IN THE SPRING of 1971 I found myself in the office of Bill Cotton, the BBC’s head of Light Entertainment. I thought I was there to discuss the possibility of hosting a talk show. Bill had other ideas.
‘Bruce,’ he said, ‘make yourself comfortable. There’s a video I’d like you to watch.’ He put the tape into the machine and Bill, my agent Billy Marsh, and I viewed a Dutch television programme called One Out of Eight, a mix of gameshow and variety acts. It ran for two hours and at the closing credits, Bill turned to me. ‘Bruce, if we just use the games, do you think we could do that in forty-five minutes?’
I thought about it. There were so many good aspects to the show. I liked the games in which experts demonstrated their particular skills, and pairs of family members a generation apart had to try to copy them. I liked the basic stage set, with the eight contestants sitting on stools and the big scoreboard. I liked the element of spontaneity that came with the host talking to the contestants. And I liked the gimmick at the end, when the winner had forty-five seconds seated in front of a conveyor-belt of prizes (a vase, a torch, a fan heater, a Teasmade, heated rollers …) and then had to remember as many as possible in a given time to win them. Yes, there was a lot to like, but that did not include the singers and dancers who came on between the games. I couldn’t see the point. To me, they were nothing more than interruptions serving only to stretch the show out. Bill obviously agreed.
‘Even if we cut out the acts,’ I eventually replied, ‘I think forty-five minutes would be pushing it, Bill. But fifty-five minutes, yes, I think that’s possible.’
‘And would you be interested in presenting the show for the BBC?’
Again I thought for a moment. The Dutch host was a popular female presenter called Mies Bouwman. She was very good indeed, clearly central to the show’s success. And she wore a dress.
‘Bill, if you expect me to appear in drag then I will have to say no. You’d better contact Danny La Rue. Otherwise, I’m in. Are you going to stick with the Dutch title?’
Bill shook his head. ‘No, I was thinking of The Generation Game.’
In that moment, the highest-rated gameshow in British television history was conceived. But its delivery was not without complications.
IN THAT MOMENT, THE HIGHEST-RATED GAMESHOW IN BRITISH TELEVISION HISTORY WAS CONCEIVED.
WE RECORDED A PILOT in May, for which I wrote the theme song. ‘Life is the name of the game, and I wanna play the game with you. Life can be terribly tame, if you don’t play the game with two.’ I was pleased with the words, they seemed to convey what the show was all about. Or what the show should have been all about, to be more precise. In truth, we knew we hadn’t entirely got it right. Yes, it had gone okay, it had a sense of fun about it, but it was ragged and overlong.
At least, however, we had gone out on a big finish. The final game had involved eggs placed on a wooden board, with glass tumblers underneath. The idea being that the board would be whipped away, resulting in the eggs dropping neatly into the tumblers. When our expert, a juggler, demonstrated this he succeeded with all but one egg. Then the first contestant stepped up. Broken eggs everywhere. Had we messed up? Was it too difficult? The second contestant stepped up. Perfect. Every egg intact in its tumbler. I could have kissed him.
The green light was given for a series, but our first episode, well, that was a disaster. We had taken a step backwards in terms of the feel we wanted to project. In the weeks between the two shows, in our excitement and enthusiasm we had somehow managed to over-complicate things. Whereas in the pilot stagehands were clearly visible to viewers as they moved the props for the various games, in that first episode the decision had been taken to keep such practicalities off-screen. That meant we were stopping and starting all the time. It killed the rhythm of the show.
With two days to go before the scheduled transmission on 2 October 1971, we knew we were in trouble. Bill Cotton had put his head on the block for this show – it had been his idea to bring it over from Holland – and somehow we had contrived to mess it up. A post-mortem was hastily convened, with Paul Fox, the controller of the BBC, Bill, the producers, director and myself. There was only one thing on everyone’s mind: could we raise the show from the dead?
COULD WE RAISE THE SHOW FROM THE DEAD?
I made a suggestion. ‘I think we should forget this recording altogether. Why don’t we put the pilot out instead?’
There were things wrong with the pilot, we knew that, not the least of which was it overran the time allotted for broadcast. With only two days to fix it in the editing suite, it was going to be incredibly tight, but everyone agreed that was the only option. The editing team produced a miracle, hitting the deadline by the skin of their teeth, and the first Generation Game went out at 17.45, directly after The Partridge Family and a brief news update, and before the film Carry On Jack.
