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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Modern television presenters can’t hold a candle to Bruce Forsyth. They can’t even hold a faulty torch to his brilliance. Ant and Dec, Mulhern and O’Leary can only worship at his feet. And today’s Vintage TV Pick of the Day is strong evidence of Brucie’s brilliance.

TFI Friday was must-watch entertainment in the 1990s. Anarchy, laughs and live music meant it was the perfect way to usher in the weekend. It was very much of its time, with the mid-10s relaunch fizzling out before it had even started, and the recent Virgin Radio version being rather sedate in comparison. Luckily, the TFI Friday YouTube channel has recently started uploading clips of its 90s heyday.

It’s a treasure trove of British culture on top form, with recent highlights including interviews with Des Lynam and Terry Wogan. However, it’s the Bruce Forsyth interview that really stood out for me.

Forsyth effortlessly demonstrates why he’s a showbusiness machine. He ridicules Evans throughout, at a time when Evans was absolutely huge. The audience are on Brucie’s side from the outset, and boy does he know how to get them on his side - who knew natural charisma could be so potent? More importantly, he’s hilarious and genuine, two valuable commodities in the personality stakes.

Evans is clearly a massive fan and is more than happy for Forsyth to take centre stage, no doubt learning a thing or two from the old pro. Anyway, it's an excellent reminder of the extraordinary talent this country used to produce. So, watch and enjoy.

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I love a quick scan of the charity shops when I’m in town. Most of the time, they turn up very little of interest for Curious British Telly, but not always. Sometimes, in amongst the dog-eared Beano annuals and suspiciously stained trousers, I’ll find a gem. Yesterday, for just two quid, I secured the TV Times Television Quiz Game from 1985.

Manufactured by MB Games - whose logo generates a Proustian rush of childhood glee - the TV Times Television Quiz Game (TTTQG) looks exactly like it should. A product of the mid-1980s, it’s simultaneously plain and furiously busy.

The iconic TV Times logo adorns a silver box which, on its own, would be a classy, minimalist design. But the era demanded excess, so we’re also gifted a Who’s Who of cultural icons - giving us the chance to see Roland Rat rubbing shoulders with Muhammad Ali - as well as a selection of pre-game questions.

But what lies within this box? Well, paid subscribers can find out by reading on.

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There’s something quite radical about a lido - a public space where all of society strips down to the same level. And the BBC Archive have, yet again, come up trumps with this fantastic documentary about Brockwell Park Lido.

Lidos, of course, are fantastic examples of public facilities shot through with a pleasing dose of art deco architecture. However, this particular documentary, directed by BAFTA and Emmy award winning director Lucy Blakstad, doesn’t focus primarily on the lido. It’s far too clever for that. Instead, it concentrates on the people using it.

1995 doesn’t actually feel that long ago, but a quick look at the calendar reveals it was over 30 years ago. And doesn’t Britain look a much calmer place? It helps that Blakstad’s documentary is beautifully shot, all slow-motion and otherworldly underwater shots. It gives the programme a timeless feel, one where the internet and mobile phones were still babes in arms.

The direction is only part of the success here. Blakstad also manages to capture an amazing cross section of society on this particular day. From single mums through to lifeguards, gay couples and even the head of the Civil Service, Blakstad’s camera interweaves their lives at a particular point with the lido.

Society may not always be harmonious - particularly in the modern day - but this documentary is a delightful example of, how when the sun shines, it can be bloody marvellous. Just beware of Speedos.

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It’s 1986. It’s 12pm. I’m fresh home from playgroup. A ham sandwich is in my hand. Could life get any better? Well, yes, of course it could. Puddle Lane is about to start. And a little later it’ll be time for Mop and Smiff. The lunchtime children’s television slot in Britain felt, at the time, like its own small kind of magic.

Today, when children can watch whatever they want, at anytime, the idea of children’s television being restricted to a few hours a day feels ludicrous. But, for a long time, until satellite television and the internet, that was simply how things were. It was non-negotiable. Children had a few brief slots of television aimed at them, and that was that.

The BBC’s Watch with Mother was first out of the blocks in 1952. A spin-off from BBC Radio’s Listen with Mother, the schedule had expanded to five programmes by 1955: Picture Book, Andy Pandy, Flower Pot Men, Rag, Tag and Bobtail and The Woodentops.

ITV kickstarted their lunchtime children’s slot in 1955. But the regional nature of the broadcaster meant it was a more fractured affair. By 1972, however, the schedule had expanded and was more established. Rainbow, Pipkins and Hickory’s House all launched within the first year, a lineup not to be sniffed at.

