The Hidden Gems and Oddities of British
Children’s TV Vol. 1

By Ben Ricketts

Copyright © 2016 by Ben Ricketts

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher.

www.curiousbritishtelly.co.uk

Contents

Introduction

Jackson
Pace

Bric
a Brac

Orm
and Cheep

Alfonso
Bonzo

Sebastian
the Incredible Drawing Dog

The
Pig Attraction

Codename
Icarus

Mop
and Smiff

Ragdolly
Anna

Running
Scared

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Children’s TV holds a special place in everyone’s
heart. It’s our first experience of a medium which will go on to have a huge
cultural significance in our lives, so the modesty of these early days is
fondly remembered. And that’s why, all these years on, we’re still talking
about Bagpuss, Camberwick Green, Rainbow et al.

There’s a primitive simplicity to these older shows,
particularly when compared to the flashy brilliance of modern children’s TV
budgets. And this is why we hold them so close to our hearts as they hark back
to more innocent times.

But, you know what? How many more articles on Bagpuss
can we read?! And how many more times will they trot out that X-rated video
of Rainbow?! It’s time for something a little different, but what?

The landscape of British children’s TV is a varied
frontier and one where certain shows – for myriad reasons – have slipped
through the fragile cracks in our memories. It’s no surprise as many of these
shows are watched fleetingly when we’re three feet tall and are forgotten in
the wake of more successful and trailblazing shows.

Rather than consign these oddities to the dustbins
of our memories, though, I’d like to investigate them a little bit further to
evaluate their worth.

These investigations are taken from my blog – www.curiousbritishtelly.co.uk
– but, here, are expanded in order to provide more detailed information and
analysis with exclusive new insights.

Enjoy!

Jackson Pace

ITV

11/10/1990
– 15/11/1990

The
swashbuckling life of an explorer looks like a nonstop adventure packed full of
drama, heroism and plenty of wisecracks. Seen through the eyes of a child it’s
an intoxicating mix of emotions and instinct which corrupt the very fabric of
normal life.

After
all, society dictates that we should get a sensible haircut and embark on the 9
– 5 grind to provide security. But, seriously, what child in their right mind
wants to work towards the horror of listening to Pat in Accounts waffling on
about her hysterectomy?

It’s
no surprise, then, to find that children absolutely love Indiana Jones as it’s
a thrilling franchise which serves up scene after scene of adrenaline fuelled
action. Sure, the threat of malaria is always just around the corner, but it’s
worth the risk to avoid the banal world of ‘proper grownups’.

And
it’s this glamorous appeal which led to a spoof of the genre in Jackson
Pace: The Great Years.

Adventure Awaits

Jackson Pace (Keith Allen) is an adventuring dynamo who's handy with his fists,
loves the glint of a precious treasure and refuses to give up on anything. All
good heroes are accompanied by a trusty sidekick and Pace has Roger Whibley (Daniel
Peacock) shoring up his side at all times.

Pace
even comes complete with a battle cry catchphrase of "There's gold to be
gained!"

And
this catchphrase is going to be bellowed out against a thrilling adventure
based upon the parchment of Kinard. But what is this parchment? Well, it’s an
important document which details the whereabouts of three sacred keystones.

Whoever
gets their mitts on these elusive keystones is then able to unlock – take a
deep breath – the mighty gates of the hidden temple in the land of Ja Ja Bar.

But
what lies within these mystical gates? Well no one knows, but, everyone’s clamouring
for it, so it must be worth a bit of adventuring!

Now, Pace and Whibley are plucky chaps, but their quest is going to be littered
with all manner of villainous mercenaries. The main antagonist is Princess
Layme (Cory Pulman), an Egyptian princess who hopes to use the treasure of
Kinard to bankroll the construction of an opulent palace.

Layme’s
surrounded at all times by her snivelling assistant Lord Layta (Paul B Davies)
and the blind mystic Lord Taggon (Hugh Paddick). They're also joined by the sarcastic
chap The Head (Arthur Smith) – yes, he's literally a head in the sand.

Squirming
around on the periphery of Layme’s attentions is the weedy and bespectacled
Prince Filo (Gian Sammarco). Determined to be a dashing hero – in the mould of
Pace – he’s desperate to bring back the treasure of Kinard and quash Pace for
good.

Filo
is convinced this is the best way to Layme’s heart, but unfortunately she views
him more as a wingless fly in the ointment.

Filo may pose no tangible threat to Pace, but there’s guaranteed trouble in the
form of shady American, Commander Daken (Nic D'Avirro). He's the traditional
'man in black', but unlike Will Smith he has neither the dance moves nor the
loveable charm.

Instead,
he’s a ruthless killer complete with – like all the best villains – a robotic
hand which wants to crush Pace’s fragile neck into a million tiny pieces.

Danger
is certainly breathing heavily down Pace and Whibley’s necks, but they’re not
completely up the proverbial creek without a paddle. The resourceful
journalist, Ryveeta Tusk (Josie Lawrence), has stowed away on Pace’s plane to
get an exclusive scoop for her tabloid rag.

As
to be expected, her beating Fleet Street heart means there’s a certain level of
self interest in her involvement, but she’s the closest thing Pace has to an
ally.

Together, the various factions will embark on a breath taking series of adventures
which map the entire globe.

These
unbelievably bizarre exploits will include encountering the lost tribe of
Popapa, swinging through the jungle with Tarzan, nearly becoming Barry the
Yeti's dinner and being forced to endure the hideous culinary delights of the
Fat Lady.

It
promises to be a rollercoaster, so make sure you’re strapped in for the ride.

On the Trail

6
episodes of Jackson Pace aired in 1990 on ITV and the series was created
by Daniel Peacock. Jackson Pace was the first TV script penned by
Peacock and stemmed from his love of Indiana Jones as he recalls:

“Indiana
Jones had just come out and I really liked it. I thought ‘Why don’t I see if I
can get some comedy out of this’ and I did. I thought it was a funny idea so I
went to see Nick Wilson – head of children’s TV at Granada – and he said ‘Give
me six’, so I did!”

These
six episodes were directed by Alistair Clark who arrived at Jackson Pace with
an excellent CV which took in Grange Hill, Children’s Ward and No.
73. This impressive foundation needed a stunning cast and, thanks to the
connections of producer Mark Robson, it received a cast packed full of comedy
stars.

The
stage was set for something very special to emerge, but what would the viewing
public think of Jackson Pace?

Well,
the viewing figures were highly respectable with around 4 million people tuning
into each episode. Despite this success, though, the series was never repeated.

Peacock
had hoped that there would be a second series and left it open with the
possibility of ‘Pace in Space’, but for reasons unknown this never
materialised. To compound this frustration even further there has never been a
commercial release of Jackson Pace. Peacock interprets this as:

“Television
was very different then to how it is now. They made a show and once it was
broadcast that was that, especially on children’s TV at the time. And, despite
the extraordinary viewing figures, maybe they didn’t know where to place it.
I’d love to see a DVD release, but when Granada went down it all became very
complicated”

Setting the Pace

Back
in 1990, I watched Jackson Pace and it was easily my most favourite TV
show in the world at the time. I was so smitten with it that I hatched a plan
to invite Jackson Pace himself round for a cup of tea. Sadly, my Mum wasn’t too
keen on this idea and, instead, encouraged me to simply enjoy the show.

Despite
my obsession with the series, I couldn’t remember the name of it. Sure, I
remembered that it featured some explorer chap and, yeah, he had a catchphrase
about gold, but what the Sam Hill was this mysterious show?

Drawing
nothing but blank after blank, I resigned myself to never rediscovering it.
Then someone contacted me through my blog and said “Do you remember Jackson
Pace: The Great Years? It’s about this Indiana Jones style adventurer…”

And
with that I headed for the BFI Archive.

There’s
Gold to be Gained!

The
BFI Archive is to TV history enthusiasts as the Black Stone of Mecca is to
Muslims. Visiting this underground viewing archive is something that every TV
anorak needs to make at least once in their life to achieve a better spiritual
enlightenment and, more importantly, watch some really rare telly.

The
viewing rooms are housed in what can only be described as a series of
subterranean caverns. And, yes, scrambling through all the old VHS tapes and
film cans, you do find yourself feeling a bit like a Womble.

However,
whereas Orinoco sought to recycle rubbish, I was seeking to remind the world of
Jackson Pace. It was time to get started, so I pressed the play button
on the BFI’s dusty VHS and got stuck in.

The
first thing that struck me was the appearance of Jackson Pace himself. I always
remembered him being the stereotypically handsome and dashing explorer type.
Rather perplexingly, though, my recent research had informed me that Keith
Allen played Jackson Pace.

Now,
don’t get me wrong, Keith Allen’s a good looking chap, but I wouldn’t associate
him with the charismatic good looks of a rugged hero. However, put him in a
leather jacket with a full head of long, lustrous hair and he’s actually rather
tasty!

Once I’d managed to control my burgeoning man crush
for Keith Allen, it was time to evaluate the action. And to say it took my
breath away would be an understatement. Jackson Pace is simply bursting
at the seams with scene after scene of manic action.

Daniel Peacock could have taken the opportunity to
communicate some deep messages about man’s desire to ransack the world of its
native treasures, but that wouldn’t be much fun, would it? Instead he’s decided
to go for pure balls out entertainment with this spoof.

Peacock really lets rip on the Indiana Jones series
by placing all the usual suspects in his targets.