I asked our producers, the very talented Jim Moir and Colin Charman, what the normal size of audience at this time on a Saturday evening would be. Jim and Colin told me they would be delighted with six million viewers. In fact we drew in seven million, and from there the ratings steadily climbed. After eight weeks we were reaching fourteen million viewers.
I think there were two critical decisions we made between the pilot and our first series that contributed significantly to this success.
Initially, Bill Cotton had thought it would be a good idea to have one singing guest star in each programme, but all that did was hold up the show. Bill and I discussed this and agreed to cut the acts, concentrating instead on a purer Generation Game, executed as if we were a live show. To help with this I told the crew to forget this was television and instead think of it as theatre. ‘It’s got to look live.’
That is one of the key reasons why we were so successful. People responded to watching a show that naturally flowed. It was authentic.
The second major decision we took was to introduce a hostess, at first just to streamline the entrance of each pair of contestants. About fifty candidates were interviewed, but no one seemed quite right. Then I remembered a fellow judge I had met at a Lovely Legs competition earlier that year. She had a super personality, looked gorgeous and might just have the magic ingredient we were looking for. Unfortunately I couldn’t remember her name.
Eventually some investigative work from our production team tracked down Anthea Redfern, a former Miss London, and she was invited in for a chat. We had no idea whether presenting was something Anthea had ever contemplated, but the moment she arrived for her interview with the producers, they knew she was perfect.
ANTHEA QUICKLY BECAME A firm favourite with the viewers, growing into her role and taking on a more active part in the show as she gained experience and confidence. There is no question that she was another key reason that The Generation Game proved so popular for so long.
It wasn’t only on The Generation Game that Anthea made a huge impact. She did the same for me on a personal level. By the early seventies Penny and I had been separated for many years but it was not until the summer of 1973 that we formally divorced. By then Anthea and I had been a couple for eighteen months or so, and on Christmas Eve 1973 we married. Three years later, we were blessed with our beautiful daughter Charlotte; and the following year we had gorgeous Louisa.
LOOK AT THEM. AREN’T they amazing? Both Charlotte and Louisa proved to be lovely daughters, who have turned into two beautiful, hard-working women. Both Anthea and I are immensely proud of them.
Unfortunately my marriage to Anthea did not survive. Over time the pressures of the industry – the travelling, the relentless recording schedules – took their toll as we came to realize we were looking for different things to make us happy. We formally separated in July 1979, still loving each other but no longer in love in the sense of a married couple.
It was the right decision for us both and we have remained close ever since, continuing to share time together with our daughters and my wider family.
My one regret is that because of the circumstances I did not see as much of Charlotte and Louisa growing up as I would have wished. I used to pick them up on Friday from school and we would spend weekends together. Of course, that was never as much as any of us wanted, but I’m glad to say there has been no ill-effect on the strong, loving bonds we enjoy to this day.
IN ADDITION TO ANTHEA, and our drive to maintain the pace of the show, what else made The Generation Game such a success? Well, the games themselves for one thing. When you think that we required five per show, two sets of elimination rounds and the final game, it was quite a task coming up with new ideas. The games had to be simple – if they required too much explanation it was wasted time – and they had to be safe, naturally.
It was a joint effort devising the games – everyone involved in the show pitched in. Not all of our ideas were a runaway success, though. Sometimes they fell a little flat, and on those occasions, even though I knew it was a bit of a cheat, to gee up the audience and generate applause, I would turn to them and say, ‘Good game! Good game!’ I was always looking for ways to keep the show as upbeat as possible.
THIS IS A PARTICULAR favourite photograph of mine, taken at rehearsals with an RAF troop. I love the flight sergeant’s inscription: ‘Thank you Corporal Forsyth’. I hadn’t been called that in a very long time. Happy memories of Padgate, Carlisle, Andover …
For the first rehearsal I always sat with the producer in the stalls, while the stage manager took my place and stand-ins played the games. This meant I could see what was going on, what was working or not, and assess whether we could increase the fun by approaching the games in a different manner.
FOR THE DRESS REHEARSAL, as in this photograph here, I would step in and see closely what was involved, again with stand-ins for contestants. As you can see, Anthea loved this aspect of the programme!
The contestants, of course, saw none of this. They were never given any indication in advance of what they were going to be asked to do, so when the games were wheeled on the looks on their faces could be priceless. Their shock at what they were about to attempt was absolutely genuine.
