Skip to main content

Red or yellow? If only Sam could remember...

My name is Phil Woodford. I turned on BBC1 by accident and ended up in 1973. Am I mad? In a coma? Or just addicted to finding filler material for my blog?

Tonight's ep of Life on Mars was set against the backdrop of the IRA terror campaign on mainland Britain in the early seventies. Sam claims to be a dab hand at defusing bombs when the official disposal unit's delayed, although he does tend to get a bit confused between the red wires and the yellow wires. Apparently, if you could remember your red from your yellow in those days, job was a good 'un. Another device disarmed. Quick trip down the boozer for a celebratory pint of best bitter with a whisky chaser. Wasn't it nice of the terrorists to make it all so simple? I never realised the coded warnings were actually colour coded.

As bombs start exploding, DCI Gene Hunt wants to round up anyone with an Irish accent and give them a good kicking. Our hero Sam, however, somehow suspects that the explosions are really the work of debt-ridden local businessman looking to create the perfect cover for a bank job. Stands to reason when you think about it.

Even in 1973, I suspect someone other than DCI Hunt might have taken responsibility for the investigation of bomb explosions in a major British city. In the real-life case of the Birmingham Six (which dates from the same time period), both Special Branch and the West Midlands Serious Crime Squad featured prominently, if I remember correctly. But we're on Mars and the local plod are left to their own devices, with the battle-axe lady desk officer threatening to strip search her Irish prisoners and a traumatised DS Carling wandering around the city with a revolver and a grudge.

I know I probably sound very pedantic, but I think the suspension of disbelief required in this series is not necessarily confined to temporal anomalies. In fact, I find the test card girl jumping out of the old telly rather more believable than the recreation of the local nick. Let's be fair though. The set design, costumes, motors and decor are all worth the licence fee. Which I reckon to be £7. Or cheaper if your box is black and white.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A Fawlty Towers script? Si, senor!

Ok, so I gave ChatGPT the following scenario: "Imagine a theatrical script for a situation comedy set in a hotel in Torquay, England. The proprietor is called Basil, an eccentric man who believes the calibre of guests to be low. His wife, Sybil, is often frustrated by Basil's incompetence. They employ a Spanish waiter called Manuel, who struggles to understand English. Basil suspects that two guests, who claim to be married, may be lying." Here's what our favourite AI came up with: Scene: The hotel lobby in Torquay, England. Basil is standing behind the reception desk, looking at a piece of paper. Sybil is standing next to him, looking annoyed. Manuel is hovering nearby, trying to look busy. Basil: (to Sybil) I don't know why we get such low-calibre guests at this hotel. Look at these two - Mr. and Mrs. Smith. They claim to be married, but I suspect they might be lying. Sybil: (sighing) Basil, it's not our job to judge the marital status of our guests. Just m...

Becoming a Twister board

I spent yesterday evening in an old factory building off Brick Lane playing kids' games with an organisation called Fun Fed. The idea is that a bunch of adults get together and act like children for a couple of hours. We played tag and stuck big coloured discs on ourselves so that we could become human Twister mats. There was an awful lot of running around and I was thinking that I ought to get to aikido a bit more often. Being a child is very hard work.

It's been a tough year. Let's give ourselves a clap.

If something didn’t smell right about the UK handling of the pandemic, the British public was never going to notice. But they knew that if they couldn’t smell something, they really ought to get a Covid test sent to them in the post. There has been something incredibly British about the DIY swabs and their delivery via the gig-economy workers of Amazon, hasn’t there? Touch of corona? I’ll pop something in the post to you. Should be with you tomorrow. I suppose it was inevitable that we’d need some new kind of system. After all, the coronavirus outbreak was the first thing in the history of the NHS that couldn’t be cured by paracetamol, rest and plenty of fluids. This understandably left GPs flummoxed and anxious. The UK decided pretty early on that if you were ill with a novel pathogen – which proved deadly in maybe 1% of cases – you really shouldn’t go to the doctor. You should STAY AT HOME and spread it quickly to your flatmates or family members. And because they were now at ...