The Galton and Simpson Bursary and the BBC

The BBC recently announced plans for ‘The Galton and Simpson Bursary for Comedy Writing’. The winning applicant(s) will have a sample script ‘developed for broadcast consideration, with advice and input from leading industry practitioners, and receive a bursary of £5,500’.

This is good news. It remains to be seen, however, if it is also a good thing.

It certainly sounds good. Galton and Simpson were two of the greatest sitcom writers that Britain, and the BBC, has ever produced, and this new bursary, that makes use of their illustrious names, is aimed, it is said, ‘at helping a new comedy writer or writing partnership to build their career’.

So far, so good. There is, however, one pertinent critical question to pose at this stage: does the BBC genuinely know what, precisely, it is trying to achieve when it talks about ‘building’ a writing career?

One slightly worrying sign, in this sense, is that the initial announcement – a strangely rambling document written with a cat-like degree of distractedness – arrived with rather more than its fair share of vague and patronising corporate waffle, which included the revelation that the bursary is actually going to be a ‘collaboration’ (the essential details of which are so far unspecified) between the BBC and the Mental Health Foundation, ‘since research has again and again demonstrated that creativity can help mental well-being by providing a channel of release and self-expression’.

That assertion, aside from winning, ridiculously easily, the annual Sybil Fawlty Prize for the Bleeding Obvious, also smacks of either alarming naiveté or depressing hypocrisy, seeing as the winners of this bursary will surely soon see their own creativity, like that of most other writers currently working within this fiercely competitive and intensely-pressured industry, subjected to all kinds of potentially suffocating constraints, compromises and frustrations that are most definitely not designed to enhance their ‘mental well-being’.

Having been fortunate enough to have known Galton and Simpson, and interviewed them at length on several occasions, I think I have a fairly good idea as to what they would have said about the treatment of their own creativity. They would have said that, for creativity to serve effectively and consistently as ‘a channel of release and self-expression,’ it requires the proper context in which to function – and that context needs to be one in which one’s creativity is genuinely encouraged, appreciated and respected, rather than merely tamed and trained to meet the immediate needs of other, less creative, people further up the decision-making chain.

Creativity, as any freelance writer will confirm, is no ‘channel of release and self-expression’ if there are no commissions, and no money in the bank, and there are daily demands and dark threats landing on the door mat and filling up your inbox. Creativity, in those objectively depressing circumstances (which are becoming all-too common in these virus-blighted times), is not much help to the maintenance, let alone the improvement, of one’s ‘mental well-being’. To imply otherwise, whilst virtue-signalling via the latest vogueish vernacular, is just insultingly glib and insensitive.

Creativity is not even that helpful, in a ‘mental health sense,’ if one does indeed have a commission, but the circumstances of that commission entail its subjugation to plans and powers far beyond one’s own control. If you end up being processed as a sausage then you’re just a sausage, even if the butcher sticks a ‘quality sausage’ sign through your skin.

This, I would argue, is the core concern, at this early stage, about the Galton and Simpson Bursary. If it genuinely wants to find, support and develop writers, eventually, anywhere close to the level of the skill and scope and stature of Galton and Simpson, then it needs to change, quite radically, the way that the BBC, like other broadcasters, has treated the vast majority of its comedy writers over the past few decades.

If, however, it simply wants to sprinkle some stardust on a short-term hunt for more of the same sort of meat to go straight into the mincer, then it is being more than a little cynical in the presentation of its project.

One way, as an outsider, to begin to clarify this issue is to highlight the kind of culture in which Galton and Simpson were able to use their own creativity so effectively – not only for the benefit of themselves (and their mental well-being) but also for that of the BBC and Britain’s broadest audience of comedy lovers. This was a special culture characterised by three essential and interconnected elements: trust, time and tolerance.

First of all, Galton and Simpson benefitted immeasurably from trust. They were different, and they were hired to draw on that difference.

They were two young men from tough working class backgrounds who – having spent more than a year stuck together in a sanatorium, devouring everything they could find in the library while recovering from tuberculosis – arrived at the BBC far better-read, and with a wider, richer and more unusual range of influences, than most of their more privileged contemporaries. ‘The BBC got to know us,’ said Alan Simpson. ‘They got a sense of us. And then they let us know that they were intrigued by us’.

