What Happened Next?

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#89: A Question Of Sport

When I was fourteen, I got locked out of my house. It sounds like a stupid mistake, but it was quite understandable given the circumstances. You see, I was in shock.

That afternoon, I had spent a largely pleasant time in the company of M and his sister E. My mother was in the process of decorating the house and none of the upstairs doors had handles fitted. To get into each room you had to perform a manoeuvre that involved pressing down on the metal bar from the handle mechanism and twisting it to the right. Looking back, it might have been better if my mother had just removed the doors completely, but then that’s hindsight for you.

At the time, I had two of the upstairs rooms to myself. The front room was my bedroom. It literally just had a bed and a wardrobe inside. The back room was like some sort of teenage bachelor pad. It had a television (of course), a music system, computer games and piles of magazines.

M and I had been happily playing Subbuteo in the back room while E looked on. We were in the middle of the TV Stars World Cup - a competition devised by the two of us that involved naming the little plastic players after television personalities. It added a new dimension to the game. We even had a draw after each round of the competition. We would take turns to choose pieces of paper out of M’s shoe. This would lead to such unlikely match-ups as The Bill versus Good Morning With Anne And Nick. I seem to remember DI Burnside committing a violent professional foul on Anne Diamond that led to his sending-off. I also recollect Gloria Hunniford being flicked into one side of the goal post, resulting in one of her legs snapping off. You don’t see that during Soccer Six. Unfortunately.

So M and I were engrossed in our tournament. We were commentating on the proceedings in the guise of our alter-egos Jimmy and Ralph (they just seemed like typical commentator names at the time) and having a generally enjoyable time.

But then E started kicking me, and giggled each time. Now, I’ll admit it, I wasn’t wise to the flirting techniques of teenage girls at the time. I saw it as a gross invasion of my privacy (after all, Elton Welsby never had to put up with behaviour like that on ITV‘s Results Service) and asked her to desist. This, inevitably, made her do it even more frequently.

After some time, I stood up and retired to my bedroom. Teenage girls sure know how to kick hard, and I was coming out in bruises. Next thing I knew, E had followed me in and the door slammed behind her. I heard an evil cackle of laughter from outside the door as M removed the metal bar from the door. I was trapped.

I’ll level with you all, I was a bit scared. E began telling me that she had fancied me for ages and wanted to ask me out. Typical me, I presumed she was taking the piss. I was still in my slightly chubby phase and was rather confused as to why anybody would find me attractive. It didn’t help that M had started playing the third disc from Status Quo’s From The Makers Of… box set at full volume in the other room. That’s enough to make anybody have trouble thinking.

And then it happened. As M bellowed along to the lyrics of Roll Over Lay Down (probably while strumming along on a tennis racquet), I found myself being pushed against the chimney breast by E who then proceeded to snog my face off.

Now I’m not one to brag, but E was regarded as one of the hottest girls in our year. I didn’t actually agree with this critique (I much preferred VP or JD) but I suddenly felt a sense of pride that the unlikeliest boy in the entire school was kissing the girl that everybody else wanted. However, it then hit me; “nobody’s going to believe me” (and indeed, nobody did believe me until E verified my claim at my infamous house party of 1997 - some three years later - but more on that at a later date).

I pushed E away from me and we both stood there, staring at each other. The silence was interrupted by M “unlocking” the door and bursting into the room for an impromptu air guitar performance of the solo from Don’t Drive My Car. E shouted at him and chased him downstairs. I followed close behind. Our chase spilled out on to the driveway. Without thinking, I slammed the front door behind me. I didn’t have my keys on me and my mother had gone shopping at B&Q then on to a restaurant (well, it makes a change from dinner and a show I suppose). As the opening bars of Over The Edge boomed from upstairs, I knew I had made a grave mistake.

It was then that the three of us burst into uncontrollable laughter. All stress and confusion was forgotten and M said that I could go to his house up the road until my mother returned home.

When we arrived at Chez M, E made her excuses and retired to her room. We never spoke about the matter again, even though we later had Welsh lessons together (literally, there were only three of us in the class) on a daily basis for two years. M, however, was in the mood for more sporting action. This meant only one thing: A Question Of Sport - The Board Game.

I loved A Question Of Sport. I may not have been able to answer a lot of the questions, but I loved the atmosphere generated by the panel game. I enjoyed the locker-room mentality of the contestants and the stern manner in which David Coleman held the show together. He was like a strict headmaster with Ian Botham and Bill Beaumont as his naughty pupils.

As was always the case when playing the board game version of a television show, M and I could never just be ourselves. On this occasion, I drew the short straw and had to be addressed as Bill for the duration of the game, whilst M would only answer to “Beefy”.

Unfortunately, it took so long to get the plastic picture board set up properly, that no sooner had we started (with M correctly identifying Tessa Sanderson for two points, and me losing out by not being able to see that it was Ricardo Patrese bending over a barbed wire fence), M’s telephone rang. It was my mother. She had returned home and was wondering why the first line of Don’t Waste My Time was repeatedly skipping, yet nobody seemed to be home. We had to leave it there, but promised that we would resume our sporting battle another time. But do you know something? We never did get around to it. I’m sure I could have made an excellent comeback too.

Some months later, I was in the newsagents on Cornerswell Road in Penarth (it is now a beauty salon). I had some pocket money left over and was perusing their superb selection of ZX Spectrum titles. By that time, apart from John Menzies in Cardiff, Cornerswell Road was the only place that I could still buy games for my beloved machine. Imagine the joy on my face as I flicked through the titles: Gauntlet? Got it. The Munsters? Got it. Quattro Adventure? Got it. A Question Of Sport? Glory be! I do not have that!



Suffice to say, I handed over my £3 and ran home as fast as my legs would carry me. I was so excited that I almost forgot about my penny change. Almost.

As usual, it took ten minutes to load the game from the cassette tape but it was well worth the wait. I was presented with the loading screen and some musical accompaniment in the form of a digitised version of the theme tune. Then it was time to choose my character. Apart from some (actually quite good) computer generated versions of Coleman, Botham and Beaumont, all other characters were fictional. As I was very much a fan of Formula One, I always opted for an odd looking man with a mullet because that was his specialist subject. I believed that the questions would be in my favour and I would have no trouble winning. However, the digital Coleman would still stump me with over a dozen questions about English football in the sixties.



Of course, there is only so much information that can be stored on a cassette, so many questions would repeat themselves after numerous gaming sessions. I memorized each answer and was soon laughing manically as I whipped Bill Beaumont in to shape with my vastly superior knowledge.

There was one question in particular that repeatedly appeared. It was part of the “What Happened Next?” round (of course, in the television version the contestants are shown a video clip of a disastrous or amusing sporting event. The game gave a detailed description instead). It was as follows:

During a 1962 match between Tottenham Hotspur and Burnley, a dog ran on to the pitch. What happened next?

Three choices were then given:

A: The dog went on to score a winning goal.

B: Play was stopped until the dog was removed from the field.

C: The dog chased Jimmy Greaves who then shinnied up the goalpost.



Of course, the correct answer was B, but I always refused to select it. I had a much better vision of a petrified Greavsie climbing up a goalpost. However, no matter how many times I opted for that variation of the answer, it never became true. Even today, I’ll watch A Question Of Sport (now with Sue Barker as the strict headmistress and Ally McCoist and Matt Dawson as the naughty boys - that sounds like a porn film in the making) and hope that the Jimmy Greaves clip is shown, always clinging on to the slightest bit of hope that Elite Games got it wrong.

Ultimately however, A Question Of Sport is a reminder of my first steps into the world of sexual adventure. I don’t suppose that there are many people who can say that…

That Sunday Evening Feeling

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#90: Highway To Heaven

Many television theme tunes can take you back to certain points in your life. They can make you feel young again, remind you of somebody or just make you realise how much you hated a certain programme.

Highway To Heaven was broadcast on Sunday evenings (as such it is often confused with Harry Secombe's Highway). Therefore, on the rare occasion that I hear the tune, it brings back that horrible Sunday evening feeling when you knew you had to have a bath and go to bed within the next few hours before starting the school week again in the morning. The theme to Last Of The Summer Wine used to have the same effect, but it has since been repeated so many times over the years that I just associate it with "God! Not that bloody show again!"

Maybe it's because Highway To Heaven has rarely been screened in over fifteen years, but I honestly think that if I heard that theme tune now, I would start packing the Good News Bible into my bag before digging out my old school uniform. And I don't think it still fits, which could be embarrassing.

Highway To Heaven was actually a pretty good show, even if it was the most depressing programme in the history of Sunday evenings. Michael Landon (a man whose face makes even the most hard-hearted person want to cry) played Jonathon Smith, an angel sent from heaven to help those in need. He had some help from a human on earth. His name was Mark Gordon, an ex-cop (played by Victor French) who looked uncannily like my next door neighbour JB.

Every episode was the same. Somebody would be at their lowest point, perhaps considering suicide or crime in order to get themselves out of a fix. Jonathon would be alerted by "The Boss" (that's God, by the way) and he and Mark would set out to show the poor sap the error of their ways. The aim of every episode seemed to be to get every viewer crying by the time the end titles began to roll. Our house must have kept Andrex in business for years. My mother would usually be in tears before the opening theme tune finished, my auntie would be choking back tears by the first commercial break, followed by me and my cousins. There's nothing like a Sunday blub-fest to prepare yourself for the week ahead.

