Friday 10 May 1963

Today it's my pleasure to welcome a new show to the TV Minus 50 fold...

Rather than one of the ITV companies, Richard the Lionheart was produced by the infamous Danzigers, a pair of American brothers quite happy to be regarded with horror by more prestigious outfits as long as they turned a profit.  "Nobody makes 'em cheaper," was their proud boast, and in the 50s and early 60s  they churned out a mind-boggling number of B-movies, as well as various crime-centric TV series including Mark Saber, which was a hit in both the UK and the US.  Lionheart was their first attempt at diversifying in genre, a late-in-the-day attempt at reproducing the phenomenal success of ITC's The Adventures of Robin Hood, with similar vaguely historical tales of derring-do.

The year is 1193.  The place is Austria, and Dickie I of England (Irish B-movie specialist Dermot Walsh) is making his way home after the Crusades.  Here he is (with his suspiciously Brylcreemed-looking hair), accompanied by his friend Hugo (Glyn Owen, of Howard's Way fame) and Hugo's wife Marta (Anne Lawson).

The best word to describe Walsh's performance is "hearty": he does a lot of HA-HA-HA-ing, and though he doesn't actually slap his thigh at any point, it feels like he could very easily do so at any moment.  In fact, there's an endearing atmosphere of panto about the whole enterprise (not least in the rather tatty medieval outfits).

Richard and chums find out from a generic peasant that the local Baron's no fan of the English king, so his swaps his royal garb with Hugo's more modest clothes, and pretends to be his squire.  Meanwhile, Baron Frederick (Ernest Clark), who as well as being a dastardly baron is a bigwig in the Knights Templar, is setting a trap for Richard.  He's made a horse up to look like it's a prize Arabian steed, but he's convinced only Richard, who has "a good love of horseflesh" would even recognise an Arabian horse in the first place.  Therefore, anyone who bids for the horse at the auction he's organised must be the English king (I think that's how it works, anyway.  It's a bit confusing).

Richard chances upon the auction, but is cleverer than Baron Frederick thinks, and soon realises the supposed Arabian steed is a normal horse covered in kohl (goodness knows how many eyeliner pencils that took).

Baron Frederick makes a scapegoat of his steward, Manfred (Richard Shaw - a ubiquitous TV actor of the 60s) and has him hauled off to the dungeons.  Later he'll face trial by the temple lion.  "No, my lord, not the lion - no!" Manfred ridiculously cries as a pair of soldiers carry him off ("Oh yes, the lion!" the audience at home may feel inclined to shout, panto-fashion).

In the dungeons, Manfred is consoled by a friendly priest, played by theatrical luminary Trader Faulkner, who regularly pops up in various parts in Richard the Lionheart - including Richard's brother Prince John.

Out of the goodness of his (lion)heart, Richard sneaks his way into the dungeon in the guise of a hooded monk and slips Manfred some oil reputed to repel lions.  As the monk, he adopts an extravagant French accent, which only causes us to wonder why exactly everyone in Austria sounds English.

Meanwhile, Baron Frederick ruminates over his hatred for Richard the Lionheart.  It all stems from Richard happily allowing many Templars to die at the hands of Saladin's men.  "I will take bloody revenge on the English king!" he announces in enormous close-up (BOO! HISS!).

It's the day of Manfred's trial (which, by the way, just involves him being shoved in the lion's cage), and the Danzigers impress by having laid on a genuine lion.  It's obviously thoroughly tame, and possibly mangy, but it's real nonetheless.  Before Manfred's thrust in with the beast, Frederick works the audience up into a froth of hatred toward the supposed horse-painter.  There's one (sadly uncredited) female bit-parter (on the left) who's especially entertaining in her refusal to join in with the crowd's joint exclamations, waiting till they've finished so she can get the spotlight all to herself.

Richard's special oil manages to put the lion off eating Manfred, and the priest declares it must mean he's innocent.  If that wasn't embarrassing enough for the Baron, Richard announces in front of all the villagers that he and the other templars are idolators, devil worshippers and practitioners of witchcraft.  Take that! Maybe you'll think twice before being nasty about Richard the Lionheart again.

Rather charmingly, the epiodes of Richard the Lionheart I've got hold of feature this insert in the middle:

And don't forget, it's...

