Tom the Cat - destined never to be top dog

I’ve written before about the importance of cartoons in my childhood viewing repertoire. Somehow The Flintstones passed me by, but I had a soft spot for Bugs Bunny and Top Cat,  two characters full of mischief and playful personalities designed to appeal to children of all ages, not only those under sixteen. Disney Time was a Bank Holiday staple in our household, featuring excerpts from Dumbo, The Jungle Book, Cinderella, etc, while the surreal humour of The Pink Panther Show also tickled my fancy. 

It’s also evident from my first diary, maintained throughout 1973, that I remained an avid viewer of Wacky Races ‘til at least the age of twelve. I would feel immense sympathy for the cowardly canine Muttley, destined never to take the chequered flag with his despicable associate Dick Dastardly. However, as a lynchpin of my youthful TV watching, it’s a cat, not dog, who stands head and shoulders above the rest. 

Poor Tom. His was a head which was frequently battered, flattened and generally grossly mistreated for our entertainment. The same was also true of every other part of his body, from toes to tail. Of course, we were encouraged to root for plucky Jerry the mouse, whose superior cunning usually compensated for his lack of size. Jerry the underdog? Not a bit of it: if a cat could be an underdog, Tom fitted the bill perfectly and he had my unwavering support. Indeed, my appreciation of the cartoons was in inverse proportion to the damage inflicted on Tom. Regardless of the animation quality and amusing routines, I found it difficult to enjoy any film which had him humiliated and outwitted not only by Jerry but also other revolting rodents and even a cute little duckling in Little Quacker. 

Dozens of these films were churned out by MGM in the late forties and early fifties, several of them scooping actual Oscars. Fortunately the American Academy tended to reward the ones which went beyond a mere sequence of violent set-pieces. Two examples were set, not in an anonymous semi-rural house redolent of the Deep South, but in an historic setting. The basic plot of ‘Tom chases Jerry, Jerry gets the better of Tom’ was essentially intact but both Johann Mouse and The Two Mouseketeers also included some particularly clever ideas and delightfully delivered visual gags. 

Tom and Jerry cartoons could appear in the BBC1 schedule just about anywhere and anytime when children were expected to watch, in those days probably no later than 7pm by which junction all youngsters were of course safely tucked up in bed. T&J were most likely to fill gaps in schedules early on a Saturday evening. If lucky, there might be a double-bill stretching to twenty minutes. Of course, depending on what happened to Tom, that could herald a teatime treat or toe-curling torture. My 1973 Slumberland diary offered little space for real insights into personal observations on life, yet I always found room to note the titles of each T&J cartoon I watched, along with a rating. These were on a scale of A+ to E-, although I don’t think anything warranted either extreme. 

The worst scores tended to be given for the more ‘modern’, 1960s versions of the franchise. I’d know immediately. If the opening credits didn’t include the names of Hanna and Barbera as directors, Scott Bradley behind the music and the full-screen signature of producer Fred Quimby, my heart tended to sink. Another giveaway was when Tom depicted as an overgrown kitten bounding on four legs. Such films rarely merited more than a C. In ’73, the highest values were attributed to That’s My Boy and The Truce Hurts. It’s no coincidence that both featured the two principals along with resident dog Spike (or occasionally Killer!). 

The introduction of a third character increased the possibility that sympathies would shift towards Tom, given that he would be the target of the ferocious canine. I think The Truce Hurts is probably the most fondly-remembered film of all, with its plot involving the three adversaries agreeing an uneasy peace to save further bloodshed. It all came to nought once the dog allocates to himself an unfairly huge portion of a steak. Was this a political allegory, given its 1948 production date? No matter; to this schoolboy it was highly satisfying stuff.  Even more gratifying were the all-too-rare instances when Tom and Jerry set aside their differences to defeat a common foe. In Old Rockin’ Chair Tom, the pair took revenge on a replacement cat introduced by the black housekeeper (we never saw her face) because the incumbent left a lot to be desired in the pest control department. Tom was unemployed, Jerry under greater threat so they united temporarily to restore the status quo. It’s been many years since I’ve seen T&J on the box. Perhaps they retain a place on specialist digital channels, or are they considered too violent for the twenty-first century little angels? I believe a new feature film is in preparation but I won’t be watching. The MGM-era Tom simply cannot be surpassed.

