Today’s clue, which is all about paper, is brought to you in association with a man whose life was all about paper – though we should point out that, even though we talk about his career in the past tense, he’s not dead.

Yup, Derek Jameson is still with us, but we can’t make any jokes about him because he’s threatened to sue TV Cream like he did with the BBC in the 1980s, a court action that resulted in “40 years of my life down the drain”. But as we know he subsequently he “fought his way back” with “one hell of a story – and it’s only in The Sun”.

Anyway, here’s today’s clue, which has nothing to do with Derek Jameson or his alleged spectacular sense-of-humour bypass.

CLUE 21

The next square to cross off your Puzzle Trail map is the one that shares its name with the most ubiquitous size of paper in the whole world.

Read clue 20

Read clue 19

Read clue 18

Read clue 17

Read clue 16

Read clue 15

Read clue 14

Read clue 13

Read clue 12

Read clues 1 – 11 and download your own Puzzle Trail map

CLUE 20

“I knew he liked to get plastered, but this is ridiculous!”

A simple clue today.

The next grid reference of the square to cross off your Puzzle Trail map is the postcode for the London borough in which Des O’Connor was born.

Read clue 19

Read clue 18

Read clue 17

Read clue 16

Read clue 15

Read clue 14

Read clue 13

Read clue 12

Read clues 1 – 11 and download your own Puzzle Trail map

The square you need to cross off your Puzzle Trail map today has been inspired by the news that All Creatures Great and Small is coming back, albeit in the form of a prequel to the original, and in a location as far removed from the Yorkshire Dales as it is symbolically possible to be: the slums of Glasgow.

To counter this madness, let’s pause for a moment to recall the original incarnation of “Creatures”, as its new production team have undoubtedly dubbed it.

A dog on a cushion, a cow in a cattle grid, a car driving through puddles, everyone listening to Churchill on the wireless… Yes, none of these were as ubiquitous as memory suggests, your actual episodes being basically full of yokel talk and gynaecology. But oh, that countryside was ever so nice to look at.

CLUE 19

To get the grid reference you need to cross off the map, take the first letter of the surname of Christopher Timothy’s character, and couple that with the number of different actresses who played his wife.

Read clue 18

Read clue 17

Read clue 16

Read clue 15

Read clue 14

Read clue 13

Read clue 12

Read clues 1 – 11 and download your own Puzzle Trail map

The square you need to cross off your Puzzle Trail map today involves a bit of semantic chicanery, courtesy of the late and limescented Frank Muir:

CLUE 18

“Dear reader, let me share with you a short lesson I learned when in the employ of dear old Auntie BBC.

I once got into a terrible stew when arranging to meet with my dear friend Joan Bakewell for a spot of lunch.

I arrived early at the restaurant – the 300 Spartans on Shepherd’s Bush Green – and informed the head waiter that my dining companion was on her way.

“Oh?” he sniffed. “Where from?”

“BBC Television Centre,” I replied.

“How could they have done, she’s not here yet,” said the waiter.

“I’m sorry?” I responded, a little perplexed. “I know she’s not here yet, that’s what I told you.”

“So where is she?”

“BBC Television Centre.”

“No they haven’t!”

Thus our conversation continued rather circuitously. Finally I realised the source of the misunderstanding. Or perhaps in the head waiter’s case, the sauce of the misunderstanding, for he was clearly three sheets to the wind.

I vowed to choose my words a little more carefully in future.

And as such I warn you on your puzzle trail that, quite simply, you should steer well clear of the centre.

Or rather, the CENTRE.

Good night and god bless.”

Read clue 17

Read clue 16

Read clue 15

Read clue 14

Read clue 13

Read clue 12

Read clues 1 – 11 and download your own Puzzle Trail map

CLUE 17

The square you need to cross off your Puzzle Trail map today is, quite simply, this:

To be precise, it’s the model number of the vehicle pictured above.

To be even more precise, it’s not the most famous model of its kind, but, well, the one before the most famous of its kind.

Read clue 16

Read clue 15

Read clue 14

Read clue 13

Read clue 12

Read clues 1 – 11 and download your own Puzzle Trail map

STAGE FARCE-derived punt at a ‘racier’ rival to the Carry On series with ironically appropriate umbrella title. Beginning life as a Ray Cooney-penned board-treader, first essayed in 1967 by Bernard Cribbins and Donald Sinden and still running across the globe to this day, Not Now Darling’s mink-coat-claimed-by-multiple-mistresses quasi-saucy shenanigans were considered perfect fodder for launching a viable alternative to the then-waning exploits of Sid James and company, and was duly made into a big screen version assembling a prospective Not Now rep company composed of those who hadn’t been allowed to ‘play’ Carry On – step forth Leslie Phillips, Julie Ege, Bill Fraser, Jack Hulbert, Cicely Courtneidge, Derren Nesbitt, wrestling refugee Jackie Pallo and Ray Cooney himself, alongside Carry On turncoats (or, more probably, flew-off-in-front-of-clergyman-exposing-camisole-coats) Barbara Windsor and Joan Sims, with notable ‘no thanks’-proffering intended recruits including Terry Scott and – believe it or not – Dudley Moore. More importantly, it boasted pioneering use of a new revolutionary camera effect that supposedly allowed a single set to look like multiple sets, but in reality, erm, didn’t.

Most of the ad-hoc ‘gang’ jumped ship after the first film in the franchise, leaving Cooney and Phillips to be joined by Michele Dotrice, Roy Kinnear, Carol Hawkins, Ian Lavender, June Whitfield, Lewis Fiander and a ‘canon’-taxing big name signing of both Windsor Davies and Don Estelle for Not Now Comrade, further farcical happenings in the name of a stripper (Hawkins, who spends much of the film basically topless, making its subsequent status as pre-daytime BBC1 afternoon favourite both thrilling to excitable youngsters and baffling to everyone else) helping a Russian ballet dancer to defect to the West, with a ludicrous amount of hiding in cupboards along the way. After which the Not Now series failed to, well, carry on. Sorry.

A fairly straightforward clue, this.

No whistles, bells, flashy graphics, energetic cutaways or post-industrial studio sets.

Just Normski, Janet and the grid reference of the next square you’ll need to cross off your Puzzle Trail map.

CLUE 16

The square to get rid of today shares its name with the second half of the “youth” “strand” Janet rustled up for Monday and Wednesday evenings on BBC2 in the late 80s and early 90s, and which featured, among others, her beau of the time, Norman “Extreme Celebrity Detox” Anderson.

Read clue 15

Read clue 14

Read clue 13

Read clue 12

Read clues 1 – 11 and download your own Puzzle Trail map

STRAIGHT-TO-THE-POINT-CUTTING Radio One newsarama consisting of a quick run through the headlines on the half-hour (“Radio Onnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnne…N’ws!”), with heavy slanting towards showbiz-orientated stories, while extended lunchtime and evening bulletins aimed at something more heavyweight, albeit with the ‘serious stuff’ still done and dusted in proto-Twitter ‘quick as you can’ extended sentences, underpinned by a seemingly endless loop of ‘keyboard bit’ from a recent synth-heavy chart hit. Much-desired gravitas was always undermined, however, by inane bookending banter between DJ and newsreader (“so Sybil, what are you going to have for us at 12.30?”). Birt-era upheaval saw gave rise to the not exactly iconic half-hour magazine show News 90, helmed by Sybil Ruscoe and Allan Robb. Most significant contribution to popular culture undoubtedly the travel report sting (“Beep Beep! Beep Beep! Yeah!”), which is indelibly burned onto the memory of many a generation.

WHISKY-FUELLED familial haulage business melodrama which took the Sunday evening post-SONGS OF PRAISE ‘cosy drama’ slot and played merry hell with it. Taking their cue from ITV’s ground-and-ball-breaking PATRICK WYMARK desk thumper THE POWER GAME, originators GERALD GLAISTER and NJ CRISP took the workplace intrigue serial and melded it with the family shenanigans of THE FORSTYE SAGA, serving up a tempting blend of boardroom confrontation and drawing room meltdown to which the British public took like catnip, filing into front rooms by the million every Sunday evening to take their seats for another round of managerial machinations as the stately po-po-pom-poms of the English Heritage theme tune swelled majestically over excitingly grainy footage of motorway freight in full trundle.

The set-up: old Robert Hammond, chairman of Hammond Transport, has died. A post-funeral reading of the will leaves control of the trucking firm in the hands of his three very temperamentally different sons, with a bonus seat on the board for his secretary. Cue a growing spiral of siblings at loggerheads, collapsing relationships, underhand wheeler-dealings and the grand tragedy of men who contain within themselves the seeds of their own destruction, played out among the finest cravats and crystal decanters known to the props man.

