Boing! (Again...)

 

Sixty Years of the Magic Roundabout

An icon of children’s television has just turned 60, for it was in October 1965 when viewers young and old first took a spin on The Magic Roundabout. Created by French advertising executive Serge Danot and animated by his colleague Ivor Wood, Le Manège Enchanté had been a big hit on the ORTF network in 1964, but the BBC initially passed when offered the filmed series. The creators persisted, and following a reshuffle in the BBC children’s department, the series was duly accepted.

In its French incarnation, Le Manège Enchanté was a somewhat frantic five minutes of jabbering characters with eccentric voices. Pollux, a shaggy dog, was a comical English hound whose French was delivered with a very bad accent (anticipating the policeman of ‘Allo ‘Allo…) British viewers, however, would get to see something rather different. The task of providing English narration fell to actor Eric Thompson, who could neither read nor speak French. For the most part, he ignored the original scripts, and made up his own stories based on what he could see on screen. Thompson took the stories at a leisurely pace – his narration style, leaving just the right amount of space between the dialogue, was later perfectly imitated by Jasper Carrott’s memorable 1970s parody: “Hello Dougal… said Florence.”

ORFT had used the series to fill a five-minute gap before their evening news bulletin, and mindful of their success with this piece of innovative scheduling, the BBC did likewise. The corporation had, in fact, been trialling a ‘pre-news five minutes’ slot since September of 1965, filling it with episodes of Hergé’s Adventures of Tintin, prior to which the evening news had generally been preceded by programmes of twenty or twenty-five minutes duration. Tintin lasted just four weeks before his place in the schedule was handed over to the new arrival.

The first series of The Magic Roundabout had been filmed in black and white, and unlike the standalone stories that followed, took the form of a serial. Episode one  sees a magical jack-in-the-box called Zebedee delivered to forlorn Mr. Rusty, and promising that he will bring back the children to ride on his neglected roundabout https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LZlhnP8TBCY. Over the coming episodes, a quartet of children appeared, of whom only one, Florence, would go on to be a regular in the series. As yet, there was no sign of Dougal, Brian, Dylan or Ermintrude the cow; but once they made their appearance, the whole style and tone of the series would be transformed.

Thompson based Dougal’s character on the world-weary cynicism of Tony Hancock, rubbing up against the eternally jovial Brian Snail, and began to insert sly references into the dialogue, realising that a substantial adult audience was watching on the quiet. Dougal would occasionally refer to weatherman Bert Foord, whose bulletins invariably followed the daily visits to the Magic Garden. Some of the ‘adult’ references probably went over the heads of even older viewers: ‘I am a camera,’ declares Brian Snail in one episode (a camera tripod having been mounted on his shell), referencing the 1951 play by John Van Druten. It was almost post-modern…

Two Dougals are joined by Dylan, Mr. MacHenry, and Zebedee –
the small plastic figures were given away in packets of Kellogg's Ricicles circa 1969

The knowing tone of the scripts soon gave rise to an urban myth that has persisted to the present day, to the effect that the series was delivering a sly drug culture subtext. Dylan the sleepy, guitar playing rabbit was key to this ‘interpretation’; named after the most famous guitar-wielding folkie on Earth, he gave every impression of being stoned, while Dougal consumed huge quantities of sugar lumps, well known in counter cultural circles as a means to partake of LSD...

Whatever was going on, The Magic Roundabout was an immediate hit on BBC1. Its first series ran until Christmas 1965, and was repeated immediately. Not only was the series itself deemed a success, the BBC realised that the ‘five minutes before the news’ slot in the schedule had great potential. In the collective memory, it seems as if The Magic Roundabout was always on, and always in that same slot, but as we’ll see, this was by no means the case. A new, Hungarian cartoon series, Peter’s Adventures, took its place in March 1966. Totally forgotten today, this was a quirkily experimental cartoon with a wordless soundtrack of music and sound effects that depicted the surreal adventures of a small, round-headed boy, his sister Kati and their pet dachshund. Lasting for less than a month, it was replaced by further adventures of Tintin, which now annexed the pre-news slot for the forseeable future.

On Monday 3 October, The Magic Roundabout returned with a second series, filmed in colour, but broadcast in black and white (British viewers would not see it in colour until 1970). The slow, melancholic theme tune of the first series was given a jaunty makeover this time around, which would linger long in the memory. The first episode was entitled Florence Give Dougal a Shock: but it was viewers who were in for a shock, when, on Monday 17 October, and without any warning, the BBC moved the programme an hour earlier to 4.55, with an episode appropriately titled Dougal Finds Life Dull.

