure more of a career in the industry is an utter mystery. And Big Mick guarantees laughs every time he steps on screen with his devil-may-care self-centredness. A fine set of performances all round and any complaints about the cast are only worthy of falling on deaf ears.

It’s not as rip-roaringly funny or powerful as the zeitgeist grabbing Spitting Image but that’s truly in a league of its own. It may be slightly flippant to equate racial prejudices with a lack of height, but A Small Problem succeeds by detailing the dirty mechanics of inequality. Quite why it remains obscured by the passage of time is a head-scratcher. There are many rumours that the BBC buried it as it was “flooded with complaints” But any hard evidence of this is difficult to find – save for a complaint in the Sandwell Evening Mail that small people can be glamorous. And, with bigotry still rampant in the 21st century, A Small Problem deserves another look. 

As Mrs Noah is given a tour of Britannia 7 by proton physicist Carstairs (Donald Hewlett) and neutron physicist Fanshaw (Michael Knowles), a malfunction is detected down at mission control. A disastrous set of events lead to a group of neutrinos accelerating and Britannia 7 is sent into automatic lift off. With Britannia 7 now orbiting the Earth, it’s down to Garfield Hawk (Tim Barrett) of mission control to bring the occupants of Britannia 7 back to terra firma. But this will only be possible if he can keep his hands off his young assistant Scarth Dare (Ann Michelle).

The prospects for those stranded on Britannia 7 may not look promising, but they’ll be fine for light bulbs as maintenance officer Garstang (Joe Black) is also on board. And, as they await their rescue, there will be plenty to keep these unlikely space explorers busy. The living units aboard the Britannia 7 result in a class war when they are divvied out. An experiment with a matter transporter results in a grotesque electroclone of Mrs Noah. And there’s also the tricky matter of coaxing eggs out of a space hen. Back on Earth, Far and Wide’s host (Gorden Kaye) keeps viewers up to date on the situation with daily bulletins.

Come Back Mrs Noah is a rather infamous entry into the British sitcom canon due to its apparent position as the worst sitcom ever made. It’s a rather grand accusation and one that would indicate it was written by a rank amateur. But, on the contrary, Come Back Mrs Noah was written by the legendary writing duo of Jeremy Lloyd and David Croft. With writing credits between them which encompassed Dad’s Army, Are You Being Served and It Ain’t Half Hot Mum, it’s no surprise that the BBC were eager to green light their latest project. Joining Lloyd and Croft from these previous endeavours was director Bob Spiers who had also squeezed series seven of The Goodies on to his CV. A pilot episode of Come Back Mrs Noah aired in December 1977 with the rest of the series, and a repeat of the pilot, following in the summer of 1978 on BBC1. The series was never repeated. But neither was it ever forgotten.

There’s a certain relish with which people describe Come Back Mrs Noah as "the worst sitcom ever" that you can’t help but be intrigued by it. After all, for one single sitcom to be singled out, against thousands of others as the absolute nadir of situation comedy, it must be monumentally bad. And, much like a car accident, it’s too tempting to look away from. We want, for some inexplicable reason, to be occasionally outraged by the quality standards of television. Perhaps it helps us appreciate the gold a little more, but these sorts of debates are for a different day. Anyway, whilst Come Back Mrs Noah is far from gold, it’s not the worst sitcom ever. In fact it’s rather fun.

If you want to understand what Come Back Mrs Noah is like then it can be summed up in two words: camp and ridiculous. And there are few sitcoms which can match it in either element. Mrs Noah’s backside is regularly pinched or prodded resulting in manic audience laughter. Carstairs improvised demonstration of a docking procedure finds him repeatedly stuffing a sausage into a hollowed out loaf of bread. And Vicki Michelle’s robotic housemaid strips to her underwear after misunderstanding Fanshaw’s instructions, a move which appears to initiate cardiac arrest in at least one audience member. It’s relentlessly and unashamedly broad. But there are more refined moments.

Lloyd and Croft have a pedigree which renders any accusations of amateurishness mute. Yes, there are many cheap gags within Come Back Mrs Noah but there is plenty of comic wizardry at play too. Gorden Kaye’s Far and Wide sections never fail to tickle the old funny bone with plenty of opportunity for “The 101 year old King Charles the Third” style gags to be sneaked in. Slightly less engaging are a string of gags featured throughout the programme focusing on a proliferation of Asian culture in Britain. Different times for certain, but misjudged and rather uncomfortable now. Thankfully, these only account for a small percentage of the gags on offer with the rest tackling more character based japes.

The scripts also benefit from being gifted that sitcom golden egg of trapping a disparate set of individuals together. There’s little room for the characters to escape each other and the resulting tensions help to inform the comedy. It’s a premise which would be revisited most closely, and infinitely more successfully a decade later in Red Dwarf. Rob Grant and Doug Naylor’s space-based narratives, however, had a little more depth to engage viewers and last for decades in their imagination. The plots within Come Back Mrs Noah are functional enough to keep the episodes ticking along, but suffer from rather bloated scenes which add little to nothing in terms of story advancement.