Watch with Mother evolved into See-Saw in 1980, reflecting the growing number of mums now going out to work. And this is when I started watching television. I may be biased, but the early to mid-1980s was an unbelievable time for the lunchtime children’s slot. Both See-Saw and Children’s ITV delivered classic after classic.

They generally fell into three categories. First up was education dressed up as fun. Bric-a-Brac featured Brian Cant delving through his dusty bric-a-brac shop to explore phonetics. The Giddy Game Show, meanwhile, got the old grey matter going with a series of fiendish puzzles.

Next, there was good old fashioned storytelling. The Little Green Man, narrated by Jon Pertwee, followed the curious friendship between schoolboy Skeets and a visitor from beyond the stars. There was also Tickle on the Tum, featuring not only the songs of Ralph McTell, but also a series of stories featuring a star-studded cast - Billy Connolly, Burt Kwouk and Penelope Keith all took part.

Finally, there was everything else. From the imagination sparking Let’s Pretend through to the dance inspired Hokey Cokey and the wilfully bizarre antics of The Buttercup Buskers (this one really needs to be seen as words cannot do it justice). There was truly something for everyone, even Stop-Go for any ardent fans of transport documentaries.

A welcome diversion for children, for sure, but why do the memories persist so strongly? Why, forty years on, does the Thames theme tune leave me eager with anticipation that Zippy, George and Bungle are about to appear? Why will I never forget the episode of Mop and Smiff where they meet the Queen? And why do I still resent having to sit through Pebble Mill at One to get to the See-Saw slot?

It felt special. By the time I started watching, home recording existed, but blank tapes were still expensive. Lunchtime programmes were rarely repeated - miss an episode of Chock-a-Block and it was likely gone forever. Even now, many of these programmes are difficult to rewatch, with some wiped into oblivion by the broadcasters.

I toddled off to primary school in 1987, so you’d think that’s where my memories of the lunchtime slot ended. But they didn’t. For many years afterwards, I was lucky enough to pop home for my lunch, and remember watching countless episodes of The Riddlers and Allsorts before dashing back to school. They weren’t aimed at me by this point, but the charm I remembered from my even younger years still hooked me in.

Of course, like so much of the television landscape from the past, the children’s lunchtime slot is now consigned to history. ITV ended their slot in 1993, allowing This Morning to run later - thankfully, the lost time was absorbed into the afternoon Children’s ITV slot. The BBC, however, carried on for a decade longer, with the final lunchtime slot coming towards the end of 2002.

By now, digital television was kicking off, and children’s schedules far eclipsed anything available in the past. A few years on and linear watching would seem as archaic as black and white programming and getting up to change the channel. Everything had changed.

For as long as I live, I’ll cherish the lunchtime children’s slot. It was more than just television - it was a small, perfectly contained pocket of magic in the middle of the day. That ham sandwich at 12pm, the glow of the television and the knowledge that the rest of the world could wait. It all combined to turn an ordinary lunchtime into something worth remembering forty years later.

What are your memories of watching the lunchtime children’s schedules?

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For anyone who’s followed Curious British Telly over the years, you’ll know that I’m prone to curious thoughts. One of the most prominent and recurring ones I have is: what would happen if I had a bath with some nearly 40 year old Doctor Who bubble bath.

I am, of course, never going to act on this foolhardy experiment. But I can’t say I’m not tempted. Back in 1987-ish, I actually had numerous Doctor Who bubble baths.

The Doctor Who merchandise machine was always a juggernaut, and it persisted to the very end of the classic series. 1987 saw a burst of interest in the ailing series, with Colin Baker being shoved out of the TARDIS and replaced by Sylvester McCoy. Therefore, BBC Enterprises were rubbing their hands with glee - it was time for more merchandise. And my five-year-old self was delighted when my Dad brought home a bottle of Doctor Who bubble bath.

39 years on, I can still remember the excitement. Bath time was going to be transformed. Time travel down the plughole would be possible. Vervoids would be thwarted by my intergalactic bubbles. I also remember the massive disappointment. Nothing magical happened. The smell was also… well… I can still smell it now. Imagine a thin, runny hand soap, the type you’d find in a public toilet in the 1980s. That was it.

I don’t think the Doctor Who bubble bath persisted on the shelves for very long. I certainly can’t remember seeing it in the shops for very long, and I doubt it troubled Matey. But countless bottles seem to have survived. On Ebay, there are currently several bottles available in varying conditions. I appreciate the collectability, I really do, but I’d rather spend my money on a bottle of Molton Brown (I can’t afford Molton Brown).