The scheduling reshuffle meant that, for the time being, there was no five minute, pre-news programme – even Junior Points of View had been migrated to the earlier time. Viewers were furious and complained to the BBC. The corporation had seemingly been unaware of the series’ crossover appeal between children and adults, but were quick to respond to the many complaints, and on Monday 28 November, The Magic Roundabout was returned to its beloved spot before the news.

Above (and top): a selection of the Magic Roundabout sweet cigarette cards, circa 1970

By this time, the series wasn’t just a success on television: it was being eagerly taken up by merchandisers, again taking the BBC entirely by surprise. A swift internal memo was circulated listing similar series with the potential for licensed character merchandising (intriguingly, Peter’s Adventures was amongst the titles listed). For Britain’s animators, the success of The Magic Roundabout must have come as a wake-up call. Here was a prime slot in the TV schedules, with the power to reach much wider audiences than were available for the lunchtime placement of Watch With Mother. Even so, it would be a few years before any home-grown productions appeared ahead of the evening news.

For the first six months of 1967, The Magic Roundabout remained unassailable in its prime early evening spot. Through July, August and September, Dougal, Florence and co. took a summer vacation, with the slot filled by the return of Tintin, a repeat run for Peter’s Adventures (never to be seen again), and another French animation, Little Joe in Beesburg, which has also been consigned to obscurity. On Monday 2 October, the same day as the beloved serial Belle and Sebastian made its British television debut, The Magic Roundabout was back. 

Over the coming years, the series maintained its popularity with children and adults alike, but faced increasing competition from other productions aiming for the same pre-news audience. One of the more popular rivals for viewers’ affections arrived in 1968 in the form of Hector’s House, a series of glove-puppet tales featuring the titular hound and his friends Zaza the cat and Kiki the frog.

By the late 60s, Ivor Wood had parted company with Serge Danot, and whilst The Magic Roundabout kept turning into the new decade, Wood returned to his native England, where his FilmFair company would produce series such as The Herbs and Paddington – the latter proving to be one of the last of the ‘classic’ pre-news animations when it debuted in 1976. Uprooted from The Herbs, Parsley the lion was given his own series of pre-news five minute adventures, debuting in 1970. 

One of two Magic Roundabout stories published in 1971

Magic Roundabout merchandise was appearing in earnest by 1967, with some very realistic soft toys of characters like Dougal and Brian Snail being available through toyshops. Dougal and Florence soon found their way onto (and into) packets of Kellogg's Ricicles, where a set of plastic figures was given away during 1969. The promotion was advertised on television using the original puppets, and with narration from Eric Thompson. A picture strip story appeared in the comic Playhour, and the series inevitably found its way into numerous annuals and picture books. Two French novels featuring Dougal were also given Eric Thompson’s customary treatment, although the laconic narrative style was rather less appealing in print than on screen. Merchandising on the series continued well into the 1970s with Corgi toys offering a range of Magic Roundabout vehicles from 1972, beginning with an open top Citroen (naturally!) fitted with plastic figures of Dougal, Brian and Dylan. A whole ‘Magic Roundabout Playground’ would later appear from the same manufacturer, and is now highly collectable.

Corgi toys' Magic Roundabout car, as featured in the company's 1972 catalogue

New episodes of The Magic Roundabout continued to air until 1977, with the series clocking up over 400 different instalments. The BBC showed it in repeats until 1985, by which time the early evening schedule looked very different and the famous ‘pre news five minute’ spot had disappeared forever. For the record, viewers’ last chance to see Dougal, Florence, Dylan and co in their original incarnation came on Christmas Eve, 1985 at 10.25am – although a solitary episode has been shown more recently on BBC4.

Latterly, a collection of episodes, claiming to be previously unseen (they probably weren’t), found their way onto Channel 4, with narration from Nigel Planer. Away from the confines of the small screen, the series had been developed into a feature-length movie, Dougal and the Blue Cat (1970), which presented a very different asethetic from the colourful minimalism of the TV episodes, and has a darker, surreal quality. Much later, a CGI movie revived the format in 2005, and there is talk online (yet no sign so far) of a new reboot for the series. This is all very well, but rather misses the point that it was the asethetic of real world stop-motion animation that gave the original its charm, alongside which CGI, however well meaning and expensively realised, simply looks shiny and devoid of personality.