Then they were given time. Their bosses did not attempt to shape, manoeuvre and manipulate them. They simply had them write for as many shows and performers as they could, in order to see how they coped and where their skills might best be served. ‘They just watched and waited,’ said Ray Galton. ‘They stood back and saw where we went and how we did. And they left us to work out our own strengths and our own style’.

Then their plans were treated with tolerance. Once they were deemed ready to work on their own project, the BBC believed in them enough to let them do the opposite of what most executives expected or, indeed, wanted. ‘That was remarkable,’ said Alan Simpson, ‘because at that stage they could easily have said, “All right, you’ve shown you can write for all these people, so here’s something for you – keep doing more of the same with this star or this show”. But instead they listened to what we wanted to do’.

That, as Ray Galton would recall, was probably the key moment in their shared career: ‘We said to them that we wanted to write a show that was thirty minutes every week, non-stop, with just one fixed situation, and without a singer or a band coming on to split it up. Which up until then had been practically unthinkable for anyone, let alone for two young spotty-nosed unknowns like us. But the BBC had enough faith in us to say, “Okay, go ahead and try it”. That wouldn’t have happened anywhere else’.

The result was Hancock’s Half Hour. It started in 1954, and it did take time to evolve, but it was given that time. By the fourth series it had really found the start of its finest form, and, on television as well as radio, it would go on to be a national institution until it ended in 1961.

Then Galton and Simpson came to another crucial turning point in their career. Tom Sloan, the BBC’s Head of Light Entertainment, could easily have asked them, as a means of moving forward, to come up with another Hancock’s Half Hour. The Corporation urgently needed a successor to such a hugely successful show, and the line of least resistance was another sitcom as close to the last one as possible.

Sloan, however, was content to give them the space in which to find their own way of progressing. As Ray Galton would recall: ‘He suggested that we fulfil a programme title he’d already thought up: Comedy Playhouse. He said he’d got these ten half-hour slots, and that we could do anything we liked with them, anything at all, so long as we used that title – which was a fantastic offer that was just far too good to turn down. So we started out with Comedy Playhouse, and number four in the series turned out to be Steptoe and Son’.

Steptoe and Son was duly commissioned, and over the course of the next few years would showcase some of the most intelligent, sensitive, insightful and distinctive comic writing that television, in any country, has ever witnessed –  and it came about without any fawning over focus groups, and no robotic rush to tick all the ‘right’ boxes, no embarrassingly abject forelock-tugging to Westminster’s spectacularly ill-informed cultural ‘special advisors,’ and no knee-jerked and boneheaded manipulation of that stupidly-servile question: ‘What’s the diversity story?’

It did not matter about the writers’ class, ethnicity, gender, age or politics. It just mattered that they were good, and they wanted, and were able, to make as many people as possible laugh.

That, however, was quite another era, and quite another BBC. It was a BBC that was still run in the most part by people who not only knew what the BBC was there to do, but also believed in that purpose passionately, and were prepared to defend it, and its programmes, from those papers and politicians that were prejudiced against it. It was, in short, a BBC that knew what it was doing.

Today we have a different BBC, run largely by people who treat it much like any of the other broadcasting organisations they will probably soon be passing through, and it appears most desperate to placate and please the kind of people who do not even want it to continue to exist. This does not seem like a BBC that is prepared to trust writers, give them time and show them tolerance, let alone promote their mental well-being – but I would love it to prove me wrong.

Of course, this BBC might simply say that such decencies and designs are long a thing of the past, like letter writing, video recorders, Top of the Pops, Spangles and social intimacy, but then again, at the start of this century, before they stumbled on to Strictly, they were claiming that big and broad Saturday night audiences were also a thing of the past. Once you shake off the shackles of deludedly self-serving fatalism (which is a really good thing to do for your mental well-being, by the way), and exercise some intelligence and imagination, it’s amazing how many good and honourable things still turn out to be possible.

Returning to the serious, sensitive and sustained nurturing of new writing talent? It would be really nice to see the BBC try.

If they did so, and got their own frame of reference right, they might actually find, without the need for any clumsy intervention, furtive filtering or craven PR puffery, really good writers who come from different classes, ethnicities, genders, ages and politics, and who can even write things that, without any prompting, answer effortlessly the question: ‘What’s the diversity story?’

