It is January 1974. Britain is a nation in crisis. On the first of the month, the doomed Heath government introduces the notorious ‘Three-Day Week’ as a fuel-saving measure during the ongoing industrial action by the miners’ union, orchestrated by Arthur Scargill. You could hardly turn on the TV news without being subjected to his combover and haranguing anti-government diatribes. The situation would reach crisis point on 7 February when Heath, in frustration, called a General Election to settle the issue of who governed the country: his administration or Scargill’s union. The voters decided – but only just – in favour of the latter. It would take a further election in October to settle the resulting electoral stalemate and deliver a minority government into the hands of Harold Wilson.
Aged twelve, I took scant interest in such affairs of state, but it was hard not to be aware of what was going on. Our dad was affected by the Three-Day Week, and I can remember hearing it being discussed on the Today programme playing in my friend’s dad’s car as he drove us to school. On television, we were subjected to a campaign of government advertising encouraging us all to ‘Switch Off Something’. I’ve seen it stated – incorrectly – that the SOS TV campaign was never actually broadcast (like the infamous Protect and Survive films of a decade later). Yet I can well remember those commercials, voiced by John Paul late of the BBC’s Doomwatch (a highly apposite choice).
The miners’ industrial action had served to exacerbate an already critical energy situation brought about by an oil crisis in the Middle East: OPEC had imposed an embargo on those nations, including Britain, that had supported Israel in the Yom Kippur war of October 1973, and fuel supplies were running critically low in Europe and America. Here in Britain, Petrol coupons were printed, but the government stopped short of actually issuing them. Meanwhile, drivers queued up at forecourts as supplies dwindled, and arrived home to find their homes blacked out by power cuts.
In the small street where my family lived, however, blackouts were rare. We’d see the lights go out in the houses at the back of us, but our supply remained switched on: a handy quirk of being on the same circuit that served Sutton Coldfield’s Good Hope Hospital. A few mean-minded cirizens complained about this to no avail. The result was that our 1970s experience was slightly less unpleasant than one sees depicted in the many TV documentaries covering the era. The emergency supply of candles that our mum bought around this time was still extant when I cleared the house in 2021. And here they are.
Being immune from power cuts meant that my television viewing went uninterrupted, (although we were still watching in black and white), and my diary gives a snapshot of what I saw this week in January 1974 (and little else, it has to be said). Letts’ Schoolboys’ Diary was a stocking filler at Christmas, and its small pages offered little room for budding Adrian Moles. Fortunately, I was not thus inclined, and my entries are laconic to say the least: ‘UFO, SG60’ reads the entry for Sunday January 13, where we begin our look back across five decades.
Gerry Anderson’s UFO had begun a repeat run on Sunday lunchtimes the previous week, so it’s safe to say that today’s episode would have been Exposed, introducing James-Bond-who-never-was Michael Billington, in the first of several toupées essaying the role of Colonel Foster. ‘SG60’, meanwhile, was shorthand for the Sold Gold 60, Tom Browne’s weekly chart rundown which was a Sunday evening ritual, often accompanied by sardines on toast.
And what, you may ask, was troubling the pop charts in this week of national crisis? Slade’s Merry Xmas Everybody had slipped down to number three, and wasn’t getting played any longer. Well, after all, like the proverbial puppy, it was only for Christmas… meanwhile, Wizzard’s own Christmas hit had plummeted twelve places to number 16. The number one spot was currently occupied by the New Seekers’ forgettable ditty You Won’t Find Another Fool Like Me, which I’m sure was on constant rotation on Ted Heath’s jukebox, certainly if Mike Yarwood had anything to do with it. On the way up the chart we find Cozy Powell’s instrumental hit Dance With the Devil at number four (most of its melody was ‘recycled’ from Jimi Hendrix’s Third Rock From the Sun), while Netherland rockers Golden Earring’s one-hit wonder Radar Love had gone up two places to number seven. Mud’s glam floor-filler Tiger Feet was new in at number ten, while a particular favourite of my brother and myself, Pool Hall Richard, had slipped down to number 8 for Rod Stewart and the Faces. Three of the Beatles were in the Top 50: Macca’s Wings had dropped down to 41 with Helen Wheels, while John’s boring effort Mind Games stood five rungs further down, having managed a peak of only 26. And right at the bottom, at number 50, we find Ringo’s amiable Photograph – co-written with George Harrison – which had peaked at number 8 in the autumn.
Back on television, Mondays saw us staying loyal to Blue Peter, though I was nearing the end of my time as a viewer. The line-up of presenters was currently Noakes, Purvis and Lesley Judd. I don’t believe I watched the programme that followed at 5.15, an adaptation of the splendid children’s novel Tom’s Midnight Garden, but if I had a time machine I’d probably put this right. You could tell it was the 1970s because just before the news we had a visit from trippy cartoon characters Crystal Tipps and Alistair. And that was it for Monday’s children’s viewing. I’m sure I watched Nationwide after tea, and maybe even Young Scientists of the Year at 6.45. I definitely didn't bother with Z Cars, which followed at ten past seven: the programme had reverted to a fifty-minute format after seven years in a twice weekly 25-minute slot, during which time the once hard-hitting police procedural had become bogged down in dreary soap-style storylines. It had even lost its classic theme, emasculated by a ‘groovy’ 1970s makeover. Monday evening’s must-see telly was Colditz, just two weeks into its second series. This week, Flight Lt. Carter (David McCallum) devised a plan to hide two British officers to give the false impression of their having escaped – the logic being that they wouldn’t be missed when a real escape took place. I watched this episode just last night. The directorial style of Colditz was standard for all videotaped drama of the era and indeed, even more austere than was usually the case. The incarceration storyline lent itself to an entirely studio-bound production, but the real surprise here is the total lack of music other than the main theme and the odd diegetic item. Where today’s directors lazily strip music across every millisecond of the action, Colditz succeeded entirely on the merits of its cast, writers and directors. Special mention must be made of the late David McCallum, who brought a fierce intensity to his performance as Carter. You have to pinch yourself to remember that this is the same actor who’d been Ilya Kuryakiun in The Man from UNCLE.
