Ray Galton & Alan Simpson

It was 1948 when Ray Galton and Alan Simpson first met at Milford Sanatorium, where they were both undergoing treatment for TB. A shared sense of humour and love of radio comedy convinced them to try their hand at writing together and within two years they were writing professionally.

Interviewed Sunday 29 September 2002 by Paul Merton.

• Citizen James
• Typist's Shoulder
• Chameleon
• Hollywood

Interview © BFI 2002

Citizen James

Paul Merton: 'Citizen James' - can you tell us how that came about?

Alan Simpson: It was our attempt at an experiment in comedy - no laughs.

PM: You must be thrilled that it stands up today...

Ray Galton: Well, it shows you that public taste hasn't changed.

AS: There was a lot of sympathy involved, because it was just after Sid and Hancock had split up. Tony had decided that they were becoming a bit of a double act, a bit of a Laurel and Hardy, and he didn't think that was a good idea. Sid had a career of his own, of course; he was making about ten films a year. All Tony had was the television. So we agreed it was a good idea for Tony to go on his own. And Sid was devastated that it was finished, so Ray and I, out of sympathy, decided it would be nice to write a series for Sid.

PM: Did he thank you afterwards?

AS: No. I don't blame him, do you? Actually though: we laugh now - the audiences didn't at the time - but it was considered good enough to go to a second series; and there was actually a third series, that we didn't write. Sid Field and Dick Hills took it over. By that time, we'd started 'Steptoe'.

PM: Was Sid James nervous about being the star of something?

RG: Sid never wanted to be the leading man - I don't want to be the top banana anywhere. Let Hancock have all the bother and worry. I'm quite happy being Number Two.

PM: Less responsibility?

RG: No responsibility, really. Other than getting employment; and he was perfectly capable of getting that.

PM: Let's go back to the beginning. You told me once that whenever you're interviewed by somebody, they always ask how and where you met. It's in every Clipping about you; in every interview you've ever done... So: Where did you two first meet?

AS: Ray always tells the story better than me. Go on, you tell it...

RG: OK. We met in Milford Sanatorium. That's not a funny story. I'd been there at least a year before Alan was transferred from another sanatorium.

PM: What age were you then?

RG: I was 16 or 17. I was on absolute rest; there were no drugs. So I didn't get out of bed for a year. Behind the beds there were glass doors and a corridor, leading to the wash-houses, to be used by fittish people. So I'm lying there and it suddenly goes all dark across the windows. I looked round to see what was happening, and it was the biggest bloke I'd ever seen in my life - six-foot-four, and weighing God knows how much. Everyone in the sanatorium was supposed to be about three-stone-something-or-other. I said, Who's that? And they said it was another patient. He was very late in getting up; they couldn't get him out of bed; he wouldn't be persuaded to get out of bed. In there, we all wanted to get out of bed; except Alan. He thought if he stayed in bed long enough, and ate, he'd get out of there. And it worked - he got out long before I did. So that's how we met - I just saw this shadow go across a window. Spike Milligan always used to call him He Who Blocks Out The Sun.

PM: I think you started writing jokes for hospital radio, didn't you?

AS: Each cubicle used to have its own radio system, with two channels: the Home Service and the Light Programme. One of the inmates was an engineer, and he was on bed-rest as well, but he spent his clambering over the rooftops of the sanatorium, in his pyjamas, fixing up a new system for every cubicle, sixty-odd of them. So we had Radio Milford, and three plugs for our earphones. Ray and I went on the Radio Committee, and we broadcast an hour a day. Mostly it was gramophone record request programmes - visitors requesting records for the patients; the female patients requesting records for the male patients (...and for some of the female patients, too. It was quite a liberal sanatorium...). So Ray and I said, Why don't we make it like a mini-BBC? We started doing 'Seat in the Circle'; because every Wednesday in the canteen they used to show a film, and only those people who were allowed out of bed could see it. For the rest of them, there was 'Seat in the Crcle'...

RG: Does anyone here remember 'Seat in the Circle'? Not one.

AS: Well, on radio, you used to have a commentator describing films; what was going on. 'Humphrey Bogart opens the door...'

RG: ... and someone's playing the piano...

AS: ... and he slaps the girl round the face...' And we thought we'd do this at the sanatorium.

RG: It put people back years.

AS: Well, it got some of them out of bed a bit quicker. The other thing we used to do was tennis matches, between the doctors and the nurses. We didn't do football matches, because they didn't have any. Anyway, one day we said, The only things we're not doing are drama and comedy. So the head of the Radio Committee said, Right - do some. So we undertook to do six 15-minute sketches, pastiches on sanatorium life, called 'Have You Ever Wondered?'

RG: ... why we did it..?