To do so, however, what we, as outsiders, need to see from the BBC are deeds rather than just words, with far more long-term commitments and mutually-supportive relationships, and far fewer short-term stunts and silly gimmicks.

As far as the bursary is concerned, therefore, the basic point is this: if the BBC merely wants to honour the achievement of Galton and Simpson, while doing precisely the opposite of what gave Galton and Simpson the freedom to achieve so much, then my advice to them is this: save yourself some hassle and just schedule a few repeats and commission a nice big statue.

If, however, the BBC genuinely wants to honour the legacy of Galton and Simpson, then I would suggest: try to go from a culture of doubt, intolerance and impatience to one of trust, tolerance and time, and show to all budding comedy writers, as well as the first very fortunate beneficiaries of this special bursary, that, belatedly, you now really do understand and appreciate the kind of culture that helped the likes of Hancock’s Half Hour, and Steptoe and Son, become a reality, and you are seriously committed to bringing it back.

That would be the kind of serious, principled and practical gesture that Galton and Simpson would have respected and supported. As for just sticking their name on to a run-of-the-mill recruitment drive, well, they had a phrase reserved for that kind of thing, and they usually gave it to Sid James or old man Steptoe to say: ‘What a load of old cobblers!’           

So please, don’t abuse or exploit their memory. They – and all of their potential successors – deserve so much better than that.

A change of address…

So – that really is an irritating habit, isn’t it, starting sentences with ‘So’? Anyway: So…this is what happened.

After I posted the first piece for this blog, the British Comedy Guide got in touch and asked if they could take the blog ‘in-house’. That was very nice of them, and, seeing as they have a well-established network of subscribers and contacts, and I have no idea what I’m doing, it represented a very welcome means of fast-tracking the blog to a much bigger audience.

So…I said yes.

I must apologise, however, for the long silence whilst the material was being relocated, the new place decorated and a plan was agreed in terms of what happens and when. It must have seemed as if I was even more dilatory than I’d threatened to be.

So thank you for your patience. It really is appreciated.

The new/old/continuing blog has been renamed ‘The Comedy Chronicles’. I’m not sure why, but it has been.

It will, I hope, be a fortnightly…thing.

I’ve a few pieces planned in the near future, including ones on the day when Hancock met Steptoe; the astonishing chutzpah of Don Estelle; Jimmy Clitheroe’s doomed bid for TV stardom; Irene Handl’s quite extraordinary second career as a novelist; a number of difficult sitcom co-starring relationships; and, for Christmas, the hitherto obscure role played by Cary Grant in promoting British comedy.

So…I hope you’ll move over with me to the new address. Just click here:


Few people these days remember Charlie Drake. He was one of the biggest stars of British comedy from the fifties through to the seventies, feted and fawned over by the great and the good, but he faded into obscurity long before his death in 2006, and, if he is recalled at all these days, it is probably only for the brief and blurry YouTube clip (264,905 views and counting) of him being knocked unconscious during a live TV broadcast back in 1961.

That incident, in fact, offers an intriguing insight into the forgotten man of British comedy, because, as with so many other aspects of his life and career, it is a story distorted by a myth of his own making.

The conventional account, repeated unquestioningly by most printed and online sources, is as follows: when a stunt went wrong during one of his shows, Drake cracked his skull, was in a coma for at least three days and did not work again for two years. Most of that, in truth, is at best an exaggeration and at worst patently untrue, but, in the peculiar life of Charlie Drake, such misinformation is very much the norm rather than the exception.

In the autumn of 1961, prior to the accident, the short, stocky, pug-like and, behind the scenes, notoriously pugnacious Charlie Drake was arguably at the peak in his career. He was an internationally celebrated star, heavily in demand on stage, television and movies, with his own high-profile sitcom on BBC TV, and was topping the latest tabloid readers’ polls – well ahead of the likes of Tony Hancock – as the country’s most popular comic.

With his red ringlet hair routinely bleached by buckets of whitewash, his tiny blue piglet-like eyes squinting through an endless succession of custard pies, a large and plump bottom that seemed custom-designed for cushioning pratfalls, and a strangulated soprano bleat of a voice that made his tweely undulating catchphrase, ‘Hello my darlings,’ sound creepily endearing, the comedian left some critics cold but won warm applause from the many lovers of no-nonsense knockabout comedy.