For creator Serge Danot, The Magic Roundabout was a career highlight he would never equal. A new animated series failed to find favour with viewers in France and was never taken up by the BBC. He died in 1990. For Eric Thompson, whose witty scripts and charming narration accounted for much of the series’ enduring popularity, ‘time for bed’ came in 1982, at the age of just 53.

The Magic Roundabout belongs to an era when television was the all-powerful mass media influencer, capable of transforming a modest, low-key animated film series into a cult phenomenon. Nobody set out to make it that way – it simply happened, by the happy accident of being the right programme, reaching the right audience at the right time. 

In a future post, I’ll look at the whole phenomenon of the BBC's ‘five minutes before the news’ spot in greater detail.

Thunderbird Sixty – part 3

 

3: End of the Road

By Christmas of 1967, Thunderbirds was last year’s news. The strip in TV21, now given an insane slant by writer Scott Goodall, would endure even beyond the comic’s demise in 1969, but on television it had, for the moment, run its course. For young viewers like me, it was Captain Scarlet all the way, and the new series meant a new range of toys in the shops. The first of these had appeared by Christmas, in the form of a nicely realised friction-drive model of the Angel Interceptor aircraft. TV21 promoted the new toys in a series of half page black and white ads, and it’s interesting to note how ‘The Angels’ were marketed as a separate entity from Captain Scarlet, with their own logo. Even so, the marketing campaign was small beer compared with the full colour advertisements that had helped to sell the range of Thunderbirds toys.

But we weren’t done with Thunderbirds just yet. The Andersons still had one more shot left in their locker. Stung by the disappointing response to the first feature film, they somehow convinced United Artists to do it all over again, and thus it was that, in July 1968, Thunderbird Six limped its way into the cinemas. The phenomenon of the ‘summer blockbuster’ was unknown in the late 60s, so the July release date was clearly timed to coincide with the long school summer holiday (although the film had received its BBFC classification back in January). In fact, it was released as a 'Sunday double bill', with Thunderbird Six playing in the afternoon while a brace of Bonds took over in the evening.

In the pages of TV21, the new film got scarcely a mention. There would be no photo-strip this time around, and aside from a couple of modest black and white quarter page blocks, there was no other publicity for the new venture. Away from the comic, a life-sized FAB1 toured the country accompanied by a real life Lady Penelope: in a nice bit of unpaid publicity from the rival TV network, the vehicle even made an appearance on BBC1’s Blue Peter.

For me, the film was a bit of a disappointment. Any chance to see Thunderbirds in colour in the cinema couldn’t be missed, of course, and the finale was as explosive as anything else in the Anderson canon. The featured vehicle, Skyship One, was a nice design, but we’d come to the cinema to see a brand new Thunderbird in action, and the final revelation of the Tiger Moth came as a giant let-down, clearly intended to amuse adult viewers. The rest of the film was little more than an innocuous travelogue showcasing some typically gimmicky Anderson ideas, with an unimaginative hijack plot bolted on. Thunderbird 6 was another box office failure. As a movie, it was sheer self indulgence. Thunderbirds deserved better.

By this time, the TV21 Thunderbirds strip was still in the very capable hands of Frank Bellamy, who managed to combine a bravura style with faithful depictions of the characters and hardware. The scripts, originally from Alan Fennell, and latterly from Scott Goodall, began to bear less and less resemblance to the series, with bizarre super-villains who seemed drafted in from the Marvel universe. The strip reached a nadir in the spring of 1968 with a storyline that began with the apparent murder of Brains, went on to depict the destruction of Thunderbirds 2 and 3, and culminated with the Hood attempting to saw the top off Tracy Island!

Despite this farrago of nonsense, the strip remained one of TV21’s most popular features. Equally insane, if not more so, was the Zero-X strip, which saw its characters subjected to endless ‘bodyshock’ storylines: one saw them turned into bald-headed, white skinned, red-veined mutants, whilst another had them taken over by malevolent cylopean leaves that attached themselves to their victims’ faces. Yet another adventure saw them melted into puddles of blue liquid. TV21 was beginning to look not unlike a horror comic… When the ailing title was combined with its sibling paper Joe 90, Thunderbirds was one of only two Anderson strips to survive the makeover. It would later resurface in Countdown, competently illustrated by Don Harley, who had covered during Frank Bellamy's brief absence from the TV21 strip in the autumn of 1966.

