Gone to the Dogs: The Story of Britain's 14th Most Successful Sitcom

By Simon Gary

"Gone to the Dogs" ran for five series between 1973 and 1977. At its peak, the 1975 Christmas Special drew an incredible twenty-one million viewers, a number unheard of in today’s multi-media age. It spawned a plethora of much-loved catchphrases and characters, which still resonate, with those of a certain age at least, to this very day.
Join the cast and writers as they take you on a journey the real story of this most beloved of shows, through the loves, the tragedies, the highs and the lows, that legendary hare is still very much running!
"Gone to the Dogs" is the story of a fictional 1970's sit-com, as told through a series of interviews with its cast and writers. As the show waxes and wanes, so the lives of the company intertwine, and then unravel in tragedy.
"The dialogue is wonderful and charming, and "Gone to the Dogs" is a funny, dramatic and ultimately very moving book. I enjoyed it very much, and it has drawn my attention to a very satisfying author." Matt McAvoy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Gary
• Release date: May 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781916052505

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 by Simon Gary.

First printed and published in the United Kingdom 2019

Edited and typeset by MJV Literary Author Services.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever, without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

978-1-9160525-0-5 (e-book)

978-1-9160525-1-2 (paperback)

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblances to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Gone to the Dogs

The Story of Britain’s 14th Most Successful Sit-Com

by

Simon Gary

INTRODUCTION

Gone to the Dogs ran for five series, between 1973 and 1977. At its peak, the 1975 Christmas Special drew an incredible twenty-one million viewers, a number unheard of in today’s multi-media age. It spawned a plethora of much-loved catchphrases and characters, which still resonate - with those of a certain age, at least - to this very day.

The book you are about to read tells the unexpurgated story of this most incredible show, from the perspectives of those who were actually there: the cast and the writers. The book, for the most part, is compiled from archived transcripts of taped interviews, which my late uncle, Eric Whisky, carried out with members of the cast, in the years following the show’s end. I have also been fortunate enough, personally, to obtain first-hand accounts from the few cast members and writers still alive, when I took up the mantle in 2015.

For reasons unknown to me, poor Uncle Eric never realized his ambition of writing this book, and my taking the reins and completing the task serve as my tribute to him. I have done all I can to organize these transcripts into some semblance of chronological order, in respect of events at the time to which they refer, as well as doing my very best to fill any gaps my uncle may have unwittingly left in this timeline, from my own present-day enquiries.

This has very much been a labour of love. I am neither a writer or a journalist, but merely a fan, very much as my beloved uncle was, so you will have to forgive me where the prose is less than perfect – I have presented it very much in the same form in which it was received.

To great Uncle Eric.

May this book give you as much celestial joy as it gives me Earthly royalties.

THE GONE TO THE DOGS FAMILY:

WRITERS:

HARRY MUNROE

RAY SPATCHCOCK

PRODUCER:

LES DAINTY

CAST:

CORNELIUS THRYKE:… Arthur Chataway

JIMMY FOX:… Bill Edwards

LEIGHTON HUGHES:… Alun Rhys

VIOLET FITZGIBBON:… Mrs. Denning

KATHY FIELDS:… Maureen Jones

KENNETH BURLINGTON:… Bob Popley

VALENTINA THORPEWORTH:… Jenny Smith

RAY SPATCHCOCK

(writer – Gone to the Dogs)

Archive transcript.

Everything happened so fast with Gone to the Dogs, but I still have fond recollections of it all.

It was initially commissioned by Dickie Valentine, after a meeting in a Pimlico tearoom, in early 1973 (though, if you ask Harry, he will swear blind it was Tooting). The encounter with Dickie was made much easier by the fact that we had already penned two shows for television by this time, but neither Many a Mickle Makes a Muckle or Teabagging (which was set in a tea-bag factory) enjoyed the same enduring success of Dogs. That said, I am very thankful to those shows, because they helped us learn our craft which, in turn, we were able to put to good use on Dogs. If that is the one piece of work for which Spatchcock and Munroe are remembered… well, that wouldn’t be such a bad legacy, would it?

The show went to air in November of that same year, so you can see that there wasn’t much time to get the scripts together, let alone a cast, crew, studio and set. Still, things worked differently back then – there were none of the painstaking production values and reels of retakes; things had to be right, pretty much from the off.

I remember seeing some of the early rushes, with Harry and the producer, Les Dainty. We were really pleased with them and, when we shared them with everybody, it gave the whole company a lift; from that moment we came together, like a family – that was something we never really lost, despite the ups and downs. Deep down, I think that is why I, and perhaps even the British public, have such a fondness for our dear, dear old show.