I guess that, if you’re happy with using chemically degraded substances on your body, then fill your boots, run a bath and slip into a new dimension of space bubbles and dermatitis. Or you could just keep it on your shelf and settle for a bit of Radox.

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The first episode of Stookie is, as I wrote a few months ago, fantastic. It’s also rather difficult to find and watch. In the distant past, the whole series was up on the STV Player, but Stookie has long since been removed from there. Sure, you can watch the first two episodes through the BFI Replay service, but you also need to be sitting in a participating library.

Luckily, for paid subscribers, I’ve managed to track down a copy of the first episode to share with you. Just scroll down and you’ll find the video in all its 1985 glory.

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Enjoying Curious British Telly? Fantastic! I’m absolutely thrilled you’ve signed up as it’s a sign that I have something interesting to say. If you'd like to dive even deeper into the strange, forgotten and fascinating corners of British television, there's also a paid subscription option available.

I launched it back in April and, since then, I’ve adjusted the pricing. It was clearly too high, so it’s now available for £6 a month. But what do you get for your money? Well, there’s exclusive footage of programmes I’ve covered, access to research materials I’ve used and, of course, exclusive articles.

As ever, free articles will remain. I still enjoy using Substack to write mini-articles and highlight intriguing obscurities, and I hope they provide a nice distraction in your inbox. But I would like to do more with the Substack, such as purchasing obscure items and covering them here - subscriptions will help me achieve this.

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Threads, the BBC’s nuclear horror-drama from 1984, continues to haunt my dreams. Its gut-wrenching, brutal honesty never fails to hit hard. From mass hysteria on the streets of Sheffield through to nuclear survivors gnawing on radioactive sheep, it’s a graphic, yet essential watch.

In the film, we see how public order swiftly collapses and the country struggles to get to its feet again. Most communications channels are damaged beyond repair and, of course, this leaves society in tatters. This is touched upon in Threads, but what would have actually happened to television in the event of all-out nuclear war in the mid-1980s?

Luckily, Broadcast magazine looked into this in 1984. I’ve provided the clippings below and it makes for grim reading indeed. It’s depressing that, at the time, there were 20 public information videos primed and ready to go which would instruct the public on how to prepare for nuclear war. Likewise, the prediction that our channels would rapidly become saturated with a nuclear obsession, and the launch of the Wartime Broadcasting Services (WTBS), instils a ghoulish feeling deep within the soul.

Perhaps most disturbingly is the fact that the WTBS may not even be able to broadcast. Ensuring the system was hardened against nuclear blast effects was unlikely due to a lack of investment. In all likelihood, television would be wiped out altogether. If it did somehow survive, broadcasts would be brief to preserve energy supplies.

It’s a fascinating article and, just like Threads, leaves you with a lingering sense of dread. As the article concludes, perhaps it would indeed be better to die than survive.

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Seeing as Britain’s currently basking in glorious sunshine, what better opportunity to head back in time with Bagpuss in the Sun?

First published in 1974, the same year that Bagpuss made its debut on BBC1, Bagpuss in the Sun is a glorious addition to the series. It’s a tale which takes in picnics, songs and a healthy dose of magic.

There’s no denying that Bagpuss in the Sun is quintessential Bagpuss. Oliver Postgate’s story is a timeless, charming gem. And if you don’t gasp in delight at Peter Firmin’s beautiful illustrations, I suggest you swiftly book in with a psychiatrist. It’s the perfect story to read in the British sunshine. Just make sure you keep in the shade. And watch out for dragons.

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Being the admirable chap I am, I was rummaging through the archives earlier and unexpectedly found something intriguing for you. Back in 1983, the BBC was the victim of a major heist: Bill & Ben the Flowerpot Men were stolen!

Naturally, as this clipping from the industry magazine Broadcast reveals, the BBC was careful to keep this news under wraps. Aside from the damaging impact it would have had on the nation’s morale, the BBC worried that too much publicity may lead to the culprits panicking and destroying the puppets. Luckily, this discretion paid off.

The puppets - which also included the Woodentops and Spotty Dog - eventually ended up at Phillips’ auction house in London. They’d made their way there via a backstreet deal at East London’s Brick Lane market. The thieves - and no doubt the buyer - clearly knew what they had on their hands, yet only £75 exchanged hands.

Michael Cook, assistant producer at Blue Peter, was alerted to the presence of these puppets at the auction house and the BBC swiftly acted. Within a month, the puppets had been reunited with their creator, Freda Lingstrom.

It’s a curious little tale, and one which I hadn’t heard before. Was it the crime of the century? No, far from it. But it’s a nice footnote, and the perfect example of what I like to deliver on Curious British Telly.