AS: The idea was: have you ever wondered what would happen if doctors became patients, and so on. Anyway, we dried up after four. And as far as we were concerned, that was our career finished. A year later, I'd came out of the sanatorium, and left Ray in there, and I got back in touch with a concert party I'd been connected with. They asked if I was going to come back, and I said, No, I'm not allowed to. Too much activity's bad for me - I still believe that. But what I will do, I'll get in touch with my mate from the sanatorium and see if we can come up with a few ideas. I got in touch with Ray; he came over on the bus; and we wrote some sketches for the concert party. Having done that, we decided to write a sketch and send it to the BBC.

PM: The first comic you started writing for was Derek Roy, wasn't it? He's not remembered so much now, but he was a very big name in the 40s, who used to co-host 'Variety Bandbox'.

RG: He was a singer, really; not much of a comic. He nearly put me back in the sanatorium.

PM: A very unpleasant man, I understand?

RG: Stingy is the word. We used to get two-and-six a joke.

AS: Five bob...

RG: You got two-and-six as well? All this time I've been thinking Derek Roy...

AS: Yes, Derek gave us five bob a joke, and we used...

RG: That's fifteen shillings at least you owe me.

AS: Do you want interest on it? Over 50 years, that would be a bit... Anyway, Derek had a series called 'Happy Go Lucky'...

RG: A misnomer.

AS: As miserable an experience as could be had. You thought that 'Citizen James' was unfunny, well... It was a blessing in disguise, though, really. Because it was so bad that Roy Spear, the producer of it, had a nervous breakdown - (that's not the funny part of the story) - three programmes from the end. So we had a pep talk from...

RG: ... the Head of Light Entertainment, who was an Australian. (Well, everyone at the BBC was Australian then, including Bill Kerr). We just followed all the rest of the cast and crew as this guy took them downstairs, and he gave a pep talk - it was like a Micky Rooney film. He said, We've got a turkey on our hands here, but you're all troopers, and you're going to go out an give it everything you've got... And we looked around, and there were people crying. We didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Christ, this is just like a Rooney film, you know, Let's do it here... So he introduced a new producer, who was Dennis Main-Wilson, and Dennis looked around at us and said, Are you writers? We thought, Oh God, we'd better say yes or we'll be slung out. - Do you think you could write this show? - We had to say yes.

AS: The lucky thing about it was that it was once a fortnight, this hour-long show. So we had some time. Roy used to come over on the bus every day to my mother's house, where we were working, and it took us all of a fortnight to write this show. But it had been so bad up to then, that it couldn't be any worse. So the three that we did were marginally better than the rubbish that had preceded them. And we went on the BBC list of promising writers to be approached in a crisis.

PM: Are you still on that list?

RG: I think they were referring to a nuclear war at that point...

AS: But the next crisis occurred when Bob Monkhouse and Dennis Goodwin, who were writing 'Calling All Forces', for some strange reason decided to turn it all in with only six shows to go - after they'd written 84 weeks on the trot. I don't know whether they'd had a row, or what.. Anyway: crisis... on the list, yes, Galton and Simpson. So they got in touch with us, and we wrote the last six of that. That's really where our career started with Tony.

PM: That's where you first met Tony Hancock?

AS: Well, we'd met him on 'Happy Go Lucky'. He'd been in the one part of the show that we didn't write.

RG: He survived. The others didn't.

PM: What was Tony Hancock like as a man? We really now only have for evidence that 'Face to Face' interview he did, which I don't think is wholly typical. Because he seemed so serious and solemn, and quite down in places, in that. But he was a more lively individual than that, wasn't he?

AS: Oh yes. He was a most wonderful audience. They all were - Sid James, Bill Kerr, Kenneth Williams and Tony Hancock - four of the biggest laughers. They used to really guffaw; raucous laughter... If we had a read-through on a radio show, they didn't see it until the day. And if they found something that tickled them, all four of them would be rolling about. You think, It's lovely - we did that.

PM: But did you at first feel in awe of them? You're meeting people who are older than you, more successful, who've been in the business longer...

RG: I'm still in awe of people...

AS: Actually, a funny thing happened on the way to the theatre. We got out of the car and Mark Lamarr was standing there. And there were two girls, in their twenties, standing nearby, pointing and obviously recognising him. Mark asked me if I'd autograph this LP that he'd got. So these girls are totally confused - there's Mark Lamarr, but who are these two old prats signing for him..? I'm in awe of anyone who asks me for my autograph.

PM: So you started writing for Tony Hancock in the early 50s?

AS: We started writing for Tony in 1951, during the 'Happy Go Lucky' days. He asked us if we'd write some singles for him, and he'd pay us half of what he got.

RG: This was an instance of a comic not being stingy.

