MARY RICHARDS: I think you had a dream. You dreamed that you started from nowhere, and you made it all the way to the top. Became rich, successful in every way, loved… and recently, you’ve begun to become aware that time is slipping away, and your life has turned out a little differently from the dream. In fact, compared to the dream, you think your life isn’t all that terrific. And it’s begun to bother you.
TED BAXTER: That’s amazing, Mary. How did you know that was my problem?
MARY RICHARDS: Ted, that’s everybody’s problem. I had a dream once. I dreamed of becoming a ballerina. Took so many classes, I practiced so hard. In the hopes one day I’d dance with the finest ballet company, and I’d win the cheers of audiences all over the world.
TED BAXTER: So you wanted to be a real famous dancer. And you wound up as the producer of a local news show.
MARY RICHARDS: That’s right.
TED BAXTER: Boy, you really blew it.
– The Mary Tyler Moore Show, “Hail the Conquering Gordy”,
CBS TX: 5th February 1977“I think I’ll always consider myself a failed dancer, not a successful actress.”
– Mary Tyler Moore, The Los Angeles Times, 20th December 1981
The Mary Tyler Moore Show: Prod. #7001
The problem with coming of age as an archive TV nerd through Red Dwarf DVDs is that you get thoroughly spoilt. You expect every single sitcom release to feature a copious selection of deleted scenes. Sometimes you hit lucky; the Seinfeld releases are absolutely incredible. But for older shows, you’re pretty much always going to be disappointed.
Luckily, we know how to make our own fun around here. Last time, we saw how the script for the first episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show pointed towards a reshoot of a key scene. And in that script, there’s a fair amount of material from other scenes which was removed before the show was broadcast.
Let’s investigate. I haven’t noted every single minor change in dialogue phrasing, as that would be immensely tedious, but all significant differences are noted. Times given are from the Region 1 DVD release of the show.1
The DVDs of The Mary Tyler Moore Show contain the original broadcast versions of the programme – albeit with the odd edit – not the cut syndicated versions. So this article is definitely about material which was never broadcast. ↩
“Aunt Rhoda’s Really a Lot of Fun”
In 2025, I watched all of The Dick Van Dyke Show (1961-65) and its spiritual successor The Mary Tyler Moore Show (1970-77), with a chaser of Rhoda (1974-78). That’s such a concentrated burst of greatness that I feel like anything I watch this year will be a disappointment.
So while I scrabble around for something to replace the giant hole in my life – and no, spin-off Phyllis (1975-77) doesn’t quite cut it – I can at least throw myself into the usual behind-the-scenes books and documentaries. Very quickly, you learn all the standard tales which have come up over the years. And with The Mary Tyler Moore Show, one tale looms above all: the disastrous preliminary filming of the opening episode, three days before the real one.
This is probably most succinctly expressed in the book Mary and Lou and Rhoda and Ted (Simon & Schuster, 2013):
“The day of The Mary Tyler Moore Show’s first chance to perform in front of a studio audience began with news of a bomb threat on the lot… The threat was determined to be unfounded, and audience members were herded in. But the folks in the stands couldn’t see the actors over the cameras, which were twice as bulky as the standard kind, so they were forced to try to catch the action on small monitors instead. The air-conditioning broke down, so the two-hundred-member audience and the actors were left to swelter in 90-degree July temperatures while watching a practice run of a series already being promoted to viewers as if it were a done deal. The microphones didn’t work properly.”
The problems continue from there. At times, the stories about this recording take on an almost absurd tinge; everything that could have gone wrong, seemingly did. Showrunners James L. Brooks and Allan Burns did a dreadful job with the warm-up; the actors weren’t quite ready; the director hadn’t had enough time with the camera crew… the excuses just keep piling up. The dodgy aircon and sound system would surely be enough to kill a recording, let alone anything else.
And then there was Rhoda, a character which seemingly made a few people nervous. To be fair, she is set up initially as an antagonist to Mary, and spends the entire episode trying to nab her apartment. But also: never underestimate some people’s unpleasant reactions to a gobby Jewish woman.
Either way, she certainly didn’t test well with the studio audience that particular night. What to do? Back to Mary and Lou and Rhoda and Ted:
“Script supervisor Marge Mullen, who’d held the same job at The Dick Van Dyke Show, stopped by the producers’ office. She had an idea – maybe not the biggest one, but it was something. “People don’t seem to like Rhoda,” they remember her saying. “There’s this little girl who’s Phyllis’s daughter, and if the little girl likes Rhoda, it’ll give the audience the opportunity to love her, too.”