The fantastically hokey sacred stones are straight
out of Temple of Doom, but we also get the quintessential punch up in a
Cairo nightclub, jungle scenes packed full of danger and Ryveeta Tusk as the
natural successor to Marion Ravenwood and Willie Scott. All these staples of
adventure are delivered at a breakneck speed as the action zips from one far
flung location to another.

But the only way you can do justice to such action
is if you have a first-rate cast in place. Rest assured, Jackson Pace does
not disappoint in this regard. It feels almost as if you’ve wandered into The
Comedy Store on a particularly manic night in the 1980s.

It’s difficult to single anyone out due to the
string of performances delivered with such infectious, anarchic energy. Peacock
has fond memories of the cast and the production:

“The majority of the cast came from the
producer Mark Robson. I knew Keith, but most of the casting was down to Mark. I
liked all these – at the time – young, fresh faces and wanted to put together a
team of very funny people.

And it was very funny on set, people
would chip in with ideas and, if they weren’t funny, I immediately rejected
them! The real fun, however, came in the bar afterwards where we used to do
singsongs and things like that!”

And this raucous fun translates into the scripts
which are packed full of razor sharp gags. Frankly, it would be difficult for a
jury to convict them of anything less than first degree hilarity. The
humour being machine gunned out is also astounding due to its adult nature.

I couldn’t believe that a CITV show was able to slip
in (ahem) references to boobies, school boy masturbation and a quick gag about
groping in quicksand. I asked Peacock how difficult it was to get this on
screen and he explained:

“I didn’t even think about that. To be
honest, I wrote it and I didn’t even think they might cut it. And they didn’t
cut it. It was there to be humorous and Granada, at the time, were very good.
They didn’t bat an eyelid”

Perhaps
it’s the type of humour which, if handled incorrectly, could be seen as a
corrupting influence. When it’s delivered with a joyous, childlike energy,
though, it would be a crime to try and tame it.

And,
as the VHS of Jackson Pace came to an end, I realised that, in the last
25 years, it hadn’t done me any harm.

Mission
Complete

I absolutely loved catching up with Jackson Pace. It was exciting, it
was fabulous and I frankly couldn’t get enough of its hilarious rough
and tumble charm.

Somehow
it remains curiously forgotten and obscured by the shimmering haze of much more
successful shows. I guess that it’s actually possible for the margins of TV
magnificence to be truly stretched, but still fail to leave an indelible
mark on its history.

A
show like Maid Marian and Her Merry Men is probably the closest equal to
Jackson Pace in terms of style, tone and quality. However, Maid
Marian is leagues ahead in terms of recognition. Maid Marian, of
course, was gifted those most coveted commodities in television –
re-commissions and repeats.

Jackson
Pace
never received these vital leg-ups, so it failed to keep the ball
rolling and hone its legacy in the pantheon of classic British TV. To those who
remember it, the rigours of time will never diminish its splendour.

And
if Keith Allen's reading then I still want you to come round mine for a cup of
tea. I’ve got my own place now, so my Mum can't stop me.

Bric a Brac

BBC1

1980,
1982

Bric-a-brac shops always held a certain allure for
us as a child. First off, there was the alliteration of the name which rather
tickled our prospering aural receptors. Secondly, there was the strange clutter
to sort through whilst we rummaged for Dr Who Target novelisations.

Finally, there was also a small chance that we might
bump into Brian Cant, the shopkeeper in Bric-a-Brac.

Open for Business

Housed within the dusty depths of a bric-a-brac
shop, in amongst a plethora of even dustier curios, lives the elderly, nameless
and slightly dusty shopkeeper (Brian Cant). Possibly stripped of his sanity by
being enslaved to a shop which experiences no passing trade, the shopkeeper has
developed a dedicated passion for phonetics.

Each episode of Bric-a-Brac finds the
shopkeeper becoming fixated on a particular letter of the alphabet and its
pronunciation.

This phonetical infatuation inspires the shopkeeper
to comb the shop in search of items which will authenticate the existence of
these phonemes e.g. the B (buh) episode finds the shopkeeper piling up the
following bizarre combination: a bear with bananas in its mouth as a bucket
stands by with a brolly in it.

Stocktaking

13 episodes of linguistic intrigue were produced by
the BBC over the course of two language obsessed series in the early 1980s.

Michael Cole – a man blessed with an almost
supernatural talent for developing timeless TV – helped to create Bric-a-Brac
with his fellow doyen of children’s TV, Nick Wilson, who was also on hand
to produce the series. The magnificent roll call of talent continued with the
appointment of Cynthia Felgate (Play School, Play Away and Willo the Wisp) as
executive producer.

Bric-a-Brac –
not to be confused with the similarly named BBC1 1970 antiques TV quiz show –
aired as part of the glorious See-Saw lunchtime roster and episodes lasted
roughly 10 minutes.

Each series was repeated multiple times through the
1980s with the final repeat being broadcast in September 1989. No commercial
releases followed and only a couple of episodes have emerged onto YouTube over
the years, but I was able to catch up on a few more episodes at the BFI
Archive.

Alliterative Magic

Bric-a-Brac was
one of those shows that my memory resolutely refused to erase all traces of. My
recollections of the series still felt fully formed and these were no doubt
borne from the warm, nostalgic memories of curling up into the crook of my
mum’s arm as we watched Brian Cant potter about.

Now, unless you’re the chairman of the clueless goon
society, you should be well aware that Brian Cant is one of the godfathers of
British children’s TV.

I’m not saying that he’s prone to cutting off horses’
heads and sneaking them into Cosmo and Dibbs’ bed, but more that he appeared in
a wide range of pioneering and influential shows such as Play School, Play
Away and the Trumptonshire trilogy.

And Bric-a-Brac finds Brian Cant on sparkling
form. His avuncular nature is so perfectly formed and suited to Bric-a-Brac that
I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that he had been created in a test tube by
a perfection seeking BBC executive.

Yes, his talent is that outstanding and it’s
reflected in the manner he disregards the limitations of being a solitary
performer in Bric-a-Brac. Cant manages to bounce off the viewers, the
objects in the shop and even his own absentmindedness to build an energising
rapport.

The scope of the phonetics theme is fairly simple, so
avoids falling into the trap of dispensing a gruelling – and therefore
ineffective – dose of education.  Thankfully, due to the myriad of peculiar
objects creating a sense of intrigue and wonder, the audience is blissfully
tricked into learning about the words gurgling out of their mouths.

Sure, the ‘action’ still moves at a leisurely pace,
but Brian Cant’s grandfatherly charm combines marvellously with Bric-a-Brac’s
world of phonetics to prevent viewers from detaching.

And the final touch of brilliance comes when the
episodes quite literally wind down; the shopkeeper digs out an ancient
clockwork toy which he leaves running over the credits. It’s an astute allegory
on not just the transient nature of the shop’s contents, but life itself.

Worth a Rummage?

Despite a premise which I have to admit looks
ridiculously limited on paper, Bric-a-Brac is another example of Michael
Cole’s talent for summoning up brilliant TV from a shoestring budget.

Aided and abetted by the unstoppable magnetism of
Brian Cant, it soon becomes clear that, in practice, Bric-a-Brac is an
engrossing watch.

It may not be scintillating, it may not cover the
entire alphabet (it even repeats some letters), but it’s a gentle reminder
that, with a warm heart at its centre, a TV show can cut through the decades to
retain a timeless charm.

Orm and Cheep

ITV

1983,
1985

The
animal kingdom struggles to live in perfect harmony. Cats hate dogs, birds
can’t help but gobble up worms and wasps have a zest for hating everyone.
Despite this innate hatred, there’s proof that certain groups of animal can put
their differences aside in the quest for a more fruitful connection as seen in Orm
and Cheep.

When
Animals Live Together

Cheep
is a fluffy little bird who, after falling from his nest as a baby, fails to
learn the basics of being a bird - namely being able to fly. It’s a dramatic
and potentially tragic introduction to life, but wriggling about on the edges
of this narrative is the friendly worm, Orm.

Rescuing
Cheep from the unforgiving digestion processes of the food chain, Orm takes
Cheep back to his subterranean home at the base of a tree.

Together
with their friends Snail, Mole and Mouse they deal with such testing situations
as cleaning the house, coping with floods and allowing Cheep the freedom to
express his artistic talent.

To
add an extra dimension of urgency to these plots are their enemies Crow, Cat
and Rat who are keen to establish the predator - prey relationship that Orm and
Cheep have rejected.

Behind
the Puppets

Orm
and Cheep started to come to life when writer Guy Hallifax
was introduced to designer Tony Martin. An idea for a children’s TV show had
been burrowing away in Tony Martin’s mind for some time, but scripts were
needed.

With
Guy Hallifax on board the scripts soon became a reality and, before the pair
knew it, they had a commission from ITV. 26 episodes of Orm and Cheep
followed over the course of two series between 1983 and 1985.

The
puppets populating Orm and Cheap were created by The Puppet Company and
their world was a mixture of backdrops created by Tony Martin and bluescreen
magic engineered by Derek Oliver.

Bringing
an established, calming presence to the proceedings was Richard Briers with his
cheery tones which provided the whole gamut of voices and narration for the
series.

The
intricate and fractious tensions of a marriage in breakdown between Jan and
Tony Martin could have left the production swinging a noose up to the rafters,
but the pair’s ability to limit conflict prevented it from dominating the production.

