TV and nostalgia

TV and nostalgia

During your childhood TV always provided you with the most irresistible temptation, an idyllic sanctuary where late-night viewing became a regular battleground with your doting parents. There were those early evening telly programmes which were deliberately designed to irritate and push your mum and dad to the limits of their patience. We knew we had to be in bed by eight in the evening at the very earliest because if we weren't asleep by then the consequences would be suffered and if we weren't up at the crack of dawn by the following morning then we'd only have ourselves to blame.

This morning gave us a heavenly glimpse into the past with yet another showing of that classic all-action hero series from the 1960s The Saint starring the inimitable Roger Moore. If memory serves you correctly The Saint was shown every Wednesday evening at eight in the evening. But this was the moment when my parents slapped an embargo on a young child's entertainment. You had been strictly barred from watching any TV beyond the specified hour and you knew it. But how you tried desperately to watch the Saint because The Saint had everything; action, punching, kicking, slamming the villains against walls, throwing the baddies over tables, excitement and heroic deeds.

Having caught a couple of minutes of  The Saint you were taken back to a time when you must have thought you could successfully challenge the authority of your parents, question them persistently, rebel ever so slightly but then promise them that you'd go straight to bed after The Saint. This was hardly saintly behaviour but you almost felt as though you were being deprived of your weekly fix of Roger Moore, he with the looks of a dashing matinee idol, a man of rugged masculinity and slicked-back hair that looked as if it had been waxed in a dressing room for at least four hours.

And then there was the Moore raised eye-brow, a distinctive quirk or affectation that came to single him out for female attention every time the Saint was shown. Moore, or Simon Templar as he was to become known as in the programme itself, was the quintessential English gentleman, fearless, handsome in the eyes of many a woman, impeccably suited and booted, a genuine diplomat, suave and debonair in every crisis.

But there was something about the Saint that compelled you to stay up until after the forbidden hour if only because he was the one character that you privately wanted to be when you grew up. Simon Templar had all the qualities you were looking for in an all-action hero. He was tough as teak, strong, brave, well mannered, polite, tall and upstanding. He was courageous because that was very much the persona that Roger Moore had to adopt for he was the man with the halo. Oh yes, there was the halo! Who could ever forget that halo?.

So here were the opening credits. The elegant Simon Templar, shirt, suit and tie in almost a studied pose, suddenly appears on screen and at the end of the final credit, a halo hovers over his head, a force for good, a paragon of virtue. The round signet of perfection had been anointed over Simon Templar. Here was the swashbuckling action-man, throwing those evil, heinous bovver boys onto the other side of pubs, offices and warehouses and executing the meatiest of punches that sent most of them into orbit.

And by the end of it all we were breathless, completely awe-stricken, left completely open-mouthed with stunned amazement. Occasionally you are transported blissfully back to those early Wednesday evenings when your parents would reluctantly concede defeat and allow you to watch the magnificent Saint. Simon Templar. As for Roger Moore? We all know what happened to him. His name was definitely Bond. James Bond. Oh for Wednesday evenings during the 1960s. We can hardly forget them.