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And I know ’em like the back of my own hand.
RANDY NEWMAN1
Humour is not a mood but a way of looking at the world.So if it is correct to say that humour was stamped out inNazi Germany, that does not mean that people were notin good spirits, or anything of that sort, but something muchdeeper and more important.
LUDWIG WITTGENSTEIN2
Even our jokes have walls and hedges round them.
J. B. PRIESTLEY3
You must remember this: a small church hall, somewhere in England, sometime during the Second World War. To the left, perched high on top of a wobbly wooden stepladder, is a fresh-faced, fragile-looking youth, folded over a tommy-gun, primed and poised to pounce. To the right, seated behind a rickety card table, is a wiry, wily old campaigner, leaning over a Lewis gun, all set to snap and strike. At the centre, shiny toe to shiny toe, stand a short, stout Englishman and a tall, thin German.
The German has just announced that he has added the Englishman’s name to the ominously long list of those who, once the war has been won, will be brought to account for their actions. The Englishman has just replied that, since the Germans are never going to win this war, he can put down whichever names that he wishes. It is at this point that the fresh-faced youth on the ladder elects to interject:
Whistle while you work.
Hitler is a twerp.
He’s half barmy,
So’s his army.
Whistle while you –
‘Your name will also go on the list!’ exclaims the German. ‘What is it?’ ‘Don’t tell him, Pike!’ orders the Englishman.
‘Don’t tell him, Pike!’ What a beautiful comic line, patently apt yet palpably absurd, so funny for being so true. It encapsulates not only the kind of qualities – brightness, decisiveness and bravery – we tend to associate with our best self, but also those – foolishness, fearfulness and frailty – that we tend to associate with our worst. It makes us laugh so much because we laugh most unaffectedly at what we know most about, and what we know most about is ourselves: each of us, at some point or other in our life, has said or done something equally as apt and equally as absurd as ‘Don’t tell him, Pike!’
It is really no wonder then that this scene has been hailed by some as the funniest moment in the history of British television,4 nor that the show in which it featured has come to be recognised as one of this medium’s most treasurable achievements.5 We do not warm to just any old thing that the small screen serves up to us; for all of the hours, days, months and even years of television that we watch in the course of a lifetime, we actually remember very little, and cherish even less. We tend to recall and respect only those few programmes which try neither to be momentous nor mundane, but which simply try, right here, right now, to engage our minds and our moods.
Dad’s Army was just such a programme. It ran for nine years – from the summer of 1968 to the winter of 1977, stretching out over nine series and eighty episodes – and has continued to be a frequently repeated favourite ever since. Its extraordinary appeal, in terms both of breadth and of depth, has remained remarkably solid over the years. For example, the episode entitled ‘The Deadly Attachment’ (which featured that ‘Don’t tell him, Pike!’ line) attracted an estimated audience of 12,928,000 when it was first broadcast on BBC1 back in 1973; when, the following year, it received its initial repeat, 10,908,000 people tuned in to see it, as did 9,082,800 for the second repeat in 1978 and 10,600,000 for the third in 1989.6 Such rare and special constancy has little to do with any clinging need for nostalgia:7 among the programme’s most devoted admirers are some of those who would prefer to forget the war, as well as some of those who are not able to recall it. Dad’s Army’s lasting appeal has a great deal to do with an unquenchable craving for quality.
Dad’s Army, as a television programme, was something special. It stood out back then, when television’s aim was to entertain a nation, and it stands out even more prominently now, when the intention is merely to indulge a niche. It was – it is – an exceptional piece of programme-making. Every element epitomised the unshakeable commitment to excellence: the gloriously apposite theme song, a flawless recreation of the sound of wartime defiance; the well-chosen setting, animated by the meticulously assembled authenticating detail; the quietly effective style of direction, focusing our attention on the action rather than the art; and, at the very heart of it all, the consistently fine acting and writing which combined to cultivate a set of characterisations that audiences came not only to laugh at but also to live with and love.
The comedy that comes from character, observed J. B. Priestley, is ‘the richest and wisest kind of humour, sweetening and mellowing life for us’.8 Context can supply the catalyst for the comedy, but only characters can supply the raison d’être. ‘The humour of incident and situation that does not proceed from character, however artfully it may be contrived, is at best,’ argued Priestley, ‘only an elaborate play, making a glitter and commotion on the surface of things. But the humour of character goes down and touches, surely but tenderly, the very roots of our common human nature.’9
Not everyone who has watched Dad’s Army will have known much, if anything, about the last world war, or the history of the Home Guard, or life in early 1940s England, but everyone, surely, will have known someone like the portly, pushy, pompous little provincial bank manager and platoon commander, George Mainwaring (‘Oh, they’ll know by the tone of my voice that I’m in charge …’), or his sleepily urbane and vaguely insouciant chief clerk and sergeant, Arthur Wilson (‘Would you all mind falling into three ranks, please? Just as quickly as you can, in three nice, neat lines. That would be absolutely lovely, thank you so much’). Most, if not all of us, will have known someone very much like the indomitably doughty but somewhat over-excitable local butcher and lance corporal, Jack Jones (‘Get help? Right ho, sir! Don’t panic! Don’t panic!’), or the sly and saturnine Scot, undertaker and part-time private, James Frazer (‘I knew it: we’re doomed. Doomed, I tell ye!’), or the frail, permanently fatigued former gentleman’s outfitter and conscientious dispenser of bicarbonate of soda, Charles Godfrey (‘Do you think I could possibly be excused, sir?’), or the sharp, street-smart spiv Joe Walker (‘’Old on a minute – I said they were difficult to get, I didn’t say impossible!’), or the mollycoddled, maladroit and callow clerk and combatant, Frank Pike (‘Uncle Arthur, if you don’t let me up on that bunk I’ll tell Mum!’), or the vulgar and obstreperous greengrocer and chief air raid warden, Bill Hodges (‘Ruddy ’ooligans!’), or the camply effete Anglican vicar, Timothy Farthing (‘I must say, you’re a much braver man than I am’) and his fawning, flat-capped verger, Maurice Yeatman (‘Ah, well, there’s all sorts of courage, your Reverence – I don’t know how you have the nerve to get up and give those sermons every Sunday’). Dad’s Army, deep down, was not really about the war. It was about England. It was about us.
It was about our amateurism (‘I think we can quite happily say that Jerry’s parachutists will be as dead as mutton from Stead & Simpson’s to Timothy White’s. We’d get a clear run down to the Pier Pavilion if that blasted woman would get out of the telephone box!’), our faith in good form (‘Break the glass? Have you lost your senses? We’re not savages, you know! We’re a well-trained British army of sportsmen!’), our willingness to help out (‘I’d be delighted to oblige in any capacity that doesn’t involve too much running about’),