It was the only substantive idea for an improvement Brooks and Burns had heard all evening. They decided to take Mullen’s suggestion, cut a few other lines, and call it a night, putting their faith in what they’d written and the cast they’d hired. Many things had gone wrong with that first taping, but the words and the talent, they believed, were there.”
Come the second recording, three days later?
“The only major change to the script was pigtailed twelve-year-old Lisa Gerritsen as Phyllis’s daughter, Bess, saying, “Aunt Rhoda’s really a lot of fun,” as Mary opened the curtains in her new apartment to see a harried Rhoda on her balcony in the opening scene. Gerritsen was the granddaughter of child actor and later screenwriter True Eames Boardman, as well as the great-granddaughter of silent film actors, but she had now made her own showbiz history.
This time, the audience roared. Gerritsen’s new line seemed to indeed be the magic bullet.”
Unlike all the other problems with the first recording, which was a smorgasbord of failure, this at least is a nice, neat anecdote. One single line changed how the audience felt about Rhoda, Marge Mullen and Lisa Gerritsen save the day, job done.
The problem is, it’s not quite the full story.
Everything That You Need to Know
Something unexpected has happened with The Peter Serafinowicz Show over the years.
For a programme which had just eight episodes, one of which was a Best Of, and which has never been repeated by the BBC1, the show has become a fixed reference point for certain strata of comedy fans. When I first watched it back in 2007, I rather liked it, with a few reservations. In 2025, it lives rent free in my head. If you think people endlessly quoting Python are annoying, just wait until I do my Ringo Remembers. “I just thought it was inappropriate. Especially at Christmastime.“
But of all the characters in the show, the one with the longest life has turned out to be inept businessman Brian Butterfield. A character inspired by this ludicrous advert, but which became something stranger and wilder almost immediately. A character which ended up going on tour fifteen years after the series was first broadcast, with all the associated paraphernalia. Who would have predicted that back in 2007?
All of which means it’s high time I wrote something interesting about it. So let’s take the second episode of the show, broadcast on the 11th October 2007, and one of the most well-remembered sketches of the lot: the Butterfield Detective Agency.
Of all the incredible moments in that sketch, my favourite might be Peter’s eye-flick upwards on “Australian”, as though Brian has just begun to realise he might have got it wrong.
But if you know this site well enough, you can probably guess where I’m about to go. What about the fabulously inappropriate music for the sketch, trying desperately to give a sense of showbiz that Brian Butterfield is incapable of providing? Well, it probably won’t surprise you to learn that it’s a library track: “Theatre Land”, credited to David Arnold2 and Paul Hart, and first released in 1991 by Carlin on the album TV/Radio/Showbiz/Logos (CAR 188).
Specifically, it’s three different versions of “Theatre Land” bunged together. All three are included below.3 I shall leave where the edit points between them are in the original sketch as an exercise for the reader.
So, job done, yes?
Not quite.
Aside from the Christmas Special, which had a repeat a couple of days later in a different edit. I’ll write about that one day. ↩
Ah, the everlasting confusion with there being two British composers called David Arnold. One scored multiple James Bond films. The other did the themes for The Big Breakfast and Live & Kicking. We are dealing with the latter. ↩
There are nine versions of “Theatre Land” in total on the album. ↩
“I Don’t Own a Television Machine”
Every so often, when struggling to analyse what I love about a TV show, I reach for the phrase “a complete comedy”. It’s a bit of a shitty, half-arsed idea. Let me at least try to explain what the hell I mean.
Some shows are built to do very specific things. Fawlty Towers is one of the best sitcoms ever made, but it’s essentially a wind-up engine for producing farce. Something like The Young Ones might look wild and anarchic and like it could do anything… but watch how the show immediately has to retreat once it brings up the death of Rick’s parents in “Summer Holiday”. There are some places the programme simply can’t go.
Then you have shows like Hi-de-Hi!, where it feels like they can go anywhere, and do anything. One episode might be a sadistic parody of light entertainment with Ted which would make Filthy, Rich & Catflap blush, the next could be another chapter in the touching Gladys/Jeffrey near-romance, then we’re headlong into a farcial plot about illicitly screening mucky movies.
An even better example is Frasier, a show which would seemingly mould and bend itself to take any kind of comedy the writers felt like doing. Oh, you want to do Mr. Bean this week, but with Niles? No problem.