One Christmas, I received a Casio keyboard that came with a book called Easy TV Theme Tunes. The only tune that I knew was Highway To Heaven. It was a simple piece, just a combination of C and F chords. I had mastered it by teatime and was playing it along to the built in Polka rhythm. It was quite the interpretation. So good in fact, that my family spent an hour of Christmas evening in tears. Needless to say, the book was put aside on Boxing Day and the incident was never spoken about again.

That's the power of a great television show.

The Clues Are There

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#91: Through The Keyhole

Through The Keyhole was always one of my favourite Friday evening programmes. The programme had it all. The wit of Sir David Frost (presenter), a Z-list celebrity panel (almost always featuring Lionel Blair, Eve Pollard and Richard Digance) and an uncomfortable invasion of privacy as Loyd Grossman took us on a secret snoop around the homes of celebrities.

Loyd Grossman has become something of a hero to me over the years. His dry sense of humour made programmes such as this (and Masterchef) all the more watchable. However, if you also add his delicious pasta sauces into the, ahem, mix then you've got a recipe (no more puns, I promise) for success.



Simply mouth-watering, and the sauce isn't bad either.

Of course, Loyd Grossman is also the man who dared to stand up to Christina Aguilera's sex antics during a stay at an Irish hotel. Whilst many of us would either put a pillow over our head to drown out her screams and moans, or go and knock on Christina's door and ask "any room for a small one?", Loyd had the courage to not only complain, but also to glare sternly in the young singer's direction.

That's why Loyd was the perfect man for the job on Through The Keyhole. Each tour of a celebrity's home would begin in the same way. Loyd would stride confidently up the driveway and let himself in. He would casually take off his jacket and hang it on the hat-stand (apparently you simply must have a hat-stand if you're a celebrity). He would then walk around the home, picking up the conveniently placed clues to the owner's identity (usually a garish painting of their hometown or a tacky ornament that they would obviously never own in real-life). And then he would end with those famous words: "Who would live in a house like this? David...it's over to you." That phrase would become a staple of every up-and-coming impressionist's act. Indeed, I do a great Grossman myself - "Ooooooh, Christina....would you kindly desist?"

The fun and games would begin in the studio. The viewers at home would be shown the identity of the home owner (almost always Freddie Starr). Each member of the panel would then have to decipher the clues. If they were on the right track ("I noticed that the owner has a lot of books - could they be an author?"), they would be greeted by clapping and cheering by the audience. If they were wrong ("I noticed that they have a kitchen - could they be a chef?"), they would be met with a deathly silence and tumbleweed blowing across the screen. Plus, Sir David would invariably laugh at them, making them feel even worse.

Eventually, either by skill or (more likely) Sir David telling them the answer, the mystery personality would be revealed. They would then appear in the studio for an interview about their home. This usually involved questions such as, "you have such an outgoing personality, does that explain the picture of a naked woman hanging in your hallway?" Eventually, the guest would be handed the Through The Keyhole Key - a huge foot-long gold key. How the audience laughed when the guest (again, usually Freddie Starr) held the key above their head and joked "this will never fit in my lock!"

It's an afternoon show now, with the lovely Lisa Snowdon instead of Loyd Grosman, but it's still a winning format that manages to convey a warm, comforting atmosphere. A bit like Loyd's pasta sauce, I suppose.

DOES.NOT.REGISTER

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#92: ITV Schools

I never really enjoyed school until I reached the sixth form (and that was only because of my new found popularity with the girls and more free time). Until then, school was just something that took me away from watching television for six hours. Not completely though, because schools programming provided a welcome break from normal lessons and a chance to sit in a musty old room watching a twenty-year-old Philips television set.

Many programmes were of a surprisingly high standard. Some employed the services of well-known personalities - it was obviously (and correctly) believed that we would pay more attention to somebody like Chris Tarrant (narrator of Stop, Look And Listen) than a wooden, patronising relic of a presenter left over from the early years of the BBC.

My primary school friends and I were particularly fond of ITV's schools programming (it later moved to Channel Four in order to make room for trivial (but fantastic) entertainment like Lucky Ladders and The Time, The Place). It wasn't that the programming was of a particularly high standard, but rather because ITV turned every programme into an event.

Once a week, we would be escorted to the television room in Victoria Primary in order to watch a history programme called How We Used To Live. The title says it all really. It consisted of dramatic reconstructions of previous stages in history, as well as interviews with the sort of people who like to spend their weekends re-enacting the Tudor Period and staying in character for the entire duration (rather like Mistress Sweet who took my Cultural Criticism seminar group around Llancaiach Fawr and managed to persuade S to get into bed with her "to illustrate a point").

Anyway, we would always have to arrive at the school's television room a good fifteen minutes in advance. This was partly because the teacher could never work out how to turn on the set and flick it to channel three. Did they not have a television at home? Was the school television the equivalent of one of those old cars that needed a man with a flag to wind it up with a handle beforehand? Whatever the reason, the teacher (after much arsing around and calling to the headmaster for assistance) would be left red-faced when a cheeky eight-year-old in a SuperTed T-Shirt managed to get the television up and running within thirty seconds and would program the primitive video recorder as an added bonus.

The other reason for our early arrival was because we all insisted on seeing the ITV Schools countdown clock (later just an animated screen) and singing along to its cheesy theme. I knew boys who broke down in tears when we missed it one week, so our teacher never made that mistake again. We would sit down (cross-legged of course) on the floor and eagerly await the clock. A cheer would greet its arrival. The music would begin and twenty-five boys and girls would break into song.

"BAH BAH BAH BA-BA-BAH, BAH BAH BAAAAAAH!"

"Be quiet, children!" the exasperated teacher would shout. "You don't want Mrs R coming down here and shouting at you!"

Of course, the threat would just make us sing even louder. Inevitably, when the programme actually started, a few over-eager kids would continue singing (usually the same jokers who would add an extra "of Kings" to the end of that hymn that goes "Sing Hosannah! Sing Hosannah! Sing Hosannah to the King of Kings!" just to annoy the pianist during morning assembly). The teacher soon got wise to this however, and would threaten them with a television ban the following week. That shut them up.

However, the jewel in the crown of schools programming was not an ITV show at all. Every Friday we would be treated to one of the BBC's best programmes ever. It's title? Look And Read.

For such a boring name, the show had it all. Annoying down-with-the-kids-and-not-too-patronising robot? Check (his name was Wordy).

Truly fantastic serialised stories? Check (There were many, but highlights included Geordie Racer (a story about a group of child pigeon racing enthusiasts in Newcastle who manage to catch a gang of criminals during the course of The Great North Run) and Dark Towers (a genuinely scary ghost story set in a haunted castle. I seem to remember a headless knight wandering the corridors. I had nightmares for weeks). Well written workbooks filled with questions about the stories that made you feel like you were a contestant on The Krypton Factor's observation round? Check.

However, the greatest thing about Look And Read were the educational (yet catchy) songs. These tunes, which had lyrics like "get everyone's attention with an exclamation mark!" and titles like Magic E would be accompanied by Wordy whizzing around the screen drawing exclamation marks, commas, apostrophes and "E"'s. They were my first lessons in writing and even now, I'll still recite the lyrics of Exclamation Mark in my head whenever I am unsure whether one is needed or not. Thank you, Wordy!

Of course, being a keen Welsh student throughout my school life, it would be criminal of me not to share some of Cymru's greatest additions to the genre. There were two of note. Now You're Talking was a straightforward listen-and-repeat Welsh tutorial show. It is still shown now and again on S4C (Welsh language channel) today, complete with early '90s hairstyles and fashions which are now rather distracting when trying to learn how to list the contents of your handbag, or how to order a meal at a Welsh restaurant. The best episode, in my opinion, was the one dedicated to illness. The producers hired the most over-the-top actor imaginable. When he said "O Mam, Mae bola tost da fi!" ("Oh Mother, I have a stomach ache!") you'd be forgiven for thinking that he was having a stroke. Still, it embedded the phrase in my memory and that, ultimately, is the sign of a good educational programme (whether intentional or not).

The other great Welsh offering was Starbec. This show was a serialised drama about a teenage alien who had fallen from space. Somehow, he managed to have impeccable English skills but decided that he would be better off learning Welsh. He even had a catchphrase - a robotic "DOES. NOT. REGISTER". He made friends with a teenage boy and girl (I thought she was rather foxy when I was fifteen). These two humans would (rather rudely) speak nothing but Welsh when in his company, so he spent most of each episode walking around Cardiff with a very confused look on his face. Almost every sentence would be met with "DOES.NOT.REGISTER" to the point where you wished he'd just hurry up and learn the bloody language or just give up and make friends with some English speaking chums - there are plenty of them around here. Still, "DOES.NOT.REGISTER" became the official catchphrase of Welsh lessons for the rest of my school life.

When I reached sixth form and took A Level Welsh, we were banned from speaking English for the entire duration of each lesson. Should one of us slip up (there were only three of us), our teacher would glare and say "DOES.NOT.REGISTER" until we repeated the sentence in Welsh. However, we all passed with flying colours which was a particularly good result considering that our Welsh Oral examiner had his flies undone for the entire exam and none of us could keep a straight face. It was such an ordeal for E that she almost threw up afterwards. Good times.