Radio Minus 50: The Navy Lark - The Ghost Ship

The last show in the present series begins with announcer Robin Boyle bantering with the Navy Lark cast and sending a message to his wife.  He's one of the show's most engaging characters.  The others are Tenniel Evans's blustering, hearing-impaired Admiral and his sidekick Rear-Admiral Ironbridge (Michael Bates) - the highlight of this week's episode is their bizarre speculations over the state of Mother Brown's knees.  They're visiting the put-upon Captain Povey to demand he gets HMS Troutbridge and its crew out of the way so they can't jeopardise the launch of a new Destroyer.

Povey sends Pertwee, Phillips, Murray and their crew on a pointless mission, Phillips predictably losing the way - this time he's navigating using the map of the world in his pocket diary.  The ship runs aground on a coral reef, but Phillips isn't bothered: "There's bound to be an AA chap or somebody from the RAC about."  The crew having disembarked, Troutbridge mysteriously sails off without them ("I left the handbrake on," says a baffled Phillips.  After 20 minutes or so of dashing about it anticlimactically turns out that Able Seaman Fatso Johnson was still aboard and sailed off by accident.

The series ends with the vital news that Leslie Phillips is currently appearing in Boeing Boeing at the Apollo Theatre, London.

Radio Minus 50: Friday 3 May 1963

The Navy Lark: Troutbridge Gets a Rocket

I've thought for a while that The Navy Lark needs a rocket up it, and this week that's exactly what happens.

The episode begins with announcer Robin Ray sharing some interesting thoughts on the telephone: "When the phone rings you never know who's going to be on the other end.  It could be a beautiful blonde who's feeling lonely, or the income tax inspector, who's feeling awkward."  We don't get long to ponder over how frequently a BBC announcer is called by lonely blondes before the plot gets going.  There's a naval intelligence scheme underway to shoot a man into space from a frigate: and HMS Troutbridge has been chosen for the job, being the most expendable.  Captain Povey tries to keep what's going on quiet as long as possible, but CPO Pertwee has his suspicions: "There's a dirty great dollop of dodgy doo-dah about to descend on us."  However, Povey's promise of a round-the-world trip for one lucky crew member makes the Troutbridge chaps more amenable.

Obviously the scheme turns out to be a disaster, with Leslie Phillips being accidentally shot into space while giving the rocket the once-over.  The highlights of the episode are a conversation between Mr Murray and Welsh Nationalist fanatic Taffy Goldstein about the celebration of Bonfire Night in Wales: "If he'd got away with it Guy Fawkes would have been a Welsh national hero.  What better way to get us home rule than blowing that parliamentary den of iniquity sky high?", and an exchange between ironically thick Intelligence man Ronnie Barker and Captain Povey's equally slow-witted secretary Vera that's so corny it's endearing:

"Here, how about you and I having a date?"
"Well you can have one if you like, but I prefer nuts."
"Ooh, in that case we should get on very well together."

Radio Minus 50: Friday 19 April 1963

The Navy Lark: A Deliberate Bashing

A Deliberate Bashing is one of the more entertaining Larks, because it adds a twist to the show's usual format.  As the title implies, this week the crew of HMS Troutbridge are actually trying to cause the damage that usually comes to them so naturally.  And as you might expect, they prove as inept at intentionally bashing another ship as they are at everything else - even Phillips' in depth reading of Sinbad the Sailor hasn't improved his navigation skills.

In a reversal of the usual procedure, Captain Povey puts Murray, Phillips and Pertwee up to (lightly) ramming Troutbridge into its sister ship, Makepeace.  The reason for this about face? Well, Povey's wife's away for the weekend, and she's left her mother to look after him.  Her method of looking after involves viciously bossing Povey around and generally treating him like a slave, so he's desperate for an excuse to come back into work - which an "accident" would amply provide.

"Be a chap's chap," Phillips says to Povey, sniggering at the fearsome Captain finding himself in such a clichéd comedy position as being dominated by his mother-in-law.  Povey explains that his father-in-law disappeared after a works outing and the only thing heard from him since has been a rude postcard from Africa: "Obviously a chap's chap, Sir" Pertwee intriguingly observes.

Yes, the fearsome mother-in-law's one of comedy's most ancient stereotypes, but Janet Brown plays it marvellously: the best parts of the episode are the strangely sadomasochistic domestic scenes, with the terrifying Mrs Crump forcing Povey to do the most undignified domestic tasks while referring to him as "Hitler".