By
the time of the second series, Jan Martin had checked out of the production
team. Any thoughts, though, of a deep seated spousal feud are firmly undermined
by Jan Martin’s positive comments about her ex-husband’s work on the series.

Orm
and Cheep was highly successful at the time and managed to hit
viewing figures of 7.15 million viewers. For a children’s show this is quite
remarkable and it’s no surprise that merchandise followed.

Six
tie-in books were released along with an Orm and Cheep annual. The Video
Collection also released a VHS featuring 5 episodes of Orm and Cheep,
but this has never been released on DVD.

Turn
the Cutesy up to 11

There’s
a special place in the landscape of children’s TV for puppet shows. Endearing
characters are brought to life with furry limbs against a canvas of relatable
themes for children.

As
a child, I was smitten with TV puppets and it felt as if marvellous creation
after marvellous creation was raining down heavily from the TV heavens. I never
caught Orm and Cheep, so it was ripe for an investigation. A rip of the VHS
release has found its way online, so I loaded it up and prepared myself for the
unknown.

As
the cutesy, saccharine theme tune began to emanate from my laptop speakers I
was struck by an intense wave of nausea. I found myself aggressively
questioning just who could conceive such sickly pretensions. Imagine a
nightmarish world where Keith Harris had turned to Orville and suggested that
they wring a little more soppiness out of ‘I Wish I Could Fly’.

Be
under no illusions, this chilling vision is made real by the Orm and Cheep theme
tune.

Once
the muscle contractions of my gastric system had rescinded, I pushed onwards
with my exploration of the show.

First
things first, Richard Briers was a national treasure thanks to a cheery
disposition which he distilled into an unquestionable art. By some feat of
Darwinian evolution he also arrived with inexplicably perfect oral rhythms.

And
in Orm and Cheap he uses these to provide a warming articulation to his
narration. Combined with the soothing background music provided by Dave
Greenslade, it makes for an unmatched smorgasbord of meticulous aural delights.

With
the perfect soundscape in place Orm and Cheep has a solid bedrock, but
would the puppets match this quality? Sadly, they’re a frustrating element of
the show. Orm and Snail keep the cutesy factor of the protagonists on track
with their slick design, but Cheep lets the side down by appearing to be a rushed
ball of glue and feathers.

Meanwhile,
the sinister intentions of Cat and Rat fail to manifest themselves in their
design, so it’s a struggle to differentiate between the two groups.

A
mixed bag of puppets can easily be swept aside by wonderfully vibrant plots
coloured by a palette of outstanding characters. Unfortunately, this isn’t the
case in Orm and Cheep.

My
main gripe with the good guys is that they emerge as overglazed, hollow
characters who are sickeningly polite. Such insipid characters put a real
strain on the already paper thin plots, so I found my enthusiasm for them
rapidly draining away.

And,
as the credits rolled, I felt cheated that Orm and Cheep’s wilful idiocy and
doe eyed naivety hadn’t resulted in them being gobbled up.

Is
it Over Yet?

Beamed
through the eager, innocent retinas of a toddler, Orm and Cheep does
actually contain some pearls of wisdom. The fundamental basics of society are
clearly laid out and teach crucial lessons on friendship and the triumph of
good over evil.

However,
to my weary, thirty-something eyes, the lurid, schmaltzy world of Orm and
Cheep is far too sanitised in terms of emotion and wit to deserve any
prolonged recognition.

Tune
in for Richard Briers and some nice production work, but prepare to bail out
rapidly as the tidal wave of mushiness comes crashing down.

Alfonso Bonzo

BBC1

04/01/1990
– 08/02/1990

When
you're a kid, mastering the art of swapping is an essential when it comes to
achieving your materialistic dreams. After all, there's always something your
mate's got that you want and vice versa.

Cold
hard cash is a scarce asset for kids, so the long, arduous process of saving
those pennies and pounds means swapping is the most immediate and
straightforward option to hand.

Nonetheless,
swapping isn’t as simple as it sounds. Even the most talented, break away
swappers can come to discover that it’s a dangerous path to traverse. In fact,
in Alfonso Bonzo we’re privy to a cautionary tale which demonstrates
just how far reaching the ramifications of a simple swap can be.

Let's
Get Swapping!

Billy
Webb (Scott Riley), now there's a veteran and somewhat master of the old swap
scene. With an almost magisterial touch, young Billy is able to negotiate
amazing swaps on all types of crazy items with the residents of Splott Street
and his mucky fingered school mates at Splott Junior and Infant School.

Billy's
swaps make him popular with his peers, but his propensity for swapping anything
in pursuit of that killer deal drives his Mum (Susan Porrett) and Dad (Brian
Hall) nuts. Nonetheless, although they may be irritated by Billy swapping his
jumper for some old Elvis LPs, nothing’s going to prepare them for Alfonso
Bonzo.

Alfonso
Bonzo (Alex Jennings) dresses with a continental flamboyance and his arrival is
always heralded by a jaunty whistling, but who is he? Well, he's an Italian
exchange student, but he’s not coming over here to learn about our culture and
nick your dad’s cigarettes.

No,
he's come to perform outlandish and otherworldly swaps with the esteemed
swapper, Billy Webb.

Now,
Billy may be the best swapper in the Splott district, but Alfonso comes ready
packaged as the market leader of swapping.  And each swap he offers to Billy
promotes a fevered reaction to its potential.

Want
a magical bag? Alfonso's got one! Want a talking dog? Alfonso's got one! Want
to traverse the dimensions of space and step directly into your TV? That’s
right, see Alfonso!

Naturally,
Billy can’t resist these swaps, but maybe he’d be better off with the chronic
mediocrity of swapping football stickers. Because, you see, the glittering
greatness that Alfonso’s swaps promise is counterbalanced by their wildly
unpredictable nature.

Billy,
therefore, begins to uncover a hidden subtext that the grass isn’t always
greener on the other side.

The
whole story is told in flashback by Billy who is now holed up in hospital with
a broken leg. He’s laid up next to journalist Trevor Trotman (Mike Walling),
who also has a broken leg and is enthusiastically convinced that Alfonso Bonzo
is proof of extra-terrestrial life.

Behind
the Swaps

Back
in those of halcyon days of 1986 not only did we have the release of The Queen
is Dead and the sublime genius of Maradona at the Mexico World Cup, but we also
saw the release of the children's book Alfonso Bonzo by Andrew Davies!

Davies
is best known for his TV adaptations of Pride and Prejudice and Vanity
Fair, but he was also the master behind one of the most underrated sitcoms
ever, Game On. Anyway, Davies realised that he had created a story which
was just perfect for the small screen, so he set about adapting it for TV.

Alfonso
Bonzo first aired in January 1990 on BBC1 in the 4.30pm slot in the CBBC
schedule and ran for 6 episodes. The series received just one repeat, about 18
months later on BBC1 again. Billy Webb, meanwhile, went on to have further
adventures in Billy Webb's Amazing Stories, but this was sans Alfonso.

What's
in a Swap?

Alfonso
Bonzo passed me by at the time, but as luck would have it,
one of my mates was a keen fan of the show. They implored us to delve into the
show and give it the once over, so I duly started some groundwork on the show.

On
discovering that Alfonso Bonzo was one of Andrew Davies’ babies, I was
absolutely sold and powerless to resist investigating it.

To
make matters easier, the whole series was on YouTube, so I eagerly hit the play
button.

The
first thing I need to address is Billy Webb’s constant reference to Alfonso as
a “mad Italian hippy”. This is incredibly harsh as Alfonso is far
too dapper to be reduced to a mere Mediterranean counterculturist. In fact, if
you can imagine a late 1980s Italian take on Doctor Who then that's exactly
what Alfonso is.

And
whilst there’s a whiff of the Milanese catwalks about Alfonso's attire, Alex
Jennings manages to dress the character with even more layers of class.

Alex
Jennings has won three Olivier Awards and, based purely on his Alfonso Bonzo
showing, it’s impossible to question the integrity of these decisions. He's
simply astounding in the role of Alfonso and he lights the screen up with his
unstoppable charisma every time he saunters into view. No wonder Billy’s mum
and sister go all giddy over him.

Talking
of Billy Webb, I can’t overlook Simon Riley’s performance as the lovable little
oik. Blessed with a seemingly never ending palette of incredulous expressions,
Riley provides a fine performance opposite Alfonso’s clamouring brilliance.

His
range is impressive for a young actor and he can ably turn on a sixpence from
humour to cynicism to intense frustration. Sadly, it appears that Riley didn't
fancy the career of an actor as his acting CV is all too short.

The
main narrative thrust of Alfonzo Bonzo centres on Billy and Alfonso’s
complex relationship, so the rest of the characters are very much bit players.
However, this doesn’t mean their acting should go unheralded.

Sadly
taken from us far too young, Brian Hall brings his infectiously likable Cockney
air and effortless comic timing to Billy’s Dad. And Bryan Pringle, as
headmaster Mr Hardwood, conjures up his trademark stern, authoritative persona,
but one whose icy heart is quickly thawed by an Italian greyhound.

With
all this high praise lavished on the performances, the story’s going to have a
tough task to match them. Now, I can think of children’s TV shows with more
clever and ingenious plots, but Alfonso Bonzo is one for whom the
cerebral willingly steps aside for madcap fun.

