NOW THAT'S WHAT I CALL STORIES

As with most people, if you tell a story you think is riveting, your parents can usually go at least one better.

My Dad was a considerable figure in British Light Entertainment TV. Among many shows he directed or produced (often both) he gave the world Sunday Night at the London Palladium, This is Tom Jones, The Liberace Show, The Engelbert Humperdinck Show and many more. In his later years he crafted the much loved Emu’s Pink Windmill Show for children’s TV, on which I once appeared in a sketch washing my neighbours car. But the show he is probably best remembered for is Morecambe and Wise.

Britain’s greatest ever comedy double act had a disaster with their first TV show in the late 50’s. It was an unmitigated failure that was hammered by critics and audiences and saw the pair avoid TV again for some years. When television finally did coax them back, my dad Colin was entrusted with guiding their return. He gathered a team and between them and Eric and Ernie, they produced the style, the wit and the persona on TV that saw them become Britains’ best. One of the secrets that Dad and the team had stumbled on was to let Eric and Ernie be Eric and Ernie. Simple you might say, but TV executives rarely allow their talent to do what they want in the beginning. With the experience of my Dad at the helm, this series would prove to be the real start of their TV legacy.

The shows would however follow a fairly standard format befitting the era. Their comedy sketches would be interspersed with a musical act or performance of some sort. One memorable early episode saw yet another new pop band booked to appear. My dad famously asked the agent if they could be on one of the first few episodes of the series run, as he had been doing this for many years and he feared that the group would be obsolete again if they waited to appear in a latter episode. Dad was informed by the band’s agent that they would gladly come on an earlier episode as they were starting to get quite busy and they may not be available to appear later in the series. As it was, the petulant group did star in an early episode and The Beatles went on to do quite well for themselves after that. The photos of my Dad instructing John, Paul, George and “Bongo” (as Eric kept calling Ringo) where to stand and rehearse remain family favourites.

Now that is a good enough tale as it is, but the one I repeated at my Dad’s funeral remains my favourite from his Morecambe and Wise days.

In those days of the 1960’s, a post-show party was a grand affair. The famous and the wannabes would crowd into the ATV Green Room to share a glass of champagne or two with Morecambe and Wise and various familiar faces of stage and screen. The Morecambe and Wise phenomenon was now in full swing so to get yourself into that little soirée meant you were either famous, influential or powerful. And these weren't tame affairs with smoothies and vegan crisps. These were hard drinking all-night binges every week, that often led to stumbling out of a night club in Soho in the early hours.

At one such post-filming session, my Dad was in discussion with a large, well-built gentleman and the conversation grew louder and more confrontational. The subject to which Dad and the man disagreed on is not known but as it wore on, Eric Morecambe felt compelled to butt in. He tried to lighten the mood by dislodging his famous glasses as only he could, but the tense atmosphere continued.

The do continued with voices and laughter steadily growing as the drinks flowed but so did the rising temperature between Dad and the big guy in the shiny suit. Eventually, Eric went over again and whisked Dad away to a far corner and the other gentleman found others to talk to. Dad protested to Eric and in reply, the great comedian told him that really he shouldn’t be arguing with that fellow. But why, asked my Dad who wasn’t very familiar with faces. Eric’s response was simple and defused my Dad’s temper instantly.

“Because that man is Ronnie Kray, “

But perhaps even more impressive were his dealings with the legendary performer Judy Garland.

By 1964 the screen icon was rarely on stage and was on a downward spiral in general. But she was persuaded to perform at the London Palladium alongside her daughter Liza Minnelli. This was as you can imagine, quite the coup. ITV were to record the event for broadcast and Dad was entrusted to produce and direct the show. Being a fully fledged member of the Judy Garland Appreciation Society, this was his finest professional experience and a personal joy. What he caught on camera was a troubled global icon managing to rekindle her immeasurable star power for one of her last swansongs. The addition of her daughter on stage made it an emotional, once in a lifetime event.

My Dad had the duty to make sure it was recorded as authentically as can be as it was certainly must-see TV but also in the knowledge that this was history in the making and would never be repeated. No pressure then.

The evening came and went and the live performance went down into instant folklore as one of her greatest.

The next day, my dad and his editors re-convened to cut the 2 or so hours down to a 45 minute extravaganza for transmission. The problems soon arose when Miss Garland discovered that her incredible performance was, in her eyes, to be shredded down from the agreed running time of 55 minutes. Phone calls began to arrive and the head of ITV, Lew Grade was brought into the controversy. A hasty meeting between Garland, Grade and my Dad was arranged to try and explain the reasoning.

After a lengthy day stuck in the editing suite, Dad arrived bleary eyed at Lord Grade’s opulent office. They set out a game plan to make sure Miss Garland would leave happy with the 45 minute show and perhaps be inclined to return and record a follow up performance next year.

After an hour, the legend arrived with a furrowed brow and clutching a carpet bag. She moved to the long, oak desk and removed a large, very expensive bottle of whisky from her bag and put it on the desk. Three glasses soon followed and the seal on the bottle was broken.

Lord Grade and my Dad got to work on gently explaining the necessity for a 45 minute program. With her and her daughter on stage, the advertising spots were selling for a premium. For an hour long block, there would be 45 minutes of the show and 15 minutes of adverts. Miss Garland disagreed, she wanted it to be 55 minutes long with just 5 minutes of adverts. She knew most of her great performances were behind her now, so she was going to fight tooth and nail to show 55 minutes of her at her best again.

What happened over the next few hours in that grand office is not officially documented. The most powerful man in British television and my Dad were adamant that the broadcasted show would run for no more than 45 minutes exactly. Miss Garland would just have to accept it.

The sunrise arrived before the end of the meeting and the show was broadcast to the nation that evening on ITV.

It was 55 minutes.

Puts my Tiger Woods interviews into perspective really.