Of course, it’s not a perfect categorisation. With any show, you’ll eventually bump into its boundaries and limitations; it’s just a question of how far you can wander first. It’s also not meant to be a criticism of shows which are more limited in scope; slagging off Fawlty Towers for not being something it’s not even trying to be would be completely ludicrous.
And yet I have to admit a certain fondness for those shows where you simply don’t know what kind of comedy you’ll be getting this time round. And The Dick Van Dyke Show, which aired on CBS between 1961-66, falls squarely into this category of a “complete comedy”.
Poor Old Jackie Rae

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. ↩
TC8, 19th May 1979
What is special about the Fawlty Towers episode known variously as “Rat”, “Rats”, and nowadays as “Basil the Rat”?1
Most obviously: the episode was delayed due to strike action at the BBC. Originally intended for broadcast on the 26th March 1979, it finally made it to air on the 25th October 1979, billed in the Radio Times as a “Fawlty Towers Special”. This is all an interesting topic in its own right, and something I’ll write about properly at some point.
Today’s subject matter is slightly more oblique. The delay the strike caused in recording the episode was much appreciated by director Bob Spiers, for a very particular reason. He talks about it on the DVD commentary for the show; I will quote it at length, because it’s all relevant.2
“As it turned out, it worked brilliantly to our advantage. because after we had read through, and I’d analysed just what was involved in this episode in terms of special effects and rats running around all over the place and just the number of scenes we had to do, it had finally become in my opinion totally and completely impossible to do this show with one day in the studio.
So I think we had to finally say the game was up, this was just too complex to achieve in one hit, and we needed to pre-record certain bits with the rat, and with other bits and pieces. Just given the amount of work that we had to do camera-rehearsing the show in general. It just would never, ever have worked.
So luckily at the last minute, with this little delay, I went cap in hand to the powers that be, and just finally had to admit defeat, really, and just say: listen, boys, this just ain’t gonna be possible. So very grudgingly, they agreed to allow me two days in the studio, and some pre-record time to do the special effects pieces. So this is an episode that had two days in the studio.
In other words: while every single other episode of Fawlty Towers had one day in the studio, “Basil the Rat” had two.3 A few years later, certain complicated sitcoms such as The Young Ones would have two days in the studio as a matter of course. But in 1979, it was not a common occurrence.
Those two recording days for “Basil the Rat” were the 19th and 20th May 19794, in Studio 8 at Television Centre. On the 19th, they pre-recorded various scenes without an audience; on the 20th the rest of the episode was recorded with an audience present. Of course, the inserts recorded on the 19th would also be played into the audience sessions on the 20th5, in order for the audience to follow the story, and to record their reaction to the pre-recorded scenes.
So far, so good, and the story usually ends there. But, to quote a particularly troublesome guest at the hotel: “I’m not satisfied.” It’s all very well to hand-wave the pre-recorded sections as “certain bits with the rat, and with other bits and pieces”. I want to know exactly which bits they deemed complicated enough to need pre-recording. Of course, we can make some guesses from watching the episode, but that’s not good enough, is it?
What is good enough, is – waves vaguely – a scrap of paper I have here, which lists every single section of the show pre-recorded on the 19th May. And while it doesn’t give time codes for each pre-recorded section, it does list the actors involved, and the exact duration of each insert, which makes it all relatively easy to work out. And some scenes which turn out to have been pre-recorded are ones you really wouldn’t expect… at least, at first glance.
Let’s take a look. For each pre-recorded section, I’ve made a video which labels exactly when the audience recording transitions into the pre-recorded section, and then back to the audience material.
The history of Fawlty Towers episode titles is too complex to go into here. Suffice to say that the episode titles as we now know them are not the ones used when the series was in production. ↩
Many people don’t like the Bob Spiers Fawlty Towers commentary, because he talks about boring things such as a pillar being removed from the upstairs landing set. I really enjoy the Bob Spiers Fawlty Towers commentary, because he talks about boring things such as a pillar being removed from the upstairs landing set. ↩
Not including reshoots made to the pilot, which is a special case, and not the kind of thing we’re talking about here. ↩
As per Andrew Pixley’s article on Series 2 of Fawlty Towers in TV Zone #152, and confirmed by an independent look at the production paperwork for the series. ↩
There were two audience sessions on the 20th, not one, but that’s a different article. ↩
“There Are Herrings on the Roof Again!”
Doing a parody of Fawlty Towers would, at first glance, seem a most inadvisable thing. Parodies of comedy are always a tricky proposition; parodies of one of the funniest comedies ever made is even more so.
