Over the last nine days, I’ve listed TV shows that have helped form and guide the sad, twisted course of my artistic and perdonal lives. Today, we arrive at the end. Our final entry. Our last goodbye. Weeeeeee’llll meet agaaaaaaiiiiin, don;t know wheeeeeere, don;t know wheeeeen…….
Anarchy. Pure anarchy. 105% ad-libbed, with the sole purpose of destroying guest stars, making cameramen laugh audibly, and generally tearing up the ITV studio for as long as they’d let him stay. Kenny Everett was a wide-eyed, giggling madman with a serious talent for understanding the silliness at the heart of his audience.
This is the man who hung Cliff Richard from the ceiling of the studio, who pushed Tim Brooke Taylor down a slide into a paddling pool full of slime, who interrupted a David Bowie song dressed as an angry, bowler-hatted businessman to complain that nobody had ever allowed him to have sex with the singer… whose characters encompassed the sublime, the grotesque, the cosmic, and the guttural.
Sex was naughty. Crime was silly. Growing up just made you a bigger version of the idiot you already were. The only currency that counted was getting a laugh. By any means necessary. It was rapid-fire, it was hilarious, it was the best thing I’d ever seen. And, of course, it was all done in the best PAAAAHHHSSIBLE taste.