BOOK REVIEW: Box of Delights: The Story of BBC Children's Television – 1967-1997

This article was orginally published in The Big Issue in February 2026.

Box of Delights: The Story of BBC Children's Television – 1967-1997, Richard Marson, out now, Ten Acre Books, £29.99

During his downtime while recording episodes of Play School, Johnny Ball would sometimes cheerfully drop-kick Humpty through the round window.

That's just one of the many vivid details contained within Richard Marson's Box of Delights: The Story of BBC Children's Television – 1967-1997, which serves as both a celebration of and elegy for a lost epoch of creativity pioneered by a colourful gang of mavericks, eccentrics and ideologically dedicated professionals.

A former editor-in-chief of Blue Peter, Marson has authored several excellent books about the 'golden age' of British TV, but this may be his magnum opus. It isn't a nostalgic list-based reference tome – not that there's anything wrong with those – it's a meticulously-researched, narrative-led piece of history examining the politics and culture of the BBC at a time when the in-house Children's Department was more or less left to its own ingenious devices.

Marson emphasises the important fact that so many of the brilliant producers who thrived during that era were women. He provides detailed character studies of all the key players while also finding room for information on seemingly every single programme the department produced during its heyday.

The epic narrative is anchored by all the behind-the-scenes drama of cornerstones such as Blue Peter, Grange Hill, Jackanory, Newsround, Record Breakers and those Saturday morning live behemoths, the latter of which basically invented a brand new form of TV presentation.

Marson's mission is ably abetted by an often delightfully indiscreet cadre of interviewees, including Johnny Ball, Zoe Ball, Russell T. Davies, Sarah Greene, Chris Packham, Andi Peters, Phil Redmond, Michaela Strachan and Anthea Turner. Their frankness is one of the book's key assets; at this stage in their lives and careers they clearly have nothing to lose by telling the unfiltered truth as they see it.

There's no point denying the gossipy allure of a book in which a certain beloved children's TV presenter – not one of those mentioned above - is accused of being an insufferable egomaniac. And some of the more hair-raising anecdotes were, as Marson and his interviewees are quick to acknowledge, very much the product of 'different times'. To examine the past truthfully, outdated attitudes must occasionally rear their ugly heads.

But this is, fundamentally, an affectionate tribute to the vast array of gifted people who devoted their professional lives to making high-quality television steeped in those core Reithian values: inform, educate, entertain.

We will, for various maddening executive-led reasons, never see their likes again.

TV Review: WE'RE DOOMED! THE DAD'S ARMY STORY and FROM ANDY PANDY TO ZEBEDEE: THE GOLDEN AGE OF CHILDREN'S TV

This article was originally published in The Dundee Courier on 26th December 2015.

http://www.thecourier.co.uk/lifestyle

We're Doomed! The Dad's Army Story: Tuesday, BBC Two

From Andy Pandy to Zebedee: The Golden Age of Children's TV: Monday, BBC Four

Paul Whitelaw

The BBC, especially at Christmas, is entitled to wallow nostalgically in its own legacy. Last week it even wallowed twice with barely a hint of self-congratulation. On the contrary, We're Doomed! The Dad's Army Story depicted certain BBC executives as the myopic villains of the piece.

An affectionate comedy-drama about the troubled origins of the much-loved wartime sitcom, it showed how writers Jimmy Perry and David Croft (who also produced) struggled to convince their overlords – particularly BBC One Controller Paul Fox, perhaps unfairly portrayed by Keith Allen as formidably humourless – that a comedy about the Home Guard could work. With WWII still in living memory, might it be deemed insensitive?

It's laughable to think that a sitcom as benign as Dad's Army could ever be thought of as tasteless, but it was clearly a real concern in 1967.

So, while the story hit familiar behind-the-scenes beats – writers search for a great idea, slave over scripts and shape their vision, are forced into compromise by unsympathetic bosses before being proved all along that they were right – it was told in such a breezy, charming, witty way, it never felt redundant.

Packed with touching detail, good gags – I loved the fleeting references to Jon Pertwee and Trevor Eve - a nice sense of bright, smoky '60s period, and winning performances from an adroitly chosen cast of fine character actors – John Sessions' total transformation into the endearingly temperamental Arthur Lowe was miraculous – it was a refreshingly warm antidote to the BBC's notorious, and hopefully extinct, glut of dubious tears-of-a-clown biopics.

Despite its relatively brief running time, writer Stephen Russell managed to add depth to most of the principle players. The pathos of the frail Arnold Ridley, the flinty insecurity of Arthur Lowe, and the core dramatic struggle of Perry, a frustrated actor who desperately wanted a part in the show until he realised that writing was his calling, were handled with commendable sensitivity.

A poignant highlight was the scene of Perry shedding tears as his ageing comedy hero Bud Flanagan (Roy Hudd, who else?) recorded the Dad's Army theme song in one avuncular take. And yes, it ended with a “You Have Been Watching” roll call. Delightful stuff.

Another nostalgic labour of love, From Andy Pandy to Zebedee: The Golden Age of Children's TV celebrated the pioneering origins and reign of the BBC's generation-shaping children's output from the '50s to the early '90s.

Despite some curious narrative leaps – forgiveable, perhaps, given the 60 minute running time – this was a tender cut above most archival clip shows. It scoured the vaults with an evident sense of craft and care. It also made a point of explaining how innovative and important the likes of Play School, Vision On and, for all its dryly middle-class faults, Blue Peter were in educating and entertaining children. 

And kudos for devoting time to the inadvertently nightmarish spectre of Noseybonk from Jigsaw; truly The Child Catcher of '80s TV.

On a cheerier note, the sight and sound of eminent talking heads such as Johnny Ball, Bernard Cribbins and the man who injected some rare jazz/soul groove into kid's TV, Derek Griffiths, was enough to inspire a Proustian rush. You know you're watching a decent documentary about popular entertainment when it's inhabited by relevant, knowledgeable contributors, rather than fatuous modern comedians.

As former Blue Peter presenter Janet Ellis observed only half-jokingly, a channel entirely devoted to Cribbins' soothing presence could cure the world's ills. Now that really would be public service broadcasting.

I also challenge anyone to refute that the ambient voice of Oliver Postgate is the voice of God Himself. Merry Christmas.