Steven Mackintosh - from there to here

One of the most watchable TV actors of the past two decades must be Steven Mackintosh. He doesn’t often command star status but, like many of my Treasures, he has the ability to elevate a mundane drama into something special. Too scrawny for romantic leads, he has tended to play supporting characters either on the fringes of society or cops you’re not sure whether or not to trust. 

To be honest, I’d forgotten one of his earliest appearances, although I had watched probably every episode. When Sue Townsend’s glorious Adrian Mole books were transferred to the small screen in the mid-Eighties, ITV bravely broadcast them in half-hour slots without a laughter track, which I considered the right decision. The casts were a curious blend of familiar adults (Bill Fraser, Beryl Reid, Stephen Moore, Julie Walters) and unknown teenagers. Whereas Gian Sammarco (Adrian) and Lindsay Stagg (Pandora) didn’t persevere with acting for very long, the boy who played his best friend Nigel in both The Secret Diary… and The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole. certainly did. Good choice. 

Thirty-three years later, he is almost unrecognisable, but I suppose that goes for most of us! In 1993, he was further transformed into a gay rock star in the BBC’s controversial adaptation of The Buddha of Suburbia. I found a lot of the hedonistic scenes uncomfortable to watch but was well worth persevering with. There were superficial similarities between Steven’s Charlie Kay and David Bowie, who was a big fan of author Hanif Kureishi and wrote the series soundtrack. 

Mackintosh also cropped up in relatively orthodox parts around that time. He was a PC in the excellent Between the Lines and sergeant in an Inspector Morse story. Since then, he has risen through the ranks, earning promotions with age. In 1998, he portrayed a missing vice squad officer in Peter Bowker’s engaging six-parter Undercover Heart, although Daniela Nardini and Lennie James probably had more screen time as the cops trying to find him. A decade later he had been promoted to Inspector for the worthy series Criminal Justice, starring Maxine Peake, followed quickly by elevation to DCI in the first series of Luther, at first the straight man to Idris Elba’s intriguingly unconventional lead character before going off the rails. 

For all his fictional TV career, Mackintosh just never seems to look older. The hair may have become a bit greyer and wispier, even running to stubble on that sharp chin, but he retains that distinctive slim, angular appearance. That youthful vibe helped when portraying a young man confronting the sexual abuse he suffered at a children’s home in BBC Wales’ harrowing film Care in 2000. It also earned him a BAFTA Best Actor nomination, with which I couldn’t quibble, although Michael Gambon inevitably took the honour. 

Unlike the veteran thesp, Steven Mackintosh possesses a very ordinary face, and I mean that as a compliment. Besides cops he is also an ideal actor for roles requiring anonymity, as in 2012’s Inside Men. The everyman air has also seen him well cast opposite bigger female stars.  He was Jane Horrocks’ neglected hubby in The Amazing Mrs Pritchard, which had the rather implausible premise of a supermarket manager running for Parliament and riding a tide of populism to become PM. Yes, I Know we have seen Donald Trump in the White House and Leicester City winning the Premier League, but this storyline stretched credibility to breaking point. 

A few years ago, he even co-starred with a global film star in Toni Collette. However, the ‘open marriage’ theme to Wanderlust was not altogether to Angie’s or my taste, given we were relative newly-weds! The acting was fine, and I empathised with Mackintosh’s character, but we didn’t persevere with the series beyond episode one. 

Also in 2018 he had an important part in Channel 4’s bleak adoption crime drama Kiri, although it was clearly a Sarah Lancashire vehicle, and in 2015 supported Emily Watson in the emotional 7/7 bombings film A Song For Jenny. I suppose this packed a more powerful punch for me given that I was travelling to work in London on that traumatic morning, and one of the victims lived a few streets away.  

Four years earlier he was in another drama based on the aftermath of an iconic terror attack, From There to Here. As he was playing the sleazy low-life brother of Philip Glenister. I felt this was Steven Mackintosh going back to his roots on the wrong side of the tracks. The series revealed his attempts to recoup debts making him an unwitting accomplice in the 1996 Manchester Arndale Centre explosion. Just another example illustrating Steven’s supporting actor golden touch.

