As part of my multi-million pound marketing campaign, here’s another quick reminder that my new book 172 Forgotten British Children's TV Shows From The 1980s is now available on Amazon.

Paperback and e-book versions are available, so you can either proudly display it on your bookcase or save physical space by storing it as zeros and ones on your e-book reader. I hadn’t considered creating a hardback copy - which Amazon now offer - but let me know if this is something you would be interested in.

Sales have been modest, but I didn’t expect anything else with such a niche book. However, seeing as I didn’t price it as low as humanly possible this time - as I did with my last two books - it’s my highest earning book (in terms of 1st month sales). I still can’t quite afford a fully refurbished Bang & Olufsen 4424 Video 2000 machine - a thing of true beauty - but I’m not far off.

For those of you who have purchased the book, I can only offer my eternal, eternal thanks. It means a great deal to me for people to fork out for something I’ve created.

Trawling through eBay, I found myself face-to-face with something quite remarkable: a mid-1980s Bertha advent calendar, still sealed. Quite how it’s survived the last 40 years is a mystery of the highest order. Any right-minded individual would have lovingly started opening the doors as soon Last Christmas drifted out of the nearest stereo. Instead, it’s probably been stuffed in a cupboard since it was bought.

If I had a few spare quid, I’d certainly go in for it, or make an offer at the very least. But at £34.99 it’s not financially viable for me. Saying that, even if it was, most people would be seriously concerned for my wellbeing if I started spending my hard earned money on stuff like this. To hell with them, I say. Anyway, it’s still a lovely looking piece and I would have loved it when I was three, even though it appears to be one of those pesky non-chocolate calendars.

Did you ever have this advent calendar when you were little? Or perhaps another TV tie-in advent calendar? I'd love to know what you remember having.

I’ve got a new book for sale on Amazon out and it’s called 172 Forgotten British Children’s TV Shows From The 1980s - click here to find out more.

The 1990s was the first decade I was fully self-aware of and, as such, it was a highly exciting time for me. Sadly, the 90s ended nearly 30 years ago, which acts as a cruel reminder that I’m not quite as young as I thought. I was also, as I still am, English in the 1990s. But what did it mean to be English in the 1990s? To find out, let’s watch Think of England.

Another absolute stunner from BBC Archive on YouTube, Think of England was an instalment of the documentary series Modern Times. Filmed over the summer of 1998, Think of England aired the following year on 27 April 1999. Martin Parr, a remarkable photographer with an extraordinary knack for capturing Britain as it really is, set out to discover what Englishness truly meant.

As you can imagine with a public YouTube video looking back at England in the past, the comments section is filled with laments about how much the country has changed. And yet, after watching it, I’m not sure the change is as drastic as some would have us believe.

What strikes me first, though, was how Parr captures England with his trademark ease. Genteel village fetes chug along with fully-leaded middle class ideals, drunken lairiness stumbles all over Blackpool’s seafront and there’s a rather predictable element of racism bubbling beneath the surface. None of this feels like a distant relic of England.

It also got me thinking. Back in 1998, I felt much more English. Now, I don’t really give it a second’s thought. Maybe we were more patriotic back then. Perhaps more likely is the fact that I’ve since realised that patriotism is little more than an idea in the head. Did the country change or did I? I’m not entirely sure.

Whatever your views on Englishness, Think of England is a rich, nostalgic look back at an age which is different, yet wholly familiar. Superb television.

I’ve got a new book for sale on Amazon out and it’s called 172 Forgotten British Children’s TV Shows From The 1980s - click here to find out more.

I generally avoid buying old video tapes off eBay. Instead, I rely on donations. This is because buying ancient VHS and Betamax with no idea of what’s on them can be very frustrating. Occasionally, I’ve found a few interesting snippets. But I mostly sit there shaking my head and wondering what I could have spent my money on instead.

A few weeks ago, I took a risk on some particularly old looking VHS tapes. They surely had to contain something of interest, and some of them had the potential to be very old indeed. Would it be a treasure trove of riches? Or would I frantically fast forward myself into a fury? Read on to find out!