Schools programming is still going strong on both Channel Four and BBC2. I'll often have a look if I have nothing better to do, and it always amuses me to see some of the old shows still being aired. Geordie Racer, for example, is still a firm favourite. Maybe they can't be bothered to make any new material, or they don't think the old shows can be bettered. Either way, they're giving a whole new generation something to laugh about in a decade's time.

I Wouldn't Say My Mother-In-Law Is Fat, But...

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#93: The Comedians

After a heavy lunch which prevented any further fence-building, tree-planting, hole-digging, garage-tidying or any other type of Sunday activity, my family loved nothing more than sitting down in front of the television and watching one my step-father's numerous VHS tapes. The video cupboard was full of what could only be described as "a bit of blue." Not porn I hasten to add, but "adult" comedians. Dozens of "18" rated videos lined the shelf and were always deemed to be off-limits to me. I could never understand at the time why Frank Butcher from Eastenders was not suitable for family viewing, or why I couldn't watch a performance of that nice man from Bullseye. Instead, it was usually a Candid Camera marathon that would take us up to teatime. It stayed that way until I was fifteen.

Finally, in 1995, I decided that I could not take any more hidden camera action. There are only so many times that you can see a car without an engine being pushed into a petrol station (with hilarious results) before you want to kick in the television set. I voiced my opinion and was surprised to find that they agreed with me.

"We thought we might let you watch a compilation of some of the comedians to find out if you want to see them in full" said my mother, as she inserted The Best Of The Comedians (a '70s show that featured stand-up performances from people such as Mike Reid, Frank Carson, Jim Bowen et al) into the video machine. "It might be a bit rude though!"

As I sat there listening to mother-in-law jokes and near-the-knuckle tales of fictional sexual encounters, I had to wonder when the rude bits were going to begin. What my parents didn't know was that I had been watching "grown-up" comedy in the privacy of my bedroom for a couple of years. I was particularly fond of The Day Today and was enjoying Knowing Me, Knowing You (amongst other shows) each week. BBC2 and Channel Four were my two sources of comedy and shaped much of my personality and humour. I also loved Tarrant On TV which gave an insight into the naughtier aspects of television around the world (as well as the mandatory serious bit about AIDS before the commercial break which would always be met with a solemn silence from the studio audience). In addition to this, I had been reading (and watching) people like Clive James and Stephen Fry who were not entirely wholesome.

In comparison to that lot, The Comedians offered nothing that I had not heard before. However, there was something quite appealing about the old-fashioned atmosphere that was conveyed and I eventually found The Comedians to be quite, well, pleasurable.

I never really embraced the "blue" scene as much as my parents, though. They once went on a weekend break to Bournemouth in order to catch a rare performance by Jimmy Jones. He even got them up on stage and had a drink with them afterwards. I must admit that I was quite jealous that I didn't go with them. It sounded like they had a great time. M and I were so thrilled by their tales that we even went on a little trip to Bournemouth ourselves. Unfortunately, comedy season was pretty much over by then so it was a choice between Danny La Rue and Joe Pasquale. We went with Pasquale, who disappointed us by doing the exact same routine that he had done on Des O'Connor Tonight for the previous six years (and the same routine that he still does to this day). Still, we managed to track down a rare copy of Alan Lancaster's Life After Quo in HMV, then stumbled upon a topless beach and spotted many pairs of (to quote M) "perfectly formed breasts." It was therefore well worth the trip.

However, just as I was considering crossing over to "the blue side" a major event occurred. I was dragged along to a Jim Davidson performance at Cardiff's St David's Hall. I had enjoyed Jim on Big Break but I could never identify with him as a comedian. He gave a terrible performance that saw him complain about the sound level for the first third of the show, insult people in the audience for the second third and then finish off with some ill-advised political rants. We drove home from the concert in silence. The following day, my mother asked to borrow my Alan Partridge videos "just for a breath of fresh air."

I never got them back.

You're Turning Into Your Father

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#94: Cleopatra 2525

I was never a science fiction fan when I was younger. It was partly because my mother would glare at me and say "you're turning into your father" if I so much as glanced in the direction of Flight Of The Navigator.

I had been brought up to believe that this was the worst possible thing that could happen. My mother believed that all of the positive aspects of my personality came from her side and that all the negative aspects came from my estranged father (who I haven't seen since 1984).

In a way, I was like a science fiction character myself. A split personality - one to please my mother and one to please myself. Sometimes the two would get confused. I would find myself absent-mindedly proclaiming that I was looking forward to a rare screening of Smokey And The Bandit II on television, or I would perhaps sing along to a song by Dr Hook. These insights into my hidden-self would be met with a scowl and I would quickly redeem myself by saying how much I had enjoyed the previous week's Heartbeat.

As I got older, I realised that it didn't really matter if I did like the same things as my father. After all, it's not as if he was the only Burt Reynolds fan in the world. It could be just a coincidence. Anyway, even if my father really was carrying some sort of Smokey And The Bandit-loving gene, it was only natural that I would have inherited some of his characteristics. I pointed this out to my mother who replied "yeah, unfortunately" and I realised that I was never going to win. I kept up the pretence and still continue it today - I have one personality for her and one for everybody else. Sad, but it makes life a lot easier.

So, by the age of seventeen, I still regarded science fiction as off-limits. It's a genre that requires dedication or you may as well not bother. So I chose the latter. My limit was a game of Resident Evil on the PlayStation.

But then I met L - a huge science fiction fan. Not in that single-minded way where sci-fi is life and the rest is just details, but just in a way where she could happily spend a Saturday afternoon watching Dark Angel or The Tribe and maybe dress up as Princess Leia on special occasions.

Just as my love of Status Quo and Carry On films rubbed off on her, so her love of sci-fi began to draw me in. I fought it at first, but then she pointed out how many sci-fi films and programmes feature attractive ladies in very short skirts. I was beginning to see the attraction. It was around that time that Channel Five showed the first season of Cleopatra 2525. It's a show from the makers of Xena: Warrior Princess that features three kick-ass girls (my favourite kind of female) battling the baddies of the future. There is no complicated plot to bog it down, just lots of fighting, thighs, laser guns, breasts, and Max Hoyland from Neighbours with the dodgiest accent ever heard on television. It's his interpretation of the dialect of Atlantis. It's one third New Zealand, one third Pakistani, and I haven't quite figured out the other bit. It has to be heard to be believed. It's a shame he didn't bring it in to his Neighbours character really. It would have made for some very interesting scenes on Ramsay Street.

Having watched the first season religiously for three months, I was hooked. I wanted more, but unfortunately Channel Five did not have the rights to any further episodes at that time.

Thankfully, my resident expert (that's L) was on hand to point me in the direction of other similar shows. Thus I discovered Xena and other female-fronted action adventures. I also started spotting the science fiction aspects of shows (and films) that I had not previously associated with the genre. I realised that I always had enjoyed it, but had not completely realised it. I was such a convert, in fact, that I even enrolled on a Star Trek module at university (although this was also inspired by the fact that I was the only boy in a room full of hot girls and our lectures consisted of nothing but Next Generation episodes).

Over the years, I have discovered shows that I enjoy more than Cleopatra 2525, but it will always have a special place in my life because of what it represents - a wake-up call, a turning point, call it what you will, but I've never looked back.

Jesus Christ, Mo!

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#95: Driving School

My love of fly-on-the-wall documentaries would have dictated my viewing of Driving School anyway, but the fact that it featured a local woman from nearby Grangetown made it must-see television.

There were actually many learner drivers (and their teachers) on the show, but it says a lot about the legacy of Maureen Rees that I hardly remember anything about them (apart from a woman who had a very annoying ringtone on her mobile phone and a boy who used to roller-skate to the nearby phone box in order to speak to his long-distance girlfriend).

Maureen Rees was a natural star. A cleaner at the local police station, Maureen’s dream was to set up her own cleaning business. The one thing stopping her was her inability to drive. She had tried to learn, oh yes. But she had failed on every attempt. As the underdog, she was therefore the ideal candidate for reality television. But who could have predicted just how memorable she would become?



Dave Rees was Maureen’s long-suffering but devoted husband. He was a driver for Cardiff Bus. Anybody who has travelled on one of Cardiff’s buses will testify that their drivers would usually be considered the most unsuitable teacher for a learner driver. But Dave was alright. He only reversed the buses into their parking slots at the Sloper Road depot, so he hadn’t been tarnished by the freedom of Cardiff’s bumpy roads.

Strapping himself into the passenger seat of Maureen’s blue Lada, he looked like a picture of serenity. He spoke calmly to Maureen, politely reminding her to check her mirrors while she fussed around with her seatbelt, grinning insanely at the dashboard-mounted camera. So far, so good.

Five minutes later, Dave was screaming like a mad man and holding his face in his hands as Maureen careered across both lanes of a dual-carriageway into the path of an oncoming truck.

This was not to be a one-off. During a parking lesson in the local multi-storey, Dave quickly got out of the car to check Maureen’s clearance. Within seconds, Maureen was reversing into a tight empty space. Unfortunately, she gave it a little too much gas and ended up running over Dave’s left foot. If Dave was a cartoon character, he would have turned bright red and smoke would have started pouring out of his ears. He stood in silence for a moment, before clutching his leg and yelling “JESUS CHRIST, MO!” at the top of his voice.