Beard, Banjo and Banter - Sir Billy Connolly

1975 was a strange year for pop music. Pitched against the Bay City Rollers, Rod Stewart, Queen et al, we had various novelty records. The Goodies and Jasper Carrott went Top 5 with their ‘Funky Gibbon’ and ‘Funky Moped’, while Windsor Davies and Don Estelle added some TV frivolity to an otherwise straight rendition of ‘Whispering Grass’, all the way to number one. Then, in November, along came a weird-looking Scot, providing alternative lyrics to Tammy Wynette’s recent hit ‘D.I.V.O.R.C.E.’. It, too, topped the UK charts and the performer certainly added a new dimension to Top of the Pops. 

His name was Billy Connolly, and he quickly became a nationwide media darling. His hit song wasn’t that funny – certainly not as hilarious as he seemed to think during his live TOTP act – but to a fourteen year-old he was a revelation. Actually I had seen him on television already not once but twice, although I’m not sure I’d made the connection straightaway. Earlier that year I’d almost certainly watched his leather-jacketed, vulgar debut on Parkinson in which we were introduced to Billy Connolly the comedian and one-time folk singer, already well-known in Scotland. In the autumn I’d also been shocked yet enthralled by Peter McDougall’s hard-hitting Play For Today, Just Another Saturday. Focussed on the sectarian divide in Glasgow prised open by the provocative Protestant marches, the drama featured Billy playing a version of himself, complete with what was, to the English, an almost incomprehensible accent.

So within a few short months I was appraised of this amazing entertainer who was to demonstrate many more strings to his bow (banjo?), of which more later. In the world of drama, he proved himself a very capable cinema star and in ’93 returned to the small screen in another McDougall dark comedy, Down Among The Big Boys. This time Billy played the lead role, as a seasoned armed robber, but his natural sense of fun also came in handy. 

It also earned him a few early Eighties guest slots on The Kenny Everett Television Show and that fave show of mine and my fellow university students, Not The Nine o’Clock News. They include this amusing skit opposite his future wife Pamela Stephenson mangling her words as Janet Street-Porter, and as another formulaic guest being interviewed by a sycophantic Rowan Atkinson. Of course, Billy has been a chat show regular for yonks. Nobody appeared on more Michael Parkinson programmes, and when he was advertised as being on the bill, I knew I would definitely be staying up late after Match of the Day! There he was again on Saturday Night Clive in 1990 and Melvyn Bragg was guaranteed a huge audience for his South Bank Show when Connolly was the subject. 

I think I saw one such edition in 1979, then again in 1992 by which time he’d shaved off his distinctive beard. Billy Connolly was the ideal arts show guest. Besides a genial comic genius, he was riveting when describing his childhood, mining even the bleakest moments for humour. He has also always been particularly intelligent and articulate on more serious subjects such as mental health, happy to venture beyond the safe, crowd-pleasing anecdote. 

And yet what so many of us love about him is his straight-talking. I’m no fan of his old booze and cocaine lifestyle but he can always be relied upon for saying what many are thinking, however politically-incorrect, even on a live awards show. He has never been afraid to show his emotions either, as during a Live Aid break following one of the harrowing reports from Africa. Of course, being the trooper he is, Billy recovered sufficiently to introduce his friend Elton John. 

He may have experienced a poverty-stricken upbringing but by the mid-Eighties he seemed very much at home amongst the biggest names in global entertainment. I don’t think Elton was in the ITV studio but another of Billy’s landmark TV triumphs was on An Audience With…Billy Connolly, also in 1985. There have been many ‘Audience With…s’ since then, featuring a gallery of contemporary celebs (Ooh, there’s Angela Rippon and that bloke from ‘Bulman’!), but Connolly set the bar ludicrously high, at a level perhaps only Victoria Wood in her prime could reach. 

