TEN years: a seventh of man’s life span; a moment in history. Some decades leave no mark on history; others seem crammed with momentous events.

In the decade we have just lived through — the Fabulous Fifties some people are calling it — we in Britain lost a King; gained a Queen; fought in Korea; made the H-bomb; saw the cult of the Teddy Boy; did away with wartime rationing; climbed Everest in the person of Sir Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tensing.

These were only a few of the things that happened to us during the 50’s.

When big events occur, we do not always appreciate their wider effects. They are driven from our thoughts by the next sensation. But in retrospect…

In 1951, we were in the middle of the Korean war. Who did not feel proud at the glorious stand of the Gloucester Regiment against great odds? Glorious in its display of British courage; inglorious that, a mere six years after the greatest war in history, men were still having to die to uphold the freedom we believe in.

On May 2, 1952, the first Comet airliner left London for Johannesburg, beginning the first jet passenger service. Then came the Comet disasters. It was a grievous blow to a brilliant aircraft, but out of those disasters came knowledge that has enabled others to build high-flying jets with complete safety. This is one of Britain’s important contributions to world technical knowledge. And it is a pleasure to recall that this last year of the decade has seen a revival of the Comet’s fortunes.

In that same year, 1952, Britain exploded her first atomic weapon. And the 50’s saw us progress — if that is the right word — from atomic bombs to hydrogen bombs.

This ominous mushroom cloud has dominated our lives more than anything else in the decade. We are all aware of its frightfulness, and in its very horror lies our salvation — while sanity prevails. Its mere possession, let alone its use, is an awesome responsibility.

Perhaps the hydrogen bomb is the most important thing that has happened in the 50’s. Because it is too dangerous to be trifled with, there has emerged the beginning of some sort of closer contact between the leaders of East and West. I would say that the nuclear fear has aroused the common man to serious contemplation of the issues of peace and war more than anything else has ever done.

Some people say that Britain is no longer a great Power, that the 50’s saw our decline. It is true that we are no longer the military arbiters of peace. In that sense, yes, perhaps we are no longer a great Power. But history may judge that, during the 50’s, Great Britain became greater by her influence on world affairs.

By exporting the British way of life, encouraging the development of new nations (most of whom elect to remain within the Commonwealth), by taking the initiative in breaking the ice of cold war.

Mr Macmillan’s personal visit to Moscow, which might easily have ended in fiasco, should never be forgotten as the beginning of a new trend in international affairs — the personal approach between heads of State.

June, 1953, and again the Royal Family was close to the nation. The Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II brought the monarchy even closer to the people — thanks to the TV cameras. There was a sense of participation in this formerly exclusive ceremony. Later in 1953, it was my pleasure as Minister of Food to announce that sugar rationing was over. Butter and cheese came off the ration in May, 1954, and food rationing ended officially on July 3.

At the end of that month, amid some cries of woe, the Act setting up the Independent Television Authority was passed. And I suppose that set up one of the most significant trends of the decade.

Competition and controversy in television improved the service. I think that is recognised as a general fact, whatever detailed arguments and criticisms may be made for or against either Channel.

The development of Independent Television speeded the growth of the viewing audience — the trend towards a stay-at-home Britain.

The arguments are endless on this subject. I think television should be used with the same care you use when selecting a book in a library.

Does it have any effect on crime? Some people like to blame juvenile crime — which has increased during the 50’s — largely on films and television.

While it is easy to exaggerate the effect of certain TV programmes on viewers, it is important that the quality of programmes should be maintained at a high level. I had experience when Home Secretary of horror comics which, had we not prohibited their publication and importation, might have become a real menace.

When I was a boy, a policeman thought it part of his duty to cuff a boy he saw doing something naughty and technically against the law — and so did his father.

Psychiatry and the modern approach to juvenile crime is undoubtedly of great value, but I think the trend has been too much to search for obscure causes for delinquency when quick action at the first sign of waywardness would have done more good.

Violence has been a trend of the past ten years. We have seen the emergence of the Teddy Boys.

I have not the slightest objection to any chap wearing what he pleases. I think it is good for a youth to take pride in his appearance. But it is a pity that hooliganism has become associated with the Teddy Boy style: otherwise this cult might have been nothing more than a picturesque development and a harmless expression of youthful vanity.

This decade began with the death of an “angry old man” — George Bernard Shaw who never tired of telling us how to put things right. And very entertainingly he did it, too.

I have less sympathy with that product of the 50’s — the angry young man. I suppose some “angry young man ” at present in his cradle will one day tell us what a mess we made of the 50’s — just as the current crop complain about what we did 20 or 30 years ago.

I can never understand what they are angry about.

Did we become more selfish during the 50’s? Some say the I’m-all-right-Jack attitude has been another trend of the decade. I do not agree. There have always been selfish people, and always will be.

It happens that this rather graphic phrase is often applied to people who have been merely thoughtless rather than cynically indifferent to the plight of others. As a nation we are generally willing to help others.

I can give an example from my experience when Home Secretary. After the Hungarian uprising in 1956 we agreed to accept 2,500 refugees. Some days later I was informed that refugees were pouring into Austria in uncontrollable numbers. I authorised the immediate admittance of another 11,000. I do not recall anybody protesting.

Roaring Twenties, Fabulous Fifties — decades attract their own adjectives. I think Fearful Fifties is equally descriptive: they have certainly been uneasy, to say the least.

But I am full of hope. If the wealthy nations of the world display an unselfish attitude towards the have-nots — the teeming, undeveloped lands of the East — I believe the uneasy peace of the Fifties may well be made enduring.

I should like to think that we are entering the Sane Sixties.

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Mary Malcom defends British Housewives in

“Sauce for the Gander”

AND HEINZ MAKE TELEVISION HISTORY IN A SPECIAL ADVERTISING MAGAZINE ABOUT FOOD!

CAN English women cook? “Certainly!” says Mary Malcolm, vigorously springing to the defence of the British housewife. Does she succeed in convincing her adversary in discussion- the well-known stage and TV personality, Kenneth Horne? Listen to a new 15-min- ute magazine called “Sauce for the Gander” at 6.45 p.m. on Tuesday evening and find out for yourself how this particular argument starts, how it develops – and who wins.

However heated the argument becomes, Mary Malcolm should succeed in preserving the peace. Her years of radio and TV experience have accustomed her to handling all kinds of awkward situations.

Once, during George Cansdale’s “Looking at Animals” series on television, she was nearly throttled by a boa constrictor – but she scarcely batted an eyelid. The most violent verbal battles could hold no terrors for her after that!

When Mary Malcolm was invited to commère this new magazine she accepted eagerly – especially when she heard what it was going to be about. From first to last, it’s about food, and food is something everyone is interested in – but especially women. “Sauce for the Gander” will be helpful as well as interesting, because it will provide women with an opportunity to hear their own food problems freely discussed in a lively and amusing atmosphere, to learn new facts about food, and to take a really close look at food prices and the cost of living in general.

Mary Malcolm has her own very decided ideas about food and housekeeping. She is herself a wife and mother and so is intimately concerned with the day-to-day problems of running a home. She understands as well as anyone the difficulties of running a home and a job, having had to solve this problem on her own account.

During the magazine, Mary Malcolm will introduce the two guest stars, Kenneth Horne and Eleanor Summerfield, both with definite and often opposing views about food. Eleanor Summerfield has an exciting recipe for you. Be ready with your pencil and paper to jot it down as she demonstrates.

In another part of the magazine, Peter Cockburn goes out with the cameras, talking to housewives as they shop, taking a peep into their shopping baskets, finding out the kind of food they buy, discussing the difficulties of making housekeeping ends meet. He doesn’t just confine questions to city housewives, but he also visits a tiny English village where a completely different set of circumstances exists. Perhaps we shall be hearing your views.

Peter Cockburn will be everywhere, talking to people and taking pictures in big stores, small stores, everywhere in fact where housewives congregate to shop.

Have you ever wondered how spaghetti is made? Does it grow? Or is it manufactured, or where does it come from? Well, here’s your chance to find out. Because in “Sauce for the Gander” there’s a fascinating documentary all about spaghetti. All kinds of hitherto unsuspected facts about spaghetti come to light.

Listen on Tuesday evening and find out all about it.

“Sauce for the Gander” goes on the air from 6.45 to 7 on Tuesday evening, 3rd December 1957

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CURIOSITY about the actual programmes which will be seen on commercial TV has, to a certain extent, been satisfied with some advance information.

But people are still wondering about the advertising spots; maybe they are even apprehensive, remembering the brash quick-fire methods used in America and which have been featured in films from time to time.

I set out to discover the answer, and here it is. Point No. 1 is that the idea behind them all is that they shall entertain.

How often shall we see the ad. spots? Out of every sixty minutes, six will be taken up by advertising, and those responsible will do all in their power to make certain that you do not leave your sets during the brief moments when commodities are on the air.

Many well-known personalities have been signed up to sell various goods apart from Sooty: Tommy Trinder, Derek Roy and Richard Murdoch are some of the big names who will be appearing regularly but, and this is important, their message, although designed to sell the same article, will vary. You will not be able to complain, “I’ve seen all this before.” Neither will the personality who has been appearing in the previous programme be seen on the advertising spot. When this minute is up, the next programme will follow and so on.

The Golden Rules

Some of you may be puzzled by this, particularly if you are regular listeners to Luxembourg. There each programme is known by the manufacturer’s name as the Such and Such half-hour. This will not happen on commercial TV.

The time when a commercial will appear will be of importance. For instance, an advertiser would prefer to have his message put across to you at a time when more viewers are able to watch, or just before or after a particularly good programme. For this privilege they will have to pay more — but, and this is the important point, the advertiser cannot demand the same time each week, or the ability to precede a certain programme.

What are you going to see in the ad. spots? The whole operation is being kept secret at the moment, for each advertiser wants to gain the impact of surprise. What are the golden rules of holding your interest and selling a product at the same time? Listen to what Richard King of TV Advertising has to say:

“Firstly, my intention is to establish the fact that it is an advertisement from the very beginning of the spot. We have grown out of the days when it was thought clever to fool the public by giving them pure entertainment for 95 per cent of the show and then plugging the commodity in the last 5 per cent. When an audience sees this at a cinema, haven’t you heard the ripple of laughter and the jeers?”

I agreed. He then went on to say that some of the commercials he is producing will be in the form of animated cartoons drawn by those two clever people, Halas and Batchelor, who produced Animal Farm. “The advantage of cartoons,” said Richard King, “is that they bear repetition more than dramatic incidents.” Finally I asked him what the advantage would be of having a star selling the product.

“There’s been a lot of nonsense spoken about stars thinking selling is beneath them,” he said. “When the style of product demands a star then we shall use one. After all, they’ve reached the top because they are good personalities and good actors.

“When we want them and can afford them then we shall use them to good advantage.” Then he added: “Equally when the occasion rises we shall use unknowns. Each will have his or her purpose.”

Next I met Don Archer of Bantock Productions — an Englishman who went to America and then started a TV Company in London to advise agencies and their clients on the right way to produce commercials.

He doesn’t believe in stars. He says: “When you have a star, the public know that the star is being paid to sell the product and they immediately tend to disbelieve the message.

“The object of a commercial is to sell sincerely — to point out why this article is better than that one. In other words, to appeal to the viewers’ common sense.”

He went on to say that the ideal way of advertising on television is to let the product speak for itself. There is no need to have a demonstrator if the article is shown. For instance, if it is a refrigerator, the viewer can sit back and see this shelf and that storage compartment with just a voice explaining how it works.

“Relaxed” is a word Don Archer uses constantly. “Believability” is another — by this he means that overselling is as much a crime as underselling. He really believes that commercial television will act as a general stimulus to the country. People will see more things that they want and will work harder to get them.

He categorically states that the power of advertising is the basic cause of the high standard of living in the States and he believes that, in time, it will have a similar effect over here.

He also says that what is good advertising for the London area will not appeal in the North and has opened an office in Manchester to advise people up there along those lines.

I have seen quite a few of these commercial spots and whether they have been cartoons, dramatic episodes or song jingles they have been entertaining and all in the best of good taste. In this country a very strict code of ethics rules advertising and it has been observed and upheld strictly on television.

£1,000 a Minute

Celebrities will rub shoulders with unknowns and remembering how you, the viewers, have promoted some of the BBC’s television announcers into nationwide personalities, it is amusing to speculate who, from the many unknowns of today, you will have elevated to a similar status in a few months’ time.

And here is a final thought. The cost of filming an average one minute commercial works out at about £400 [£8,350 in today’s money allowing for inflation – Ed] — and this is one that does not employ a star. A cartoon costs more than £1,000 [£21,000]. In many cases this is more money than many a half hour show costs, so there seems little doubt that with not only the ITA programmes and the commercials but also the BBC’s counter-attack ones, you are going to find it very hard to leave your sets and select a time to make your tea and sandwiches.

I only hope none of you will starve to death for the sake of entertainment!

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More than one motherly viewer who has seen her in TV plays has telephoned Ursula Howells to advise her how to get some happiness into her life. She has had to play so many neurotic, ill-treated women, that some viewers have convinced themselves that she must be unhappy in real life!

She is, however, happily married to an industrial consultant; and the only time she gets anywhere near “the mopes” is when his business takes him abroad and she is missing him.

Despite her run of tragic TV parts, she says she is very happily “at home” at Lime Grove. She has worked so much in TV that she finds the job like working among friends. Even the dingy rehearsal rooms she likes, as familiar places, full of the memories of other happy occasions in preparing previous plays.

It was the theatre, however, that gave Ursula her TV debut. That was when a West End theatre production of the play Frieda was taken to the Alexandra Palace studios. To this West End part Ursula had come by dint of hard work in the provinces.

At the time of evacuation in the last war, Herbert Howells, Ursula s famous composer father, decided his daughter had best move from London to Dundee. The girl, hardly out of her teens, began to get back-stage jobs at the local repertory theatre. A chance came for her to start playing parts.

Then the producer Anthony Hawtrey went to Dundee, promoted Ursula to leads, and took her with him when he took over the management of that “shop-window” theatre in London, the Embassy.

Soon Frieda followed, then other West End parts, good supporting roles in films, and a string of TV parts. She went with Patrick Barr and Peter Cushing to Germany with the TV play Portrait of Peko, which the BBC “exported” to the German Radio Show.

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Twenty-four is a grand age for a girl to find her engagement book crammed full, to have a fashionable flat in Mayfair, an expensive car, and as many clothes as she wants. These are the marks of good fortune which have come to Shirley Abicair.

This Australian girl was a university student in Sydney when she started singing at private parties to earn a bit of money towards her educational fees. Accompanying herself on a zither, unearthed in the Abicairs’ musical home, she entered a radio talent contest and won a radio series as a result.

Shirley often talked of her ambition to come to London to storm the BBC. In the end she took the chance, and flew to Britain—stopping twice en route to sing in cabarets in order to earn her fare. Because she looked attractive, a photographer snapped her leaving the plane at London Airport. A BBC sound-radio producer saw the picture in an evening newspaper. He wanted another act for a radio show by Commonwealth artists, and asked Shirley to bring her zither along. Geraldo heard the broadcast, and fixed her a concert date at Bournemouth. He also got her an audition for a new London show.

In the theatre as she took her audition was TV producer Kenneth Carter. Impressed, he gave her the Centre Show date which so memorably made her an instant TV success. Those were the strokes of good fortune which not only enabled Shirley Abicair to streak to the top, but also challenged her to polish her talent and so maintain her position.

So much work has gone into that, as well as into collecting folk songs for her act, that she says she has had no domestic life at all in England yet. In 1954 she sent for her air-hostess cousin, Maureen, to come from Australia and act as her manager. This Maureen did; and the Abicair business, founded on good luck and nerve, looks surely to the future.

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Rare indeed is the artist who can stir the viewing public to enthusiasm by a first appearance. When Sally Barnes came to TV in one of Henry Hall’s Face the Music shows, there was no doubt of the impact she made. Here was good fun with a hint of that pathos which begets affection for a likeable waif. Sally Barnes went straight to the heart.

The BBC, rocking under criticism of its variety shows, leapt at Sally as though she were the answer to a prayer. They gave her a series.

But it was almost as though the pathetic character in her act had now got a hold on her work. That night she had been an undoubted and an all but unparalleled success; but her next TV appearances, having lost the freshness of novelty, seemed to have nothing fine or big enough with which to maintain her talent. Sally is enjoyable viewing at any time; but there is an uneasy feeling about that the fanfare came too soon.

This the twenty-seven-year-old Sally knows. She has been “in the business” since girlhood, and that is long enough to equip her to “take it.” Henry Hall had found her in a seaside show at Scarborough, in 1953. Prior to that she had spent nine years plodding round provincial music halls, and in seaside concert parties — in one of which she met her husband, Bobby Beaumont, an impressionist and straight actor.

Before her TV début, Henry Hall had offered her a contract in his touring stage show, and she had to decline this because she was expecting a baby. The tour was postponed for other reasons, and a month after baby Laura arrived Sally was able to go out with the show.

After her initial TV success her name crept up from the foot of the music-hall bills to the middle, and then to the top. This, TV did for Sally Barnes — and provided the privilege of appearing before the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh, when they visited the Lime Grove studios.

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Shustoke is not a bit of nonsense. It names a point on the map of central England where Reg Dixon farms seventy-two acres, with pigs, Ayrshires, and hundreds of chickens. There, too, is Mrs. Dixon, an Austrian by birth and British by adoption, and their six-year-old daughter, Josephine. Reg also has a step-son, Toni, who is going into the hotel-management business.

Reg, the Coventry son of a midwife, went into a butcher’s shop, a carpenter’s, a hairdresser’s, a watchmaker’s, a greengrocer’s, and took a turn as a gentleman’s valet before performing for pay. He started in the entertainment business at a local circus, not intentionally entertaining the public as cleaner of elephants.

For six years he toured the small music-halls as half of a double act, and first broadcast a week after the Abdication of King Edward VIII. Then, playing a music-hall in the North, he had a bad cold one night. He wanted the audience’s sympathy, so when he went on he told them frankly that he was “feeling proper poorly.” He never looked back.

He considers his most nerve-racking experience lasted all of two years —the whole time he appeared in radio’s Variety Bandbox, writing his own scripts for each fortnight’s broadcast.

It was Henry Hall who heard him sing “Confidentially,” and suggested it should be finished — it was only half a song then — and be published. It became a best-seller. Mr. Dixon, albeit, takes TV seriously. He always tries to do something new for the viewers, and refuses to come before them at all regularly. He knows that the TV millions, having seen and heard once, are not going to care so much when they see and hear the same stuff again. He says he won’t be able to appear at all frequently on TV until the BBC buys him four scriptwriters to keep up a constant flow of new material for him. But that would make the BBC feel proper poorly.

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This attractive comedienne with the beautiful voice tells the story of her ascent to stardom in her own way:

“I started in show business when fourteen — and the show was called Hot From Hollywood! It was at the Queen s, Poplar. Imagine what a fat podge I was at that age — with fringe, short socks, and Shirley Temple dress; and I had the nerve to sing Grace Moore’s ‘One Night of Love’

“After that first show I got the push for telling the theatre boss what I thought of him — and of myself. And I didn’t get back into the business until I d swallowed an awful lot of pride. Meanwhile I took jobs in shops — usually sweet-shops, where I could chew as I worked. This did not make me very popular with the shopkeepers. Then I did an audition for Carroll Levis, but he passed me over. Since then we’ve worked on the same bills and often laughed about that audition.