It’s
laced with the unabashed, fizzing excitement which is quintessential of
mid-afternoon children shows and there’s an intriguing evolution to its tone.
The narrative begins with a chirpy if uneventful energy, but this is merely the
calm before the storm; Alfonso’s entrance leads to an almost crushing crescendo
of chaos as his swaps are let off the leash.

Alfonso
Bonzo is cleverly incisive at getting to the core of some
important themes for its viewers. Children tend to overlook the virtue of
contentment as the world is a relatively new environment for them.

And,
much like a moth to a flame, they can’t help but reach out to the danger on
offer despite the risk of getting singed. Circumstances prove, for young Billy,
that being mindful of shiny objects dangled tantalisingly close is an important
lesson to learn.

The
one minor quibble I have with the show is the flashback structure employed to
play out the story with hindsight. Don't get me wrong, Mike Walling is a
fantastic comedy actor and he's bubbling away with a comedic vim and vigour,
but the main narrative is strong enough to dispense with any clumsily tacked on
exposition.

Would
I Swap This?

Ultimately,
Alfonso Bonzo is a show which takes an eccentric look at why children
should put some time aside to ground themselves in reality. Children, though,
have notoriously short attention spans, so managing to keep them sedentary long
enough to absorb these lessons is a tough task.

Nonetheless,
Andrew Davies seems to manage it with ease; this is all thanks to his razor
sharp imagination, canny knack for knocking up a cracking script and a central
set of performers who go above and beyond the remit of children’s TV.

Sebastian the
Incredible Drawing Dog

BBC1

11/09/1986
– 04/12/1986

Venture
into any house containing small children and you’re bound to find oodles of
drawings. Sure, most children’s efforts involve out of proportion heads
balancing upon two stick legs, but the effort's there, right? And it’s a fine
outlet for their imagination and creativity to run wild, so it should never be
stymied.

Now,
children also love pets. They’re equals, in a sense, in that they’re
ruled by their adult parents/owners, so it’s no surprise they strike up great
relationships. And with similar centres of gravity, children and dogs make for
excellent playmates.

Their
relationships may seem nothing more than frivolous larks, but they actually
help to nurture a child’s social development.

What
about a TV show, then, which married art and dogs? Sounding custom built for
success, it actually happened back in 1986. Throwing a young Michael Barrymore
into the mix surely meant that Sebastian the Incredible Drawing Dog was
destined for tremendous things.

The
Importance of Being Sebastian

Surrounded
by archaic clutter in a dimly lit flat, Sebastian (breed unknown) expresses his
furry musings through the medium of paint and canvas. To ensure that the fine
relationship between man and dog is maintained, Michael (Michael Barrymore)
also lives there, presumably to take him to the vet and remove ticks from the
more unreachable parts of Sebastian’s shaggy anatomy.

Michael,
unable to match Sebastian’s artistic temperament, instead finds himself using
his narrative space to lark about round the flat. One day, Michael may be
dressing up as Lord Nelson, the next he might be searching for a pair of socks.

A
chance comment on these nonsensical meanderings soon leads to Michael dusting
down the ‘large and unusual storybook’. From this, Michael regales viewers with
a quirky tale as Sebastian provides the illustrations.

Sketching
Sebastian

Sebastian
first bounded onto our screens in 1986 and a total of 13 episodes aired on BBC1
in the CBBC afternoon slot. The series was the brainchild of writer and
cartoonist, David Myers, who had previously written for Dave Allen and Tommy
Cooper.

Myers
produced an early pilot of Sebastian with Pic Productions, but the final
series would be a BBC production helmed by Christopher Pilkington. Repeats of Sebastian
aired throughout 1987 and 1988 on BBC1 and 2, but this was the last the
world saw of Sebastian.

On
The Quest for Sebastian

Sebastian
was
an enigmatic presence in my life for the good part of two and a half decades.
The lingering image of a dog in a smoking jacket was one that was embedded deep
within my memory. The problem was absolutely no one else remembered it. And I
certainly couldn’t remember the title, having been barely old enough to
remember my own name at the time.

Rather fortuitously, many
years on, I found myself confronted with a 1986 issue of the Radio Times – Russ
Abbot was on the cover, so how could I resist picking it up? It was an amazing
trip down memory lane, but the real sweetener lay towards the back of the
magazine.

There was an article in
there about Sebastian the Incredible Drawing Dog!

Finally, I had the name
of this elusive show in my grasp! I immediately hopped online to find out what
I could discover, but all I found were half-truths and whispers. Unfortunately,
it appeared that this show was completely forgotten.

Many men would have
floundered in this situation, but I was determined to squeeze a few more drops
of nostalgia juice out of my grey matter. I got on the phone to the BFI Archive
and booked out a couple of episodes to investigate.

Walking
the Dog

I’d
arranged to watch two episodes – The Barking Cat and The Toastmaster –
so settled down and prepared to resurrect some long dead memory synapses.

Sebastian
is a particularly cultured dog; instead of sniffing other dog's rectums
inquisitively, he’s much more at home playing the violin or piano and, of
course, he’s a dab hand with the old paintbrush bristles.

Naturally,
this high level of sophistication hints at a privileged background, so it’s no
surprise to discover he’s a well-spoken hound. And this aristocratic air is
underlined by a pith helmet which hangs on a hatstand and no doubt saw plenty
of action in the old empire.

Barrymore
is positioned as the funny man to Sebastian’s straight man (dog) and old
Michael is on absolutely sparkling form. Barrymore’s clownish persona is fully
formed and his natural showmanship is like a juggernaut.

It’s
interesting to note that Sebastian began airing just a few weeks before
the first series of Strike it Lucky, so finds Barrymore teetering on the
precipice of greatness and his ebullient nature is indicative of this.

And
its Barrymore’s exhilarating personality that helps to cement the show’s main
strength – the relationship between Michael and Sebastian. They bicker,
squabble and banter with each other with a striking dichotomy which recalls all
the best double acts.

Barrymore
thrives off having someone to bounce off; it’s what his personality gets up for
in the morning. Sebastian, with his aura of debonaire sophistication, provides
a fantastic foil for our zany boy from Bermondsey.

This
wonderful relationship sets up a fantastic structure for the show, but just as
it’s reaching its ascendency it begins slipping off track. As the large and
unusual storybook is opened, Michael and Sebastian’s outstanding chemistry is
suddenly disabled.

Sure,
there’s the odd quip here and there, but the stories being told are limp and
sadly splutter home. The moribund tone of the stories is also coupled to
illustrations which are barely more than scribbles. Myer’s was a talented
cartoonist, but he’s simply not given the time to let his talents shine here.

Man’s
Best Friend?

I
was thrilled to revisit the world of Sebastian and feel that David Myer
had cottoned onto an incredibly strong partnership in Michael and Sebastian.
Unfortunately, the format chosen comes across as far too muddled. The joy of Sebastian
is seeing the central characters rile each other up, but when preoccupied
with humdrum stories and sketches, this fizzles out.

A
much better approach, in my opinion, would have been to go down the route of a
sitcom for maximum impact. As it is, the series remains slightly flawed, but
still peppered with moments of joy.

The Pig Attraction

ITV

06/05/1993
– 08/07/1993

It’s probably clear by now that I’ve got somewhat of
an obsession with retro children’s TV, but you may be wondering what
kick-started this messy, glorious affair. Well, as the first pangs of
adolescence descended upon me, I felt an uncontrollable urge to look back and
reminisce over my childhood as it flickered out and hairs began to spring up in
the most unmentionable places.

Television, obviously, had been a constant companion
throughout childhood, so there was an intense desire to re-connect with what
had been shaping my mind-set in what felt like a forgotten age.

Sure, it only stretched back to a period of 6 – 7
years previous, but to a 10 year old that’s almost a lifetime. As luck would
have it, the gods of retro TV were listening and a show which felt custom built
for my reflective nature was winging its way to me in the form of The Pig
Attraction.

Welcome, Ladies and Gentlemen! And
Swine!

Part documentary, part chat show and part ‘show
within a show’ The Pig Attraction is a curious beast which refuses to be
defined by a single genre. Hosted by Billie the Pig, The Pig Attraction’s main
focus is committed to delving deep into the world of puppetry and providing an
education into what goes on behind the strings.

Helped by puppeteer extraordinaire, Simon Buckley,
Billie the Pig interviews stars from the world of puppetry and dissects the
various techniques involved in transforming slumped, inanimate puppets into
three dimensional beings.

Interviews include chats with such puppet luminaries
as: Roland Rat, Big Bird, Gerry Anderson, Earl E Bird, Hartley Hare and, uh,
Peter Baldwin aka Derek Wilton from Coronation Street.

Despite Billie’s best efforts to maintain a level of
Michael Parkinson affable slickness, the presence of rampant, mischievous
puppets backstage mean that shows gradually collapse under the weight of
intense chaos.

In amongst the tumultuous disorder, a reminder of
the The Pig Attraction’s nostalgic definition is underlined by the
helium tones of Pinky and Perky singing a pop classic.

Backroom Staff

10 episodes of The Pig Attraction aired
during mid-1993 in the CITV slot and the series was produced by HTV. Episodes
ran to 25 minutes long and were beamed out on Thursdays at 4.15pm. The Pig
Attraction is an archetypal forgotten show in that it only garnered one
series and not a single repeat has aired since.

The series sprouted from a seedling of an idea put
forwards by HTV producer Peter Murphy as Simon Buckley remembers:

“For six
years I performed a character on Saturday morning ITV called Nobby the Sheep.
Nobby’s first show was called Ghost Train and it toured around the country with
a different episode each week being produced by a different TV region (we had
lots of ITV companies in those days).