In the ‘90s he struck a deal with the Beeb to make a few series which melded beautifully Connolly the stand-up and Connolly the perfect travel companion. Michael Palin was terribly nice but you felt the Scot would take you further off the beaten track and do so with wry or withering comments. His ‘World Tour of Scotland’ was for me essential viewing. It showcased not only hilarious excerpts from his comedy tour but also his appreciation of the world beyond the theatres, especially the great outdoors, the wilder the better! Several years later, it was during his World Tour of England, Wales and Ireland that I first heard his observation that “There’s no such thing as bad weather, only the wrong clothes”, a motivational remark which even merited a card on the wall of a Somerset County Council conference room. He was also informative and often used his own ancestry to lure us in to his adventures,

Billy’s love of folk music was never far from the surface, as on his travels around Australia, New Zealand and the USA, where he bestrode a motorised trike along Route 66 resembling a superannuated extra from ‘Easy Rider’. My only quibble concerns his obsession with playing the banjo. Now, I’m not dissing the instrument, nor Connolly’s clearly proficient playing, but he never misses a chance to whip it out in every pub, bothy or bar, even his freezing tent on A Scot in the Arctic. Stick to the jokes and history lessons, please, Bill! 

But that’s the wonderful thing about Billy Connolly. He just appears to be so at ease with people - the more unconventional the better – and he brings out the same in them. Of course he may be a very different person away from the camera but he never fails to entertain on the small screen. I have seen various leading comedians live on stage but Connolly is The One That Got Away. I still regret making the effort to secure a few tickets to watch the master in action. Given his Parkinson’s diagnosis, this regret will never be rectified. Kay, Izzard, Bishop, they all ‘own’ the auditorium but Billy seems the most effortless, and owns not just an audience as a single entity but each individual in it.

One of his most memorable TV performances came, with appropriate post-watershed language, on the night of BBC’s inaugural Comic Relief in 1986. Well before the Big Yin’s series Down Under, he was particularly insightful and mirthful on the subject of Australia, but it’s his whole joyous personality that’s on display. I can think of no other comedian who leaves me not only laughing but involuntarily imitating (extremely badly, of course) his Scottish accent, speech rhythms and beard strokes. I cannae help it, y’know…. That’s the magnetic personality unique to the living legend called Billy Connolly.

Starring Tara Fitzgerald

I really can’t put my finger on specific reasons why I have selected Tara Fitzgerald as one of my Treasures. A sensuous mouth alone is not enough. It’s not as if she specialises in one of my favourite television genres. Nor can I recall her playing many characters I can recognise or with whom I can identify. Her early roles always seemed to involve smoking – not an appealing trait – a habit which may have contributed to Tara’s unusually deep vocal timbre. And yet…

Back in the Nineties, Fitzgerald developed a reputation as a classical stage actor and star of independent films, while her early TV work was primarily in productions more suited to Mum and Dad than me. I’m sure I only saw her in Channel 4’s 1982 serial The Camomile Lawn because of the massive controversy stirred by the prudish Daily Mail brigade, and in the Beeb’s Anglo-Saxon Attitudes the same year as Dad was particularly predisposed to the work of novelist Angus Wilson. 

She has also donned many a bonnet and corset over the years, and Mum would almost certainly have admired her in Jane Eyre and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, along with The Virgin Queen in 2006. My only recollection of watching Tara in a costume drama was as Daphne du Maurier’s wild-haired headstrong heroine in Frenchman’s Creek, a sort of posh Poldark on the high seas. 

All very tempestuous stuff but I had already been slightly smitten during Channel 4’s broadcast of their Film 4 production Brassed Off in 1996, with not a ripped bodice in sight. Set in the mid-Eighties miners’ strike, it was part love letter to colliery band music, part comedy, part political drama and part romance. The latter featured Ewan McGregor and Fitzgerald, whose arrival in a traditionally male brass band as undercover Coal Board spy and talented flugelhorn player raised more than a few eyebrows. Who can forget the fleeting coffee invitation scene, as seductive as any in the entire history of cinema?! I don’t think it was Ewan’s tenor horn she was after…. 

Probably Tara Fitzgerald’s most enduring role was as forensic scientist Eve Lockhart in Waking the Dead. Her Victorian dresses and band uniform replaced by a bland lab coat, she slipped organically into the established cast led by fellow Treasures Sue Johnston and Trevor Eve and even reprised the part in a spin-off The Body Farm. Unfortunately its Tuesday night slot clashed with my choir rehearsals and I couldn’t be arsed to video it. Sorry, Tara. In any case, feeble audience figures meant it wasn’t re-commissioned and that was that. 