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After a few weeks of fiddling with margins and tabs in Word documents, wrestling with anxiety over font sizes and being driven up the wall by Amazon, the paperback version of 172 Forgotten British Children’s TV Shows From The 1980s is now available at Amazon.

As you can probably guess from the title, it's an almost-encyclopaedic look at forgotten British children's television from the 1980s. We all remember Pigeon Street, Saturday Superstore, Danger Mouse, The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, and they're still discussed today whenever someone of that generation gets a little nostalgic. But there was so much else being broadcast. Some of it was amazing, some completely baffling and some of it was truly abysmal. Most importantly, however, it was broadcast. This means it's part of our televisual history and should be preserved.

It’s my third print book - following The Curiosities of British Children’s TV and More Curiosities of British Children’s TV - and it may well be my favourite. Am I biased? Yes. Is it simply self-promotion to say it’s my favourite? Probably, but I genuinely find it fascinating. It’s the type of book I wish I could have got hold of 14 years ago when I started Curious British Telly. Sitting here, flicking through the proof copy, it’s forgotten programme after forgotten programme. Heaven.

I’m also very happy with how the cover came out. Previously, I’ve always employed a graphic designer to create my covers. And I’ve never been disappointed. But it’s an additional expense in an age where everything is costing more and more. So, this time, I decided to create the cover myself from the ground up. Using the free design program Inkscape, and with the help of various step-by-step guides, I crafted a cover which is minimalist yet eye-catching. I was a little worried how the brushed-metal texture would look in print, but it looks great.

Anyway, as I say, it’s now available on Amazon in both printed and e-book forms, so please take a look. If you happen to purchase a copy: thank you and enjoy.

Whilst writing my new book, 172 Forgotten British Children's TV Shows From The 1980s, it was important for me to take a deep dive into the schedules to see exactly what was on. Whilst I’d already done a lot of this work over the years, I was certain that there were plenty of interesting little programmes I’d missed. But delving through a decade’s worth of TV listings is hard work. So I made it a bit easier.

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Lenny Henry is a curious character in the history of British television. From the late 1970s up until the late 1990s, he seemed to be everywhere. It felt like you couldn’t move for Lenny Henry primetime vehicles, and he was one of the most notable contributors to Comic Relief. But then, as we entered a new millennium, his popularity began to wane.

Part of the problem may simply have been longevity. Henry had been on our screens for over 20 years at this point, and his style of comedy was beginning to feel familiar. With comedies such as The Royle Family, The League of Gentlemen and Spaced breathing new life into British comedy, Henry suddenly felt old fashioned. Then The Office aired in 2001.

Nonetheless, the vitriol which has been directed at him since then is baffling, and I genuinely can’t put my finger on what’s caused this. Comedy, of course, is subjective, and comedy fans are highly passionate about what they do and don’t find funny. Some have told me they think Ricky Gervais contributed towards this pile-on with his barbs in Extras. Others have said that his Premier Inn adverts tarnished his name.

Whatever the reason, it’s worth stressing just how huge Lenny Henry once was. He even transcended television and made it into an English Tourist Board promotional film in 1988. Have I managed to find a copy of this? Yes.

Several weeks ago, I was contacted by a keen reader of Curious British Telly to tell me that he had an unusual VHS tape. It featured Lenny Henry and was some sort of promotional tool for the English Tourist Board. There were no details about it online anywhere, so it sounded intriguing. It’s not strictly British television, but here it is:

The video was clearly not meant for public consumption. Instead, it’s aimed at travel agents, with an emphasis on drumming up interest in English holidays rather than pumping money into foreign economies. It features Henry as his Delbert Wilkins character, who was, at the time, fronting The Lenny Henry Show, visiting a travel agent’s to try and book an English holiday.

It’s a curious find, and one which doesn’t require you to be a travel agent to make it to the end. Will it change anyone’s opinion on Lenny Henry? Absolutely not. But it’s good to uncover these hidden fragments of popular culture which were never intended to survive beyond being handed out at conferences.

Many thanks to Ed for sending this video over to Curious British Telly.

I’ve got a new book for sale on Amazon out and it’s called 172 Forgotten British Children's TV Shows From The 1980s - click here to find out more.

Just a quick reminder, as I don’t want to spam you into an unsubscribing frenzy, that my new e-book 172 Forgotten British Children's TV Shows From The 1980s is currently available on Amazon.

