ROGER MOORE tours famous back projection blue screens of the world.
A SUPERLATIVE anthology of hour-long suspenseful playlets about well-tailored middle class types methodically doing each other in, THRILLER was a textbook example...
BILL-BAITING FRIDAY night coppering, focusing on seven wet-behind-the-ears trainee detectives
THE gentle swish of a watercolour paintbrush, the chiming tinkle of an endlessly hummable signature tune
TEA-AND-SLIPPERS SLEUTHERY, best taken over doilies and Darjeeling, if not Lucozade and egg soldiers.
"I SOMETIMES hate this bastard place."
EVER-RELIABLE COURTROOM sparring from JOHN MORTIMER
CRAVAT-SPORTING CREEPERY of the yowser roisterer shafer-me-lad kind.
TOUGH-NOSED, HARD-PERMED, tight-trousered cop shop series which graduated from studio-bound videotaped vaudeville to all-on-film out-and-out shouting.
NOT TO be confused with THE PERSUADERS, THE PURSUERS or, indeed, THE PROTECTORS
TWO "HILARIOUSLY" (hence the exclamation mark) mismatched crimefighters
A MID-MINDER GEORGE COLE (playing, as ever, a shifty shyster) struggles to outwit his caddish titular brother-in-law PETER BOWLES (playing, as ever,...
PART OF London Weekend Television's late eighties foray into upmarket drama
CUE THE pigeons.
ARNIE WIGGINS and a bunch of his urchin mates, soot of cheek and fleet of foot, are taken into the employ of...
THROUGH THE CLOUDS, a shape appears.
BULLMAN AND DIRTY DEN - together at last!
CERTAINLY WERE a hell of a lot of these "Men" about in the old days.
FORGET YOUR WILLY FOGG and DOGTANIAN: this was most definitely the right kind of poorly-dubbed European export.
SPRIGHTLY SPINSTER gets invited to a weekend in the country
SOUTHFORK MAY have been Wogan's favourite Wednesday night residence, but this was his Friday evening fancy and no mistake.
PISTOL-PACKING MASKED MARAUDER who demanded "your money or your life" decision-making from coach-bound rich folk.
JACK WARNER singlehandedly rids England of all known criminals.
DEFINITIVE SMALL-SCREEN sleuthathon saddling JEREMY BRETT, for good or ill (the latter, as it turned out) with the role of a lifetime.
RAGGED STUDIO-BOUND videotape romp through the turn of the century life of the titular royal-bedding ragamuffin
NEITHER YOUR gung-ho RICHARD GREENE nonsense nor your mystical MICHAEL PRAED codswallop
PETER BOWLES, playing himself, retires to the rural west coast of Ireland.
ON-ITS-LAST-LEGS FINAL throw of the dice for the fine folk at Hammer.