Gone to the Dogs

The Story of Britain’s 14th Most Successful Sit-Com

Simon Gary

INTRODUCTION

Gone to the Dogs ran for five series, between 1973 and 1977. At its peak, the 1975 Christmas Special drew an incredible twenty-one million viewers, a number unheard of in today’s multi-media age. It spawned a plethora of much-loved catchphrases and characters, which still resonate – with those of a certain age, at least – to this very day.

The book you are about to read tells the unexpurgated story of this most incredible show, from the perspectives of those who were actually there: the cast and the writers. The book, for the most part, is compiled from archived transcripts of taped interviews, which my late uncle, Eric Whisky, carried out with members of the cast, in the years following the show’s end. I have also been fortunate enough, personally, to obtain first-hand accounts from the few cast members and writers still alive, when I took up the mantle in 2015.

For reasons unknown to me, poor Uncle Eric never realized his ambition of writing this book, and my taking the reins and completing the task serve as my tribute to him. I have done all I can to organize these transcripts into some semblance of chronological order, in respect of events at the time to which they refer, as well as doing my very best to fill any gaps my uncle may have unwittingly left in this timeline, from my own present-day enquiries.

This has very much been a labour of love. I am neither a writer or a journalist, but merely a fan, very much as my beloved uncle was, so you will have to forgive me where the prose is less than perfect – I have presented it very much in the same form in which it was received.

To great Uncle Eric.

May this book give you as much celestial joy as it gives me Earthly royalties.

THE GONE TO THE DOGS FAMILY:

WRITERS:

HARRY MUNROE

RAY SPATCHCOCK

PRODUCER:

LES DAINTY

CAST:

CORNELIUS THRYKE: Arthur Chataway (general manager)

JIMMY FOX: Bill Edwards (track supervisor)

LEIGHTON HUGHES: Alun Rhys (bar manager)

VIOLET FITZGIBBON: Mrs. Denning (restaurant manager)

KATHY FIELDS: Maureen Jones (restaurant worker)

KENNETH BURLINGTON: Bob Popley (general hand)

VALENTINA THORPEWORTH: Jenny Smith (general hand)

RAY SPATCHCOCK

(writer – Gone to the Dogs)

Archive transcript.

Everything happened so fast with Gone to the Dogs, but I still have fond recollections of it all.

It was initially commissioned by Dickie Valentine, after a meeting in a Pimlico tearoom, in early 1973 (though, if you ask Harry, he will swear blind it was Tooting). The encounter with Dickie was made much easier by the fact that we had already penned two shows for television by this time, but neither Many a Mickle Makes a Muckle or Teabagging (which was set in a tea-bag factory) enjoyed the same enduring success of Dogs. That said, I am very thankful to those shows, because they helped us learn our craft which, in turn, we were able to put to good use on Dogs. If that is the one piece of work for which “Spatchcock and Munroe” are remembered… well, that wouldn’t be such a bad legacy, would it?

The show went to air in November of that same year, so you can see that there wasn’t much time to get the scripts together, let alone a cast, crew, studio and set. Still, things worked differently back then – there were none of the painstaking production values and reels of retakes; things had to be right, pretty much from the off.

I remember seeing some of the early rushes, with Harry and the producer, Les Dainty. We were really pleased with them and, when we shared them with everybody, it gave the whole company a lift; from that moment we came together, like a family – that was something we never really lost, despite the ups and downs. Deep down, I think that is why I, and perhaps even the British public, have such a fondness for our dear, dear old show.

Come, let me show you some things you might like. Follow me, through to the study – just through here. In these boxes are copies of all the scripts. A few are signed by myself, Harry and the cast – mainly those episodes which started or ended a series – and some of the frontispieces are delightfully annotated, by the actors to which they belonged.