“I went out in a revue called Overnight Success. I wasn’t. But it went on, I going from digs to digs all over the country, until I met my husband. I was now seventeen. The war came, and he went into the Navy. When he had got himself sunk four times, we got married before he had a fifth wetting. He is a solicitor in Lincoln, where our home is.

“I left the stage for four years after getting married. For some reason, when I came back, I got on like a house on fire. But since I got on, I worry more. The old story — ‘It’s tough at the top’ — is very true. Nowadays, while my baby daughter is so young, I spend most of my time in London at Mum’s. Everything is going so wonderfully for me, I can’t believe it’s true — a radio series, TV, Blackpool last summer with Jimmy Edwards, a lovely baby, and good health … I’m paralysing my hands keeping my fingers crossed!”

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Two business men, by chance encounters in their daily work, turned a suburban housewife into a top-line singing star. The housewife was Joan Regan, and the first man to change her life was her bank manager. She told him she loved singing and was really a bit stage-struck.

Among the bank manager’s clients was a theatrical impresario. An introduction was arranged, and Joan went to the impresario’s office and sang. He was impressed enough to have a record made.

Now on to the scene comes the second business man. He was Bernard Delfont, agent and manager of many top variety stars. In the course of business one day, he walked into that impresario’s office.

A record was being played, and a young woman, her back towards him, was listening to it. It was Joan Regan’s one recorded song. Bernard Delfont said: “I like that — who is it?” The impresario said: “Meet the owner of the voice,” and the young woman turned round, and Joan Regan was introduced to Mr. Delfont. As a result, her record was sent to a recording company and Joan was given a contract. She recorded “Till I Waltz with You, Again” and “Sad, Sad Day.”

For months the recording studio was the only studio she knew. But Jack Jackson started playing her records on the radio. They became popular—so popular that Joan became a recording star, a radio broadcaster, and was asked for in America. There she built up a great following, her record of “Till They’ve All Gone Home’’ becoming a best-seller.

When Richard Afton first asked Joan Regan to sing in the Quite Contrary series, she was too far away from town on tour. She entered the series in the second programme. This was her first-ever TV appearance.

Joan Regan is Irish, and twenty-five years of age. She has two growing boys, Danny and Russell.

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The flippant panel shows are popular enough, but it took the educational Animal, Vegetable, Mineral? to send viewers’ appreciation soaring more rapidly than it ever climbed for What’s My Line? This unpredictable occurrence also shot a university archaeologist into the top rank of TV personalities. Nobody was more surprised than Dr. Glyn Daniel, Fellow of St. John s College, Cambridge, and lecturer at the University in archaeology and human geography.

Daniel was one of a number tested for the panel of this programme. They sent for him when they ran short of a chairman for the third edition. The bonhomie and twinkle he brought to that position have also packed in the viewers for his Buried Treasure series.

From Barry, in Glamorgan, Glyn Daniel went as a bright grammar-school boy to undergraduate studies in geography and archaeology at Cambridge. Travelling scholarships took him abroad on excavations, and then followed a research fellowship at Cambridge.

The war found a use for his knowledge, in the job of reading aerial photo-maps. He ran an air-photo unit in India, there meeting a WAAF who is now Mrs. Daniel. They live in a “college house” at Cambridge.

Glyn Daniel has faith in the assumption that Animal, Vegetable, Mineral? has whetted the public’s historical curiosity. His success lies in the fact that he treats it all as a bit of fun—a bit of useful fun.

His personality has had a remarkable impact on viewers. On a railway station in France a Frenchwoman all but embraced him, crying — “Ah — Animaal, Vegetarble, Mineraal!” She had seen the programmes during a holiday in England. When he came off a plane at London Airport a customs official held him back, sure he was a “wanted” man. A senior official was sent for and had to tell the subordinate that this was the face he had seen on TV, and not the one from the Custom’s black list!

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George, with his newspaper and his pipe, struck a new vein of comedy in the none-too-rich TV field. So far he has shared with Norman Wisdom the boon of making only occasional appearances on TV. This is not to say he could not support a regular series; indeed, he did once bring that off. But his popping up only now and then is peculiarly advantageous to his type of inconsequential humour, always refreshing after the normal run of gag-cracking comics.

From the Army town of Aldershot, George and his two brothers made a comedy trio which entertained the troops at home and in Europe. An accident broke up this act, and George returned to engineering work in the local Army workshops. But his heart was on the stage, and his young wife encouraged him to drop all security and really go and have a try to “get it out of his system.”

George took an audition at London’s Windmill Theatre, and, having no money for the fare home after it, spent that night in a bombed building. They had asked him to call back at the Windmill next morning, and when he did so they promised him a trial run there—and gave him £10 to go on with then and there. The Martin act, in those days, was comedy with an accordion and songs. It was Val Parnell, ruler of London’s Palladium, who told George that his originality was in his comedy, and advised him to drop the instrument and most of the singing.

This he did, and when TV sneaked him in one night as a last-minute addition to Music-Hall, George Martin established himself in seven minutes. So much so that music-hall, concert and pantomime appearances have kept him fully engaged ever since. So Mrs. Martin was wrong to think he would get it out of his system, but very right in letting him have his go. With a new house at Aldershot, and a bonny family, she is very pleased she did.

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By adding dancing to her TV appearances, singer Eve Boswell cornered her own bit of the 1954 TV limelight. In fact the dancing was not new to Eve. As a young girl going round the European circuses with her parents — a circus act — she pirouetted and hand-balanced as though born to it. As indeed she had been.

But her voice took on a more dominant role in her grown-up career — until the summer before last, when the dancing feet appealed for attention again. She was in a summer show at Blackpool, and at rehearsal one day was watching the show’s corps de ballet practising. The tune and the movement took her feet into a number of spins and movements, as she waited in the wings. Seeing this, the ballet master challenged Eve to do the same high jinks with the corps de ballet. Doing so. Eve found herself feeling very much at home. So she took a refresher course in dancing.

Hungary is Eve Boswell’s native land, though she was discovered in South Africa, largely as a radio singer. She worked there for some years, and married there at the age of eighteen. Before the war, her parents appeared in their comedy-instrumentalist circus act on TV at Alexandra Palace. Eve, even smaller than now, was with them and passed all but unnoticed.

Circus work took her right across South Africa in circus trains and in a caravan home. When her caravan was parked for the night in a railway siding, a sudden storm struck down some overhead electric cables, which fell on the circus train and set it on fire. Lions and tigers escaped, and one tiger looked in on Eve as he passed by her caravan door. A great deal was lost in the fire, but Eve and her home on wheels escaped. Now she lives in London, in a flat behind the BBC, and goes down to the country to see her young son at his prep school.

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His is the radio voice which, when transferred to TV, revealed that it partnered an appearance quite able to match the handsomeness in the voice-box. For some time Donald Gray had been a frequent actor in radio plays. His broadcasts in this sphere were somewhat confined to villainy, because the BBC radio producers seemed to think the “deep-brown’’ voice more suited to that than to heroics.

Donald was in fact in the BBC Drama Repertory Company for three years. He then took the usual series of tests for TV announcing, followed by a trial on the screen as a guest announcer. He is now a regular relief announcer, whose early hesitancies have consolidated into a personable manner very human in appeal, and in nice contrast to the personality of McDonald Hobley.

He was born in South Africa, and began work there, not in the theatre but on an ostrich farm. His acting urge brought him to Britain, where there are more stage opportunities. He worked with a number of repertory theatres, and then got into films. The war interrupted this, and in 1944, in a fierce action during the advance on Falaise, he lost his left arm.

When he afterwards starred with Linda Darnell in the film Saturday Island, the script was adapted to take account of his one-armed-ness. At Lime Grove they tell a human story of his announcing test. There were other candidates there, nervy in a suspense-taut studio. The studio manager, to put them at their ease, asked each in turn to relate some happening in his life. Simply and straightforwardly, without heroics or pathos, Donald told how he lost the arm. The tension in the studio vanished, leaving instead a sense of comradeship and inspiration which was helpful to all.

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A flair for conjuring, when he was a schoolboy, led David Nixon to the music-hall stage. This in turn led him to occasional TV appearances. But it was determination to get further on, and win headline fame, which got him into What’s My Line?

Every other Sunday, in the TV Theatre at Shepherd’s Bush, there is an audition for would-be What’s My Line? panellists. Here unknown actresses, fashion models, writers, journalists, and amateur comics mix with famous actors, actresses, and novelists to have a go on a dummy What’s My Line? show, while producer Dicky Leeman watches to see if any of them show enough promise to get on the reserve list for the real panel.

David Nixon went all out to get one of these audition tests. With charming persistence he worried Dicky Leeman into it. He took the test, and went down on the reserve list, very near the top. Months passed. Then, when Jerry Desmonde had to leave the panel, Leeman put David in. His success there has bolstered his stage conjuring career and made him a certain ace in the coming shuffle for TV fame which commercial TV will stir up. It has meant a brighter and more secure future for David and his wife Paula, who is a singer, and with whom he has played in pantomime.

Yet this break is the ultimate sequel to another one—save the pun, a break in his leg. For it was when he broke his leg as a Boy Scout and was unable to take the part allotted to him in a Scout concert, that his father bought him some billiard balls and suggested that he should mock up a bit of conjuring. “You can stand still, doing that,” he said. Today, standing still is the last thing to interest David Nixon.

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When, after two studio tests, the BBC appointed Avis Scott a relief announcer, the success put her in a quandary. As an actress, she was due to play the feminine lead in the Norman Wooland TV serial, The Dancing Bear. As an actress, too, she had reaped some success on the London stage and in such films as Waterfront — appearing with Richard Burton and Robert Newton.

But she had asked for the TV announcing tests because stage and film work had lapsed so seriously that she had been earning her keep as a waitress. Miss Scott went into the TV studio as a relief announcer realizing that she would not be able to play in the TV serial, but hopeful that appearances on the screen would jog the memory of the film and theatre managements about her talents.

Her first spell of announcing duty did just this. She was offered two film parts. But again there was that twist of fate, for her success at announcing brought her a second announcing spell — and the dates of this clashed with the offered film work. So that she had to decline, too.

A great deal of publicity fell at Avis Scott’s feet as a result of her TV appearances. She was called “this wide-eyed zany” and “that delightful forgetter of lines.” Certainly her unorthodox announcing method introduced variety into this familiar field of TV action—and even opened up new possibilities. But, ideally. Miss Scott would rather work as an actress —in TV, on the films, and on the stage—and take a turn at relief announcing at Lime Grove only once or twice a year.

That might be the perfect life. So rarely is life perfect. And this she knows only too well.

Avis Scott is the daughter of a country rector, is thirty-one, and unmarried.

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‘Nothing offends children more than to play down to them. All the great children’s books — the Pilgrim’s Progress, Robinson Crusoe, Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and Gulliver’s Travels — were written for adults.’ Bernard Shaw

Since September 1950 boys and girls from the ages of five to fifteen have had their own daily programme from their own studio in Lime Grove, and parents have only themselves to blame if they allow more than this reasonable ration. The very first week produced amazing evidence of the younger generation’s readiness to adopt 5 to 6 p.m. as theirs: the ‘Telescope’ general interest magazine programme received 6,000 entries for its first competition and conundrum, whilst its variety companion, ‘Whirligig’, discovered no less than 1,200 young dramatists, who in one week sent in plays for ‘Write it Yourself’, a thrilling serial acted by professionals and kept going over the months by children creating the scripts themselves.

British children are not made lazy by television. From north to south they obviously enjoy participating in programmes — in music, singing, writing, acting, debating. Especially encouraging is the standard of child art.

Our first task was to establish a daily programme starting with such items as puppets for the very young and working up robustly in the age groups. For the older children the scheme was this: Sundays — plays; Mondays — films of adventure (Renfrew, Rex and Rinty, Mystery Squadron); Tuesdays — dramatized books; Wednesdays — story-tellers, travel, cartoonists, countryside, ballet, careers, books, art, music, history, discovery, quizzes; Thursdays — documentary; Fridays — sport; Saturdays — magazine programmes.

There is a huge untapped source of material waiting to be opened up for children and adults with children. What more endearing families could be seen in your own home than the Louisa Alcott Little Women, or E. Nesbitt Railway Children, poised and natural and resourceful, or the naughty boys of Just William. The child of today is keenly conscious of the world he lives in and the part he has to play in it in a way preceding generations were sheltered from. He or she is frank and natural — with discussion as ‘Junior Wranglers’, or histrionics when they ‘Play the Game’.

Experiment has been the keynote of this first and formative year of regular visual entertainment and information for children. Experiment in specially written plays (Gunpowder Guy), experiment in specially dramatized novels (Treasure Island, The Malory Secret), simple ways of presenting Shakespeare (A Midsummer Night’s Dream and The Tempest), experiment in animations, in use of transparencies and shadows for fairyland effects. None of this would have been possible without the enthusiasm of young producers who have thrown themselves so whole-heartedly into the work.

One play specially commissioned, The Little Swan, showed the struggles of a young girl to earn enough in a pantomime chorus to pay for her classical dancing lessons. This provoked a small child into begging for a sequel. After the success of The Powder Monkey in company of no less than Nelson and Hardy at Trafalgar, we soon discovered the need for further adventures for the same boy as Midshipman Barney.

As a contribution to the Festival of Britain, Children’s Television invited over two French children as their guests for three weeks. This is a prelude to a larger plan to send two children (with a cameraman and chaperone) right round the world, so that every child everywhere will effectively go with them on the grand tour and see children of other lands through the eyes of children.

Children’s television has deliberately set out to build up personalities children now know and like — Humphrey Lestocq (‘H. L.’), Bruce Gordon (The Man in Armour), Valerie Hobson with her ‘How to’ needlework, Robert Morley (‘Parent-craft’), Harold Glover (‘Men of Action’), Annette Mills, impeccable in her technique at the piano, Doris Langley Moore, with her authentic costumes of other periods, Richard Hearne (Mr. Pastry), ‘Fish-Hawk’ and Percy Edwards in ‘Nature Calendar’; Harry Rutherford, moving about with his ‘Sketchbook’ and his novel ‘Book Bag’ reviews, Cliff Michelmore, ubiquitous in sport, Barrie Edgar, out on the O.B.s, Peter Madden, who in his time has played many parts, Peggy Cameron (‘What’s the Object?5), Hugh Gee, the story-teller, and the charming trio of young announcers Jennifer Gay, Janette Scott, and Elizabeth (‘Your Puppy5) Cruft. There are the ‘Immortals5, the Reluctant Dragon, the veteran Muffin, Mr. Turnip, Hank, Dudule the Duck, Timothy Telescope, Cactus the Camel, Prudence Kitten, Daisy May, Matilda Mouse, Cyril the Centipede, Dash and Dither, Johnny Chuck and Grandma, Vegetable Village and Cuthbert the Camera.

Among the newer presentations are Kipling’s Puck of Pook’s Hill, Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett’s Sara Crewe, Noel Streatfeild’s The Bell Family, Billy Bunter and the ‘Grey-friars’ school stories, Arabian Nights, Hans Andersen’s life, Sherlock Holmes, Emil and the Detectives, At your Service, Ltd., John at the Fair, and a series on the boyhood of the Great.

In my view the television children of today are lucky, for he and she, given the best acting, good design, expert advice, and high standards in presentation will be helped to reject for themselves the second-rate in their life to come.

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What worries me is that so many people think being married to a celebrity gives one a special know-how, and you would be surprised how many people write asking me to give them my recipe for a happy marriage.

Bill and I don’t have any formula, and so far as I can tell you only one rule: Never be parted from each other for more than three weeks. It works out this way: if Bill is on tour either abroad or in the States and I have stayed at home with the kids, at the end of those three weeks I hop a plane and join him for a couple of weeks. Then I come back home to be with the children.

Before I tell you all about life with Bill, let me put over just one other point. Bill’s story is not one of overnight success. I know rock ’n’ roll hit this country like a hurricane, and it swept through the States in the same way, but it took many, many months of research with Bill and his group touring round school assembly halls to find out just what kind of music youngsters wanted. Then it took quite a time to convince people that he was right. Believe me, when we were married five years ago, Haley’s Comet was not shining half as brightly as it is today.

How does a girl like me get to know a guy like Bill? In the States it is the usual thing for a gang of girls to go night-clubbing together. Over here I guess that sounds dreadful, but it is different in America. You go in a gang and you will find that there are a lot of unescorted males at these clubs, too. You sit around for an odd drink and dance to the resident band and it was in this way that I met Bill.

Some of the girls that I had been going around with told me that over in a New Jersey night-club was a new outfit which was real smooth and that I ought to go out with them and hear it. Gee, they gave this band such a build-up that wild horses couldn’t have stopped me from going. We had a lot of fun on that Saturday night and after a while I went up and asked Bill for a request number. I asked him if he would play It’s A Sin.

Now let me put one thing quite right in your minds — I did not go up and ask him for his autograph. Sorry if it spoils the story, but it just isn’t true. Well, I went back there every week after that and one night when I was sitting at a table with the gang. Bill Haley came up and said: “It’s A Sin?” I replied: “Sure, I would love to hear it again.” After that he would sit at the table and talk to me for a while every time I went.

He didn’t date me until we’d been meeting this way for well over eight weeks and we did not get married until we had known each other for a year and a half — and that was after his parents had approved of me and mine of him.

When I met him I was working in a chocolate factory. Today, of course, I don’t have to worry about money, we live very well and the family’s future seems secure.

We have three lovely children. There is Joan, four, Billy Junior, eighteen months, and little Jimmy who is just five months. Leaving Jimmy behind and coming to England was a terrible wrench. But Bill wanted me to come with him and I couldn’t bear to be parted from him so shortly after his tour of Australia, when I just was not able to join him because of Jimmy — that’s the first time we had departed from our three week rule.

However, don’t feel too sorry for the kids. When we are away they have a pretty good time. My mother moves into our house and my father just about gives up his job to be with her. Grandparents are as crazy about their grandchildren in America as they are over here.

Now, about our house. We have a lovely home in the country with seven acres of ground. I won’t say garden because we haven’t got around to it yet, but we are going to, and if time permits, we are going to do a lot of it ourselves.

We live in the state of Pennsylvania, and the nearest town is about ten miles away. It’s a place called Chester, but not very much like its counterpart over here, though I guess it’s about the same size.

I have seen references in the paper to our large staff. Well, the house is a big one; it’s usually full up with the band and their wives, Bill’s manager and agents. So, apart from being our home, it’s a sort of rehearsal hall as well. It has to be big. As to staff, we have a housekeeper, a nanny and a maid.

How do we spend our time when Bill is not working? Well, if he has got a day or two off, daughter Joan usually takes over. She sure has got Bill trained! Near where we live there is a zoo and a children’s playground and off we go just like any other family.

I do have one big complaint and that is that Bill is a crazy fisherman and I loathe fishing. He has tried to make me like it but it is just no good. However, I know how to get my revenge because I love dancing and Bill, believe it or not, loathes it! So if he decides to go out for the whole day fishing and comes home dead beat, there I am all dolled up and ready to go out for the night dancing.

When Bill sees red…

Bill changes with fairly good grace — perhaps he feels a little guilty for having fished all day — and takes me, but it works out all right. He does not fish too often and I don’t make him go dancing too often.

If I have any other faults to find with Bill, it is that he cannot stand being alone, and quite often in the evenings when all I want to do is to sit at home quietly listening to music or watching television, he will jump up and say, “Let’s have some folks in and play canasta.”

Another thing is Bill’s love of the colour red. He will hardly notice what I am wearing unless it is red and when you are an ash blonde like I am, red is hardly the right colour. He has only bought me one dress in my life and I don’t need to tell you what colour it was!