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I’ve only been unemployed twice in my life, and both times I got off lightly. The first time, I was 18 and living at home - with the main reason for my unemployment being laziness. On the second occasion, I had a generous redundancy package, won £2,500 around the same time and the World Cup was on.

This 1978 episode of ITV Schools programme Work shows a much bleaker reality.

Work was produced by ATV in the late 1970s and first aired in early 1978 in an 11.20am slot on ITV. The series was hosted by Sylvester McCoy (albeit under the name Sylveste, an intriguing moniker he adopted in the 1970s) and was repeated several times until 1980.

This particular episode focuses on unemployment, acting as a grim warning to schoolchildren of what lies ahead. It’s only 15 minutes long and, as such, it’s a rather whistlestop tour of unemployment.

There’s the obligatory visit to the careers centre, where the unemployed youth are forced to sit in rigid plastic chairs and await disappointment after disappointment. McCoy, who’s travelling everywhere in a taxi with an ever-increasing fare, also visits building sites and abandoned factories to highlight the impact of economic forces on the unemployment figures.

As an ATV production, the episode is set in Birmingham, with most of the action centred in the inner city. It’s a damning portrait, with disused factories cluttering up the cold, grimy streets, underlining the economic unease without even raising a finger. It’s countered, quite oddly, by McCoy’s trademark slapstick and gurning. I guess it underlines the importance of resilience, but feels like a peculiar choice given the subject at hand.

At the end, McCoy sums up the various socioeconomic factors contributing towards the nation’s unemployment figures. And they chime oddly with today’s landscape. In an age of self-service checkouts (the scourge of anyone aged over 50) and the looming threat of AI, has the future ever felt more uncertain?

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Today’s offering from Vintage TV Pick of the Day is the very first episode of Pig in the Middle, an early 1980s ITV sitcom featuring Dinsdale Landen. Is it deserving of your attention? Well, I don’t want to come across as hyperbolic, but I’d happily sell a kidney to own a boxset of the entire series.

Barty Wade (Dinsdale Landen) is a civil servant with a strong appetite for pleasure, much to the frustration of his wife Susan (Joanna Vangyseghem), who is far more interested in sensible middle-aged pursuits like dinner parties and shopping for blinds. At one such gathering, Barty meets cheerful schoolteacher Nellie Bligh (Liza Goddard), who is charmed by his immature but appealing personality.

The two begin a tentative affair, though Barty’s guilt keeps the relationship largely innocent at first. When they eventually decide to live together, Barty starts to wonder if Nellie may turn out to be just as controlling as Susan.

Written by Terence Brady and Charlotte Bingham, Pig in the Middle ran for three series. Curiously, Dinsdale Landen - one of the most unheralded actors we’ve ever produced - left after the first series and was replaced by Brady himself.

Sadly, for my curiosity, but wonderful news for my urinary system, it’s unlikely I’ll ever get the chance to exchange a kidney for all three series of Pig in the Middle. I can’t see ITV forking out to restore all the episodes and, in all honesty, the days of ancient TV series getting commercial releases are all but over. Fortunately, several episodes have emerged online over the years, hence why I can bring you the above.

And, for paid subscribers of Curious British Telly, there’s some bonus information below in the form of a complete list of broadcast details for the series and some press clippings.

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A little while ago, over on the main Curious British Telly site, I wrote about a fiendishly obscure biology-based panel show called Monkey Business. A one-series affair from 1985, it seems to have passed under the radar at the time. 40 years later it’s as if it never existed.

But, as I touched on in my original article, it’s worth a watch. Originally, it aired in a primetime evening slot, and this appears to have been its Achilles heel. It lacks a distinctive sparkle, so it struggles to truly arrest the attention. Monkey Business was also going head-to-head with Coronation Street, a programme with a rich pedigree in securing audiences. Would it have fared better in a daytime slot? Indubitably.

As well as featuring the national treasure that is Floella Benjamin, Monkey Business also contains an intriguing set - all vintage fruit machines, soft play graphic design and 1980s frugality. Paid subscribers to Curious British Telly can watch the very first episode below. It’s a fascinating relic of mid-80s BBC experimentation, and I’d love to know what you think of it.

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The BBC’s children’s department was clearly entering a new era in 1973. And it promised to be an exciting one. More than 50 years later, that excitement still radiates from the page.

This Television Today article, from September 1973, highlights two exciting aspects of the BBC’s upcoming Autumn/Winter children’s schedule: the sheer number of new programmes and their ambition.