In 2014 she portrayed a lesbian character in series one of Kay Mellor’s drama In The Club. While not one of the leading parts, her Susie was a crucial link in the complex chain of relationships woven throughout the absorbing programme. This proved to be the last time I recall seeing Fitzgerald as a well-rounded modern woman, but she has popped up in several programmes requiring an uptight or downright creepy middle-aged matron, usually resident of a creaking mansion. 

There was 2018’s spooky Welsh thriller Requiem, in which Tara played an antiques dealer interested in the supernatural, also reminiscent of her part in an older Murder In Mind episode set in a Victorian haunted house. She was the socialite suspect Tansy in the excellent first TV outing of Cormoran Strike in The Cuckoo’s Calling and an admirably aristocratic Lady Hermione in the recent atmospheric adaptation of Agatha Christie’s The ABC Murders. 

Such has been her inclination towards haughty, husky-voiced, hard-faced biddies that I was amazed to be reminded that Tara Fitzgerald is still only 53, which leaves her many decades more to play dowager duchesses and flirtatious silk stockings nostalgic for their youth. So what is it which has secured her Treasure status? In the end, I reckon it must be her ability, without resort to quirks or exaggerated mannerisms (that’s you, Shirley Henderson!), to steal scenes at will. I should endeavour to catch her future performances but I do draw the line at re-runs of Game of Thrones.

It's Garry Shandling's Turn.....

I’ve never been one for American comedies. In the Sixties the abundance of imports like Dick van Dyke, Lucille Ball and Green Acres left my young self cold, although I did have a sweet spot for Bewitched! In the Seventies, I shared Dad’s love of the old Sergeant Bilko episodes, and we all appreciated M*A*S*H, but not much else from the US of A made us chuckle, let alone split our sides. The Eighties didn’t offer much more either, but maybe I didn’t give them a genuine opportunity. 

Trailers for BBC2 and Channel 4 teatime fare such as The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, Diff’rent Strokes and The Cosby Show never appealed, in part because of the wild laughter which seemed to follow every line, whether – to me - it was funny or not. I did try to watch Friends once but couldn’t stick with it; so prominent was the constant whooping from the studio audience that I felt like a guest at a party where I knew nobody and everyone else were best buddies. Perhaps I just wasn’t attuned to what makes Americans laugh. 

Then, one Sunday night in 1987 I happened across It’s Garry Shandling’s Show on BBC2. I evidently harboured low expectations because my diary entry summed it up as “surprisingly watchable”. Well, from such faint praise grew a deep affection. It was like nothing I’d seen before. Yes, there was irritating studio hilarity, but the live audience was very much part of each show, as were the crew. And then there was the star himself. 

I’d never heard of Garry Shandling, blissfully unaware of his reputation as a stand-up comedian and occasional guest host of NBC’s huge Tonight show. However, I quickly warmed to his somewhat gauche, self-obsessed TV celebrity persona amidst the organised chaos of the show’s format. Basically it subverted the whole sitcom genre. First and foremost, it smashed the ‘fourth wall’, addressing viewers directly - like Mrs Brown’s Boys, only funny - and even physically involving them in scenes. I particularly loved the idea of Garry driving a toy electric car from one set to another! And then it wasn’t entitled The Garry Shandling Show, but It’s Garry Shandling’s Show, that apostrophe a subtle but vital contribution to the gag. 

Most scenes purported to be in Garry’s own Californian condo living room but the cast knew they were part of a TV show. There were plenty of guest stars, but their names, like many of the cultural and TV references in the script, were way over my head. Yet it didn’t matter. Each show would begin with an opening skit or monologue prior to the jaunty, almost childish theme song. My favourite was when the star actually led the audience in performing it. Such were the Gordian knots weaved by the show’s premise that one memorable storyline had Garry facing eviction for broadcasting the TV show from his condo (actually a stage set based on his actual home – keep up!) because it broke the fictional condo association rules. Priceless. 

Apparently, the real-life Shandling was offered the lucrative roles of replacing Johnny Carson, then David Letterman, as one of the States’ top Saturday night chat show hosts but he turned both down. Instead his next triumphant series featured himself in a parody of a top Saturday night chat show, The Larry Sanders Show. And I’d like to thank BBC2 for broadcasting it over here, albeit in a graveyard slot, otherwise I’d probably never have watched it. Nobody else I knew saw it, so it felt like my own private pleasure. 

