“Ahh. Oh dear. Mm. Oh dear, oh dear. Ahh, dear me. Ahh. Stone me, what a life.” This series of groans, the opening line of an episode of Hancock’s Half-Hour, was treasured by the viewing public of the late 1950s. Tony Hancock was able to clear the streets like few others, as families gathered to watch each eagerly awaited BBC programme.
Graduating from such radio attractions as Educating Archie, he was given his own show in 1954. He starred as Anthony Aloysius St John Hancock, an out-of-work comedian, pretentious and snobby, living in the shabby 23 Railway Cuttings in East Cheam. The strength of the half-hour lay in comedy of character and situation rather than set jokes. The show was hugely successful and transferred to television in 1956.
Hancock’s face fitted the character to perfection: there were the heavy jowls, the creases, the sunken and pouchy eyes, the turned-down corners of the mouth. Sid James, his partner in the constant disasters — financial, social and professional — which beset them, had a face along similar lines.
Frequently the programme was an evocation of a dreary 1950s Sunday afternoon. For a few years there was no comedian of comparable popularity and he was the first television artist of any genre to be paid more than £1,000 for a single half-hour programme.
Tiring of his familiar routines, Hancock tried to go it alone in other comic realms. Seldom has a career in entertainment plummeted so spectacularly. His worst decision was to break with his scriptwriters, Alan Simpson and Ray Galton, who had produced sketches that suited him so perfectly.
He made three poor films and an unsuccessful ITV series. He was always highly self-critical and he read voraciously, desperately trying to answer the “why are we here?” of life. Forty years ago, on 25 June 1968, he tragically took his own life by drug overdose.
The Homburg hat, the shabby fur-collared overcoat and the grand manner were all so splendidly incongruous either in a fish and chip parlour or at 23 Railway Cuttings. And to accompany the run-down clothing there was the look of total gloom and despondency.
Hancock’s genius epitomised purely British humour, a brand so incomprehensible to other nations.