This hasn’t stopped many of the great and the good attempting it over the decades. So to celebrate 50 years of Basil and the gang, let’s take a look at all the different take-offs of Fawlty Towers over the years. The good, the bad, and The Laughter Show.1
The Mike Yarwood Christmas Show
TX: 27th December 1976 • BBC1
Mike Yarwood went through a spate of Basil Fawlty impressions, but this sketch from his 1976 Christmas show is the one to focus on. Partly because it’s so early; just a year after Series 1 of Fawlty Towers first aired, it’s by far the earliest parody of the show I could find.
Oh, and partly because the sketch clearly uses parts of the actual Fawlty Towers set, albeit rejigged to take less space in the studio:


Note that in the above, the window in the door to the office has been blanked out, so you can’t see that they haven’t erected the office set. And saving space in the studio is the clear rationale behind combining the lobby and the dining room, which gives a peculiar sense of visiting Fawlty Towers in an alternate universe:


Sadly, all the set nonsense above is pretty much the most interesting thing about the sketch, which is one of the the least effective parts of Yarwood’s 1976 show. I guess the ventriloquist stuff is making the point that Cleese occasionally talks through clenched teeth? Precious little of it is anything like Fawlty Towers at all; rather, it’s just an excuse for Yarwood to do his own material in a slightly different setting.
Nice to see Ballard Berkeley and Renee Roberts, though.2
“Lucky Old Bin, I Say”
What is the most famous ending to an episode of Fawlty Towers? Surely “Gourmet Night” has to be up there, first broadcast on the 17th October 1975.
“Duck’s off, sorry.”
Great stuff, yes? Well, one of the delights with Fawlty Towers is hearing John Cleese endlessly tear apart classic moments of the show on his DVD commentary. It always bugged me that Basil doesn’t quite put the lid of the dish down correctly in the above scene, and Cleese concurs:
“When I put the dish down I should have cleanly covered the trifle. Then I should have waited longer before I leaned down and peeped…”
On the famous “Duck’s off, sorry” line, he’s happier:
“And that’s all you need at that moment – it’s almost a dying fall ending, there’s not a big laugh, but it rounds it off nicely.”
Yet there’s a mystery about this particular ending, which I first touched on a couple of years ago. And Cleese unfortunately doesn’t tackle it in the DVD commentary at all. Sitting on Getty Images is this intriguing photo, taken by Don Smith for the Radio Times, during the afternoon dress rehearsal of the episode.1
What the bloody hell is our drunken chef Kurt doing there on the right, in Mrs Hall’s lap? At no point in the broadcast episode does he appear in that final scene. What’s going on?
Note that they clearly didn’t want to waste a real trifle during the dress rehearsal. ↩
Insults, Cups of Tea and Quips
Recently, we had some tradesmen round to our house to fit a new hob. Before they arrived, my partner decided to hide our newly-purchased copy of the complete Love Thy Neighbour DVD boxset. After all, they might think we were massive racists. Or even worse, start telling us that Enoch was right.
Now, I’m most certainly not the right person to mount a full-throated defence of the show, not least because parts of it don’t deserve a full-throated defence. But while watching it for an article recently, I have to admit that the series kept surprising me. Partly because, away from the racial slurs, how line-by-line funny it can be.
EDDIE: I’m not going to go where I’m not wanted.
JOAN: Well, if you kept to that, you’d never go anywhere.
But also: the show kept going to areas that I didn’t quite expect. The fourth episode of Series 11 does a great parallel story between the men striking at work and the women striking at home, which is far more intelligent politically than most of the racial material. The first episode of Series 2, after opening with the usual sitcom shenanigans, contains a startling moment where Barbie, the black neighbour, bawls her eyes out at Eddie calling the police on her housewarming party. A scene which is not played for laughs in any way.
Oh, and the second episode of that series? I could have guessed that Eddie would be convinced to make a fool of himself by his black neighbour. I could have guessed this might involve a stupid fake voodoo dance around a tree at midnight. I might even have guessed that this dance would be naked. What I wouldn’t have guessed is that Jack Smethurst would fully commit to the bit, and we would get lots of luxuriant shots of his bare arse. All shot in a way where it’s very clear that it’s him, and not a stand-in.
For many, the language alone will render the series forever unwatchable. I won’t argue those people are wrong, and I certainly won’t argue that anybody reading this article is obligated to give it a go. But I will say that I went into the show expecting to watch the bare minimum for research purposes… and instead, I found far more of interest than I expected.
To be honest, that’s the main thing I want out of television these days.
Fifth on DVD order. ↩