Writer Lawrie Wyman works in another Hanna-Barbera reference this week, Pertwee explaining to Phillips that 1800 is "6 o'clock, sir.  Between your Huckleberry Hound programme and the news on the telly."  Wyman even makes an appearance in the show this week, as phlegmatic Waterguard Bert Tiddy, baffled by why Troutbridge has nearly managed to hit the Makepeace 42 times.

Radio Minus 50: Friday 12 April 1963

The Navy Lark: The New Barmaid

"We're proud to present the 100th Lark," Robin Boyle excitedly announces - presumably including both Navy and TV under that heading.  The episode's plot isn't anything especially celebratory: there's a new barmaid at dockside pub The Fireman's Bucket and Bell - pulchritudinous Scotswoman Jeannie (Janet Brown, of course), and obviously Phillips has his eye on her.  But so does Mr Murray.  Pertwee doesn't have his head turned - he's too busy throwing crisps at other patrons (his pronunciation of the word "crisps" is really something to hear), and being foiled in his schemes to get Able Seaman Taffy Goldstein to pay for a round.  The pair quarrel over Jeannie until Phillips' plan to escort her home is ruined by a call-up from Captain Povey to a NATO training exercise.  The rest of the episode sees Murray and Phillips at each other's throats, causing this week's maritime mishaps (I could have written the Radio Times billings back then).  The episode's punchline: the uncle Jeannie's staying with is none other than grumpy old Captain Povey himself.

Radio Minus 50: Friday 5 April 1963

The Navy Lark - First Day Out of Dock

"We present the return of The Navy Lark", says announcer Robin Boyle - perhaps I just imagined the relief in his voice.  As I predicted last week, the gang's adventures in broadcasting have been forgotten about - Boyle glosses over the past 10 weeks worth of shows by saying our cast of characters have been "rescued from Civvy Street".  CPO Pertwee's theft of the majority of HMS Troutbridge, which we last week discovered was the reason for this venture into Civvy Street, has also been wiped from everyone's memories.  Pertwee's main concern this week is what's happened to his collection of pin-ups: "Every last dollop of feminine pulchritude has been whipped off me walls!"

The task for this week is to get the Troutbridge out of dry dock and back to sea.  Distraught foreman Michael Bates, convinced this will mean the destruction of the dockyard, begs for a more competent team to accomplish this.  "Come on old chap, blow for daddy," Leslie Phillips alarmingly tells him (it turns out he's offering him a handkerchief).  Initially Phillips forgets to let the water in before trying to get the ship out of dock, causing the ship to nearly take off (one man in the audience seems especially tickled by the notion it could have been "the first flying frigate").

There's also a new Commanding Officer to contend with - Ronnie Barker's nervous Commander Bell, a former aircraft carrier captain assigned to the Troutbridge as punishment for some unspecified crime.  Meanwhile, Captain Povey's driven to the edge of a nervous breakdown by his secretary Vera's intense stupidity: "I want you to take down everything I say" "Ooh, you are awful!"

The TV jokes haven't quite been dispensed with.  As predicted, when the Troutbridge finally gets going it takes half the dockyard with it.  "If we pick up much more on our bows," remarks Pertwee, "we'll be known as HMS Steptoe and Son."

Friday 29 March 1963

As the downbeat title suggests, there's a pretty depressing time in store for King Dickie this week.  First, the good news: he and his men are in sight of Jerusalem, which it's been the king's lifelong ambition to reach.  The not-so-good news is that his allies are beginning to lose their stomach for the fight with hordes of Saracens.  Grumbler in chief at the camp is Austria's Duke Leopold (Francis De Wolff), a thoroughly untrustworthy character who's had quite enough of all this crusading malarkey.

Dickie's still got a few more loyal chums, like Guy of Lusignan (habitual B-movie lead Conrad Phillips), but in his case it's mainly because if everything goes how Richard plans he'll be crowned King of Jerusalem.

However, France's King Philip has decisively backed out, throwing Richard's campaign into turmoil.  His plan for every man in the camp, including servants and others with no background in fighting, to take up arms  against the Saracens seems doomed to failure.  Other less than keen members of the campaign include this sadly uncredited chap from Burgundy, with one of the most remarkable false beards ever seen on screen.

But, strangely enough, there don't seem to be many Saracen types about.  Richard sends two of his most trusted men, Sir Geoffrey and Sir Gaston, to the city in disguise to reconnoitre.  And thoroughly panto they look.