Thunderbirds as it appeared in the first issue of Countdown, February 20, 1971

In the ATV Midlands region, the series was still on air, and had more or less taken up residence in a Friday teatime slot, where it was to be found throughout the whole of 1969 and 1970. It was back again in 1971 for what must have been its fourth or fifth run. 18 episodes were shown before Land of the Giants took over the slot in June. TV now became a Thunderbirds-free zone until a handful of episodes turned up on Saturday mornings in early 1973. 

All this time, I'd been watching in black and white, so it was a revelation finally to see episodes in colour. For me, this didn't happen until 1975, when Lord Parker’s ‘Oliday was shown at Easter, and Richochet at Christmas. The series would not return to TV until 1981 – at least not here in the Midlands. Yorkshire Television, however, showed a batch of episodes in 1979, VHS dupes of which found their way to me the following year: they were low resolution and the colours were smeary, but it was better than nothing.

Also better than nothing were the few Thunderbirds episodes that had found their way onto the 8mm home movie format, albeit in heavily truncated form, and with captions instead of soundtracks. It's unclear when these films were originally released: the box artwork has the series copyright date of 1965, which fans (and the internet) have assumed to be the release date of the films themselves. This is highly unlikely, especially in light of the fact that at least one episode (Attack of the Alligators!) wasn't even broadcast until 1966. Either way, the films were still being sold in the mid 70s, making them some of the last items of original Thunderbirds merchandise to be available in the shops. I acquired an 8mm projector in 1977 and soon got hold of the 8-minute black and white versions of Day of Disaster and Thirty Minutes After Noon. The absolute last fling for Thunderbirds merchandising was Dinky's venerable Thunderbird 2 which finally dropped out of the catalogue in 1979.

Three of the Arrow Thunderbirds home movies, in 1-reel and 50ft editions

By 1980, I felt like nobody else still cared about Thunderbirds. I’d had one friend at school who wasn’t ashamed to admit he still liked the series, but I’d lost contact with him, and Thunderbirds fandom at this point in time seemed to consist of myself and Tim Beddows. We soon made contact with others, though, and spring of 1980 saw a kind of ad hoc international convention take place in our living room, attended by Starlog’s David Hirsch, Theo De Klerk and a couple of other ‘uber fans’ (there was no other kind at that time).

1981 saw the series return to British television with what appeared to be brand-new 35mm prints. Here in the Midlands, the repeats began on Sunday 30 August, at 1.00pm, and I was now able to record episodes on VHS tape.  The series continued until Christmas, in its 'official' broadcast order, with Thunderbird Six making an unwelcome intrusion into the run on Sunday 20 September. The repeats resumed on Sunday 12 September 1982, beginning with Desperate Intruder, and running all the way through to Christmas, with Give or Take a Million appearing on Sunday 12 December. My diary records that it snowed all day – thanks, Brains!

By early 1983, when the oprhaned episode Path of Destruction finally made it onto air, I now had a complete set of Thunderbirds on VHS tape, so it no longer mattered whether ITV chose to repeat it again or not. In the event, they didn’t, and while the 1980s would see the gradual emergence of an organised fan network devoted to the work of Gerry Anderson, there were no further sightings of Thunderbirds on the small screen as the ITV regions ploughed through the other Supermarionation series, covering everything bar Supercar and The Secret Service.

I could hardly have anticipated what came next. In September 1991 a repeat run began on BBC2 of all places. For viewers like me, Thunderbirds had been inextricably linked with ITV for the past twenty five years and to see it on BBC was almost a form of culture shock. It also meant that the series was shown without advert breaks for the first time in its history* and, more importantly, was being nationally networked. With an average of over six million viewers tuning in every week, there was clear potential for a new range of toys and other licenced products, and when the Matchbox Tracy Island appeared on the market, it became the season’s must-have toy. As a fan, I welcomed this new range of merchandise, but couldn’t keep up with the releases as every week seemed to bring rafts of new toys to the shelves of our local Woolworth’s. Many years later, during a house move, I sold on all of my remaining 1990s Thunderbirds toys – somehow, they lacked the charm of the 1960s originals, and the packaging was unappealing.