CATCHPHRASES ALSO PLAYED THEIR part in the success of The Generation Game. They helped to build an instant rapport with the studio audience, generating a positive, fun atmosphere, while also connecting to the millions of viewers at home. They felt involved in the show right there in their living rooms.
Just as ‘I’m in charge’ in the sixties grew out of a throwaway remark, the new batch in the seventies were also largely unplanned and unrehearsed.
FIRST, HOWEVER, THERE CAME ‘the pose’. This I did create, although once again luck played a major part. It evolved in the planning stages, out of a discussion I had with Jim Moir concerning how we were going to open the show. I asked him what I was supposed to do for an entrance.
‘The plan is for the stage to be dark with you standing silhouetted on some steps at the back, right in the middle of the frame. Then a spotlight will suddenly illuminate you, you’ll keep still for a second or two to make sure we have a good shot, then come to life and walk down towards the audience. What do you think?’
I nodded at Jim, but I felt a little uncomfortable. I thought I might look a bit daft, just standing there. I wanted something more lively. The only trouble was, I couldn’t think of anything.
At our first full rehearsal, with all the lights and stage design in place, I still didn’t have any good ideas. ‘Something will come to me,’ I told myself. ‘Until it does, I’m just going to mess around to give the crew a bit of a laugh.’
I walked out, stood sideways and slipped into ‘the thinker pose’. I have no idea where it came from. I held it as requested, then gave a little kick with my leg and walked downstage. I didn’t think about it again until Jim and I were chatting afterwards.
‘By the way, Bruce, that opening, it was great.’
‘What do you mean? I was only mucking around.’
‘Well, whatever you were doing, it works. It created a really nice atmosphere, with you standing there in profile then suddenly bursting into life. Let’s go with it.’
NOW, I KNOW I’VE indicated all along that catchphrases just happen, and in the main that is true. There is one, however, that I did manufacture, although it wasn’t me who was responsible for it catching on.
‘Nice to see you … to see you … nice!’ Most people, I’m sure, associate that grammatical muddle with The Generation Game. That’s understandable, given the popularity of the show. But it wasn’t where it originated. The seed of that particular phrase was planted during the late sixties, when I used it at the beginning of The Bruce Forsyth Show. And I always made sure to rehearse the response with the studio audience beforehand.
Now whether the general public would have picked up on it without additional help is impossible to say, because additional help was on hand in the form of a TV advert. In the weeks leading up to the transmission of my final Bruce Forsyth Show series in 1969 I appeared in an advert for the TV Times in which someone else uttered the phrase, having spotted me reading the listings magazine in a pub. It was that other actor who really made the phrase popular … although it’s me who’s been using it ever since!
EVERY WEEK ANTHEA WORE a different dress, which became a recurring theme, with me mentioning how fantastic she looked at the beginning of each show. During the first series, the BBC’s budget was so tight that Anthea bought her dresses off the peg, but by the second series, as the show grew in popularity, so did the budget. Anthea’s dresses were put into the hands of the fantastic BBC costume designer Linda Martin, and, boy, did she rise to the occasion.
Anthea’s entrance was eagerly awaited each week, the studio audience gasping in delight or bursting into spontaneous applause when she walked on, while the fan mail increased after every creation. One week when she appeared she looked so incredibly stunning that all I could do was marvel at her. ‘Anthea, you look amazing. That dress really is lovely. You must let the viewers see the back. Come on, give us a twirl.’
The rest is history.
It’s a phrase that even today crops up in so many different shows. And I never get any royalties!
THIS LAST CATCHPHRASE AGAIN happened by chance. One morning during rehearsals for the first series, Jim Moir asked me to come up with something to say as a cue for the production team. They needed to know when to cut from one camera to another directly after the winning contestant had recalled the prizes on the conveyor-belt.
‘Fine, Jim, I’ll have a think.’ I then completely forgot about it.
Just prior to the show itself, Jim came to my dressing room to ask about the cue. Ah.
‘I have no idea, Jim.’ Then, fumbling for words, I said, ‘If the winner is female I’ll say, “Didn’t she do well?” and if he’s male, “Didn’t he do well?” It may not be the best line in the world, but it will have to do.’
There you have it.
