TV Heaven And Hell

You have to hand it to Les Dennis.
A controversial opening to a column if ever there was one, as most people would vociferously argue that, on the contrary, you don t have to hand it to him at all. Nevertheless, I hand it to Les Dennis anyway, and not just out of divilment because it ain t the done thing. No, my sneaking regard for Les has been cultivated over a vast number of years, to such an extent that I am now happy to emerge from the closet as a fully paid-up, card carrying member of the Les Dennis fan club. If you ask me, men everywhere could learn a lot about dignity from Les.
My admiration for Les crept up on me shortly after Les did. I was just a kid, he appeared on telly on Saturday nights doing a passable impersonation of Mavis from Coronation Street and that was good enough for me. He made me laugh. I liked him. Years passed, I grew up and Les was still on the telly on Saturday nights, still doing passable impersonations of Mavis from Coronation Street. One day, it occurred to me that he wasn t really funny at all. He was, in fact, a bit of a prat.
Then nothing. Les moved out of the spotlight and I didn t give him a second thought. He d clearly had his 15 minutes and was doomed to spend the rest of his days starring opposite Michaela Strachan in a low rent production of Jack & The Beanstalk at Grimsby Town Hall. If only. It transpired that things were at a lower ebb. Imagine my surprise when, one day as I was compiling the comedy listings for hotpress, I came across a fax advertising a live performance by Les Dennis at The Red Cow Inn. I was agog. As press releases go it was very low key: no fancy fonts, no colour, no screaming headlines, no ringing endorsements by the critics just a couple of neatly typed dates on a white sheet of A4 followed by the name Les Dennis. My scream was nothing if not primal: Say it ain t so, Les! Say it ain t so!
Then things seemed to pick up for Les. There was that white trash game show on Saturdays that nobody ever watches but everybody seems to know about. I saw it one night, and admired the manner in which Les managed to knock a bit of crack out of the families involved without patronising them in the slightest. He was genuinely having fun, but not at their expense. He further endeared himself to me with a guest appearance on a Reeves and Mortimer spoof fly-on-the-nightclub-wall documentary, in which he played himself, Les Dennis: chirpy former TV personality. I remember being pleased for Les, happy that he was able to see the funny side and comport himself with such heartwarming dignity. Little did I know that he neither deserved or required my pity. Little did I know that he was married to Amanda Holden.
Many years his junior and the object of countless male fantasies, this ravishing actress had obviously seen the same endearing qualities in Les that I had and subsequently decided to jump his bones. Suddenly it all made sense. She was the reason Les kept smiling, she was the reason behind the omnipresent twinkle in Les eye.
Unfortunately, this discovery on my part coincided with the news that Les wasn t the only member of this blessed union who was playing away from home. It transpired that he had been very publicly cuckolded by a notorious showbiz love rat. Surely, this humiliation would spell the end for Les.
Not a bit of it. Recently as I dozed in front of the goggler, I was startled by the strange noise accompanying the introduction of Les and Amanda onto the stage at the National Television Awards. It was the muffled sound of hundreds of television folk attempting to clap while simultaneously laughing up their sleeves. Fair play to you Les, I thought to myself at the time. I don t know what award you re presenting but I really hope Neil Morrissey wins it if only to see what happens next.
Sadly, the love rat was ineligible, as the gong was for Best Daytime Television Programme, as voted by the unemployed, the infirm, the bewildered and other multi-cellular organisms that drool. When Les and Amanda opened the envelope and announced This Morning With Richard & Judy as the winner, the irony was lost on nobody. Finally, the heat was off Les.
As she made her way to the podium, the look of surprise and unfettered joy on Judy Finnigan s face was one of utter vindication. You could almost read her mind: This is it! Richard and I have finally got our gong. Nobody will ever make fun of us again. There ll be no more snide shoplifting gags, no more alcoholic slurs and cynical asides about my health problems. We have taken our place in the pantheon of small screen gods. Never again will anyone ever look at Richard and Judy again and think What a big pair of tits! .
Mammaries are made of this.