Researching a programme like The Golden Shot (1967-75) is a nightmare. As I pointed out last time, for a show which ran for hundreds of editions, vanishingly few of them actually survive. Even fewer are generally available to view. You’re left scrabbling for what you can find in old newspapers and magazines… and the odd autobiography.
Such as Bob Monkhouse’s incredible Crying With Laughter (Century, 1993), often regarded as the gold standard in celebrity memoirs. And one of the most arresting sequences in the whole book is the section where he details his thrilling takeover of The Golden Shot from first host, Jackie Rae.
“Having concluded that I was lucky not to be presenting this calamity and so suffering condemnation by press and public alike, I was puzzled when Peter1 phoned to say I was wanted as the guest star for the tenth week. The fee was insignificant and the inconvenience considerable as it meant travelling from Liverpool to Elstree and back again for my midnight jobs at Jack Murphy’s Cabaret Club in Duke Street. And who was watching ‘The Golden Shot’ now anyway? Its Saturday ratings had plunged. ‘I know, love, but it’s a chance for you to show ’em a thing or two on that set.’
I got the message.
Having made sure the set was standing, I drove out to the studio and looked it over. The guest had to fire the bow using a joystick in a glass booth. The booth looked like the one featured in a frequently seen soap commercial of the day where a man went into a phone kiosk which turned into a bathroom shower. I sought out my pals in special effects and had the booth rigged to do the same. Next, I consulted the props men and they agreed to build what I’d drawn.”
According to Bob, his guest performance went spectacularly well.
“Half an hour of the usual stuff, tedious as ever, with no audience reaction other than cued applause where required. Then I was announced and my first appearance brought a crack of laughter that registered on the Richter scale. I was dressed as a big target, the golden bullseye over my middle. The absurdity of anyone showing up at an archery contest in such an idiotic costume delighted the previously bored crowd. A fusillade of gags followed as I removed my outer costume to reveal a Tyrolean outfit in the style of William Tell, put an apple on my head and did some comic business with a curved crossbow that could shoot round corners. Then I announced that I had my own private armourer, ‘Heinz the dolt!’ A four-foot tin of Heinz Potted Shrimp was wheeled on and tiny Johnny Vyvyan climbed out, dressed as a stormtrooper with a spiked Prussian helmet and carrying a gigantic door bolt. We plunged into a fast and crazy routine in which I fired at various objects he was holding up, each of them rigged to explode when hit and shower the stone-faced little man with their contents. The laughter was just as explosive, roars of hysterical mirth and applause bursting from two hundred and fifty people who had been spending an evening starved of any semblance of fun.
When I started stuffing Johnny feet first into a large cannon, Jackie Rae must have been wondering what had hit him. Unrehearsed, he was rooted to the spot by his need to read his lines off idiot boards.
I ran into the glass booth to fire the cannon and rattled off a few funny lines while Johnny was secretly replaced by a dummy. On a signal that Johnny was out and clear, I pressed the firing button. There was a hell of a bang with confetti and red smoke, the dummy soared fifteen feet in the air and its spiked helmet stuck firmly in the bullseye.
The crowd went wild and Jack Parnell, watching the show on the screen of a TV monitor in the bandroom, waited for the din to diminish before giving his orchestra the downbeat. Precious seconds were ticking by.
Then the music from the then famous soap advert filled the air and, just as in the familiar commercial, the lighting changed to make a silhouette of me as my firing booth became a shower stall. A cascade of water hit me from above and I washed myself, working up a lather with the detergent already in my clothing.2 If an audience ever howled with laughter any longer and louder, it could only have been in comedy heaven.”
The inevitable then happened:
“On the Thursday of that week Lew [Grade] sent for Peter. ATV’s light entertainment booker Alec Fine joined the meeting and Lew told them to do a deal for me to take over as host on ‘The Golden Shot’ as soon as possible.”
All very nice. The question is: how much of it is true?
Peter Prichard, Bob’s agent. ↩
With many thanks to Simon McLean, the advert Bob is referencing here must be this one for Lifebuoy soap, or a similar one in the same series. ↩