These narratives are mostly kept afloat by the quality of the performances. Mollie Sugden may be asked one time too many (per scene) to gurn disapprovingly at an ageist/sexist joke, but there’s much more to her inventory than mere facial contortions. Capable of switching from authoritarian battleaxe to slapstick victim in a second, Sugden is a true great of comic acting. Ian Lavender also does much to distance himself from the wet-behind-the-ears charm of Private Pike with his performance as Cunliffe, a role which reuires a more biting, sardonic set of emotions. Finally, the reunion of Donald Hewlett and Michael Knowles from It Ain’t Hot Half Mum brings a pleasing familiarity and worn-in bonhomie to proceedings.

Come Back Mrs Noah may be emblematic of all the worst excesses that 1970s comedies are chastised for, but it’s not beyond reproach. The series revels so vigorously in the ridiculous and the corny that it feels like an absurdist exercise in what’s possible in a 7pm sitcom. At first it will confound your senses, but let go of any prejudices and you’ll soon start to warm to Mollie Sugden floating around in zero gravity as the other characters crack entendres about flatulence – no, really, you will. While the series’ lack of repeats mark it out as a misfire – although it was regularly shown in the US – there is no denying that you can’t ignore it.

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I may have written rather extensively on long forgotten children's television programmes, but it's impossible for me to know everything. And, when it comes to schools programmes, I'm barely even knowledgable. Despite my love of television from a young age I can hardly remember the programmes I watched at school. Sure, I recall gathering around the caged TV and VHS player to watch Look and Read, but that's about it. All my other memories are just of the teacher fast forwarding through the spinning ITV Schools on Channel 4 ident. A modern tragedy this may be, but at least it gives me plenty to explore on here. And today I'm going to look at Over to You.

There was a glut of British schools programmes between the 1960s to early 2000s. An absolute glut. And the sheer numbers involved mean that only a small proportion are remembered. Shows such as Words and Pictures, Figure it Out and the aforementioned Look and Read all managed to achieve iconic status with their young audiences. But, even if it meant escaping the trudgery of traditional classroom antics for a while, schools programmes were still all about learning. And many children would either stare blankly at the screen or out the classroom window in the hope of seeing a rogue dog in the playground. Over to You may not have become a perma-fixture of nostalgia, but it can hold the attention with the best of them.

If there's one thing that's consistent with researching schools programmes then it's the general lack of media coverage. Rarely were there features in the Radio Times or TV Times about programming for schools and, all these years on, this results in many unanswered questions. Over to You was produced by ATV and ran between 1974 - 82, but even this seven year stretch is barely acknowledged in the annals of TV history. What we do know is that it was a typical look at the world around its young audience. Episodes would look at a specific theme such as dreams, machines, water, rhythm and ghosts. Using a combination of performances, poetry, films, animation and discussion, these themes would be put through the wringer to squeeze out a comprehensive knowledge on the subject.

All of this is achieved through a pair of performers. Over to You began with Max Mason and Jane Hayward in place before they passed the baton on to Adrian Hedley and Gail Harrison who eventually gave way to Tony Aitken and Wendy Padbury. All of these pairings work exceptionally well together, although the Max and Jane combination is slightly hobbled by the lack of comedy which comes later. Saying that, an early episode does feature Max and Jane floating and talking in an imagined underwater world which is both hilarious and insane at the same time. However, with a little more mirth seeping into the later scripts, the performers get to sparkle more with the Hedley/Harrison combination really sinking their teeth into the comedy. But, you know, all three of the pairings present an engaging spectacle, so I'm not going to grind out any petty criticism here.

The pace of Over to You is probably its most pleasing aspect. Packed full of variety there's little time for your mind to wander. One moment Gail can be racing through a terrifying dream sequence where she's pursued by a trippy montage of scorpions and spiders. And, when she wakes, the action shifts to a film of school children discussing their dreams - the pick being a girl whose dream involves a clown with lots of fingers talking like a parrot. As soon as this section is complete we find ourselves watching Adrian sleepwalking down Birmingham's High Street. The emphasis on fun is strong within Over to You and, whilst it's not going to impart any technical knowledge, it's a fine introduction to the themes on offer.

And there's a rather special name behind Over to You. The credits list a writer by the name of Andrew Davies. At first, I was a little unsure if this was the Andrew Davies of House of Cards, Pride and Prejudice, Game On and A Very Peculiar Practice fame. Children's television was a genre he had written for with stints on The Book Tower and the Marmalade Atkins programmes, but was this the same writer? I'm 99.9% certain it is as not only had Davies previously worked for ATV, but one episode with Davies' name in the credits features an excerpt from a Marmalade Atkins book. Davies appears to have left before the end of the series, with only George Moore's name appearing on the credits, but these later episodes with Aitken and Padbury retain an entertaining vigour.

Episodes are only 15 minutes long, so there's not much left to dissect. However, the theme tune does deserve a mention. Early series feature a rather plaintive guitar being plucked through a wah wah pedal, but the later 70s episodes adopt a simple, wandering synth tune (sounding much like a BBC Micro game) which instantly burrows into your ears. This version of the theme is also accompanied by a rather curious illustration of what can only be described as a 'long-nosed hand' and possibly helped to inspire Hedley's Noseybonk character in Jigsaw. Anyway, Over to You feels much more like a lunchtime slot show rather than a wholly educational show and it's all the stronger for this. Demonstrating the importance of fun in learning, Over to You is a forgotten gem of educational programming.

It's unlikely that Over to You will receive the box set treatment, but a few episodes have leaked on to YouTube. 