The idea of a full-scale revival of the series began to gain ground, and, inevitably, a movie resulted. I’ve never bothered with this worthless endeavour that saw the asethetically pleasing vehicles of the 1960s given a ‘twenty first century’ makeover (the new FAB1 must qualify as one of the most hideous reimaginings of a hero vehicle in the entire genre of sci-fi/fantasy). Later still came a TV revival, Thunderbirds Are Go, of which I watched a solitary episode out of curiosity. I was puzzled by the ‘plastic-haired’ appearance of the CGI characters and disappointed by the theme tune which reiterated the first phrase of Barry Gray’s original like a stuck record.

Over the years, Thunderbirds became a lightning rod for misguided creativity. Gerry Anderson had sold all his interests in the series back in the 1970s and since then had been forced to sit back and spectate as other hands made a travesty of his original concept. Thunderbirds 2068 was a pointless manga revamp of the format, but the wooden spoon for the worst production ever to sully the brand goes to 1994’s Turbocharged Thunderbirds, which mashed up the original footage into a gimmicky teenage format that saw the characters presented as ‘virtual lifeforms’ on another planet. Garbage doesn’t even begin to describe it.

There can surely be no point or merit in further attempting to revive Thunderbirds. The original can and should be left to stand alone for what it was – an artefact of its era and the apotheosis of the Andersons' unique film production technique. There have, of course, been more recent and accurate revivals of Supermarionation, but nothing will ever be equal to the original.

Thunderbirds is readily available to watch in HD on ITVX and on ITV’s YouTube channel. Though dated in many respects, the series stands alone, even amongst Gerry Anderson's repertoire. Thunderbirds was where it all came together: the perfect format, with a cast of warm, believable characters and imaginatively conceived hardware.

Watching Thunderbirds back in the 1960s and 70s, I'd hardly have imagined it would still be remembered so many years later. Being made in colour certainly helped to 'future proof' the series, and whilst its aesthetics are very much those of the 1960s, the fact of its being made with puppets and models makes it look a lot less dated than live action productions of the same era, while its real world physical effects really set it apart in an era of ubiquitous CGI.

I've no doubt that Thunderbirds will continue to be celebrated even when it reaches its centenary, in the TV21 year of 2065... and beyond?

[* To be pedantic, some of the ITV morning repeats in the 1970s were broadcast advert-free, including the YTV batch from 1979. The original commercial break captions subsequently became extremely rare] 

Thunderbird Sixty – part 2

 

2: Thunderbirds Toys – for Girls and Boys

Last time, I looked at the first weeks of Thunderbirds and how young fans of the series (like myself) acted out our own adventures with toys, with existing toys often standing in for the International Rescue vehicles in our imaginations (well, mine at least). My original ‘Thunderbird One’ was played by a friction-drive Gloster Javelin (with realistic sparking engine), which you can see pictured below. It took a few months before any bona fide Thunderbirds toys appeared in the shops, but once the floodgates opened, there was no stopping them.

It wasn’t just the International Rescue vehicles that I wanted to own: my favourite piece of hardware from the series was the Fireflash airliner – arguably a better and more realistic design than any of the Thunderbird craft themselves. Back in 1965, no toy manufacturer would dream of releasing a model of a vehicle that appeared in only a handful of TV episodes, and although our dad valiantly searched the shops that Christmas, no Fireflash toy was to be had (I wonder how many other kids of my age also wanted one?) As a substitute, I received a battery-operated model of the coolest real world aircraft currently available – the ill-fated TSR-2. In real life, the TSR-2 project had been cancelled (by Harold Wilson) by the time I got my hands on the toy, and I knew nothing of its intended purpose (it carried a nuclear payload). Decades later I saw an actual example at RAF Cosford where I'd gone, ironically, to look at a Gerry Anderson exhibition...

Thunderbirds 'stand-ins': Left, Gloster Javelin (Thunderbird One), right, TSR2 (Fireflash)

Apart from the vehicles themselves, the next most essential toy to own was a Thunderbirds outfit. This was available as a complete costume, comprising top, trousers and over-the-shoulder sash/belt, plus, of course, the famous cap. I don’t know whether our toy shop had sold out or whether the price of the complete boxed outfit was too steep, but I ended up with just the cap and the sash, which I had to wear over my ordinary clothes. The cap, being made of black felt, wasn’t exactly true to the series, and was replaced in the autumn of 1966 by a cardboard version given away with TV21 comic (issue 90, dateline October 8 2066). I wore it until I was old enough not to want to play Thunderbirds in the back garden any more, by which time it was held together with sellotape.