In subsequent episodes, Dave was seen hobbling around with a bandaged foot. To give him credit, he continued with Maureen’s lessons and eventually (after numerous attempts) she passed her test.

Some years later, I passed Maureen and Dave’s home on a daily basis as I made my way to university. Parked outside (in a haphazard, half on the pavement/half on the road manner) was a small yellow van. Emblazoned on the side were the words Top Banana.

I can’t think of a better description for such a memorable character.

Pork Pie

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#96: Desmond's

When I was a teenager, Channel Four's early evening line-up was something to get excited about. These days it's The Simpsons and Hollyoaks every night, so I often find myself yearning for the days when Channel Four was the only place to catch shows such Eerie Indiana, Crystal Maze, Gamesmaster, Remote Control (Tony Wilson's long-forgotten student quiz show that also featured Frank "Oh Mummy, the man with the large head is scaring me" Sidebottom), Happy Days (it made my year when they showed the Happy Days Reunion one Christmas Eve in the early 90's), The Cosby Show and even Blossom.

However, my favourite show was about a West Indian family who arrived in Britain and immediately opened a barber shop in Peckham. As the theme tune stated, they "came from the sun to leave in the city, I miss me rum, I want me coconut tree."

Desmond's was generally a class-based comedy. The main character was (unsurprisingly) Desmond. He was a family man and entrepreneur who held very traditional values. His wife was supportive and his children were intelligent - one worked in a bank, another was a university student - and overall, they were the picture of the perfect British family.

Desmond's arrived on our screens in 1989. Its timing could not have been better. Of course, black people had appeared in sitcoms before but Desmond's was one of the first British sitcoms to represent the country's multi-cultural society in an accurate, non-patronising manner. Carmen Munroe (who played Shirley, Desmond's wife) said of the show:

"we have successfully created a space for ourselves, where we can just be a real, honest, loving family, with problems like lots of people, and we can present that with some degree of truth and still not lose the comedy."

Desmond's illustrated that being from a different culture does not mean that life has to be completely different.

The barber shop was typical of any high street store. The comedy came from mishaps at the workplace, Desmond's reactions to what he saw as his children's wild behaviour and the way in which Shirley was really in charge of the family unit, even if Desmond didn't know it. The real star of the show for me however, was Pork Pie. He was a regular at the barber shop, an old man who would increasingly infuriate Desmond throughout the series. Almost every episode would involve a close-up of Desmond shouting out an exasperated "PORK-PIE!" only for the rest of the cast to collapse in a fit of giggles.

Norman Beaton (Desmond) unfortunately died in 1995, a short time after the final series of Desmond's had aired. He left a lasting legacy. The show is still aired in the Caribbean and has also been shown on BET (Black Entertainment Television) in the USA. A British repeat of the show is long overdue.

Best Of Order Please

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#97: BBC Darts Coverage

Whenever I tell people that I am a fan of the sport of darts, they always give me a look of disbelief.

"But, but....you don't drink" they gasp.

"You don't sit around the house in a string vest" (that's what they think).

"You're not an intimidating thug with a loud voice!"

This is all true. Yes, I'm here to bust the stereotype of darts fans. I'm teetotal, 6'3" and wouldn't hurt a fly. Unless it was buzzing infuriatingly around my face. And even then I would politely ask it to stop doing so before resorting to violence with a copy of the Radio Times.

My head is shaved, but a thug I am not. Having said that, my appearance does come in handy if I need to get out of a sticky situation. Take recently for example. I was walking through Penarth when I couldn't help but admire a lovely young lady in the street. What can I say? Her breasts were bouncing in a very provocative manner. Her boyfriend, noticing me staring, was about to give me a glare when he thought better of it. Instead, he seemed to be either a) hiding behind his good lady due to fear or b) trying to push her towards me, as if to say "here, you have her. I don't feel man enough anymore!" Of course, I wasn't going to say "my good man, there is no need to be scared of me. Look, I have The Complete Works Of Oscar Wilde in my jacket pocket!" No, I did what any red-blooded male would do in the same situation.

I gave her a shy smile and quickened my pace.

Now where was I? Ah yes, darts. What a game. Most darts fans have a choice to make. Do you follow the BDO (British Darts Organisation) or the PDC (Professional Darts Corporation)? Personally, I'm a fan of the BDO "dartists" as I like to call them. The guys (and gals) throwing those arrows have a flair that would put Michelangelo to shame.

The BDO has a more old-school feel to it. Watching footage of the World Championships from the Lakeside Country Club every January feels so...traditional. It's like taking a post-Christmas time warp back to the seventies and is the perfect way to get set for the new year ahead.

My problem with the PDC is not so much with the players, after all they don't play any differently to the BDO competitors, it's more to do with the presentation. PDC games are shown exclusively on Sky Sports. They have a habit of treating even the smallest tournament like a Jean-Michel Jarre concert. Lights, lasers, explosions, chanting....and those are just the sounds coming from Phil "The Power" Taylor's dressing room. However, the biggest annoyance for me is Sid Waddell, the commentator.

There are some who hold Sid in high esteem. They regard him as a genius because of quotes such as:

"That was like throwing three pickled onions into a thimble."

"That's the greatest comeback since Lazarus."

"He looks about as happy as a penguin in a microwave."

Now, in soundbite form, these quotes are quite chucklesome. Unfortunately, he tends to say the same thing (or variations on a theme) at every match. They become predictable and boring after a while and I usually have to mute the man to put him out his misery. By pressing a button on the remote control, you understand. I don't personally march up to the Blackpool Winter Gardens and throttle him in the commentary box.

No, it's Tony Green on the BBC for me. OK, so he comes across as a bit of a perv with outbursts such as:

"Oooh, there are some lovely ladies in tonight"

"That's a great double top....and his shot wasn't bad either"

"She's giving him a look that says "you're not getting any treats tonight""

But somehow it's forgiveable. Maybe it's because I grew up watching Tony on Bullseye (the darts game show hosted by Jim Bowen) every Sunday night for about twenty years. It's hard not to think of him as anything other than a long-lost uncle who turns up at weddings and birthdays, then spends the whole time squeezing the arses of all the female revellers. But at least he doesn't have to keep spouting off bad puns like Waddell. I'd let him squeeze my arse if it meant Sid would shut up for a couple of minutes.

I watched my first ever darts tournament when I was fourteen. I was bored one Saturday evening and was idly flicking through the channels. The darts coverage was just about to begin on BBC2. It was the semi-finals of the European Championships 1994. Peter Manley was playing Mike Gregory in a nail-biting match, but what impressed me most was this man:



Martin Fitzmaurice. He took the stage and silence descended upon the room.

"Are yooooouuuu readyyyyyyyy" he yelled, before being greeted by a huge cheer.

"Ladies and gentlemen..." he paused for dramatic effect.

"Let's.....Play.......Daaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrttttttttttttsssssss!!!"

Wow. I've seen some sporting events in my time. Olympic opening ceremonies, World Cup kick-offs, the firm thighs that dominate ladies' hockey. Nothing, I say, nothing can come remotely close to the buzz that Fitzmaurice generated that evening. And he still does it today. It's his trademark. The crowd even join in with him on the "let's play darts" as if he is some sort of rock star singing his most famous chorus. He's that good.

Then Tony Green started talking. I didn't even know that he even had a job outside of Bullseye. I was just under the impression that he was Jim Bowen's buddy, tagging along for the ride. But no, he really knew his stuff. And he had an eye for the "lovely ladies" that really appealed to my 14-year-old mind. Why hadn't I discovered darts sooner? This was great stuff!

In the crowd, women waved banners that said "Oh Peter, You're So Manley" - Waddell would kill for a pun like that. I've only ever seen one banner that beats it. At the 1994 Smash Hits Poll Winners' Party, a group of Take That fans had a sign that said "Robbie - Point Your Erection In My Direction!" It was clearly a vintage year for crazed fans.

The atmosphere during the match was tense. It drew me in like no other sporting event had before. From the sweat on the players' chubby faces, the doubles missed by a millimetre, the pensioners in the front row who seemed to keeping score (although they could have just been playing bingo). But it was this man who really stole the show:



George "The Puppy" Noble. This man had started umpiring at darts competitions during that very year (hence his nickname). These days, he is one of the most respected umpires in the business. His mistakes are rare and he is always the complete professional. What impressed me on that Saturday evening back in '94 was the way in which he dealt with a group of rowdy men in the front row. Stopping the game, he said:

"Gentlemen, if you continue to persist, I will have you escorted from the building."

He was then wildly applauded. In other sports, the referee is often met with a torrent of abuse should he say a word out of place. In darts, he is respected. Applauded. What a feeling!

Puppy's other great talent is the disdain that he shows for a low score. Even non-darts fans are aware of the scream of

"Ooooooooonnnnnnnnneeee HHuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnddddddreeeeeeeeeeddddddddddd Annnnd Eightyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy"

whenever a player achieves the maximum score of one-hundred and eighty. George does that too, but what you really want to see is a player get less than sixty.