It turns out that Saladin and his men have mysteriously left the city, and it looks ripe for the taking.  Could Richard succeed in conquering it with just the few men who remain faithful to him? It's certainly an exciting prospect for him: he's taking time out to savour the sight of Jerusalem's towers, which he swore to reach before he died.  Sharing the view with him is a very young, practically unrecognisable Anton Rodgers as loyal Sir Kenneth.

In the city Geoffrey and Gaston are captured by a thief they've crossed in the past (Peter Duguid).  The way he rapidly slaps both their faces when they're at his mercy is a joy to behold.

The brave knights escape with the aid of the thief's faithless girlfriend Farah (Anna Gerber), who gives them a terrible warning: Saladin is returning to Jerusalem with one of the biggest armies ever assembled!

When the knights get back to tell Richard about this, he sorrowfully realises that his dream of capturing the Holy Land is at an end.  It's all very sad - as long as you don't think too much about the bad bits of, you know, conquering and killing and all that.

Radio Minus 50: The TV Lark - Back in the Navy

The TV Lark's abandonment of telly show spoofs in recent weeks in favour of maritime adventures has been a less-than-subtle clue that taking the characters out of a naval setting had come to be regarded as a mistake.  So it's not a huge surprise that week's episode sees the whole TV station idea scrapped and, at the end of the episode, the Navy Lark name resurrected.  This is how it's all explained:

The latest episode of TTV's show Ship Ahoy with Jolly Jack is to be filmed at the Admiralty records office, which Pertwee seems mysteriously reluctant to visit, pleading a touch of the creeping disasticles.  He's scared that the people at the records office "know what we did in the service, and who we did in the service, and how much for", which certainly gets the imagination going.  At Pertwee, Murray and Phillips' meeting with Commander Pearson of the records office Pearson drops the bombshell that they were all discharged from the navy by mistake, and that they are now all to be recalled back into service.  The thunderous audience applause at this announcement gives some indication of how little the TV station format will be mourned.

It turns out the discharge was in fact a deliberate mistake: Pearson's predecessor was another of Pertwee's ne'er-do-well relatives, Uncle Tobias, who accepted a hefty bribe from his nephew in order to make it.  The rest of the episode revolves partly around the mystery of why exactly the Chief Petty Officer was so keen to leave the navy in the first place.

Obviously as well as our three leads, Fatso Johnson, Taffy Goldstein and even Captain Povey are recalled to action too, and Povey's dimwitted secretary Vera decides she likes working with her boss so much that she joins up too.  The de-mothballing of HMS Troutbridge reveals the reason for Pertwee's sharp exit: there's not much of it left, the majority having been sold off by the dodgy seaman.  It may seem a pretty serious offence, but I'm sure it'll all be forgotten about in a couple of weeks - as will our characters' detour into the world of broadcasting.

Friday 15 March 1963

As the Danzigers' semi-historical adventure series returns for a second series, Richard I of England and his merry Crusaders are campaigning through Palestine, but there's an obstacle in their path: the forces of grim Count Otto (Walter Gotell, in the rather extravagant hat).

Otto (who's not really a prince, just a power-mad minor noble with delusions of grandeur) prides himself on the impregnability of his castle, and if Otto says Dickie's men can't get past, they can't get past.

It's great to see the doom-laden frog-features of Michael Peake, playing Otto's tricky cousin Conrad.  Conrad's formed a fragile alliance with Richard in the hope that once the Crusades are over he'll be crowned King of Jerusalem, and tries to convince his intransigent relative to let the Crusaders through - but for Otto, Conrad's promises of power aren't enough.  Otto's daughter Marianne, held captive and just as impregnable as the castle, is played by Jill Ireland - later to head for Hollywood and marry Charles Bronson (the actory one, not the prisony one).  She certainly grabs hold of her role with both hands, giving it the full Shakespearean tragedy bit.

Meanwhile, at the camp of the Lion, Richard's men are thoroughly bored.  A few of them start swapping stories of their sweethearts' beauty, when Gaston De Fleury (Max Faulkner) reveals he's never even met his: he's in love with an unknown lady whose image he once saw in the window of Chartres Cathedral.  If a soldier in a warzone today was to announce this it seems unlikely the reaction he'd get would be as supportive as that of Gaston's chums.

Some of the knights stage a mock-duel over their respective ladies' honour, only to be expelled from the camp and forced to live as outlaws by an unusually draconian Richard, who's forbidden duelling of any kind. It's all a set-up though: Richard (sporting a fetching false beard - perhaps it's best not to speculate what he made it from) masquerades as Sir Kenneth Stewart (which sounds more like a newsreader than a medieval knight), and leads the outlaws to Castle Otto, where they beg to join the Prince's army.