A near complete set of Thunderbirds dolls (minus TIn Tin), as seen on an auction site last year. The set realised £2,100

Spring 1966 had seen the very successful UK launch of Hasbro's GI Joe, rebranded as Action Man for the British market. Many adults were sceptical about a doll for boys, but the new toy was an immediate success, and inspired a range of Thunderbirds characters made in a similar manner, which arrived in toy shops later in the year. All the regular characters were available, and the likenesses were some of the best ever created for action figures. Unfortunately, they were nowhere near as robust as Action Man, being constructed of soft, flimsy plastic and held together internally by staples and elastic. When the staples rusted, your Thunderbirds doll fell to pieces. They were also incredibly hard to find in toy shops – all the Tracy brothers sold out almost immediately. A classmate turned up at school with Scott Tracy, but by the time I got down to the toy shop next weekend, only John Tracy remained. The less popular dolls (including, amazingly, Parker), could still be found in toy shops two or three years later.

1966 was the true 'Thunderbirds Christmas'. J.Rosenthal's range of toys had by now been rebranded 'Century 21', and dozens of other manufacturers had licenced products on the market. TV21 regularly featured whole page colour advertisements promoting the Century 21 range of 'Thunderbirds toys – for girls and boys.' These ads were to be found regularly in the comic (example above), with their last appearance coming in issue 131 in May 1967.

Sound Only Selected

Unless you’d taped episode soundtracks for yourself, the only way to revisit Thunderbirds when not on air was on vinyl. Century 21 records had launched in October of 1965, and amongst its first batch of releases was the Mini-album ‘Introducing Thunderbirds’. I had this bought for me, but didn’t think a lot of it – rather than an episode soundtrack, it was merely Jeff Tracy demonstrating the Thunderbird vehicles (or rather, their sounds) to Lady Penelope and Parker. What the record desperately lacked was music. Music was, of course, an essential part of the series, and I always made sure to hum some Barry Gray themes as I flew my Thunderbirds toys around the living room. 

The Century 21 'Mini Albums' are launched in TV21, issue 41, 30 October 2065. This was also the first photo of Thunderbird One to appear in the comic.

Much better record releases were to come – at my birthday in 1966 I was bought the ‘Thunderbird One’ EP, which condensed the pilot episode into a very effective twenty-minute narrative. My brother had the ‘FAB’ record bought for him at the same time, on which could be heard the decidedly iffy vocals of Lady P and Parker warbling a Barry Gray ditty about the Abominable Snowman.

Thunderbirds continued to be a big deal as far as I was concerned. Autumn 1966 saw new episodes appear in a two-part format, along with re-edited versions of the first series, now shown over consecutive evenings, Batman fashion. The series joined TV21 comic in January 1966, and by the end of the year had found its way onto the big screen. I was taken to Birmingham to see the film, my first experience of Thunderbirds in colour. I still recall hearing a child in a nearby seat telling his parents ‘that’s Thunderbird One’ as Zero-X Lift Body One emerged from its hangar. The fool!

Century 21 toys' Zero-X (1967)

Zero-X provided the last of the Century 21 Thunderbirds toys, but it took nearly a year to reach the toyshops and was eventually released alongside the short-lived range of 'Project SWORD' vehicles. As you can see above, Zero-X was one of the most realistic toys ever produced by Century 21. The main body and MEV were independently powered, by batteries, with coloured flashing tail lights at the rear, activated from a walkie-talkie style controller. My brother and myself both received the toy as a present that Christmas and mine remains more or less intact, and boxed to this day. Although it hadn't been run for more than half a century, the motorised MEV, when loaded with batteries, whizzed away across the floor like it was escaping from a hoard of Rock Snakes...

Thunderbirds continued on British television for much of the 1960s, although it was banished for twelve months in 1968 when the ITA decided that ATV had been giving undue prominence to the Anderson productions in the children’s schedules. It also made a difference where you lived: we were in the ATV region, and as financial backers of the series, they kept Thunderbirds on air almost continually from 1969 through to 1971. From November 69, those with colour televisions could see it as it was meant to be seen (I wouldn’t get to see a colour episode myself until 1975).

In part three, I'll look at the 'afterlife' of the series...