Standing no more than 5 foot and 1 inch tall, he was a strange little man, with a weighty sense of self-worth (he would describe one of his sketches as ‘the best nine minutes of television comedy that has ever been made or will ever be made’). Although his routines were undeniably physically-demanding (over the course of his career he would break several ribs and fingers, his right leg and left arm, and crack most of the bones in his neck and skull), most of them were derivative and one-dimensional, and yet he tended to talk about them all as though they were as innovative and inspired as anything conceived by the likes of Laurel and Hardy, Harold Lloyd or Buster Keaton. Always an eager and earnest self-promoter, he puffed up each programme with plenty of hot air, sticking august and solemn adjectives on to his run-of-the-mill routines like gothic sconces stuck on the walls of a post-war council house.

Spending his money almost as fast as he could earn it, he displayed all the trappings of fame with an overbearing sense of entitlement and preening pride. There would be flashy fast cars (boasting of one of them: ‘if you were to put a BMW, a Ferrari, MG Metro, 6R4, Porsche 911 Turbo SE, Rolls-Royce, Aston Martin and a couple of Mercs into a car blender, mix them at 170 mph, out would pop this dramatic, electronic-packed, all-powerful status symbol’), a state of the art cabin cruiser, a succession of glamorous homes, a wardrobe full of bespoke Savile Row clothes, and no fewer than fourteen Newmarket-stabled race horses, as well as, disturbingly, a string of very young girlfriends (‘I do seem to stick at seventeen,’ he once said. ‘They are much nicer at that age’).

His brand-conscious style of conversation also ensured that, for example, he would never simply sip a Scotch (he would instead partake a tipple of ‘Glenmorangie, that good sensible malt whisky’) or a glass or two of champagne (it would be ‘a couple of bottles of Dom Perignon’), and rather than merely say that he had enjoyed a pleasant dinner the previous evening, he would niggle his hard-working but under-paid crews by insisting upon mentioning the location (‘very exclusive’) and the menu (‘avocados stuffed with tender crab meat, lobster Thermidor, tiny minute steaks garnished with petit pois and mushrooms’ finished off with ‘raspberries soaked in Hine antique brandy’). He was a walking, talking advert, and the advert was always about Charlie Drake.

This air of pretentiousness had grown noticeably worse since the BBC had given Drake his biggest starring vehicle so far, The Charlie Drake Show, in 1960. Its instant success – it was the BBC’s first ‘comedy/variety’ show to reach the top ten of the viewing charts since ITV started competing in 1955 – had further inflated his ego, and, after two series, this mini-monster of a man had managed to irritate and alienate many of those who worked with him both in front of and behind the cameras.

Describing himself repeatedly as ‘the best slapstick comic in the world,’ he had not only taken to referring to himself in the third person, but also, far more bizarrely, in the third place: ‘Charlie Drake,’ he liked to say, lived in ‘Charlie Drake Land’.

When, for example, he was challenged about his creative judgement, he would respond by announcing that ‘Charlie Drake Land is painted black and white – greys sicken me’; when encountering an unwelcome rule, he would dismiss it by declaring that such a rule ‘did not apply in Charlie Drake Land’; when he felt that he had won an ally, he would pat them on the back and say approvingly, ‘It takes a lot of courage to enter Charlie Drake Land’; and when he lost a friend, or a wife, he would explain sadly that they ‘wanted to leave Charlie Drake Land’.

It was down to this egotistical attitude, and to the sheer professional hubris of the man, that so many of his peers, as well as even some of his current colleagues, longed to see him suffer a humbling setback or two. Few of them, however, would have wished on him the kind of calamity that was about to bring his career to such an abrupt and harrowing halt.

On a cold and damp Tuesday night at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire on 24 October 1961, Drake was due to star in the opening episode (entitled ‘Bingo Madness’) of the third series of his show. Broadcast live on BBCTV, it was a predictably conventional ‘little man versus big man’-style sitcom notable mainly for its basic and sometimes quite brutal slapstick, which usually involved the diminutive Drake slipping, sliding, falling or being smacked about by his supposed superior, climaxing each week with a more elaborate physical routine.