In Bristol
and Cardiff the shows were produced by HTV and HTV West where Peter Murphy was
the producer. Peter had previously worked on ‘Rolf’s Cartoon Club’ which mixed
classic cartoons with lessons on animation and wanted to do something similar,
but with puppets.

About the
same time, having met me through Nobby the Sheep, Peter engaged me to work a
puppet pig for an environmental series with Bill Oddie called ‘Ask Oddie’. From
this, the idea evolved to make the format of the puppet series a chat show with
Billie the Pig as its host and with my knowledge and experience at its heart.

It’s fair
to say that about 90% of the content came from me. I was really keen to use
this as a showcase for the vast range of puppetry styles and techniques many of
which were not used on television and inspire children with this rich and
wonderful art form.

My exact
title changed so many times, but basically I basically provided everything from
many of the contacts with puppeteers and puppet companies, to an understanding
of the subject in hand as well as the set dressing for the puppet workshop and
devised the simple ‘make and do’ elements of the show. I had more pies to have
fingers in than I actually had fingers!”

The TV series itself never received a commercial
release, but there was merchandise in the form of a CD, tape and vinyl edition
of Pinky and Perky’s pop renditions which featured throughout the series.
Somehow I never got round to purchasing these. Do I feel poorer for missing
out? No…

Revisting our Inspiration

The Pig Attraction was
integral in lighting the blue touch paper for my retro TV passion, so I could
hardly exclude it from this compendium of curious British children’s TV. To do
so would be to deny my heritage and a betrayal to that snotty nosed Herbert
who, in 1993, was precariously balanced between the sanctity of childhood and
the excitement of adolescence.

Hinting at the chaos to come, episodes of The Pig
Attraction commence with a brief opener where Billie the Pig is struggling
to get the show off the ground. Within seconds the production team are papering
over the backstage chaos as the energetic theme tune kicks in and Billie bursts
onto the genuinely glitzy set.

It makes for an impressive opener and, with the
lurking sense of pandemonium, suggests an intriguing collision of brilliance
and misfortune lies ahead.

The content of The Pig Attraction is,
undeniably, the shining brilliance that illuminates the show. This is fuelled
by the wonderful character the series has at its disposal in the trottered form
of Billie the Pig.

I find him an absolutely captivating character,
veering wildly from confident media host to panicked porcine as he struggles to
keep The Pig Attraction together at its thrashing seams. The creative
talent have clearly invested a lot of time in the character.

Puppets, naturally, are rather limited in their
movements, so Simon Buckley makes for an essential co-presenter, especially
when the intricate movements of the human hand are needed to show how puppets
are brought to life. Buckley’s enthusiasm for an industry which he has made his
home is apparent from the off and his passion is a redeeming feature as he
explains:

“I was
passionate about this show, and the show we started to make was a dream come
true for me. It took a few turns that I didn’t really like (too many C list
puppets plugging their own shows, rather than contributing anything really
interesting or funny) and some of the original concept got lost.

But even
today people thank me for pieces that I filmed on the Puppet Barge or The
Harlequin Puppet Theatre in North Wales (Britain’s First Permanent Puppet
Theatre built in 1958) as they provide a really valuable and quite rare record
of that kind of puppetry.

I was also thrilled to get
such a great series of interviews with Brian Henson, son of Jim, and I am sure
that it was my genuine inside knowledge that enabled him to be very open with
me and share so much with the audience, beyond what we had been told he would
be prepared to do.

Too often when someone
interviews a puppeteer they ask the same overly simplistic questions like “do
you get the strings tangled?” Yaaaaaaawn! Thankfully the fact that I knew my
subject helped to make up for the fact that I really wasn’t great on camera...
I think I was more wooden than any of the puppets! And, boy, did I wear some
shocking clothes!”

The backstage chaos – which gradually spreads to the
main set – is a fun diversion from the rather more serious documentary
sections. It’s a rich source of laughter which allows the puppets to flex their
comedy muscles and helps keep the show grounded in the world of children’s TV.

However, the shadow of The Muppet Show hangs
heavily over these sections, so, at times, feels a bit too familiar to be truly
unique.

For fans of children’s TV the biggest thrill comes
when The Pig Attraction revisits past stars of the puppet world. The
most impressive one featured in the series comes when that rodent megastar
Roland Rat conducts a poolside interview with Billie about his life and times.

These sections feature impressive bursts of
knowledge, reflection and personality to a degree where you forget these are
just inanimate puppets.

Pork Attraction?

Airing in an age where the internet was the luxury
preserve of a privileged few, The Pig Attraction was a rare opportunity
to broaden my knowledge on the history of British children’s TV. It also
planted the seeds for my future endeavours and projects in this niche. And niche
is a very important word here.

You see, although I adored The Pig Attraction when
it aired, it was perhaps a bit too niche for the majority of my peers.
It’s likely that they were more interested in watching puppets career about in
crazy cars and crack scatological jokes than analyse the mechanics behind it
all.

And whilst the backstage sections are pure unabashed
fun, the general emphasis of the show is skewed too much towards an audience
that probably wasn’t watching. Buckley concedes that the show wasn’t quite as
well formed as he had hoped:

“I can’t pretend the show
was a massive hit with the viewers, who didn’t quite know what it was. An exec
at the BBC said to me afterwards “I wish we’d made it, we would have refined
the idea and got you a second series”.

I think that’s true, but
with ITV being more ratings conscious (because of the advertising) it was a
case of if it’s not a clear hit, let’s ditch it and try something else. I did
think there was more of the world of puppets to show, but we had almost
exhausted the inter-puppet chat show format with Billie I think.”

Nonetheless, the very fact that you’re reading this
book is proof indeed that it’s a show for you and Buckley sums up its charm
thusly:

“What was most striking was
the way that the crew fell in love with so many puppet characters, or
appreciated the skill involved in making and performing puppets. It was, and
remains, the ability of these funny little characters to make us believe
they’re alive – if only for a moment – that never ceases to make me smile.”

Codename Icarus

ITV

08/12/1981
– 22/12/1981

Science is a magnificent enterprise which has helped
us develop new technologies, make exhilarating postulations about the universe
and even clear up athlete's foot. And we're all exposed to it at school for
several long years - science that is, not athlete's foot - so we're more than
capable of holding a little scientific wizardry in our brains, even if it only
amounts to working a bunsen burner.

However, some of us - not me obviously - are right
science whizz kids and can answer fiendishly complicated science riddles to
help advance mankind. Are these advances always put to good use though?

It's a highly complex question and certainly not one
that can be answered in a book examining the darker corners of retro TV, but we
can take a look at a TV program which questions this in Codename Icarus.

A Hidden Genius

Thanks to his nonchalant approach to studying,
Martin Smith (Barry Angel) isn’t exactly in the running to be crowned ‘student
of the year’. Bubbling away beneath this aloof exterior of dismal grades,
though, is an exciting streak of genius.

And this high intellect reveals itself when Martin
solves a perplexing equation with consummate ease.  Rather perversely, the
school believe it’s far too outlandish an achievement for the doltish Martin,
so they immediately brand him a cheat.

When Martin’s not rolling his eyes at his academic
tutors, he spends his free time hunched over a school computer solving
difficult equations posed by an enigmatic question master. This veil of secrecy
soon drops to reveal that John Doll (Philip Locke) has been setting these
equations to verify Martin’s aptitude for genius.

Doll is part of the Icarus Foundations which runs
Falconleigh School and specialises in nurturing child prodigies. With the rabid
approval of his family, Martin is soon channelling his brilliance at
Falconleigh.

Refusing to be blinded by his extraordinary
intellect, Martin starts to uncover a systematic campaign of abuse at
Falconleigh. Martin soon finds himself being hypnotised, drugged and put through
the psychological wringer.

It all seems to be in order to isolate Martin from
reality and twist his genius to Doll’s own nefarious needs, but can Martin get
to the bottom of these schemes before it’s too late? And just who is the
mysterious Edward Froelich (John Malcolm) who’s lurking behind the scenes at
Falconleigh despite being presumed dead since World War 2?

Meanwhile, Britain’s defence systems find themselves
in a precarious position as an unknown assailant is ruthlessly sabotaging them.
Watching through closed fingers, Andy Rutherford (Jack Galloway) has to witness
test missile after test missile being blown out of the sky with childlike ease.

Unable to pinpoint the source of this aggression
and, therefore, preserve the sanctity of Britain’s defences, Rutherford finds
himself suspended by his boss, Sir Hugh Francis (Peter Cellier).

Espionage, however, is Rutherford’s raison d’etre,
so he embarks on a freelance mission to uncover the truth behind these attacks.
Luckily, for Rutherford, he just happens to be pals with ex-Falconleigh pupil,
Frank Broadhurst (Gorden Kaye), who certainly knows his onions when it comes to
the type of advanced laser techniques which could down a missile.

And is it just possible that the answer to
Rutherford’s quest could lie within Martin’s struggle with the powers that be
at Falconleigh?

The Inner Workings of Icarus

Fresh from penning ITV children’s show, Quest of
Eagles, Richard Cooper set about fashioning Codename Icarus in 1981
with the prodigiously talented Marilyn Fox (Running Scared, Seaview,
Jackanory) directing the series with her fastidious talents.