It’s comforting to dream about the all the possibilities that a sudden windfall could bring. One moment you’re struggling to stave off the wrong end of your overdraft and the next, well, it’s whatever you heart desires be it sailing a luxury yacht around the Med or buying rare comedy memorabilia such as the actual suit worn by John Cleese in Fawlty Towers. Yes, the process of rags to riches is an appealing one, but does it bring happiness? Are these transformations too swift and too unnatural for those individuals whose lives are suddenly turned upside down? Or can this sea change in life events pass them by and fail to temper their interest in a dustbin full of potential and a comfortable park bench? Let’s ask Lord Tramp.

Lord Fitch-Woldingham has passed away and it would appear that there is no next-of-kin to inherit his grand estate. But, after a little digging, it is discovered that a distant cousin is alive and well. Rather than being a textbook example of nobility, however, this relative is far removed from his Lordship in practically every way. And the most diametric difference is that Hughie Wagstaffe (Hugh Lloyd) is a tramp. With a penchant for rummaging through dustbins, Hughie is like a pig in the proverbial when it comes to life as a down and out. But his sudden inheritance means that he’s going to have to swap sleeping rough for snoozing in a four posted bed once used by Queen Elizabeth.

Hughie won’t be on his own as he adjusts to life in his country estate as he’s also inherited a handy set of staff. Housekeeper Miss Pratt (Joan Sims) is determined to transform Hughie into a respected member of the gentry and calamitous butler Tippings (George Moon) would simply be happy to deliver breakfast all in one piece. Challenges facing Hughie in his new role include hosting a social soiree with the local well-to-dos, coming face to face with a headless ghost and opening up his grand house as a tourist attraction to pay off debts. The allure of a dustbin remains tantalisingly attractive for Hughie, though, and trouble is never far behind. A fact compounded by the presence of his old, homeless friends The Duke (Jack Watling) and The Bishop (Leslie Dwyer)

Lord Tramp originated from a concept devised by Hugh Lloyd and was inspired by the wildly successful Upstairs, Downstairs which had concluded its five series run in 1975. Lloyd’s take on the posh and the snooty, however, was intended to be an inverted Upstairs, Downstairs. Whilst the concept was Hugh Lloyd’s, the scripts were trusted to Michael Pertwee – yes, that’s right, brother of the great Jon and an individual who had been writing for television since the late 1940s. The series was part of Southern Television’s concerted investment into light entertainment, a move spearheaded by the new head of LE, Terry Henebery. Episodes of Lord Tramp went out on Monday afternoons at 4.45pm on ITV in August 1977 with a repeat run coming in December 1978.

The early timeslot granted to Lord Tramp indicates that it was part of the children’s lineup on ITV. And indeed it was, with episodes following on from Chris Kelly’s imperial Clapperboard. But it doesn’t feel like an out and out children’s production. There’s no sex or violence, obviously, but neither does it rely purely on slapstick and world-weary gags that adults have heard a million times before. Admittedly, there is some room within the scripts for this, but its joined by so much more. The gags conjured up are more than worthy of a primetime slot and Pertwee skilfully weaves in visual gags involving Hughie made up to look like Hitler, farcical scenes where Tippings gets drunk on army rum and surrealist flourishes such as a historical portrait coming to life.

Lord Tramp is also to be commended for its dedication to plots. They may not be multi-layered marvels of narrative plotting, but there’s enough for Pertwee to heighten the fish out of water ethos of Lord Tramp. Episodes centre around Hughie embracing life in his new and unusual landscape, so there’s plenty of room for him to butt heads with stuffy ex-army generals at cocktail parties and a particularly farcical plot sees Hughie teaming up with Mayfair’s premier interior designers to revitalise his central heating. All with hilarious consequences. But the glue that holds everything together in Lord Tramp is the cast.

Hugh Lloyd, who had popped up in Michael Pertwee’s Hogg’s Back in 1975, was a stalwart of British television for several decades and was never more comfortable than when in a comedy. Despite his naturally lugubrious disposition, Lloyd deploys a rapscallion charm as Hughie that warms the cockles. Joan Sims, another staunch lifer of television, makes for a perfect straight woman to Hughie with her impeccable politeness and mild horror at his passion for grime. The long serving character actor George Moon strengthens matters with a delicious performance of bumbling, stammering comic charm. The most enjoyable moments, however, unfold arrive whenever Jack Watling and Leslie Dwyer careen onto screen with their unruly brand of vagrant hilarity.

You don’t have to be a child to enjoy Lord Tramp as there is enough quality from start to finish for the episodes to fly by with a breezy charm. Genuine laugh out loud moments regularly punctuate the scripts – although the lack of a laughter track presents an oddly muted delivery – which are as playful as they are straightforward. It would be difficult to single Lord Tramp out as a standout classic of the genre, but you're more than guaranteed 25 minutes of fun.

Children's television can be a powerful format, one which holds no punches and holds up the grim reality of life as a child to the camera. Shows such as Grange Hill, Byker Grove and the somewhat overlooked Children's Ward all excelled when it came to peeling away the layers of innocence that society has been so keen to weld tightly to childhood. Another series of note is Dramarama. Running between 1982 - 89, Dramarama was an ITV anthology series which tackled numerous genres for a young audience. Whilst there was room for comedy, sci-fi and the supernatural, there was also time to tackle the harsh realities of life in powerful dramas. And one of these was A Couple of Charlies. 