Unlike Garry’s previous programme, Larry Sanders… was for proper grown-ups. It had very naughty words and occasionally featured what we’d euphemistically call ‘adult themes’. However, Shandling’s character, similar to Steve Coogan in The Trip, was a more neurotic, vein and venal version of himself. Larry – not Garry, remember! – was simultaneously an insensitive, pompous prick and vulnerable celeb trying to maintain his position at the top of a notoriously greasy media pole. One false move, and you’re toast, and his slimy sidekick Hank, played by Jeffrey Tambor, was ready to pounce, although he was nowhere near good enough. 

It appeared to be a fairly realistic depiction of television ego battles, whether in producer Rip Torn’s office, the writers’ room or even on the set during commercial breaks. The awkward interlude with the excellent ‘studio guest’ Robin Williams playing himself was especially brilliant. All the characters were well rounded and I thought Shandling’s acting superb. Awards boards tended to agree, and the show earned multiple acting/writing nominations for Emmys and Golden Globes. 

I don’t recall seeing Garry Shandling on any other programme broadcast over here. He presented the annual celebfests such as the Grammys and Emmys, though not the Oscars, but if he appeared on UK chat shows I must have missed them. When he died in 2016, aged just 66, I only found out by means of a single-column obituary in, probably, The Guardian. Don’t worry, Garry; you’ve received the ultimate accolade of being one of this Brit’s TV Treasures.

John Cole - making political reporting palatable

There have been so many memorable TV reporters/journalists over the years, it’s extremely difficult singling out one as a ‘Treasure’. Before I developed a personal interest in economics or politics, it was the war correspondents who first made an impression on me. What young boy would not have been left boggle-eyed at Julian Pettifer in Vietnam or Martin Bell in Belfast or Beirut cowering in flak jackets beside crumbling masonry with bullets and shells fizzing around their ears, all for our information and entertainment? It was dramatic stuff. 

Later there was a stony-faced Brian Hanrahan in the South Atlantic counting out warplanes from a carrier and counting them all back, Jeremy Bowen bravely telling it as it is in the Middle East, a youthful Rageh Omaar in Iraq, John Simpson liberating Kabul in a burkah and Kate Adie risking her life reporting from Libya, Yugoslavia, Tiananmen Square, and just about everywhere else where it was all kicking off. 

There’s nothing like a good crisis to make the name of a TV correspondent as they appear every night, these days often live, to explain the issues. Mark Tully was for years the face and voice of the BBC in India, with all its political and natural disasters and Martin Sixsmith our trusted man in Moscow during the Soviet Union’s collapse. In recent years, the bright-eyed Katya Adler has been brilliant at capturing the intricacies and idiocies of Brexit from Brussels and of course now we have David Shukman (Science), Fergus Walsh (Medical) and the wonderfully calm and measured tones of Hugh Pym relating how the Coronavirus impacts on our health. 

We researchers used to moan constantly at journalists’ tendency to misuse and abuse statistics but I still make an exception of the Beeb’s Home Affairs editor, Mark Easton, who also seems unfazed when interacting with ‘real’ people, and not just politicians or police chiefs. My estimation for Washington’s Jon Sopel also rose several notches when a newly-elected Trump laid into him at press conferences, presumably because he didn’t fawn at his feet and take his blatant lies at face value. Other memorable specialists include Reg Turnill who, back in the 1960s/70s, would frequently appear on news bulletins with models of Concorde, space rockets and landing modules, and Professor Branestawm lookalike Will Gompertz on the Arts. 

I also had a soft spot for Evan Davis who, provided you ignored his odd-shaped facial features, had a rare gift for explaining economics and business to the layman and woman. On the same subject, Robert Peston was temporarily a breath of fresh air before becoming a parody of himself, a Spitting Image puppet in human form. I also enjoyed the jovial Declan Curry’s business bulletins on BBC Breakfast News in the Noughties and the modern down-to-earth, sleeves-rolled-up reporting style of current Business correspondent Simon Jack. 

The more old-school, long-form filmed features by Fergal Keane are always thoughtful and incisive, and I vividly recall George Alagiah’s heartrending reports from Sri Lanka as it reeled from the devastating tsunami in 2004. I totally appreciate the value of the TV journo as neutral observer, but sometimes a personal angle draws you into a story more deeply, as exemplified by the aforementioned duo and more recently Clive Myrie’s informed pieces on institutional racism in the USA. 