But, there is another keepsake, which was gifted to me at the end of our run – do you see it? There, in the corner. You’re right, yes: it’s the old clocking station we had on the set. You must be quite a fan to spot that, Sir! It didn’t get used in many scenes, but it was always in the background. I think one of the designers got it from a factory that was throwing it out, but it still all works. We went and had all the time-cards made up – can you see? We even had individual payroll numbers put on them. Everyone on set had a time-card: there’s mine… there’s Harry’s… that one is Les’s. We needed a few more in there, to make up the numbers – one wag even put one for the prime minister in there. I believe even the Chelsea back-four had cards, at one time. Look, here’s mine. Go on, slip it in there and punch me in it’s like reporting back for duty, all over again. Sometimes, I come in here and look at it – maybe run my hands over the bronzing mahogany. But, I’ve had my joy from this piece of memorabilia now: the memories are up here, rather than locked in this piece – it’s time for it to move on and find a new home, to keep the spirit of the show alive. I think it would be nice for you to have it, when the book is finished.

HARRY MUNROE

(writer – Gone to the Dogs)

Archive transcript.

I first met the young Ray Spatchcock when we were both assigned to the Second Infantry Division, as part of the Fourteenth Army, in 1944. We were stationed in India.

Ray, as a private, arrived in my troop – in which I was a lance bombardier – so I sort of took him under my wing. We had both been seconded to the concert party, to help with the vital work there, so it was not long before we began collaborating on the odd skit. I immediately noticed something in Ray: a sort of raw quality, which I felt I could mould, nurture and work with. Soon, we began writing bits on any scrap of paper we could find, when we were off watch together. Naturally, as the older man, and higher ranking, it fell to me to take some of the larger roles in divisional productions, but I always found something for Ray, if I could, and I think he was grateful.

I think our finest moment was a show in Lucknow, in April ‘44, just before we travelled up to Burma. Myself and Ray had a number of self-penned skits in the show, all of which went down a storm, particularly a gentle little parody we did, called The Generals. Ray’s writing was starting to show signs of making muster and he genuinely did chip in with some funny lines, with my guidance.

Of course, the war couldn’t go on forever, so eventually I arrived back in London. I had kept the material myself and Ray had produced and, through a few contacts, managed to get myself a meeting with Ernie Palmaster, who was something of a big fish in radio, at the time. I showed him my stuff, along with a few of the bits I’d written with Ray, and straight away we were invited to submit pieces for shows such as Davey Jangle’s Variety Night, Hello Missus, Who Are You? and the ever-popular You’d Laugh to See a Pudding Crawl. Soon, we were recognized names – the work just started to pour in from there.

Gone to the Dogs was commissioned by our old friend Dickie Valentine, during a meeting in… I think it was Tooting. He didn’t give us long to get the final scripts together, but that wasn’t a problem, as Ray and I had been kicking around the idea of doing something set in a greyhound stadium, ever since Teabagging. I’d always taken the precaution of keeping a scrapbook of characters, so we pretty much had the “Arthur Chataway” persona worked out, we had just never had the right vehicle for him. My foresight was such a blessing, as we were able to build the show around Arthur, and the first episodes came quite freely.

We did all of the writing in a dingy office, above a launderette in Soho. I had been keen to find offices some years earlier, to really force Ray and I to see it as a job. It wasn’t the most salubrious of backdrops, what with the interminable squeaking from next door and the constant vibration from below. Ray, being quicker than me, did the typing, as I invariably pushed a bucket around the bare boards, to catch the drips – that was how we worked. We never really got around to moving out, and were still there when they pulled the building down, in 1979.

CORNELIUS THRYKE

(Arthur Chataway)

Archive transcript.

Marjory – old, dependable Marjory – had the scripts brought round by a young errand-boy, of somewhat questionable character, who thrust them into my hand, alongside a spidery note, which read: “Read for Arthur”.

You see, I had just finished a run of The Merry Wives of Windsor, at the New Theatre, Bridlington, during which time my Mister Ford had come in for many pages – a-ha – of praise. Marjory, noting that the piece was a comedy, thought I had turned a new corner in my career, so had the boy hotfoot it across with the scripts which, I have to say, at the time I took in and completely forgot about.

You see, I was no comedy actor: I was one of the original band of British film stars, and after the cessation of hostilities, I practically lived in a trailer, at Ealing. It felt like I was being credited with a different film every week: The Butterfly Gang (1948), Major Orpington Goes to Court-Martial (1949), Farewell to Thrasher (1949); The Gentleman Burglars (1950), Operation Sea Dog (1951), The Gentleman Burglars Strike Again (1952); Six Feet Under (1954); Gone Thrice Before Sunset (1957)… I was playing a different hero or officer almost every day. I was so rarely out of uniform, I began to feel like I was back amongst my commissioned colleagues, in the army.