Come, let me show you some things you might like. Follow me, through to the study – just through here. In these boxes are copies of all the scripts. A few are signed by myself, Harry and the cast – mainly those episodes which started or ended a series – and some of the frontispieces are delightfully annotated, by the actors to which they belonged.

But, there is another keepsake, which was gifted to me at the end of our run - do you see it? There, in the corner. You’re right, yes: it’s the old clocking station we had on the set. You must be quite a fan to spot that, Sir! It didn’t get used in many scenes, but it was always in the background. I think one of the designers got it from a factory that was throwing it out, but it still all works. We went and had all the time-cards made up - can you see? We even had individual payroll numbers put on them. Everyone on set had a time-card: there’s mine… there’s Harry’s… that one is Les’s. We needed a few more in there, to make up the numbers - one wag even put one for the prime minister in there. I believe even the Chelsea back-four had cards, at one time. Look, here’s mine. Go on, slip it in there and punch me in it’s like reporting back for duty, all over again. Sometimes, I come in here and look at it – maybe run my hands over the bronzing mahogany. But, I’ve had my joy from this piece of memorabilia now: the memories are up here, rather than locked in this piece - it’s time for it to move on and find a new home, to keep the spirit of the show alive. I think it would be nice for you to have it, when the book is finished.

HARRY MUNROE

(writer – Gone to the Dogs)

Archive transcript.

I first met the young Ray Spatchcock when we were both assigned to the Second Infantry Division, as part of the Fourteenth Army, in 1944. We were stationed in India.

Ray, as a private, arrived in my troop – in which I was a lance bombardier – so I sort of took him under my wing. We had both been seconded to the concert party, to help with the vital work there, so it was not long before we began collaborating on the odd skit. I immediately noticed something in Ray: a sort of raw quality, which I felt I could mould, nurture and work with. Soon, we began writing bits on any scrap of paper we could find, when we were off watch together. Naturally, as the older man, and higher ranking, it fell to me to take some of the larger roles in divisional productions, but I always found something for Ray, if I could, and I think he was grateful.

I think our finest moment was a show in Lucknow, in April ‘44, just before we travelled up to Burma. Myself and Ray had a number of self-penned skits in the show, all of which went down a storm, particularly a gentle little parody we did, called The Generals. Ray’s writing was starting to show signs of making muster and he genuinely did chip in with some funny lines, with my guidance.

Of course, the war couldn’t go on forever, so eventually I arrived back in London. I had kept the material myself and Ray had produced and, through a few contacts, managed to get myself a meeting with Ernie Palmaster, who was something of a big fish in radio, at the time. I showed him my stuff, along with a few of the bits I’d written with Ray, and straight away we were invited to submit pieces for shows such as Davey Jangle’s Variety Night, Hello Missus, Who Are You? and the ever-popular You’d Laugh to See a Pudding Crawl. Soon, we were recognized names - the work just started to pour in from there.

Gone to the Dogs was commissioned by our old friend Dickie Valentine, during a meeting in… I think it was Tooting. He didn’t give us long to get the final scripts together, but that wasn’t a problem, as Ray and I had been kicking around the idea of doing something set in a greyhound stadium, ever since Teabagging. I’d always taken the precaution of keeping a scrapbook of characters, so we pretty much had the Arthur Chataway persona worked out, we had just never had the right vehicle for him. My foresight was such a blessing, as we were able to build the show around Arthur, and the first episodes came quite freely.

We did all of the writing in a dingy office, above a launderette in Soho. I had been keen to find offices some years earlier, to really force Ray and I to see it as a job. It wasn’t the most salubrious of backdrops, what with the interminable squeaking from next door and the constant vibration from below. Ray, being quicker than me, did the typing, as I invariably pushed a bucket around the bare boards, to catch the drips – that was how we worked. We never really got around to moving out, and were still there when they pulled the building down, in 1979.

CORNELIUS THRYKE

(Arthur Chataway)

Archive transcript.

Marjory – old, dependable Marjory – had the scripts brought round by a young errand-boy, of somewhat questionable character, who thrust them into my hand, alongside a spidery note, which read: Read for Arthur.

You see, I had just finished a run of The Merry Wives of Windsor, at the New Theatre, Bridlington, during which time my Mister Ford had come in for many pages – a-ha – of praise. Marjory, noting that the piece was a comedy, thought I had turned a new corner in my career, so had the boy hotfoot it across with the scripts which, I have to say, at the time I took in and completely forgot about.