However, when it comes to recurring appearances on our nightly bulletins, the political correspondents are TV royalty. The Beeb’s current political editor Laura Kuenssberg has been blessed with umpteen elections and parliamentary crises on her watch. While she’s undoubtedly sharp as a whole box of tacks, I find her hard to warm to. Nick Robinson was a rare recruit from ITN but made for a likeable and well-informed broadcaster, as was Andrew Marr who, despite his 2013 stroke, remains an interviewing force to be reckoned with on his Sunday morning show. Marr came to TV from the newspaper industry, as did the redoubtable John Cole. 

For eleven long years, his over-sized glasses and steel-grey curls dominated BBC news bulletins. In particular, Cole’s broad Belfast accent contrasted with the Oxbridge voices I’d become accustomed to hearing on the telly, but the rest of Britain managed to tune in and came to love his personality and articulacy when talking about Thatcher-era politics. 

Apparently he hated the accompanying celebrity, including his incomprehensible ‘Spitting Image’, but he was one of the rare breed of journalists who transferred from the Print medium late in his career (already in his fifties) to great acclaim. Whether he was commenting on the Labour party’s troubles, Thatcher’s rise and fall or the 1982 Falklands War debates, his broadcasts live from Westminster always demanded my attention. It’s a shame that it was a live piece to camera by his deputy John Sergeant that was suddenly interrupted by the PM to announce her resignation but you can’t win ‘em all. 

With such wide political divisions in the UK throughout the Eighties, it speaks volumes for John Cole that he retained the respect of most politicians on all parts of the spectrum. With his Northern Ireland heritage, he also managed to tread the fine line between the sectarian extremists during the Troubles. News broadcasting has progressed in the last thirty years but I reckon John Cole would fit in as perfectly now as he did back then: a true TV great.

Arise Sir Lenworth of Dudley!

Lots of comedians have ‘larger than life’ personalities.  It’s nothing new. But when you’re 6 foot 3 or thereabouts, Lenny Henry was always going to be noticed. And still he would wear over-sized suits, just to rub it in. Then, of course, he’s black. It’s been ages since I’ve thought of Lenny as ‘black’; he’s just Lenny Henry. But on Seventies television, black faces were rare. I recall Charlie Williams taking over from Bob Monkhouse on The Golden Shot, a brave move. 

And yet a sixteen year-old from Dudley, son of Jamaican immigrants, could do impressions of Frank Spencer and actually win talent show New Faces. He must have been special. Now, we didn’t watch much ITV in our house so I didn’t witness this phenomenon for myself. Nor did I see his role in the first all-black sitcom The Fosters, nor even the anarchic Saturday morning kids’ show Tiswas. However, by the time I was leaving university he had already honed some of his most famous impressions and comedy characters, which would appear periodically like old friends for years to come. His David Bellamy and ‘Trevor McDoughnut’ were legendary. 

Fortunately for me, his first real break as a primetime light entertainment star came on the Beeb, alongside Tracey Ullman and David Copperfield (no, not the magician) in Three of a Kind. Through the lens of a twenty-first-century telescope, it all seems rather tame but at the time it seemed quite fresh and new. There were some amusing sketches and spoofs of big shows of the time but some of the best material manifested itself in the music parodies. Sorry, Len, but this was Tracey’s playground. Whether ‘doing’ Toyah or all of Bananarama, she was the bee’s knees. However, Lenny Henry always seemed to possess a love of music and this was evident from his subsequent TV career, especially in the Eighties. 

For all his daft pastiches of Michael Jackson, Prince and Stevie Wonder, Lenny possessed a passable soul voice which for a while he seemed to demonstrate at every opportunity. Channel 4’s Saturday Live was renowned as a vehicle for new ‘alternative comedy’, hosted by sparkly-suited Ben Elton and featuring the Comic Strip crew, Harry Enfield, Julian Clary et al. However, as a comedian, Lenny has never been ‘alternative’. Even his edginess seemed to have rounded corners. However, Ben Elton couldn’t sing so it was down to Lenny to give the songs of Sam Cooke and others a good go on live TV. In 1988 and 1990 he was the principal host of huge Wembley concerts celebrating Nelson Mandela, the first as political prisoner, the second as recently freed man. I’m not so naïve as to disregard his ethnicity as a factor in his getting the gig but Henry’s love of R’n’B and ability to entertain with vim and vigour were also irrefutable. On a less global scale, he has presented a few live Top of the Pops editions in his career, making a refreshing change from the likes of Bates, Brookes and Campbell. I can’t imagine Peter Powell or Mark Goodier introducing an act in the guise of Delbert Wilkins… 