One of my best-known catchphrases came about because I couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘IF THE WINNER IS FEMALE I’LL SAY, “DIDN’T SHE DO WELL?” AND IF MALE, “DIDN’T HE DO WELL?”’
AS I HOPE I have explained, there were a number of elements in The Generation Game mix that contributed to its phenomenal success. There is one ingredient, however, that I have not yet touched on and it’s the most important of all.
The contestants.
On the day of recording ‘the eight who are going to generate’ would arrive at the studio at around 6.30 p.m., an hour and a half before the show began. They would be given a cup of tea while the production team made sure their clothes would be okay for television – chequered jackets, for instance, could look very odd on screen in those days. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, after a touch of make-up, it was time for a pep talk from Jim Moir, who would explain how the evening was set to unfold, where the cameras were positioned, how the microphones worked … This was followed by a tour of the studio to calm nerves, keep minds occupied and allow the contestants to familiarize themselves with the set. After that we settled them on their stools, ready for the show.
Up to that point I would only have popped my head in to say hello. This was deliberate. I didn’t want to meet them properly beforehand. Spontaneity was key. Prior to all this, a researcher would have conducted an interview with each contestant, to learn the basics about them, make sure there were no medical issues, and to see if they had any funny stories that I could feed off. This was all written down on cards a couple of days before the recording but, again, in order to keep it fresh, I did not re-read these again until about fifteen minutes before the recording.
During the contestant interviews before the games, my number-one rule was never to cause anyone embarrassment. I was transported right back to those Sunday-night shows during the Summer Seasons in the late fifties; that had been my rule then and it remained the same for The Generation Game. The contestants were not stooges: they were equal partners in producing the entertainment. When someone was particularly vocal, I was always happy to play the straight man so that they received the laughs. I would feign outrage, or shock, or hurt at what they were saying. The audience was quite rightly always on the side of the contestants, with the biggest laughs inevitably arriving when the joke was on me.
THE AUDIENCE WAS QUITE RIGHTLY ALWAYS ON THE SIDE OF THE CONTESTANTS
JEAN THORN FROM NORTHAMPTON provided me with a golden opportunity to have some fun during our chat when she informed our researcher that she was a housewife, enjoyed cooking, flower-arranging, sewing … and that she looked after her deaf cat.
‘A deaf cat?’ I said to her. ‘It must be very difficult to get him to come in at night, dear.’ Then stepping forward towards the audience, I cupped my hand to my mouth, and bellowed, ‘H-e-r-e, KITTY, KITTY! H-E-R-E, KITTY, KITTY! I bet the neighbours love that, dear?’ This became a favourite expression up and down the country for a long time and Jean’s cat became something of a celebrity.
ONE OF THE BEST-REMEMBERED contestants, and a personal favourite of mine, has to be Daphne Cox from sunny Bognor Regis. She and her son Harvey appeared in our fourth show and made it through to the final round.
It was the first time we had ever done a play. During one of our production meetings to discuss possible games I had suggested we could have some fun acting out little scenes with the contestants. Everyone agreed, and the show’s writers went off to produce a script, which they presented a few days later … and I wasn’t in it! ‘I’ve got to be part of it,’ I explained. ‘I have to be there among the contestants so I can help them out. That’s where the humour will come from.’ Their second attempt was much better, and that was the version we used with Daphne and Harvey.
In her previous two games Daphne had been great fun, but there had been no indication of what was to come.
Picture the scene. It’s a classic farce, with Daphne playing the part of Fifi, the French maid. I start to explain to Daphne and Harvey what is going to happen.
‘So, Fifi, when you come in, dear, your first line is written on the back of the door and when you get your cigarette your next line is written on that.’
As I’m indicating how small the cigarette will be, her son reaches into his pocket and produces a pair of spectacles. He hands them to Daphne. ‘Mother, you’ll need these.’
‘What?’ I exclaim. ‘A French maid with glasses on?’
We can barely be heard above the audience laughter.
‘All right, wear your glasses, dear.’
‘No, I only need them to read. I wouldn’t see anything if I put them on now!’
The penny drops. She can’t move around the set with her glasses on and she can’t read her lines without them. I turn to the wings in exasperation. ‘Have we really got researchers on this show?’
Then, addressing the audience: ‘A French maid, called Daphne, who’s blind as a bat!’
By this point the audience are in uproar, which continues all the way through the sketch. Daphne’s role requires a French accent and every time she speaks a line, such as ‘Oh, Monsieur, you are so naughty,’ she has to fumble first to get her specs on.