Eldest son and self-appointed rightful inheritor was bluff chip-off-the-old-block Edward (“Fourteen. Leave school. Pound a week. Think yourself lucky.”) initially played by GLYN OWEN, whose gruff, slovenly consonants gave the air of a permanently pissed-off Tony Blackburn, forever convening “emergency board meedings” as his three piece suit strained under the pressure. When the series took off, Owen, demanding more cash than the Beeb could muster, walked, paving the way for British TV’s first ‘replace one actor with another one who’s nothing like him and pretend nothing’s happened’ substitution, as PATRICK O’CONNELL provided a more conventionally middle-class Ted, a sort of Mac Fisheries James Mason.

Against Ted’s no-nonsense work ethic, the younger brothers offered varying brands of wetness. Ace accountant and top Leslie Crowther lookalike Brian (RICHARD EASTON) spent most of his time being kind and patient in his swooning voice while suffering the slings and arrows of his bitchy, increasingly estranged wife Ann (HILARY TINDALL). Spoilt gadabout arts graduate and “second class honours, first class layabout” David (ROBIN CHADWICK), meanwhile, was forever on the verge of giving up his stake in the company for a life of international hedonism with girlfriend Jill (GABRIELLE DRAKE). “Sounds like a raving bore to me!”

Cuckoo in the inheritance nest was Jennifer Kinglsey (JENNIFER WILSON), the company secretary who, it transpired over the will reading, had been at it with the old chairman for years at a rented cottage near Maidstone, and had borne him a daughter Barbara (JULIA GOODMAN) who didn’t take the paternal revelations too well (“He was an old man!” “HE WAS A MAN!!”) but soon grew to accept her status as flibbertigibbet corporate heiress.

Robert’s widow Mary (JEAN ANDERSON) wafted about the margins as a malevolent spectre, stoically manipulative (“You will hear what I have to say!”), and permanently stricken by woe or ill health. (“Oh come on, mother! You’ll live forever!” “No. Shan’t.”) Lower down the pecking order were taciturn foreman Bill Riley (“When I started fer yer father, you were just a snotty nosed kid!”) and ditzy, put-upon comic relief secretary Marion. A couple of years in, Crisp and Glaister stoked a potentially ailing format with the introduction of ruthless merchant banker Paul Merroney (COLIN BAKER) and his opposite number Jane Maxwell (KATE O’MARA), head of brilliantly-named air transport company Flair Freight and all-round man-baiting “very tough lady”. (“Get your backsides out of here before I call the police!”)

There may have been a smattering of permissive society horseplay, but the meat of the series was defiantly old school ‘family firm’ rivalry: long, silent scowls across highly polished board tables, people dramatically excusing themselves at points of high drama, high-powered man-to-man negotiations round the billiard table etc. An episode without a tough talking board meeting (“It’s about time that damn warehouse started paying its way!”) was a rare beast indeed. Sexual conquests were primarily David’s domain. (“Where have you been all my life?” “Locked in a tower!” “By your wicked uncle?” “WITH my wicked uncle!”) Parties were arranged and attended (“I’m not that keen on bourgeois cocktail parties!” “You can bring a nest full of birds if you want!”) primarily for the dropping of Earth-shattering, series-climaxing revelations.

Your typical episode followed a familiar template. A seemingly minor corporate kerfuffle built up over the first half until passions started flying across the boardroom. (“I put my life into this business!”) The booze intake rocketed in direct proportion to the emotional tension. (“One more won’t help any more than the rest have done!”) Money was a perennial worry. (“Can you afford it?” “I’ll manage somehow.”) The various family members’ terse exchanges ended either with the parties making it up to each other with offers of a slap-up dinner (“Somewhere nice. Champagne, the lot.”) or an awkward see-my-self-out exit. (“I… shouldn’t have come.”) Above the episode pattern, each series obeyed a rigid formula – start with a wedding or a big business opportunity, end with a death or a nervous breakdown.

In short, they settled their fraternal differences, fell out over other differences, survived a takeover bid from hostile Australian Harry Carter (who “runs some tin-pot express parcel distribution firm in Southwark”), expanded into Europe, floated on the stock market, and moved into planes and the Middle East respectively. Mary had a heart attack, Ted quit and came back, Jill died in a car crash and didn’t come back, David marked the show’s low tide mark with a half-arsed stint as a racing driver, Brian had a breakdown  and got better after growing a moustache, Ted and Jenny married, adopted a West Indian baby and then had to give it back, Paul became chairman and started courting Lebanese sheikhs, and Marion got shouted at for mislaying some tenders.

The Brothers had something for everyone. As producer Ken Riddington put it: “Women are interested in the clothes, while accountants get intrigued with business points.” The show’s popularity started high and soon went through the roof, tickling the fancies of both Clive James and the genuinely mad, who thought Mary and Paul were real people. Most, though, had half a brain, and were alert to the dramatic subtexts. (“When Ann demanded a deep freeze, she was really begging for attention.”)

In the show’s final year, Merroney married bankers’ daughter April Winter (LIZA GODDARD) (“Why do I like you?” “Because you’re rather nice!”), Brian grudgingly reunited with Ann, Jenny fucked off to Canada, and Mary finally started going spare. The stage was set for further logistical hijinks, but high-minded incoming Director General Ian Trethowan pulled the plug, to mass protest. The canny Glaister, however, took a leaf out of his characters’ book, and played the waiting game, biding his time until Trethowan was replaced with a less stuffy bird, and then unleashing HOWARDS’ WAY on those loyal Sabbath viewers, which was exactly the same thing again, but damp.

BROUGHT IN to temporarily replace a Late Late Breakfast Show-occupied Noel Emonds, Lenworth was only too happy to be part of the ‘team’ and stuck around for a good few years’ worth of weekend morning japesmithery, including the first ever appearances of Delbert Wilkins, the last ever appearances of Algernon Razzmatazz, and Everett-inspired serial Gronk Zillman – Private Eye of the 21st Century, a bizarre freeform yarn featuring Leonid Eagleburger (that’s enough!), the most evil man in the world, in between a load of ultra-hip rap and electro tracks and guest appearances by pals like Ade Edmondson, Dawn French and ‘neil’.

We’re almost halfway through our special summer competition. Time certainly seems to be stealing away, and in the spirit of undignified light-fingering it is perhaps fitting that the person who is to present today’s clue is none other than alleged gag larcenist Keith Chegwin.

Now the last time the news headlines were obsessed with jokes being nicked was back when Bob Monkhouse’s joke books were stolen, a gross act that resonates in another fashion with these recent tales about Cheggers, seeing as how Keith used to pinch apples from Bob’s garden. 1957 was when we think this took place, though it might have been a bit later – two minutes to eight, perhaps.

Anyway enough of that, for here with the grid reference of the next square you’ll need to cross off your Puzzle Trail map is Saturday Superstore Delivery Boy Cheggers.

CLUE 15

Or rather, his likeness, for we fear that even a vague representation of Keith being funny might be purloined by the man himself and passed off as original humour.

And if there’s one thing you’ll never find on TV Cream, it’s that. Vague representations, we mean.

Instead, take a look at this photo, displaying a vague representation of an episode of Cheggers Plays Pop.

Identify the year in which this was broadcast, then add up the individual digits of that year. You should get a two digit answer.

Combine the first digit of your answer with the first letter of the item Keith used to present on The Big Breakfast, and you’ve got today’s grid reference.

Read clue 14

Read clue 13

Read clue 12

Read clues 1 – 11 and download your own Puzzle Trail map

The grid reference of the next square you’ll need to cross off your Puzzle Trail map comes courtesy of a man who knows a bit or two about deception as mainstream entertainment. Oh, and delivering apocalyptically bad news.

CLUE 14

“Hello, Mike Aspel here.

“I’ve just broken off from announcing the end of the world to take a look through more of your letters and requests.

“Seems like a few of you are wondering if I can be of any help in the great TV Cream Puzzle Trail.

“Well, I can. You see, I know all about television. I’ve been on it, in front of it, behind it, on top of it, goodness, even between it. And I can tell you this Puzzle Trail has nothing to do with it. That’s right, this Puzzle Trail has nothing to do with television. TELEVISION. Got that?

Great! Goodbye – and good luck!”

Read clue 13

Read clue 12

Read clues 1 – 11 and download your own Puzzle Trail map

LEGENDARY four-times-daily weather bulletin for marine types much beloved of the rest of the world for its muffled intonation of arcane terminology. Those exotic-sounding, early-eighties-childrens-ITV-viewer-confusing, Damon-Albarn-inspiring forecast zones in full: Viking, North Utsire, South Utsire, Forties, Cromarty, Forth, Tyne, Dogger, Fisher, German Bight, Humber, Thames, Dover, Wight, Portland, Plymouth, Biscay, Trafalgar, Finisterre, Sole, Lundy, Fastnet, Irish Sea, Shannon, Rockall, Malin, Hebrides, Bailey, Fair Isle, Faeroes, Southeast Iceland. Extra exotica points for a ridiculous prehistoric ruling insisting it has to run to three hundred and seventy words exactly, and the equally prehistoric theme music Sailing By. Anchors aweigh!

The next square you’ll need to cross off your Puzzle Trail map is a record-breaking one.