Curiously, Codename Icarus is one of those
rare children’s shows to feature a scientific advisor in the credits, Professor
John Taylor, who I suspect had a brain the size of Saturn.

Codename Icarus
first aired over a two week period in December 1981 with episodes airing on a
Tuesday and Wednesday evening at 5.10pm on BBC1. A repeat airing – and the only
ever repeat – came in spring 1984.

A VHS compilation of the series was released by the
BBC in 1985 and a region 1 DVD release eventually followed in 2006, but, as of
writing, a region 2 DVD release is yet to surface.

Flying High with Icarus

I was happily whiling the hours away by brushing up
on the life and times of Gorden Kaye when I stumbled upon one of his earliest
roles. Entitled Codename Icarus it immediately conjured up visions of
Gorden Kaye heroically sticking his boot into the Hun on D-Day – a somewhat
proto Allo, Allo if you will.

After reading a little further I realised there
would be no Fallen Madonna with the Big Boobies in Codename Icarus. Instead,
it sounded like an epic vision which threatened to puncture the sky with its
grandeur. And, as luck would have it, the whole series was up on YouTube.

If there’s one thing that puts me off a retro
children’s TV show then it’s a cavalcade of wooden performances. And it’s not
just child actors who contribute to this, even adults can phone in stiff,
lifeless portrayals. Codename Icarus, however, generally manages to
deliver a level of performance which elevates it above the countless 80s
children’s TV shows hamstrung by sub-par acting.

Sure, Martin looks like a forgotten Britpop
frontman, but he’s packed full of depth and Barry Angel displays this
precocious integrity with ease. It could be argued that, at times, he’s a
grouchy, misanthropic type, but what teenager isn’t?

Meanwhile, Jack Galloway keeps the protagonists high
calibre of performance flowing and his handsome looks imbue Andy Rutherford
with a rugged charm and steely determination – the very blueprint of heroic
espionage.

On the other side of the fence, of course, we have
those moral miscreants, the villains. John Doll is a sinisterly calm chap and
Phillip Locke captures his psychopathic predilections through a mixture of
chilling smiles and dismissive eyebrows.

John Malcolm, as Edward Froelich, also brings a
bewitching performance to Codename Icarus and depicts the characters
flawed logic with incredible authenticity. Gorden Kaye is the weak link in the
antagonists’ chain, but this is due to his character, Frank Broadhurst, not
being given much to do apart from sport a cardigan and clasp cups of tea.

It’s when actors are handed an excellent script that
they really start to shine. And Codename Icarus finds itself founded
upon an amazing script by Richard Cooper. It’s an intelligent script, really
intelligent, and Cooper’s love of narrative clout produces a children’s
show which is complex yet accessible.

Other thrillers from this era, which target an adult
demographic, fall all too often, into a series of mind-numbingly cerebral
political discourses. Codename Icarus, though, manages to pull off that
rare feat of keeping brains and action on an equal footing.

Concepts such as free will, child abuse and cold war
paranoia are explored over the course of the script, so it demonstrates Richard
Cooper’s (and the BBC’s) fantastic trust that a young audience could with
engage with such harrowing topics.

The main question that the show asks is whether the
gift of genius should be forcibly manipulated or frittered away in blissful
ignorance. Through science, man has the ability to right many wrongs in the
world, but this can be at the expense of true freedom. It’s a complex paradox
and one that I suspect many children would have struggled to identify.

What’s also strange for a children’s TV show is the
heavy presence of adults throughout the serial. Rutherford’s plot strand is
almost exclusively the preserve of adults, but rather than alienating the young
audience, his espionage antics provide an exciting dose of danger and action.

It’s also vital to keep Codename Icarus grounded
in reality and not traverse the stereotypical path of the kids saving the day.
Martin’s genius is all well and good, but in reality it’s no match for adult
guile. And that’s why Rutherford’s experience is essential in thwarting
Falconleigh.

The finale finally sees Martin going head to head
with Froelich in a tour de force debate on the ethics of science. Froelich
attempts to justify his ambitions by revealing he sabotaged his genius to
prevent the Nazis developing nuclear weapons. With an incredible level of
irony, Froelich now believes he has his own final solution.

Martin passionately denounces Froelich’s twisted
vision of a ‘free’ society and leaves Froelich crestfallen as he realises his
grand scheme is over. It’s one of the most important and powerful scenes I’ve
ever seen in children’s TV and makes for a fitting conclusion.

Higher than the Sun?

Codename
Icarus left me speechless in terms of its sophistication
and scope; it’s difficult to comprehend all of these wonders without viewing
the series, prone as we are to expecting unflinching simplicity from children’s
TV.

And
by broaching such intellectual themes and radical angles for such a young
audience, Codename Icarus deserves to be held up as a landmark piece of
British children’s TV.

Mop and Smiff

BBC1

1985

The
human-animal bond is perhaps one of the most familiar, yet enigmatic social
interactions we encounter on planet Earth. Humans develop emotional bonds with
their pets which are almost like familial ties – we look after them, we play
with them and we accuse them of hiding the remote.

Pets,
though, are resolutely mute characters and they remain mysterious beasts at the
best of times. As a result, we’re keen to anthropomorphise them to understand
their aloof ways and justify the huge level of moral care they receive.

It’s
a reductive process and one that, perhaps, we adopt in order to validate the
effort we put into maintaining social connections with our pets.

However,
with the promise of a warm lap and a bowl of food never far away, pets are more
than happy to be labelled as mini humans. It’s a win-win situation for both
sides, so let’s not get too cynical because it’s a touching relationship. And,
in Mop and Smiff, we see this age old friendship rightly celebrated.

Man
and his Pets

Tucked
away in the rolling Pennine moors is an idyllic village where the stresses of
modern life feel a million miles away. Quintessentially British, it’s a village
where cheery window cleaners rub shoulders with farmers and gleeful children
run amok as the seasons gradually shift through their respective gears.

And
it’s in this village that we find Mike (Mike Amatt) carving out an
uncomplicated life against a rich tapestry of music and art with his shaggy Old
English Sheepdog, Mop, and his purring tabby cat, Smiff.

The
initial sections of Mop and Smiff feature Mike and Mop venturing out
into the village to meet an array of characters at work (or play) in their
respective trades such as guide dog trainers, farmers or even Mop’s family.

Mike’s
friendly, inquisitive nature allows these lifestyles and characters to be
gently probed as melodic songs unfold in the background to summarise these
jaunts around the village. Smiff rarely features here, prone as cats are to
their sense of independence and refusal to embrace the restrictions of a leash.

It’s
not until Mike and Mop return from their walk round the village that Smiff
begins to get involved. Following a mid-morning bowl of milk, it’s time for Mop
and Smiff to wistfully drift off into the land of nod, but this isn’t the end
of the story, merely the beginning of a new chapter.

This
gentle slumber, you see, provides Mike the opportunity to paint the scenes of
their dreams in an animated section where Mop (Timothy West) and Smiff
(Prunella Scales) are granted the power of speech.

Sketching the Dream

Mop and Smiff was
first broadcast in spring 1985 on BBC1 in the SeeSaw slot as part of a 10
episode run, but three additional episodes aired in a repeat towards the end of
the year. Episodes, which aired in the lunchtime SeeSaw slot, were 15 minutes
long and produced by David Brown who was head of Children’s Programmes at BBC
Manchester.

Brown was friendly with Sid Waddell – best known as
“the voice of darts” on the BBC – and gave him the director’s job. Mike fondly remembers
the commissioning process:

“I
married in 1975 and immediately after the honeymoon we bought Mop at a kennels
in Lancashire, and the day after decided he needed a friend so we rescued Smiff
from the cat shelter here in Bolton. Mop was so named because it is short and
sweet and we knew he would grow into a shaggy mop coated adult. Smiff was named
after my friend’s band who played at our wedding.

For
the next few years I continued to work as a cabaret act and on one of my trips
to Lesotho Holiday Inn I became bored and homesick, so I wrote a story about
Mop and Smiff.

When
I had done that, I thought again that I should write songs about their antics.
This was inspired by a cartoon that Harry Nillson wrote called “The Point”. I
sent a tape and some pictures off to a company in Walthamstow called “The Picsa
Music Group”.

They
were making cassettes for small children. They liked my stuff so I went to them
and we made four cassettes. This gave me a finished product that I later sent
to the head of children’s programmes at BBC Manchester, David Brown.

I
was invited to the BBC to discuss things and I expected to be in for about 20
minutes. I left after about an hour and a half, walking on air. Another trip to
Southern Africa, and I came back to a letter inviting me to a script
conference. Then things began to happen.

When
I realised we could have “names” doing the voices, I wanted Brian Glover to be
Mop’s voice and I wanted Polly James to be Smiff.  David Brown met Timothy West
and Prunella Scales on a train to London and asked them if they would do the
voices. They were wonderful in the studio and lovely people.”

A spin-off series surfaced in the form of Mike,
Mop and the Moke, but this was a very different show and featured neither
Smiff nor any animation. Despite Mop and Smiff being repeated for
several years there was never a re-commision as Mike explains:

“When
the people at the top at the BBC move on… so do their underlings. Staying in
favour at the Beeb was like climbing a greasy pole. Even before I had children
of my own, I came to the conclusion that almost all kids shows are made by
people with no children.

It’s
still the same. I put my three kids through Uni and they are all lovely people.
I could create and present better formats etc. today but who wants to know an
old bloke? Telly is a fickle industry.”