AS: He said he was on 50 guineas, and he'd give us 25. Well, Derek Roy was paying us 8 guineas for the same thing. And when we told him this, he just said, Ah, well, I started you off, didn't I?

Typist's Shoulder

PM: How did you first find Sid James? You've always been good at casting people for your shows; and Sid James at that point certainly wasn't a radio comic, was he?

RG: We knew what he looked like, and we knew his work, but we didn't know his name. So we had to go and see 'The Lavender Hill Mob' again, just to wait for the cast-list. That's the one we want, Sidney James.

PM: Which worked out well. And then Kenneth Williams was in the show as well...

AS: Dennis Main-Wilson got Kenneth. It was the first time he'd appeared as a comedian; he was a straight actor before.

RG: He was playing the Dauphin in 'Saint Joan'...

AS: The story about Sid is that when he was asked to do 'Hancock's Half Hour' on the radio, he came down to one of the recordings we were doing at the Garrick Theatre to meet us all. And he said, I'm very worried about this radio. I've never done radio before, and I don't think I can do it. So Tony said, Why? - I dunno, I just don't feel comfortable with it - It's easy. You haven't got to learn anything. These two go away for a week and write it, and all we do is come in on the day and read it. So he said he'd give it a go. He turned up on the first day, and he'd be playing in front of the microphone, with his script held up in front of his face, his hat down over his eyes...

RG: ... and he was shaking like a leaf...

AS: After a couple of weeks, when he realised he was getting laughs, the hat came off, and he was OK. But originally he was absolutely petrified about doing radio. Films: no problem.

PM: One of the shows people remember best is the Sunday afternoon one, the one with Tony at home, where almost nothing happens. It was very bold at the time to start off a programme with someone just sighing, Oh, I'm bored. Were you aware you were taking chances with the form?

RG: Well obviously the greatest thing against writing boredom is that you bore people. So there's a fine line. You've got to make boredom funny without the character thinking it's funny. I think it worked exceptionally well.

AS: The timing is of the essence.

PM: Yes. The silences are very good, as well. I think you told me once that Tony Hancock went to see 'The Birthday Party', the Harold Pinter play, and came back saying, 'Ere, that bloke's nicking all your stuff... All those silences in there...

AS: The other advantage of the Sunday afternoon at home was that we only had to write 14 pages of script rather than 20. All the rest was silences. And when you get paid for nothing, that's good news.

PM: So the series is a success, and you get the chance to make a film, 'The Rebel'. We have a short Clip now...

[Clip]

PM: You've been writing for about 8 or 9 years, and you're making this film with George Sanders...

AS: George Sanders. Talk about being awe-struck. Today, you'd be talking about Tom Cruise, or somebody. Fantastic name. When the producer told us he'd got George Sanders for the part of the art dealer, we were over the moon. We found out afterwards that they'd paid him £10,000 - a fortune in those days - and he was getting twice as much as Hancock, who was the star of the picture. George also had it written into his contract that there was a grand piano on set at all times. So he'd finish a shot, wander over and start playing away. Within one week, he'd incurred the total enmity of the entire lighting crew. They couldn't stand these airs and graces. The other thing he insisted on was that all the beautiful clothes he wears in the film, all made in Savile Row by his own tailor - he had the right to buy them after the film for 50% of cost.

RG: And he hired his Rolls-Royce...

AS: That's right. He used his own Rolls-Royce in the picture, and he was paid £200 per day for the hire of it. So he obviously knew the tricks of the trade. But he was wonderful in the film, and we had a few lovely conversations with him between shots. I remember once we were sitting outside a café in the Place du Théatre in Paris. George was dressed in his beautiful opera cloak, dove-grey suit, spats, and Hancock was in his artist's gear. He says, George, you've just published the autobiography, 'Diary of a Cad'; you've had all these beautiful women in your life, you must have some wonderful memories... And he says, Yes, dear boy, it was a wonderful time. But I am fast reaching the period of my life when a satisfactory evacuation of the bowel is far preferable to a good fuck. - That's elegance personified.

PM: 'The Rebel' was successful, wasn't it?

AS: Yes, very successful at the box-office. As a piece of work, probably the first two-thirds were good. I think it tailed away a bit at the end.

PM: Do you have much trouble with plots?

AS: Well, we overwrite. The trouble with overwriting is that when you cut it down to size, all the jokes go and you're just left with story-line.

PM: Then you made the last series with Tony Hancock; the one without Sid James. That contained so many classics - 'The Radio Ham', 'The Bowman', 'The Lift', 'The Blood Donor'... You've spoken before about the split with Tony. You'd been writing for him for a long time, but was there a sense that it was an opportunity to do something different without him?