CLUE 13

The treasure isn’t hidden in the square in which Roy Castle and a small girl exchanged pleasantries while doing a bit of toe-tapping, before joining what seemed at the time like a million other clog-sporting clientele to perform the world’s largest tap dance.

Read clue 12

Read clues 1 – 11 and download your own Puzzle Trail map

For the grid reference of the next square you’ll need to cross off your Puzzle Trail map, it’s necessary to reunite – in riddle form – the two people whose last collaboration resulted in the first, and possibly the best, of the Blue Peter theme reboots.

Step forward Michael Oldfield and Simon Groom, together again if not in the flesh then in the form of, well, a letter and a number. Cue the drum roll, Simes!

CLUE 12

To get today’s grid reference, take the first letter of the village that is the location of Simon Groom’s farm, and couple that with the number of albums (of original material) Mike Oldfield has released under the title Tubular Bells.

Read clues 1 – 11 and download your own Puzzle Trail map.

LANKY LACONIC Yorkshire yokel gets long-overdue opportunity for his own headlining effort outside natural habit of the ‘guest slot’. A regular sight in the musical bits of TV shows since the mid-sixties, droll folker Thackray was much beloved of audiences due to a winning combination of risque wordplay, broad social lampoonery, deft deployment of ‘thicko’ linguistic inflections, athletic feats of circumlocution, translations from the original Brassens, simultaneously highbrow and lowbrow puns, and, of course, that hangdog expression and browbeaten ‘everyman’ persona. Jake Thackray & Songs involved him performing a handful of numbers each week to an audience-ful of racuous guffawers, with rambling witty introductions which – it has to be said – were often longer than the songs themselves, while hardcore folkie pals like Maddy Prior and Alex Glasgow turned up to inject a note of more straight-faced torah-lorah-ing. Frank-talking racism satire One Of Them and abundant use of the obvious profanity in boss-berating The Bull got a few mouth-frothing letters catapulted Points Of View-wards, but apart from that it was a straightforward stroll through your Family Trees, your Brother Gorillas, your Poor Sods, your Country Buses, your Castleford Ladies’ Magic Circles and all the other favourites, and it doesn’t come much better than that.

MUCH-TRUMPETED “prestige” adaptation of the venerable Blytonian underage derring-do saga, adapted by RICHARD ‘FLYING KIWI’ SPARKS from the musty-smelling Hodder and Stoughton paperbacks that everyone read whether they wanted to or not, and lavishly filmed in various privately owned chunks of the New Forest for that idyllic “eternal summer of youth” vibe.

It was, of course, all updated for the go-ahead seventies. Starched collars and Pathfinder shoes were ditched to make way for zip-up cagoules, ten-speed Grifters and those lovely polyester polo shirts with an off-centre brown zig-zag up the front. Blyton’s busting out! But only by about so much, as the Enid Blyton Foundation, jealously guarding their intellectual property as well they might, weren’t too keen on that many liberties being taken with those timeless storylines. So despite the Tartrazine-coloured Year of Three Popes costumery, our intrepid heroes still found themselves going after gorblimey smugglers and swarthy gypsies, and the local bobbies still turned up on a rickety old bicycle in the nick of time. (“Constable! Thank goodness you’re here!”) We were still firmly in “lashings of ginger beer” territory, which to your average ’70s child was as exotic as Servalan’s homeworld. And what were the odds, in 1978, of happening across an Aunt Fanny still able to get about under her own steam? Yet here she is, baking scones in a sparkly top. Something doesn’t quite fit.

On top of the period elephant in the room, there was the small matter of the production values not being quite up to scratch. Lots of lovely countryside and stately old piles, yes, but, with all due respect to GARY ‘Dick’ RUSSELL and pals, the acting, direction and pacing were Children’s Film Foundation level at best. Every other shot ended in a pause so long you could practically hear the key grip lighting up a post-take fag. Line delivery was firmly of the posh-gosh declamatory style. The odd medium-big name guest star provided a bit of variation, but much of the action was as flat as the browned-out ’70s film stock that captured it. All kids telly is prone to this to some degree of course, but here it was acute and chronic. Luckily the crims were as stiff as everyone else, otherwise nationwide anarchy would have ruled by the end of the first season.

And yet… everyone watched it. Slothful story progress, niggling period worries and the suspicion that Julian was a bit of a git weren’t nearly enough to offset the fact that here were some kids getting to muck about outdoors on the telly. Which, as it turned out, was all anyone wanted entertainment-wise during those heady Callaghanian summers. Look-In strips and spin-off books (OK, the original books but with cagoules on the cover) abounded. The oddly tuneless school choir theme tune (“Julie and Dick Annan, Georgian TIM-my the do-O-og…”) was, as was seemingly compulsory for all Southern kids TV themes, released as a single for nobody to buy. Hay was well and truly made.

Ironically enough, none of the Five ever went on to become truly famous by themselves, although Dr Who conventions are occasionally set on a roar when some wag claims that old Who is best because at least Tom Baker could operate a punt without falling in the water. The best part of twenty years on, ITV went back to Blyton, this time keeping the thing firmly in the time of grey flannel shorts and postal orders for six shillings. They’d learnt their lesson. Don’t decimalise Dick!

TV Cream is in the middle of its biggest competition yet: a puzzle trail set in Television Centre to find a mysterious valuable object.

Each day a new clue will be posted on the site that reveals the grid reference of a square in which the treasure is not hidden.

As the days go by you’ll be able to cross off squares on our special map until there are just two left – at which point the final clue will be revealed, and you’ll be in with a chance of winning a slew of prizes, including a complete set of TV Cream tie-in books.

Rather than offer up a brand new Puzzle Trail clue today, instead we’re pausing for breath and recapping all that we’ve learned so far, so you can check to see you’ve crossed off all the right squares.

On day 1 we met Howard Stableford, who revealed the treasure was not in the square that contained the fire escape.

On day 2 Simon Bates told us the treasure was not in the square that shared its grid reference with the name of a single by the Pet Shop Boys.

Des Lynam provided us with the clue on day 3, disclosing that the treasure was not in the square whose grid reference shares its name with a prestigious sporting event that used to be on the BBC, was televised for a few years by ITV, but is now back on the Beeb.

On day 4 Little and Large explained the treasure was not in the square just to the left of the ornate sculpture in the middle of Television Centre’s circular courtyard.

An entry from the diary of Kenneth Williams supplied us with the clue on day 5, revealing that the treasure was not in the square just to the left of the stairwell by the doors at the far end of the first floor of TV Centre.

On day 6 we learned that the treasure was not to be found in the square that shares its grid reference with the first half of the postcode belonging to the London borough of the Big Breakfast house.

Day 7 presented us with the most complex clue so far. The treasure was not in the square that shared a grid reference with the episode in the second series of A Bit of Fry and Laurie that featured a guest appearance from Paul Eddington. For example, if it appeared in the first show of the second series (which it didn’t), the square we’d cross off the map would be A2 (A= first episode, 2 = second series).

The clue for day 8 was rather more straightforward: the treasure was not in the square that had a clock in it.

On day 9 we discovered the treasure was not in the square whose grid reference could be found by taking the first letter of the surname of Bruce Forsyth’s female assistant during his return stint on the Generation Game, and coupling that with the number of times Brucie has left ITV to work for the BBC.

To get the grid reference for day 10‘s square, we had to take the first letter of the only show Lenny Henry has done that has an exclamation mark in the title, and add that to the number of the Style Council album for which Lenny contributed spoken word vocals.

Finally, on day 11 the clue took the form of a sound clip. The name of the band performing the song in question was also the grid reference we had to cross off the map.

It’s not too late to start playing along. You can download and print off your own TV Cream Puzzle Trail map, either as a jpg or pdf. And keep visiting the site every day for more clues.

Happy puzzling!

These days we’re treated to a new plague panic every six months, but in that blessed era that we’re forced to refer to, rather clumsily, as The LateSeventiesToTheEarlyEighties, there was just the one disease that met all your tabloid shit-stirring needs: Rabies! It was a perfect combination of two longstanding British obsessions: our furry friends, of course, who, please Lord no, could turn against us at any moment in the grip of Hydrophobic mania; and that perennial bugbear, the nefarious Common Market, from whence any incursion of canine dementia to our cosy little island was bound to originate. The spectre of four-legged doom loomed large, a two-headed likeness of Edward Heath and Barbara Woodhouse, with a side-order of those faceless nutters who were planning the Channel Tunnel. The mad fools! Don’t they realise what they’re doing?

And so it was that BBC Scotland dusted off a pulp paperback tale of the UK being swamped by foam flecked mutts, bolted on some spurious ‘public service’ factsheetery, stocked up on replica firearms and taxidermists’ castoffs, and hit the most picturesque filming locations the country had to offer (oh, and East Kilbride shopping centre) for a three-part thriller packed with rural fido-busting intrigue. The titles set both the bleak scene and the trite tone, as a spooked-up rendition of All Things Bright and Beautiful steadily fell out of tune to the menacing accompaniment of wobbly floating fox heads. Brr. It’s time for the squeamish, and indeed lovers of subtle drama, to go to bed.

