If one-off drama Rock and Chips was indeed written by the wonderful John Sullivan, who penned Only Fools and Horses, then he has had his funny bone surgically removed. The BBC should never have flagged up this shabby excuse for resurrecting a dead horse as a so-called comedy drama.
Light drama, smutty drama, predictable drama, all that. But comedy drama, never.
Just four gags I counted which made it past the final edit to delight us in this long-awaited time-shifted prequel to Only Fools, which just a few months ago was billed more-accurately as Sex, Drugs, Rock ‘n’ Chips. Two lines were good, one was OK and one only just titterworthy.
Funny that the BBC, in the eerie must-be-seen-to-be-cautious post-Jonathan Ross climate, is so jittery about the word sex in the title yet still gives viewers no hint of the avalanche of heavy trouser-popping smut in the show itself. The sole short warning ahead of the programme was about strong language.
When Freddie Robdal, played by a sour-faced rather than plonkerish Nicholas Lyndhurst, told of his mate who died in the Nestlé factory when he fell in the vat of coffee, Joan Trotter said it was an awful way to go. “Oh no,” says Freddie. “It was instant.” Actually, that was probably the only good line.
James Buckley plays a fine Cockney wideboy but, sadly, not as Delboy Trotter. Well, he looks nothing like him for a start. Having a wide mouth and saying ‘awight’ with a semi-swagger is not enough. Not Buckley’s fault, of course. He was miscast.
The other regulars, Boycie, Trigger, Denzil and Jumbo Mills were better. Their lines though were rarely short of dire. The pressure to make Trigger say something stupid resulted in blank stares in our house. Just didn’t work. For any of us. Yeah, just stupid.
However, getting Calum MacNab as Roy Slater was a rare inspiration by someone. I could actually look at him and see the sleazy ex-cop who made Del and his pals’ lives hell in later years.
The numerous scenes with Del’s mum and the cinema manager Ernie Rayner with the disgusting habits, played suitably nauseatingly by Robert Daws, were just an excuse for pure, unadulterated and inexcusable smut. Come on Sullivan. Come on, Jay Hunt, controller of BBC1.
That late-night Channel Four and arthouse-style filth was not what we expected from a spin-off of OFAH, which grannies and teenagers alike could get belly-laughs from. Just a thought. How many young kids were allowed to stay up late because it was sold as being from the same stable as its classic predecessor – or successor – and were heartlessly exposed to that load of cringeworthy old dirty-old-man tosh from the foulest sewers of saff London?
If Hunt, who commissioned it, tries to defend it that will surely mean she is already spending hundreds of thousands of our cash on buying another one. If she doesn’t, then, as I speak, it will surely be laid to rest, alongside what’s left of Grandpa’s ashes, somewhere down the Old Kent Road.