I once witnessed an abysmal score of twenty-three. George gave the player a look as if to say "you absolute idiot. My grandmother could play better than that." He then put the microphone close to his mouth and almost whispered "twenty....three." The player didn't make that mistake again.

Mike Gregory went on to win the match, leaving Peter Manley drenched in a mixture of sweat and tears. There was no blood though. All darts had hit the board safely that evening. From that moment on, I was hooked and always made sure that I tuned in to any games that the BBC decided to broadcast. It's a tradition that continues today, although The Puppy has now sadly moved over to the PDC. However, even that can't spoil an annual tradition that is matched only by the World's Strongest Man competition in rounding off the Christmas and New Year television experience in style.

Surf Dudes With Attitude

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#98: Peter Engel Productions

Peter Engel really knew how to produce a television show. Every single episode was just a variation on the same theme, but if you're going to get stuck in a rut, it might as well be a good one.

Saved By The Bell was my first introduction to the great man's work. I would tune in every morning during those long summer holidays to see what adventures Zack and the gang were up to. It gave me a glimpse into a world where (and this will shock you) a stereotypical nerd (Screech) could be friends, in fact best friends, with a stereotypical cool guy (Zack) and an amateur wrestler who calls the girls "hot momma" (Albert Clifford Slater). There was nothing like this at my school. And if there was, I wish that somebody had informed me. It showed me how things could be and filled me with a hope for the future.

Penarth was no California, Stanwell Comprehensive was no Bayside High and I wasn't cool enough to be Zack (even Zack wasn't cool enough to be Zack) but I was also certainly no Screech. Honestly, I wasn't. In fact nobody in that show represented me as a teenager. But that was the point. Saved By The Bell was the vision of the perfect school that nothing in real life could live up to. A school where the troublemaker was best friends with the headmaster and any problem could be sorted out in twenty-five minutes.

And there were many problems. Ranging from the small (a cockroach loose in the school) to the medium (trying to win a radio phone-in competition during school time) and the huge (Jessie's drug addiction). However, they were all sorted out in the same way - the friends all rally together, tell the troubled one what they're doing wrong (perhaps even hand out a few leaflets), Mr Belding has a stern but fair word, they see the error of their ways and it's all back to normal as the Rock N Roll guitar riff begins to signal the end of the show.

It really was that obvious. Seriously, I can understand why so many people hated Saved By The Bell. You could see the moral coming a mile off within the first five minutes. The set-up was the same every week, as was the resolution. However Peter Engel had one stroke of genius. Zack was popular and mischievous - the kind of character that young viewers could admire. When he was cheeky and disruptive, you secretly wished that you had the guts to be like that at school. He was a rebel. In any other children's show Zack would be the bad guy. But in Saved By The Bell he was not. He was the hero. Engel knew that kids would listen to Zack. If it had been Screech learning a valuable lesson every week, who would have cared? It would have been expected of him and would be another reason to laugh at him. Having Zack as both cause and remedy told the viewers that you can be naughty and nice, you just have to pick your moments wisely. Instead of laughing at Zack, you laughed with him.

So thats the deep analysis done. What really made me watch Saved By The Bell so obsessively was the hope that I would find out how Zack got hold of a life-size cardboard cut-out of his ultimate crush, Kelly Kapowski. I had crushes on girls at school but they didnt give me so much as a Polaroid picture of themselves. I was so jealous. Did he steal it? Did he win it? Did he make it himself in an obsessive stalker kind of way? I never did find out.



It was probably for this reason that I tuned into Saved By The Bell: The College Years some years later. I had never enjoyed Saved By The Bell: The New Class as it was just a regurgitation of previous storylines being played out by a cast who were nowhere near as likeable as the original gang. In fact, they had made the very error that Engel had avoided with the original series - they were just too goody-goody. You couldn't believe that they would even know how to get into trouble in the first place. Plus Screech was now Mr Belding's personal assistant. Not for me thank you. No, The College Years was right up my street. It featured the original cast but this time in a university setting. This was perfect. At the time, I was about to head off to university myself. "Dont get too excited" I told myself. "University will probably be nothing like this" (I had learnt my lesson from Saved By The Bell's portrayal of school life). In fact, I later found out that the portrayal of college life was pretty spot on.

OK, so the high point of Zack's college years was heading off to Vegas, getting married to his high school crush, working as a male escort (with Screech of all people) to earn enough money to pay for the wedding and being chased by some unsavoury types after AC Slater hits on the wrong girl. By comparison, the high point of my college years was the night that I stayed up during a marathon Playstation session, drank too much coffee and thought I was Mick Hucknall from Simply Red. I even stood up to sing an impromptu medley of Something Got Me Started and For Your Babies for my friends. With an imaginary microphone. Substituting the words I didnt know with the word "thing." But apart from that, everything was pretty much the same. Eccentric lecturers, crazy parties - it was all there. Peter Engel had struck gold once again.

That wasn't so much the case with California Dreams. A show that told the story of a high school rock band who also liked to surf. Indeed, as the theme tune told us, they were "surf dudes with attitude, kinda grooving." Never has the use of the word "kinda" been so apt. The weren't even remotely close to a groove and probably never would be. Once again they were too goody-goody. These people would never have formed a rock band. And the only attitude they had was a good work ethic. No, the theme tune was definitely the best thing about this show. It is no surprise that of all the Engel shows, it has hardly ever been repeated (on UK screens at least - I bet they're digging it in Albania).

Maybe Engel knew that his formula was going off the rails. California Dreams wasn't a bad idea in principle, it just wasn't so good in practice. Perhaps thats why he chose to stay with the surf dude theme for his next show, Malibu (or Malibu CA to give it its full title). Now this was more like it and is probably my favourite of the later generation Engel productions. Firstly, the formula was back on track. Two brothers, streetwise and rebellious from their time living in New York (but still with good morals) move to Malibu to live with their estranged father after their mother moves to Saudi Arabia to start a new job. Already the seed is planted for many lessons to be learnt - estranged father issues, being the new kid in town - and to be fair, they weren't quite as obvious this time as they had been in Saved By The Bell. Malibu hit you over the head with a hammer rather than Saved By The Bell's industrial sized shredder.

Malibu was a show aimed at the older teens who had grown up with Saved By The Bell but now wanted something more relevant to their lives. The most obvious proof of this is a character called Traycee (their spelling not mine) played by Playboy model Priscilla Taylor. She has possibly the largest pair of breasts ever to be seen in a children's television production (and she wore a skimpy bikini in every episode). There is none of the comparatively innocent look of Saved By The Bell's Tiffani Amber Thiessen here (although Thiessen did go on to make erotic movies, as did Elizabeth "Jessie" Berkeley). Now where was I? Ah yes, Malibu. The problems that the characters encounter are still dealt with in the same way - rallying around and sometimes handing out leaflets. The only difference is that there is no Mr Belding to offer a stern word. Although the actor who played him, Dennis Haskins, did make an appearance (as himself if I remember correctly) to help one character through a particularly tough time. Thats what the viewers want. Self-referencing works every time. In fact, Peter Engel himself turned up in one of his own shows - appearing in the final episode of USA High (Saved By The Bell: Europe Style if you will) as Chancellor Engel. However, when things were going so well, the show made a fatal mistake. A cast change. Just like The New Class before it, the new characters just didn't gel or were not believable. The show never really recovered but at least had the decency to come to a permanent end soon after.

So by now a clear pattern has emerged. Each Engel show needs a group of teens and a set-up that will get them into lots of problems. It is no surprise then that his other shows do not divert from this track. Hang Time was about a group of high school kids who played basketball. This gave the writers much opportunity to deal with one of Engel's favourite themes - drug use. At least a handful of episodes dealt with sports drugs or smoking or drinking. In fact anything that is not good for a rewarding sporting life. Of course, these problems were sorted out in the usual way. The litter problem at an Engel school must have been appalling what with all those leaflets flying around.

City Guys showed signs of moving a little away from the formula. Again set in a school, this time the kids are from the inner city. Indeed, the theme tune explains it better than I could: "C.I.T.Y you can see why these guys are city guys. " OK, maybe not. But the storylines did seem to be more relevant to modern society and the morals weren't so cringe-inducing. Issues such as inter-racial relationships, sex and drugs were all dealt with well with not a leaflet in sight. Although the female principal did come along to offer a stern word - just like the good old days. My favourite episode is the one where Al (who bears an uncanny resemblance to Joe Hahn from Linkin Park) refuses to work for an advertising agency because they promote toy guns to young children. Classic Peter Engel.

In more recent years, new Engel shows have not been forthcoming (at least there are always re-runs to keep us entertained). He did team up with ex-child star Fred Savage to make All About Us (from what I understand, its basically Saved By The Bell meets Sex In The City) and he is also Executive Producer for Last Comic Standing (Pop Idol for comedians) but thats about it. According to his IMDB profile he became Dean of Communications and the Arts at Regent University in 2003 only to resign a year later to return to producing. Let's hope that in his short time teaching he managed to pass on his magic ingredients to a future generation by having a stern word and handing out a few leaflets.