On their arrival, it turns out that the Lady Marianne is in fact the woman of Gaston's vision - and coincidentally enough she falls in love with him just as rapidly as he does with her - much ye olde snogging ensues.

Dickie and the boys manage to hoodwink Otto for long enough to mount an attempt to take the castle by force, even though there's just four of them against the Prince's massed hordes.

Otto goes berserk when he finds out what's going on in his castle.  Things are so serious that he even spurns a reminder from a servant (Hubert Rees) to wear his spectacular helmet.

Otto pursues the Crusaders across the desert.  With Richard happy for him to chase them, there's some brilliant rhyming dialogue as the other knights make it to the spot where Gaston and Marianne have already fled.

"Where's Richard?"
"He is the fox!"
"What next?"
"Behind these rocks!"

It all ends with poor Otto being laid low by Richard's men and rather harshly sentenced to live as a prisoner in his castle for the rest of his days, under Gaston and Marianne's supervision.

If you've been affected by the issue of falling in love with a stained glass window, please don't tell me.  I've got enough worries of my own.

Radio Minus 50 - The TV Lark: The Potarneyland Election

The foreign news usually featured on TTV is supplied by characteristically dodgy members of the Pertwee clan living abroad, but this week the station finds itself chosen to cover the election in the newly independent former colony Potarneyland.  As well as the election, Murray, Phillips and Pertwee (The Chipmunks, as the Deputy Controller's secretary calls them) are told to capture the local atmosphere in the country. It's an atmosphere they're all familiar with, Potarneyland having featured in The Navy Lark various times.  It's the kind of colonial caricature you'd expect of the early 60s, the inhabitants all talking with comedy Indian accents.  Ronnie Barker plays Samuel Pepys Washington Burt, the frontrunner in the election (mainly because he's threatened physical harm to anyone who doesn't vote for him), Michael Bates is his campaign manager Harold Golfball, and Janet Brown is Burt's sultry wife, also his chief rival in the election.

The TTV crew are strongarmed into joining the Potarneyland navy and serving aboard the S.S. Poppadom, where the usual hi-jinks ensue.  The highlight of the episode is a brief scene in the House of Commons, with Bates as Wilson and Barker as a senile Macmillan.  Janet Brown plays Labour backbencher Edith Summerskill, perpetually interrupting everyone with her calls for boxing to be banned - though as Summerskill had actually left parliament in 1961 it's perhaps not the most topical of references.

There's another Hanna-Barbera reference this week, confirming my belief in Lawrie Wyman's peculiar obsession.  And my favourite joke this week is this sublime pearl of crappiness:

"We've just escaped from the Pontarneyland election!"
"Have you, by George?"
"No, by boat"

"We hope your imagination will boggle at the same time next week," says the ultra-serious announcer as the episode ends.  I'm afraid it will have to, as the next episode, The Top Secret Rocket Trials, is sadly missing from the BBC archive so I'm unable to cover it here.

You may be interested to learn that Come Inside, starring Jon Pertwee, is now at the Duchess Theatre, London.

Radio Minus 50: Friday 8 March 1963

The TV Lark: Ship Ahoy!

Ship Ahoy! marks another stage in The TV Lark's gradual transformation back into its predecessor, as TTV's irascible director general and his old pal Admiral Ironbridge commission a new show about naval matters, Ship Ahoy with Jolly Jack - which means our cast will now be spending most of their time on board ship.  Even more than Naval matters the pair are fascinated by a garment worn by Floor Manager Pertwee: "Creeping Ivy! Look at the bird on this feller's tie!" ("Creeping Ivy!" is another phrase I can see making it into my daily vocabulary).  "She looks like my first girlfriend," Pertwee says in defence of the handpainted scantily clad nymph adorning his neckwear.  "Which part of her?" Leslie Phillips leers, and we have to imagine his eyes popping out of his head.  It's fair to say that an armed forces-themed sitcom in the early 1960s is not the first place to look for gender equality.

Deputy Controller Povey's not overly keen on the idea of his useless team embarking on a new naval adventure and predicts, in a line perhaps only Kenneth Williams could really carry have carried off successfully, "We will rue this day! This day will be rued!"