In this latest episode, however, that major scene would go badly wrong. During his usual tireless tour of the tabloids, Drake had drummed up interest in the scene in the days leading up to the broadcast, telling journalists excitedly that it was going to be ‘very big slapstick-wise, and very dangerous,’ adding that, although it had been ‘rehearsed to the Nth degree, if it doesn’t work I’ll break my neck’. Those words would soon come back to haunt him.

During the scene in question, his character, after being bullied by two much taller and more powerful men, was supposed to be pulled through a library bookcase, shattering the shelves as he went, and then thrown out of a window. It had gone perfectly well in the final morning’s rehearsal, so Drake, feeling satisfied, merely reminded the set men to make sure that all of the balsa wood shelves were gently glued in place and most definitely not nailed.

When the crew then broke for a well-earned lunch, however, a new team of carpenters arrived to finish the chores. Spotting what they thought was shoddy workmanship, they proceeded to secure all of the shelves with additional injections of glue along with nails hammered hard and fast. The head carpenter then walked around the bookcase, pulling and pushing each part of it to check that it was now absolutely secure, and then, with a satisfied rub of his hands, he took his men off to work in another studio.

Come the live recording, several hours later, the unsuspecting Drake went through the motions of each scene with his fellow actors, and then, during the final sequence, was duly pulled through the bookcase, straight into rock-hard shelves, and was immediately knocked unconscious. He was flat on the floor, covered in sawdust, a lifeless lump in a cheap Chaplin suit.

The sight surprised no one at the time. Charlie Drake, after all, was one of the most experienced exponents of fierce and fearless physical comedy in the world, a master of how to make each carefully-choreographed crash and collapse seem painfully vivid and real. It therefore only seemed like another example of his expertise when he completed the stunt with such bone-shaking authenticity.

His co-stars, still clearly oblivious to what had actually happened, thus continued with the scene in a similarly rough and tough manner. They duly bundled up the motionless body and, after struggling with the great weight of it, hurled it through a sugar-glass window, banging Drake’s head yet again in the process, this time on a stage-weight on the hidden side of the set.

Only seconds then passed, but, given how the scene had been timed so tightly during rehearsals, it must have seemed more like minutes to the team as they all waited for the next thing to happen. It was only when it became alarmingly obvious that the star was not ad-libbing and was not going to make his scheduled re-entrance that the director, Ronald Marsh, finally realising that something had gone badly wrong, started rolling the credits two minutes early, while the other two actors stood around awkwardly in front of the camera.

The BBC doctor, who was always kept in the studio during recordings in case of such emergencies, was then promptly summoned to the set, where Drake’s body laid still in the shadows. Diagnosing, somewhat optimistically, ‘a slight case of concussion,’ the doctor then arranged to accompany the comedian to the nearest hospital. The audience, both in the studio and in their homes, sat staring meanwhile with a mixture of amusement, puzzlement and alarm. ‘What,’ some of them wondered to each other, ‘did I just see?’

The incident was reported widely in the national newspapers the following morning. ‘Millions of viewers saw him motionless on the studio floor after a tricky slapstick sequence,’ reported the Daily Mirror, with the Daily Herald adding that ‘more than 2000’ of them ‘phoned the BBC to ask what happened’. A classic ‘water cooler moment,’ it was a common topic of conversation in shops, offices and factories all over the nation.

Drake had, in fact, fractured his skull and suffered severe concussion. In his own – predictably dramatically-enhanced – account that later appeared in his autobiography, Drake’s Progress, he would claim to have remained in a coma in a clinic for three solid days, but in reality he was unconscious for no more than ninety seconds. After undergoing tests and a ‘make sure’ X-ray, he was driven by the doctor from hospital back to his home, ‘Weir Ahead,’ on the Hamm Court Estate in Weybridge, Surrey, where he was put to bed. He spent what remained of the night drifting in and out of consciousness and sometimes being violently sick.

‘He’s not at all well,’ his young wife, Heather, told the crowd of reporters who had gathered outside the house the following morning. ‘The biggest lump you’ve ever seen [is] right across his forehead’. She then said, with a sigh and a sad shake of her head: ‘I can’t help thinking he’s living more dangerously than he need’.

