Simon Brett - Situation Tragedy

Having reasserted the basic polarities of his traditional script, Rod Tisdale seemed determined to adapt all his old plots for the new series. But for the unfunny intervention of death, there was little doubt that all of the What’ll the Neighbours Say? storylines would, in time, have reappeared in the guise of episodes of The Strutters. However, it was not to be, and with the appointment of Willy and Sam Tennison, who knew what direction the series would take? (Actually, one could have a pretty good guess. It was only a matter of time before the Nick Coxhill character was supplied with a dizzy wife to exchange darlings with, and Colonel and Mrs Strutter were moved back into subsidiary roles.)

All this preamble is necessary to explain the reason for the night filming that was so disturbing the rehearsal schedule of The Strutters. In Episode Six (or, if you count the pilot, Seven) the plot, simplified (bit not much) was as follows:

Colonel Strutter and his son argue violently about politics. The Colonel is a true-blue Conservative (jokes about being blue in the face too) and the Nick Coxhill character is a follower of Marx (sequence of jokes about Groucho, Harpo and Chico, which are compulsory in all sit corns which mention Marx). The son, in a kaftan, then meets a friend, also in a kaftan, who has just started a new political party, the Conservation (jokes about recycled paper and brown rice) and Union (brassiere jokes about ‘One out, all out’) Party. Friend suggests son should bridge the gap between the generations and invite his father to come and speak at the inaugural meeting of the new party. Son rings mother, who takes message and, daffily, mishears ‘Conservation and Union Party’ as ‘Conservative and Unionist Party’. End of Part One. Commercial Break.

Part Two opens with Colonel and Mrs Strutter (on film) in the street, looking for the venue of the meeting and being amazed by the Bohemianism of the people they see going in. (All the extras involved wear kaftans to demonstrate their Bohemianism and have long hair and beards, thus adding considerably to the make-up bill for the episode.) The rest of Part Two is a studio sequence of the actual meeting in which misunderstandings abound, and everyone gets the wrong end of every available stick with, as in all good sit coms, ‘hilarious consequences’.

The above plot had appeared in a very early episode of What’ll the Neighbours Say? in which Bernard Walton formed a new political party called ‘The Brigade of Hard Red Unions’, which his father (a character who didn’t get on with Bernard and was quickly dropped from the series) misheard as ‘The Brigade of Guards Reunion’. With, once again, ‘hilarious consequences’.

The only difference between the two was that in The Strutters episode, all the other regular characters went along to the meeting to witness the Colonel’s discomfiture. Which meant that Reg the golf club barman once again displayed his trousers, and Charles Paris had to turn up to West End Television for a nine p.m. make-up call, before being taken by coach to the condemned road in Clapham which the Location Manager had selected for the night’s filming.

All the impedimenta of filming lay ready when the coach arrived. The crew had been booked for the full night and so were guaranteed ‘Golden Time’ (the best rate of overtime), regardless of when they finished. As a result the men in lumberjack checked shirts hadn’t told them to slow down and they had been very efficient.

It was still a warm summer evening and not quite dark. But a fierce glow brighter than daylight came from the terrace of houses which was to be used as the location. Huge lights on tall metal stands were trained on them ready for filming. Cables ran from these to a variety of vans and lorries. Make-up caravans and mobile dressing rooms spread down the street. The double-decker bulk of the location caterers’ bus loomed to one side. Extras in beards and kaftans sat around, plotting as ever how to get personally ‘directed’ by the director, thus raising their status (and fee) to that of ‘walk-on’. There could be no doubt that a film crew was around.

So was a large crowd of gawpers. This was inevitable. The paraphernalia always attract an audience, and the clemency of the weather increased their numbers. Many had been standing outside local pubs and followed the film transport with interest. It was not an area where a great deal happened.

There was some raucous shouting from the crowd, but they seemed fairly good-humoured. Robin Laughton, the Floor Manager, walking round with his walkie-talkie, was of the opinion that they would soon disperse once the novelty had worn off and it got later.

The Location Manager, looking a little anxious, said he hoped that was the case. ‘There seem to be a lot more people round here than I expected. I thought all the houses were empty. Most of them are boarded up.’

‘Squatters, I should think,’ said Robin Laughton. ‘What time of day did you do your recce?’

‘Afternoon. Hardly anyone around then. Just the old couple who live in that house right in the middle. I fixed a fee with them all right.’

‘If you get trouble, maybe you’ll have to pay some of this lot off.’

The Location Manager nodded uncertainly. It was part of his job to carry round pockets full of flyers to buy off anyone who objected to the filming. ‘There are a lot of them, though.’

‘They’ll soon clear off once they see how boring it is. Don’t you worry, my son.’

‘Is Bob ready to start filming?’

Robin Laughton shook his head. ‘Dob’s not here yet.’

‘Wasn’t she coming in the coach?’

‘No, special dispensation, she was to come and get made up here.’

‘What, that old looney coming here in the Bentley? He’s probably driven her to the wrong place.’

‘No, no, we’ve sent a hire car for her. Old Barton’ll be safely tucked up in bed by now.’

George Birkitt, standing by Charles, had overheard the end of this conversation. ‘Oh no, it’s the bloody limit!’

‘What is?’

‘Bloody Dob. Coming straight here. Not getting made up at W.E.T. like the rest of us.’

‘Oh, come on. She’s tired. Needs as much rest as she can get.’

‘Don’t you think I’m bloody tired?’

‘I’m sure you are, but you’re not seventy-five.’

‘Huh. It’s all very well, everyone kow-towing to her all the time, but who’s carrying this bloody show, that’s what I want to know. I mean, really, I’m the one who has to keep the thing going. I carry the story-line every bloody week, while she just twitters around charmingly. And yet who gets the top billing? Huh. You know I’m not the sort of person to fuss over details, but I think that billing’ll have to be looked at on the next series.’

Aurelia arrived soon, clutching Cocky’s basket, full of apologies for being late. The minicab driver, like all minicab drivers, hadn’t known the way and had got lost. But she wouldn’t be a minute honestly, darling. And she hurried into the make-up caravan.

Charles strolled over to the lit area and leant against one of the tall light-stands. ‘’Ere, keep off that. Not stable,’ said the voice of one of the men in lumberjack checked shirts.

Charles moved away and looked at the stand. It was perfectly stable, in fact, mounted on a wheeled tripod. Metal locks were fixed down on the wheels to prevent it from slipping down the incline of the street. Still, television is full of people telling you not to touch this or that. Charles didn’t want to precipitate a demarcation dispute by arguing.

Rather than getting smaller, the crowd of sightseers had increased. He looked at his watch. Of course, pubs just closed. The thought made him feel in his pocket, where his hand met the reassuring contour of a half-bottle of Bell’s. Essential supplies for a night’s filming.