The plot is as inexorable as it is corny. A pampered puss is smuggled into Scotland after losing a continental smackdown with a fox. That can’t be good. Soon enough the indigenous wildlife are affected, one of them taken in by bow-tied businessman ED BISHOP, who makes the fatal error of petting a stricken fox after suffering that most middle class of injuries, a cut finger while slicing lemons for the gin and tonic. Then, after a car-bound altercation with a puppet fox that no amount of rapid-fire editing can save, the hallucinating Bishop crashes into a combine harvester and ends up in intensive care, where he has a series of feverish water-based nightmares to a Yamaha DX7 soundtrack that sounds more hopelessly dated with every chord, before mercifully carking it.

But it doesn’t stop there, as, post-infection, the randy Ed had nibbled a chunk out of his secretary in the passionate throes of the first episode’s obligatory “something for the dads” saucy interlude. The virus is spreading, and it’s up to the singularly bland male and female scientific leads (helped and hindered by the ace PAUL BROOKE as a meddling government busybody) to help the army and a rag-bag of tooled-up volunteers to resist the inexorable march of the dribblesome pooch. The ensuing woodland cull of ketchup-filled papier mache hounds isn’t made any easier by a confused young girl on the loose, and BRENDA BRUCE as a sweet old animal loving dear who turns out to be off her rocker in a frankly most unhelpful way.

The serious intent behind the programme is clear enough (a phalanx of medical advisors were called in to give the script their twopenn’orth), and its mixture of sinister goings-on in a malevolent, terror-concealing countryside with bouts of impressionistically shot dog-on-human action (oh, do stop it, Aggers) are effective in a very “of their time and place” way, a sort of cross between a Public Information Film and an early James Herbert novel. But in between those bits, ponderous scene upon ponderous scene of men chatting expositorially on telephones builds up into a wall of boredom, and, as ever with this sort of “nationwide” drama, it’s impossible to give two hoots about any of the hazily sketched victims of the bitch-borne plague, though Bruce’s dotty turn is at least intentionally funny. But even the best production couldn’t have got over the bitty, characterless nature of this sort of story, to which a telly adaptation does absolutely no favours. It’s probably a mercy, then, that the disease panic genre began and ended here, meaning the follow up likes of The Herpes Factor and Day of the Dropsy spread no further than a commissioning editor’s in-tray.

There’s an aural clue to the identity of today’s Puzzle Trail square. Though it’s one that does not, sadly, involve a guitar-wielding Derek Griffiths*.

Rather, the name of the band performing the particularly fine pop song that you can hear in the sound clip below is also the grid reference you need to cross off your map. Simple as that.

CLUE 11

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*Still, it’s a nice photograph, isn’t it?

WRETCHED SMALL-SCREEN half-sibling of HEIDI. Similarly badly-dubbed, similarly never-ending and similarly peopled-by-ugly-kids “fable” dealing with the plight of the titular dirty-faced tinker (PATRICK BACH), one of those Romany circus-boy types who only seem to exist in Enid Blyton books or foreign imports. Convinced his mother is a famous trapeze artist (naturally), Silas first tames, then steals, a black horse from his farmer master. Befriending a couple of other kids (Godik and Jenny) and fleeing from the evil “Shrew”, he proceeds to embark upon a series of smuggler-thwarting adventures only slightly shorter in duration than the 100 Years War and just as depressing. Sappy denouement, with Silas adopted by a rich family, bizarrely deflected by the return of Godik (on a grey horse) and the pair, erm, riding off into the sunset.

DIRTY-FACED FEISTY POWS of the fairer sex see out the Second World War in an internment camp in Malaya. The key word there being ‘camp’. Banding together under the de facto leadership of ANN BELL were rape victim STEPHANIE BEACHAM, doctor STEPHANIE COLE, nurses CLAIRE OBERMAN and JEANANNE CROWLEY and tottering old academic JEAN ANDERSON. Legendary BURT KWOUK was a camp commandant, the key word there being… oh, you get the idea. Stirring stuff and, once Michael Grade had sniffed out some post-SONGS OF PRAISE potential, a weekend hit. Last series offered up a multitude of baked bean endings by virtue of concentrating on that old dramatic stalwart, Life After Wartime, i.e. reunions with lost loves, arguments with other people’s lost loves, fights over lost loves, and lost loves staying positively lost through the small matter of, well, death. Lousy “reunion” finale in 1985 was set in 1950 and took the form of – erk – a murder mystery. At least nobody saw it coming. Unlike the end of the war.

LIKE CAIN AND ABLE, Aaron Spelling and Glen Larson engaged in a battle royal throughout the 80s as to who could rustle up the biggest slabs of preposterous prime time palaver. Here’s Aaron fighting back after a nearby alphabetical resurgence from Glen (see MANIMAL and MASQUERADE), courtesy of the poor man’s TOM SELLECK, LEE HORSLEY, a wealthy idler who rounds up criminals in his spare time, aided if not abetted by PAMELA “PRINCESS ARDALA” HENSLEY, a smart computer called Baby, requisite Italian American loudmouth Vince Novelli (JOHN APREA) and his uncle Roy. Having his own helicopter inevitably meant one-in-the-eye for dopey old footsolidering felons, every bloody week.

A PROGRAMME as old as ITV itself – nearly. The first instalment of this resolutely ruralcrat-oriented programme turned up at 10.20pm on the second ever evening of ITV broadcasts, hosted by LESLIE PERRINS (“In this first programme we see, among other things how radio-active materials are being used to help farmers”). Most well-known, however, was the early-evening fifteen minuter hosted by JACK HARGREAVES who went “out and about for thois rural craft series” with little or no impact, unwittingly providing the template for The Fast Show’s Bob Fleming (“And we’ll be taking a good long look at a lovely collection of old keys. That promises to be a real treat, don’t it?”) To wit: “Jack Hargreaves is the true countryman who knows and loves rural life in all its moods and aspects…from a sunset to a sailing boat, from a rare bird song to the crack of a shotgun. Each week, he shares his own deep knowledge and country happiness.” Popularly believed to have been ‘under the influence’ on several programmes, there were stories about him looking distracted as if someone off-camera were waving furiously to prevent him saying something embarrassing. Smoked a pipe, and wore a tweed hat with fishing flies all over it. For OLD COUNTRY, he moved to C4 to present a weekly rural diary “from beautiful Hardy country”. Topics included Downland Cattle Breeds and Cutting Up a Pig.

The hook for today’s Puzzle Trail square is the only person who’s successfully appeared on both Comic Relief and Newsnight*.

It’s Lenworth Henry: erstwhile funnyman and the first black person Middle England ever saw on television; now just a man. Who does a bit of Shakespeare.

He’s broken off from munching on a entr’acte snack to supply us with the tenth of our Puzzle Trail clues:

CLUE 10

To get the grid reference of the square you should cross off the map, take the first letter of the only show Lenny’s done that has an exclamation mark in the title, and add that to the number of the Style Council album for which Lenny contributed spoken word vocals.

Read clue 9

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*By walking from one studio to the other during a live broadcast.

The hook for today’s Puzzle Trail square is the man who’s crossed more channels than P&O.

Having ably demonstrated in that Channel 4 documentary on Wednesday that he’s still fully compos mentis (unlike the rest of Channel 4, which is full of compost mentis), we turn to Brucie for the ninth of our Puzzle Trail clues.

CLUE 9

To get today’s grid reference, take the first letter of the surname of Brucie’s female assistant during his return stint on the Generation Game, then couple that with the number of times Brucie has left ITV to work for the BBC. And once you’ve done that, we’ll see you in the bar for a drink afterwards.

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A celebration of London and friendship gets off to a slow, stiff-upper-lipped start in this early eighties screen adaptation of Helene Hanff’s novel of the same name. This is a true story of an enduring relationship between book-hungry single New York woman Hanff (Anne Bancroft) and a shopkeeper who presides over Marks & Co in Charing Cross Road (Anthony Hopkins as a reticent F.P. Doel). As their friendship develops, Doel and later his family and staff, come to rely on the generous New Yorker who sends them food supplies during the forties ration era.

Hanff’s acerbic wit and lack of deference for popular English editing is a breath of fresh air to Doel who finds himself going out of his way to procure her increasing demands for rare editions of books she semi-scurrilously finds impossible to locate in New York. Lots of nice cross-referencing of staid wordless marital dinners between Hopkins and wife Nora (Judi Dench) with Bancroft’s friendly and lively lunches in Manhattan delis serve to delineate their lives. Bancroft sends food parcels to the staff at Marks & Co where the reception to such indulgence is one of excitement except with one employee’s elderly aunt who screws her nose up at the idea of air mail meat. Bancroft’s smitten with her Brief Encounter (she’s seen cooing over the film) mental picture of England and Marks & Co are inadvertently happy to indulge her. (‘They say you see the London you want to see.’)