What I Thought

With his exuberantly engaging personality in full
throttle, Mike Amatt is the epicentre from which all of Mop and Smiff’s brilliance
emanates. Mike’s blessed with a gregarious nature and it almost feels like a
symbolic link to his serene surroundings. Straight away, you find yourself
relaxing into a tranquil mood as Mike bounds out his house with the ever loyal
Mop at his side.

Accordingly, it would be a little foolish to
complain that Mike’s adventures around the village aren’t packed full of
exciting Die Hard style set pieces. Popping down the post office for
chocolate drops isn’t exactly Bruce Willis in a vest, but Mop and Smiff is
aiming more for Mike Amatt in a bobble hat.

Children find wonder in the most simplistic and
everyday scenarios, so this approach pays dividends in Mop and Smiff.

This wondrous world is pushed into even more sublime
territory with the cracking soundtrack Mike provides.

Mike’s musical background is firmly ensconced in the
1960s and 70s, so it’s no surprise to find him crafting shimmering melodies
with a hazy innocence that recalls The Beatles and The Kinks at their
reflective best. These songs drift gently across the moors infiltrating every
crack of life that Mike explores and even seeping into the dreams of Mop and
Smiff.

Mike, naturally, is not marketed as the star of Mop
and Smiff, that’s the job of, uh, Mop and Smiff, so how do they fare?

Well, in their mute, live action form, they’re
always going to struggle to engage the viewers. Mop does his best to transcend
this by displaying a sense of loyalty and an intense level of cuteness best
demonstrated in one scene where he leaps joyously through swathes of bracken in
slow motion. Smiff makes little impression in these sections, limited as she is
to a few brief scenes indoors and around the periphery of the house.

The animated sections of Mop and Smiff provide
the chance to anthropomorphise the pair, so it’s here that their characters
start to flesh out a little more. Not surprisingly, the furry duo feel like an
extension of Mike’s personality, shot through, as they are, with an intense loyalty
and inquisitive innocence.

Special mention must be bestowed upon Timothy West
and Prunella Scales for helping to tease these traits out of Mop and Smiff with
absolute ease.

Built upon simple narrative foundations such as
chasing butterflies, sledging on rolls of carpets and sniffing out a pie at the
circus, the animated stories aren’t pushing the boundaries of storytelling.

However, there are just enough knockabout japes and
scrapes to arrest an errant child’s attention for five minutes. And whilst the
animations aren’t intricate pieces of art, they’re big and bright which, again,
tie in with the beautiful simplicity of the show.

Conclusion

Although Mop and Smiff may not provide any
startling sociological insights into the human-animal bond, it’s a sweet
reminder of the simple pleasures our pets can bring us. And the rustic charm of
Mike, Mop and Smiff’s relationship is framed by a gentle introduction to the
society around us.

It would be easy to argue that the world presented
by Mike Amatt is too pastoral and idealised, but it would also be highly
cynical. Misery may seem to pervade society, but Mop and Smiff is an elegant
reminder of how humanity is nothing without the simple pleasures of life as
Mike reflects:

“I loved both Mop and Smiff very much.
They both lived to be 14. Mop had a massive stroke one night in March and I had
to take him to the vet to be put to sleep. I’d always had an understanding with
Mrs Radcliffe whose farm we filmed the kite sequence on, that Mop could be
buried there, and he was.

I was digging his grave as the sleet was
coming at me sideways and tears and snot were dripping down my face. Smiff had
died of kidney failure a couple of weeks earlier. She was buried in the family
garden. On March 24 my first son was born and we already had an 18 month old
daughter… so as one door closes… another opens and life goes on.”

Ragdolly Anna

ITV

1982,
1986, 1987

Dolls
find themselves with a fairly limited set of career options. Most are demoted
to being dragged around by little girls who take great delight in making the
doll wet itself in order to fulfil their maternal instincts. The only alternative
to this life is equally depressing in that it involves being trapped within
display cabinets in the garish front rooms of fifty-something women.

Neither
option is particularly empowering, so it’s no surprise to discover a doll
trying to eke out a slightly more fulfilling existence in Ragdolly Anna.

It's
a Doll's Life

Ragdolly
Anna lives on the first, second and third floor (the rent must be horrendous)
of a flat with the little dressmaker (Pat Coombs). It would seem rather
ridiculous to have just these two rattling around in such a huge space, so
they’re joined by a couple of other characters.

Admittedly,
a mute dressmaker’s dummy is rather lacking in even the basic definition of
character, but it acts as a sounding board regardless. The final entity in the
flat is the wise white cat who appears to be of advanced years given her wisdom
and cranky temperament.

Episodes
focus around fairly simple premises such as Ragdolly Anna popping down the
allotment to get on with some gardening. It’s a charming enough look at the
world of gardening, but there’s still room for some whimsical magic when
Ragdolly Anna strikes up a friendship with a chatty scarecrow.

And
there’s a real sense of wonder to be explored in the world that Ragdolly Anna
inhabits such as episodes which focus on going to the fair, looking after a
giant sunflower and inviting a clockwork elephant round for tea.

The
Story of a Doll

Ragdolly
Anna started life as a series of stories written by Jean
Kenward, but it was the involvement of famed children’s TV producer Anne Wood (Roland
Rat, Pob and Teletubbies) which proved to be the spark needed to
transfer it to the small screen

A
total of 30 episodes aired over three series between 1982 – 87 on ITV and were
produced by Yorkshire Television. Doug Wilcox – who had previously worked with
Anne Wood on The Book Tower – directed episodes along with John Allen
who had also directed episodes of Puddle Lane.

Despite
the show’s narrative simplicity, Ragdolly Anna was keen to embrace
technology to bring the stories to life. The innovative use of chromakey
allowed an actress (played by Michele Davidson/Caroline Berry) to be shrunk in
a Ragdolly Anna costume and then superimposed over the action.

When
the show wasn’t trying to push the boundaries in a CGI-lacking world, they were
content to rely on a mixture of live action and static photographs to tell the
stories.

The
outside locations required for this action to unfold against were situated in
Leeds. And to be precise, the tenement flats which were the base for Ragdolly
Anna were located on Woolman Street. By the 1980s, these flats had fallen
upon tough times and in no way reflected the gentle pursuits of Ragdolly
Anna. The flats have long since been pulled down.

Much
like the destruction of these flats, there’s little trace left of Ragdolly
Anna in the modern world.

Only
a couple of brief snippets of the show exist on YouTube and this scarcity is
down to a lack of commercial releases. This is particularly strange as the show
proved successful enough to be sold overseas and even aired on Malaysia TV
under their Channel 5 remit.

Dolls
Aren't Just for Girls!

I’ll
be honest; I wanted a doll when I was a lad. It’s not an unusual phenomenon in
small boys, but this is usually due to their biology kicking in late. For me,
it felt different. It was more a fascination with the endearing qualities of a
well-crafted doll. And Ragdolly Anna had this in spades.

You
see, she’s a doll out of time, not just in her Victorian appearance, but also
her innocence compared to more sophisticated dolls hitting the shelves in the
1980s. Even back then I had a strange affinity with the past, so Ragdolly
Anna really resonated with me and felt like a world I never wanted to
leave.

Unfortunately,
as previously stated, there’s barely any footage online, so it was difficult
for me to get a more informed and updated perspective on Ragdolly Anna.
Thankfully, this provided me with an excellent excuse to hop on the train to
London, visit the BFI Archives and watch a few episodes of Ragdolly Anna.

On
this particular occasion I booked into watch ‘Ragdolly Anna Gets Lost’,
‘Ragdolly Anna and The Scarecrow’ and ‘A Visit From Clockwork Elephant’.

It
doesn’t take long for the charm extravaganza to kick in thanks to the show’s
fabulous theme tune. It’s a delicious slice of rolling music hall piano which
is beefed up by brassy horns; the jaunty vocals of Allan Taylor help transform
it into a joyous tune akin to Ray Davies and Syd Barrett at their storytelling
best.

And
as the dying chords of this melodic beast fade out, the narrative begins
against a background infused with a familial vibe. Ragdolly Anna is the child
of the piece, the little dressmaker is the slightly barmy aunt and the wise
white cat is indicative of a wizened grandmother (and what grandmother doesn’t
have whiskers?).

It’s
a neat trick to engage with young children for whom family is their moral and
social bedrock. They can easily identify with all the familial roles portrayed
in Ragdolly Anna, so this provides a comforting crutch to support the interest
of not just girls, but also boys.

This
recognisable setup is welded to plots from the school of simplicity, but also
laced with a curious whimsy which conveys a healthy sense of morality. Take,
for example, the episode ‘Ragdolly Anna Gets Lost’ which is the epitome of the
show’s tone. It starts remarkably twee and mundane with Ragdolly Anna heading
to the shops, but then she falls down a drain.

And
following this, in true anthropomorphic fashion, a talking frog comes to the
rescue. Ragdolly Anna’s escape from the dank drain on the back of the frog is an
eccentric image, but one which also carries a clear subtext on the importance
of benevolence.

Attempting
to bring a level of normalcy to these plots is Pat Coombs. Best known for
personifying deferential characters, Ragdolly Anna allows her the
opportunity to bring more confidence to the table as the little shopkeeper.
She’s a calming anchor of security which helps shore Ragdolly Anna from her
slightly more surreal exploits and Pat Coombs’ narration brings an enveloping
sense of maternal comfort to the adventures.