Talking of clothes, once when Bill was in Hollywood on his own he bought himself twenty sports shirts and fifteen of them looked alike to me — all bright red!

There has been a lot of speculation as to how I got my nickname of “Cuppy,” but it is quite simple really. My maiden name was Cupchak and as a kid I was known as “Cupcake.” I guess you have cupcakes over here — small, sweet, sugared cakes — and “Cupcake” is quite a compliment. Well, from Cupchak to “Cupcake” to “Cuppy” is no great jump. So, instead of being Joan I am now “Cuppy,” and I like it.

OK, so you have been waiting for me to open up about the Haley curl. Do I like it, do I loathe it, is it natural or do I have to set it for Bill each night? All I can say is that Bill has had it ever since I have known him and I am so used to it now – that I would miss it if it went.

As a kid his hair was curly and this particular piece of hair has remained unruly throughout his life. Now it has become a gimmick, and I don’t think Bill would be Bill without it; any more than Liberace would be Liberace without his candelabra.

One thing I have found is that all Bill’s fans are very kind and whenever they write to Bill there is invariably a message for me, asking him to give me their regards. Now I call that real kind and it gives me a sense of pride in my husband’s popularity.

My views on rock ’n’ roll are unimportant, but I would like to say that I love it. My taste is not limited, however, and I am just crazy over your Mantovani. Believe me, I am taking plenty of his records back home.

I also do a lot of reading, and Bill is always threatening to catch up on it, too. I like biographical works myself and at the moment am reading everything I can on Marie Antoinette. I think this historical phase has been heightened by being able to see so much history around me while I was in Britain. Like Jack Benny I just could not believe your Crown Jewels are real. I have not seen anything so beautiful in my life. That is why I hardly wear any jewellery at all. I love genuine jewellery but I will not wear fake. Maybe when Bill reads this he’ll take the hint!

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WILFRED and Mabel are the royalty of “personality entertainment,” whose private lives delight us all because we feel they are “just like us” — or rather just as we’d like to be.

Away with any idea of mystery making for glamour (and imagine for one second if you can the vision of Wilfred being mysterious about anything!): it’s just not their cup of tea at all. They’ve broken all the accepted rules and made their own, and if you want to know if they’re successful … no, I won’t say it … ask Mabel this time !

When I tried to persuade her to talk about herself she said: “Wilfred knows more about me than I do myself really —don’t you, Wilfred?” To which he replied: “Well… you tell first and I’ll have a go afterwards!”

“Mother wouldn’t let me”

Mabel began: “I was born in Lancashire, as you probably know. All my family were connected with the theatre (my mother was a Tiller Girl) but Wilfred was just the opposite. Nobody in his family had anything to do with the stage at all — the professional stage, I mean to say.

“Mother decided that whatever happened I wasn’t going to marry anyone in the profession — it was too hard work and much too unstable.” Here Wilfred cut in: “She married a respectable builder who chucked it up and went on the stage!”

I asked if Mabel had ever wanted to act herself in those days. “My mother wouldn’t let me. Oh, I’d love to have been a principal boy!”

I wondered what her mother’s feelings were when the “respectable builder” turned actor. Mabel smiled, and said: “It was too late to stop Wilfred by that time, we were married then — we could do as we liked! She’s seventy-eight now, my mother is, and one of his greatest fans … no regrets at all.

“When Wilfred was thinking of becoming an actor, I was all for it. I encouraged him — oh yes, I did. He started broadcasting in Manchester, and of course all the time I knew him he was leading man in the Halifax Amateur Dramatic Society.”

In Wilfred’s book, Between You and Me, the story of his remarkable career is told in his own way — and of course his first meeting with Mabel at the dramatic society. But on a very busy morning (comprising a meeting at ten o’clock, me at eleven o’clock, recording a children’s story at twelve o’clock and the sitting-room table stacked with mail and charity requests) their comments on it were brief and typically amusing: —

Wilfred: “Yes, we met at the dramatic society. She was leading lady and I was looking on… so that was all right!”

Mabel: “We met and married in eighteen months.”

Wilfred: “Weddings are all much alike, aren’t they?”

Mabel: “You either wear white or you don’t.”

Wilfred: “On our honeymoon I gave the porter my only gold sovereign instead of a sixpence! It was because I was ashamed of the confetti in the car — I’d been going to have that sovereign made into a ring for Mabel. I told that story on TV and afterwards I got three of them sent in to me… I was bucked!”

Wilfred says he’s always “liked people — always liked to mix,” and he sat back remembering… “Way back in ’39, doing Billy Welcome you know, I met a tremendous number of people, and I got a knowledge of their trades too. I won’t ever rehearse them either. I learned that early and I’ve stuck to it: Ordinary folk are best the first time off. For instance…

“I said to a fisherman the other day, a man who was telling me about how he’d been in a ninety-mile-an-hour gale, ‘Did you say your prayers?’ and he said: ‘Well, I thought about it, but I was too busy with the compass!’ Of course it got a tremendous laugh. Now if he’d rehearsed that and it had been the second time, he’d have played it up and it wouldn’t have been nearly so funny, would it?”

Successful debut

I asked Mabel when she was going to appear in a play with him. She said: “They want me to, but I’m very happy to be a housewife. Oh, except for Ask Pickles. I enjoy that, but it was an accident that I was ever in it.

“People had heard me on the radio in Have a Go and when Wilfred asked them (as he still does, you know) what they’d like, they said they’d like to see me next. Then after the first one, when I was such a success because of helping with that dog, you remember? well, they kept me on! I’ve been in ever since and I love it too.

“As it is, we’re never apart anyway — twenty-four hours in the day we work together, and then there are Saturday and Sunday charity shows, and Wilfred’s mail, which is over a thousand letters a week, and that’s not counting what goes to the BBC.” (I’d already had some indication of the size of his post-bag because one of my own letters got embedded in the Pickles lot recently — it reached me — with profuse apologies — one month later!)

I asked what they did in their spare time, if any. “Books are Wilfred’s favourites,” said Mabel. “All sorts, novels, plays, biographies, but specially poetry — he’s very fond of that. I wasn’t very interested in poetry but I’ve got very keen now. I like it when he reads it out loud to me. If we do get an evening at home sometimes, we really relax and lie in bed and he’ll read to me. Yes… reads poetry beautifully, does Wilfred.

Opposite personalities

“We never have time to go to the pictures, I think we’ve seen one film in two years, but we love the theatre — all sorts of theatres — and television naturally. We’re specially fond of ballet. That’s the other way round you see, because I liked that and Wilfred’s got to like it, while he taught me to like poetry.

“I do all my own cooking (Yorkshire pudding’s my speciality, of course!) but I’m a shocker with a needle. I do my best with buttons but even then everybody laughs! Wilfred’s useless at odd jobs; I’m better at those, and he needs all his time and energy for his own job, anyway.”

At this moment Mabel was called to the kitchen and Wilfred went on: “Mabel’s capable… my goodness, yes. I never fill in a diary, she does that. She’s brought common sense to this life of ours. I’m a shocker — just say ‘yes’ to everybody, and no head for figures. But perhaps I taught her to like people, so it’s complementary really. We’re opposite personalities, but we don’t row — that’s unheard of in our house. The only time we ever stopped speaking to each other we had to laugh!

“I suppose you might sum up Mabel and me by saying … we work hard, we love life and people … and we’ve very simple tastes — thank God.”

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IF you have ever seen a man in the depths of making a great decision, you will know why I wear a frown on this otherwise sunny morning, when I awake — at 7.0 — in the Polygon flat.

You see, before I leave for the studio, I must decide which bow tie to wear. You have seen a man deciding which bow tie to wear? Yes — but not from my collection. I have hundreds, and I mean hundreds.

“Pshaw! Bow ties! These hairdressers, they are all the same,” you exclaim. “Dilettante and effeminate…”

Well, I admit that in Deauville I have been seen wearing a white dinner jacket with a black shirt and white tie; and on TV you may have seen me sporting a white and black striped nylon blouse shirt.

It is the custom of the profession, and a mark of the man, just like Sir Winston’s big cigars and eccentric hats. Most women expect their hairdresser to be effeminate; to several of my most distinguished clients I am circumspect in not talking about the other aspects of my private life: my farm at Fifield, near Maidenhead, for example; or my racehorses; or the fact that I drive an overdrive American roadster.

These are rather masculine pursuits, aren’t they; out of character with the Raymond you know from my salons, or from TV?

Again, there are some women who never ask me about Jennifer, or our three children, because perhaps they feel that Mr. Teazy-Weazy should eternally be in a sphere of glamour — a connoisseur, and a gourmet.

Café society and a wife and three kids are not generally thought to “fit in.” But they do, my dear. They do.

7.10: I start to shave, bath and dress. On this part of my toilet I draw a veil. I have hated razors all my life. In fact I walked out of my father’s business in Shaftesbury Avenue when I was thirteen because he wanted me to learn shaving.

Today is transmission-day for me at Lime Grove, when I present some of my models for Richard Afton. So later on my own hair will be attended to by my personal barber.

7.40: I have no more than a Continental breakfast. (I was born in France and lived there until I was twelve.) Just itsy-bitsies of croissantes, butter, and coffee made my way.

7.55: The post has arrived. Business mail goes to my various salons, to my studio, or is handled by my faithful Miss Georgette (the one lovely from my salon you have not seen on TV and probably never will). She is my financial and business right-hand man; the company’s efficient secretary.

I run an international group of companies, with a yearly turnover of about half a million pounds [About £15 million now, allowing for inflation – Ed].

8.40: Grab my blue carnation for the day, and am off to what is probably the nearest I shall ever be to Heaven — my private studio high above Albemarle Street, giving me a bird’s-eye view of the West End.

Here I can work alone with my thoughts (and with my models, but they don’t disturb my thoughts), and this is where I create my new styles.

10.0: (“But isn’t Raymond going down to the salons in Grafton Street and Brompton Road?” you ask. “Isn’t he going to see to the coiffeur of some others on TV tonight?”)

Not today, my dear. About 4,500 women — many of them famous, all of them lovely by the time they leave — visit my salons every week. Of these, I can give my absolute personal attention to fewer than eighteen.

This is not to say the other 4,480 are neglected. Heavens, far from it. They pay me an average of six guineas [£6.30 in decimal, £180 after inflation], so you will easily see that if I neglected them I should soon be out of business. No. Everything that is done to them is under my supervision, and is styled according to the fashions I create and the rules I make.

11.0: Elevenses. Time for a brief chat with some of my executives, my loyal friends who manage my salons throughout the country. Today it is Mr. Tony, up from Bournemouth, and Mr. Gordon who calls in from the Grafton Street salon.

I know them all by their Christian names, just as they know me by my Christian name of Raymond. Yes, it is my real name. Very few know my full name, but if you are curious, you will find it at the foot of this column.

11.55: Renée Pezaro drops in to chat about the photos we must have taken of TV models. Everything I do is documented, and copyrighted. There is just as much danger of our hair styles being pirated as there would be of pirating a Hartnell or Dior design in the world of haute couture…

I’ll never forget the time during the war when one of the men I trained proved disloyal, set up in a salon on his own, pirated many of my styles, and then tried to employ my loyal staff. I could have taken legal action, of course, but instead we met in private one night and I gave him the thrashing of his life.

(Effeminate, huh…?) But enough of that.

Now we break for lunch. if you can call it a break. I eat little, and (today) fast.

1.20: My American roadster is waiting. Through the traffic to Lime Grove.

I make straight for the dressing-room, and the models are prepared. These lovely, lovely girls. Where do I pick them? Why, some are just the girls working in my salons: they need no introduction to TV celebrities who come for hair-styling.

2.30: Mr. Gordon is with me, and we have all our equipment. I go to the allotted corner of the studio and we rehearse the manner in which the different styles will be shown before the cameras. I decide how I am going to describe them.

4.0: Break for tea, but not for me. I am in the dressing-room again, busy fingers at work. Then the models go off to change, ready for the dress-rehearsal at…

5.0: They are wearing soignée, glamorous gowns, and although they are still capped with their hairnets and bits of cotton-wool, it is not difficult to visualise how lovely they will be on TV.

6.30: When most of the rest of the cast are sent off to have their pre-show supper in the canteen, all will be ready for my final run-through. I quiz from every angle, and sometimes the entire camera-angle on a presentation is changed right on the eve of transmission.

Well, I cannot help it. They call me difficult, temperamental, fussy, and other adjectives which the Editor would not like to print. None is true. I’m a perfectionist: (Not, of course, that everything is ever perfect).

8.0: Fifteen minutes to go. I bite my nails.

8.5: Why does that clock hand move so slowly? Anybody would think I was nervous. Nervous about TV? What an idiotic notion! Is that bow-tie straight? I light up a cigarette, one of my own special R brand now on the market. Well, it is better than biting my nails.

8.10: Not long now, thank heaven. Jeanne is biting her nails. Silly girl. I call to her to stop it.

8.15: The music strikes up my signature tune — Jeannie With the Light Brown Hair… We’ve started. This is divine. Everything is wonderful. Television, this heavenly medium!

9.0: Now we’re off the air again and a great wave of depression hits me. I feel flat, dejected. My gay spirits died when they “killed” the studio lights.

“Come and have a drink,” they call, but no: I’m driving.

9.5: Out in the car again, heading this time away from London, out to Fifield, to my beloved Tudor homestead called Deep Meadows, where Jennifer and our eldest daughter Cherry will be waiting.

Cherry is only nine, and of course she should be in bed, but — well, you know what daughters are. Amber, three, was in bed hours ago, and Scarlet, now nearly one year old, is a bundle of high spirits night and day.

10.50: Now, alone, Jennifer and I talk about the exciting events of another TV day. Jennifer worked in my salon until we were married in 1943. Today there is only one thing we quarrel about. She likes me to do her hair, and — honestly — I am really too busy!

What do we talk about now, at the close of this exciting day? Television? No — that would be “shop talk.” This is Escape. We’re talking about my racehorse ‘Raymond’s Folly,’ for which I have high hopes; about the dairy farm and the new sterilising equipment we’re working; about school for Cherry, and when Scarlet will say her first word. Even a teeny-weeny, teazy-weazy word.

Raymond Peter Bessone.

The post My Teazy-Weazy Day appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

I, for one, would listen to Mr. Harding — at any given moment on any given subject — practically indefinitely. He is an excellent host, brilliant conversationalist, hideous opponent and — in a way — a poet. At once a phenomenon and a horror-child of the entertainment world.

His views on particular subjects at this particular moment are as follows. Do you agree with any of them at all? If not, do you think you would be prepared to argue the toss — to his face? And maintain your objections under fire from that alert legal brain, or charming humorous coercion? (And not knowing which you’ll get!)

I gave up. Being too entertained, stimulated and generally bemused, I just went on asking questions. Mr. Harding, in a sunny mood, went on answering. I enjoyed myself vastly. Mr. Harding got exceedingly hot. We parted good friends — he liked my hat.

Mr. Harding’s views on:—

People. I like all kinds of people for no particular reasons. There are a great many people who are very pleasant but whom I dislike intensely. And there are a great many people who are very unpleasant and I love them.

Public Figures. I admire some — envy others — and pity most. Dislike (for no particular reason) popular clergymen and evangelists. I hate people who pretend to pedal salvation.

Books. I like all books. Read practically everything except what I’ve outgrown. But the more I read modern novels, the more I find I go back to Jane Austen and biographies, histories, and books on travel — but I go on reading them.

Poetry. Oh yes. I’m very fond of poetry. And am firmly convinced it should be read aloud. Even by yourself. Apart from the steady romantics, Keats, Shelley, Tennyson, Byron, I’m extremely fond of the poetry of John Betjeman and John Pudney, and of Dylan Thomas and Louis MacNeice.

Paintings. Hmmm. Very partial to paintings. One of the few ways in which I have grown up is that I now tend to buy new ones rather than reproductions of old ones. I never say a painting’s bad — but sometimes that I can’t understand it. (I loathe formal “coloured photograph” painting and am unable to appreciate modern portrait painting, over which most people enthuse — but I put that down to lack of information.)

Sculpture. Same goes for that. And without understanding why at all, I’m very addicted to the works of Henry Moore — they fascinate me.

Dress. Don’t mind as long as it’s colourful and attractive. I’m talking of women’s dress. I’ve a great dislike of trousers and “cloths” worn round the head; can’t bear them. Men? Wish they would be more colourful and less conservative, but suppose it’s too late to worry about that.

Manners. My own are so bad that I dislike having to put up with the bad manners of others.

Newspapers. Read them all, with very few exceptions. I think, in general, the so-called “popular press” displays an unpleasant and quite often unhealthy curiosity about what can’t possibly concern it or anyone else.

Social Occasions. I detest all kinds of parties, especially the all-too-common kind of so-called cocktail party. To which too many people go, and make too much noise in too little space and drink far too much far too quickly, or what’s not worth drinking anyway. I can’t understand why it is that people aren’t content to spend an occasional evening at home with a few friends, instead of acquiring a headache in an hour and a half in a room full of strangers.

Houses. All I ask of a house is that it should be comfortable, have more than one water-closet, and that the plumbing should be intelligent. Oh — and a gas cooker.

Food. Like all food. Hot or cold. Not luke-warm. I like my own plain cooking and other people’s fancy cooking. I’m a very good cook.

Drink. Like all drink. I will drink anything provided there’s enough. But I find myself drawn particularly to the light wines of the Moselle, and in an extravagant mood, to the vintage Clarets and big Burgundies. I’m also a devotee of — though not an expert on — port.

Dancing. I’m just old enough to remember the time when one could enjoy dancing very much — really enjoy it. When there was grace and movement in the exercise, and one could waltz and foxtrot to rhythmic music with room to move around. Now, the sight of more and more people crushing and shaking about almost stuck together by their own sweat on a floor the size of a postage-stamp makes me wonder if we don’t deserve the atom bomb.

Laws. My blood-pressure rises several degrees when I think of the licensing laws (which I consider iniquitous) and the Lord’s Day Observance Act. Nor do I understand why I should not be allowed to buy a piece of cheese, without buying a packet of cheese, after certain times of night. Ridiculous nonsense!

The Theatre. I like to hear what people say without difficulty. I’m not deaf, but they won’t speak up. I regret that the plays of Mr. Christopher Fry don’t appeal to me — they drive me barmy. But I happen to be erratic and low-brow. I long to see the time coming when a long-suffering and high-paying public will rebel against paying for programmes, and against the hours and inefficiencies of the bar arrangements.

Films. I just don’t understand how people can make some modern Certificate A films like Prince Valiant; and I find it even more difficult to understand why anybody goes to see them. I really like French films. And I adored Henry V and still regret the death of Raimu.

Restaurants. They depend on mood, don’t they? I like the splendid or the obscure kind — all I ask is that they should be honest. Was it Swinburne or Gladstone who said: “I loathe luxury but adore splendour”?

Games. Bridge and Calypso.

Sport. Not much interested. I dislike cricket very much but enjoy going to Lord’s if someone’s got a box — I don’t mind watching in comfort. But can’t imagine why anyone wants to run a mile faster than anyone else—or swim the Channel — or climb mountains (when they’ve only got to come down again). I admire athletic men though. Healthy, decent chaps.

Do You Do The Football Pools? When I do, I hope I shall be locked up by my friends in a loony-bin.

Architecture. I dislike — loathe — Regent Street. It’s just the sort of architecture I detest — and Piccadilly Circus. Whereas I like Carlton House Terrace and Regent’s Park, and all Queen Anne things.

Sense of Humour. I’m amused by slapstick comedy, and subtle dry humour — as long as it’s not over my head. I dislike very much: jokes about deafness or deformity of any kind, physical or sexual, and jokes about mothers-in-law. And have a violent hatred of jokes at the expense of racial or religious minorities.