Ah, yes, those were certainly halcyon days!

But, as I say… (would you like a little drop in your tea?) But, as I say, the scripts were brought around by boy. Quite the sea change, as it were: the manuscript for M is for Microfilm (1960) was hand-driven round (is that a phrase?), in a shiny and new-fangled motor-car, because I was a star, you see: I had worked with them all, and they had all worked with me. I shall tell you something for nothing: many were the evening that I could barely hang around outside any West End picture-house, for much more than half an hour, without eventually being recognized and badgered for an autographed photo, or some such cheaply-bought memento. Barely was there the day.

Yet, here I was – admittedly, in the twilight of my career – being offered a role in something called a “television situation comedy”. By this time, I was turning down far more work than I was taking on, which was partially the source of Marjory’s then-current zeal. You see, more through habit and pity, I had been the mainstay of her income for some twenty-five years, so, naturally, the easier I took things, the more the tonic balance of her G-and-Ts became something less than palatable.

“Read for Arthur”. I did, more or less, intend to do so, but I was just about to pop off to my sister’s in Eastbourne, for a bit of R-and-R, so it was fully a fortnight before I rediscovered the scripts, under my pipe and some old newspapers. I sat, jarred by a hastening phone call from Marjory and, with a pot of good tea and a Battenberg, began to digest what had been placed before me.

I have to say – well, I have to say – I was jolly well surprised: the writing was competent and, as I read all the parts, I could see that the role of Arthur was something I could imagine myself undertaking, and growing as my own. I pencilled in a few tweaks, here and there, made some notes in the margin and, by the time the afternoon was fading, felt I could work alongside Spatchcock and Munroe. I knew I would eventually accept the part.

KENNETH BURLINGTON

(Bob Popley)

Archive transcript.

By the time the seventies rolled round, I was still at the periphery of this acting lark – you know what I mean? In fact – and, I’ll be honest with you – I was more or less on the verge of packing it all in.

I married Linda in 1970. We’d been childhood sweethearts from when we were both so-high. Beautiful, she was – in fact, she still is – with all those cascades of long, blonde hair and those big, blue eyes. And, a figure to die for! In fact I nearly did, many a time! Everyone in the parish knew that me and Linda were an item – we, sort of, always had been – but it didn’t stop all the local lads from trying their luck. I can’t say I could blame them: I would have done, too, in their boots. But, I had to stand my ground and defend her honour, didn’t I? Got me into a few scrapes, I can tell you, but the coppers always looked upon me with grace – they were a good bunch, really.

Like I say, I really was on the verge of giving up. I’d always picked up the odd bits, here and there, but nothing lasting, or anything which looked like it might lead somewhere. The highlight of my career had been the occasional play, or an advert for mints, so my portfolio was pretty threadbare. As I mentioned, I married Linda in 1970, and she fell pregnant early in ‘73, with our first, Christopher. The acting wasn’t really pulling in the folding, so I decided I had to go back to the sites – I was a chippy by trade, you see, and it really wasn’t difficult to find a bit of work: there was stuff shooting up everywhere. It didn’t take long before a couple of old muckers had got me in on a job near them, with the promise of decent sausage, for the foreseeable future.

First day, I was up early and walking along the road to the site, when I passed the newsagent’s – Mr. Hornchurch – and, more through force of habit, I went inside. Even before the bell had stopped tinkling, old Alan had slapped my copy of Actor’s Gazette onto his inky, old counter. We had this ritual – comical, it was: he used to lead with: “Hello there, Kenny. Got any acting work on this week?” At which point, I would say no, and he would snort with derision, and give me ever-more complicated directions to the labour exchange. Salt of the Earth, old Alan Hornchurch… although, they do say he eventually ran off with one of his former paper-girls. Well, on this morning it was no different and I paid for the paper: I didn’t have the heart to cancel it – you know what I mean? It was still my little link to the old days: you know, when young Kenny Burlington was going to be a successful actor. I promised Linda I would cancel it – as every penny was needed with a little ‘un on the way – but I figured one last issue wouldn’t hurt; I’d cancel it on the way home, instead.