The surviving tape of this episode is, again, one with poor sound quality, so it's not all that easy to work out what's going on.  The team's plan to make a film about a minesweeper sees them on board a ship commanded by their former CO Commander Stourton.  He's played by Ronnie Barker in Peter Sellers-esque useless old dodderer mode, and gets the episode's best lines ("Just because I'm daft you think I'm an idiot, don't you?").  Stourton's convinced that the TTV crew are all Russian spies, but doesn't seem especially bothered about it: "Give my regards to everyone in Moscow!"

Like last week's episode, Ship Ahoy! sees the gang's ship get stuck and need to be towed by Pertwee's Uncle Ebenezer's tug (he's an even dodgier character than his nephew).  It's not hard to see why the BBC thought The Navy Lark was getting a bit repetitive.  Still, clearly it's what the audience wanted.

Bizarrely, the biggest laugh from the studio audience tonight is in response to a reference to "unemployment in the north".  I suppose you had to be there.

Radio Minus 50: Friday 1 March 1963

The TV Lark: On Safari

Starting off with a joke speculating on what happens to the flats Barry Bucknall fixes up and the Sunday papers David Frost reviews on That Was the Week That Was (apparently Pertwee gets  hold of them), On Safari's one of the more entertaining TV Larks.  The main objects of spoof this week are husband and wife wildlife filmmakers Armand and Michaela Denis, incarnated here as Maggie and Arnold Crump (Janet Brown and Ronnie Barker, whose Arnold voice sounds uncannily like Ren & Stimpy and Futurama voice artist Billy West).  Maggie and Arnold want a TTV crew to accompany them on safari in Africa to make a new series of their popular show Up the Creek with the Crumps.  Leslie Phillips isn't keen though: "We can't go there, the chaps aren't even English!"

It soon becomes clear that the safari idea is just another ruse by writer Lawrie Wyman to get the regular characters aboard ship for the majority of the episode again, as they voyage out to Africa.  Taffy Goldstein's particular fired up with Nationalist fervour this week, relating how his Aunt Morpeth addressed a mammoth audience of 64 people about the disgrace of her nephew only being second cameraman due to his nationality.  If that's not bad enough, there's a new stereotype to deal with this week in the form of Michael Bates' irascible Scots captain.  The episode's most memorable moment comes when the ship gets torn in two (it's a long story) and an unruffled Leslie Phillips announces, "You're not going to believe this, but with absolutely no effort at all I'm doing the splits."  It's quite clear that Phillips is far too dim to know how to be ruffled: a search for him later on in the episode is called off when it emerges he's been shopping for postcards and then been completely unable to find a pillar box.

Apart from a very brief encounter with a lion, precious little actual safari-ing goes on.  Once again the highlight is the very serious announcer who pipes up after the episode's finished.  This week he gives us the invaluable information that Jon Pertwee can be found appearing in "Come Inside" at the Lyceum Theatre in Edinburgh, and gives us another much too detailed synopsis of next week's show, ending with an encouragement to "run for cover lads, our mob are about!" in the sort of tone usually reserved for announcing a particularly tragic motorway accident.

Radio Minus 50: Friday 22 February 1963

The TV Lark: Back to Portsmouth

The title appended to this week's episode says it all: after flailing about with TV spoofs for a few weeks, The TV Lark's makers sheepishly retreat back to the services comedy of its  predecessor.  The performers seem more comfortable in a maritime setting, though as a listener I think you need to have some experience of naval life for yourself to get the most of it - a lot of the references in Back to Portsmouth meant absolutely nothing to me (and I come from Portsmouth).  This isn't helped by the fact that the tape of this episode's clearly in pretty bad shape - some of the dialogue would be difficult to make out even if you did have a clue what the characters were on about.

But what's the scripted reason for the return to the place Leslie Phillips describes as "a pretty little dockyard just past West Wittering"? Well, the blimpish Admiral Ironbridge (Michael Bates, seizing his best comedy opportunity so far in the series) has chosen TTV to cover the return to England of Field Marshal Sir Mortimer Bullingham-Trench, former governor of Bantuwisiland (or some made-up African name anyway - it wasn't easy to make out through the fuzz) and hero of the Siege of Government House (in which it turned out the enemy he held out against for weeks was in fact his own troops).  "I say, he's lived, hasn't he?" sighs Phillips, admiringly. It's a bit concerning that the best joke in the episode is that Sir Mortimer's forthcoming memoirs are to be called Tanks for the Memory.