Charlie (Tom Hescott) is a kind natured, but naive young man who is far from popular at his primary school. Prone to flights of fancy, Charlie inadvertently alienates himself from his classmates and is positioned as the classic school outcast. One morning, at a 'bring your pet to school' day, Charlie's classmate Sam (James Boaden) brings in his pet rabbit. The runt of a litter, Sam's rabbit hasn't even been dignified with a name and is unwanted by Sam and his sister Alice (Keeley Coxon). Sensing a kinship with the rabbit's situation, Charlie is instantly smitten with becoming his owner. But Charlie's mother is a strict disciplinarian with no time for household pets.

Life at home is no simpler for Charlie with his mother (Pippa Guard) and her new husband (Garry Cooper) expecting a baby. This scenario has pushed Charlie further to the sidelines and opens him up to both mental and physical abuse from his parents. Desperate to establish a relationship which works both ways, Charlie decides to steal Sam and Alice's rabbit which has now been named Charlie - a dig at both Charlies' uselessness i.e. a couple of Charlies. After a disastrous initial raid which sees him pummelled into the mud by Sam, Charlie eventually succeeds in liberating his long-eared namesake. However, once Charlie's parents discover what has happened there is only one answer: physical punishment courtesy of his stepfather's belt. Witnessing this attack, which leaves Charlie black and blue, is Sam and Alice. But will they have the courage to inform their teacher, Miss Mitchell (Isabelle Amyes)?

Airing as part of Dramarama's fourth series in July 1986, A Couple of Charlies was produced by Central Television (each series had contributions from most of the ITV franchises). The script came courtesy from Grazyna Monvid who had previously submitted the Dramarama episodes Night of the Narrow Boats and Josephine Jo in 1984. Monvid would later contribute the episodes Just a Normal Girl and Snap Decision in 1988 and 1989 respectively. To provide insight and guidance on the themes of Charlie's narrative, an NSPCC adviser was involved with the production.

All a child wants is to be happy, but for Charlie this is a premise which seems unobtainable at the start of A Couple of Charlies. Instantly marked out as an unwanted presence in the playground, where he is shoved and shunted to the back of the class line, Charlie struggles with bullying at home as well as school. Whilst the bullying at school is despicable, a fact magnified by the innocence exuded from cherubic Charlie, it's the unpleasantness of Charlie's homelife that Monvid ramps up with a visceral brutality. Treated as an inconvenience by his mother and step-father, Charlie is routineley emasculated, ridiculed and beaten. And Monvid, along with Central, are to be applauded for the brutal reality laid bare on the screen. It's a bitter pill to swallow at 4.45pm in the afternoon, but abuse has never been time dependent. More pertinently, by allowing the horrors of this abuse to manifest itself in the young audiences imagination, there's a strong emotional response which underlines the fact that this abuse is unacceptable. And that there's always help available.

The belt beating scene is clearly the most shocking and uncomfortable moment of A Couple of Charlies. In fact, it may be one of the most brutal scenes of children's television that I've witnessed. As Charlie protests over 'his' rabbit's rightful return to Sam and Alice, his furious mother drags him into the front room as she venomously chastises him for being "a dirty little thief" before Charlie's stepfather manhandles him to the sofa and beats him with a belt. It's soundtracked by the anguished screams of Charlie and is heartbreaking. Devastatingly heartbreaking. Monvid, however, uses this stark moment to begin penning some redemption for Sam and Alice. Visibly shaken by what they've witnessed, you can see in their eyes that they know the line of discipline has been overstepped.

Following consultation with Miss Mitchell, played with fantastic warmth by Isabelle Amyes, Sam begins to step out of the shadow of abuse. The closing credits demonstrate a Charlie whose life is much improved, playing gaily with Sam and Alice whilst the final shot is of Charlie's beaming, smiling face. Unburdened by the harsh reality of abuse, it's a heartwarming end to the drama. And, testament again to Monvid, it's remarkably well paced and intricate for a 25 minute drama. You could argue that 50 minutes would have allowed more characterisation and room for the plot to breathe, but that's not what A Couple of Charlies is aiming for. Instead, it's a thrilling shot of drama administered roughly and directly into the limbic system. A brave moment for children's television and one that everyone involved with should be proud of.

Just another quick reminder that there's now a Facebook page for Curious British Telly, so please head over to www.facebook.com/CuriousBritishTelly for quick updates, general television trivia and the occasional interesting clip. Please like and follow so that word of Curious British Telly can get to more people. Many thanks!

The heartbeat of youth culture in the 21st century is the internet; it's a luxury that previous generations could have only dreamed of. This isn't to say they lacked the necessary cultural harbingers, there was still Radio 1, Smash Hits, NME and all manner of television strands dedicated to youth culture. But the precision with which every idiosyncrasy, of every individual, could be engaged was way off. Now, however, there's a YouTube channel, Twitter feed, blog or Instagram account for any whim that's ever fermented in a teenage bedroom. It's a seismic shift in dynamics and technology which has obliterated the monoculture right down to its foundations. It's even made the architects redundant.

Television programmes, in 2021, that are dedicated to youth culture are virtually extinct. But these prehistoric beasts, all currently becoming fossilised in various archives, provide a wealth of detail about the society of our recent past. And, at least for anyone who regularly loads up Curious British Telly, there's an intoxicating hit lurking within these programmes. The vibrancy of youth, juxtaposed with its various challenges, makes for an engrossing brand of social analysis. One of the finest examples of this is The London Weekend Show.