RG: Well, the first show we did was 'Hancock Alone'. We said, OK, you want to be without Sid and everybody. Alright, you bugger, you will be on your own. So we wrote the first of the series, 'Hancock Alone'. We couldn't wait to get the reaction from him about it. But he didn't see the irony of it at all. He just phoned up and said, Marvellous, can't wait to do it. Just absolutely bowled over by the idea of doing the whole show on his own. So we were happy about that, because we were trying to make a point. Hancock proved himself right, to some extent, that he didn't need anyone else, didn't need Sid, to prove that he was a wonderful actor and comic in his own right.

PM: He just needed good writers... So the split happens with him, and the BBC get in touch and basically say, Give us what you've got...

AS: Tom Sloan got in touch with us, saying that now we'd finished with Tony, what did we want to do? We said we wanted to do a series with Frankie Howerd. Who?, he said, He's finished. It's 1962, he's gone, he's yesterday. He called his assistant: Queenie, bring in the Howerd figures. There, look... Incidentally, a year later, Frank opened at The Establishment and within two months was the biggest thing in the country again. Shows you what the BBC knew... So he says, We've got this idea for a series, it's my title, 'Comedy Playhouse'. We want you to give us ten half-hours; do what you like. Be in them, direct them, whatever you like.

PM: So how long would it take you to write ten shows?

AS: About two years... No. Now it would.

PM: You told me once about one of them, 'Impasse'...

RG: That was written in about two-and-a-half hours. We'd spent all week lying on the floor, smoking and drinking, and not coming up with one idea at all. By Friday we should have had the whole thing finished, and we hadn't even started. We'd told the receptionist downstairs not to let anybody in, all week, because we were too busy and desperate, and because a lot of out-of-work actors used to come around, knowing we'd got a good drinks cabinet, and were very generous (... as opposed to comics). Anyway, the receptionist phones up and says Graham Stark's downstairs, and can he come up? We thought, Why not? Half-past-five, Friday; Why not? So Graham comes up, and the first thing he said was, I saw a very funny piece in the paper the other day. Just a couple of lines in the Evening Standard. Two cars meet down a narrow lane in Cornwall, and neither of them will back up. - Right. That's it. - Come on Graham, round to the pub... So we came in on the Saturday morning, which we never did any other time, or since, and Alan had to get to the football match, of course, so we simply never stopped typing. Never stopped to think about it. In two-and-a-half hours it just wrote itself. The next script took us longer than that because Alan had his arm in a sling...

AS: Typist's shoulder.

RG: We'd never write a script as quickly again, though.

AS: Usually, we used to take about a week to a fortnight.

PM: So what would be your routine?

AS: Office hours. We used to start about 11.00, avoid the traffic jams, and go home about 7.00, same reason. But if needs must, we'd work through the night.

PM: One of those shows you did for 'Comedy Playhouse' was the first 'Steptoe and Son', wasn't it?

AS: Indeed. Number four. History repeated itself. We'd agreed we were only going to cast actors, because we were fed up working with comedians.

PM: Why?

AS: Well, you know comedians. Comedians tend to get hold of a script and all they're looking for is the laughs. Actors don't. They just learn the lines and do them. They don't worry about laughs. So we thought it would be lovely to work with [straight] actors. And the first show we did, we went and cast Eric Sykes and Warren Mitchell... Anyway, after three, we repeated our history from the sanatorium: we dried up and couldn't think of anything. So three or four days had gone by, and we hadn't got anything, and one morning Ray says, I thought out of desperation, Two rag-and-bone men. I says, Don't give me rag-and-bone men. Can't make a show out of that. Ridiculous. So another three hours went by and nothing had happened, so I said, What about those two rag-and-bone men? So we just started writing: First rag-and-bone man; second rag-and-bone man; no names; nothing.

Chameleon

[Clip]

PM: It's such an emotional scene. The whole relationship is encapsulated there. He wants to go, but he just can't leave. You're right, though, that you couldn't give a scene like that to a comic. A Sid James or a Tony Hancock wouldn't feel comfortable with it; it wouldn't be their thing. So you cast actors...

AS: We just couldn't believe it at rehearsal. We were sitting up in the box at rehearsal, and Ray turned to me and said, 'Ere, he's crying - he's really crying. We're used to comedians going boo-hoo; but real tears, that's acting.

RG: The real reason he cried was because his agent had just reminded him how much he was being paid by the BBC... Not true.

AS: Well, in a sense, though, there is some truth to it. When the BBC asked us to do a series, we said no. We don't want to do another series after nine years with Hancock. We don't want to be stuck doing the same thing every week. And Tom Sloan kept on for about six months. So in the end we said, OK, if the actors will agree to do it, then we'll agree to write it. Now we were convinced that the actors would say no. Because Harry H Corbett was a classical actor, he'd been at the Bristol Old Vic the week we'd done the first show, and the old man was a straight actor, and we were sure they wouldn't want to do it. But, of course, they jumped at it, so the ground was cut from under our feet, and we went on to do the series. What we found out afterwards, as Ray hinted, was that they were on 80 guineas for 'The Offer', because it was under Drama rates, but for the series, it became Light Entertainment, and they were getting a grand each.