Prejudices. I hate all prejudices, including my own, which are violent and unreasonable. Loathe people who, because their skin is a different colour, or their nose a different shape, or their creed a different melody — think they’re better than anyone else.

Faces. The only face I’ve really detested was that of Himmler. I abhorred it on sight without knowing whose it was. And I have never seen anything so repulsive before or since.

Ambitions. I envy carpenters and bargees. And should like to have been a lawyer, barrister. Cardinal, happily married man with a family, actor, steeplejack… oh, so many many things.

World Affairs. No views. They puzzle me and fill me with despair.

Progress. Don’t know anything about it. When I think about our modern international misunderstandings, I don’t think about progress, but go back to Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar and deliberately misquote: “Judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts and words have lost their meaning.”

Heroes. I’ve changed so often… As a boy there was Buffalo Bill, Sexton Blake. Sherlock Holmes, Rupert of Hentzau… and so on. I NEVER wanted to be Oliver Cromwell, OR George Washington. I really don’t know which of them was the worse.

Heroines. Ah yes, now I feel very strongly about heroines, and have many of them; amongst them, if I may say so, Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother. My first was Kate Barlass (the Scottish woman who used her arm as a doorbolt), then there was Florence Nightingale (in spite of Lytton Strachey). Mrs. Pankhurst — a wonderful woman. The Empress Theodora (Justinian’s wife). She was a tart, and an actress, then a mistress, then became Mrs. Justinian and an Empress — she didn’t do too badly one way and another. Lastly, Marlene Dietrich is an idol of mine.

Snobbery. On that subject I’m very clear — got that all sorted out years ago. A snob is a person who thinks he or the other person is worth knowing, for no particular reason other than wealth or title. I’m very sorry for snobs. I’m very sorry for inverted snobs who don’t like them for no particular reason other than wealth or title. I myself am a snob in as much as I revel in the society of prelates, poets and princes.

Unfavourite People. Edith Summerskill. And Queen Elizabeth I. I can just tolerate Bunyan because of one line: “The trumpet sounded for him on the other side.”

Taboos. The noise of other people’s wireless sets. Litter. Lipstick stains on cigarettes and cups. People who comb their hair in public. People who talk with cigarettes or pipes in their mouths. Parents who quarrel in front of their children. Beetroot in salad. Sugar-tongs. Refinement. Cruelty.

Tastes. I like everything else. It’s all been said far better than I can put it — by Rupert Brooke: “I love all beauteous things, I seek and adore them” — and that includes babies, “dear old things,” and everything in between.

* * * *

Thank you Mr. Harding!

Well — if you are prepared to battle with him I admire your courage, deplore your decision, and refuse to pick up the pieces afterwards. It is only fair to warn you, however, that the most formidable weapon wielded by this magnificent and monumental outrage (excuse me Mr. Harding) is a baffling sincerity when you least expect it. May I wish you a happy and unbloody death.

For myself, I prefer “for no particular reason” not to enter the lists. Believing that “vintage Harding” to be savoured and relished, but not disputed. It’s delicious! as Mr. Harben would say.

SO. MR. HARDING, I AM YOUR MOST NON-COMBATANT “FAN.”

The post Gilbert Harding Speaks Out appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

To find an answer I went to see Italian-born Nino Domenico at his Venetian style restaurant in South Kensington—a corner of London much in favour as a residence among television personalities.

Recently Nino — as he is known to all his customers — demonstrated with Philip Harben in his programme Man In The Kitchen the French dish Supréme de Volaille sous Cloche.

“I would never have expected the things which have happened to me since I appeared on TV,” he told me with amazed gestures. “It makes you think about ‘the power of television.'”

The story began when Doreen Stephens, the head of Lime Grove’s women’s programmes, and a regular patron of Mr. Domenico’s restaurant, said to him: “You must demonstrate your wonderful Supréme de Volaille sous Cloche on television.”

Miss Stephens suggested the idea to Philip Harben and producer S. E. Reynolds. As it happened Harben was looking for someone able to demonstrate this rare dish.

Studio feast

“Mr. Harben told me to bring everything I should need to prepare the dish — except the kitchen stove,” said Nino.

“I took a very thick cooking pan with me,” he went on. “I heated it fiercely just before the programme. Of course it retained the heat. When I came to show the dish I was able to do some of my cooking without fire. I hope viewers were amazed!”

“At the end of the programme,” I asked, “what happened to the food you had cooked?”

“Ah!” said Nino, “I wondered about that, too! Now I know. The visitors present in the studio, the technicians, they eat it all up!”

The dish Sous Cloche (for short), as viewers will remember, is a method of cooking breast of chicken with cream and brandy inside a large glass bell which retains the aroma of the food until served.

Connoisseurs sometimes asked for the dish in Mr. Domenico’s restaurant — but the demand was small. Few restaurants ever served it. After the TV show it went on Mr. Domenico’s menu with a footnote: “As demonstrated on television by Mr. Nino.”

“Although the name of my business was never mentioned during the programme,” Nino said excitedly, “people began to pour in asking for Sous Cloche. So many came I needed to buy more glass bells used in cooking the dish. But then… ! No cloches. All the firms had sold out!

Rivals wanted to know!

“Then all day the telephone started ringing. Other restaurateurs were on the line — in fine old tempers,” chuckled Nino. “They were being asked by their customers to serve Sous Cloche but didn’t know how to do it. They wanted me to tell them!”

Rivals clamouring for his help! It proves that if you are in the catering business you just can’t afford to miss a Philip Harben programme.

Lime Grove folk are no strangers to Nino. Norman Wisdom, Howard Marion Crawford, Jon Pertwee, Semprini, Ronnie Hanbury, BBC scriptwriter of Ray’s A Laugh and other shows, and of course television’s leading gourmet, Gilbert Harding, are patrons of the restaurant.

Gilbert Harding has a special table, tucked round a corner where he is out of view — but not too much so. He likes to see a red ashtray on the table, and he drinks a special type of mineral water, San Pelligrino. It has a punch like Don Cockell.

Before departing I suggested: “If people are still pouring into the restaurant to sample Sous Cloche (which you sell at 8s. [40p in decimal, £11.50 now allowing for inflation – Ed] a portion) your TV spot must have proved very profitable.”

“No, no, no,” Nino groaned, “I never want to see another Sous Cloche. I only wish people would stop coming in and asking for it. Why? It is too costly to make. I lose on each one. It is only for goodwill that I serve them. For each dish I must have the breast of a chicken. The rest of the chicken is left over. I have so many legs of chicken I don’t know what to do with them!”

The post What’s Cooking? appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

And so I set out for their home near Marble Arch, which was open house to the Services during the war. It was known to the boys as the House with the Blue Door, and now here I was with my finger on the bell. Suddenly the blue door was open and Richard Lyon greeted me.

“Hiyah,” he said, smiling. “The folks are upstairs. I’ll be right back.” In I went — and off he went, shutting the door after him with a crash that shook the house.

Ben’s voice came from above. “Who’s just gone out? Richard?” No one answered. “Why can’t he learn to shut the door quietly!” roared Ben, I walked along the hall past the gallery of photographs marking Bebe and Elen’s long career from Hollywood to Broadcasting House. At the foot of the stairs I paused. A portly, comfortable figure was making its descent — backwards. The descent was slow and dignified.

The figure reached the bottom safely — turned, looked at me and breathed: “It’s my legs, dear. I always come downstairs that way. It’s my legs, see?”

I saw, I nodded, then went upstairs — frontwards. Such was my brief encounter with the daily help.

Ben greeted me in the living room. “Hallo, there. Bebe is upstairs — she’ll be down in a moment.” Ben was wielding a spray-gun. “Say, you’re just the person to help me. I saw a moth fly under this armchair. Now, if I tip it forward, will you hold it? That’s fine. Dam that moth!” And Ben sprayed vigorously.

A cloud rose. I sneezed. Ben sneezed. Bebe walked into the room. “Hallo, you two. What’s going on?”

“Moths,” sneezed Ben.

“Well,” said Bebe, “that’s a fine way to get rid of them—sneezing on them.'”

We put the armchair back in position and sat down.

Peace at last

Bebe was holding some papers. A new Life With The Lyons script? Yes — Bebe started working on the new series after their holiday in July; and it is true that she often works far into the night.

“Sometimes,” said Ben, “I get worried about her.”

“You needn’t, dear,” said Bebe. “I work better that way. The house is quiet; the telephone doesn’t ring; Barbara and Richard don’t keep bursting in and out; and someone doesn’t come to me to tell me the iron is broken.”

“Is Bebe as scatter-brained and as vague in real life as she is on the air? ” I asked Ben.

“No,” said Bebe.

“Yes,” said Ben.

“Well, sometimes,” countered Bebe.

“Quite often,” said Ben with finality. “I’ll tell you. One day, Bebe locked up a trinket box, then she locked the keys in a cupboard — then she lost the keys of the cupboard!”

But their light-hearted approach to life is combined with one of the most successful and happy husband-and-wife home and business partnerships.

As Bebe and Ben talk, you realise that Life With The Lyons is very true to their lives. “We just exaggerate it,” says Bebe.

Does Ben get into as much trouble at home as he does on the air?

“Yes,” said Bebe, “especially when he starts fixing things.”

So realistic is their show that after one programme, when Ben got into a mess trying to fix the sink, a plumber sent round to ask if he could be of any help.

Presently, Barbara joined us. Her greeting of “Hi” was followed by the phone ringing. “I’ll get it,” said Barbara, and she returned to announce: “It’s for Richard. Where is Richard?”

As if in answer, the door downstairs crashed like thunder. Bebe winced, Ben closed his eves.

“Your brother,” said Ben with slow deliberation, “has just come in.”

The personalities of the Lyons seem to fill the house. Richard breezes in and out; Barbara wanders around with account books.

“Bebe and I gave the kids a choice of looking after the accounts or shopping,” explained Ben thoughtfully. “Barbara chose the accounts — Richard the shopping.

“We wanted them to get a real sense of the value of things and money. For a time, like most kids, they imagined money came out of a tap. But they’re learning fast — and enjoying it.”

Family of cooks

The Lyons are great home lovers. Over lunch we talked about food. The entire family can cook.

“You should taste my hamburgers,” said Richard.

“I taught you how to make them,” Ben claimed.

“I know, Pop,” agreed Richard, “but do you remember the day you left the angel cakes in the oven…? ”

“That’s enough. Richard.” retorted Ben. “Everybody makes mistakes.”

Barbara laughed. “Now my angel cakes.” she began…

Ben looked pained. “Can’t we forget angel cakes?”

I had wondered about Richard and Barbara — were they spoiled through their fame on the radio ? I can answer that right away: they are not.

Barbara is an extremely pretty girl who bubbles with good humour. When she laughs everyone laughs. She is smart in her choice of clothes and knows the meaning of “grooming.”

Sophisticated? Only in the sense of being up-to-date. One of her great assets is inherited from her father and mother — natural charm and sincerity.

And Richard? You feel he, too, has a personality that is heading in the right direction. He is alive with questions, eager to listen and learn, eager to discuss his views.

In the dark

One of his interests is photography. Keen to show me this achievement he swept me down to his basement darkroom.

“What do you think of this?” he said, “isn’t it great!”

“Great,” I replied, “except that I can’t see a thing.”

“You’re not meant to — I painted the windows black and lined the door with felt. I bet you can’t see a pinprick of light.”

“Not a pin-prick,” I agreed.

“Now,” said Richard, “look!” And he switched on the light to reveal negatives hanging from bent wire coat-hangers, huge brown bottles containing chemicals, and a lot of developing equipment. “Would you like me to take your picture?” he asked.

“Very much,” I replied, and I was swept up to his attic studio — and photographed.

Another member of the household is Skippy, the Siamese cat.

One day another cat came into Skippy’s life.

“It was a little tabby,” explained Bebe. “The poor little thing was so hungry, we fed it and let it stay. We realised, too, she was going to have kittens.

“One morning, Barbara came down late for breakfast — looking, her father said, as if she had been up all night.

“‘I have, daddy,’ said Barbara, ‘with the little tabby. She had her kittens.’

“Then on top of that, Barbara bought herself a poodle. So we had a poodle, two cats and three kittens,” said Bebe.

What happened to the kittens?

“Barbara and Richard got friends to adopt them,” explained Bebe, “but the tabby stayed with us.”

The family is involved in another exciting venture. Life With The Lyons is to be filmed. Preparations were in full swing. Bebe had to choose some new clothes for the event. Would I care to go with her?

On the way. Bebe gave me some of her views on the subject. “I like dresses to have an elegant and simple line—no fussy bits.” She loves tailor-made suits.

What did she think of the new Dior hemline?

“Well,” and Bebe laughed, “I always choose hemlines that suit me. I guess many women do the same thing.”

That front door!

It was a busy afternoon. Back at the house again, we sank into armchairs and drank tea. Ben and Richard were out.

Barbara joined us — she had been studying the script for the coming film.

“This is my first film,” she told me, “and I want the family to be really proud of me. Richard has been in pictures before — in Hollywood.”

Without any warning, the front door slammed.

“Richard?” I asked.

“No, Ben,” replied Bebe. “He bangs the door louder than Richard. Ben!” she called loudly.

“Yes, honey?” called back Ben.

“Nothing, dear — I just wanted to make sure it was you, that’s all.”

Then we heard another noise—a dull thud and a plaintive cry of “Help!” followed by the sound of Ben racing down to the kitchen.

“What’s happened?” exclaimed Bebe, and we went down to investigate.

“Don’t come in here,” shouted Ben, “you’ll get smothered.”

We stood at the kitchen door. It was like a snowstorm — with white clouds everywhere.

“Everything happens to us!”

Ben was grappling with a fire extinguisher spurting foam. The “daily” stood in the middle of the kitchen shrouded in white.

“I only tried to move the thing,” she wailed, “and it slipped out of my hands and went off — look at it all over everything.”

Ben at last got the spurting extinguisher into the garden, then came back and looked round.

“Everything,” he sighed, “happens to us — and we’ve just had the kitchen painted.”

“Never mind, dear,” said Bebe, “at least we know the dam thing would have gone off if we’d ever had a fire.”

There was a crash from the front door. Bebe winced. Ben closed his eyes.

“When,” he roared, “will Richard learn to shut that door quietly?”

When I left I shut the door with hardly a sound. That probably startled the Lyons more than any crash.

The post A Day With the Lyons appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

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Thursday 5 June
BBCtv
Trooping the Colour

Earlier this year the country gained a new monarch, so this is the Queen’s first Trooping the Colour as sovereign. She had had a practice run of sorts last year when she took the place of the King, who was unable to attend due to ill health.

Although the scheduled programme ran for far longer, I’ve only been able to view about 20 minutes of this. With it being a traditional annual parade, it’s perhaps unsurprising that it seemed like little has changed. Aside from less variety in the types of shots used, I felt I could be watching something more recent. There is the same background silence befitting royal occasions and the commentary is quiet, slow and fairly reverential, while carefully imparting small details about the event.

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Thursday 17 July
BBC Light Programme
The Lives of Harry Lime ‘Too Many Crooks’

A couple of years ago I was admiring Anton Karas’s theme for The Third Man (1949) in Radio Luxembourg’s charts, and it appears there was also plenty of contemporary appetite for more from the film. It’s been many years since I saw The Third Man and I don’t remember much, but I think this superb radio series has persuaded me to revisit it.

Harry Lime has a meeting with a bank manager in Hungary, where he’s been offered money to help prevent a bank robbery and ensure the manager’s love rival is the one landed in it. But there are all sorts of double crossings and betrayals going on, with Harry ultimately the only winner. He ensures the police get the right people and has sent a young woman – the manager’s supposedly loyal lover – off on a train, with an implication that Harry may later renew their acquaintance.

The major selling point for The Lives of Harry Lime is Orson Welles, who reprises his lead role from The Third Man, as well as writing several episodes. He portrays Harry Lime earlier in his life, prior to the events of the film. In character, he also provides welcome narration to the story and I found him captivating.

The Lives of Harry Lime isn’t just about the plot; we aren’t following the action of the bank robbery up-close in real-time like we did with the train robbery in The Adventures of P.C. 49 last year. In fact, Harry pointedly tells us we aren’t going to hear the conversation of the would-be thieves because it is “vulgar”. Harry’s narration moves the story on in a humorous style that enhances the programme and really added to my enjoyment. I liked several of his descriptions, including when he set the scene on the night of the robbery:

The moon rises over the city and winks at its own reflection in the Danube. A lot of good Hungarians are in their beds. The others are in a nightclub called the Arizona, dancing the Czardas. They do not come into this story, so we’ll leave them dancing.

This is one of the few ‘outside’ productions that the BBC broadcast at this time. 16 out of the 50 shows made were broadcast, having been produced by Harry Alan Towers’ company, Towers of London – I’ll be hearing more from him in the future.

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Thursday 11 December
BBC Light Programme
Educating Archie

The idea of a radio programme starring a ventriloquist’s dummy sounds daft, but it’s surprising how well it works when you can easily forget about it. You can’t see Archie, so it just seemed like I was listening to a small boy – without knowing more about the show’s plot background, I’m unsure why they didn’t just go with that.

There wasn’t a particularly clear sitcom-like plot to this episode, yet it still trundled along nicely, though my attention did start to drop off towards the end. Archie’s teacher Mr Brough visits and discovers Archie has had the genius notion of pre-writing his Christmas thank you cards – the idea being that he guilt-trips people into buying him the expensive stuff he really wants. He definitely comes across as a cheeky lad with a habit of telling exaggerated porkies.

There is a steady stream of visitors actually, with voices like Hattie Jacques and Harry Secombe both familiar to me. It seems to be common to interrupt entertainment programmes with a musical performance and I think it’s Max Bygraves here.

I did have the feeling of listening to something from a truly different world when I heard a reference to a mangle. A friend of Archie’s, Monica, pops by and decides they should do Brough a good turn by ironing his trousers and this led to something else that intrigued me. After grabbing the iron Monica says, “I’ll plug it in the light socket, and off up the table…” Left with this image of an iron’s cord hanging from the ceiling, I vaguely recalled a documentary about early electrical systems (mainly that they were massive fire hazards). As electricity was first installed just for lighting, there were no other electrical outlets – or they were limited – so a plug that went into the light socket was used.

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Thursday 25 December
BBCtv
The Flowerpot Men ‘Musical Vegetables’

When I previously explored the 1960s, I explained that I was already familiar with several programmes from the Watch with Mother strand, and The Flowerpot Men is another one of them. Radio Times can’t make up its mind of how to bill the programme yet, so it switches between ‘The Flowerpot Men’ and ‘The Flower Pot Men’. Onscreen, it’s simply ‘Flower Pot Men’. Watch with Mother as a brand won’t actually be rolled out until next year and currently this segment is called For the Very Young, a name I rather like because it leaves it quite open as to who the audience might be. Up until The Flowerpot Men’s first episode last week, Andy Pandy had been the sole occupier of this slot, so it must have been nice for some variety.

I did find myself doubting whether I’d got the right date for this episode. Most guides give this broadcast date, but it isn’t titled in the programme listings and the way we are introduced to Bill and Ben, the eponymous flowerpot men, makes it seem more like a first episode.

One small technicality is that it’s unlikely I was watching ‘Musical Vegetables’ as it originally went out because the earliest broadcasts were live, with the stories only being filmed later – presumably a mixture of technical constraints, costs and then the realisation that these series were highly repeatable.