The first appearance on The London Weekend Show in the television schedules was during the summer of 1975, but it only appeared in the listings for one ITV region. And, as you must have surely guessed, its sole occupancy was in the LWT region. Just over 130 episodes of The London Weekend Show were produced over the course of four series (ending in 1979), all of which were presented by Janet Street-Porter. The programme was one of Street-Porter's earliest forays into television. And it tells. At least, it does at first. The earliest episodes, which are heavy on studio-based features, find Street-Porter exhibiting a subdued performance compared to the forthright style which has since made her famous. But, you know, it's early days in front of the camera for Street-Porter here; the odd stumble and fluffed line is to be expected. The journalistic instinct, however, is there and she soon relaxes into the role.

The London Weekend Show, of course, is very London-centric, so you can see why it only aired where it was possible to simultaneously bathe in the Thames as you were served pie and mash (pile on the liquor, mate). The youth of, for example, deepest Manchester would have been unable to generate much enthusiasm towards the discussion of which burger bar in London was the best. And especially at those prices - 71p for burger and fries in Fulham's Great American Disaster?! You could buy five pounds worth of eccles cake for that in Sale! Nonetheless, while almost all of the location filming in The London Weekend Show takes place in London, the majority of themes share a universal scope regardless of whether you're a youngster living in Brixton or Bridlington. And The London Weekend Show leaves no stone unturned in its journalistic pursuit.

Thanks to The London Weekend Show having a significant run, it manages to tackle a mindboggling range of subjects. The latter half of the 1970s was a turbulent time for Britain and these challenges were acutely felt by its young population. One of the most defining moments of youth culture in the 1970s came with the emergence of punk. And The London Weekend Show not only got there early, but explored it with vigour. A November 1976 episode, airing a week before the infamous Bill Grundy incident, finds Street-Porter heading to Soho's Notre Dame Hall to cover The Sex Pistols. Amindst a wave of bin liner outfits and safety pins, Street-Porter interviews both the audience members and the band who are on irresistibly spiky and hilarious form. Later episodes throughout the series tenure explore the catalyst that punk has provided to revitalise the King's Road and time is also made to catch up with Sham 69 in 1979. The archive footage in these features is of historic cultural value and quite remarkable, but there's much more to The London Weekend Show than punk.

Teenagers and young adults may exude insouciance in biblical proportions that threaten to drown them, but, thankfully, The London Weekend Show is on hand to gather together the topics affecting them. And, given the turbulence experienced in the world over the last five years, the prescience contained within the episodes is startling. A look at the lives of black youths in 1976 highlights the prejudices experienced by black people and is the driving force behind many of them yearning to return to their ancestral homes. Youth unemployment is put under the microscope and dissected on several occasions whilst time is allocated to politicised subjects such as abortions, student grants and the contemporary laws surrounding homosexuality. Again, these discourses are treasure chests of societal landscapes and the footage, featuring swathes of London before gentrification kicked in, provides a murky peek into a past slipping ever further away.

The series certainly develops as time goes on, an early episode finishes with Thin Lizzy playing out the show as Joe Brown chases Street-Porter around the studio with a dead eel, but even these beginnings of the series are fascinating. One episode is dedicated to jeans and, to someone not born until the early-1980s, it's difficult to comprehend jeans as a new phenomenon. But in 1975 they were, with only 15 companies in the UK producing jeans. Different times indeed, but certain aspects covered throughout the series are timeless in their accuracy and appeal; the most notable evidence of this comes in the 1978 profile of David Bowie. Filmed around the Earls Court arena before one of his concerts, the episode is a touching profile of an established artist with plenty still to prove. And this is underlined by many of the fanatical Bowie lookalikes queuing up outside and falling over themselves to venerate his name as a force for artistic expression. And Street-Porter even manages to catch up with the great man backstage - what more could you want?

If I'm being completely objective, The London Weekend Show probably holds little appeal for the majority of people in 2021. Only a handful of cultural enthusiasts and researchers are ever going to be intrigued by its contents, so it's unlikely that a Blu-ray boxset will be forthcoming and it would be a miracle for BritBox to start streaming the series. Snippets and a few episodes are available on YouTube if you're after a taster, but the BFI hold a substantial number of episodes if you want more. And, as for whether a similar programme could work today, I think it could. Naturally, its audience share would be low due to the online competition, but young people face enough hardships in the 2020s to make it a viable proposition.

It's been three months since the first issue of the Curious British Telly fanzine landed, so it's about time for issue two. And it's now here! And, better yet, there's an extra four pages (for the same cost) this time around!

Once again it's packed full of features that should titillate anyone with even a passing interest in the stranger corners of British television. So, for example, there's a feature on The Last Train, a post-apocalyptic ITV series from 1999 that completely passed under the radar at the time. Oh, and there are fantastic write-ups by guest writers on the BBC shows Dead of Night (1972)and A Very Peculiar Practice (1999). And, if you're looking for even more obscure and untold stories, why not take a look at the articles on TX45 (1986) and Look Here (1986)? If you've heard of both of them then you deserve a medal.