It’s a rather comprehensive look at all the children’s programmes which were on in-between episodes of Danger Mouse, Pigeon Street and Grange Hill. Many have been forgotten in the intervening decades - some fairly, some inexplicably so - but I feel they’re worth remembering. They’re all part of the rich texture of television history, so it would be a shame for them to slip down the back of the sofa.

In further book news, a paperback version will soon be available. I know not everyone is a fan of e-books, so it made sense to release a physical version too. I’m currently awaiting a proof copy to be delivered - after some significantly tedious formatting - and will let you know when it goes live.

One of the worst pieces of 1980s children’s television I’ve ever uncovered is The Roger the Dog Show. I first covered the show several years ago, and also included it in my recent book 172 Forgotten British Children's TV Shows From The 1980s. However, I’ve just discovered that there was a predecessor to The Roger the Dog Show, and there’s a short clip of it on YouTube.

First off, I know it’s the early 1980s, but the Roger the Dog puppet is nightmare inducing. Just imagine that face looking through your bedroom window late at night. It’s also interesting to look at the presentation of Ward Allen and how it reflects a different age of professionalism. This was an era where television appearances were sacred, an almost unimaginable prospect for most. As a result, wearing an impeccable suit and tie was the only option. Today, Uniqlo is fine for a primetime appearance.

Just like the visual aesthetics, the content is equally dated. It’s very variety, steeped far too long in the cup for television. In a theatre, fine. But on the small screen it’s too static to capture the imagination. Is it completely lifeless? No. Is it funny? That’s harder to establish. It is, of course, aimed at young children. I’d have enjoyed it if I was seven. But more as a way of killing 10 minutes before something more entertaining came on.

And yet there’s something about it which means I can’t take my eyes off it. The contrast between Roger & Co and modern television is as sharp as Ward Allen’s tailoring. In fact, the contrast between Roger & Co and its 1982 peers is just as mind-boggling. It’s not that it was completely out of place when it aired. It just coincided with the beginning of the trad-variety genre’s death throes.

Believe it or not, on this brief showing, Roger & Co may be superior to The Roger the Dog Show. Even stranger still, I’d love to watch more to clarify this. Life is strange sometimes.

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For those Curious British Telly readers with a paid subscription, there’s an added bonus for you as I’m going to share a few more of my research resources for my latest book (172 Forgotten British Children's TV Shows From The 1980s)

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Just a quick post to say many thanks to those who’ve purchased my new e-book: 172 Forgotten British Children’s TV Shows From The 1980s. It means a lot to see that people are genuinely interested in reading it, and I’m happy to say my launch day sales were higher than my previous couple of releases.

As a quick bonus, and further thank you, I’m going to share a TV Times article with you that I dug up on Spectrum - a science-based programme which ran for three series on ITV in the early 1980s. Until I began researching the book, I wasn't even aware the show had existed. Even after all these years of investigating forgotten television, I’m still finding ‘new’ old things.

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I’ve always maintained that not producing a tie-in Ragdolly Anna doll was one of the great missed merchandising opportunities of the 1980s. Personally, even as a four-year-old boy, I would have killed for one. However, I’ve recently found out that you could make your own version of the doll with a bunch of paper roses in her big straw hat

Whilst doing some research for my new e-book on forgotten children’s television, I stumbled across an intriguing advert. In the week that the first series of Ragdolly Anna launched in 1982, the TV Times proudly offered readers the chance to purchase a Ragdolly Anna kit.

Costing £5.95 - just under £30 in today’s money - you had the chance to buy a kit which included everything you needed to create a surprisingly authentic version of the titular doll.

I dare say that some of these kits still exist somewhere out there, probably sandwiched between yellowing copies of TV Times. I’m absolutely positive I once saw one on eBay - although that could easily be a nostalgia-induced fever dream, something I suffer from frequently.

But, even if I were to get hold of one, there’s no way on earth I’d be able to put it together. It may surprise you to learn that I can actually repair a hole in a jumper, but that’s the full extent of my tailoring magic.

Anyway, I wanted to share it with you and, if you did happen to have one made for you, please let me know.

