Another 50 People Who Buggered Up Britain -- No. 28: Ruth Maddoc

I returned home in the small hours to find a comment sitting waiting for me on my blog. ‘Why Ruth Maddoc?’ asks Mutley the Dog. My brows revealed no degree of surprise over my late night mug of Horlicks. They’d spent a day with people who wouldn’t stop asking me the very same question. My eyebrows had become blasé, you might say; indifferent to what was becoming known as ‘The Maddoc Question’.

My list of ‘Another 50 People Who Buggered Up Britain’ has certainly caused some debate in celebrity circles but nothing has worried the ‘A’ listers more than the supposed illogical inclusion of Ruth Maddoc. In many a person’s mind, the woman is an innocent and any accusations hurled her way are as unwarranted as a hammer attack on the late Mother Teresa. In my defence, I have no problem with Ruth Maddoc. The woman may well be a saint, a veritable Teresa of the Welsh Valleys, and I don’t blame her one bit for what’s happened to the nation. My real gripe is with ‘Gladys Pugh’, the character she played on ‘Hi De Hi’. It’s my belief that the nation lost its senses around the time that Gladys first appeared on our screens.

‘Hi De Hi’ was the comic equivalent of Bovril: loved by many, hated by me. Some might savour the idea of cow pureed into a thick paste but I find it as appealing as minced udder or roasted horn. And when it comes to BBC comedies, I think there’s nothing at all appealing about ‘Hi De Hi’. I’d rather chew on raw bullock than listen to Ted Bovis sing Elvis, Peggy the Chalet Maid jumble up her words, or Spike dress up in another of his ‘hilarious’ costumes. Yet each of these are petty dislikes compared to the deep moral indignation I feel towards Gladys Pugh. The country hasn’t been the same since she arrived on the scene. Constantly aroused and breathy with desperation, she was the amateur nymphomanic with hair so black and cropped that it looks like it’s been mined right from the Welsh coal seam. I never appreciated Lisa Stansfield until she rid herself of the Pugh crop and the glockenspiel has had a similar low place in my opinion since Gladys first wielded the hammer to chime out those infernal four notes. There’s no coincidence that I’ve not holidayed in Wales since the days of ‘Hi De Hi’. Every time I hear the Welsh accent, I also hear ‘hello campers’. I see the prim seriousness, the predator in yellow, fascistically sexual and indifferent to the cares and needs of others. Gladys Pugh was the nation’s favourite apprentice vulgarian and was so thoroughly modern.

Her obsession with sex – I’m tempted to call it ‘repression’ but it was hardly that – transmitted itself to and through the nation. It’s still with us, sitting like a herpes scab on our collective lip, becoming almost deviant in its assumption that we are driven only by the pheromone. Pugh was the catalyst of the new England arising from the Thatcherite dream of the autonomous individual, liberated from work by shares and owning their own home. Instead of a nation of Morris Minors with slightly aspirating exhausts, we became a nation of gaudy Jaguars, loudly throbbing and boastful of our torque. The people who laughed at Gladys Pugh were the same people who suddenly began talking about sexual functions over the garden fence. Is there anything as dangerous yet modern as sexual functions over a garden fence? But I say it’s not something to be encouraged, especially not if you’ve got a wide herbaceous border.

To counter the Pugh Complex was Jeffrey Fairbrother, the epitome of English sexuality. Shy, retiring, slightly at odds with women but not without an interest in other shapelier Yellowcoats, Fairbrother was very much the epitome of the England of the 1950s. Yet he barely lasted a few series before he was replaced. He was our one and last hope. His failure our own to withstand the crudity that has since overcome the nation. The crass manner in which Pugh chased him was tantamount to a call to arms to all who now go gadding about the streets, casting off their inhibitions and cornering any mate in a darkened bus shelter or lay-by.

‘Hi De Hi’ was the place where a nation learned to make love in a stationary cupboard. We’ve moved on, of course. Stationary cupboard or cupboards on the move: there’s nothing that people won’t do to satisfy the Pugh Complex. Gladys taught the nation to be fiercely desperate. She led the charge, breathing her frustration in the faces of the disinterested. Predatorial and wily, Gladys Pugh is the abandonment of poetry, metaphor, and veiled meaning. She is overt and present, as erotic as the odour of an armpit. She is sexuality today in all its prurient, scatological, oozing and ejaculatory abandon. Hi De Hi campers. Hi De Hi.

Amateur Hour

Bill Oddie advised me to ignore it and mention owls instead. Stephen Fry sniffed a scornful nostril of huff at the very thought of humbling oneself before the people at the Beeb. Judy just looked nervously around the room and then whispered ‘do they need to know?’ It is a good question but one I’m still struggling to answer.

It’s my ‘writing CV’, you see. I don’t have one. Having spent most of my career in front of the cameras, I haven’t enough writing credits to my name. I started to jot down my résumé at one minute past two and finished thirty seven seconds later when I couldn't decide if making a plumb tart with Antony Worrall Thompson live on ITV counted as a ‘professional production’. The fact that I’m now ready to send my competition entry to the BBC’s 'College of Comedy' means nothing if I don’t have a CV.

As you know, the irony of this is that I am Mr. Comedy. I’ve starred in more funny YouTube videos than any other living man except for David Hasselhoff. My impression of Ali G is in the Comedy Hall of Fame. I’ve also studied comedy, theorised comedy and I’ve interviewed many of the greatest comedians, including Lenny Henry, Les Dennis, and John Leslie. I’ve also written 190,000 words on this blog in addition to screenplays, sitcoms, novels, short stories, and poems. And I still maintain the seriousness of my intention to get my ‘Epistle to Jeremy Paxman on the Stat of His Sock Drawer’ included in the next Oxford Book of Comic Verse.

I’m now at the stage where I wonder if I shouldn’t be as creative with my CV as I have been with my script. I was thinking of something along the lines of: ‘at a recent performance of my slapstick routine in Manchester, I was widely applauded, with more people laughing at my antics more than those of the professional mime artist who shared my billing.’ By which you know that I mean to say: I recently fell over in the middle of the street, much to the amusement of Manchester’s shoppers.

Speaking of which, I find myself with a few days before I head back up to that fine city. Having finished proofreading the script to ‘Eye of the Storm 2’ last week, on Thursday I begin work on ‘Eye of the Storm 3’. We will be introducing a whole new range of climatic conditions to the show as we explore gusts and gales. However, before I fall silent, I wanted to say thanks to the people who have written to me lately. I’ve had some very generous responses to my friend’s problems regarding his publisher. Nothing has yet come of it and nothing might ever come of it. However, it’s always reassuring to know that there are people out there willing to help the friend of a multimillionaire television presenter. You all have my thanks and need only ask if there’s anything I can do for you.*

* This does not include: financial assistance, publishing deals, babysitting, lifts, proofreading, help with tax forms, catering, cups of sugar, borrowing my lawn mower, or any other yet-to-be-determined duties.