Brian Cant, of course, is much better known. He was a legend of children's television and regarded as a paternal figure to millions upon millions. And this got me wondering. What was it like having Brian Cant as your actual dad? Well, now we know as I conducted an interview with his daughter Christabel Cant to find out. And many Curious British Telly readers will also be aware of Button Moon. But what was it like travelling up and down the country as part of the live Button Moon theatre show? Once again, we now have all the answers thanks to an interview with puppeteer Lee Moone.

There are many other features in the fanzine (see contents below) and it's priced at £3.50 (inc P&P), so, if you're interested, please email me at curiousbritishtelly@gmail.com and let me know where to send a PayPal invoice. It's still, unfortunately, UK only at the moment. I am hoping to offer international shipping in the future, but I need to look into some sturdier packaging for that. And the ongoing pandemic makes even a simple task like that difficult.

Lester Small (Brian Murphy) is the owner of the Lester Small School of Motoring in a sleepy West Country town. Any sense of peace, however, is at risk of being shattered each time Lester takes to the roads. Blaming Lester alone for these disturbances, though, wouldn’t be entirely fair. Most of this chaos stems from the driving ‘skills’ of Mrs Davies (Hilda Braid) who tends to drive in to rivers, onto train tracks and through barn walls. This destruction would be enough to sink most businesses, but Lester is in luck. His bank manager is Mr Davies (Richard Vernon) who is only too happy to extend Lester’s overdraft rather than tackle teaching his wife to drive.

Matters are equally unfortunate for Lester off the highways. Lester’s home may boast a set of baby twins and a loving wife in the form of Sally (Amanda Barrie), but it’s seemingly the second residence of milkman Bert (Colin Spaull) – he even keeps his own teabags there. And when Lester isn’t keeping a suspicious eye on Bert he has plenty more to worry about. Chief Inspector Rodgers (James Cossins) has an axe to grind with Lester and local garage owner/East End villain Sid (Tony Millan) seems hellbent on selling four-wheeled death traps to Lester. In amongst all this Lester must help the town prepare for a royal visit, avoid a fight in the post office and somehow pay his long-suffering secretary Jenny (Linda Robson).

Dudley Long, who appears in the series as PC Bright, isn’t the most well-known television writer and this is on account of L for Lester being his only commissioned series. Nonetheless, in a move which 99.9% of the population can only dream of, he had a sitcom produced and televised with six episodes of L for Lester going out in late 1982 on BBC2. John B. Hobbs, fresh from directing series such as Butterflies and Terry and June, was drafted in as director and the peerless Ronnie Hazlehurst delivered yet another BBC comedy soundtrack. A repeat airing of the series followed in mid-1983 before L for Lester headed for the obscurity of a dusty shelf in the BBC archive.

The initial concept of L for Lester brings plenty of opportunity for comedic capers and the driving school situation is one that offers a revolving door for new characters each week. There’s also the Brian Murphy factor. A consummate performer, Murphy has a television career that spans 60 (no typo, that’s SIXTY) years. Comedy is his speciality and Dudley Long must have been delighted to get him on board. But do these foundations allow L for Lester to pass with flying colours or is it going to crash and burn with too many faults?

If we want to indulge in motoring puns a little further, it wouldn’t be inaccurate to diagnose L for Lester with a misfiring engine. The cast, as you would expect, are all on top form. Murphy is a given with his authoritative confidence given free rein whilst James Cossins and Tony Millan both shine with their character acting at full throttle. And Dudley Long crafts a healthy supply of gags alongside some hilarious set pieces involving Mrs Davies’s driving lessons such as flying over a humpback bridge and driving onto an army assault course. But it’s when L for Lester comes to the tricky manoeuvre of plots that it starts to stall.

The narratives for almost all of the episodes feel like rehashes of each other. Mrs Davies somehow destroys Lester’s car and there’s a mad scramble to gather some cash together before Mr Davies offers a helping hand with Lester’s overdraft. All of this takes place against a backdrop of Chief Inspector Rodgers shaking his fist at Lester in the distance. The one episode which stands head and shoulders above the rest is the royal visit as it’s plotted from a vastly different blueprint. A disastrous committee meeting packed full of social bickering and farcical happenings results in mammoth hangovers on the day of the royal visit. British comedy at its best.

With Brian Murphy on board, L for Lester is always, at the very least, worth a glance. And if you pick just one episode, and it’s the royal visit one, you will be left satisfied and the proud owner of a hearty grin. The rest is rather lightweight and feels sparsely drawn, although there’s still plenty to giggle about. If Dudley Long had been able to weave more magic into the plots then L for Lester could have run for a few extra miles, but there’s just not enough in the tank. A missed opportunity, but one that remains quaintly endearing.

***The new issue of the Curious British Telly fanzine is now available here***

We improvise almost continuously throughout the day whether it be stirring a cup of tea with a screwdriver in lieu of a spoon or thinking up an excuse on the spot when confronted by an angry partner over why the bins haven’t been put out. Improvisation tends to confound any expectations of normality and always takes things off on a tangent. I guess that’s why life is such a strange proposition. But improvisation, by way of this strangeness, is also a driving force for the hilarity that our lives are blessed with. And that’s why improv has been a crucial factor in comedy over the years. Two of the finest proponents of this are Tony Slattery and Mike McShane or, as they’re also known, S&M.