Yes, I have a new e-book out: 172 Forgotten British Children’s TV Shows From The 1980s.

As you can probably guess from the title, it’s an almost-encyclopaedic look at forgotten British children’s television from the 1980s. We all remember Pigeon Street, Saturday Superstore, Dangermouse, The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, and they’re still discussed today whenever someone of that generation gets a little nostalgic.

But there was so much else being broadcast - some of it was amazing, some completely baffling and some of it was truly abysmal. Most importantly, however, it was broadcast. This means it’s part of our televisual history and should be preserved.

It’s based on an article I wrote several years ago, but I was never entirely happy with it. Entries were rushed, some of the writing was sloppy and, after writing it, I discovered several more intriguing programmes worth of being included. Therefore, I went through it with a fine toothcomb, tightened things up, added additional trivia in, corrected some rather glaring mistakes and topped it up with more shows.

The result, if I must say so, is an intriguing time capsule of British television which is rarely discussed.

It’s available on Amazon for a launch price of £2.99, so to find out more, just click here.

Due to idiocy on my part, a daily occurrence as my family will attest to, I managed to miss the fact that I had an article published in the April 2026 edition of Best of British. As ever, this fills me with pride and bolsters my determination to delve deep into British television’s past.

What’s that? What was the article about? Good question, and one I should have answered earlier. It was about Channel 40, Milton Keynes’ ambitious community cable television channel from the mid-1970s. I’ve briefly touched upon this subject in the past, but wanted to do something more in-depth this time.

That’s why I put together a comprehensive history of its initial formation, launch and eventual demise. I even travelled down to Milton Keynes Library to use their microfilm machine to scour decades-old local newspapers to assist me. And, yes, the machine constantly malfunctioned, but that’s what we have to contend with for our art.

Anyway, back issues are available online if you’re particularly interested in the article. Hopefully, I should have another article out in the near future. I’ll make sure I give you notice to pick up a copy this time.

As an added bonus for those subscribers who have a paid subscription, I’m going to share my research materials with you. Just click the link below to access them:

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A few days ago, I wrote about how Standing Room Only was one of the best British TV programmes I’d tracked down. I also noted that very little footage has emerged online. Well, less than 24 hours later, a loyal fan of Curious British Telly had sent me a VHS containing an episode they’d recorded back in 1993.

And this is exactly why I started Curious British Telly, so that a community of British television fans could come together and help share its curious past. A fantastic achievement. Anyway, a brief writeup about the whole affair - and, of course, the episode - can be found over on the main Curious British Telly site. Just click here.

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The hitherto unknown world of British television continues to amaze and astound me. This week, I learned about Tygo Road, a blink and you’ll miss it sitcom from 1990, so it’s time to take a look.

Written by Richard Cottan and Christopher Douglas, Tygo Road started life as a one-off pilot for Comic Asides in 1989. A year later, it returned for five further episodes on BBC2. Directed by the safe hands of Bob Spiers, it's set in the Tygo Road Community Centre, described as "the last bridgehead against the remorseless march of Thatcherism".

Kevin McNally stars as Adam Hartley, an upwardly mobile manager determined to transform Tygo Road into an efficient, professional organisation. Unfortunately for him, he's surrounded by an eccentric collection of staff for whom efficiency is the last thing on their mind. Instead, they’re more focused on chaos, bickering and securing the best position for their desk.

And for those of you who are paying subscribers, we’re going to watch the very first episode:

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Having made Curious British Telly my second home for the last 15 years, I’ve tracked down some absolute gems of British television. Many of these are forgotten, or haven’t been broadcast in decades, and that’s why they appeal to me.

Watching them often feels like discovering a brand-new programme, even if it was made half a century ago. So, let me introduce you to five great forgotten British TV shows I tracked down.

1. News at Twelve - ITV - 1988

One of the cleverest and wittiest children’s programmes this country has ever produced. But no one remembers it.

News at Twelve is a curious, yet pleasingly simple oddity of children’s television. 12-year-old Kevin Doyle (Ewan Phillips) broadcasts a deadpan news bulletin from his bedroom, treating school scandals and dead goldfish with the gravitas of Trevor McDonald. It’s satire of the highest order, imagine The Day Today but fed through the playground. It never once acknowledges its own absurdity and it’s all the funnier for it.