‘A FRENCH MAID, CALLED DAPHNE, WHO’S BLIND AS A BAT!’
You can’t write this kind of stuff, it just happens.
TIME TO WRAP UP my Generation Game story.
I decided to leave the show at the end of the seventh series, in 1977. I felt, not unlike I had in 1964 with SNAP, that the time was right to move on. Despite the huge success, I sensed that we were beginning to go through the motions, the games were feeling a little tired and repetitive. In short, The Generation Game required new blood and I needed new challenges.
Boy, did we go out on a high, though. My final appearance came in a show transmitted at 7.15 p.m. on Christmas Day, which pulled in a viewing figure of – and I can still hardly believe this number – twenty-six million!
By 8.55 p.m. Eric and Ernie had topped our figure with their legendary and hilarious Christmas Special, which had more than half the population watching – twenty-eight million viewers. Of course, the boys were helped out by Angela Rippon, plus a host of other BBC newscasters, weather men and sports presenters tumbling on to a South Pacific beach looking for a dame, while we had members of the public eating doughnuts without licking their lips.
It worked at Babbacombe in 1955 and twenty-two years later it worked again!
AFTER A TWELVE-YEAR BREAK, a regeneration occurred.
In early 1990 Jim Moir invited Billy Marsh and me to lunch. By then it had been announced that I was leaving the ITV show You Bet!, which I had been hosting for a couple of years. Jim wondered what I was planning on doing next and I mentioned I was still keen on a chat show. Jim nodded attentively. Then over coffee he threw in an apparently off-the-cuff remark: ‘Any thoughts of doing The Generation Game again?’
‘It’s never entered my head, Jim. But now that you mention it, perhaps I’ll go home and have a look at some of the old VHS tapes. It’ll be interesting to see how they stand up.’
In fact, they stood up very well. Watching the videos, I found myself laughing out loud. I called Jim to say that, yes, I did think it could work again, but only as long as we updated the show for the nineties. Jim agreed with my assessment, but surprised me with his solution. ‘It’s those little plays. I think they have to go. It was fine performing them three times per show back in the seventies, but that won’t work for today’s viewers. It’s too repetitive.’
I understood what he meant. Performing the plays once with the stars and then again with each set of contestants would be too much. The overall pace of television shows had increased and it was essential we respond to that. I just wasn’t sure that dropping them entirely was a good idea. They generated so many laughs and I was convinced viewers saw them as an integral part of The Generation Game. To cut them completely would be a mistake. And yet Jim had a point …
‘How about this, Jim? Say we only do two versions, with each set of contestants? We give them a brief idea of the plot before they go on and then they read their lines off the autocue. It might even be more fun.’
Jim still wasn’t a hundred per cent convinced but agreed to give it a go, once we were up and running. As it turned out, the plays proved to be very popular still with the viewers and the decision was taken to continue with them, in monthly rotation with the dance numbers, the marching routines and the skill-based games, such as hat-making.
We put as much, if not more, effort into the games in the 1990s version of the show as we had back in the seventies, refining and perfecting in rehearsals in much the same way, except there was often one difference for me. If our filming schedule coincided with school half-term I could guarantee I would receive a phone call from home in Wentworth. ‘Daddy, Daddy, can we come and play at the rehearsals?’ Who could refuse?
On my way to work I would take a detour to Anthea’s house, pick up Charlotte and Louisa and bring them into the studio with me. They loved acting as stand-ins for the games. They both still talk about their Generation Game holidays, with huge smiles on their faces. It makes me very happy.
I REMAINED ON THE new Generation Game for five series and thoroughly enjoyed every moment. Not only was I once again interacting with people, putting them at their ease and having fun, but I also had the great pleasure of appearing alongside a new hostess, Rosemarie Ford.
Rosemarie was an all-round performer, which was particularly wonderful when we put on the plays. If we needed a dancer, she could do that. If we needed an actor, she could do that. If we needed a comedian, she could do that. Whatever was required, Rosemarie could do it. We never needed to bring in anyone else. She was a delight to work with, and the quality of her dancing brought an exciting new dimension to the show, which I adored. In addition, her presence offered me the opportunity to notch up another catchphrase when referring to the scores.
‘What’s on the board, Miss Ford?’
That was an unexpected Brucie Bonus.