I think the aforementioned fictional Brixton pirate radio DJ was Lenny Henry’s first foray into a sitcom whose success rested entirely in the comedian’s sizeable hands, although it was still called The Lenny Henry Show. At the time – it was the mid-Eighties – only Lenny could have pulled it off without accusations of racism or making fun of the growing urban sub-culture. Delbert Wilkins was a character you could laugh both at and with, and offered a diverting if not hilarious half-hour. One of Delbert’s favourite words, “Crucial”, gave its name to Henry’s Nineties production company which, amongst other things made three series of Chef. Lenny’s lead character Gareth was less sympathetic than Delbert had been which, in my eyes, made it a better watch. 

At Christmas 1993, Lenny Henry played an unconventional panto character brought to life in ITV’s Bernard and the Genie but by this time he was stretching himself in more serious dramas. Back in ’87, he was back in soul music mode for an enjoyable BBC2 thriller caper, Coast to Coast, portraying an unemployed mobile disco DJ, then four years later he was a drug dealer and addict in the more hard-hitting Screen Two, Alive and Kicking, alongside Robbie Coltrane. 

However, the first series which demonstrated to me that Lenny had genuine thespian credentials was Hope and Glory. Written by Lucy Gannon, he played a ‘super-head’ drafted in to save a failing inner-city school, using his maverick personality to win over staff, pupils and governors to achieve the goal. OK, so maybe the star was outshone in the acting stakes by Richard Griffiths, Clive Russell and Amanda Redman but I thought he was credible and held his own in such exalted company. 

More recently he was just as believable as one of many suspects in the third and final series of the brilliant Broadchurch and as the slightly bewildered Godfrey, who has Asperger’s, in Kay Mellor’s The Syndicate. Obviously this is a serious mental health condition but it lent itself to some light-hearted scenes for which Lenny was admirably well suited. Then earlier this year a strikingly svelte Mr H appeared as an evil billionaire in none other than Doctor Who. This was something of a transformation given his portrayal of a black Doctor (when the Time Lord played by anything other than a white male was unthinkable!) 35 years earlier. 

Lenny’s sketch shows have occasionally been revived over the years with limited success. I remember seeing his live tour at the Cliffs Pavilion, Westcliff in ’93, which also reminded me what an engaging ‘stand-up’ he could be, and in 2000 he was back on BBC1 in Lenny Henry In Pieces, introducing a few memorable characters more appropriate to the more mature comedian. I was also delighted this year to learn that his blend of new and familiar voices were back at the Beeb - on Radio 4.

I’ve enjoyed watching him in other guises, too, whether hosting The Magicians in 2011 or flogging Premier Inn on assorted ads but even now I cannot disassociate him from Comic Relief. Forget Ross, Rhys Jones, Whitehall, McCall, McGuinness, French or Saunders: Red Nose Day is Lenny Henry! Whether he’s enthusiastically drumming up donations, doing a serious film report from Africa or performing hilarious rehearsed sketches, he has helmed the Beeb’s biennial fundraiser for well over thirty years making us feel good about getting involved, be it texting a tenner or baking cherry-topped biscuits for sale in the High Street.

One of his most popular characters is Theophilus P Wildebeest, In part homage to sexy-voiced soul legend Teddy Pendergrass, this guise was guaranteed to embarrass some unsuspecting female in the audience. And not only on Comic Relief, as my sister can attest!                                                          

Now deservedly a KBE, Sir Lenworth, undoubtedly paved the way for a host of black British comedians on our screens. He may never be quite as edgy or cool as Felix Dexter, Richard Blackwood, Gina Yashere or Mo Gilligan, but the tall dude from Dudley has become part of our mainstream media culture. His status has enabled him to speak out on political race issues close to his heart, and understandably so, but it’s the Lenny with that ear-to-ear grin and smart suit which I’ll treasure the most.