You see, I was no comedy actor: I was one of the original band of British film stars, and after the cessation of hostilities, I practically lived in a trailer, at Ealing. It felt like I was being credited with a different film every week: The Butterfly Gang (1948), Major Orpington Goes to Court-Martial (1949), Farewell to Thrasher (1949); The Gentleman Burglars (1950), Operation Sea Dog (1951), The Gentleman Burglars Strike Again (1952); Six Feet Under (1954); Gone Thrice Before Sunset (1957)… I was playing a different hero or officer almost every day. I was so rarely out of uniform, I began to feel like I was back amongst my commissioned colleagues, in the army.

Ah, yes, those were certainly halcyon days!

But, as I say… (would you like a little drop in your tea?) But, as I say, the scripts were brought around by boy. Quite the sea change, as it were: the manuscript for M is for Microfilm (1960) was hand-driven round (is that a phrase?), in a shiny and new-fangled motor-car, because I was a star, you see: I had worked with them all, and they had all worked with me. I shall tell you something for nothing: many were the evening that I could barely hang around outside any West End picture-house, for much more than half an hour, without eventually being recognized and badgered for an autographed photo, or some such cheaply-bought memento. Barely was there the day.

Yet, here I was – admittedly, in the twilight of my career – being offered a role in something called a television situation comedy. By this time, I was turning down far more work than I was taking on, which was partially the source of Marjory’s then-current zeal. You see, more through habit and pity, I had been the mainstay of her income for some twenty-five years, so, naturally, the easier I took things, the more the tonic balance of her G-and-Ts became something less than palatable.

Read for Arthur. I did, more or less, intend to do so, but I was just about to pop off to my sister’s in Eastbourne, for a bit of R-and-R, so it was fully a fortnight before I rediscovered the scripts, under my pipe and some old newspapers. I sat, jarred by a hastening phone call from Marjory and, with a pot of good tea and a Battenberg, began to digest what had been placed before me.

I have to say – well, I have to say – I was jolly well surprised: the writing was competent and, as I read all the parts, I could see that the role of Arthur was something I could imagine myself undertaking, and growing as my own. I pencilled in a few tweaks, here and there, made some notes in the margin and, by the time the afternoon was fading, felt I could work alongside Spatchcock and Munroe. I knew I would eventually accept the part.

KENNETH BURLINGTON

(Bob Popley)

Archive transcript.

By the time the seventies rolled round, I was still at the periphery of this acting lark – you know what I mean? In fact – and, I’ll be honest with you – I was more or less on the verge of packing it all in.

I married Linda in 1970. We’d been childhood sweethearts from when we were both so-high. Beautiful, she was – in fact, she still is – with all those cascades of long, blonde hair and those big, blue eyes. And, a figure to die for! In fact I nearly did, many a time! Everyone in the parish knew that me and Linda were an item – we, sort of, always had been – but it didn’t stop all the local lads from trying their luck. I can’t say I could blame them: I would have done, too, in their boots. But, I had to stand my ground and defend her honour, didn’t I? Got me into a few scrapes, I can tell you, but the coppers always looked upon me with grace - they were a good bunch, really.

Like I say, I really was on the verge of giving up. I’d always picked up the odd bits, here and there, but nothing lasting, or anything which looked like it might lead somewhere. The highlight of my career had been the occasional play, or an advert for mints, so my portfolio was pretty threadbare. As I mentioned, I married Linda in 1970, and she fell pregnant early in ‘73, with our first, Christopher. The acting wasn’t really pulling in the folding, so I decided I had to go back to the sites - I was a chippy by trade, you see, and it really wasn’t difficult to find a bit of work: there was stuff shooting up everywhere. It didn’t take long before a couple of old muckers had got me in on a job near them, with the promise of decent sausage, for the foreseeable future.

First day, I was up early and walking along the road to the site, when I passed the newsagent’s – Mr. Hornchurch – and, more through force of habit, I went inside. Even before the bell had stopped tinkling, old Alan had slapped my copy of Actor’s Gazette onto his inky, old counter. We had this ritual – comical, it was: he used to lead with: Hello there, Kenny. Got any acting work on this week? At which point, I would say no, and he would snort with derision, and give me ever-more complicated directions to the labour exchange. Salt of the Earth, old Alan Hornchurch… although, they do say he eventually ran off with one of his former paper-girls. Well, on this morning it was no different and I paid for the paper: I didn’t have the heart to cancel it - you know what I mean? It was still my little link to the old days: you know, when young Kenny Burlington was going to be a successful actor. I promised Linda I would cancel it – as every penny was needed with a little ‘un on the way – but I figured one last issue wouldn’t hurt; I’d cancel it on the way home, instead.