Like so many children’s series – especially those with some nostalgic attachment – I found The Flowerpot Men very relaxing. There is something about a narrator telling a story that is comforting – you don’t have to make an effort to perceive too much because an adult is there to fill you in. As none of the characters speak English, we also often need the narrator’s extra details to work out what’s going on. It enables you to switch off after a long day at playgroup/infant’s school. As today’s broadcast is on Christmas Day, it’s going out a little later than usual – 16.30 instead of the usual 15.45 – so it’s perhaps a welcome distraction while the grown-ups clear up after lunch.

The pace of the programme is incredibly slow, which is the main reason it is able to fill its 15-minute slot. Bill and Ben, our eponymous flowerpot men, poke their heads out of their pots, clamber out, then wander around a small patch of the garden. Today they have taken an interest in the gardener’s vegetables, but it’s a brief look really before Weed, a plant who sits between their pots, starts calling them back because she’s spotted the gardener. This aspect reminds me of other children’s programmes and worlds like that of the Toy Story films, in which the toys always ensure no human sees them moving, usually returning to the position in which they were left.

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The Newsagent
Radio Times May 30, 1952. Cover price: Threepence
‘A Writer on the Beat’ [Page 41] [Pilgrim Street box out page 44]

Pilgrim Street is described within Radio Times as a “series of documentaries” and “a series of six documentary stories”. It’s a little confusing because Pilgrim Street is actually one of the first police drama series. There is a reluctance to say this – most of Jan Read’s article gives the impression that these programmes are ‘documentaries’ but it’s not in the wholly non-fiction sense as we understand the description today.

We decided to take our cameras into the streets, the houses, the amusement arcades, and the public houses, where police work begins. Like the P.C. on his beat, we would be prepared for anything that might happen ‘on our manor’ as he would describe his station district.

Only the word ‘stories’ in the synopsis gives us any real clue on the listings page and it takes until the penultimate paragraph of this article for the show’s writer to bluntly state that the episodes are fictional. The emphasis is on providing viewers with as much realism as possible, with Read explaining his research credentials. Even with Read telling us that the series is fiction, it is still difficult to tell whether these programmes are more like dramatised documentaries than dramas.

Authenticity is deemed the most crucial element for this series and the programme is set to take a look at more ordinary police work, rather than the rare and frequently sensationalised murders. It’s intriguing that earlier in the year Cecil McGivern, Head of Television Programmes, thought, “these stories are pretty sordid without doing any real good” while also finding them “ordinary to the point of dullness”. As the series is missing, we can’t properly judge for ourselves.

Made with the cooperation of the Metropolitan Police, it’s safe to say that officers would have been portrayed favourably. Read says the programme aims to depict the police as “helpers and protectors of the public” but I was intrigued that a viewer research report revealed some of the audience thought officers were represented as “rather more polite and patient than is normal”.

‘Five Newsreels a Week’ [Page 41-2]

Historic news as we learn that Television Newsreel is to be broadcast every weekday, with a “composite” edition broadcast on Sundays.

Until now, there have been three editions a week. Philip H. Dorté, BBC Head of Television Films, ponders on some of the concerns viewers might have, including, “Will there be enough news to fill five editions a week?” This seemed a surprising consideration when Newsreel is still only 15 minutes long. However, his article conveys some of the challenges the team faces. With the programme being shot on film, it has to be processed, edited and a commentary added, so we’re told that “a film newsreel can never be entirely topical”.

I’d be curious what brief Newsreel had as it’s apparent that they are never going to be the first to deliver any important news – even the following day’s newspapers are likely to beat them to an audience. It’s not just the time it takes to create the finished product – sporting authorities are reluctant to provide access and when they do it’s with limitations. There is a preference to allow cinema newsreels to screen items first. Television is not exactly being stifled, but there is certainly an air that it should know its place, which is definitely below both cinema and radio.

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The Pictures
13 East Street
Certificate: A

I wasn’t that enthusiastic about sitting down with this as I’d done a few B-movies recently. However, Talking Pictures TV had a strange dearth of 1952 flicks for several weeks, so while the rest of the world slept in or went to church one Sunday morning, I sat alone in the pictures.

13 East Street opens with a man holding up a jewellery store, then making an escape out the back as the police arrive – they’re very prompt, but we figure out why later on. He legs it down alleyways and across various rubble sites, which I presumed were bombed out as they seemed only partially demolished. Despite ditching his trench coat and trilby, the police catch up with our man and he goes down for the armed robbery.

Prison life looks grim but doesn’t last long as our man Blake and his cellmate Joey escape while being moved by train. Joey introduces Blake to his gang, where Blake quickly proves his tough-guy credentials. It’s only after all this that we discover that Blake is in fact an undercover police officer. I liked how far we followed his story before this reveal as he had made a convincing villain.

He’s got a wife, but is also flirting with one of the gang’s sort-of secretaries – do gangs have secretaries? Well, she’s helping with their business front. Blake then commits a couple of small thefts, yet a few incidents lead him to fall under suspicion. Throughout, a few gang members are unsure if they can really trust Blake, leaving plenty of low-level tension and atmosphere. This all builds to a great climax when the gang takes on a big warehouse job and Blake finds himself vulnerable.

Despite my reservations, I loved 13 East Street. It was fast-paced, tense and exciting. I was intrigued to see it was produced by Robert Baker and Monty Norman, with the former also directing. He would eventually start to be credited as Robert S. Baker and 10 years later the two of them would make The Saint together. It’s arguable that there are elements of the programme here: while we see some input from Scotland Yard, Blake is largely depicted as going it alone; there are fights, getaways and shootouts; and at under an hour and a quarter you could probably cut this down close to 50 minutes for a TV-length episode. There is even a Saint episode with a similar opening plot of Simon Templar getting caught thieving and sent to prison so he can uncover a criminal operation. The Saint is far more glossy, but this was wonderfully grotty.

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The Record Store

It’s only towards the end of 1952 that the NME begin to compile a singles chart based on physical record sales (more on that next year) so once again I’m looking at the number ones from Radio Luxembourg’s music chart, which are based on sheet music sales.

12 January
The Loveliest Night of the Year
Mario Lanza
★★★☆☆ HIT
This is a very operatic style performance and seemed lovely background music.

23 February
There’s Always Room at Our House
Guy Mitchell
★☆☆☆☆ MISS
I wanted this to stop as soon as it started. There are hardly any instruments on the record so there is not even an attractive tune to help you cope with these eager Americans welcoming you into their home.

22 March
Unforgettable
Nat King Cole
★★★★★ HIT
Nat appeared last year so I’ve already had a sampling of his fantastic voice. The only downside of this slow number was that it was too short – I wanted to listen for far longer.

24 May
A-round the Corner
Jo Stafford
★★★☆☆ HIT
Upbeat and relentless, this was simply too much of a fun earworm for me to dislike it. With lots of echoing and repetition, it’s an easy one to join in with after only a handful of listens.

14 June
Auf Wiederseh’n Sweetheart
Vera Lynn
★★☆☆☆ MISS
Like many, I associate Vera Lynn with the war, so it’s easy to forget that she was young enough to have a career far beyond that too. Although I enjoy her voice, it’s supported here by a choir of others who dominate too much for me. The record itself isn’t great – its lyrics include “we’ll meet again”, which instantly conjures up thoughts of Vera’s most famous record, but also serves to remind us that it’s a far better one.

23 August
The Homing Waltz
Alma Cogan
★☆☆☆☆ MISS
Inoffensive but also incredibly dull.

25 October
Here In My Heart
Al Martino
★★★★☆ HIT
Oh wow – Al has a big voice to kick this off and immediately grabs your attention. He’s pouring out his feelings and it feels powerful, backed with an impactful orchestra.

27 December
You Belong To Me
Jo Stafford
★★★★☆ HIT
I’d never even heard of Jo Stafford before I began exploring these charts, but I’m beginning to find I quite enjoy her music. Specifically, it’s her voice, which is slightly sultry in this number as she speaks to a lover, who appears to be going away. The images she conjures up of this lonely traveller are of them in jungles or Egyptian markets, and I did wonder whether she could be addressing a National Serviceman.

The post Time flight: 1952 appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

I’ve been really curious to sample some of Radio Luxembourg’s output – any, in fact. It seems like this fantasy station that I’ve only heard of – at least I have vague pre-conceptions about BBC radio; this era has been sampled in documentaries, films and various television programmes, while some of it is still frequently repeated on Radio 4 Extra, and you can explore even more online. In comparison, Radio Luxembourg feels elusive.

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Friday 19 January
BBC Home Service
Letter From America
LISTEN ON BBC SOUNDS

Alistair Cooke has been sending his radio letters from the US since 1946. I’ve listened to a small number of them before, partly just because I was intrigued by the notion of him doing these regular weekly programmes for over half a century. In this edition, I’m particularly interested that he’s informing us about television in America.

Alistair tells us that the newspapers in the US have recently begun giving television half a page, which is just as long as the radio schedules are given. “It used to be a little corner in a single column with the stations opening for business around five in the afternoon and going off at ten,” he says, which isn’t too different to how BBC Television is currently operating – except television in the US now begins at 9am and is on air until midnight.

In contrast, in the UK television is certainly not considered on par with radio at this time; television only gained its own department within the BBC last year – previously it had come under the radio departments. It also seems astounding that the television schedules appear to have rapidly expanded across the day in a way that won’t happen on this side of the pond for over 30 years. We’re told that “they start at nine in the morning with a programme called Morning Chapel and The News, and then end at midnight with The News,” but I do wonder about the quality of what’s going on in between.

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Sunday 25th February
Radio Luxembourg
Much-Binding-in-the-Marsh

The BBC has had to begrudgingly accept Radio Luxembourg’s existence. The station broadcasts across Europe in several languages, with its English language service going out during evenings and for longer on Sundays.

Before the war, the BBC had unofficially let it be known that artists who appeared on Radio Luxembourg were unlikely to be offered more work from the BBC. This turned out to be a rather poorly considered gesture, with several artists choosing Luxembourg, and the BBC soon realised they were shooting themselves in the foot by excluding some of the most successful and popular artists from their service.

Despite a wartime break, Radio Luxembourg has gone from strength to strength. Its burgeoning listening figures have resulted in growing revenue from an increasing number of sponsors. I haven’t been able to pin down the sponsor for Much-Binding-in-the-Marsh, though I’ve found reference to a chocolate company, and Rowntree’s and Fry’s have been among those sponsoring other programmes. The general arrangement for the station at this time is that the sponsor pays Radio Luxembourg for the programme’s airtime, but it also pays the performers and the producers of the programme material.

Just from hunting for an episode, I’d learned that Much-Binding-in-the-Marsh is set on an RAF base. It’s odd to be listening to a programme that started during the war. Much Binding in the Marsh had begun on the BBC General Forces Programme before moving to the Light Programme and would only spend one of its seven series on Radio Luxembourg.

I am presuming the money was a big attraction – two of the show’s stars, Richard Murdoch and Kenneth Horne, were offered £50,000. I don’t know what the BBC were paying but that seems like a phenomenal amount of money for 1951. It’s surprising that the show then returned to the BBC – all the more so considering the Corporation’s ongoing antipathy towards a commercial station that appears to have effectively stolen their product. It does make me wonder what went wrong to tempt the performers back to the BBC.

So many post-war things I’ve encountered seem to feature the services. Undoubtedly, this appealed because they had recently been a common if not prominent part of many people’s lives – and still were because National Service would last until the early 1960s. I think that while most people might have wanted to move on from the war, they had fond memories of comradeship, or at the very least they could relate to the same experiences.

I rather enjoyed Much-Binding-in-the-Marsh because so much of it was wordplay. It would take a few more episodes for me to get a handle on the various characters; although there weren’t too many, they seemed to come in and out very fast without chance for me to quite determine who they were.

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Monday 30 April
BBCtv
Henry Moore
WATCH ON BBC ARCHIVE

A documentary on sculpture would not have been my ideal viewing selection as I’ve no interest in the art world, and I did think I might find this examination of Henry Moore a bit of a chore.

The production team has arranged to film Moore at work over a period of months, both in and outside his studio. Therefore, I was surprised by how little we hear from the man himself, which did seem a shame. In a half-hour programme, he speaks for only a few minutes. Instead, we hear from an unseen narrator throughout almost the entire documentary, reminding me of The Debate Continues from last year. Here though, there were sections when the narrator was relaying the artist’s own views and I would have preferred to hear this first-hand.

I liked that there were relatively long stretches of silence at times during montages of Moore’s sculptures. Even music can tell us how we are supposed to feel about something, so it was nice to be given time to simply look and absorb, without having any information or opinions imposed upon us.

What I most enjoyed was the demonstration of how one of Moore’s giant metal sculptures is created, right through from the first designs. I was intrigued to realise that though the design and initial work is the artist’s, the sheer size of the final piece means industrial-style castings are required to be fabricated and then pieced together. While it is undoubtedly largely Moore’s work still, he must be reliant on and trusting of everyone else involved in the process.

From the start of the programme it was clear that Moore’s sculptures are of an abstract style. Despite the explanations provided, some of it looked, frankly, naff to me. I found myself thinking: that is supposed to be a person? That twisted metal or concrete? My imagination can only be stretched so far. Perhaps that’s the problem…

I was reminded of the day our small 6th form English class was walking through the school grounds and our teacher paused to point out a sculpture. It was a huge granite blob and I’d been passing it every school day for over five years. Our enthusiastic teacher told us how this giant misshapen object represented a concept (I cannot remember what), and I just couldn’t see it. No matter how much he tried to help us, I couldn’t accept that this was anything but an eyesore.

By the end of the programme, I had to conclude that Moore’s work simply wasn’t to my taste, yet I had enjoyed learning about the process of its design and construction.

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The Pictures
Old Mother Riley’s Jungle Treasure
Certificate: U

Although the name Old Mother Riley was vaguely familiar to me, I had no idea what to expect from this film. Luckily, Talking Pictures TV provided a brief Who Was Old Mother Riley? intro programme that gave me more of an overview.

Mother Riley is a loud, clumsy old woman, and at the start of the film she and her daughter are working in an antique shop. Mother Riley is visited by a ghost, who directs her to buried treasure he left on an island. I wanted the jungle treasure hunt indicated by the title, but it took an age to get there. The comedy before they leave is all physical and I wasn’t that engaged by it – I enjoyed it more when they boarded a plane and introduced some wordplay.

Mother Riley is an over-the-top character that I might have found grating, except by the time they had landed on the island it was a reasonably sized ensemble cast.

After a jungle trek the group can hear native singing and music. We eventually see one black man in a tribal-style outfit, only for him to turn to a nearby radio and switch off the native music. As the group ponder whether he might speak any English, one of them steps forward and realises he recognises the man – they were at the same public school together. I rather liked this gag for highlighting the characters’ (and possibly the contemporary audience’s) preconceptions, but ultimately it’s all downhill after this.

The depiction of the island’s other natives is appalling as the English visitors behave like people confident that an imperialistic empire is behind them. They quickly find slaves to carry their belongings (as well as Mother Riley) and the suggestion for testing a potentially dangerous water crossing is that the natives can go first.
Despite my reference to a ‘jungle’, this looks like a very cheaply made film; there aren’t many sets and it’s mostly studio bound. The beach set is pretty small and gets used multiple times. We never get so much as a point-of-view shot of the sea and the only time we see the outside of the plane is when it’s blown up in a model shot – which I did admittedly enjoy because: exploding models!

I can see why people got so much joy out of the Old Mother Riley films – this is daft, farcical fun. Old Mother Riley’s Jungle Treasure is the 17th one in 15 years, with one more to follow next year. I haven’t even mentioned the fact that Old Mother Riley is played by Arthur Lucan in drag with his wife, Kitty, playing Mother Riley’s daughter. It was a double act that went back to their music hall days, which makes this an interesting link to much older culture.

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River of Steel
Certificate: U

This fantastic little animation was made in cooperation with the British Steel Council and while it does have a BBFC classification for public showing, it seems more likely to have been made for industrial settings. The steel takes centre stage as we are shown it processed, then how vital it is to our world. We watch infrastructure and homes lose their steel, then get magically restored; everything from bridges and cars to armchairs and nappy pins. It’s lively and colourful and abstract so I found the whole film really engaging.

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The Frogmen
Certificate: U

The Frogmen is about a special underwater section of the US Navy. They’re depicted initially as an arrogant lot, feeling that the skilled and risky nature of their jobs puts them above the ordinary seamen. They clash with their new commanding officer, and this provides a storyline throughout the film.

I fancied The Frogmen for the chance to see a young Robert Wagner, who I greatly enjoyed in It Takes a Thief when I visited the 1960s. The rest of the cast were not familiar to me. I was also drawn in by the promised underwater action, which proved impressive for the period and was the highlight of the film for me. Although it mostly consists of the men setting up their explosive charges, later on, there are full on vicious knife fights.

I was reminded of Thunderball (1965), a Bond film that is lauded for its innovative underwater sequences. The Frogmen is certainly far more limited – I think there may have been only a single submergible camera. It also lacks the incidental music that helps make Thunderball’s sequences so exiting and entertaining. On the other hand, the frequent silence, bar the men’s breathing apparatus, does itself provide a tense atmosphere for The Frogmen. Combined with the monochrome visuals, which result in a murky darkness near the ocean floor, such scenes effectively depict the discomforting uncertainty of being alone and vulnerable with the unknown.

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The Record Store

I’m following Radio Luxembourg’s music chart based on sheet music sales. One of the problems with ranking the most popular songs based on sheet music sales is that songs were often recorded by numerous different artists around the same time. Therefore, for some of 1951’s top songs, I’ve listened to a couple of different versions to see how they compare.

Looking through, I’m glad I’m only a visitor to the 1950s because 1951 was not a good year for me in terms of music. There wasn’t much I liked, with some of my hit choices only just making it. The sheet music buyers of 1951 also seem to have preferred the stuff I didn’t as those songs spent far longer at the top of Radio Luxembourg’s chart.

6 January
I Taut I Taw a Puddy Tat
Mel Blanc
★★★★☆ HIT
I was sure I was going to hate this but it’s really fun! I imagine it may have been bought for or by lots of children over Christmas.

27 January
Beloved, Be Faithful
Teddy Johnson
★★★★☆ HIT
Until last year, Teddy was a presenter on Radio Luxembourg, but he’s now returned to his former profession and seems to be making a decent go at it. Teddy has a grand, posh voice and his singing style takes me back to watching old films at my grandparents’ house. I enjoyed this upbeat song.

Beloved, Be Faithful
Donald Peers
★★☆☆☆ MISS
Ooh, no – this is far more maudlin than Teddy’s rendition!

3 February
The Petite Waltz
Billy Cotton Band
★★★☆☆ MISS
The Billy Cotton Band are popular regulars on BBC radio at this time. I was on the fence for this instrumental – 2.5/5 is probably more accurate. There are tinkly pianos, trumpets, yet nothing stands out and there is no star moment.

The Petite Waltz
Anne Shelton and Dick James
★★☆☆☆ MISS
This version sounds quite different to the instrumental, but I didn’t like it anymore with lyrics.

17 February
Tennessee Waltz
Patti Page
★★★☆☆ HIT
Just about a hit for me. It’s a much slower waltz than either of the versions of The Petite Waltz and therefore I couldn’t see it as a dance number. However, I did think it was very relaxing. It spent over two months at the top of the charts so clearly it went down well.

21 April
Mockin’ Bird Hill
Les Paul and Mary Ford
★☆☆☆☆ MISS
It makes a change to hear a guitar on a record when so much of the music I’m hearing has traditional orchestras. I found this very twee though and it was like listening to a nursery rhyme.

