Steptoe and Son.

 Steptoe and Son.

There was a time when the British TV landscape was dominated by classic literary adaptations and period pieces such as John Galsworthy's very noble The Forsyte Saga, a series chronicling the life and times of the English aristocracy and landed gentry, the feuding families, the snobberies, the Upstairs Downstairs class divide and general differences of opinion that became a common theme. The Forsyte Saga had snooty condescension, seemingly futile arguments between the rich and the poor and the kind of captive TV audience that would turn the series into cult viewing, drama of the highest quality.

But then there were those hilarious BBC sitcoms that sent us into raptures, convulsions of joy, guaranteed laughter, rolling in the aisles. Dad's Army would begin its epic wartime journey in black and white TV. From 1968, it was compulsive watching since it tapped into all the relevant themes that had become such an integral part of the Second World War. When the programme finished in colour many years later, most of us knew all the characters who had so enchanted the nation. The repeats were endless.

There was Captain Mainwaring, aka Arthur Lowe, Sergeant Wilson, aka John Le Mesurier, Private Pike, aka Ian Lavender, Clive Dunn's Lance Corporal Jones and a whole host of characters who were so beautifully depicted that you could almost hear the air raid sirens in your living room, such was the authenticity of it all. Dad's Army had become a British TV national treasure and for those who remember it with such inordinate affection, this must have held up an accurate mirror to British society and its cultural thinking at the time.

But there was another BBC sitcom which had already established itself in the nation's hearts long before Dad's Army had been just an apple in the eye of BBC programme planners. Back in the early 1960s, legendary comedy script writers Ray Galton and Alan Simpson discovered a winning formula that would keep us giggling, smiling and laughing wildly for well over a decade or so. It was a simple idea- as is the way with most TV sitcoms- and we began to wonder why it had never been thought of before. It was endearing, lovable, immediately recognisable and identifiable, the sitcom that fitted just nicely. 

Starting in 1962, Steptoe and Son had begun its life nervously and tentatively as part of the BBC's Comedy Playhouse season, an experimental sitcom for which the BBC become renowned. Steptoe and Son were grumbling, crotchety and cantankerous rag and bone men who lived in Oil Drum Lane. The programme was set, quite appropriately, in an old, ramshackle knackers yard in Shepherd's Bush, West London, not a million miles away from BBC headquarters.

Here father and son Harold Steptoe and son Albert lived out of life of abject poverty, constant struggle and hardship and a relationship that was both hostile and antagonistic. Albert was the grizzled old father who spent most of his time, just moaning, whining, complaining and criticising son Harold over the pettiest things. Then they would engage in the most surreal of conversations that invariably ended up in a miserable stalemate with neither agreeing or disagreeing. 

Surrounded by the cheapest junk and paraphernalia that would never have graced anybody's dining room, Steptoe and Son seemed content to wallow in their apparent misfortune. There were coat hangers that had probably last seen service in 1923, a record player almost as old as the HMV dog and then had to be wound up. There were piles of tatty clothing scattered crazily around the yard, old cupboards and wardrobes that were just decaying into oblivion with every episode and a writing desk that must have been used by Charles Dickens.

But above all, Steptoe and Son succeeded in its primary objective of pulling in millions of viewers who must have thought that a sitcom about rag and bone men couldn't possibly work. Here was Albert Steptoe, filthily dressed and almost permanently dishevelled, sneering contemptuously at the rest of the world because the world had let him down. Meanwhile, son Harold could only dream of the ultimate day of liberation, a day to celebrate his freedom from dad Albert's sullen and sunken face, a chance to escape into greener pastures. 

And here was the central premise for Steptoe and Son. The BBC, without realising it, had comedy gold, a sitcom for the ages that began in now crackling, grainy black and white but then developed the loveliest of all personalities. In a snug corner of Shepherds Bush in London, Steptoe and Son was classically funny because it was so down to earth and genuine, free from any of the airs and graces that might have befallen other BBC productions. There was the downtrodden Harold Steptoe with that shabby, grubby coat, ungrateful, cynical, hard nosed, at war with everybody.

Harold Steptoe desperately wanted to be an actor, painter, sculptor, writer, a famous architect perhaps -anything other than a skint, destitute rag and bone man barely able to pay any of the domestic bills. Harold Steptoe craved fame, a distinguished career in the arts or perhaps a well respected musician because he knew that Albert was simply dragging him down to the lowest gutter.

Then there were the incessant quarrels, more arguments over money that none of them could ever boast about because their existence was so degrading and humiliating. So Albert, always dressed in threadbare mittens, ragged shirt and crumpled waistcoat, continued to wallow in self pity, tormenting his son Harold with negative remarks designed to belittle him to a point where he could hardly function.

And for well over 20 years Steptoe and Son would become one of those delightful sitcoms where the main characters were portrayed as pathetic souls, alienated from the rest of the world and somehow living in their own bubble, almost cocooned from the troubles and wars around them. Nobody really bothered Steptoe and Son because the rest of the world had more pressing issues on their minds.

In last night's latest episode on the Freeview TV channel 'That's It', Steptoe and Son, in an old 1970s colour production, once again reminded you of the moral high ground. Over 50 years ago, gentle and inoffensive sitcoms such as Terry and June were almost deliciously amusing. For Steptoe and Son, there was something very rough around the edges and slightly anarchic about two rag and bone men who just didn't get on with each other.

When Harold and Albert attend the funeral of an old member of the family, the two main characters are left with fond reminiscences, staring at a coffin mournfully and yet hoping against hope that they may have been remembered in the deceased will with a substantial amount of money. They are then hugely disappointed to find that nothing at all has been left behind for them. And so it was that Harold and Albert mope around again, tolerating each other's eccentricities and then just disgusted at the sight of each other.

In another BBC sitcom classic from the late 1960s to the early 1970s, Till Death Us Do Part was both controversial, violently racist and simply intolerable to those whose sensibilities were easily offended. Once again That's It TV had got it absolutely right. Alf Garnett's character, brilliantly portrayed by Warren Mitchell, was a foul mouthed, obnoxious, divisive and horrendously objectionable man who just couldn't help but be a xenophobic motor mouth. Garnett loved Churchill and the Tories but couldn't stand his son in law and aired his grievances about everybody and everything. 

And so we caught our first revealing glimpses of yet another satellite TV channel that sent us back to that period of time when everything was permissive and liberal. It was an age of innocence, harmless patter and blarney or apparently so. We once again witnessed another trip to the Sixties, the 1960s, the generation that opened up its doors warmly to a whole gallery of sitcoms that none of us would ever forget. Then we thought of the present day. It's August 2024 and the world is still funny if barely credible. We still have our loving family and friends and that's just beautiful.