Pertwee's especially happy to be going back to Portsmouth - "I can't wait to see the matelots again!" he enthuses, which, in the light of my own experiences of matelots in Portsmouth, sounds distinctly dodgy. The usual silliness ensue when they get to the docks, only a little bit harder to hear than usual.

Radio Minus 50: 15 February 1963

The TV Lark: House of Commons

Robin Boyle, the announcer for The TV Lark,  always sounds incredibly pleased with himself to be on the show, the ghost of a self-satisfied chuckle underlying pronouncements like "manning a television station isn't all Steptoe and Ena Sharples".  He's sometimes endearing, sometimes grating - just like the show, in fact.  In this week's episode Boyle briefly turns up as a person rather than a disembodied voice.  As an actor he makes a very good announcer.

House of Commons is an episode that veers toward grating rather than endearing, unfortunately - the jokes not heroically bad enough to break through the slight atmosphere of smugness.  And there aren't even any Hanna Barbera references.  Yes, it sounds like the cast are all enjoying themselves, but as anyone who's had rowdy drunks outside their window at 4 AM on a weekday knows, listening to other people enjoy themselves isn't necessarily all that entertaining.

This week sees the return of Troutbridge West's chinless wonder MP Sir Jimson Whitaker-Smythe, as TTV's crew head off to Westminster to film him in a party political broadcast.  First there's the problem of getting their outside broadcast van back - Pertwee's lent it to his Uncle Ebenezer, who's taking advantage of the freezing weather by driving around London selling tiny bags of coal and coke at vastly inflated prices.

When they finally get the van back, the team have to cope with Sir Jimson's inability to speak without Big Ben going off and silencing him, and the loss of the script for his cosy, off-the-cuff fireside chat.  Michael Bates, who always gets frustratingly little to do in the show, turns up briefly as an officious policeman - a role he played quite often and which always makes me yearn to see his performance as Inspector Truscott in Joe Orton's Loot.

The BBC's CD release of this episode includes the continuity announcement that followed it - by far the most entertaining thing about it.  The announcer goes into almost forensic detail about what will be happening in the next episode.  It's not Robin Boyle this time, but a man who sounds like the concept of humour makes him feel thoroughly uncomfortable.  I hope he's given a part in a future episode.

Friday 8 February 1963

Radio Minus 50 - The TV Lark: Z Ambulances

As the title appended to this episode by TV/radio historian Andrew Pixley suggests, this week's TV Lark sends up the BBC's gritty police show Z Cars, though various other shows get caught in the crossfire - there's even a scene set in the Rovers' Return.  

A new advertiser, Winstanley Washing Machines Ltd (as I've pointed out before, pop culture in early 60s Britain was obsessed with washing machines) offers to put their business Troutbridge TV's way if the station makes a gripping new weekly serial they can advertise during.  Phillips, Murray and Pertwee decide what they need is a cross between Z Cars, Emergency Ward 10 and Compact (I feel rather sorry for poor Compact - not only do very, very few episodes of it still exist but in comedy series of the time its very name was enough to provoke gales of laughter from an audience).  Tenniel Evans camps it up ludicrously as the show's star Alistair Scott-Harman, who rides a penny farthing in order to seem interesting.  Michael Bates plays the plummy Mr Bates, another former Navy Lark alumnus who turns up as Z Ambulances' designer: his habit of building sets with four walls that prove impossible to escape from makes for the episode's most entertaining moments.

A few general observations: Jon Pertwee's character (clearly the audience's favourite) is really quite sinister, especially in his habit of referring to himself in the third person ("I get the feeling that Pertwee is not too popular around here").  There's the second joke referring to Hanna Barbera cartoons in three weeks - any more would suggest writer Lawrie Wyman's peculiarly obsessed (as an aside, it's strange to think that viewers in the UK would have been watching the adventures of Yogi Bear, "Boss Cat" etc. in black and white at this time).  And once again Leslie Phillips manages to steal the show through the simple expedient of underplaying his lines while everyone around him delivers theirs so frantically - as the man himself says, "Shrewd, that's what you are Leslie, shrewd".

Magnificently terrible joke of the week:

Cameraman Goldstein: I want an evening off in lieu.
Murray: What a funny way to spend an evening.

Yes, exactly.