30 June
With These Hands
Nelson Eddy and Jo Stafford
★★☆☆☆ MISS
I played this record numerous times because I couldn’t make up my mind about it, yet the more I heard it, the drearier I found it. I did actually like both singer’s voices together, but the song itself let them down.

21 July
My Resistance is Low
Hoagy Carmicheal
★★★☆☆ HIT
Although I liked this, I don’t think the lyrics are particularly good – they don’t convey a great deal. The song sounded like it belonged in a musical, which meant that it felt slightly odd to hear it in isolation.

18 August
Too Young
Jimmy Young
★☆☆☆☆ MISS
Slow, soppy and dull.

Too Young
Nat King Cole
★★★☆☆ HIT
Much better. It’s still soppy and fairly slow because that’s the song, but there’s a nice piano instrumental and Nat King Cole is far more engaging.

10 November
Longing for You
Teresa Brewer
★★☆☆☆ MISS
Crikey this is a bit too sickly sweet for me.

The post Time flight: 1951 appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

There will be few reading this who have not had television as a constant throughout their lives – certainly since childhood. I’ve found it fascinating to start getting my head around an era of broadcasting where television is a minority medium. One of the best summations I’ve heard was from writer and producer John Wyver; I was intrigued to hear him explain that “television is not the stable, domestic” thing it would become by the late 1950s, describing it as “an extension of radio”.

1950 is an appropriate time for me to begin this project. It’s the first full year of the BBC transmitting television to the Midlands, marking the start of television’s expansion beyond London. There were 126,567 combined TV and radio licences in 1949, which had more than doubled to 343,882 by 1950. This rate of increase would only continue. For now though, these are relatively small numbers; television’s audience is a lucky, middle class minority.

Radio broadcasts are being enjoyed regularly in far more homes – the radio-only licence reached its peak in 1950, numbering 11,567,227 – and the dominance of sound broadcasting would remain for several years. To reflect the continued importance of radio in people’s lives during these years, I’ve decided to include radio programmes in my schedule too, and you will notice that I’ve mixed them in with the television programmes.

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.

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Thursday 27 July
BBC Light Programme
The Adventures of P.C. 49 ‘The Case of the Black Diamonds’

If exploring this era’s TV is like visiting a foreign country, looking into radio feels like being plonked on a passing asteroid heading for another galaxy, with only the vague memories of a junior encyclopaedia and some Professor Brian Cox documentaries. In situations like these, it’s very useful to be able to call for help to friends at Transdiffusion HQ. For instance, why is it called the ‘Light Programme’ when it’s not actually a programme as I understand the term and is in fact a radio station? If your radio knowledge is similarly patchy, start here.

With albums, podcasts and audiobooks to choose from, I am usually overwhelmed with audio choice, yet I’ve never been much of a radio listener in the modern day – actually, that’s an understatement; I haven’t regularly listened to current radio in over a decade. I have listened to some radio series from around this period though. Most are from a few years later, but I have ventured earlier with a few 1940s episodes of It’s That Man Again – often known simply as ITMA. All this radio I’ve been drawn to has been comedy, although my experience with the far-more-recent Big Finish audio plays meant I was curious to hear some radio drama.

The Adventures of P.C. 49 has been running since 1947 and a film version (with a different cast) was released in 1949. Its sequel, A Case for PC 49 will appear next year and this time some of the radio cast will be involved.

This show’s title had given me the impression that the eponymous P.C. 49 would be front and centre, yet he doesn’t appear until over halfway through and most of the episode sticks with the criminals. We follow them as they plan, carry out and then attempt to get away with a train robbery.

I really enjoyed the exciting action, particularly during the theft itself, which involves one of the thieves – Tom, a train employee – clambering across the train’s roof and dangling down to get across the compartments, unseen. He nervously panics when the guard he had planned to cosh sees his face, and Tom decides he has to do him in.

I hadn’t expected to know any of the main cast, so it was nice to have familiar voices among the guests with John Laurie and Gordon Jackson. Elsewhere, Mary MacKenzie plays Janet, a young woman who plans the whole venture. Her posh English accent stood out next to the other two’s Scottish ones and, combined with her harsh roguishness, she conjured up an image of the deceptive ladies I’ve come across in The Saint books.

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Saturday 12 October
BBCtv
The Debate Continues
WATCH ON BBC IPLAYER

My first television programme of the decade was a documentary on the reconstruction of the House of Commons, which had suffered bomb damage during the war. I found it informative as though I knew the Commons had been damaged, I hadn’t realised it was so extensive that Parliament had had to move out.

There was some talk on the war – presumably in case a few viewers had failed to notice the Luftwaffe – then we watched trees being felled and skilled craftsman recreating various aspects of the previous version of the Commons. I particularly enjoyed seeing the wooden carvings take shape – today someone would upload it to social media with #satisfying. I could gradually start to match up sections with the House of Commons I’m familiar with in the present day. It was slightly different because I’ve never seen the interior in black and white, then I remembered that 1950s viewers were unlikely to have seen much, if any, of the House of Commons before. This must have been all the more fascinating for them.

With so little programming surviving in a complete form, there must have been good reason for The Debate Continues to have done so. One reason is that it wasn’t made on expensive-and-temptingly-reusable videotape, but by the BBC Film Unit. Created in 1948, the Film Unit was soon separated from Outside Broadcasts and the majority of its output consisted of the BBC’s twice-weekly newsreels, as well as travelogues and documentaries. The Debate Continues is also clearly capturing an historical moment with speeches from Prime Minister Clement Attlee and Leader of the Opposition Winston Churchill.

However, for me the more exciting appearances were those of the Royal Family. I’m used to seeing Queen Elizabeth on telly, so I tend to take a glance at her hat on the news and that’s about it. But I’d almost forgotten I’d time travelled – when the royals arrived for the reopening ceremony, it was the King who stepped out of the leading car with his wife, the (other) Queen, whilst Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret followed in a second car. I associate King George VI with radio and cinema newsreels and was taken aback by the realisation that people could actually watch him in their own homes.

I was fascinated by the explanation of procedures. The events we watch are in Westminster Hall but we are told that the royals had been to see the new House of Commons chamber the day before; the significance of this is underlined when the narrator (one of a couple of unnamed voices) tells us it’s the first time a king has set foot in there since Charles I. George VI’s visit seems to have gone down better and didn’t impinge on Parliament’s right to exclude the monarch because the new chamber hadn’t actually been formally occupied yet.

Several speeches are made. It sounds ceremonially grand because it’s so grovelling towards the King – there is an emphasis on His Majesty allowing the people to use his Palace of Westminster. In the present day, there is not such widespread and unequivocal respect for the Royal Family, and I think many people’s reactions would be, “His palace? Our taxes have paid for it.”

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Monday 30 October
BBC Light Programme
Paul Temple and the Vandyke Affair ‘The Sitter In’

I am vaguely aware that there was a Paul Temple television series, but I knew nothing about that or the radio version. From this episode I gathered that Paul is some sort of private detective. A child has gone missing and, him having already been contacted by the mother, Mrs Gladstone, the police also turn up asking for Paul’s involvement. It’s clear Paul knows the officers but it’s not apparent why they are asking for his help – they’re stumped yet we’re not informed why Paul should do any better.

I was expecting the kind of excitement and thrills I’d had with The Adventures of P.C. 49, but Paul Temple was more about the intrigue slowly unfolding itself. There are minimal sound effects and everything is built around conversations, with numerous interviews as Paul and his wife start speaking to everyone involved.

While Mrs Gladstone, a widow, was out for the evening, her 18-month-old little girl was being looked after at home by Miss Millicent, an “elderly spinster” and the ‘sitter in’ of the title, who also disappeared at the same time.

Miss Millicent lives with Miss ‘Queenie’ Edwards and I’m calling it that they’re a couple. A friend of Mrs Gladstone says that when he told Queenie of Miss Millicent’s disappearance, “She seemed awfully upset”. Despite the “elderly spinster” badge, Miss Millicent is also described as an “old girl” and based on previous experiences, I’m inclined to believe she may only be around 50. With Queenie more specifically described as “about 30”, they have a large age gap, yet we’re still told that Queenie is “a sort of paying guest” and “they’ve been together for years”.

Although I enjoyed the episode and feel tempted back by the cliffhanger, I’m a tad sceptical about the serial’s ability to hold me until the end – I’m used to audio plays that are under two hours in total and, at eight episodes, I feel this Paul Temple may be too long for such a slow-moving drama to keep my attention.

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The Pictures

In 1950 there were 4,583 cinemas across the country and UK admissions stood at almost 1.4 billion. For a comparison to today, by 2020 the UK had 843 cinemas (interestingly, the total number of screens for 2020 was 4,596 – perhaps due to the fact that almost half of all UK cinemas are now multiplexes, with 5 or more screens) and 2019’s admissions had reached 176 million – and this is the industry following a revival.

Impressive as 1950’s statistics are, I wonder whether many people realised that admissions had already passed the start of a steep decline. Nonetheless, at the start of the decade television is a relatively minor affair for most people. If we go by the UK’s population, cinema attendances work out at more than twice a month per person. Surveys showed that more than half of admissions were of people going twice a week or more.

I’m far from a film buff – I’ve always invested too much time and interest in television to fit films in, even though I’d like to see more. It might seem easy and obvious to explore cinema through the top films for each year, but I’ve seen several of them and I can guarantee you probably have too – you’ll certainly have heard of them. Plus, I’m not sure these films are necessarily representative – they’re exceptional, and so also potentially the exception in any given year.

Instead, I’m mainly going to visit the alternative picture palace of Talking Pictures TV. Their admission prices are very reasonable and, hopefully, it should provide me with a varied choice of film treats.

Cheaper By the Dozen
Released: 31 March
Certificate: U

I have not seen the 2003 film of the same name, but from its synopsis I think it is quite different and doesn’t sound like a strict remake of this one. This can only be for the best. While the 1950 version of Cheaper By the Dozen was billed as a comedy, I found few laughs and it was barely entertaining.

At the start of the film, the family’s father, Frank Gilbert, whistles and then times how long it takes the kids to appear. They then jump into line in age order for him to inspect how clean their hands are. One lad in a baseball uniform is admonished for his dirty palms, which seems bizarre because he is a young boy who has been playing outdoors and has literally just been yoinked inside. Although the film is set in the 1920s, I found it odd that this whole scenario is presented seriously and acceptable – it resembles a similar line-up in The Sound of Music, but the father there is depicted as harshly authoritarian.

Much of what I saw seemed highly twee and stereotypically ‘perfect’ American family at times, with umpteen cries of “Oh, gee!” The children also refer to their parents with “Ma’am” and “Sir” at times, which stood out, even though it is something I’ve come across before.

I think my biggest issue is that the film doesn’t have one overarching plot and is simply a series of disconnected scenarios bolted together.

✹

The Record Store

When I previously visited the 1960s, I started tuning into the Singles Chart each year. It wasn’t often to my taste in the earlier years, but that in itself proved educational – the music I’d most associated with the decade wasn’t necessarily what I found in one week’s Top 10 or 20.

I’ve always been more of an album person, so thought I might travel through the 1950s with those instead… except the UK didn’t have an album chart for much of the decade. Back to singles? Well, there wasn’t a singles chart until 1952 either.

I did have another option for 1950 though: Radio Luxembourg was among the few commercial radio stations whose airwaves could reach British ears, and they broadcast a sheet music Top 20. I decided to listen to the year’s number ones, and I’ll see how this arrangement goes until we get a chart based on record sales.

You’re Breaking My Heart
Ink Spots
★★★★☆ HIT
This reminded me of a 1930s’ crooner number and I’m partial to a bit of Al Bowlly, so enjoyed it.

Hop Skotch Polka
Billy Whitlock
★☆☆☆☆ MISS
Instrumental. I wanted someone to please make all the bells to stop.

The Harry Lime Theme
Anton Kara
★★★★☆ HIT
This piece from 1949’s The Third Man features a lovely bit of acoustic guitar.

Dear Heart and Gentle People
Dinah Shore
★★★★☆ HIT
Nice and jolly, but the word ‘wholesome’ was what mainly came to mind.

Music! Music! Music!
Teresa Brewer
★☆☆☆☆ MISS
The lyrics in this repeatedly refer to the “old nickelodeon” and by the end I was still unsure what that was. A jukebox? Google tells me yes but also a cinema. It had previously just been a TV channel to me and I’d assumed it was a nonsense word.

(If I Knew You Were Comin’) I’d’ve Baked A Cake
Eve Young and the Homesteaders
★★★☆☆ HIT
First song I was familiar with, though possibly by a different artist. This was cheesy and felt suitable for a children’s party, while also having a nice guitar lead.

My Foolish Heart
Billy Erkstine
★★½☆☆
I’m on the fence with this one. Billy has a very deep voice, but I wasn’t sure if I really found this performance that impressive.

Bewitched (Bothered and Bewildered)
Doris Day
★☆☆☆☆ MISS
A slow, quiet song that needs a more stunning singing voice to be the star of it.

Silver Dollar (Roll, Roll, Roll)
Eve Young and the Homesteaders
★★☆☆☆ MISS
Irritating.

Goodnight Irene
Frank Sinatra
★★★☆☆ HIT
It isn’t the big band style I know Frank for, but I still found it enjoyable.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
Gene Autry
★★★☆☆ HIT
I’m used to hearing the Bing Crosby version and if I hadn’t, I would probably be happy enough with Gene’s version. Yet it’s clear why one has gained more popularity; Gene’s Christmas number has an instrumental section while, even without that, Bing’s version is much faster and more upbeat.

The post Time flight: 1950 appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

Bill Haley and His Comets

Released by Brunswick in 1955, selling 1,390,000

2: “Diana”

Paul Anka

Released by Columbia in 1957, selling 1,240,000

3: “Mary’s Boy Child”

Harry Belafonte

Released by RCA in 1957, selling 1,170,000

4: “What Do You Want to Make Those Eyes at Me For?”

Emile Ford & The Checkmates

Released by Pye in 1959, selling 920,000

5: “Jailhouse Rock”

Elvis Presley

Released by RCA in 1958, selling 880,000

6: “What Do You Want?”

Adam Faith

Released by Parlophone in 1959, selling 820,000

7: “Living Doll”

Cliff Richard & The Drifters

Released by Columbia in 1959, selling 770,000

8: “All Shook Up”

Elvis Presley

Released by HMV in 1957, selling 740,000

9: “Love Letters in the Sand”

Pat Boone

Released by London in 1957, selling 710,000

10: “It Doesn’t Matter Anymore”

Buddy Holly

Released by Coral in 1959, selling 680,000

The post Best selling music of the 1950s in the UK appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

Anyone who happens to be in the neighbourhood of Charing Cross Hospital at a certain hour in the morning is likely to meet a bunch of laughing young nurses, coming off night duty, piling into coaches that will take them to the Nurses’ Home at Hampstead.

‘Laughing’ is the operative word, for nurses are by nature gay people. They have to be gay in temperament; it is one of the essential attributes of their very dedicated profession.

Their lot in life brings them into such close association with suffering that they very early learn to temper sympathy with the kind of gaiety that helps to keep both patients and the relatives of the patients in the right frame of mind.

The Editor of Family Doctor, Dr. Harvey Flack, once paid open tribute to the TV series ‘Emergency — Ward 10′ as a feature that has helped millions of viewers to overcome a tendency to look on hospitals with some sort of fear — which is quite unfounded.

In the Casualty Ward of any big hospital there are many human dramas — but always in the background are the doctors and nurses, who amid the many emergencies manage to live their own lives.

Unlike those comedy films Doctor in the House and Doctor at Sea, the TV series ‘Emergency — Ward 10’ has the right approach to hospital work — and cuts out the 100 per cent flippancy.

The team who make the TV series go to enormous trouble to be right in every detail, get the right kind of background information, and make their players, whether doctors or nurses, behave like ordinary people.

To celebrate the 100th programme of the series, the TV team paid a visit to Charing Cross Hospital, where a rather unnerving thought occurred to Freddie Bartman.

‘I just hope none of the patients mistakes us for the real thing, and expects a correct diagnosis of his — or her — illness!’

Rosemary Miller and Jill Browne, on that occasion, went round the wards, talked with patients, helped with serving the meals from the trolleys, and were accepted by the patients as just part of the hospital service.

That made everybody feel pleased with themselves. It proved that Rosemary and Jill had the right feeling for their jobs in the TV series.

Rosemary Miller’s reaction was that she felt ‘terribly humble,’ and realised for the first time the responsibility of the role she has played, as Nurse Pat Roberts.

Rosemary comes from the Antipodes, and at one time she had the idea of becoming a journalist like her parents before her, but she says ‘the dramatic germ proved stronger.’

She was appearing in local theatres whenever she could, in her early teens.

She studied ballet — and then decided that it held nothing for her, though she admits ‘it helps you to put your feet in the right positions.’

Finally, she came to Britain, which seemed to offer more opportunities for aspiring actresses. But Rosemary made no particular impact on the British theatrical world until she was auditioned for ‘Emergency — Ward 10.’

In the beginning ‘Emergency — Ward 10’ was intended as a twelve-week series, devised by Tessa Diamond.

Its popularity with viewers, who kept writing to the Associated Television Network for more news of it, meant that Tessa had to call in some more scriptwriters to work out more interesting adventures for the doctors and nurses.

‘Emergency — Ward 10′ became an authors’ emergency, requiring several extra consultants.

The Casualty Department at a real hospital, King’s College Hospital, Denmark Hill, in London, has now become the team’s ‘trade mark,’ recognised by people who live in that part of London.

It does not mean that stories thought up by Tessa Diamond and her writing colleagues happen there. It just is a good place for taking authentic exterior pictures and good real-life shots of ambulances arriving in a hurry. These are later woven into the ‘fictitious’ parts, lending them a touch of realism.

Among the doctors in the series there is a gaggle of cheery characters: Glyn Owen, Frederick Bartman and Charles Tingwell.

Glyn comes from Carnarvon, where his Dad was a policeman. Following in Dad’s footsteps, he pounded the beat in London, joined the Flying Squad, and for four years ‘covered’ the West End of London.

But when he wasn’t pounding the beat he was treading the boards, working in his spare time with an amateur theatre group.

By hook and by crook, he managed to get himself jobs in the professional TV mediums — in ‘The Trollenberg Terror,’ and in the French Resistance series ‘Secret Mission.’

Frederick Bartman, Dr. Simon Forrester to viewers, suffers from being naturally short-sighted. During transmission, however, he removes his spectacles and trusts to luck that he won’t bump into anyone or anything on set!

Freddie was brought up in Vienna, where his parents worked. He had no theatrical background. He just wanted to act, and when he got to Britain, it was ‘Emergency — Ward 10’ that provided him with the money to pay for his digs.

‘Emergency — Ward 10,’ however, is not his only contract. He also works for various broadcasting networks, as a German announcer on overseas programmes.

One thing he has learned from his appearances in ‘Emergency — Ward 10’ is that ‘hospital is not nearly as terrifying a place as I once thought.’

The post Emergency … Ward 10 appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

There are several theories about that change of name, one being that it arose out of a clerical error, when he did his National Service with the R.A.F.

The truth (disappointing as it may be) is, however, that it was his own idea!

Jim made up his mind, early in life, that Show Business was for him, and decided that Smith wasn’t the right name for the game … Jim DALE was more rhythmic.

His association with Stanley Dale was not entirely accidental. Just something Jim Dale worked out at one point of his career, and which proved highly profitable.

Although he has been called the ‘Jeanagers’ Joy,’ Jim and his guitar did not soar to the heights after being discovered in a coffee bar.

He made his way into a Carroll Levis show, with the idea of putting over a pop number — but he was so terrified when it came to his turn that he tripped over a mike cable as the roll of drums greeted his arrival on stage.