In his later, ludicrously fanciful, retelling of this sequence of events, Drake had himself still languishing in an exclusive clinic (‘the one in which Liz Taylor stayed when she had her tracheotomy done’), and, when he eventually woke from his coma, was comforted not by his wife but by a ‘startlingly pretty Malaysian nurse,’ who crept into his room late one night, locked the door, and treated him to an erotic alcohol rub. ‘She removed my Turnbull and Asser white silk pyjamas,’ he would write breathlessly, ‘and stood for a few minutes just looking’. That, apparently, did the trick: ‘My happy muscle grew under her gaze,’ he panted, and, thanks to the fact that she had ‘a tongue like a magic wand,’ he ‘exploded’ back into life.

Back in the real world of October 1961, however, Drake stayed in his own bed, in his own home, under what was possibly the less arousing gaze of his wife. He was showing little improvement, but his publicists, anxious to play down the speculation that was spreading about the severity of the accident, put out the message that he was rapidly on the mend and ‘determined to be on TV again next week’. The truth, however, was that doctors were still seriously concerned about his health, and Drake had been ordered to rest indefinitely.

The BBC, although alerted to the worrying news about the comedian’s real condition, agreed to buy him and his family some time by stressing that his sitcom was merely ‘postponed,’ showing a repeat from the previous series in the slot reserved for the following week. Before it was even screened, however, on Tuesday 1 November, it had become patently clear to everyone involved that Drake was in far too fragile a state, mentally as well as physically, to carry on with any of his current professional commitments, and it was duly announced that his doctors had arranged for him to take a complete break in the London Clinic. It was also confirmed that he had withdrawn from the forthcoming Royal Variety Show, and that the rest of his BBC series had been cancelled.

It was a sign of how prominent a public figure he had become that the Queen, on a visit to the BBC’s Television Centre the following day, was reported as asking for further information about the accident and inquiring as to an update about his health, and, as the days went on, a sort of soap opera started in the tabloids concerning, usually with the pun intended, how hard the mishap had hit him.

On 6 November, for example, one paper reported that a ‘sad-faced’ Drake had lamented ‘I can’t remember my scripts’. On 15 November, it was revealed that he had left the London Clinic in order to complete his recuperation at home. On 27 November (so much for the mythical ‘two year retirement’), he was said to be feeling sufficiently well to be ready to start rehearsals for his lead role in the pantomime, Little Old King Cole, which was due to open at the London Palladium on 20 December. On 8 December, however, one tabloid quoted him as complaining that, as far as other potential employers were concerned, he was now considered an insurance risk: ‘No one will insure me. My accident put them off’.

On 11 December, Drake was back on television for the first time since his accident, as the subject of the BBC’s show This Is Your Life, but it proved an awkward encounter, with him ‘looking on disconsolately’ while the incident was shown on the screen again. After that he did the panto as promised, but once the season had been completed early in 1962 he still seemed a performer, and a person, in a strange and aimless daze.

In May of that year, he announced he was leaving the BBC – in spite of the considerable support and encouragement they had shown him – for ITV. In June, however, while appearing in summer season in Torquay, he was involved in a motoring accident in Bovey Tracey in Devon, where his very expensive new sports car – a Facel Vega – lurched off the road, through a hedge and down a railway embankment after his tyre burst while he was on his way to a golf course. His injuries, though not severe, forced him to cancel several performances.

Then things grew more peculiar. On 29 July 1962, when accepting his ‘Top Comic’ honour at the Daily Mirror Awards ceremony at the Café Royal in London, he stunned onlookers by saying at the end of a rambling and downbeat speech: ‘I am tired, very tired…I seem to be always in and out of the London Clinic. I haven’t enough money to live comfortably for the rest of my life, and I don’t know what I’m going to do. But I’m through with show business’.

He followed that bombshell a few days later by declaring that painting was his new ‘obsession’. Dressed self-consciously in a splattered smock, he invited a group of somewhat puzzled journalists to view his recent output, and pointed proudly at such works as ‘Crucifixion’ (a bold neo-Fauvist-style painting in deep oranges and reds), ‘And Then There Were None’ (a Lowryesque exercise in chiaroscuro) and ‘The Debutante’ (a Munch-like expressionist piece in pink, white and red).