Something's Quo-ing On In My Head

I first remember liking a bit of boogie-woogie rock when I was about five. I saw a live performance of Status Quo singing Rockin' All Over The World and Caroline which made me bounce around the room. Looking back, it's quite likely that it was their Live Aid performance in the summer of 1985. Anyway, as luck would have it, my cousin N was (and still is) a huge Status Quo fan. He used to spoil me rotten when I was little. He was in the Army and would bring back loads of toys from his travels - little Nintendo Game & Watch games from Germany for example, or walkie talkies from Northern Ireland. However, the best gift that he ever gave me was the triple-vinyl boxed set of Quo's From The Makers Of...



For years, I only ever listened to the third disc. It was an early '80s live recording from Birmingham's NEC in honour of the Prince's Trust. It was a greatest hits show, but I only ever listened to the two songs that I knew - Rockin' All Over The World and Caroline. This was the case for months, if not years. I would sit in my room playing air guitar along to my little record player. Quite cute really.

As I got older and really discovered music, I wanted to hear more of what Quo had to offer. That's how I found myself doing the unthinkable - putting the needle at the start of the record rather than frantically searching for the groove halfway through (it signalled the keyboard introduction to Rockin' All Over The World). Soon I discovered that every song was brilliant - Roll Over Lay Down, Over The Edge and Don't Waste My Time in particular - and I was soon ripping the other discs out of their protective cases and discovering more and more songs from the back catalogue.

From The Makers Of... came with detailed inlay leaflets that told the life story of the band. I remember that the first line referred to Alan Lancaster as "Peckham's answer to Kenny Ball." I had no idea what that meant at the time, but I see now that the likeness is astounding.



All around the edge of one of the leaflets were pictures of every Quo album to date. It was then, aged nine or ten, that I decided to make it my life mission to own every single one of them. The process started slowly. The first album that I actually bought was another compilation - Rocking All Over The Years. It had many of the same songs on it as From The Makers Of..., but I didn't let that put me off. Firstly, because the first disc of FTMO had become warped (resulting in Big Fat Mama going from slow-motion to Alvin And The Chipmunks speed) and secondly, because I just couldn't resist that double-cassette package on the shelf of John Menzies. Anyway, it brought the Quo back catalogue up to date a little more and I was introduced to the post-Alan Lancaster period in style - In The Army Now, Rollin' Home and Burning Bridges were all present and correct (although perhaps not as manly as Al would have wished).

Slowly but surely, my collection increased - a copy of Hello! one Christmas, Rock 'Til You Drop for my birthday and even a couple of video compilations for Easter (which were packed with images of busty, brunette women (I particularly liked the girls in the video for Ol' Rag Blues). You could probably say that they have a lot to answer for...

By 1992 I had reached a dead-end. It was becoming increasingly difficult to find any more albums on cassette and I didn't have a CD player at that time. But just as I was getting tired of listening to the same half a dozen albums over and over, something happened that gave me the incentive to keep on trying.

Opening the South Wales Echo one day in June '92, I saw a full page advert for Status Quo's Christmas tour and they were coming to Cardiff. So far, I had not been lucky enough to see them live. However I had a huge thirst for it, having just seen snippets on television from their concert for Radio 1's twenty-fifth birthday in Birmingham. I hurriedly phoned my friend M to tell him the news (by that time, he had also developed a fondness for the mighty Quo and all band news had to be relayed to each other as it became available). We begged our parents to let us go, but as we were only twelve-years-old they were reluctant to let us attend. To quote my mother, "there might be druggies there."

However, after much gentle persuasion, my mother agreed to accompany us to the concert. She phoned the venue (the now-demolished Cardiff Ice Rink) to confirm that there were tickets left and went in next day to buy them. But then, disaster! The woman in the Box Office informed her that tickets had in fact sold out weeks ago. Well, my mother can be a feisty one when she wants to be and she didn't let that stop her. In a rage, she wrote to everybody- from the promoters to Garry Bushell, the television critic at The Sun newspaper. Surprisingly, it was Bushell - the least likely of all her options (and I still don't understand the logic behind it) - who came through in the end. The staff at the paper were so upset about her tale of two bitterly disappointed twelve-year-olds, that they sent complimentary tickets directly to our house. I don't think the smile left our faces for months. And that's why Bushell is fine by me. Even if he did make far too many episodes of Bushell On The Box.

M and I spent months preparing for the big night out. We watched the Rock 'Til You Drop video on repeat - even going so far as to repeatedly quote our favourite catchphrase: "I cannae believe it, I'm gonna see the Quo!" (these words were uttered by a Scottish man (could you not tell from my accent?) who actually changed his name by Deed Poll to Status Quo. Later in the video, you see him meeting the band. On the bus, Rick Parfitt shouts out, "Status just smacked me in the gob!").

We arrived at the Ice Rink at half past six and there was already a queue around the entire perimeter of the (also now demolished) Toys R Us store. The atmosphere was buzzing and it felt like an age before we were finally allowed into the arena. Once there, huge letters spelt out "Quo" across the stage. As the lights went down, we couldn't contain ourselves anymore and let out very girly screams. These were a little premature. Not understanding live concert etiquette, we didn't realise that a support band had to come on first. So, as we screamed "QUO-O-O-O-O!", a little known Hair Rock band called Firehouse took to the stage and gave us a look that could kill. I don't remember much about them, except for the fact that their drummer threw his sticks up into the air at any given opportunity. However, according to their website, they're still going strong - ah yes, I do remember them doing the song Rock On The Radio now.

When Quo finally arrived on stage, we almost collapsed. Finally! Our heroes performing our favourite songs. They opened with Whatever You Want and ended with the Roadhouse Medley (basically the entire Live Alive Quo album). The only disappointment was that they didn't play Down Down, one of my favourite songs. Oh, and we couldn't see keyboardist Andy Bown either because he was hidden behind a twenty-foot "O". However, our ringing ears were proof that a good night was had by all, and Francis and Rick even waved at us. As we clutched our official tour programmes outside, we couldn't have been more content. And we didn't meet one druggy.

The concert inspired a need to hear more. That Christmas, I received my first CD player and there was no stopping me. Regular trips were taken into Virgin Megastore in order to secure CDs such as Picturesque Matchstickable Messages From The Status Quo or Dog Of Two Head. However, with such a vast back catalogue, it was impossible to afford every single album and many of them had been deleted anyway. But I didn't give up. Instead, I discovered record fairs.

These days, you can download even the most hard-to-find track from various sources online. I think that this can often take the fun out of desperately rooting through dusty boxes in a tiny room at the back of St David's Hall, hoping that you'll find that single rare copy of Spare Parts, or a limited edition picture disc of Come On You Reds. This is how I finally completed my collection (yes, I even managed to get hold of the tin boxed-set version of From The Makers Of...). It took me a long time of course - I was still going to record fairs during my time as an undergraduate and it was only a couple of years ago that I finally got the last CD (Blue For You) required to complete the back catalogue (I now have everything twice - once on vinyl, once on CD. The vinyl never gets played and is only there for display purposes - particularly the very manly picture of Alan Lancaster that houses the second disc of 1976's Status Quo Live album). I take great pleasure in admiring over fifteen years of collecting though, and it's good to know that I rose to my childhood challenge.

I never really used to have a favourite member of Status Quo. It was only when I read the band's 1993 autobiography, Just For The Record that I learnt about their individual personalities. I loved the stories about past members, such as the time when original keyboardist Roy Lynes got off the train at Crewe and never came back. However, it was Lancaster who gave me the most laughs. Who can forget the time he punched an airport official in Vienna and got the band arrested and thrown into jail? (Which also provided a classic Parfitt quote - "Hey, something funny's going on in here!"). How can you not like a guy who refused to play bass on Marguerita Time because it wasn't "manly" enough? And best of all, this is the man who refused to fly back from Australia to appear in the Rockin' All Over The World video, forcing the band to rent out an inflatable Alan.

However, the Just For The Record book has a special place in my heart for another reason. After the 1992 tickets debacle, my mother wasted no time in buying tickets for the band's 1993 tour as soon as they went on sale. This time, M and I were permitted to go on our own. Yes, we felt like big men as we walked through the doors without any adult supervision (although we were wise enough to politely say "yes, Firehouse were fantastic last year" to a bunch of large men who were comparing them to 1993's support, Little Egypt. We didn't want any trouble, you see.) Even though the concert was superb once again (although they still didn't play Down Down), next day was even better.

When our tickets arrived for the '93 concert, they were accompanied by a flyer advertising a book signing session at Cardiff's Lear's Bookstore the day after the concert. Well of course, we had to go. Our parents arranged for us to have the day off school and we set off early that morning. We expected a large crowd to be present, but in fact we were the first ones there. It wasn't like that album signing in This Is Spinal Tap where nobody turned up though. No, we were so early that the band hadn't even arrived. However, we were allowed to start queueing and we felt immense pride as older Quo fans turned up expecting to be first in line, only to be beaten by two teenagers. How we laughed. At least, we did until the band arrived. Then we nearly collapsed. My mother later told me that she had never seen me go so white in the face. I could feel M trembling next to me too. We stood there as Francis Rossi and Rick Parfitt stared back, waiting for me to walk over to them. Finally, M pushed me in their direction and I had no choice but to continue walking. You can see my fear in these photos:





Holding onto myself tightly didn't help in the slightest (and that crazed female fan to the right of the picture was making me feel a little uneasy too). They obviously sensed my fear too, because they were lovely to me. They said how nice it was to see me, enquired if I enjoyed the show the night before and even asked if I had any other merchandise for them to sign (I didn't). I mumbled some answers to them and said something about how I had been a fan for years, but all my planned questions were out of the window. I certainly didn't have the courage to ask for an exclusive Alan Lancaster story.