Well it was nine o’clock tea-break, down at the site, and I was with the other lads, milling around the urn, getting myself a brew. There were a few faces I knew, you know, from previous jobs, and around and abouts, but it was mainly new lads I had never met before. Well, one of them clocks the paper sticking out the top of my satchel, and a few comments were made – nothing I hadn’t heard before: just the odd lad calling me a “Nancy-boy”, and all that; just banter, really.

Well, this voice booms out: “An iron? You should see this guy’s missus: she’d put any of yours to shame!”

Cor! I recognized that voice: it was none other than Declan O’Malley, one of the toughest, hardest working men I ever did see. The whole place piped down as he strolled over – a man-mountain, he was. “Now, you leave my good friend Kenny alone. He has got something, this lad – something that sets him apart from the likes of you and I. There’ll be no lifetime of hard toil for this man: he’s going to be a star! Now, Kenny, get me a tea and hand me that paper: we’re going to find you a proper job!”

And, that’s exactly what he did. If it hadn’t been for Declan, I probably would never have auditioned for Gone to the Dogs. For a good while, I felt like I owed him the world. In a perverse way, life gave me the opportunity to pay him back a little, when we last met… here in prison.

KATHY FIELDS

(Maureen Jones)

Interview with myself, 2015.

Oh, darling, I should so adore to talk to you about Gone to the Dogs. Do, do come in!

It was such a thrill for a girl to do, particularly as I was already twenty-six and had been cast as a young thing of nineteen! Do you think I could play her still? Do you? Oh, do say yes, darling – it would be so utterly naughty and delicious of you!

I suppose, for me, it all did start when I was eighteen or nineteen. Like many a naive, yet starstruck, girl, I headed to the bright lights of London, to make my fortune. After a number of small jobs in cafés, and the like, I managed to get myself a situation as a hostess, at Terry Carmichael’s Shilly-Shally Club. It was such a happening place to be: most nights you could not move for actors, footballers, boxers, gangsters or satirists – that was the group Cliff Clifton belonged to. There were so many of them, they had to become ever more obscure, to keep ahead of the pack, but Cliff… well, Cliff was the leader of them all.

He had his own television programme – Seven Days is a Long Time – which went out live on a Saturday night, and he always came in for the after-party. Before long, he was in most evenings, and often stayed on until the small hours, after everybody else had gone home – he would always come and talk to me. After a week or two, I was offered the odd walk-on part in some of his marvellous skits and, as his attentions increased, so did my roles: before long, I was quite well known. It would be a lie to say that I wasn’t flattered, because I was: Cliff was an incredibly handsome man and his power was certainly an aphrodisiac.

We were wed in 1966, after a whirlwind romance, as was the fashion at the time. Naturally, as the decade departed, our marriage was no longer en vogue, and it seemed sensible to divorce. We were never what you might call “publicly” married, as it was not widely known outside our own, exclusive circle. Cliff felt it was better for his career if he was seen to be available, and he pursued the subterfuge by being photographed with an ever-increasing number of young things on his arm. Professionally, I was forbade from using my married name, which was understandable, as I had made my acting bow under the name “Fields”, so that is how I remained.

Behind closed doors, however, it was such a different story: we were a real team in society. We threw the most delicious parties, at Cliff’s country pile, and I delighted at playing the hostess. All the names were there – all the bright, the new and the exciting of the nouveau British set. It was such a wonderful, wonderful time. One of the occasional visitors was Harry Munroe (never Ray – I didn’t meet him until later; just Harry) – I always seemed to catch his eye, as I mingled, serving drinks to our guests.

Oh, I do laugh! He must’ve been one of the unluckiest men I ever knew, because whenever he would call by the house to see Cliff, he would always find him to be out! Every single time, darling!

JIMMY FOX

(Bill Edwards)

Archive transcript.

A lot of people said I killed that show, but I never did.