Time rattles on. The forties bloom into the fifties and then dive full throttle into the sixties (Bancroft is watching herself on the news being lifted and bundled into a van at a Civil rights protest just before she learns of Doel’s death). She never did make it over during his lifetime (the clue is there in the first scene as she edges gingerly into a long-deserted bookshop) but the protracted nature of their correspondence touches a handful of lives in a meaningful way and you ‘re left contemplating that this friendship endured perhaps because of the remoteness, and in any case was no less profound through mutual invisibility.

Initially, the person set to reveal today’s grid reference of a square on our map in which the TV Cream Puzzle Trail treasure is not hidden had a few reservations.

Or, in his own words, “attacks of fright in plenty did I have”.

He eventually agreed to present the clue as long as he could spend the preceding night in a tent on a deserted Yorkshire hillside with six girls as “bodyguards”.

Ladies and gentlemen, it’s the man who taught himself advanced physics down a mine and who invented the discotheque, Sir Jim’ll Savile:

CLUE 8

“So for me, life gets funnier, stranger, faster, fitter, more flash and just more than ever before. People tell me they wouldn’t like to be in my shoes. By this I am mystified but grateful as my present shoes are a sight more comfortable than my pit boots.

“I was once asked, quite illegally, if I would like to drive a full-size, main-line passenger train, and the driver, lulled by my obvious instant expertise, fell fast asleep in the other seat. The Duchess was totally disbelieving of the whole thing.

“A notice for volunteers in the paper brought well over a hundred young lady applicants. Great and monumental times we have had, the ladies and I. Girls have trimmed and trained me up to Olympics standards. My introduction to the sex act was, looking back, a masterpiece of ignorance and excruciating frustration for my unfortunate partner.

“Anyway, the treasure is not in the square what has the clock in.

“That’s about it folks. We can all do good things on our own, but great things when we enjoy Good Company Of. So, God be with you all. P.S. I hope He really does take it easy on sinners! P.P.S. As it ‘appens!”

Read clue 7

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Dialogue-shunning artistic hotchpotch that took the most unpromising of briefs and created a nostalgia monolith. Commissioned by BBC children’s department head Ursula Eason to jazz up worthy but unremarkable longstanding monthly 15-minute magazine FOR DEAF CHILDREN, producer PATRICK DOWLING slung out the faintly patronising, “does he take sugar?” elements (lots of smiley slow talking to camera), gave presenter PAT KEYSELL a bigger role, and let the visuals do the talking. It wasn’t an overnight revolution, but after a couple of years on air, which saw the recruitment of lanky mime artist and all-round suspenders-wearing adrenaline factory BEN BENISON and laid back paint-and-pastel polymath TONY HART, the newly styled Vision On began to outstrip its meat-and-potatoes educational origins.

By 1970 the format, taking its cue in part from SESAME STREET, had evolved into the familiar loose assemblage of bits of film surrounded by studio business, which comprised a big Tone-based painting, a bit of mime with Benison and Keysell, a running gag (usually involving a contraption created by venerable straw boatered inventor and missing link between Vivian Stanshall and Mike Harding WILF LUNN running amok) and of course that non-returnable vibraphone tinged viewer showcase The Gallery. And, if all else failed, they could always bring on The Woofenpuss: a feather boa being pulled about the set on a string accompanied by a Swanee whistle, which Dowling borrowed from Charlie Cairoli and would recycle on his summer holiday suggestion box WHY DON’T YOU..?

If the studio business was merrily oddball, the film segments punched their way straight into the febrile junior subconscious. The jazzy montage of hand held 16mm abstract shots of buses and manhole covers was easy enough to swallow, and Tone’s alfresco attempts to paint a giant elephant with a football pitch line marker were positively therapeutic stuff, but after that the weirdness mounted. DAVID CLEVELAND’s maniacal Prof put the wind up a few infants when his undercranked demonstrations of bad science ended in stylised self-mutilation. But it was the plethora of cartoon shorts, coming from as near as David Sproxton and Peter Lord’s pre-Aardman set-up just down the road and as far as darkest Czechoslovakia, that played a game of Russian roulette with the vulnerable child’s mind.

Some of it was fine. Humphrey Umbrage, a photo-montage tortoise, served up pure whimsy, and The Burbles, chatty unseen creatures who initially dwelt within a grandfather clock but later moved into tins of paint, were guilty of nothing more mentally wrong-footing than the occasional puzzling half-joke. But what of the poor cubist-headed city gent who was forever harassed by a malevolent cuckoo clock with a penchant for shedding its numbers? Or the bizarre lightbulb-headed pipe cleaner duo Filopat and Patafil? All were soundtracked with some judiciously selected avant garde instrumental workouts, which if anything amplified the sense of inexplicable unease. (Even the off-kilter supper club stylings of Gallery theme Left Bank 2, which went on to become a ready-made signifier of retro-sophisticated tweeness to a generation who weren’t even born when Pat signed her last goodbye, was, in context, an aural incubator of mounting disquiet. Listen to it again, and note its woozy tendency to slip in and out of tune at random. Then imagine an endless row of macaroni acrobats and cotton wool sheep slowly gliding past. See what we mean?) Topping the nightmare stakes was Grogg, an ingenious frog-cum-bug made from the programme’s cursively written title reflected in a mirror, which provided older children with hours of frustration trying to replicate it on pencil cases, and their younger brethren with nights of sleepless horror in anticipation of it coming up the stairs to eat them. See, this is what happens when you unleash the imagination, you impetuous fools!

As the years wore on, Benison left to be replaced by SYLVESTER ‘Sylveste’ MCCOY, who couldn’t compete in the gangliness stakes but made up for it with a nice line in trouserless masochism. Twelve years and plenty of international televisual gongs later, Dowling sensed a format running out of fresh ideas, and canned the ‘On in favour of the marginally less bizarre and much less frenetic Tone showcase TAKE HART, which corrected Vision On’s one major flaw by allowing Tony some proper vocal contact with the viewer at home, thus tapping into a well of breezy avuncularity that would power the children’s department for a quarter of a century. Imperial phase ‘On director CLIVE DOIG, meanwhile, took McCoy and Lunn with him to the fresh pastures of JIGSAW, doing for words what Vision On had done for pictures. All fine stuff, but nothing, save perhaps the odd psychologically progressive schools maths programme, has since come near the levels of faintly sinister queasy confusion that Dowling and gang put out on a weekly basis for nigh on seven years. Please, don’t have Audrey the Dinosaur-shaped nightmares.

A bit like the way Paul Merton always said the same joyless lines to introduce every single edition of Room 101, once again we feel compelled to remind you that TV Cream is in the middle of running its biggest competition yet: a puzzle trail set in Television Centre to find a mysterious valuable object.

Each day a new clue will be posted on the site that reveals the grid reference of a square on our map in which the treasure is not hidden. As the days go by you’ll be able to cross off squares until there are just two left – at which point the final clue will be revealed, and you’ll be in with a chance of winning a slew of prizes, including a complete set of TV Cream tie-in books.

Today’s clue is something of an enormous boon – and we’re always on the look out for enormous boons:

CLUE 7

Here is a shot from a sketch in the second series of A Bit of Fry and Laurie.

Assuming the four series of A Bit of Fry and Laurie are numbered 1, 2, 3 and 4, and the episodes labelled A, B, C and so on in order of transmission, today’s square has the grid reference that matches the episode in which the sketch featured in this photo was broadcast.

For example, if it appeared in the first show of the second series (which it doesn’t), the square you’d cross off the map would be A2 (A = first episode, 2 = second series).

Clue to the clue: it’s from the episode that has “a Paul Eddington in it”.

Now you’ll have to forgive us but we must dash - our wife’s just been towed away.

Read clue 6

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Read clue 1 and download your own TV Cream Puzzle Trail map

Future telly drama overlord ANDREW DAVIES was responsible for unleashing The Worst Girl in the World on an unsuspecting public. Played with perfect bubblegum-popping malevolence by CHARLOTTE COLEMAN, she made her screen debut in , an edition of Thames Television’s children’s play miscellany THEATRE BOX involving a dormobile space shuttle, moustachioed male nuns, a nodding dog and the secret of the universe.

EDUCATING MARMALADE followed in short order, a sitcom that detailed the desperate efforts of her parents (played by JOHN BIRD and LINDA’ LA PLANTE’ MARCHAL/CAROL MACREADY) and education officer Wendy Wooley (ELIZABETH ESTENSEN, who developed an increasingly elaborate nervous tick as the series progressed) to find an educational establishment that could control her. each episode revolving around “hapless” local education authority personages trying to tame her – in one instance dispatching her to the latest establishment inside a nailed-up crate. Marmalade being Marmalade, all such plans were doomed to failure – in her own words, she put herself about, driving everybody potty. Regular parodies of other existing TV shows (always a good sign) featured, eg. “Cringe Hill” and “The Kids From Shame”.

