The Fellows

 Susan likes old films and TV programs from the 60's and 70's. So I try to furnish her with them. My success rate is pretty high. Using Brian Clemens' Thriller as a solid basis for the sort of things she likes - languorous murder mysteries, slumming American actors in otherwise all British casts, wobbly sets, everything a shade of brown, blood the colour of a Tequila Sunrise - I find odd things to amuse her. Clochemerle, an early seventies BBC TV series about a small French town erecting a public toilet, was a big hit. Charters and Caldicott, a crime series by Keith Waterhouse, based on two minor characters from "The Lady Vanishes", as they meander through the vicissitudes of an 80's world they can barely understand, was another popular choice. The latter starred Micheal Aldridge, so when I spotted he was in a series called The Fellows, about a couple of be-cardiganed Cambridge dons, solving crimes from their armchairs, I thought my luck was in. The Fellows also starred arch toff Richard Vernon, was written by Robin Chapman who wrote the genuinely odd Big Breadwinner Hogg, and it was released by Network, who have published about half the DVDs in my collection. 

Unfortunately it's terrible. 

It started well. The credit sequence is all woodcuts and The Swingle Singers scatting. The opening scenes see a couple of outside broadcast shots of Micheal Aldridge's internal monologue, as he strides along Parker's Piece, leering at girls on bikes. Meanwhile Richard Vernon is pottering around his rooms, every inch the old duffer academic. The dialogue was witty, wafty and vague, in the other-worldy manner of cloistered old men. I thought this is great. I've done it again. Another top birthday treat. She's a lucky woman. 

Fifteen minutes later I hadn't a clue what was going on. I looked over at Susan and she had the strained, polite smile of someone who has been handed a birthday gift with a speck of poo on it. The problem is this: the old men are like the brothers in Trading Places: one has a kind of proto-computer, the other has a library, and they attempt to solve crimes abstractly, as a sort of Gentleman's agreement. Then the action cuts to what is basically a completely different show. Here we meet Northern swindlers in industrial cities, usually cued in by a montage of black and white photos of smoke belching chimneys that make the north of England look like Mordor. These men are committing crimes, but they're boring crimes: fraud, tax evasion, cheating at the horses. They're middle-aged and furtive, in brilliantine and camel hair coats (in 1967!) Meanwhile, the dons are just waffling on, book-ended Professor Yaffles. They don't engage with the criminals at all, they stay in the room, drinking port and playing backgammon, as ancient and distant as Gods.  At some point they call the police, who seemingly do their bidding. 

Occasionally a woman called Mrs Hollinczech breezes into their rooms for a couple of minutes. She's played by Jill Booty, the writer's wife. As far as I can see she is the only woman in the entire series. 

We watched a second episode today. This one was probably worse, and had the bonus of an audible crackle on the soundtrack. I don't think we're going to bother anymore. It's a gamble, rooting around in the past, and sometimes it doesn't pay off. I'm starting to worry that I've now seen all the toothsome TV series that the sixties and seventies had to offer. 

We switched it off and watched Magpie Murders on BritBox. A standard Anthony Horowitz "cosy", chiefly remarkable for Lesley Manville's stylish blouses. I guessed the murderer in the penultimate episode. Still got it.