Harry & Paul's Story of the 2s

This programme contains adult humour and some strong language

It's 1964. The BBC, or Auntie Beeb as she was known, is 45 years old.

So far, she's given birth to one televisual child.

And on April the 20th of that year,

she was to find herself once again in labour.

Do come on, Auntie Beeb, stop making a fuss and push.

Ooh!

The child was on its way.

But what was it to be called?

We have one television channel.

Tonight we launch a second.

What on earth are we going to call it?

Pipes in. Pencils out.

I've calculated that if we do indeed have two channels,

then the current channel - BBC Television -

should be known as BBC One.

I've checked your calculations and they're correct.

If the current channel equals BBC One,

what does the new channel add up to?

X to the power of -13.

This new channel shall be called BBC X To The Power Of -13.

You've blundered in your reduction of this fraction,

you horrid little homosexual.

X to the power of -13 cancelled out is two.

BBC Two.

Can't we call it BBC Stalin?

Are you a communist?

This is the BBC - we're all communists, aren't we?

Sh.

So we're all agreed. BBC Two.

AUNTIE BEEB YELLS

That's better.

"BABY" CRIES

Two.

Cup of tea?

The new channel has a name.

All it needs now is someone to run it.

A king or queen. A tsar.

A Fuhrer. A Fat Controller.

There was only one man for the job and his name was Porky Peacock.

And Porky Peacock knew exactly what Porky Peacock wanted.

Long documentaries about the First World War

that went on for weeks and weeks

and weeks and weeks and weeks.

By the winter of 1914,

the war on the Western Front had reached stalemate.

From Switzerland to the sea, British and German forces

faced each other in a deadly battle of attrition that was

to last for the next four years, except for one day -

December the 25th, 1914, Christmas Day.

And right opposite us there's a rubbly old nunk

and Gerry dug in fast.

Come dawn of Christmas Day, up he pops as bold as brass.

He's standin' there, right on top of the rubbly old nunk

and I'm proper plabber-glasted.

We were stuck in the trenches with all the mud

and fizz-bangs going off left, right and centre.

It was jolly wet and noisy.

We hear Gerry singing this Christmas Carol, so we do now.

It's a good Protestant carol, so it is now.

These Gerries are Hanoverians, so they are now.

They're the people of King Billy, so they are now.

So we join in now, so we join in, so we do now, so we do.

And suddenly these shapes came over the top -

and they were short and brutish and wearing skirts.

We recognised them as Highlanders.

We're standin' there in no-man's-land

and I've shown a picture to Fritz

of our Martha. And his eyes have fairly popped out of his head,

cos she's big as a bus, our Martha.

She's a whacking great whale of a woman.

We are chatting away to these German scallywags

and one of them is touching me on the face and hands -

I don't think he'd ever seen a dusky fellow before.

We were so starved of the fairer sex

and because these Highlanders wore skirts,

I observed some of my men acquiring the trouser tents.

This I wished to discourage so I improvised a game of Fussball.

Out of nowhere comes a football.

We started playing football, so we started playing football, so we did now, so we did.

We got to playing the football game, right aside the rubbly old nunk.

It vas fundamentally like polo but without the horses.

And the game ended in a nil-all draw.

And it's one-all at full time. One-all.

A three-all draw.

Five goals apiece.

It ended four-all. And thus it went to penalties.

And the Germans won on penalties.

The Germans won on penalties.

Fritz won on penalties.

And the Germans, they won on penalties.

And we Germans won on penalties.

The Germans won on penalties.

Ground-breaking documentaries there might be,

but Peacock also wanted his channel that was new to have news.

And not just news, but news at night.

Nightnews.

Is the Government right about everything?

Good evening. I'm Gerald Manley Paxman.

Is the Government right about everything?

I'm joined by the Government Minister.

Good evening, Government Minister.

Good evening, Gerald Manley.

Is the Government right about everything?

Yes.

Are you sure?

Are you doubting me?

Not for a moment, and I do apologise if I appear to be.

Please continue to speak for as long as you like

without any interruption whatsoever.

The Government is right about everything because it is a good government,

composed of extremely intelligent,

high-minded and deeply moral ministers.

Thank you, Minister. You are the most interesting man I've ever met.

Time to look at tomorrow's papers.

The Times leads with, "The Government's right about everything."

The Telegraph goes for, "The Government is right about everything."

And this rag leads with some complete poppycock.

The new channel was, like its elder sibling,

to be funded by the licence fee.

Freed from the pressures of the marketplace,

it was to be very much BBC T double-O. BBC Too.

But it still wanted to compete with commercial ITV.

And compete it did. Dramatically.

Well, The Forsyte Saga was...

Actually, tell you the truth,

I don't remember a great deal about it -

but I was there!

I'd had the wonderful idea of shooting the whole thing

on a single camera with no editor.

Now, I got the idea from drinking three bottles of wine one lunchtime, at the BBC bar.

Television history.

Theme to "The Forsyte Saga"

Father.

Ah, Julia.

Come in and sit quite close to me.

A little closer, my dear.

I'm worried. You work so hard, Father. What are these?

Important documents for the attention of your cousin Julius,

who will attend to them at ten.

I'm attentive to his attentions to myself, Father.

Pay no attention. His attentions are tentative.

Good day, Jolyon. Ah, Cousin Julia.

Cousin Julius. You are well?

Indeed. Do you like my mop-top?

I do.

I trust I am the only man in the 1890s with such a hairdo.

Won't you sit down?

No, thank you. I won't be in shot.

Cousin, I've tendered these documents for your attention.

I beg your pardon, Cousin Jolyon. Could you repeat that?

SQUEAKING

Attend to these documents that I've tendered.

They relate to a trust fund which I set up for the benefit of

any future children you might have,

should you one day choose marriage.

Marriage?

SCRATCHING FOOTSTEPS APPROACH

SHE CLEARS THROAT

May I come in? Why, of course.

Oh! Worried I am. Very, very worried about everything.

GLASS SMASHES All I can do is worry and I fear I shall die of worrying.

Worry, worry, worry. Endless days and nights of worry.

I worry.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

Peacock wanted laughter on his channel.

And not just laughter, but laughter from somewhere that, hitherto,

no-one at the BBC had ever dreamt there was laughter.

Somewhere full of dread, dirt and depravity.

The North.

FOGHORN BLOWS

Ee, Terry, what you done to me bike?

I've bumped into a bus and bust it, Bob.

I'm very sorry. You'll get your money.

Oh, bloomin' Nora!

And I'm supposed to be meeting Thelma at t'pictures in half hour.

Are you going to hold her hand?

I've only known her eight months.

I reckon she'd love it.

Ee, Terry! Wash yer mouth out wi' carbolic, why don't you?

Eh!

It was a wonderful show - absolutely super.

It was one of those shows

that was wonderful and super at the same time.

Absolutely wonderful and totally super.

Wonderful and super, perhaps,

but Southerners couldn't understand the Northern accents.

And as for Northerners, well, this was 1964 -

they'd only just learnt how to use a lavatory.

TOILET FLUSHES

Education was still a Northerner's dream.

ITV, yes. BBC Two - ee, by gum, no.

And this was a problem.

Peacock appeared more Lord Reith than Lady Gaga,

and this was the '60s - the generation of the baby-boomers, or Baby Gagas.

Young people had been invented in 1957 by Mr Elvis Presley,

and here we were, a decade later,

with only one programme for them

and that was Keep Still.

Keep Still ran for eight hours a day, every day of the week.