There was a sort of mini-punk sensibility to Marmalade’s disinterested brand of mayhem, reinforced by a Bad Manners theme tune. In the second series, DANGER:MARMALADE AT WORK (in which various avenues of employment failed to contain the mop-haired wastrel) Coleman herself belted out a Sid Vicious-style opener (‘Jobs! I’ve had a few/and most of them/were pretty grotty-ah!’) But she’s still firmly in the catapult-twanging tradition of Minnie the Minx et al. ‘Marmalade Atkins, you are EXPELLED!’

As you’ve hopefully gathered by now, TV Cream is in the middle of running its biggest competition yet: a puzzle trail set in Television Centre to find a mysterious valuable object.

Each day a new clue will be posted on the site that reveals the grid reference of a square on our map in which the treasure is not hidden. As the days go by you’ll be able to cross off squares until there are just two left – at which point the final clue will be revealed, and you’ll be in with a chance of winning a slew of prizes, including a complete set of TV Cream tie-in books.

Today’s clue is pretty straightforward:

CLUE 6

Ben the Boffin popped into TV Cream Towers earlier today (he’s developing a computer game for us based on Larry Grayson’s Generation Game).

While he was here he let slip the treasure is not to be found in the square that shares its grid reference with first half of the postcode belonging to the London borough of the Big Breakfast house.

And that’s it.

Read clue 5

Read clue 4

Read clue 3

Read clue 2

Read clue 1 and download your own TV Cream Puzzle Trail map

For the next few weeks TV Cream is running its biggest competition yet: a puzzle trail set in Television Centre to find a mysterious valuable object.

Each day a new clue will be posted on the site that reveals the grid reference of a square on our map in which the treasure is not hidden. As the days go by you’ll be able to cross off squares until there are just two left – at which point the final clue will be revealed, and you’ll be in with a chance of winning a slew of prizes, including a complete set of TV Cream tie-in books.

Today’s clue is in the form of an entry from the diary of Kenneth Williams – an entry, moreover, that has remained unpublished until now, and contains details of an unusually relevant offer of work that Kenny, not unusually, was only too happy to turn down:

CLUE 5

Wednesday, 12 November 1980

Dreared around the flat for a couple of hours. Moment’s panic when I thought I saw your actual spider in the bath, but turned out to be a button off me trousers. O the humiliation! Caught the tube to Television Centre for meeting with the head of Children’s Programmes, a chap in his early 40s who looked disapproving when I did the palare. Shame – he was a nice looking piece. Offered me the most unlikely engagement: the host of a children’s treasure hunt, to be transmitted every afternoon for four weeks in the new year, with me playing all of the parts! Turned him down straightaway. The thought of climbing in and out of costumes at my age – it just shouldn’t be done. Struck, as ever, by all the leeches that live off the British television industry – not that it is an industry, not anymore. But then – a stroke of luck – I bumped into the delightful Roy Castle, by the doors at the end of the first floor, just before the stairwell. I do like Roy. Explained the reason for my visit. “Who’d want to do a treasure hunt round here?” he exclaimed. “Quite,” I agreed. “They’re more used to burying stuff in this place, not digging things up!”

Read clue 4

Read clue 3

Read clue 2

Read clue 1 and download your own TV Cream Puzzle Trail map

For the next few weeks TV Cream is running its biggest competition yet: a puzzle trail set in Television Centre to find a mysterious valuable object.

Each day a new clue will be posted on the site that reveals the grid reference of a square on our map in which the treasure is not hidden. As the days go by you’ll be able to cross off squares until there are just two left – at which point the final clue will be revealed, and you’ll be in with a chance of winning a slew of prizes, including a complete set of TV Cream tie-in books.

Today’s clue is presented by a double act who popped into TVC Towers earlier today, albeit through completely different entrances and in the presence of completely different attorneys.

CLUE 4

- Hello, this is Eddie!

- Hello, this is Syd!

- And we’re here to furnish you with today’s Puzzle Trail clue.

- That’s right.

- Because we’ve got all the answers, haven’t we Syd?

- Well, only one of them, Eddie…

- [interrupting] Talking of answers, here’s a tip for any husbands out there. Remember, sex is not the answer. Sex is the question. YES is the answer!

- Come on Eddie, don’t lower the tone…

- That’s not lowering the tone Syd, if you want to know about lowering the tone, I just read that Ronnie Corbett’s had his pocket picked. Now that’s what I call stooping low!

- I’m sorry ladies and gentlemen, we…

- [interrupting] They named a holiday after my sex life.

- Oh really.

- Yes. It’s called Passover!

- Ladies and gentlemen, today’s clue is quite simple.

- [interrupting] Courtesy of a man who’s quite simple!

- It is this. In the opening titles of our Saturday night BBC1 show, animated versions of Eddie and I would be seen parachuting into Television Centre…

- [interrupting] No expense spared!

- …landing in the middle of the circular courtyard, just to the left of that giant ornate receptacle.

- [interrupting] Or Bill Cotton’s sherry glass, as I prefer to call it.

- The treasure is not in that square.

- And good luck, all of you!

- Now Eddie, what about that offer of a four-week reunion run in Seaton Carew this September?

- Syd, if you’ve got to work for an idiot, you might as well work for yourself. B-bye!

- Goodbye everyone!

Read clue 3

Read clue 2

Read clue 1 and download your own TV Cream Puzzle Trail map

For the next few weeks TV Cream is running its biggest competition yet: a puzzle trail set in Television Centre to find a mysterious valuable object.

Each day a new clue will be posted on the site that reveals the grid reference of a square on our map in which the treasure is not hidden. As the days go by you’ll be able to cross off squares until there are just two left – at which point the final clue will be revealed, and you’ll be in with a chance of winning a slew of prizes, including a complete set of TV Cream tie-in books.

Today’s clue is of a sporting bent, so who better to deliver it than Desmond Lynam, photographed exclusively for TV Cream earlier today.

CLUE 3

“Hello. So you’ve heard there’s a puzzle trail on?

“Well, let me tell you, I don’t know where the treasure is, but I do know it’s not to be found in the square the shares its name with a very prestigious sporting event – one, moreover, that used to be on the BBC year in year out, then went over to the other side, but is now safely back where it belongs.

“Unlike yours truly, but hey, what’s another year?”

Read clue 2

Read clue 1 and download your own TV Cream Puzzle Trail map

For the next few weeks TV Cream is running its biggest competition yet: a puzzle trail set in Television Centre to find a mysterious valuable object.

Each day a new clue will be posted on the site that reveals the grid reference of a square in which the treasure is not hidden. As the days go by you’ll be able to cross off squares until there are just two left – at which point the final clue will be revealed, and you’ll be in with a chance of winning a slew of prizes, including a complete set of TV Cream tie-in books.

Today’s clue comes courtesy of one-time putative controller of Radio 1, BBC Video, the BBC Singers and Annointed Wireless Liaison with Her Majesty The Queen, Simon Bates:

CLUE 2

“Hello loves! I’ve just been on the blower to my old mates Neil and Chris of the Pet Shop Boys. And listen, I can tell you this: the treasure is not in the square that shares its name with a Pets’ single! Now don’t say I never do anything for you, loves!”

Read clue 1 and download your own TV Cream Puzzle Trail map

We’ve lined up a Boyd-sized slice of summer entertainment to run on the site over the next few weeks.

Welcome to TV Cream’s Puzzle Trail: a doff of the hat to Clive Doig’s school holiday staple of the early 80s, but also a salute to the greatest building in the world, which turned 50 last month: BBC Television Centre.

Yup, something of immense importance has gone missing within its hallowed walls.

And it’s up to you to find it.

Here’s how the Puzzle Trail works.

Below you’ll see a grid superimposed on Television Centre. The missing object is in one of its 32 squares.

Each day for the next few weeks, a clue will be posted here on the TVC website revealing details of a square in which the object is not to be found.

This information might be in the form of a riddle, an allusion, or simply (like today) as a bit of gossip.

As the Puzzle Trail unfolds and you solve the clues, you’ll be able to cross off one of the squares each day, until there are just two remaining.

At this point the final clue will be posted on the site. The first person to email the correct location of the missing object will win a TV Cream goody bag containing – at the very least – a copy of every single TVC tie-in book (such as this and this… and even this!).

Details of where to email your answer won’t be given until the day of the final clue.

Along the way, clues will also be given as to the nature of the missing object. There’ll be an additional prize for the first person to correctly guess what the object is.

Anyway, that should all be pretty straightforward. All the clues will stay up here on the site, so if you miss one you’ll be able to check back and find it.

So why not print out your TV Cream Puzzle Trail map (jpg and pdf downloads below) and cross off your first square, because here comes…

CLUE ONE

And it’s the form of a piece of correspondence from host of 1983′s Puzzle Trail adventure The Puzzleton Plans, Howard Stableford:

“Hello Puzzlers. Thought I’d help you get started by dropping you a quick line to say there’s no point looking up on the metal fire escape. I tried to hide up there once from an enraged Bruno Brookes, when he discovered Beat The Teacher had been axed. He thought I’d been dropping words of poison in the ear of the DG. I thought the fire escape was a good place to lie low. Bloody hell, you better believe me when I say that’s the last place to try and keep anything hidden. When I got there I found Paul Jones, Simon Bates and Guy Michelmore already there, having an almighty bitching session! Anyway, good luck with the puzzling!”