M was even more nervous - you can just see him at the edge of this photo:



I think they said exactly the same thing to him and he managed to mumble some praise in their direction, but it was generally just a very overwhelming day. But we had achieved our ambition to meet our heroes and nothing could spoil it (not even the terrible service at Pillar's restaurant afterwards). And of course, it was all worth it:



To this day, when it comes to Quo, I have never topped that experience. I have seen them in concert over half a dozen times since, but nothing beats those two shows at Cardiff Ice Rink in the early '90s. Sure, it was quite good when a girl asked me if I wanted to see her tits at the 1996 Cardiff Arena gig. It was also hilarious to see M dancing with Steeleye Span's Maddy Prior during the Don't Stop tour. However, it will take a lot to surpass the nervous energy and immense excitement that was created on that December day in 1993 when we met the band.

I suppose the only downside of being a Status Quo fan is that you often get people making fun of your tastes. However, people can be converted. L made fun of me for years until she realised that she did actually like Caroline...and Down Down....and Ol' Rag Blues...

The Real Eechlow

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#99: The Lookalikes Agency

There is nothing that I like more than a bad celebrity lookalike, especially the type that appear in the letters page of cheap TV guides. You know the ones - usually somebody has sent in a picture of their grandmother, adamant that she is the spitting image of Lou Carpenter from Neighbours. For added comic value the editor will have a picture of the grandmother with "Lou Carpenter" written underneath and a picture of Lou with "Granny" as a caption.

I am such a fan of these bad lookalikes that I now actively look out for them in the street when I am out and about. The fun that can be had with this game is immeasurable. If I see a bald chap on my travels, I'll say "there's Phil Collins" (or perhaps Sinead O'Connor). Only last week I saw a pensioner walking towards me with his thumbs aloft. "Oh look, there's Paul McCartney" I remarked to my acquaintance....

...oh actually, that was Paul McCartney.

As you can imagine then, I was most excited when I discovered a television show called The Lookalikes Agency. It was as if a programme-maker had read my mind and decided that the best way to fill six 30-minute instalments was to cram it full of some ropey celebrity lookalikes and have them represented by a man called Derek. Does it get any better than that? Actually, it does...

The programme portrayed Derek as a bit of a real-life Del Boy. We saw him wheelin' and dealin' (and duckin' and divin') in order to get his lookalikes into some of the UK's top events. These lookalikes included Elton John (who was really a man called Ray).



When he wasn't 'doing' Elton, Ray was on a quest to learn The Knowledge - a test that, if he passed, would allow him to be a London taxi driver. To be fair to Ray, he wasn't a bad lookalike and it was quite a strange sight to see Elton John on an old moped (with a basket on the front) riding around London desperately trying to memorise each street name.

So that's all mildly amusing in a Sunday teatime kind of way. However, it was the final two episodes in the series which made The Lookalikes Agency unmissable viewing.

The first of these episodes was set almost entirely in Amsterdam. Derek had worked his magic and got a booking for his Jack Nicholson and Elton John lookalikes to film an advert for a Dutch supermarket chain. By this stage of the series, Ray had actually started to refer to himself as Elton. However, he didn't appear to have let anybody else know about this decision. So when he called his agent from Amsterdam and said, "Hello Derek, it's Elton", Derek answered him with a puzzled "Who?"

Of course, it all got sorted out and it was then on to the studio to do the filming. 'Jack Nicholson' was on top form. You would think he was the real deal. All he had to say was:

"I'm not the real Jack Nicholson - I'm actually a lot cheaper. But these yoghurts are the real bona."

And he did it in two takes. Unfortunately for 'Elton', he had to say the same thing (well, obviously he didn't say he was Jack Nicholson) but instead of "real bona" he had to say "real eechlow" (it's apparently some kind of Dutch colloquial term meaning that something is good). It all went downhill from there. Something along the lines of:

Elton: The real....Ee...Eeee....EEEE...EEEEEE

Producer: (trying to say it phonetically) It's Eek - Low

Elton: EEEE.....EEEEE...EEEEEEEEEEEE.....EEEEEEEEE....no I can't say it

Producer: Try to get your tongue around it....Eek - Low

Elton: (clears throat) Egg-Loo?

(Fade to black)

After approximately 45 takes, he finally said the word correctly...but wasn't looking at the camera when he did so. You'll be pleased to know that he did get there in the end.

The season finale of The Lookalikes Agency was a true masterpiece. It centred around Derek's plans for a Lookalikes Ball and Awards Show. This event saw all of his lookalikes gather at a venue for one big end of series party. As if that wasn't exciting enough, he also had a couple of tricks up his sleeve. Firstly, he arranged for 'Elton' to do a duet with his George Michael lookalike. Unfortunately (or fortunately for the viewer), 'Elton' couldn't actually sing. Secondly, Derek had composed a little song to sing at the end of the Ball which he believed represented everything that he had achieved. So when his co-composer arrives for a rehearsal, we were really in for a treat. The lyrics that Derek composed were as follows:

"If you want a VIP but you can't afford the fee, double trouble

I want Elvis she said, but the King is dead, double trouble"

Unfortunately, Derek seems to be channelling 'Elton' on this occasion and his nerves get the better of him. Something like this:

Guitarist: OK Derek, on the count of three. 1...

Derek: If you want a...

Guitarist: No, wait for me to count Derek

Derek: So sorry...after you

Guitarist: 1...2...3......Derek?

Derek: Oh that's my cue?

And so it went on. Once Derek had mastered the first bit he then had a bit of trouble with the second line:

Derek: I want Elvis she said, but unfortunately the...

Guitarist: No Derek, it's just "but the King is dead"

Derek: So sorry.... (sings) I want Elvis she said, but the King is currently dead

Guitarist: No Derek, it's just "the King is dead"

Derek: So sorry...

(I love how Derek's second mistake implied that Elvis will one day appear and say "Surprise! I'm not dead anymore! Uh-huh-huh!").

Once he finally got it right, it was time for him to leave for the Ball. Though not before he had one more mishap. As an extra surprise for the party-goers, Derek hired a smoke machine. Instead of waiting until he got to the venue, Derek got so excited to try out his machine that he switched it on in his flat. In a tower block. On the top floor. And added too much water. It was not long before the entire building became engulfed in smoke as thick as the coldest fog. To add further insult to injury, when it came to the time in the performance when smoke was required (during the Elton/George duet, complete with a cheesy "ladies and gentlemen, Mr Elton John"), Derek actually forgot to turn the machine on!

And that just summed up the entire series. As did the final line of Derek's song:

"You can't go wrong, well that's a bit strong, double trouble."

Derek wasn't the ultimate professional and he didn't have the best lookalikes in the world, but he had a vision. Like Norman Wisdom before him, he saw it through no matter how haphazard his methods may have been. Basically then, the perfect candidate for reality television.

And by the way, 'Elton' did eventually pass his test to become a London taxi driver.

Chok There

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

#100: Apache Goes Indian

I once saw Apache Indian in concert. It was at the Barry Island leg of the Radio 1 Roadshow during that reggae-obsessed summer of 1993. Snow's Informer had already climbed to the top end of the charts, no doubt helped by the song's promise that he would "lick your bum bum now" (at least I think that's what he said). Chaka Demus And Pliers had teased us with their rhythm 'til we lost control and Inner Circle had made us sweat (a la la la la long) 'til we could sweat no more.

Many still believe that the defining moment of that era was Louchie Lou and Michie One trying to teach Mark "Joe Mangle" Little to Bogle on The Big Breakfast. For me, it was the hot summer lunchtime that day in Barry Island's Square when Gary Davies (or was it Jackie Brambles?) announced that Apache Indian was about to take the stage. The atmosphere was electric - the last time a crowd reacted so wildly was when The Beatles first arrived in America.

As the opening bars of Boom-Shack-A-Lack boomed out, everything was right with the world. When Apache told us to "wind our bodies" and "wriggle our bellies" we obeyed him. Oh yes, it was first class. He even did the extended mix of the track. By the end, everybody was satisfied. If he'd had the sense, Apache would have been too. Instead, he announced that he was going to perform another song. A ditty called Chok There, which was to be his new single. To quote Weezer at the end of the Buddy Holly video, this new song was "not so good, Al." Never have I seen a crowd go from rapturous applause to sheer dismay so quickly.

I swear I even heard somebody yell "Judas!" in the direction of the stage.

Suffice to say, he made me Boom-Shack-A-Leave and he never troubled the Top 20 again.



That's not to say that he didn't find other ways to make his presence felt. Some years later, I was watching late night television when I stumbled across a documentary on Channel 4 called Apache Goes Indian. It turned out to be a truly classic series that followed Birmingham's own Apache Indian as he visited India for the first time in his adult life. For me, the highlight of the documentary was a scene in which we see him being driven around on the back of an open-top jeep (a bit like that scene in Good Morning Vietnam where Robin Williams thinks he keeps seeing the same girl walking down the road). As Apache takes in the sights and sounds of the city he is moved to say "This reminds me of a song I wrote back in the UK called AIDS Warning." Once again, if he had any sense, he would have left it at that. Instead, he cleared his throat and, in his best half-Birmingham/half-fake-Jamaican singing accent (which was nothing like his actual speaking voice), he began to sing:

"This is a warning, across the nation..."