Six episodes of News at Twelve were broadcast, with the scripts coming from Francis Sinclair - actually two Saatchi & Saatchi employees (Jeremy Sinclair and Cliff Francis) who decided to slum it in children’s television for a bit. Shot handsomely on 16mm, the series even featured guest stars such as Cyrille Regis and Jim Bowen to strengthen its deranged confidence.

Never repeated, News at Twelve is undeniable proof that children’s television can effortlessly compete with its adult counterparts. I missed it at the time, but finally managed to catch up with it at the BFI, where it left me delirious with joy. The fact that it vanished into the archives, completely unmourned, is nothing short of a national tragedy.

For more information on the series - and an interview with Ewan Phillips - just click here.

2. Standing Room Only - BBC - 1991 to 1994

Standing Room Only arrived as English football clambered out of its Heysel and Hillsborough nadir. Rather than taking its cue from the laid-back affability of old boys Saint and Greavsie, Standing Room Only borrowed its whole sensibility from the terrace fanzine. Simon O’Brien fronted the series, all scally hair and genuine scholarship, tackling fascism in reunified Germany and the rise of female fans alongside the usual laddish silliness like Supporterloo.

The photocopied fanzine spirit was bolstered by the comedy of David Baddiel and Rob Newman’s Sepp Maier’s Comedy Shorts, plus there were animations from Guardian cartoonist Steve Bell. Produced under Janet Street-Porter’s Def II umbrella, it ran three admirable series before disappearing, just as the Premier League gold rush began.

I picked up on Standing Room Only around 1992, enjoying it all the way up to its World Cup 94 special. Despite the high number of episodes, very little has surfaced on YouTube. Again, to dig a little deeper, I had to venture to the BFI to watch more. I was rewarded with a genuinely intriguing programme, one which focused on more than just goal of the month. Here was a programme for the fans who liked to think as well as chant.

I’ve barely heard anyone mention Standing Room Only since it was broadcast, and this baffles me. A crucial time capsule of British football at its biggest turning point, yet there’s less than an hour of it online. A clear red card.

3. The Flip Side - BBC - 1966

The Flip Side is a startlingly good showcase for Bob Monkhouse’s dramatic chops, cast against type as Jerry Janus, a late-night Canadian DJ whose gleaming on-air smile is curdling under the strain of a collapsing marriage. Written by M. Charles Cohen for BBC2’s Thirty-Minute Theatre, it’s a neat little play on morality. Focusing on the rot that sets in when integrity gets traded for airtime, The Flip Side demonstrates what happens when commercial television eats its own.

Monkhouse, better known for hosting quiz shows than painting portraits of complex, broken men, is mesmerising here. With his oily charisma stretched thin over internal wreckage, it’s a tour-de-force performance. Meanwhile, director Gareth Davies and producer Harry Moore conjure up a wonderfully camp satire of sixties commercial radio - jingles, ad breaks, and viewer phone-ins.

Rescued from Monkhouse’s own archive after decades presumed junked, it’s a tight, unsettling curio deserving of a far wider audience than it’s had. Once more, I had to head off to London to watch this at the BFI, but it was worth every minute of the journey and booking fee. Did I have a newfound respect for the great man? Absolutely.

If there’s a programme worthy of being slid onto iPlayer for the masses, it’s The Flip Side.

My full write up on the play can be found by clicking here.

4. Jackson Pace: The Great Years - ITV - 1990

It’s back to another slice of comedy from Children’s ITV, and this time it’s Jackson Pace: The Great Years - a gleefully cheap Indiana Jones spoof.

Starring a rather dashing Keith Allen - with lustrous, flowing locks - as the gold-obsessed Jackson Pace, the series finds him dragging sidekick Roger Whibley (Daniel Peacock) across jungles and Cairo nightclubs to the land of Ja Ja Bar. Hopefully, they’ll manage to snatch the treasure of Kinard before the self-obsessed Princess Layme (Cory Pulman) gets there first.

