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...
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.
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...
PUNNING TITLE and YES, MINISTER-type theme concealed ultra gentle aristocom
TRASHY HYBRID of Raiders Of The Lost Ark and The Maltese Falcon
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
GEORGE COLE aka Arthur Daley (sheepskin coat, cigar, hat, jewellery, 'er indoors, "nice little earner", "world is your lobster, my son") and...
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.
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.