DOWNLOAD THE TV CREAM PUZZLE TRAIL MAP:

- as a jpg

- as a pdf

RETINA-INFURIATING Hanna-Barbera live-action mayhem of hazily-yet-vividly-recollected infamy. The objective, as far as anyone can actually make out an objective behind all this, seems to have been to create a cross-platform moneyspinning Nuggets-friendly garage punk band that would appeal as much to sugar-crazed youngsters as to crazy far-out hippies who had ‘seen’ the hidden messages in Walt Disney’s Fantasia, by plonking them in an acid trip-esque shifting kaleidoscopic vista of Saturday morning TV entertainment wherein psychedelic back-projections and Doors-y keyboard runs vied for space with slapstick comedy and lower-rung animation, thereby simultaneously conquering the TV ratings and pop charts, and shifting a couple of boxes of official tie-in breakfast snack Kellog’s Raisin Bran into the bargain. This they hoped to achieve via the cunning innovation of getting the band to dress up in huge cartoony animal costumes.

That line-up in full, then: lisping lolling-tongued cartoon hound Fleagle (guitar), dopey clown-nosed lion-ish Drooper (bass), Mickey Dolenz-resembling vaguely sort of ape-like Bingo (drums), and alarmingly unkempt shaggy creation Snorky (keyboards), whom under a certain light and if the wind was blowing in the right direction could be loosely said to have borne a very slight passing resemblance to something akin to an elephant. Their live action antics were, it has to be said, ever so slightly on the formulaic side – they arrive in psychedelically-decorated clubhouse via chute/bendy fireman’s pole/’Banana Buggy’, Fleagle initiates Banana Splits Club AGM by banging a tremor-occasioning gavel, Drooper attempts to take out ‘trash’ but is defeated by psychotic garbage can, Fleagle attempts to collect mail but is defeated by psychotic mailbox, Snorky gets squashed behind door and momentarily becomes 2D carboard cutout of self, all four withstand sabotage ploys by go-go dancing schoolgirl rivals The Sour Grapes Bunch, audience gets bored by intruding Mariachi irritants The Dilly Sisters, Drooper attempts to play agony aunt and leaves the others head-in-hand via dimwitted corny gag response, assembled company yell “HOLLLLLD THE BUS!” while fleeing recycled Hanna Barbera offcuts, sub-Shadows Of Knight pop-psych numbers play out to footage of the gang larking about in theme parks, talking Moose Head and Cuckoo Clock offer running commentary on whether or not said activities consitute a ‘triple ooch’, and so not particularly varying forth. However, it succeeded by virtue of being rendered in brain-searing cartoon-come-to-life Incense & Peppermints-evoking one-pill-makes-you-larger gaudiness, and by appearing in bitesize portions due to presence of substantial non-Splits interludes.

Widely presumed to be otherwise unsaleable Hanna Barbera misfires that had been sitting around on a shelf for a couple of years, these are all (well, nearly all) now ironically as well-remembered as the Splits themselves. The Arabian Knights brought together the world’s most unlikely collection of freedom fighters – deposed gymnastic type Prince Turhan, equally deposed master of disguise Princess Nida, strongman Raseem, magician Fariek, Bez who apparently had ‘the gift of the beast’ (ie he could transform into, say, an elephant simply by exclaiming “siiiiiiiize of an elephant”), and Zazuum – the hee-hawing happy-go-lucky donkey who with a simple tug on his tail by a hard-of-thinking enemy guard scoffing at the ‘simple beast’ would transform into a whirling wall-demolishing equine whirlwind – to jape-equippedly battle the corrupt Bakaar and ginger-bearded henchman Vangore in Old Baghdad. Slightly more historically accurately – and slightly less entertainingly – The Three Musketeers saw Porthos, Athos and Aramis of literary legend (plus their title-taxing regular cohorts, the expected D’Artagnan and Godzooky-style non-canonical creation Tulee, a precocious brat of indeterminate royal patronage who invariably got told to stay at home with his wooden sword-waving gung-ho derring-do but ended up disobeying everyone and saving the day) foil endless plots to purloin crown jewels and the like, armed only with rapier-like awful puns about the fiends and blaggards they had just knocked over with a barrel (well, that and rapier-like, um, rapiers).

Less often seen, and deservedly so, was Micro Ventures, sci-fact ‘edutainment’ that forgot the ‘tainment’ bit about some family who can miniaturise themselves and their car to enable close-up observation of, and the endless reeling off of unprompted scientific facts about, ‘soldier ants’. And then, in an exciting excursion into rule-proving-exception for the nominally pen’n'ink based Barbera & Co, there was Danger Island. Lavishly directed on location by a then-unknown Richard Donner, this episodic cliffhanging saga charted the attempts of Prof Hayden (Frank Aletter) and inappropriately dressed daughter Leslie (Ronne Troup) to locate his missing explorer brother on a strange uncharted island with mystical powers, helped by their clean-cut diver Link (Jan-Michael Vincent) and stranded seamen Morgan and Chongo (of “uh-oh Chongo!” catchphrase-generation), and hindered by raggedy pirate captain Mu-tan and blue body paint-favouring natives The Skeleton Men.

Memorable fare indeed, for all the right and indeed wrong reasons, but it never quite got Raisin Bran flying off the shelves and the ‘suits’ got nervous. Series two brought with it some desperate streamline-attempting innovations – zany falling-over-on-bumpy-slide title sequence antics to replace the original shots of them miming to the theme song and ‘meeting’ the public; Porthos and company deservedly binned in favour of long-forgotten Hanna-Barbera-on-autopilot creations The Hillbilly Bears; wisecracking puppet gopher with standard-issue wonky teeth; The Splits delivering corny one-liners through a hatch-equipped ‘Joke Wall’; and most conspicuously, the original Snorky outfit replaced by a more urbane and recognisably elephant-esque model – but to no avail. The four oversized cartoony animals barely made it into the seventies – a decade in which the pop charts would look more favourably on human musicians wrapped in luridly-dyed carpet – and barring a best-forgotten attempt at an animated revival, it was all over for Bingo and the boys.

Or at least in America. Over in BBC-land, however, what had failed as a cereal’n'records-flogging gravy train was to prove to have an altogether different kind of cultural staying power. For the Beeb had seemingly paid for about twenty thousand repeat showings as part of their original purchase, and those self-same battered prints – seemingly increasingly washed-out and chopped-down with each successive outing, though always with that original title sequence intact – would occupy the First Thing slot on many an eye-hurting Saturday morning well into the eighties.

Misguided schedule filling attempt to combine wartime nostalgia with nascent video technology which probably doesn’t figure too prominently on GLYNIS BARBER’s CV. The future Makepeace, yet to break out of the ‘bit of fluff’ phase of her career, played the hapless heroine (press kit cliché number one) of the eponymous Daily Mirror cartoon strip, who kept the British end up in its darkest hour (press kit cliché number two) by scampering about for a couple of panels in a frilly negligée, and… er, that was it. Kickstarting the much loved but frankly inexplicable tradition of aimlessly naughty newspaper cartoons, it was Axa without the dense cosmic symbolism, George and Lynne minus the coruscating wit. Nevertheless, in a few short years it became a national institution. Well, there was a war on.

In 1982, there was another war on, and with a wave of jingoistic ‘forty years on’ WWII nostalgia subsequently rippling through the media, it sounded like a bit of a wheeze to run off a little tribute to Jane in the form of a semi-live action recreation of the strip, with captions, panels and on-screen sound effects to boot. So NEIL INNES was hired to pen a wistful crooning paean to “the forces’ favourite”, veteran announcer BOB DANVERS-WALKER provided authentic period narration, and Barber was chosen as a suitably decorative leading lady (press kit cliché number three). The stage was set for a dose of risqué ribaldry with lashings of olde worlde charm (press kit clichés numbers four through six inclusive).

When things got underway, however, it quickly became clear how slight the source material was, even for five ten minute chunks. There’d be a bit of espionage intrigue in a chateau somewhere, Barber would somehow get her clothes torn off and run about a bit in her scanties until the reliable stooge likes of ROBIN BAILEY, MAX WALL or BOB TODD would happen to come through the door, cop an eyeful, and drop their monocles in randy astonishment to the sound of a violin emulating a wolf whistle. It was all good innocent saucy fun!

Or, to put it another way, it was rather dull and vaguely creepy. And not helped by the chosen method of rendering those cartoony backgrounds – or, to be fair, pretty much the only method available at the time – the venerable Colour Separation Overlay. Yep, hairdos buzzed with blueish electricity, rogue shadows fizzled round Glynis’s high heels, and the retinas of the viewing public screamed out for Optrex, or at least ten minutes staring at the wood chip to recover.