Raggy
Doll?

The
innocence of Ragdolly Anna still makes for a captivating watch. As I
became reacquainted with the show, I found myself as enthralled by its
simplicity and wild adventure as I was back in the mid-1980s. And, for the
second time in my life, I simply didn’t want to leave this world, but circumstances
didn’t permit me to stay.

Nonetheless,
there’s a timeless nature to show’s familial narrative which makes me feel it
could delight a whole new generation of children. In fact, a Ragdolly Anna toy
would be very successful due to its ‘less is more’ charm; I’d buy one, after
all, I’ve always wanted one.

Running Scared

ITV

15/01/1986
– 19/02/1986

I’ve only ever walked through
the Woolwich foot tunnel once - about 25 years ago - but the haunting memories
it evokes are still crystal clear in my mind’s eye. The seemingly never ending
length – tough work at 8 years old – was permeated by gloomy lighting and the
rather disturbing knowledge that the murky River Thames was only a few feet
above.

It had a nightmarish
edge to it, the kind of place you’d expect to be chased by a serial killer.
Whilst you had a broken leg. And the gates at the end were locked. By Satan
himself.

By a stroke of luck, no
harm came to me that day, although I did get a little out of breath. Despite
this revelation, I was still rather relieved to make the return journey via the
Woolwich Ferry. Not everyone in the foot tunnel, though, emerges unscathed by its
dramatic potential.

And, just a few years
earlier, a young girl had been subjected to a terrifying chase down the foot
tunnel by an East End villain in Running Scared.

Trouble in East London

Life for a girl in mid
80s Britain is a tough old task. Not only is there the constant romantic
anxiety about boys, but there’s also the struggle to find space on bedroom
walls for posters of Wham. Paula Prescott (Julia Millbank) has both these
problems and a further complication in the form of respectable
businessman cum East End villain Charlie Elkin (Christopher Ellison).

Club owner Elkin is
your stereotypical ne’er do well who, when not traipsing around the golf
course, has plenty of legally dubious past times. This makes him of particular
interest to D.I. McNeill (James Cosmo) who would be as pleased as punch to put
Elkin behind bars. And it appears that Elkin may just have made a slip up of
monumental proportions.

Following an armed
robbery, Elkin and his heavies experience a bit of motor trouble, so are forced
to hightail it from the scene in a taxi driven by Paula’s granddad – Sam (Fred
Bryant). In typical getaway fashion, the rules of the Highway Code aren’t
adhered to and a rough journey ensues.

In the hullabaloo of an
emergency stop, one half of Elkin’s broken spectacles find their way under the
taxi and into McNeill’s evidence room. The other half remain in the taxi and
are swiped by Sam.

After Paula is
threatened by Elkin’s moll, Leila (Hetty Baynes), Sam realises just how serious
matters are. And, not wanting to be slung in Barking Creek himself, Sam has to
concede that it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie. Following a sinister late
night warning from Elkin, Sam changes his mind and decides to play his hand
against Elkin.

Knowing he has the
advantage with the glasses, Sam warns Elkin off his family, otherwise Sam’s
half of the glasses will end up in McNeill’s hands.

Sam’s time on Earth,
however, is limited due to poor health and, just before he passes away, Sam
advises Paula that his old musical box holds an important message. Elkin,
meanwhile, has cottoned on that Sam must have left a message about the
whereabouts of his glasses and is determined to find it.

Luckily, for Elkin, he
has an inside track to Paula through her cousin Brian (Simon Adams) who just happens
to be one of Elkin’s goons. And Brian’s shady activities aren’t limited purely
to family betrayal. He’s also helping to terrorise Paula’s Sikh friend,
Narinder (Amarjit Dhillon) and her family over ‘protection’ payments for their
printing shop.

Running up that Hill

Running Scared was
a six part series which aired on BBC1 in early 1986 and was the final part of
the CBBC schedule on Wednesdays. The show was the product of esteemed
children’s novelist, Bernard Ashley, who was, at the same time, also holding
down the rather taxing task of being a head teacher.

Interestingly, Running
Scared was not based on an original Bernard Ashley novel, but was
especially written for TV. A tie in novelisation was released following the
series’ transmission.

The series scored a
real coup when Marilyn Fox came on board as director; you only need to take a
quick peek at the shows she’s directed (Earthfasts, Five Children and It,
Codename Icarus) to understand the astounding talent she possessed for
crafting very special TV shows.

Keeping the majestic
vein of experience flowing was executive producer Paul Stone whose career also
took in The Box of Delights, Moondial and Jossy’s Giants.

These two masters of
production were tasked with bringing Bernard’s vision to the screen, but what
exactly was this vision? Well, the narrative itself was based on personal
experience and set within a recognisable landscape to the author as he
explains:

“When I was writing
‘Running Scared’ I was living, as I still do, in Charlton, a couple of streets
away from where I was born in Woolwich. But the story’s main influence was from
my job between 1971 and 1977 as head of a large three-decker multi-racial
school in Newham, There was a strong Sikh community in the area, and we had a
Sikh member of staff Riat Singh who became a friend.

The ‘inspiration’ for
the plot – if not for the themes in ‘Running Scared’ – was a musical box left
to me by an aunt. As a writer of thrillers – which describes the genre of many
children’s books – I explored ways in which I could use that musical box as a
plot pivot.

Newham is just across
the free ferry from Woolwich. I’ve known the ferry since a child, and with the
drama of its churning water behind the paddles and the foot tunnel deep
underneath its route, I wanted to use them in the serial, both had dramatic
possibilities. Apart from some shooting at the Thames Barrier on the south side
of the Thames there were no other south London locations as far as I know.”

Running Scared was
also unique in that Marilyn Fox managed to secure the recently released Kate
Bush single ‘Running up that Hill’ as the theme tune.

On the Run

Being only three years
old when Running Scared first aired, I was a little too young to catch
it and, accordingly, I’d never heard of the serial. Fortunately, I seem to have
been blessed with an uncanny knack for discovering curios of British TV, so it
was no surprise I would bash into Running Scared at some point.

And, sure enough, a
chance search through YouTube brought me face to face with a children’s show
which featured Christopher Ellison; I was immediately sold.

What really endears Running
Scared to me is the kaleidoscopic view of the grit and grim making up the
underbelly of this East London narrative. It’s a territory where physical
violence tussles aggressively with organised crime and makes for some arresting
viewing.

And whilst Grange
Hill endeavoured to provide a similar dose of realism, it never felt this
adult; especially when Running Scared serves up the sight of Hetty
Baynes swanning around in a swimsuit. The content feels near the knuckle for
children’s TV, but Bernard recalls no problems with the powers that be:

“I wasn’t aware of any
problem of getting ‘Running Scared’ on the screen. Under the overall management
of Anna Home, head of BBC Children’s Television, I worked with Head of Drama
Paul Stone throughout. Every couple of weeks I drove to BBC Elstree Studios
(parked in what was the Grange Hill ‘playground’) and we took the story on.

So far as I knew, at no
point did anyone question what went on the screen. When Anna and Paul had
commissioned me it was on the back of the sorts of books they knew I wrote. My
only slight disappointment was when I wanted Charlie Elkin to pursue his
gentrification by joining an Essex hunt, but being shown-up there by one of his
‘heavies’. That would have been too expensive to film so he joined a golf club
instead.”

Running Scared
certainly pulls no punches, but Bernard is still able to weave together a story
where its central themes are subtly integrated. The scripts manage to sow the
seeds a diverse range of lessons which are indispensable in the healthy upkeep
of a child’s moral rectitude as Bernard recalls:

“I didn’t consciously
set out to make young viewers aware of the serial’s themes of friendship, family,
honesty, anti-racism or hypocrisy. They’re simply there in the story as part of
the fabric. I was aware, though, that I wanted the wider viewing public to know
more about the way of life of a minority element in British society, and to
appreciate its values.”

The blueprints for the
show demonstrate the ambitious nature flowing through its veins, but once the
actors step in front of the camera Running Scared really comes to life.

Julia Millbank and
Brian Butler both provide lively and mature performances, so it’s a shame their
acting career never flourished as they seem dead certs for The Bill or EastEnders
on this showing.

Christopher Ellison was
born to convey all the seductively dicey traits of society and he’s on terrific
form, although, at the initial read-through, he suggested Bernard Ashley should
be playing Elkin! Hetty Baynes also delivers a tremendous performance by
injecting a sinister dose of psychopathy into Leila which threatens to surpass
even Elkin’s ruthlessness.

And, as the serial
comes to a close, James Cosmo – who’s magnificent as ever, but sadly underused
here - sums up this superb upgrade of children’s TV with the final line of
“That’ll do nicely”.

Scared No Longer

Running Scared rightly
refuses to sanitise its tale of urban crime for children’s TV; this creates a
thrill for the young viewer as they’re treated to the exciting opportunities of
adult TV in their own backyard.

It’s an important
position for the show to take as it taps into the audience’s burgeoning
transition into adulthood. A noteworthy addition to the canon of amazing yet
unheralded children’s TV, Running Scared makes me want to head straight
for Woolwich and take on the foot tunnel once more.

Acknowledgements

Mike
Amatt

Bernard
Ashley

Simon
Buckley

Richard
C

Thomas
Fitch

Clayton
Hickman

Daniel
Peacock

Rachael
(Scampi)

BFI
Archive

BFI
Reuben Library

The
British Library