PM: There was a programme a few weeks ago that you were interviewed for, that suggested Harry H Corbett and Wilfred Brambell really didn't get on, and actually hated each other. What's your take on that?

RG: I don't think the series would have gone on for such a long time if that had been the case. No-one would have put up with it. We would have noticed the tension. Towards the end, there was irritation. I think the old man irritated Harry with wanting to go out for lunch. It'd be a liquid lunch with all of us except Harry, who'd make a point of sitting there having his sandwiches and reading his script. But that was petty, and that was right at the end. Certainly it was a bit of an eye-opener to us when they came to us and said they were going to Australia to do these Returned Servicemen's Club things, and asked us to write some stuff for them. Which we did, though we never saw it in action. And when we saw that programme the other week we couldn't believe how they were daggers-drawn towards each other.

AS: It certainly didn't ocur while we were working with them. Fourteen years. There was a gap in the middle, but it was still fourteen yerars. And if you had fourteen years of marriage, bickering all the time, it wouldn't last, would it?

RG: You couldn't have put up with that as an atmosphere around the place. We used to go to rehearsals three times a week, and we certainly would have noticed it.

PM: 'Steptoe and Son' was, of course, a massive success, and famously Harold Wilson once asked the BBC to delay the transmission.

AS: Yes. It used to go out at 8.30, and Harold Wilson maintained that 8.30 to 9.00 was when all the Labour voters went out to vote. So all the Tories used to go out and vote in the afternoon, around teatime, and all the Labour voters had to have their tea, then go down the polls. He said putting 'Steptoe' on at 8.30 would cut his majority down.

PM: This was the 1964 General Election?

AS: Yes.

PM: And did they put the programme back?

AS: No; and he got in by three seats, I think.

PM: So you've followed one big hit with an even bigger hit, you've done several series of 'Steptoe' in black-and-white, and you've made a few films. You did the script for one of my favourite films, 'The Wrong Arm of the Law'. What was working with Peter Sellers like?

AS: Peter was like a chameleon, really.

RG: Like a little child, in many ways. When there'd be a two-year waiting list for a motor-car, Peter could get one tomorrow. Because they knew that at the end of the week, they'd get it back. Peter had over 50 cars in one year. Graham Stark got him interested in cameras - and he's got to get everything from Wallace Eaton's, the whole shopful. He was like a child, very bubbly. He also could be a terrible man to pin down. If you didn't get to him at the last possible moment, you'd find he'd gone on to make a different film. But 'The Wrong Arm of the Law' wasn't our film to start with; it was written by Les Heath and John Warren.

PM: You did the dialogue, though.

AS: We rewrote it. We didn't ask to, but as these things go along, they ask you to do a little bit more, then a little bit more. So in the end it was a complete rewrite.

PM: There's one of my favourite lines in that film. Peter Sellers is this No.1 criminal brain in the country, and at one point he's talking to his wife, points at his head, and says, I've got things going on in here that would make Maigret drop his pipe.

AS: But Peter was a very generous performer. When we did 'The Wrong Arm of the Law', Peter couldn't make up his mind whether he wanted to play the policeman or the head of the gangsters, who fronts during the day as a ladies' hairdresser. After a couple of days' rehearsal, he's decided he's going to play the policeman, then afterwards says, No I'll play Pearly Gates. So they start shooting, and he asks, Is it too late to change? And after the first week, he goes up to Lionel Jeffries, who's playing the policeman, and says, Once again, I've cocked it up. I'm playing the wrong part. It's your film, and I'll do whatever I can to help you with it. That was very generous, and if you see the film you'll see that Lionel in fact did have the best part. The only problem with Peter was that he was a bit unreliable. We were supposed to be doing a film called 'The Spy with a Cold Nose', which Peter's agent had actually asked us to write. He'd just had these nine heart-attacks, and wants to do a nice little English film where there's not too much running around. So we had this little idea about a vet, and we took the first draft down to Peter - who had just married Britt Ekland; which was another good reason to go down there. He started reading it and falling about laughing. It was very embarrassing - very worrying - we thought he was going to have another heart-attack. Right, he said, I don't need to read any more. We'll produce it ourselves. I'll book the studio tomorrow morning, I'll arrange a producer, and we'll form our own company.

RG: We'll get Lionel in...