Things could have been so different, but I think, all in all, it came too late for me: I was too set in my ways and didn’t know how to deal with it all. For nigh on twenty-five years I had slogged up and down the country with my act (for readers who may not know, I was a stand-up comedian, and a bloody good one, too), and Gone to the Dogs was the easiest money I ever made.

That’s why some of them got right up my nose. Take that Leighton Hughes, for example: he was always moaning about the hours, or the food, or the lighting, or whatever it were – what a namby-pamby! I pulled him aside one evening and gave it to him straight – I said: “You try playing to a roomful of half-pissed miners at eleven o’clock at night, lad – now, that’s graft, and don’t you forget it! So, get out there and do your bloody scene, and do it right!” I think he respected me for it – got the lines flush, true enough.

That’s why I liked poor Kenny: at least he had done a bit of graft. Not like Cornelius – a hack plodder, if ever there was one. I could respect a man that had worked and did his bit without grumbling. If anyone had the right to grumble, it was me: twenty-five years of playing flea-pits, coming on after some Doris, with her snake, or a third-rate magician – I had nothing to show for it.

Then, along came this show and wallop! In no time I was a household name, just for repeating someone else’s words! It was Les Dainty, the producer, that got me the job. We were old mates, from years back, when he used to tell the odd gag on the variety circuit. I can tell you some stories about old Les, and the way he used to pay for his Blackpool digs, if he were short!

To be truthful, I’m not all negative about it: I have to give thanks for what Dogs gave me. We were only filming for a fraction of the year, so I still did my act, even after it finished. It was quite early on that I began to see my audience changing, and my agent started to book venues that I had never played before. But, they weren’t my sort of punters: they’d come to see the character, Bill Edwards – which belonged to Harry and Ray – not Jimmy Fox… not me. Almost without realizing, I began to push against it: I started to do a lot more blue. For years I’d been a good, but unsung, circuit comic – now, I was flipping front page news! “Three Faint at Fox!” – that was my favourite headline. It wouldn’t have been so funny, but one of them was a fella! It became like a snowball: I couldn’t control it. Not even all those shenanigans calmed it down – if anything, they made it worse. My audience was getting younger and younger and, apparently, I now had what they call a “cult following” – don’t ask me what it means: to this day, I don’t know. All I will say is it made money – enough to get me a little villa to retire to, which, back before the seventies, was beyond my wildest dreams.

So, what do I think about the show? I have this strange, strange ambivalence. It gave me so much, but I never really felt I earnt it. Do you understand? It has all felt rather fortuitous – like winning the pools – and it’s left me restless. The villa and the little boat should be in Billy Edwards’s name, not mine. Maybe, on some level, that’s why I did what I did. But, in our heart of hearts, we all knew it was ending – that’s what all careers do.

I used to have this morbid fear of doddering up on stage, well into my eighties – some knock-kneed octogenarian, with nothing but the old, old jokes that nobody wants to hear. But, at least I can retire now, and finally get some sun.

LEIGHTON HUGHES

(Alun Rhys)

Interview with myself, 2015.

Many of my constituents still ask me about the show, such is its enduring appeal. What is very clear is that it is still held in very great affection. I have to tread with great care during my quarterly surgeries, to prevent them from becoming trails of wonderful reminiscence, over the cast and the crew.

Only three of us survive now, so I am beginning to feel like an increasingly rare resource. I rarely see the other remaining cast members these days, which is sad. So, with that in mind, I think the time has long passed for somebody to document and commemorate this British institution – Ray and Harry would have, no doubt, been delighted. So, I would like to go on record, at this point in time – and, you can quote me on this – that I would be delighted to participate, in however small a way, to a book about Gone to the Dogs.

I say, I am sorry: what was your original question, again?

I was born between the hard coal seams of Fishguard, in the Land of our Fathers (is this the sort of thing you want?), to the working-class environs of an architect and a general practitioner. (No?)

Well… acting. Yes, well, I had always been into that, ever since my grandfather bought me my first pair of rugby boots. When I went to university, I became involved in various smokers and reviews, taking small parts here and there. I didn’t spend an awful lot of my time on it, however, as some did – I had other distractions: I was always heavily involved in the debating societies, where I truly cut my teeth, on the bigger issues of the day.