The premise behind S&M is very simple: Tony Slattery and Mike McShane improvise sketches based upon a simple premise. These premises are generated by the production team with each sketch introduced by a slide containing said premise. It’s then down to Slattery and McShane to craft a sketch based around this premise with minimal, if any, props. McShane, for example, finds himself portraying a performing seal trying to order food in a restaurant. Slattery, in another sketch, takes a look down the back of his sofa where he discovers an increasingly bizarre series of objects. And there are also a series of sketches featuring Slattery and McShane as a pair of lovestruck peas crammed, face to face, inside a pea pod.

You may notice that S&M sounds similar to that other Channel 4 show based around improv: Whose Line is it Anyway? And it’s not surprising to discover that, as well as starring two WLIIA? luminaries, S&M was also produced by Dan Patterson and Hat Trick Productions. The seven episodes, running to around 25 minutes each, popped up on our screens on Wednesday evenings at 10.30pm in late 1991. There was only one series of S&M produced and Channel 4 did not find room in the schedules for a repeat run.

By the time S&M was transmitted, Slattery and McShane had appeared in three series of WLIIA? and their improv skills were beyond any doubt. Certainly, you could pair any two of the WLIIA? players together and be guaranteed high levels of quality, but Slattery and McShane make for a nice set of contrasts. Just the right side of trim, charming, exuberant and classically British, Slattery is almost the polar opposite of larger than life, wildly talented and highly animated boy from Kansas Mike McShane. Comedy is all about opposites and the pairing of Slattery with McShane guarantees an entertaining visual spectacle. And that’s before the comedy is unleashed.

S&M can be summed up with one word: funny. Naturally, it's the victim, as all sketch shows are, of being a mixture of hits and misses, but enough of its sketches can be filed under hit to justify its funny tag. And even when there's a sketch which fails to adhere to the John Cleese statute on comedy, the sheer exuberance of the performances sees them over the line. Chemistry is also crucial to S&M's charm. Whether Slattery and McShane are rampaging around the set or slowly sinking into imaginary quicksand there's a yin and yang in place which never fails to deceive. And you can see that our two frontmen are having a ball. Corpsing can often feel tackily forced and pointless, but in S&M it feels a glorious celebration of the performer's talents - see Slattery rubbing the belly of McShane's performing seal who soon demands that he stops as he's getting hard.

Due to the way the episodes are edited, with sketches transitioning into other 'locations' seamlessly, S&M doesn't have the same spontaneity of WLIIA? But S&M is positioned as an offshoot rather than a clone, so this shouldn't be taken as a criticism. Perhaps my only real criticism of the series, and this is built upon a house of cards, is that it can feel repetitive seeing the same two performers with limited props in sketch after sketch. This is broken up slightly with the sections which, again indebted to WLIIA?, finds each performer taking it in turns to address the camera with quick gags on specific themes e.g. rejected ad campaigns. It still feels, though, that a little more variety, perhaps in terms of the number of performers, could have made it stronger. But I did watch these episodes one night after the other. And that's not how these were intended to be consumed, so it's no surprise that fatigue set in.

One series of S&M was probably as much as it needed and it retains a breezy brand of comedy three decades later. It's true that few people reference S&M as a watershed moment in the history of improv and even fewer remember the series at all. But it comes Curious British Telly approved, an honour that most television series' would give their eyeteeth for. 

A number of sketches from S&M are currently housed on YouTube.

The vast majority of television programmes are, unfortunately, out of reach for many of us. Collecting dust in the archives, these slices of cultural interest remain shrouded in mystery. All that remains in the public consciousness is a motley assortment of vague and conflicting memories. That's part of the reason why I put Curious British Telly together. If these programmes are to remain out of reach then perhaps I can put up some solid facts about them. 

Anyway, a show that I covered in my most recent book - More Curiosities of Children's Television - was Ragtime, and this fell squarely into the "out of reach" bracket for most people. The only way I'd managed to watch copies was by booking in at the BFI. But it turns out that several episodes sneaked online in late 2019.

Ragtime was a preschooler's programme which ran for two series (in 1973 and 1975) on BBC1 and featured a number of important names from the genre. The series was created by Michael Cole and starred Fred Harris alongside Maggie Henderson on presenting duties. A classic Cole production, Ragtime finds Harris and Henderson amongst a world of curious puppets such as Humbug the Tiger, Dax the Dachshund, the extended Spoon family and the curious Bubble. A surreal joy - one which is indebted to Cole's love of Zen and Eastern philosophy - Ragtime satisfies every toddler's demands with stories, songs and learning (the most fun variety imaginable, of course)

And now you can see for yourself as seven episodes - only eight out of the 26 episodes still exist - have been uploaded to YouTube. Given the production slates that appear at the start of the videos, these certainly haven't originated from home recordings. Instead, I would suspect they have made their way out of an internal BBC system at some point. There's a BBC system known as Redux which houses hundreds of thousands of hours of archive programming. Access to this is highly restricted to BBC employees, but a few temporary accounts were made available in 2008. As you might have guessed, I would kill for access to Redux. But I'll probably never get it. Anyway, the most important thing is that Ragtime is now available online (until it gets taken down, but it's unlikely the Beeb will be that bothered)

If you want to learn more about Ragtime then there's a decent sized chapter on it in my book. And it includes an interview with Fred Harris about his time on the series, so what more could you want?