Monica Sims, then head of BBC children’s programmes, frequently references participation. A recent Blue Peter competition, for example, has received a staggering 152,000 entries. And in terms of connection, the Beeb’s output was often landing in front of 77% of the nation’s children. It truly was a different era. An age where, before streaming and YouTube, a shared national experience was the norm.

The autumn line-up itself feels ridiculously good. Crackerjack was returning with Michael Aspel, Don MacLean and Peter Glaze at the helm. Meanwhile, the BBC had secured 100 more episodes of The Magic Roundabout from France, narrated once again by Eric Thompson. Drama also featured heavily, with The Terracotta Horse, Tom’s Midnight Garden and Carrie’s War all lined up to make their debut.

There were also signs of formats that would become staples of British children’s television. Why Don’t You Just Switch Off Your Television Set and Go and Do Something Less Boring Instead? was, after a small scale introduction earlier in the year, being expanded into something bigger.

Play Away would soon be back, along with some rather exciting Away Days. And there was the launch of Ragtime, a new Watch with Mother series starring Fred Harris and Maggie Henderson - an absolute gem of a programme.

Perhaps the most charming detail, however, is the one reserved for a new Oliver Postgate production: Bagpuss. Here, Bagpuss is inaccurately described as a “large ginger cat” but it’s not the huge mistake it sounds.

Originally, Bagpuss was supposed to be a ginger marmalade cat, but a cock-up at the dyeing factory meant his material came back pink and cream. Quite why Peter Firmin isn’t namechecked is a bit of a mystery, but we’ll just have to let that one lie.

Are we taking a slightly rose-tinted look at the past? Well, yes, but that’s inevitable with children’s television. More than anything else, though, this article captures an era of BBC children’s television rich with imagination, experimentation and stone-cold classics.

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I’ve loved British television ever since I used to sit in my living room watching Mop & Smiff with glee. But it wasn’t until I was eight that I started dedicating myself to it. This was when I started regularly tuning into programmes, recording them and wondering about their origins. Curiously, it was around the same time that my true personality started forming: irreverent, far too relaxed and with a rich vein of obsessive passions - a psychiatrist would have a field day with me.

Anyway, the reason for this self-indulgent introduction is that it perhaps underpins why this era of British television (1990 - 1992ish) still intrigues me. I was neither a teenager nor an adult, but I was already shrugging off the trappings of childhood. My memories from this period feel more solid and fully formed, and remain far more readily accessible all these decades later.

Yet one programme from this era that I can’t remember watching is Chalkface.

Devised by John Godber, Chalkface was a drama set in a school, but in sharp contrast to the heroin abuse and teenage pregnancies of Grange Hill, it focused more keenly on the lives of the teachers. These tales of staffroom politics, classroom crises and bureaucracy were filmed at St. Thomas Aquinas R.C. School in Birmingham, with production duties taken care of by BBC Pebble Mill.

I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time around television obsessives and I’ve never once heard Chalkface mentioned. Not in 1991, not in 2008 and certainly not in 2026. Is this a damning indictment of its quality? I’d say not.

All nine episodes ended up in my possession a few years ago and, you know, it wasn’t too bad. It didn’t captivate me like Channel 4’s Teachers did in the 2000s, but it’s an admirable slice of drama and sums up where British television was in the early 90s - not quite world beating, far from technically ambitious but perfect for the home audience.

And for the paid subscribers of Curious British Telly, it’s time to watch the very first episode. Just click play below.

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Chish ‘n’ Fips is a classic of the ‘barely anyone remembers it and even less footage is available’ genre. And this is a shame, as it’s a fun, gentle children’s programme, with visuals that you’ll never forget. Luckily, unlike The Gnomes of Dulwich, the entire series still exists. Unfortunately, almost all of it is off-limits to the general public.

The BFI holds several copies, and I watched some of them a few years ago, but they remain stubbornly out of reach for most people. YouTube, however, has an episode tucked up its sleeve.

VideotapeFTW, a highly reliable archaeologist of old video tapes, uploaded an episode in 2018. Despite its visual spectacle - which some may consider nightmarish - it’s only garnered 22,000 views in eight years. That’s why I’ve decided to add at least seven more views to that total.

Mr Fisher (Mike Grady) and Mr Wheeler (Tony Aitken) are two gnomes who live out the back of a fish and chip shop. Yes, the title of the programme is such a fiendish pun that it’s rumoured the UN investigated it when it first aired. Anyway, this episode finds the gnomes trying to get Henrietta the Tortoise back home after she emerges from hibernation.

It’s far from a rollercoaster, but it’s a warm little jaunt and harks back to a calmer, dare I say it, more sensible time.

Let me know what you think of it in the comments below. And if you happen to have any episodes knocking about, please get in touch!

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