Well it was nine o’clock tea-break, down at the site, and I was with the other lads, milling around the urn, getting myself a brew. There were a few faces I knew, you know, from previous jobs, and around and abouts, but it was mainly new lads I had never met before. Well, one of them clocks the paper sticking out the top of my satchel, and a few comments were made – nothing I hadn’t heard before: just the odd lad calling me a Nancy-boy, and all that; just banter, really.

Well, this voice booms out: An iron? You should see this guy’s missus: she’d put any of yours to shame!

Cor! I recognized that voice: it was none other than Declan O’Malley, one of the toughest, hardest working men I ever did see. The whole place piped down as he strolled over – a man-mountain, he was. "Now, you leave my good friend Kenny alone. He has got something, this lad - something that sets him apart from the likes of you and I. There’ll be no lifetime of hard toil for this man: he’s going to be a star! Now, Kenny, get me a tea and hand me that paper: we’re going to find you a proper job!"

And, that’s exactly what he did. If it hadn’t been for Declan, I probably would never have auditioned for Gone to the Dogs. For a good while, I felt like I owed him the world. In a perverse way, life gave me the opportunity to pay him back a little, when we last met… here in prison.

KATHY FIELDS

(Maureen Jones)

Interview with myself, 2015.

Oh, darling, I should so adore to talk to you about Gone to the Dogs. Do, do come in!

It was such a thrill for a girl to do, particularly as I was already twenty-six and had been cast as a young thing of nineteen! Do you think I could play her still? Do you? Oh, do say yes, darling – it would be so utterly naughty and delicious of you!

I suppose, for me, it all did start when I was eighteen or nineteen. Like many a naive, yet starstruck, girl, I headed to the bright lights of London, to make my fortune. After a number of small jobs in cafés, and the like, I managed to get myself a situation as a hostess, at Terry Carmichael’s Shilly-Shally Club. It was such a happening place to be: most nights you could not move for actors, footballers, boxers, gangsters or satirists - that was the group Cliff Clifton belonged to. There were so many of them, they had to become ever more obscure, to keep ahead of the pack, but Cliff… well, Cliff was the leader of them all.

He had his own television programme - Seven Days is a Long Time - which went out live on a Saturday night, and he always came in for the after-party. Before long, he was in most evenings, and often stayed on until the small hours, after everybody else had gone home - he would always come and talk to me. After a week or two, I was offered the odd walk-on part in some of his marvellous skits and, as his attentions increased, so did my roles: before long, I was quite well known. It would be a lie to say that I wasn’t flattered, because I was: Cliff was an incredibly handsome man and his power was certainly an aphrodisiac.

We were wed in 1966, after a whirlwind romance, as was the fashion at the time. Naturally, as the decade departed, our marriage was no longer en vogue, and it seemed sensible to divorce. We were never what you might call publicly married, as it was not widely known outside our own, exclusive circle. Cliff felt it was better for his career if he was seen to be available, and he pursued the subterfuge by being photographed with an ever-increasing number of young things on his arm. Professionally, I was forbade from using my married name, which was understandable, as I had made my acting bow under the name Fields, so that is how I remained.

Behind closed doors, however, it was such a different story: we were a real team in society. We threw the most delicious parties, at Cliff’s country pile, and I delighted at playing the hostess. All the names were there - all the bright, the new and the exciting of the nouveau British set. It was such a wonderful, wonderful time. One of the occasional visitors was Harry Munroe (never Ray - I didn’t meet him until later; just Harry) - I always seemed to catch his eye, as I mingled, serving drinks to our guests.

Oh, I do laugh! He must’ve been one of the unluckiest men I ever knew, because whenever he would call by the house to see Cliff, he would always find him to be out! Every single time, darling!

JIMMY FOX

(Bill Edwards)

Archive transcript.

A lot of people said I killed that show, but I never did.

Things could have been so different, but I think, all in all, it came too late for me: I was too set in my ways and didn’t know how to deal with it all. For nigh on twenty-five years I had slogged up and down the country with my act (for readers who may not know, I was a stand-up comedian, and a bloody good one, too), and Gone to the Dogs was the easiest money I ever made.

That’s why some of them got right up my nose. Take that Leighton Hughes, for example: he was always moaning about the hours, or the food, or the lighting, or whatever it were – what a namby-pamby! I pulled him aside one evening and gave it to him straight - I said: You try playing to a roomful of half-pissed miners at eleven o’clock at night, lad - now, that’s graft, and don’t you forget it! So, get out there and do your bloody scene, and do it right! I think he respected me for it - got the lines flush, true enough.

That’s why I liked poor Kenny: at least he had done a bit of graft. Not like Cornelius - a hack plodder, if ever there was one. I could respect a man that had worked and did his bit