At least the background palette was restricted to suitable subdued wartime beiges and browns, leaving the end product slightly more watchable than such eye-watering Day-Glo affairs as CAPTAIN ZEP and JOHN LENNON: A JOURNEY IN THE LIFE. This didn’t mean it was anything other than a sterling technical achievement by the standards of the time. It was highly skilled, painstaking work (from a team led by STEVE ‘TRIPODS’ DREWETT), but never in the history of BBC visual effects had so many laboured for so long to produce something so unimpressive.

Still, it fared reasonably enough in the no man’s land of early evening BBC2 to warrant a sequel, Jane in the Desert, being quietly slipped out with a polite cough two years later, with a more audacious colour palette and a rather more accomplished way of mixing the actors and backgrounds. Then the whole thing was brought to a furtive close, with all concerned agreeing that some nostalgic whimsies are best left as faded sepia-tinted memories. For all of three years, after which JASPER CARROTT and friends turned the damn thing into a feature film, with even more calamitous results. “Oh Colonel, really!”

It’s a desperately tricky business persuading music fans to invest in a copy of a greatest hits collection that contains material not yet proven by commerce to be a hit or by history to be, well, great.

On the other hand, it’s a desperately tricky business persuading music fans to buy hits they already own. Especially if some of them were never that great in the first place.

What, then, are some of the best and worst examples of the dreaded compilation album “bonus track”? Here are eight efforts, with mixed results, each of which we’ve arbitrarily assessed and then, according to whether it’s a hit or a miss, placed either on TV Cream’s long-established (as of a few hours ago) A-list or Eh? list.

ALBUM: All The Best! by Paul McCartney (1987)

BONUS TRACK: Once Upon a Long Ago

UPSIDES: Whenever Paul dipped into his satchel marked “Songs about songs and me singing them”, he usually delivered a winner (Two Of Us, Ebony and Ivory, Maybe I’m Amazed, The Songs We Were Singing etc.). So is the case again here. A slice of mid-tempo melodious wistfulness is matched by some of our kid’s finest lyrics (“Desolate tunes with a lot to say… Making up moods in a minor key, what have those tunes got to do with me?”)

DOWNSIDES: Macca seems to lose interest two-thirds of the way through. Just when you think he’s revving up for killer middle eight, he opts instead for a repeat of the chorus with half the lyrics replaced by mumbling and, it has to be said, baby noises (“Nay-nur-pla-pla-plah-wen-han-in-han-ee-ha…”). Thankfully he soon reverses out of this cul-de-sac with an ace guitar solo and a cameo on violin from – hey, it’s the late 80s! – Nigel Kennedy.

A-LIST or EH? LIST: A-LIST

ALBUM: The Best Of: 1980-1990 by U2 (1998)

BONUS TRACK: Sweetest Thing

UPSIDES: It’s only three minutes long.

DOWNSIDES: Jesus!* For a start, it’s not even a “new” song: it’s an old B-side from The Joshua Tree era. Second, the “new” version is actually inferior to the original, being slick and soulless where it was once ragged and earthy. It’s also the same bit of tune over and over again, the pianist cocks up the simplest piano riff in diatonic history, and Bono can’t even think of enough lyrics to take us the full distance, chucking in the towel at 2:45 for the line “Doo doo doo doo,” over and over and over again.

A-LIST or EH? LIST: EH? LIST

ALBUM: The Immaculate Collection by Madonna (1990)

BONUS TRACKS: Justify My Love and Rescue Me

UPSIDES: Well, at least Rescue Me has a chorus you can sing along to.

DOWNSIDES: All the huffing and puffing that went on when Justify My Love’s video was released** helpfully distracted the world from the fact the song was, and is, crap. Nobody wants to hear Madonna reciting dirty beat poetry. She’s a singer! If you want to hear badly-rhymed sex chat, try one of Allen Ginsberg or John Shuttleworth’s “raps”. Rescue Me, meanwhile, seems to have been officially erased from Ms Ciccone’s history, being left off the subsequent Celebration greatest hits package. Which is a shame, as despite yet more pervy muttering (“Ooh! Aah! Ooh! Aah!”), it’s 20 times better than its (literal) bedfellow.

A-LIST or EH? LIST: EH? LIST

ALBUM: Discography by Pet Shop Boys (1992)

BONUS TRACKS: DJ Culture and Was It Worth It?

UPSIDES: “We went into the studio with Brothers In Rhythm to record two hit singles for our greatest hits album,” quoth Neil, to which Chris added, on cue, “Obviously, both were flops”. Chart-wise he’s true (at least compared to the Pets’ previous efforts), but DJ Culture was and is far from a flop artistically. A self-confessed attempt to “do another West End Girls” (mysterious chords, spoken verse, sung chorus), it’s one of the pair’s last great “moody” epics, while the lyrics read like an edition of Saturday Night Clive: the Gulf War, materialism, satellite telly, Oscar Wilde, dancing, Madonna and globetrotting.

DOWNSIDES: Was It Worth It? Nope.

A-LIST or EH? LIST: A-LIST for the sublime DJ Culture, EH? LIST for the awfully dated, awfully twee and, well, just plain awful Was It Worth It?

ALBUM: A Life of Surprises: The Best of Prefab Sprout (1992)

BONUS TRACKS: If You Don’t Love Me, The Sound of Crying

UPSIDES: BY 1992 Paddy McAloon had at least 200 unreleased songs in a box under his bed (he now has 600), so his band were never going to have any trouble supplying additional stuff for their greatest hits album. Suffice to say, both are utterly fantastic. If You Don’t Love Me is the best, containing, from 2:31 to 3:02, a chord sequence telegraphed direct from the gods.

DOWNSIDES: There aren’t any.

A-LIST or EH? LIST: A-LIST

ALBUM: Ladies and Gentlemen: The Best of George Michael (1998)

BONUS TRACKS: Outside and As

UPSIDES: “I’d service the community – but I already have.” What a wag! George didn’t really need anything extra to pep up his greatest hits double-disc set (an album featuring the likes of A Different Corner and Praying For Time is not going to suffer from a dearth of quality), but he did so anyway in the shape of a comedy gay song and a superfluous if well-executed celebrity duet.

DOWNSIDES: That bit at the start of Outside where George sings like Barry White is still, even now, profoundly unsettling.

A-LIST or EH? LIST: A-LIST

ALBUM: Carry On Up the Charts: The Best of The Beautiful South (1994)

BONUS TRACK: One Last Love Song

UPSIDES: The promise of the title, i.e. that this would be the last time Heaton and co wrapped their dreary drink-soaked tonsils around a soppy country-tinged ballad, and instead were about to return to doing songs about sleeping in late, Peter Beardsley and self-immolation.

DOWNSIDES: The fact it turned out not to be true. The “limited edition” version of the album loses more points for featuring an “alternative” recording of Let Love Speak Up Itself with one of those imposter women doing the vocals instead of Paul.

A-LIST or EH? LIST: EH? LIST.

ALBUM: Morrissey Greatest Hits (2008)

BONUS TRACKS: That’s How People Grow Up, All You Need Is Me

UPSIDES: Moz leafing through the lexicon of Dr River Song and deciding to call someone a “sweetie”.

DOWNSIDES: “Reissue, repackage, repackage! Reevaluate the songs! Extra track and a tacky badge!” Yes yes, we all heard Steven Patrick railing against the very notion of the bonus track back in the 1980s when he was good and when he brought to all his records a palpable sense of needing sincerity. But this was the noughties when he was crap and when he brought to all of his records a palpable sense of needing the money. Neither of these efforts are much cop, both recycling the same guitar-led mix of muscle and mincing in which Moz has traded since 1992′s Your Arsenal. Worst of all, though, both of the songs turned up on the studio album Years of Refusal barely 12 months later! A tacky badge would’ve been better.

A-LIST or EH? LIST: EH? LIST

*”Yes?” – Bono

** And that was just the people in the video (SATIRE)

There’s a three-day festival of BBC drama produced by the legendary David Rose that’s taking place at the Midlands Arts Centre (mac) this weekend.

Rose worked out of the English Regions Drama department at Pebble Mill for most of the 1970s and early 80s, and mac are screening a generous range of his efforts across this weekend.

Highlights include a slew of Plays For Today (we think that’s the correct plural), including David Hare’s first film, LICKING HITLER; Mike Leigh’s NUTS IN MAY; Alan Bleasdale’s THE MUSCLE MARKET; and GANGSTERS by Philip Martin, plus stuff from writers including Ian McEwan, Alan Plater and David Rudkin (PENDA’S FEN), and episodes of EMPIRE ROAD, the UK’s first (and last) black soap opera.

David Rose will be attending the event, along with various faces from the time, to introduce screenings and take part in discussions.

Anyway, the mac is on Cannon Hill Park, Edgbaston in Birmingham. To book tickets you can either call 0121 446 3232 or buy online, and there’s full programme information here.