The whole five-feet-ten of him slid across the boards in a horizontal position. The audience thought it was part of the act, and gave him roars of applause.

‘They evidently thought I was doing a Norman Wisdom fall…’

He laughs about it all now, but admits that the incident made him think again about his career, and he worked his way around the theatres as a comic before it was discovered he had a useful singing voice.

One of the liveliest personalities on the television screen, there is a serious streak in him that makes him consider the future … when rock & roll, skiffle, and other topical gimmicks could lose their attraction.

Hence his decision to get around in ‘live’ shows, and study what he can in theatres.

As a National Serviceman he did his quota of square-bashing, peeling spuds, and, of course, every chore in the training line, including night-flying.

Unlike many professionals who get whipped into the station entertainment group while in the Forces, this was one place where he never appeared.

‘I don’t regret it … I was happy enough … and it takes all sorts to make a world,’ is his philosophical comment on that period of his life.

The minute he was released from the R.A.F., however, he headed in the direction of Stanley Dale, an agent with a good reputation. The Dale office also looks after the affairs of Frankie Howerd and Tony Hancock, and young Jim figured that what was good for them could be good for him!

Stanley Dale steered him into television, getting him an audition with Brian Michie. This resulted in his first contact with the TV cameras.

For the benefit of ‘fans,’ he is married, with one child, who arrived when he was about halfway through the National Skiffle Contest, in the early part of 1958.

The post ‘Jeanagers’ Joy’ …Jim Dale appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

Once a week, on the Granada TV network, this popular show goes out over the air. It all looks very spontaneous, and certainly is, as far as the questions and answers are concerned, but there is a good deal of careful preparatory work, done beforehand, in selecting the contestants.

You can’t just write in and say ‘I want to be a Quiz Kid’!

Sidney Bernstein, the chief of the Granada network, is very fussy. He likes contestants to feel happy and relaxed before the cameras, and he likes to be pretty sure that their general knowledge won’t dry up when the crucial time comes in front of the cameras.

The programme has been timed from the start, so that it should not interrupt school hours.

There are several rules that must be obeyed: Contestants must have permission from the Head of their school to take part in the Quiz. Parents must give their permission.

Contestants must have a bit of personality that ‘comes over’ to the viewers.

And then there is the general knowledge test that comes first, in the process of selection.

Tests are arranged every week, after the production team have sorted out the applications. These come in by the hundred, and are carefully sorted out before the first ‘heat’ is decided on by the production team, based on what the boys and girls write in their applications.

Granada like parents to attend the test session, along with the would-be contestants — but not to sit beside them while they fill in the answers.

On one occasion a mother, who sat next to her offspring and whispered the answers, ruined her daughter’s chances. The daughter possibly knew the answers herself, but the man in charge of that session overheard the whispering, and decided that on the live programme, with no mother to guide her, she might well be a failure.

After this incident it was arranged for the contestants to sit apart from Mum and Dad, and not be hurried or harried in writing their answers to the twenty-five test questions.

The test questions, incidentally, are changed every week, so there is no chance of Johnnie Smith passing on any information to his chum Maggie Jones at the same school, if she is selected for another Junior Criss-Cross Quiz.

There is, too, a questionnaire, filled in by the contestants themselves, about their school, their hobbies, what they want to do when they leave school, what kind of locality they live in — whether this is town or country is important.

While the boys and girls are filling in the test papers the man in charge of the operation goes quietly around, talking to the parents.

‘The lucky ones,’ he’ll say, ‘will be well taken care of. There will be transport to the studio, and transport back home, food and ice cream on the side. We do not want any one of them to be considered as a child prodigy, with a vast amount of knowledge swotted up for the occasion.’

Anyone living or near Manchester can apply to join in this game — but personality is essential if you are to be chosen as a competitor

Sometimes it happens that the boy or girl who was slowest to complete the test paper turns out to be the winner of a Quiz.

That, too, is taken into consideration, before the final selection.

It helps a Quiz Kid to know that the producers and the Quizmaster are far more nervous than he is, because these characters are responsible for the programme keeping to scheduled time. This is very important where every second counts.

As the Granada Network is situated in Manchester and the first British network to build its own studios rather than ‘adapt’ other buildings, the boys and girls in Junior Criss-Cross Quiz come from schools in the surrounding districts.

They must be between the ages of 12 and 14 (that includes contestants up to the day before their fifteenth birthday). There is at least one instance of a contestant who first appeared when he was 13, and ‘held on’ so long that he was well past his next birthday before the next challenger came in.

Mr. Bernstein, with a teen-age daughter of his own, is in favour of ‘treats’ for prizes, rather than money — things like a trip to Paris, a pedigree dog, a portable typewriter, a cine-camera, riding lessons, music and ballet lessons, for the successful ones.

If you live in the Manchester area, and feel you are a suitable candidate for a Quiz Kid session, write to the Correspondence Manager, Granada House, Water Street, Manchester, 3.

The post Junior Criss-Cross Quiz appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

If it is quick and widespread fame your brother or boy-friend yearns for, then newscasting is the job for him! No other television personalities make more regular appearances, none is more closely watched, or minutely criticised for mannerisms than newscasters.

The newscaster, however, must bring to his job a good deal more than just handsome features. He must think, write and speak clearly, be able to work swiftly and accurately under pressure, know something about everything — and have an engaging personality — the kind that wins friends and influences people, especially viewers.

One of the men who has made the top grade in this exacting job is Robin Day. So successful was his newscasting that he was elected ‘Personality of 1957′ by the Guild of Television Producers.

In two years, Robin followed the meteoric TV course of Chris Chataway, who had received a similar honour before switching his attentions to BBC feature programmes.

Known to viewers for his horn-rimmed spectacles and spotted bow-ties, and the toughest interviews on any British network, Robin is a ‘no gimmick merchant’ through and through. Indeed, he is considered the perfectionist of Independent Television News.

A past-president of the Oxford Union (a coveted office held before him by many Cabinet Ministers in their undergraduate days), he is a sharp thinker, and a firm believer in presenting the truth to viewers, often exhausting himself in his search for it.

Journalists, in particular, admire his intense feeling for research, and his uncompromising determination in difficult encounters.

Most impressive was an unscripted interview he managed to organise with Colonel Nasser.

When the Egyptian President met his interviewer’s barrage of awkward questions with evasive answers, Robin pinned him down with quotations from his books and political speeches.

It was an interview that made television history.

But Day does not always play the role of Grand Inquisitor. Owlish and puckish by turns, he is master of the graphic ‘sign-off’. One of his perkiest came from an Egyptian manhole — ‘Now I return you from the sewers of Port Said to the studios of ITN.’

In his unceasing quest for news, Robin has travelled some 30,000 miles, covering fifteen countries — and all this in one year!

The picture at the BBC is a little different. Newscasters working for the Corporation are preferred to be ‘on the spot’ in the studio.

Robert Dougall, for instance, has been talking to BBC audiences since 1934, when he became an Overseas Services announcer.

When war interrupted the ordinary pattern of life, he was blitz-front reporter in London and Plymouth, before sailing with convoys to Murmansk.

These wartime assignments did much to help along his languages — for Robert speaks French, German and Russian.

Married, with a teenage daughter, and a six-year-old son, he tells this good-humoured story against his wife, Nan.

Their first meeting was when she was auditioned by him for a BBC job. Nan did jolly well until she came to the word ‘misled’ in her script. But she was so nervous over the whole business that she pronounced it ‘mizzled.’ Robert, unable to keep a straight face, burst out laughing — and that broke the ice.

Talking of nerves, nothing seems to ruffle the Dougall calm. Whatever desperate situation rages in the studio, it is a serene and composed Robert who goes on the air to face the viewers.

‘Once the camera began to smoke a few seconds before I went on the air!’ he reminisces. ‘And sometimes the monitor screen packs up, which means you are commenting on a piece of filmed news without seeing it. And, of course, there is always the fresh news that comes in while you are talking.

‘It is my nightmare that one day I’ll get the pages of reading news mixed. Twelve to sixteen of them must be in correct order, with “cues” for the filmed insets.’

But doubtless, if the nightmare ever became reality, Robert would find a quick solution and still look cool and calm!

Another BBC newscaster, dimpled, blue-eyed Richard Baker, will always be remembered by sound-studio personnel as The Man Who Stopped BBC Time.

Trying to sleep overnight in Broadcasting House for an early morning broadcast, Richard was disturbed by an electric clock that ticked away every thirty seconds.

Came the moment when he could stand it no longer. A nail-file carefully lodged in the mechanism finally ensured his peace. He slept!

But at seven a.m. next day every clock in Broadcasting House read one-thirty a.m.!

The confusion that reigned among announcers and technicians alike, can be imagined. But it was a confusion that was totally eclipsed by Richard’s own, when he realised who was responsible for time standing still!

On this occasion his peace had been dearly bought—at the price of a reputation it took months to live down!

At one time an English Master (popular but not respected!), Richard took the advice of Form 4C, and vacated the life academic.

The popularity he’d enjoyed as a teacher followed him into newscasting. Heavy fan mail tumbles in for him daily. Some viewers even suggest ways of letting them know he’s got their particular message — and if Richard were to crook his little finger, or rub his nose during the news as often as requested, he’d soon find himself a master of sign as well as spoken language!

In his spare time, Richard writes lyrics for the BBC staff dramatic society, the Aerial Players. Guitar strumming — to a comb-and-paper accompaniment —i s another off-duty pastime!

School-mastering has yielded another recruit to television — Kenneth Kendall, whose shy grin is worth a whole host of viewers to the BBC.

After taking an M.A. in Modern Languages at Corpus Cristi College, Cambridge, Kenneth taught for a while at Hove.

In 1948 he did a temporary holiday relief as an announcer with the BBC, and was offered a permanent job at the end of it. Without much hesitation, the schoolmaster became the neat and sober-suited (a trait left by his 3½ years in the Coldstream Guards) announcer.

If a dazzling smile helps along the fortunes of some announcers, the wintry gleam of ITN’s Anthony Brown seems no less effective.

Dubbed the ‘egg-head’ of his numerically small calling, Anthony describes his expression as ‘gloomy and austere.’

The expression is no mere facade. He is really serious-minded, and extensive reading of history and biography have given him a general background of news-value second to none.

A man of many parts is Brian Connell — onetime reporter for a famous news agency, Naval Commando, parliamentary candidate, translator, and writer with at least eight books to his credit.

It was while reporting during the war that he was taken prisoner by the Japanese, and grew the elegant beard that earned him the studio nickname, ‘The Prof.’

No newscaster can claim such deep knowledge of life’s seamy side as Huw Thomas.

Called to the Bar in 1950, Thomas toured the Welsh courts as Marshal to Mr. Justice Ormerod, and also served in the office of the Public Prosecutor.

Newly ‘called’ barristers often wait months for a case. The day after qualifying, Huw attended Sessions, and joined the queue of briefless lawyers available to give legal aid to defendants.

A Teddy-boy, charged with razor-slashing, picked him to put his case. Huw did so with every word of eloquence in him.

But there came a brief when Huw was not defending but prosecuting.

‘I was not at all happy when it came to prosecuting unfortunate boys like that first Teddy-boy,’ Huw will tell you now, ‘and that is the simple reason why I answered an advertisement for a newscaster, with ITN, who had to be “under 35.” There was one snag — applicants had to have other qualifications, including a good speaking voice and the right kind of screen personality.’

A friend told him ‘Stick to crime, old boy—at least it is a steady living!’

Huw considered the advice, but still decided to join the queue of applicants at the ITN headquarters.

And again he was picked out of the crowd, this time by News-Editor Geoffrey Cox, to help tell the world what is NEWS.

The post Behind The News appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

Even the most severe ATV’s critics have found it difficult to say hard words about the plays. Whether ‘live’ or filmed they have maintained a very high standard throughout the first year of Commercial Television in this country. Theatre Royal and TV Playhouse were put on film with an eye on the world market for high class television drama. The parade of stars in TV Playhouse has been most impressive. Dame Edith Evans appeared in two plays – The Old Ladies and A Question of Fact – and actors and actresses of the calibre of Eric Portman, Roger Livesey, Barbara Kelly, Bernard Braden, Helen Haye, James Donald and Nora Swinburne have appeared in plays in this series.

These include many which have run successfully in London and, in some instances, on Broadway too. The Old Ladies is a classic of the contemporary stage. Dame Edith Evans created the role of Agatha Payne twenty five years ago and it was very fitting that she should play it again when the drama was televised.

Other well-seasoned theatrical successes which were filmed for television in the TV Playhouse series included, French for Love, Frolic Wind, Quay South and Shaw’s Man of Destiny in which Margaret Leighton took the part of the beautiful stranger who flitted for a brief moment into the life of the young Napoleon.

In contrast to these well-tried dramas there have been plays in the series especially written for television. Outstanding among these was The Last Reunion, starring Eric Portman. It was a new idea to present on the stage a reunion dinner for the crew of a wartime bomber that had crashed – a reunion for a party of ghosts. Another piece of original television was the telefilmed drama, The Concert, in which the Bradens proved themselves once again to be a wonderful team. The particular ‘gimmick’ of this play is the fact that the hero is not seen until the last few seconds, and it is in that one glimpse that the terrific impact of the clever plot about a blind woman and a coloured man is driven home.

Plays in the Theatre Royal series run for only half an hour each, and to tell a worth-while story within that restricted framework requires the greatest ingenuity. Writers regard these half hour teleplays as the pictorial equivalent of the short story in literature, demanding the same techniques of presentation. There is not time in these brief dramas to dissect character or probe complex relationships as there is in the full length play. A situation has to be arrived at quickly, and a denouement effected with equal speed. Yet it is amazing to see how often this has been successfully achieved.

It was inevitable that for some of these subjects the producers should turn to classic short stories from the past like The Stocking, by D. H. Lawrence; The Door, by Robert Louis Stevenson; The Death Trap, by Guy de Maupassant.

An excerpt from Charles Dickens’ Pickwick Papers furnished material for one of the most successful of the half hour teleplays. Donald Wolfit provided viewers with a superb piece of characterization with his interpretation of Sergeant Buzfuz in the Court Scene, ‘Bardell versus Pickwick’.

Other notable successes in the Theatre Royal series included Eric Portman in Mr. Betts Runs Away, a neat story based on the theory of predestination; Wendy Hiller in The Game and the Onlooker, in which a middle-aged woman’s marriage hopes are ruined by the suspicions of a malicious spinster; and The Great Healer, in which the inimitable Dora Bryan played a robust Cockney who turns up at the Golden Wedding anniversary of the man she was once engaged to. This distinguished series of taut, well-edited playlets is also being viewed by TV audiences in America where they are presented by Lilli Palmer who introduces each play to the viewers in a programme called Lilli Palmer Presents.

Live drama came to the forefront on Channels 8 and 9 when Hugh Beaumont joined Associated TeleVision as drama adviser. Mr. Beaumont is a director of H. M. Tennents who manage many of London’s theatres, and it followed that he should bring to the television screen play-successes from the West End, together with the casts who made these successes.

The first of these ninety-minute ‘live’ transmissions was a very distinguished one, although its cultural content was rather more than a lot of viewers were prepared to absorb. The play was a shortened form of Hamlet, and the players, those who had just returned from showing it to the theatre-goers of Moscow. Paul Schofield as Hamlet; Alec Clunes as the King; Diana Wynyard as the Queen; Mary Ure as Ophelia; and Ernest Thesiger as Polonius were the principal performers.

This set a high standard for the programme’s sponsors to follow, and they did so with a varied list of plays which included Graham Greene’s, The Living Room, starring Dorothy Tutin; Ronald Shiner in the great success, Seagulls Over Sorrento; and the comedienne, Yvonne Arnaud, in Dear Charles. These and other plays in the series still had the West End ‘feel’ about them, for they were either currently running in London or had been until quite recently. This was truly ‘live’ television, giving viewers the impression of a visit to a London theatre, though in fact these transmissions came from the stage of the old Wood Green Empire, now a television studio.

Augmenting the programme, Douglas Fairbanks Presents, is a new series of filmed playlets bearing the name, Errol Flynn Theatre. In the twenty six plays which this comprises, leading roles are taken by Errol Flynn, Patrice Wymore, Sean Flynn, Glynis Johns, Herbert Lorn, Patricia Roc, Mai Zetterling, Paulette Goddard, Derek Farr – and a host of other ‘topliners’.

Commercial Television is certainly making full use of the talent of the British Theatre in its drama offerings. And, provided the standard remains as high as it now is, it matters not whether the drama comes to us ‘live’ or filmed. The Play is the thing!

The post The play’s the thing appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

For years the Americans have been unchallenged lords of the market in domestic-situation comedy serials. There are many reasons for this. In the first place they have a maxim in the States that if a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing ‘big’. This brought down to terms of fact means that Liberace had an entourage of sixty when he came to this country; Lena Horne carries with her a hairdresser, maid, a host of musicians, her bandleader husband, a manager and Messrs. X, Y and Z wherever she travels; Bob Hope employs half a dozen writers on each script, and domestic comedy teams are backed by an equally impressive host of writers.

No artiste can go on the stage and be funny without the requisite material, and even the comedians who are touched with genius cannot for ever think up their own gags. However, half a dozen writers in a humorous frame of mind are bound to produce something worthwhile between them in a week, and that is just where America scores over ourselves. Unlike many British script-writers who are expected, individually, to turn out perhaps four scripts in a week, those in the USA concentrate on producing just one script per six or so writers.

Another feature of the American comedy series is their exploitation of true-to-life situations. In this country many of us still seem to be under the misapprehension that in order to be amusing, a situation must be outlandish. But, thanks to American films like I Love Lucy we are learning better.

The basic contents of a good domestic comedy series are these: fun which the whole family can enjoy; true-to-life characterizations; good acting; and finally, and perhaps most important, good script-writing. Many series have started in this country, attempting more or less to conform to these requirements. All have been hailed as rivals to I Love Lucy or to the Burns and Allen Show. All have fallen by the wayside, with one notable exception. Joan and Leslie Randall have produced a series of delightful, simple and extremely funny programmes, containing all the ingredients listed above, and imitating none of the American shows. They have therefore provided us with not only an extremely popular form of entertainment, but also with the first domestic comedy programme to rival imports from the United States.

When Leslie Randall was interviewed before the start of his recent series he said, ‘I am a great admirer of Burns and Allen but we do not intend to imitate in any way.’ The interviewer smiled benignly, having heard the same phrase from at least half a dozen other couples. But within five minutes of the end of the first Randall programme he was ringing Leslie to offer his congratulations. The phone was engaged. Already speaking to Leslie Randall was ATV director Lew Grade, announcing that the Randalls were signed up for a further thirty one programmes, that they would appear weekly instead of fortnightly, and that the deal would be worth seven thousand pounds for them in the coming year …

Let us now take a look at the Joan and Leslie programme and see how it mixes its ingredients. There’s certainly fun for the whole family. And characterizations are invariably possible and true-to-life. Leslie plays the part of a lonely-hearts columnist and Joan the part of his actress wife. They live above Mike’s garage. Their daily help is a fine woman and is treated more as the family confidant than as a char. This is the background for the true-to-life situations.

Doesn’t every Englishman want to buy tickets for a Test Match, and haven’t many been cheated by a spiv? And isn’t it funny when a completely guileless wife double crosses that same spiv in the most delightfully naive way? Don’t we laugh when we see a couple, in trying to burglar-proof a house, make it difficult to get out of but as easy as ever to enter?

