“What Can They Do, Fire Me?”

If you’re the kind of person who reads this site, it’s very likely that you have childhood memories of Bob Monkhouse. Mine? Definitely his Central game shows of the 1990s, such as The $64,000 Question and the revival of Celebrity Squares.¹ Oh, and my Mum ringing up the BBC after an appearance on Have I Got News For You, to complain he had been racist against the French.

As I got older, I followed the general trend of many comedy fans, in my reassessment of Bob from “that nice man on the telly”, to “one of the funniest men who ever lived”. And once you heard about his vast film and television archive and realise he was one of us into the bargain – except also doing that better and more comprehensively than virtually anybody else as well – that’s when the awe really began to set in. I choose to believe he might even have enjoyed reading Dirty Feed, and you can’t prove otherwise, leave me alone.

It was apparent years before if you were paying attention, but I can trace my realisation of Bob as an archive fiend to the documentary The Secret Life of Bob Monkhouse, first broadcast on BBC Four on 3rd January 2011. And one of the most fascinating parts of that documentary was the section on Bob’s sacking from The Golden Shot in 1972, including clips of his final show², from a copy taken from Bob’s archive. I could watch it endlessly.

It’s interesting to see Dave Ismay’s uncomfortableness with Bob’s performance on that show: “It’s not Bob. It’s not the way he was. It was very sarky, it was a malcontented Bob…” This may be true, but from the clips we can see, it’s also an extremely funny Bob. Especially the joke about the killing of replacement host Norman Vaughan.

I do also have to take issue slightly with the programme in terms of how it tells the story of Bob’s firing, although I admit that it’s a difficult subject to cover quickly. The narration goes:

“ATV bosses Lew Grade and Francis Essex had been told that Monkhouse was taking bribes to include brand name products as prizes. Bob always denied it, but he was told that the next episode would be his last.”

From this, you would think that Bob had denied any kind of wrongdoing at all. But as revealed in his autobiography Crying With Laughter (Century, 1993), the truth is rather more nuanced. I’m going to quote a fairly lengthy section, as I don’t want to misrepresent what Bob actually said on the matter.

“An advertising executive named Bob Brooksby invited me to a Monday lunch at the Caprice. He told me that Wilkinson Sword were launching a new double-bladed razor and wondered whether it could be part of a prize on our show the following Sunday as the exposure would be a feather in his cap at his agency. I liked Bob and wanted to help. Perhaps we could assemble a sort of His and Hers Beauty Package, assorted cosmetics and aftershave lotions with a course of treatments at a local health centre. The new razor could be displayed as part of the men’s toiletries. Bob loved the idea and said if I could wangle it he would owe me another lunch.

Before we left the table Bob handed me a brown envelope, saying, ‘It’s a little gift, don’t look inside now, open it later.’ It turned out to be an Olympia Press book from Brentano’s in Paris called The Shy Photographer. Banned in Britain, it was very filthy by the standards of the day but it made me laugh and I have it still, although there was soon to come a moment when I would be tempted to chuck it on the fire.

The following Sunday the show went on the air as usual. A load of razors and blade dispensers had been delivered to the studio and freely distributed among the staff. One set was duly included as part of the bronze prize for men and the brand name could be seen briefly but clearly on the screen. Wally and I took home a set each and thought no more about it. After all, what did it amount to? A pound’s worth of perk, that’s all. […]

On Tuesday morning there was a phonecall from Francis’s secretary to say that he’d be passing by St John’s Wood after lunch that day and needed to see me on an urgent matter. He arrived at my door in his usual chirpy, brisk way and asked Jackie to excuse us while we settled by the open fire in the living room. My worst expectation of his reason for calling was a warning that my gags with Anne Aston were becoming too suggestive for a Sunday teatime. He took a deep breath and said it in one sentence.

‘Bob, when I was told a week ago that you had been seen and overheard accepting a bribe to advertise a shaving product on an ATV production I could hardly believe it, but I decided to wait until Sunday to see if it was true and, sure enough, you did it and I’m afraid that’s the end of the series for you, old chum, although we’ll agree to announce it to the press as your resignation, reluctantly accepted by us–OK, fella?’
My throat dried up and I actually felt myself blushing like a school cheat.
‘I wasn’t bribed, Francis, I mean no money was involved.’
‘If you say so, but a pretty fat brown envelope was seen to change hands.’
‘That was just a book. It’s upstairs, I’ll show it to you.’
‘No need for that, is there? You tell me that no money was involved and I’m relieved to hear you say it. Still, there it is, the company can’t have the host of one of its top shows using it to advertise products for his friends. So I suggest we announce your departure from the series as from the week after next. Perhaps you’ll have Peter Prichard tell Alec Fine, yes? That’s the bargain then–you step out of the picture quietly and I accept your story that there was no money in that envelope. No fuss, no scandal. Sorry, fella.'”

In other words: while Bob Monkhouse did indeed deny being “bribed” in terms of money, he had long-admitted to having an inappropriate relationship with an advertiser, and accepting perks.

“I’d really screwed it up this time and for what? A quid’s worth of shaving kit and a dirty book in exchange for weekly national TV stardom and about £35,000 a year. […] I sat down in our big L-shaped sitting room, stared into the fire and contemplated my outstanding talents: greed, sticky fingers and a petty dishonesty were the only ones that I could think of.”

The thing which gets me most about the full story is the sympathy I have with both parties. I totally understand how Bob fell into the trap without even thinking, and I fully understand why Francis Essex felt he had to fire him for it. As is so often the case, the full truth means that you can’t simply paint either party as being obnoxious or completely unreasonable.

*   *   *

Which leaves us with one final question. When exactly was Bob’s leaving show on The Golden Shot broadcast? Far, far too many places simply give the date as “1972”. Even Bob’s autobiography isn’t any help.

If we check IMDB, it gives the 23rd January 1972 as Bob’s final show, with the 6th February 1972 as Norman Vaughan’s first. But I was instantly suspicious of this. In the clips of Bob’s leaving show in The Secret Life of Bob Monkhouse, you can clearly hear Vaughan say “See you next week, 4:45”. But the IMDB listings suggest there was a week’s gap between Bob’s final show, and Norman’s first.

That’s because IMDB is missing an episode. Bob’s final show was in fact on the 30th January 1972, as evidenced from contemporary newspaper clippings, such as the Sunday Mercury published the same day:

“On A.T.V., Bob Monkhouse makes a farewell appearance as host of the Birmingham-produced “The Golden Shot,” and introduces his successor, Norman Vaughan.”

As for why IMDB is missing the key episode broadcast on the 30th January, who knows. For the record, it’s also correctly listed as the 30th in the TV Times. If I was being suspicious, I might suggest that the episode list was partially compiled from Kaleidoscope’s list of missing episodes, which of course doesn’t include the 30th January episode, because it exists complete from Bob’s collection.

I really hate the internet.

1. Years which were unfairly and pointlessly maligned in the 2015 Gold documentary Bob Monkhouse: Million Joke Man. ↩

2. Before his return in 1974, of course. ↩

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bob monkhouse, the golden shot, tx date investigations