Devised by Allen and Daniel Peacock, with the latter also writing every script and scoring the music, the six episodes ran in autumn 1990 with a supporting cast plucked straight from the eighties alternative-comedy circuit - Josie Lawrence, Arthur Smith, Hugh Paddick among them. Never repeated, never released and stuffed with innuendo that had no business being in a teatime children’s show, it vanished almost entirely from the public consciousness.

Back in 1990, I watched Jackson Pace. In fact, I adored it. But years later, I couldn’t remember the name of the programme for the life of me. Luckily, for the very reason I started Curious British Telly, someone emailed me and asked if I remembered Jackson Pace, the Indiana Jones spoof of the early 1990s.

A month later, I was at the BFI watching a few episodes. It wasn’t as good as I remembered it. It was better. Comedy doesn’t get much better for children, and it was a thrill to reconnect with an old friend. Better yet, five of the six episodes have since turned up on YouTube, so I recommend you get stuck in to this forgotten gem.

5. Lost Property - ITV - 1986

Lost Property, part of the anthology Unnatural Causes, stars Miranda Richardson’s Anne - fresh from Blackadder II - as a woman who buys a fire-damaged, pupil-less school and retreats into a self-invented fantasy of innocence. Her artist husband John (John Duttine) has been relegated to the staff room, denied both a studio and a place in his marital bed. Written by Peter J. Hammond, it’s a claustrophobic, disturbing piece that turns marital collapse into a haunting.

The arrival of Marian - an eerie ex-pupil - tips the play from psychological drama into full-on ghoulishness. As the singing of an unseen child rings across the empty playground and an axe vanishes, the action builds to an ending so savage it’s a wonder anyone forgot it. Richardson and Duttine make a compelling double act, tenderness and resentment knotted together under decades of damage. It’s a true nightmare, but impossible to tear your eyes away from.

I discovered Lost Property a good 30 years after it aired, but it’s now etched into my memory for life. Previously, if you knew where to look, it was available online but it’s long since disappeared. Television of this magnitude simply shouldn’t be allowed to collect dust in the archives. Especially when it shakes you to your very core.

My original, and more in-depth, article on Lost Property can be found here.

Do you remember watching any of the above?

And are there any other shows which, after decade upon decade, you’ve finally reconnected with? Let me know in the comments.

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This is why, back in the very first issue of the Curious British Telly fanzine, I dug deep to see what I could find out about her. The fanzine is long since out of print - although I was tickled pink to see a few issues pop up on Ebay a while back - but I’m going to reshare that article for paid subscribers today.

If you’re a paid up member of the Curious British Telly Substack, scroll on. If you’re not, there’ll be plenty more free articles. But please consider signing up. It’ll help fuel a stronger Curious British Telly.

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Way back, long before the Substack, and in the middle of the pandemic, I started the Curious British Telly fanzine. Harking back to the good old days of do-it-yourself fanzines, it was a print only affair and ran for several issues. And in the very first issue, I covered Long Term Memory - one of Patrick Troughton’s final performances.

Airing in 1985, Long Term Memory centred on the plight of Gerald Hobbs Austen (Patrick Troughton), a solicitor’s clerk who disappeared 21 years earlier. Although he was presumed dead, Gerald had been living under false identities after developing stress-induced amnesia. Now, his memory is rapidly fading and he knows it’s time to stop running from his past. But will his family accept him back into the fold?

For those of you who are paid subscribers to the Curious British Telly Substack, I’ve got good news for you: not only can you read my original fanzine article on Long Term Memory below, but I’ve also included the episode to watch.

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I’ve been exploring little-known corners of British television for nearly 15 years now, and I’ve still barely scratched the surface. The problem isn’t just time, although that is a rare commodity - it’s availability. Many of these programmes only ever aired once and, somehow, avoided being preserved on home recordings. But it doesn’t stop me thinking about them.

So, partly as an act of catharsis and partly as a wild gamble that someone reading will hold copies, here are five out-of-reach British TV programmes I’ve never seen:

1. Why Do They Call it Good Friday?

   This one-off 1985 BBC1 drama captured my attention almost instantly when I found a brief snippet of it on a VHS tape. Once I’d finally identified what it was, the Radio Times description left me rabid with curiosity:
   
   "Ten-year-old Danny Brennan is asked by his teacher to find someone to care for a pigeon with a broken wing. He takes it to a breeder who promptly wrings its neck. During the Easter service the miracle of the Resurrection is re-interpreted in the boy's mind and transferred to the Pigeon."
   