As Drake sipped champagne and spoke grandly about the multiple meanings of each masterpiece, and the journalists raised their eyebrows, the scene brought to mind, with a painful sense of irony, Drake’s fellow comic Tony Hancock as the deluded would-be artist in The Rebel (released the previous year), moving gamely from one genre catastrophe to the next while his landlady Mrs Crevatte looks on in horror. ‘Once I start I can’t stop,’ said Drake excitedly. ‘I work right through the night ending maybe at five in the morning’.

In 1963, however, Drake suddenly executed a volte-face. In July, he announced that, although he continued to enjoy painting, he had decided that comedy was his proper vocation after all: ‘Financially I could give up show business,’ he averred, contradicting his earlier claims, ‘but I am happy only when I am trying to be funny’.

He proceeded to host a variety show – called The Charlie Drake Show – for ITV later that year, and would follow that with a new sitcom, The Worker, in 1965. His career went on as before.

The strange thing is, however, that he did not appear to have learned anything of consequence from all of the trauma of the previous two years. In Charlie Drake Land, it seemed, one was destined to keep doing the same things while expecting a different outcome.

It would come as no surprise, therefore, when the accidents kept on happening. Like a magician enslaved by his own tricks, Drake was now a prisoner of his own slapstick. He carried on hurting himself in the process of pretending to hurt himself.

In August 1964, for example, during a summer season in Blackpool, Drake was busy boasting about a new ‘dangerous’ slapstick routine that he was confident, if all went according to plan, would command a standing ovation.

It went ahead. It did not go according to plan.

The next day’s newspapers reported that Charlie Drake was back in hospital. He was, they said, suffering from concussion.

‘It’s very interesting but not commercial enough…’

That’s what people in publishing told me about what follows. And that’s why what follows, follows.

Most publishers – I’m tempted to say ‘all publishers’ but do please prove me wrong – are only interested in books about comedy if they’re about recent shows or stars (after all, it’s not as if this is an important genre, like political or literary or military or royal history, or ‘true crime,’ where the past, daringly, is allowed to stretch far beyond the last two decades), and only if those recent shows or stars are really, really, popular.

This is, quite frankly, naive. It is naive not only because most readers are actually quite capable of finding something interesting that predates the late teenage years of Joe Sugg, but also because the most successful shows or stars are not always, or even most often, the most interesting subjects for books.

One of the main reasons why they managed to be so successful is that they were so professional, so conscientious, so disciplined and so driven that nothing really happened apart from what they invested into the show. There are, of course, some notable exceptions, such as the infamously self-destructive Tony Hancock (a very popular star, m’lud, from the mid-1950s to the mid-60s), but generally the productions and people who put the most interesting things on the screen left the most boring things, in bookish terms, off it. As Prunella Scales told me about working on Fawlty Towers: ‘We just learned our lines, rehearsed the shows, worked really, really hard, and then went home again’.

The real crises, the real incidents, the real adventures, the real stories are actually to be found, more often than not, in the shows that struggled or failed, and in the stars who, on occasion, took a wrong turn or chose the wrong project. Those are the contexts for the really rich and vivid personality clashes, the personal failings and fights, the bitter and sometimes violent recriminations, the alcoholic and drug-related and sexual misdemeanours, the arrests and the cover-ups and the sackings and the sudden and desperate rebootings.

Everyone knows what went right. They want to know what went wrong.

Everyone knows what happened on the screen. They want to know what happened off it.

But no one, these days, wants to publish books about such things. They might well be interesting, but they’re not commercial enough.

Which is why I felt moved to start this blog.

But I have to be honest: I’m not a natural blogger. In fact, to be even more honest, I’d rather not blog at all. I’d much rather blog off.

But there are some tales that I’d like to tell, that I think are worth telling and worth sharing, and so, in the absence of another means of telling them, I’m going to try to tell them here – not regularly, but every now and again, as the mood takes me.

If there’s any interest in reading them, well, I will be delighted. If there is not, then this will all fade away very quickly indeed and no one – please God let that include Wikipedia – will be any the wiser.

So thank you for your curiosity. If anything intrigues you enough to comment on it, a quick Google will find my website and contact details. If nothing interests you, and strikes you not only as not commercial enough but also not very interesting, then I’m very sorry to have wasted your time.