The picture then fades, not before giving us a final view of Apache's tour guide who by now has the most bemused look on his face that I have ever seen. Yes friend, I know how you feel - I've been there too.

Channel 4 really need to repeat this series for a new audience. I have a theory that watching Apache Goes Indian in these post-Ali G days would be like watching one of the Airport movies after seeing Airplane. You just couldn't be sure if it was supposed to be serious or intentionally funny. I like to think that maybe Apache was a comedy genius and a master of surprise. Instead, I'm more inclined to believe that he just had a talent for saying completely the wrong thing at exactly the right time. Thankfully, it doesn't make it any less entertaining.

Big Weller Fans

When meeting one half of a song-writing duo, do not tell them that you actually prefer the other one.

So this is it. The big one. A lesson learnt the hard way.

Some years ago, a friend (M) and I attended a Gene gig at Cardiff's Coal Exchange. We arrived at the venue early and decided to have a wander around until other people started turning up. At the back of the venue we found the tour bus. Before we had chance to think anything else, a door opened and out popped Mick Talbot of The Style Council. He was the session keyboard player for the night. Being fans of Paul Weller, we were obviously thrilled to meet his Style Council partner in crime. This was an exciting celeb spotting moment! Without thinking, M began to yell "Mick...Mick....Mick...MICK!!" (a bit like Alan Partridge in that episode where he yells "Dan!" about 20 times). Finally, Mick turned around.

Mick: Yes boys.

(Silence)

(We all looked at each other. The silence was deafening).

M: Er, Umm....

And then he said the words that still haunt me today.

M: Big Weller Fans!!

(Another long silence follows. The expression on M's face was now like that of Dan Aykroyd in Ghostbusters when he realises that he has just summoned Mr Stay Puft).

Mick: (looking deeply offended) Oh thanks lads.

And then he walked off. Possibly fighting back tears. During the concert he also seemed to be banging away at the keys a little harder than he normally would. Yep, those were hurtful words.



A few years later, I spotted Mick again at another concert where he was playing the keys. I looked in his direction. He looked in mine. Our eyes met. I really wanted to make amends. He gave me an icy stare. Not unlike the one that Brad Pitt's character gives to Rachel in that Thanksgiving episode of Friends. Oh yes, he remembered me. And he wasnt ready to forgive.

These days, I eagerly await Mick's inevitable autobiography and the chapter dedicated to the day his ego took a battering and he lost his self-esteem. So I'm sorry Mick. You're a true hero. Especially when you wear sailing attire and a straw boater.

Stay Tuned

The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life

An Introduction

In 2006, I began a project which I naively believed could be completed within a couple of months. It was called The 100 Greatest Television Programmes In The World...Ever!

My list was inspired by a newspaper article sent my way by LH. It was a countdown of - supposedly - the worst television programmes in history. As I browsed through the list, I couldn't believe that many of my favourite shows were contained within and that I had forgotten about so many of them. Most importantly, I became aware of the huge part that television had played in my life.

Whenever I think of a favourite programme, not only do I recall the details of the show, I also remember the things I was doing at the time. Likewise, if I remember a happy or embarrassing moment in my life - getting locked out of my house aged fourteen, for example - there is usually a television theme tune or catchphrase somewehere in the background. To this day, I can't hear Cilla Black singing Surprise, Surprise without feeling the urge to run a bath and pack my school bag ready for Monday morning. And I'm nearly thirty.

That's when I hit upon the idea of the 100 Greatest... blog. A series of autobiographical instalments using television as a backdrop. I soon got to work and the initial blogs received a good reaction. As time went by, they received attention from various television and nostalgia websites and forums. Again, the reception was good. My experiences of schools programmes were even used in a seminar on children's television.

However, I soon came to realise that the title of the series didn't really do it justice and, ultimately, this led to my lack of enthusiasm for the project. Every now and again, I received emails and comments asking why I hadn't put programmes such as Shameless, Skins or Ashes To Ashes in the list. Others asked how I could put something like Give Us A Clue in a countdown of the greatest television programmes. Even more questioned my ordering, offended that one show was lower than another in the list.

But everybody had missed the point, and that was my fault. I should have spent more time thinking of an accurate title and I should have explained the project in more detail in the first place.

My chosen programmes were never likely to appear in any other 'acceptable' list of the greatest television shows. But that was never the point. To me, if something influences me or makes some sort of lasting impression, it's great. Even if it's bad.

Likewise, the numbering system meant nothing. It was simply a means of letting me know how many programmes I had written about, and also a way of limiting the series. As anybody who knows me will testify, I have a habit of writing mammoth essays, and the project had the potential to go on for eternity.

But above all, the series was far more personal than the title suggested. Even I didn't realise until about halfway through, but the blogs were about me, not television. That's not to say that a good bit of television reminiscing couldn't be had by all, though.

Time has passed so quickly and I never did get around to completing the list. It's been stuck at number fifty for two years. Thankfully, compiling Blog Of Two Head has made me re-read those blogs (they were originally published on Prawn Cufflinks) and - even if I do say so myself - they're still really good. In fact, they're good enough to inspire me to complete the project. However, this time there'll be a few changes.

- The title has now been changed to The 100 Most Influential Television Programmes In My Life.

- Rather than writing ten blogs discussing ten programmes at a time, there will now be one hundred separate blogs for each show. Each instalment will be tagged 100 Television Shows, which means that you can just click the link to read all relevant blogs. I've also put a permanent link on the sidebar.

- The original order has now been changed. I've broken up the six blogs previously published and I'll be posting them at regular intervals. I'll write new instalments for the other forty-odd programmes and mix them in with those already written.

Apart from that, everything will be the same. I'll use pictures and videos where necessary and I'll continue to embarrass myself with more tales from my past. All this to a backdrop of some of the most memorable television in history.

And this time I'll finish it.

Pictures Of Lizzy

The Queen is (possibly) a fan of The Who.

One summer's day, I went to a record fair at Cardiff's City Hall with L and M. As we arrived, we saw a crowd forming. We ignored this, presuming that there were just a lot of particularly good vendors at the fair this time around. After some hours, we left and saw that the hundreds of people outside were watching something happening further up the road. Asking around, we discovered that HM The Queen was on her way through the city centre before heading off to Cardiff Bay to open the Welsh Assembly.

Pushing our way to the front, we got there just as Her Maj was approaching. We suddenly realised that everybody was waving flags except us.

The Queen was getting closer.

She was looking in our direction.

She was not amused.

Fearful that she may have thought we were protestors (or worse, streakers), M reached into his bag and pulled out the tatty copy of The Who's brown-sleeved Live At Leeds that he had purchased earlier. M began waving it frantically in the air. The Queen took a moment to have a lingering look in our direction. She saw what was being waved and a huge smile appeared on her face. She even turned to Prince Phillip to point it out. As her car went past, I like to think that we really made her day.



Later, on the evening news, what seemed to be a brown paper bag could be seen waving at the bottom of the screen. The camera cut to The Queen and there was that smile again. We hadn't imagined it. Gawd Bless You, Ma'am. Keep on rocking.

Don't It Make You Feel Good?

Always cherish a celebrity encounter, no matter how small. A comeback is always on the cards.

OR

Listening to mid-90s techno music will make you irresistible to attractive Australian ladies.

Since his triumphant return to Neighbours in 2006, it is hard to believe that there was once a time when Stefan Dennis was possibly the most uncool person in the world. This was the case back in 1999. Stefan's post-Neighbours single Don't It Make You Feel Good had fumbled its way into the UK chart earlier in the decade but he had pretty much disappeared save for a few appearances on Dream Team.

Therefore, imagine our surprise when a friend (R) and I found ourselves no more than eight feet away from the man himself in a Soho record store. When I first nudged R to point this out, he thought that I was just playing the look-alikes game. Who can blame him? After all, what would Stefan Dennis possibly have to do in London? But, when R looked, he confirmed that it really was a genuine '80s icon in the flesh.

For a short time we stood in dumbfounded awe. After all, this was Paul Robinson - a man who got to fool around with both of the Alessi twins in Neighbours. Soon, we had entered stealth mode and were listening in on the conversation that he was having with the record store assistant:

Stefan: So yeah, they were recommended to me. I really want to get hold of it. I think it's by Orbital?

At this point we decided to leave. We had to take it all in, away from Mr Dennis. Once it did hit us we realised that we had a solid gold story to tell. Next day, I bashed out an email to Channel 4 Teletext's The Void. It was along the lines of "ha ha, Stefan Dennis listens to Orbital". The day after that, I tuned into teletext and saw that an entire page had been dedicated to my story. A good laugh was indeed had by all.

But who's laughing now? Stefan is back in Neighbours. He's brilliant in Neighbours. He does a funny walk every couple of episodes. He got to fool around with Izzy (she even dressed up as Mrs Santa for him one Christmas - I'm still recovering from that). The man is cool again. Cooler than before. So Stefan, I apologise. You are not an embarrassment and Orbital are not "old hat."