One of the revues which I orbited got a transfer to Merthyr Tydfil, and I spent a few weeks with it there, before it moved on. I put down a few roots in Merthyr and began to get acquainted with the regional political scene. I also joined the local rep, so, with a subsistence allowance from Mother and Father, on top of my small stipend, I began to make my way in the world.

It was whilst in Merthyr Rep that Ray Spatchcock first spotted me, as he told me, many years later. We were performing a couple of particularly lamentable farces and Ray – who I think had family in the area – caught a matinee, one rain-swept morning. Who would have thought that this honourable member would become a star of one of his shows, not so many years later?

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

At this point, in order to gain a release from her management team, for her to participate, I am obliged to introduce the next contributor in the following manner: she is, quite simply, one of the most sought-after celebrities on British television, and one of our country’s most loved agony aunts, celebrity chefs and novelists. Her books – Meals to Keep from the Kids, Nano-meals and Hot Lunch – and her novels – Suspender Queen, S and Emma, Thigh Bootsand Heels and Planck’s Cosmological Constant for the Layman – are available from all good stockists.

She is, of course, the woman who brought Jenny Smith to life; she is Valentina Thorpeworth.

VALENTINA THORPEWORTH

(Jenny Smith)

Interview with myself, 2015.

It’s not that I do not want to talk about the past – no, it can be fun to reminisce – it’s just that that is not who I am now, flower.

I find that to be one of the recurring themes in my post-bag: people just cannot move on – they repeat the same patterns again and again, and they are surprised when nothing changes. I moved on. I’ve worked hard to become recognized as an author, a welfare support columnist and a chef – these are the things that say who Valentina Thorpeworth is. My wish is to share joy through words, release my innate desire to care for others and celebrate my love of good food, which the whole family can sit down and enjoy, around the table – let’s rebuild this country by rebuilding the family, and let’s do it by caring for each other and eating reasonably priced meals, which can be prepared in a matter of minutes.

You see, flower, I am a world away from the character I played: young Jenny Smith. She is no longer a relevant part of my life and I am glad to say that there are people who love me, in all forms of life, who are wholly unaware that I played her – she doesn’t even get a mention on the sleeve notes of my novels, anymore. Some sub-editor mentioned her on the first one – Suspender Queen – and, whilst that work is still in print, the “About the Author” section has long since been re-written.

That is why, flower, I could not – really not – understand all the vitriol I came in for, when I missed some of the funerals. Journalists wrote about me “snubbing” Ray and Harry, for example. I found the whole thing very hurtful and said as much, during the libel case. After the show stopped, I didn’t really speak to any of the cast – Leighton Hughes apart – so why, twenty years later, would I go to their funerals? Do you know anyone you worked with twenty years ago?

I will talk to you about Gone to the Dogs though, flower. My management team says you are looking to get the real story. Is that right? Good – then, the real story you shall have.

To a certain extent, I am grateful to it, because it gave me the focus to ask questions about myself. It wasn’t all that many episodes in, when I began to see it for what it was: exploitative – plain and simple. My character was purely there to provide a bit of titillation: to flash a bit of leg or bosom, when whichever ridiculous costume I was wearing that week inevitably fell apart. I didn’t have any funny lines – Ray and Harry gave those to the male actors, principally. The whole country loved Kenneth Burlington, for his so-called “boyish wit”, and look what happened to him! But, this was a different age – this was the seventies – and Spatchcock and Munroe were lumbering comedy dinosaurs; theirs was a humour which has no place in today’s society. Things change. Jimmy Fox, for all his misogyny and wearisome antics, wouldn’t have been vilified today, as he was then – he would have just been seen as irrelevant, and would have quietly fallen off the map.

But, flower, I’m afraid it is going to have to be fleeting today: I have to be in Mayfair, to judge a sushi competition, by three; make an appointment, through my executive assistant, for another interview. You have her number? Perfect. I’ll leave you to write up your notes – you won’t forget to mention my books, will you?

VIOLET FITZGIBBON

(Mrs. Denning)

Archive transcript.

No, thank you – not today. Maybe another time. No, thank you.