AS: Yes. And we thought: this is wonderful, our own film. A week went by, we didn't hear anything; two weeks: nothing. We thought, Hello, there's something up here... And his representative phoned up: Peter sends his regrets, but he can't do the picture, he's agreed to do a film with Woody Allen, 'What's New, Pussycat'. He wishes you all the best with the film. And apparently he did this all the time; and we just happened to be on the receiving end of that one. Laurence Harvey did it in the end, and Lionel Jeffries played more or less the same sort of part he'd had in 'The Wrong Arm of the Law'.

Audience question: Was it true that when you did the first episode of 'Steptoe', Harry H Corbett didn't know he'd be performing in front of an audience?

RG: Absolutely true, yes. As you probably well know, when you're rehearsing you're in Boy Scout huts or tents or anywhere you can find, and you get into the studio only on the day of recording. And on the day we got there, Harry turned round from looking at the sets, and asked, What are all those seats? - Well, they're for the audience. - An audience? I shall have to rethink my entire performance...

AS: And we thought, Here we go... actors...

RG: ... let's get back to the comics...

PM: Now in the mid-60s you go to Hollywood. And I believe, Roy, this is where you picked a fight with Robert Mitchum?

RG: Not a fight. I was just asking what the fucking hell they were doing in Vietnam, that's all. It shows you how daft... I mean, of all the people there - Robert Mitchum - I could have picked on Micky Rooney or someone.

PM: Had you drunk wine?

RG: I think I'd looked at it occasionally, yes. But we'd been there for months and months, and we were just about to go home, it was the night before we went home, and we met Troy Kennedy Martin, and he said, Isn't it wonderful, this place: all the parties... - What parties? - He said, You've never been... Anyway, we got a phone call in the evening, inviting us to this party Vanessa Redgrave was throwing in an art gallery in anticipation of an Academy Award for her sister, I think it was. Every face in Hollywood was there; it was really the A-plus list. And I picked on him. I got him in the corner, up against the wall, and we were on about Vietnam. And he was the nicest man...

PM: ... you've ever threatened.

RG: Well, yes. I can't believe we didn't come to blows.

AS: Everybody else had gone home by then.

RG: Yes. Robert Mitchum and his wife, and Alan and myself, were the last people in the shop, and we were bunged out at about 2.30 in the morning, onto La Cienega Boulevard. And here's this world-famous actor and tough-guy, and his wife, both with white plastic bags, tottering down the street like Bag Lady and Son. Which was the last we saw of them. Alan woke me up the next morning saying, We've got no time, we've got to get the train to San Francisco. And I'm going, Oh my God, what have I done? I must send a telegram to him. He'll kill me if he ever sees me again. Alan says, No time for that; and I didn't. There's no pay-off to this, except that I met him once a few years later in the White Elephant on Curzon Street in London, and he was nice again. And I just thought, No, I can't bring up the war again...

PM: So was this a problem in the 60s, trying to stop Ray hitting big people?

AS: Yes... Julie Andrews...

RG: She was the worst...

PM: ... never gave up, did she...?

RG: ... had me on the floor many a time, she did.

Hollywood

PM: So did anything come of you being in Hollywood?

RG: No - our reputation as fighters got around...

AS: We were in Hollywood to write a film called 'Pieces of Eight'. It was a script that was already in existence, set in 1690 when Port of Spain got hit by the flood. The bloke who was producing it said he wanted to make it as a sort of James Bond for the 1690s... He wanted to get Michael Caine...

RG: Wasn't a bad idea. Wooden wheels on the Aston Martin....

AS: He wanted us to help him get Michael Caine, and for Lady Cattermole he wanted the girl from 'The Avengers'...

RG: Diana Rigg. He had a real thing about Diana Rigg. In fact, every day, he would ask us about Diana Rigg; and we'd try and make something up about her in the end.

AS: Our job was to comedy it up, and to bring in the element of James Bond: to think up gadgets that would work in 1690. And to cut the budget from $14 million to $12 million. So we spent four weeks writing it, and when they added it up, it came to $18 million. They then had to make a decision as to whether to make the film, or make 'Thoroughly Modern Millie'. And to this day that screenplay has never been made, would you believe?

PM: So you were out there for how long?

AS: Two months. Twice. We went out there again because they wanted us to do an American version of 'Steptoe'.

PM: Which was 'Sandford and Son' ?

AS: Eventually. But not then. That came later. We picked a script out, and they said, Lovely - Americanize that.

RG: Took us about an hour... No; we sent it in, and they said, Great, wonderful. We can't make a decision now, because everybody's got to agree with it. So a week went by, and they said, We've all read it, we're ready to go now, we're going to cast it. We'll get some opinions, so you sit by the pool... To cut a long story short, we spent about four weeks doing nothing, being paid (lovely). In the end, they said, we can't do it. It's got to be set somewhere. We can't set it in New York - they'd be Italian or Jewish. We can't set it in Chicago - they'd be Italian, too. We can't set it in Los Angeles, they'd be Mexicans. So it's a bit of a problem, really. And Ray said, Why not cast it black? They said that'd be great - but can't do it, impossible. You know, the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Coloured People, or whatever they have over there, wouldn't allow it. So we came home. Two years later, another producer picked it up; phoned us; asked whether we would have any objection to playing it black. Ray said, That was my idea two years ago. - Ah, two years ago we couldn't have done it; now we can. So 'Sandford and Son' got done.