Radio Minus 50: Friday 1 February 1963

The TV Lark: The Prestige Show

Since its spectacular opening night last week, Troutbridge TV has failed to attract a single advertiser - except for the local grocer, who "floor manager and fiddler of this parish" Pertwee gave airtime in exchange for 150 tins of Romanian baked beans in brine.  Deputy Controller Povey decides the best way to attract advertising, and to get the other ITV networks to pick up TTV's programming is to make a prestige show: "something nobody fancies, but it's terribly good for them".  The initial plan, to adapt Furious Young Man John Petitbeurre's kitchen sink drama Fly Me a Grisly Gargoyle - made even more prestigious by performing it in Greek with no sets or costumes - is scuppered when it turns out it's far too sexually explicit for the screen (and besides, the script's the perfect size to prop up Mr Murray's filing cabinet).  Plan B is Head-On Challenge, presented by Ronnie Barker as the obnoxious Bernard Yeast, a spoof of Bernard Levin's interview segment on That Was the Week That Was (Levin - leaven - yeast, get it? Oh never mind).  Obviously Levin's most infamous TV moment - being punched by angry audience member Desmond Leslie, is referenced here as Yeast gets involved in a punch-up with his guest, Troutbridge MP Sir Jimson Whitaker-Smythe.

There's nothing subtle or clever about The TV Lark's parodies of contemporary television - the show is comedy at its broadest, making the average Carry On script look like The Importance of Being Earnest.  What, above all else, makes it great fun rather than completely exasperating is the studio audience.  They sound genuinely delighted by the show's ancient jokes and silly voices, and in their laughter is a real and touching affection for the performers and their characters.  And what's more, The Prestige Show gives us some classic Leslie Phillips, his number one priority being to chat up the Controller's secretary.  He's a joy as always, and worth listening to the show to in himself.

Radio Minus 50: Friday 25 January 1963

The TV Lark: Opening Night

I don't intend to write about a lot of radio programmes (apart from anything else, it doesn't make for the most visually interesting posts) but The TV Lark is crying out to be included here.  Yes, eccentric as the idea may seem, it's a radio show about television.  The replacement for the popular forces sitcom The Navy Lark, it retains the same writer, Lawrie Wyman, and the same cast (more about them in a bit).  The Navy Lark had run for four series and was considered by BBC management to be getting a bit repetitive, so the idea was mooted that the show's popular characters should be transplanted to a new situation.  The choice of an independent television station as a setting for a BBC radio series may seem bizarre, and indeed it's one the audience wasn't bowled over by.  But for someone (like me) writing about TV of the era, it exerts a strange fascination in its references to contemporary programmes - the show kicks off with a dig at BBC soap Compact, for goodness' sake.

Opening Night sees Henry Povey (Richard Caldicot), who captained HMS Troutbridge in The Navy Lark, commencing his new job as Deputy Controller at new ITA (or ITV, if you will) company Troutbridge Television (TTV), only to find that the rest of the station's staff are his former crew.  This comprises mainly of hapless producer Stephen Murray, suave-but-dim director Leslie Phillips and dodgy, common-as-muck Floor Manager Jon Pertwee (all coincidentally played by the actors of the same name, unambiguously referred to by the show's announcer as "our three stars").  Also inherited from the previous series are Fatso Johnson (Ronnie Barker) and Taffy Goldstein (Tenniel Evans), the station's cameramen and resident regional stereotypes (West Country and Wales respectively).  Popular impressionist Janet Brown (practically Margaret Thatcher's official double in the 80s) plays both Povey and Murray's secretaries, as well as any other person of the female persuasion who might turn up.  Rounding off the impressive cast is Michael Bates, who plays the clueless station controller and any other bit parts necessary.

As the title (given to the episode for ease of reference on its CD release) suggests, Opening Night concerns itself with TTV's first night of broadcasting.  It's due to kick off with a linkup to the other TV networks (including the Northern station "Banana") and Eurovision (which for some reason consists of Ronnie Barker doing a dodgy Indian accent), but what can they follow this with? It's narrowed down to covering either the local Co-Op's garden utensil sale or the closure of Twigley Minor Halt station as a result of Dr Beeching's railway reforms.  The latter's plumped for, despite Murray's reservations that "it all sounds a bit sexy..." Jocularity ensues.

The TV Lark is pretty awful, but also hugely endearing, its performances entirely unsubtle and its jokes magnificently appalling.  I shall leave you with an example:

Phillips: Everyone knows television was invented by John Yogi Bear.
Pertwee: I think you've made a bit of a Boo Boo.