The third requirement we mentioned was good acting. Lest anyone who has only seen Leslie in Variety or in Cabaret at a London night haunt should still fail to appreciate the Randalls’ acting prowess, let us glance at the couple’s career. We shall exclude Leslie’s two appearances on the Ed Sullivan show (one of the finest of all American shows, an appearance on which is regarded as the acme of success); we shall disregard his two Palladium engagements; and we shall put aside his two cabaret successes at the Savoy, for these are all in the world of light entertainment.

Leslie’s first professional engagement earned him three guineas for four performances as Paris in Romeo and Juliet. A year later (1948) he met Joan when she was playing repertory in Darlington. There she took the part of Miranda in The Tempest. In her four years of repertory experience Joan played every possible juvenile female lead before she entered the West End. Meanwhile, Leslie was touring Germany in Opera. One has to be good when one is taking coals to Newcastle. An Englishman speaking German in Germany is not perhaps Nancy Mitford’s idea of the U thing to do in that country, but Leslie carried his part in Die Schone Galatier with a deal of success.

The Randalls are ably supported in their TV series by a varying cast in which Harry Towb (‘Mike’), and Noele Dyson (‘Mrs. Henshaw’) are the only permanent members. Noele was educated at Roedean and one of the better Parisian finishing schools – there can’t be many stage ‘chars’ who can claim such expensive education!

The last ingredient we mentioned was a really good script. For the first time in this country four writers are permanently engaged in preparing one weekly script. To Dick Sharpies, Gerald Kelsey, John Law and Bill Craig must go the credit for the excellence of the material used. Add to this the aid of producer Hugh Rennie and the suggestions from the Randalls and you have the value of at least one more script writer.

Who knows, maybe they will have to film the series soon, so that the Americans can at long last see that there is such a thing as a good British ‘situation comedy’ series.

The post Situation Comedy appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

No show book is complete without some mention of the young stars who are just beginning to hit the headlines and who will be the top names in the years to come.

Few people have a more exciting tale to tell than another Dominion born artiste, thirty-year old Australian, Vincent Ball. Vincent is the hero of thousands of children – and of a good many housewives too. To his amazement (for Vincent is a modest young man) he receives an enormous amount of fan-mail every week. The people who help him answer this mail have aptly nicknamed him ‘The Housewives’ Heart-Throb’, much to his own disgust.

During the war, Vincent was in England as a pilot in the Australian Air Force. In 1945, he returned to his native land and to his job with the Australian General Electric Company. For open-air Vincent Ball, an office was not the most congenial way to earn a living. He attempted all sorts of indoor work including accountancy after his return from the war, but none of it really suited him. Vincent felt a continual nagging for the footlights. He had even been to evening classes to study elocution. ‘My dialect was a shocking mixture of anything from Cockney (the influence of my London stay), to Canadian (learnt from my service days with the Canadians).’

He was given a special teacher of elocution all to himself. This teacher is now Doreen Ball. Between them they have produced a lovely daughter called Catherine, now aged three and a half. She couldn’t care less about seeing her Dad on TV but she does like Noddy, which he introduces.

With his improvement in diction came confidence, and the frustration of office jobs led Vincent to apply for an audition for a part in The Blue Lagoon. Back came a letter from the Rank Organisation saying, ‘We would love to have you but you are 13,000 miles away … if you are ever in our neighbourhood do please drop in and see us’.

This was good enough for Vincent. He went down to the docks and stoked his way to Europe. The trip should have taken six weeks but the Swedish ship Yarawonga wasn’t in a hurry and the journey to Sweden took the best part of six months. By the time Vincent knocked on the door of the Rank office, with his half-year old letter in his pocket, the Lagoon Company had been to Fiji on location and back, and all but a few indoor shots were in the can. However, Vincent’s tenacity was not to go unrewarded. He was allowed to stand in for Donald Houston in an underwater fight with an octopus. The first words the director, Frank Landau, said to him were, ‘Don’t let the camera see your face, you’re only a stand-in’.

But stand-in or no, it was a start. After this first film Vincent won a scholarship to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art and a five pound a week grant. He then went from Rep. to the juvenile lead in Rain Before Seven, Barnetts’ Folly and Nitro, before making a big film. This time he had a large part as Peter Finch’s pal in A Town Like Alice.

When he had lived in Carshalton he had often amused the local kids by telling them stories about Australia. Now, when he was asked how he would fill his first nine minutes on Junior Television, he said he would tell similar stories. His powers as a raconteur have gained Vincent quite a name and a regular weekly newspaper column besides. And if you ever had the fortune to spend even a few minutes with him between one of his four weekly shows, you would realize just how bewitching a storyteller Vincent really is.

A real nice guy is Vincent Ball – just as nice as the film heroes he introduces. Success has left him completely unaffected, and this with his talent and pertinacity ensure that Vincent should be a star in his own right before many more pages of the calendar are turned.

Femininity is the keynote of bachelor girl, Noele Gordon, producer of women’s programmes. It sparkles from her large blue eyes, radiates with every movement of her restless hands, and is highlighted in the bold accessories chosen to complement her chic, simple clothes and short black hair.

Noele’s talents are not confined to producing. Her crowded week includes personal appearances in Lunch Box, a daily programme, About Homes and Gardens, Teatime with Gordon, and the new London programme, Musical Cheers.

Within minutes a conversation with Noele becomes an assured and witty chat with an ‘old friend’. Her vivid personality can charm words from the inarticulate and quips from sage speakers. Ideas tumble from her pert mouth at bewildering speed and the most placid event becomes an adventure when she lends a hand.

‘I was born,’ she says with a saucy grin, ‘at an early age in London of Scottish parents. I made my first public appearance at the age of 2½ years.’

From then on Noele seemed fated to a life in show business. She studied at RADA and made her first professional appearance in Rep. in Edinburgh. She had no lines to speak as the maid in One Hundred Years Old, but she had to give a loud scream in Act 2.

‘That,’ she says, ‘has been my reaction to show business ever since.’

But that first scream must have been executed with full dramatic vigour, for since those early Repertory days, Noele has appeared in some of London’s most successful shows.

The late George Black chose her for parts in Let’s Face It and The Lisbon Story. The late C. B. Cochrane put her into Big Ben at the Adelphi theatre.

Her thousand performances as Meg Brockie in Brigadoon at Her Majesty’s Theatre remain indelible memories and were followed in 1949 by a Royal Command Performance at the Coliseum.

The two following years saw her as the Principal Boy in the London Palladium’s Humpty Dumpty pantomime, and as Mrs. Sally Adams in Call Madam at the Coliseum and on tour.

Then, when Commercial Television became a reality, Noele joined the pioneer ranks as one of ATV’s women’s programmes producers.

‘That title,’ she admits, ‘is a little misleading. Not only have I produced, but I’ve toured the Midlands in search of programme ideas, visited Town Halls, Civic Centres, Women’s Guilds and told people what they could expect when we opened in Birmingham.’

The Midlands area is almost Noele’s second home. She played her first important role in the Theatre Royal, Birmingham.

‘It’s a wonderful thing,’ she says, ‘but do you know. Midland folk remember my performances in Cinderella and Dick Whittington at the Alexandra Theatre despite all the other shows they’ve seen. Why, when I was addressing one Women’s Guild a member said, “What became of that gorgeous ’white horse in your panto?’”

‘That was quite a while ago,’ says Noele, ‘but they remember just what I wore. That horse, by the way, was the only “artiste” I’ve ever worked with that was completely without temperament! It weighed about three tons, and every time it thundered on to the stage, the house lights went out!’

Commercial Television was not an unknown quantity to Noele before she experienced it in this country. After she left the stage she visited America to study television methods there. The technical knowledge gleaned by perseverance, determination and sheer hard work, stood her in good stead when she joined Associated TeleVision. With her experience of the slick, fast-moving American TV programmes and her love of English tradition, her judgement has become a watchword at Television House.

It is only to be expected that such a vibrant personality as Noele’s would call for some ‘out of the rut’ hobbies. ‘I love bullfighting and cricket – but only as a spectator. My active hobby is under-water fishing – wonderful sport!’

One of the brightest stars on the television comedy horizon is Arthur Haynes. He is not a teen-or-twenty discovery, in fact he has been touring the variety world for many years, but suddenly through the medium of TV he has found himself a potential star of the future, and ‘I just can’t believe my good fortune,’ he says.

His first professional engagement was a booking as an entertainer in a Camden Town public house, where he was paid 5s. for singing two songs. As a troop entertainer during the war, Arthur teamed up with Charlie Chester, and the officer in charge of the fun-making was Captain George Black.

Arthur stayed with Charlie Chester for six years before branching out on his own, but no one took much notice of him. Weeks followed when he was unemployed, and finally ex-Sergeant Haynes went to visit the office of his ex-Captain. ‘What do you think of my act?’ he asked. ‘Terrible,’ said Showman Black. But Arthur was given his chance just the same.

When George and Alfred Black were presenting a brand new television series, they remembered Arthur and included him in the resident team for the series. Arthur introduced a new character to the viewers, ‘Oscar’, the little man who couldn’t help being a pest. The public loved Oscar, and the result was Arthur’s own TV series in the Midlands, where Oscar has become a household word.

Arthur lives just outside London with his wife and his vast collection of ‘mugs’. ‘I’ve got over 800 of them,’ he says, ‘in every shape and design possible. There are china mugs, pewter mugs, and every one is my favourite size – they’re all pint pots.’

When Arthur Haynes was offered a television series he expected to be ‘doing only bits and pieces – helping others out’. But Arthur and his bits and pieces, combined with his wide range of facial expressions and characterizations have made him a television favourite.

A chance to reach for stardom was given to ‘backroom boy’ David ‘Johnny’ Galbraith, a 29-year-old Canadian who lives in Birmingham, and who was a studio manager behind the TV cameras.

David had never mentioned to his colleagues that he had understudied for Mario Lanza during the filming of Because You’re Mine, or that he had toured American western states in Oklahoma. He had married Joan, an adagio skater, and now had a young son, David. His television job was nice and steady and he had reluctantly given up ideas of stardom. But he couldn’t stop singing, and one day at the studio he was heard by Noele Gordon. Noele was impressed by his fine singing voice, and invited him to appear on her own programme. Within minutes of his first appearance, viewers were telephoning the studios asking, ‘who was that man with the wonderful voice?’

Two weeks later, David was again on Noele’s show, and a recording of his voice was sent to Val Parnell. The result was an appearance on Val Parnell’s Startime.

When Noele’s daily Lunch Box programme began, she asked if David could be a regular contributor. Within a month of the first show, the mail was averaging 200 letters a day, half of which mentioned David and asked him to sing requests.

David is one of a large Canadian family. He wanted to be a singer ever since he can remember. His mother gave him every help and arranged for his voice to be trained by opera singer Madame Pauline Donalda, a great friend of the family. After several years touring the States, David visited Europe and appeared in the spectacular production of White Horse Inn on Ice, which went on tour, with the final engagement at Birmingham Hippodrome. It was then that David decided to try for a post at the nearby television studios. On March 6th, 1956, he was appointed assistant scene master, and then promoted to studio manager.

Now he had been signed up by Britain’s leading theatrical agent, and his first stage appearance was booked for October 29th, just eight months after his ‘steady’ job began.

David is an impressive looking singer, six feet tall, with blond hair and blue eyes. He is a great believer in keeping fit, and does half an hour of weight-lifting and shadow-boxing each morning.

Of course there’s a whole host of other names deserving more than a mention^ which we should like to include in this book. There’s Bob Monkhouse, who with Denis Goodwin hardly spends a week away from ATV screens; there’s Glen Mason – as much a part of the Jack Jackson Show as Jack himself… one could go on for ever. But books must have a limit to their size, and we’ve still a lot of ground to cover…

The post The Young Stars appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

A cheap novel, a cheap author, but a true if trite statement on page thirty-seven: ‘You got talent, you got looks but you ain’t got a gimmick … and without a gimmick you’re lost, son … go home, find yourself a gimmick.’

There are two types of success stories: the long hard grind – and overnight fame. Occasionally one follows the other. More often the gimmick leads to the second in, if we may quote the same novel, ‘a great big hurry’. Successful TV gimmick shows are the give-away programmes, audience participation games, the panel games with that extra ‘something’ which makes them click.

What is a gimmick? Johnnie Ray’s cry is a gimmick; Winifred Atwell’s other piano is a gimmick, and well – now you know what we mean. In the case of the quiz show one is led to believe that the word is an abbreviation of ‘gimme’ or ‘gimme quick’.

Having accepted the premise that a gimmick is something worth having, let us examine a few of the gimmick shows.

Pride of place must go to the fabulous The 64,000 Question, ATV first showed this programme on May 19th, 1956. The whole show was based on a lowest common multiple of sixpence. Now, a sign either of inflation or of the increasing prosperity of Independent Television the show works in multiples of a shilling. Answer eleven very hard questions accurately and you can leave the studio, after five appearances, with £3,200 in your pocket – or, if you accept the Val Parnell bonus and take the whole amount in Defence Bonds, £3,520 – and a halo of national fame gleaming over your head.

The English show is based on the world-famous American The $64,000 Question. The main differences between the two programmes are that Hal March comperes the American version and Jerry Desmonde the English one; the English show is transmitted on Saturday night and the American on Tuesday evening; and whereas our 64,000 shillings aren’t taxable, their 64,000 dollars are! In the United States they have police to guard the safe containing the money. In this country ex-Superintendent Fabian of the Yard performs the same function, and is one of the many precautions which are taken to preserve the integrity of the show.

All sorts of people can achieve fame overnight through this competition. In America, a woman doctor of psychology won 64,000 dollars by answering questions on boxing, a railway porter won a huge prize for his knowledge of astronomy, and a parson impressed the nation with his expert knowledge of – jazz! A twelve-year-old school girl (she won umpteen thousand dollars spelling ‘Antidisestablishmentarianism’), a marine captain (on cooking), a coalminer (on the Bible) – all have been big winners.

Such people are the life-blood of the show. Questions are far from easy, stakes are high and contestants cannot answer questions on a subject from which they earn their living. The publicity around the show is enormous and needless to say the winners have many lucrative offers. Viewing figures are vast – in America the sponsors can really boast that the programme stops the country’s activity for the half hour that it is on.

In the near future it is hoped that there will be a challenge competition between the winners in America and the winners in this country. A battle of giants, indeed.

A great deal of the popularity of the show can be traced to its simplicity. From the first to last questions the cash prize doubles itself. Thus in England the first question is for 64/-, the second for 128/- and so on to 64,000/-.

The first major excitement of the British version came when Vernon Goslin, a forty-two year old schoolmaster, answered six of the seven parts of the 64,000 question, only to fail at the last part. There have been a great many excitements since then. For example, there was the day when Ashley Neville Stacey, a schoolmaster from Bexley Heath, reached 64,000, with his wife and five children there to watch him, only to find the last Biblical question too difficult for him. A couple of weeks later, Albert Norman, a 65 year-old retired diamond setter from Normany, Surrey, became the first person to overcome the final hurdle and walk away from the studio with £1,760 worth of Defence Bonds in his pocket.

Shortly after this there was great excitement when the top prize was doubled and contestants began trying for £3,200.

On Saturday, 13th October, 73 year-old Miss Jane Brown staked her reputation as a Dickens scholar on winning the big prize. She won all right, and with £3,520 in Defence Bonds this gentle old Victorian lady went home to Wolverhampton, her black cat, and her organ which she bought in a jumble sale. Self-taught in shorthand, Miss Brown has thirty pupils who were, no doubt, among the millions who sighed with relief when the final question was answered.

Many of the contestants in this country become singularly attached to the show, and it is not unusual to see half a dozen or more ex-competitors appear on the screen when producer John Irwin turns the cameras to spotlight audience reaction.

Another exciting money game is Beat the Clock, which features regularly in Sunday Night at the London Palladium. It is compered by the breezy comedian, Tommy Trinder, and relies for its impact on the participants being willing to undertake some pretty gruelling ordeals. Bursting balloons by sitting on them (blindfold, to make matters more difficult) is one of them. Another involves running six laps of the stage, eating a roll at the end of the first lap, drinking a glass of milk at the end of the second, playing hoopla at the end of the third, bursting a balloon with a dart, riding a hobby-horse and so on – all six laps to be completed within a minute.

Viewers have been amazed at the variety and ingenuity of the actual problems posed in this game. They find themselves asking what kind of diabolical mind would think of asking contestants wearing divers’ boots to burst balloons by jumping on them; what kind of sadist would expect his victims to stack cups of tea with their hands encased in boxing gloves. The answer to these questions is producer David Main, who selects the ordeals from among those used for the same game in the United States.

At any time during the fourteen minutes’ duration of Beat the Clock a bell may ring – the bell which means it’s jackpot time! All contestants immediately stop their efforts to win television sets, refrigerators, washing machines and motor cycles and concentrate on winning some hard cash with an even more difficult problem than dancing on balloons with leaden boots. The jackpot question often involves real skill; bouncing four balls into four boxes placed one above the other on a pole, for example. The jackpot has been won at varying values. On two of the first three occasions the prizes of £1,100 and £1,300 were the highest ever to have been awarded on British television. The lucky winners? A honeymoon couple and a sailor on leave with his wife.

Hit the Limit is a show which began life from Midlands transmitters only, but because of its popularity was soon being relayed from London as well. Announcer Peter Cockburn got his lucky break in this programme when its M.C. Jerry Desmonde, vacated the star-role to make a film with Norman Wisdom.

Hit the Limit is not really an intelligence test, for the questions are simple and the whole atmosphere is that of a brisk fairground. The basic idea is that competitors throw a dart at a revolving wheel which contains a V-shaped ‘jackpot section’ – total area 95 square inches, or one-twelfth of the board. According to which section the dart sticks in, questions are asked and cash prizes awarded. The value of the jackpot increases by £50 each week.

If ever a show had a gimmick it is the highly controversial Yakity Yak – The Dizzy Show. Why controversial? You should just see the mail that pours into ATV. It would appear that half the viewers want to send the girls who participate to the Siberian salt mines, and the rest would like to see them enthroned on pedestals of gold for having achieved the ultimate in feminine pulchritude.

This programme was based on an observation which Michael Pertwee made almost every time he met a woman. ‘They never admit they are ignorant of any particular fact,’ he told Leslie Goldberg, the executive producer, one day. Out of these ten little words came one of the most genuinely funny shows seen on television.

The recipe was simple enough. Choose four beautiful girls, put them on a panel, add one MacDonald Hobley if the programme is to be seen in London, or one Michael Pertwee if it is broadcast to the Midlands. Select ten or so words which sound as though they might mean something they don’t and ask the girls to explain them. The girls must give an answer, and it must never be, ‘I don’t know’.

The result has sent shivers up and down the spines of the erudite gentlemen who compile the Oxford English Dictionary; has made viewers incredulous that even a very dumb blonde could think a toupee was an abbreviated two-piece, or a Bombay Duck a duck with an extra long leg; and has caused a great many people the heartiest of belly laughs. And of course it has given the Press the chance to publish even more pictures of girls with trim figures and cute faces.

John Irwin who produces the show added another gimmick. At the end of each programme the girls were asked to discuss a debatable topic. This resulted in brain machinery working overtime. The girls produced such classic remarks as: ‘Men are so stupid – whenever I want to read what’s going on in Cyprus they are reading the sports page. That’s why I hate travelling in Undergrounds…”

A last word on the gimmick. If you can think of one which ATV could use, send it to them, they’re always looking out for fresh ideas.

The post The Gimmick Shows appeared first on THIS IS MY 1950s from Transdiffusion.

New Zealand food

Cerebos

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Westminster Bank

District Bank

Martins Bank

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