PM: One of the first shows to transfer from here to America, wasn't it?

AS: Yes; about the same time as 'Til Death Us Do Part'.

PM: Now you're back here. You did 'Clochemerle', set in France, for BBC2, I think; then there was the thing you did with Leslie Phillips, 'Casanova 73'. Weren't there questions asked in the House of Commons about that?

AS: I believe there were.

PM: What was the problem with that?

AS: It was disgusting. They said.

RG: I think it was Edwina Currie who said that...

AS You always get a round of applause on a topical gag... Anyway, yes, Mary Whitehouse didn't like 'Casanova 73'. It was very simple. It was just a seven-week series about a bloke who commits adultery every week. Mild stuff.

RG: Though Nancy Banks Smith, who still writes for The Guardian, walked out of it at the preview. Door slammed; and every week she gave us a terrible write-up...

PM: This was around the time the BBC had been doing 'Casanova' with Frank Finlay?

AS: That's what gave us the idea... But it was mild. When you think what's on now: 'Coupling', and shows like that... There was not a nipple to be seen anywhere...

RG: Only Leslie's...

PM: You worked with so many people, it's impossible to get stories about all of them in. But we have here a Clip from a show you did in the mid-70s with Arthur Lowe, called 'Car Along the Pass'....

[Clip]

PM: Was Arthur Lowe the same kind of character he seems on screen? Quite fussy...

RG: He was, really. Did you know that the BBC asked us if we were interested in re-doing the Hancocks with him? With James Beck, the spiv [from 'Dad's Army'] playing Sid's part? We actually did 'The Economy Drive' - it was very good. We were all set to go, and Jimmy Beck dies.

AS: The fool...

RG: That put Arthur right off. No - Hancock's dead; Jimmy's gone...

AS: It goes in threes, he said.

RG: That was the end of that. No-one's ever seen that show. Shame, really.

Audience question: (re RG & AS's view of contemporary TV comedy).

AS: There are wonderful shows about today. I think it's a myth about the Golden Age of Comedy... As you've seen tonight.

RG: When you consider things like 'Black Books', or 'The Office'... Ricky Gervais is wonderful, Bill Bailey...

AS: Every era has its good stuff and its rubbish. The thing is that 40 years later you don't remember the rubbish... You have to come here to see it.

Audience question: (re whether either would have had writing careers if they hadn't come together)

AS: I doubt we would have started. Certainly not when we did. It was purely a case of us both getting TB. I would have been in the shipping office; and receiving my gold watch about seven years ago.

RG: I was working for the Transport & General Workers' Union. So I'd have been sacked before I got the pension.

AS: He'd be on strike at the moment... Also, of course, we would have done two years' National Service, which would have completely changed our lives. I think it's very doubtful we would have pursued...

RG: Though whether it was worth three-and-a-half years in the sanatorium, I don't know.

AS: Ray and I became writers through meeting. Most of the writing teams we know were writers who met through writing. But Ray and I had never written a word until we met. And we became some sort of Siamese twins; up to a point. We were separated some years ago, and Ray has been writing with other partners since. I retired; I turned it in.

PM: I think what the lady's suggesting there is that it's easier, when there are two of you, to convince yourselves you've actually got a chance...

RG: Yes. It's a very lonely job for one person to do.

PM: I do admire people who do it on their own. But I don't know how they ever tell if it's funny or not.

AS: When we had an office with Spike and Eric, who were writers who worked on their own, they'd always come in and ask us, What do you think of this? They'd read a bit out... Though we never read any of our stuff out to them, at all.

PM: I suppose it's that thing where you've thought of something; you think it's funny; but you've got to get an instant reaction. If you're working with somebody, their face will tell you whether it's funny or not.

AS: All writers have different ways of working. Eric Sykes, for instance, used to get a thick pile of paper, then write the script in enormous writing, page after page. He'd finish up with about 40 pages; be very pleased with himself. And then when it was typed out, it would be about three pages. Then he'd go into the studio and make the rest up during rehearsals. Spike couldn't hesitate, couldn't stop. If he couldn't think of a line, he still wouldn't stop. He'd be typing away, and he'd come to, say, a line for Eccles. And if he couldn't think of a line, he'd just type 'Fuck it', and carry on. He'd write for 18 pages, and every so often there'd be an expletive; and then he'd write a second draft. The expletives would become fewer and fewer, and around about the tenth draft, he'd have a script. Whereas Ray and I used to write as we went along, and used to alter it as we went along...