Tuesday’s children’s line-up included Scooby-Doo – which I’d given up on quite some time ago – and Vision On, which I also ignored. The evening’s programmes kicked off with A Question of Sport – not a favourite of mine as I knew nothing about the subject – before an Abbott and Costello movie. It’s hard to convey how singularly unfunny I find Abbott and Costello, now as then, and I’m certain I didn’t bother with their 1942 effort Pardon My Sarong. Even the title fails to raise a smile. Fortunately, things got a lot better at 8.30 with Whatever Happened to the Likely Lads. Episode three of series two, going out tonight for the first time, contrasted the lifestyles of Terry – stay at home slob – and Bob, the industrious worker. Beyond the Nine O’Clock News lurked a Tuesday’s Documentary about oil exploration in the Shetland Isles, the kind of programme that Bernard Cribbins might demand to watch when staying at Fawlty Towers. We didn’t bother with that particular televisual feast...
You’ll notice we’ve been on BBC1 for most of the week so far, but Wednesday evening saw us over on ITV where The World at War was about halfway through its 26-episode run. It’s hard to mention The World at War without using the word ‘landmark’ in the same sentence, so there you go. This week’s episode, Red Star, examined conditions in the Soviet Union between 1941 and 1943. It was preceded at 8.30 by Man About the House, an incongrous pairing if ever there was one. Tonight’s episode, Colour Me Yellow, was the second episode in the second series. I’m not sure if I watched it – the diary says nothing. I don’t think the coincidence of two series with coloured episode titles is worth mentioning, so I won’t…
Thursday saw us back with BBC1 for Top of the Pops and It Aint Half Hot Mum. TOTP was introduced this week by the well-known airbrushed-from-history presenter with a face like a halloween lantern. Amongst the acts featured were Andy Williams, miming to his hit Solitaire; Suzi Quatro, prancing around in Devil Gate Drive; The Sweet ripping it up with their Teenage Rampage; and Mud stomping up to number one with Tiger Feet.
As if you-know-who wasn’t enough to offend modern sensibilities, TOTP was followed by It Aint Half Hot Mum, featuring Michael Bates in blackface. I certainly watched this – the diary says so – and found it funny at the time, not so much for Bates as for Windsor Davies who always raised a smile with his endless bellowing ‘shut up!’ and insistence that the concert party was just ‘a bunch of poofs’. Different times, indeed.
Friday teatime saw the old black and white set switched back to ITV where we caught a repeat run of Timeslip (ironically missing the last chance to see the show in colour before the tapes were wiped), followed by The Flintstones. Bedrock’s finest had become a Friday teatime staple a year or so earlier, and despite the series hailing from the early 60s, we were watching Fred, Barney and co for the first time. I was so taken with the characters that I pained two huge watercolour portraits of Fred and Barney onto a piece of hardboard originally intended for an abandoned model railway. It stood in the corner of my bedroom for years.
I’d become a fan of Jeff Rawle’s Billy Liar back in the autumn – inevitably, I identified with his daydreamy personality – and I’m sure I was still watching when he showed up at 8.30 on ITV in the last of the present series. Billy Fisher was hardly an ideal role model for life, but it’s a bit too late to do anything about that now… Following his escapade on ITV, we switched back sharpish to BBC1 to avoid exposure to the horror of Within These Walls. Fortunately, auntie had a treat in store beyond the Nine O’Clock news in the form of Cricklewood’s intrepid trio, The Goodies, with a repeat of the episode Superstar, promising to lift the lid on the pop scene. Within the year, the trio would be part of the scene themselves with their own chart singles Inbetweenies and The Funky Gibbon.
Rounding off the week in my diary, on Saturday 19 January, we find the second episode of one of Dr. Who’s less successful serials, Invasion of the Dinosaurs. Rubber monsters notwithstanding, the story dragged on for weeks, including a sequence involving a group of people who thought they were in a spaceship but were actually in a warehouse in London. Which, as a description, pretty well nails 70s Who to a ‘T’. The Doctor and his chums led us nicely into Saturday evening on BBC1, where we find The Generation Game, followed by Dixon of Dock Green. Mid-evening variety came courtesy of Cilla, who was elbowed out of the way at 8.20 by Chief Ironside. The inevitable Match of the Day rounded off proceedings at 9.25 but was roundly ignored in our house. If that seems unusually early for MOTD, bear in mind that broadcasting closed down at 10.30 in line with the national crisis. Assuming you were able to tune in at all.
As we’ve seen, ITV scarcely got a look in this week. In retrospect, that’s probably no bad thing given the cover star of this week’s TVTimes whose headline reads ‘The Frantic Art of Rolf Harris’. Fifty years on, that could well be subject to misinterpretation. In fact, the single most interesting aspect of the week’s edition is the inclusion of the following caveat on the listings pages: ‘Owing to Government measures in support of the economy, programmes scheduled for transmission may be subject to late changes. Watch for screen announcements to this effect.’
Back in crisis-hit 1974 Britain, I’m sure there can’t have been many who wouldn’t have leapt at the chance to ride fifty years into the future in a time machine, and get away from it all. They’d have had a shock in store. For all its black and white, fuel crisis, Switch-Off-Something, Jimi-Savile-on-the-telly brutalist-concrete instant-mash awfulness, I’d still take 1974 in preference to where we are now. So if you happen to see a time machine with seats available, let me know...
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