   It sounds almost too bizarre to be real. But it is. It’s highly unlikely to ever be repeated, and the chances of it turning up on a random VHS tape I procure are slim to zero. And that’s exactly why I want to watch Why Do They Call it Good Friday?

   
   

2. Smith and Goody

   

   Mel Smith in a 1980 comedy series for children? Where do I sign up? Yes, at the height of his Not the Nine O’Clock News fame, Smith teamed up with Bob Goody for this Thames Television series.
   
   Focusing on the world of literature, Smith and Goody apparently mixed reading themes with good old-fashioned absurdity. But having not watched even a single second of the series, I can’t say much with certainty about its actual content. What I do know, however, is that the theme tune is fondly remembered by those who watched it.
   
   Frustratingly, I was once close to getting hold of an episode or two, but the proposed deal fell through. I’ve also heard very good things about the series, which doesn’t help.

   
   

3. Tansey Lambert is Dead, OK?

   
   The early days of Channel 4 were full of ambition and alternative takes on what television could be, and marked it out as an exciting addition to British broadcasting. And Tansey Lambert is Dead, OK would appear to be a perfect example of what Channel 4 was doing so well.
   
   The BFI’s synopsis of the programme is as follows:

   
   Eastender Tansey Lambert (Perry Fenwick) drifts through the education and social system, and befriends a black boy in Borstal. However, he finds himself coming into conflict between his personal loyalty to his black friend and the pressure of others to conform to their racism and National Front influence. This has tragic consequences.

   
   A little more information about the programme can be found here, and only serves to whet the appetite.
   
   It sounds gritty, hard-hitting and very much of the era. What fascinates me most is that this appears to be exactly the sort of socially engaged drama Channel 4 championed in its earliest years, yet it’s almost vanished from public view. It’s also the kind of thing I was drawn to watching when I was growing up. That’s why I can’t let go of it.

   
   

4. Interference

   

   Sticking with Channel 4’s early, wild frontiers, here’s something else which I discovered through the noble art of video tape digging. Centred on pirate television, Interference promises a delicious blend of comedy and social commentary. What more could you want from the early 1980s?

   
   The pilot episode - Book ‘Em and Risk It - briefly surfaced on YouTube before disappearing again due to copyright claims. More information on Interference - along with the trailer I dug up - can be found on my original post about it here.

   
   Having seen the pilot, I'm not entirely convinced Interference is a lost masterpiece. However, the trailer has an undeniably anarchic energy running through it. For me, a huge fan of alternative comedy and Channel 4's formative years, it’s more than enough to pique my curiosity.

   
   

5. Two D’s and a Dog

   

   You might have noticed that the first four entries in this list all aired in the 1980s, and that’s because I’m absolutely obsessed with that era. However, on occasion, I do venture outside of this decade. And Two D’s and a Dog is one such example.

   
   The series finds Dotty Charles (Denise Coffey) suddenly deprived of financial security following the death of her father. With the money gone, she’s forced into the world of work, aided and abetted by her late father's chauffeur, Dingle Bell (David Jason). Together, accompanied by Dotty's faithful sheepdog Fido, they drift from one improbable job to another.

   
   Anything featuring David Jason is inevitably of interest, especially when it’s been missing from view for over half a century. Tracing the early steps of familiar television figures is part of the fascination here: glimpses of what would later become Del Boy, Frost and Pa Larkin. Sadly, the entire series is believed to be missing from the archives - a true tragedy for an aficionado like myself.

Luckily for me, aside from Two D’s and a Dog, all of these programmes still exist in the archives. Better yet, they’re available through the BFI viewing service or at their Mediatheque site. But this involves the hassle of time, travel and booking fees. All for a one-off viewing.

No doubt, I’ll get round to it one day, but it remains one of the biggest thorns in the side of any television enthusiast. It’s understandable of course, the broadcasters can’t just digitise their entire archives and bung them online for anoraks like me, it would be financial suicide. But sometimes it’s nice to dream.

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