RG: We couldn't afford the paper...

AS: And on our typewriter the X and the C were always the first letters to go. We used to give them a right hammering as we went along.

PM: So after you've handed the script in, would you ever change it after hearing the actors read it?

RG: Occasionally.

AS: Depends how bad they were... Yes. When necessary.

RG: We'd be putting funnies, whimsies, jokes in right up until the last moment. Until the director would say, For Christ's sake, don't give them any more, they don't know where they are already... But we'd be trying to iron out things; make it funnier...

AS: They didn't like us giving cuts, though, did they? Because they had to learn the cuts. And who's going to tell the bear? You know that story...? There's a bloke on at the London Palladium who had this bear act that went on for about ten minutes. And Lew Grade goes up to him, and says, It's too long. I want you to take four minutes out of it. The bloke says, I don't mind; but who's going to tell the bear?

Audience question: There's a tradition from Laurel and Hardy through 'Steptoe', up to 'Father Ted', of people being trapped together. Can't live with each other; can't live without each other... Why do you think that format works so well?

RG: We loved writing about entrapment. Like Hancock in a lift, or in a room; or Arthur Lowe in a cable car; and Steptoe in a house...

PM: Is there something about two men trapped in a room writing about two men trapped in a room....?

AS: That's very, very Freudian; and a load of old rubbish. But may well be true. I think, though, that in this country, most comedy's about failure, isn't it? About people who are unsuccessful. It's only in America that they write comedies about successful people, who are all good looking, and wealthy, and live in wonderful houses...

PM: ... and none of whom have jobs...

AS: But here we do love writing about losers, and no-hopers. Success isn't funny, is it?

Audience question: What do you love about each other?

AS: Well, what I love about Ray is that if I hadn't have met him, I wouldn't be where I am today. So I'll always be grateful to him. And he's a nice bloke. His beard - I like his beard...

RG: I used to have a beard at one time... But I thought, I can't go on looking like Father Christmas all the time. No; since he's said those nice things about me, I can't really tell you what I think of him, can I? So I'd better not.

Audience question: Can you tell us anything about Bill Kerr?

AS: Well, apart from Paul Merton, he's the only bloke we've ever written for who's still alive.

PM: And I'm not feeling too good...

AS: Bill is still going strong. He's over 80 now. I think he lives in Perth, and he still makes films in Australia. I think he still goes out with young birds; he always did.

RG: Kangaroos; he wouldn't know the difference...

AS: The interesting thing about Bill is that when we started writing him in 'Hancock's Half Hour', we played him as something of a wisecracker. And only gradually did he become a Stan Laurel... But nobody noticed. Any more than they noticed that André Melly started off with a French accent and ended up English. Nobody bothered.

Audience question: Were there any major disagreements you nearly split up over?

RG: Every week. But they were dealt with in silences. We wouldn't speak to each other.

AS: We never once had a verbal row. But one of us would always know if the other was unhappy about something, because no-one would say anything. Sometimes it used to last for two or three days, and in the end we'd forgotten whose turn it was; who was angry about who.

PM: You were in charge of the typing, weren't you? So if there was a line you were keen on, but Ray wasn't, would you just wait until he'd gone out...?

RG: I could read at the time...

AS: He would be sat there, where you are, and I'd be typing away here. And if he happened to look away, he'd hear dack-a-dack-dack-dack, and turn back and say, What? And I'd say, No, I'm just X-ing something...

RG: Or it was just his teeth in the glass...

Audience question: (Re the Hancock episode 'Fred's Pie Stall')

RG: I remember the show. We'd finished the first [TV] series, and went on holiday, about the time of the Suez crisis. And we'd written a new episode that had something to do with Sid James being a window cleaner at the War Office, or something, and he'd got hold of some secrets, or something. And the BBC said, We can't do this. It had got shots of battlefields and Clips of warfare in it and so on...

AS: The country had to mobilise, that was the point. I think it was Hancock who'd been cleaning the windows of the Russian Embassy or something, and thought he was privy to something that was about to happen to this country. And with the Suez crisis arising, and ourselves out of the country, the BBC bottled out and cancelled the show.

RG: And instead of putting in a repeat or something, the BBC got hold of Johnny Speight, and asked if he'd got access to anything in Galton and Simpson's file he could dig out and rewrite. So Johnny went through the Hancock [radio] scripts and came up with 'Fred's Pie Stall', and adapted it for television. It doesn't exist any more, nobody's got any records of it, but it's 'Fred's Pie Stall', adapted by Johnny Speight from the original radio script that you remember.

[Final Clip / wrap-up / thanks]