Anyone who grew up in the 1970s and 80s should instantly recognise Look-in. Marketed as the 'Junior TV Times' it provided a wealth of features on everything that a youngster should be interested in. Comic strips infested its pages alongside interviews with pop stars and, of course, television featured heavily. Looking back at these magazines grants us a wonderful peek into the culture which was bubbling up at the time. It's almost as if they were custom made for the world of Curious British Telly. And, rather magnificently, around a year ago, I was sent a pile of mid- 1980s issues by a kind fan of Curious British Telly.

Aside from the nostalgic blast offered up by the gleaming smiles of Wham! and Paul Young's knitwear, the issues also brought a number of intriguing and enigmatic shows to my attention. Naturally, I'll be investigating them in more detail in the future. But what also caught my eye was the What's Your View? section. This allowed readers to write in and give their views on television. These opinions are decades old now, but I feel they represent an interesting glance at how children viewed television in the mid 1980s. And that's why I've decided to stick several of these features up here.

Week Ending: 15/09/84

Some fine points raised here, especially from Cathy Wood as Dramarama certainly deserved to be on twice a week. Or have double the amount of episodes at the very least. Katy Innes, meanwhile, isn't happy with the state of children's programming on the BBC. A rather harsh view given the quality of programming at the time - the Zammo era of Grange Hill had started and Captain Zep - Space Detective was also on. Mind you, she's right that Children's ITV had plenty of fantastic shows on as well, I dare say more than five or six. The Sensible Show, trumpeted here by Donna Martin, is completely new on me, so that's another one for my 'to investigate' list which now stretches to the moon and back several times.

Week Ending: 22/09/1984

One of the doyens of British television in the mid-1980s, Roland Rat, is up first for a somewhat mixed review of his holiday programmes from young Johanna Holmes. I've watched numerous clips of Rat on the Road (and somewhere on YouTube there's a clip I uploaded from an ancient VHS tape) and they certainly are short, but still fun. Roland Rat Goes East is one I haven't watched before, although I may have clapped eyes on it as a toddler. Moving on, I'm immensely proud to see Mark Emsden sticking up for the quality of British programming. Mark also mentions Splat which, after a little research, I can confirm stands for Soap, Puzzles, Laughter and Talent. It aired as part of TV-am's Saturday morning programming for children and, again, goes on my "to investigate" list.

Week Ending: 27/10/1984

It's a rather controversial view from the opinionated Lynne Davies as she lays into the children's series Towser. It's an almost universal given that, in children's television, the protagonist will succeed, so I'm not entirely sure what else she was expecting. My memories of Towser are vague, but I remember it being mildly enjoyable and harmless. Another obscure show from the TV-am stable in the form of Database is praised by Steven Field and, ooh, it's a series which looks at contemporary computing (another one to look into). And there's time for a mention from Donna Succar of Pop Quiz, a fine and entertaining quiz show that featured an endless stream of fully fledged pop stars - who wouldn't want to watch the heavyweight clash of Spandau Ballet vs Duran Duran?

Week Ending: 10/11/1984

Roland Rat's popularity is underlined with yet another mention and this time it's a bright and cheerful appreciation from the undeniably young Robert Page. And Roland Rat's genius still holds up all these years later, just go and sample some of the delights housed on YouTube for irrefutable evidence. Debbie Jones is also on hand to give props to the little known Saturday morning series The Saturday Starship. Presented by Tommy Boyd, Bonnie Langford and Nigel Roberts, it only ran for one series. It's a curious oddity of the genre and pales in comparison to the recognition reserved for shows such as Saturday Superstore and TISWAS.

Week Ending: 17/11/1984

Paul Cahill reveals that he is a Cannon and Ball fanatic with this gushing praise of the much loved comedy duo. I can't say I'm much of an authority figure on the work of Cannon and Ball, but if the whole Cahill family love them then maybe I should watch an episode or two. There aren't too many mentions of British programmes in this edition of What's Your View? but On Safari is an intriguing one. I've heard mentions of this before, but not really looked into it. However, a quick Google reveals that it's hosted by Christopher Biggins, always excellent value for money, and a young Gillian Taylforth. Might be worth a quick ganders. And Coventry's finest, Christopher Nolan, is certainly in favour of it.

Week Ending: 23/03/1985

Striding into 1985 and Hayley Selcot wastes no time in taking issue with Bob Holness' presenting style on Blockbusters. Ludicrous to the extreme, Hayley, but I'll let you off as you were only 10 at the time and perhaps didn't appreciate the suspense building approach of Bob. Cameron Miles is more positive in his review of Brookside which he deems "the best programme on television" and you can't argue that Phil Redmond's cul-de-sac wasn't flying high by 1985. Finally, there's time for another 'against the grain' view from Rachel Axon who is appalled by the mere existence of Super Gran. Well, although I haven't watched it in well over 30 years, I can, hand on heart, say I loved it back in the day.

Final Thoughts

Children are as opinionated as anyone. And that's a good thing. We need alternative viewpoints and, age doesn't necessarily equal authority, so the insights of the youth are a valuable commodity. Given the age of the Look-in readers, their opinions and viewpoints are never going to be weighty or academic, but the one thing they are is wilfully honest and shot straight from the hip. 

And the general impression of television in the mid-1980s is that it was a hit and miss affair. We all look at the past with rose tinted glasses, but the truth is that it's never quite as magical as you try to remember. Ask the children of 2021 to give their opinions on television today and you would get the exact same responses - some good, some bad. But, as an exploration of a bygone era, these Look-in clippings make for fascinating time capsules.