Published as It’s A Working Man’s World, Infinity #54, 2022
While my output could hardly be called prodigious, I do take pride in doing proper research and writing well. There’s two lines in this I’m very pleased made it to print. Can you spot them?
Concert chairman: This is a working man’s club, not a place of entertainment.
Concert host: Such a shame for his mother. She wanted a boy.
In a smoky club function room a fat man in a velvet dinner jacket is telling jokes about the act that’s waiting to come on. He’s watched by the concert chairman, who wears a ludicrously oversized flat cap. The house band is crammed in next to the ever-busy bar. Waitresses carry trays laden with keg bitter to the audience, who are resplendent in flared ties and horn-rimmed glasses. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to The Wheeltappers and Shunters Social Club. Affiliated.
Working men’s clubs are a peculiarly British institution. The first ones were founded in the late 19th century by well-meaning if somewhat patronising members of the ruling class. Essentially, they wanted to keep the working classes out of the pubs, and looked at creating a proletariat version of their own gentlemen’s clubs, with an emphasis on “a range of political, educational, or recreational activities”. Over time, the last of these became the primary focus of the clubs, but they weren’t just a place to get relatively cheap (and unadulterated) beer. Clubs offered a wide range of sporting, community and charitable activities. Often catering for specific trades, the first clubs appeared, perhaps surprisingly, in the Midlands and Home Counties, with the Northern industrial areas following slightly later. And since you ask, both wheeltapper and shunter were genuine railway jobs. The wheeltapper would use a long-handled hammer to tap wheels to see if they had cracked, the integrity of the metal determined by the type of ringing the hammer made. A shunter (switcher in the US) moved railway carriages and engines into maintenance areas. So now you know. With the inter-war decline of the music hall, clubs became venues for amateur and professional acts, the club circuit providing many entertainers with a solid grounding in their craft. Reg Varney, Vera Lynn, Tom Jones and Paul Weller all started as club turns. So how did a working men’s club – albeit fictitious – end up on TV?
In 1971 producer Johnnie Hamp was working at Manchester-based Granada Television. Having produced many musical entertainment shows, his thoughts turned to comedy, and specifically to stand up comedians from the Northern club circuit, who he recorded doing their sets in front of a studio audience. Although comedians had been on television for decades, the use of resolutely working-class acts was something of a novelty. What really made the show stand out though was the editing. Hamp discarded the majority of the recorded material, and edited the remaining highlights into a series of rapid jokes, leaving the home audience little time to catch their breath before the next gag appeared. No easy task in the pre-digital days of physical editing. The programme – concisely called The Comedians – was hugely successful and spawned various stage versions. To compensate for the absence of the quick-fire format, Hamp introduced sections set in a circus and a working men’s club. The latter proved to be highly popular, and Hamp started developing a similarly-themed television show.
The Wheeltappers and Shunters Social Club opened its doors to the public in April 1974 and would run for six series. What differentiated it from other variety shows such as Opportunity Knocks was the pretence that we were watching a broadcast from a real club. This wasn’t a new idea, having been tried before in the 1960s BBC show Stars and Garters, which purported to be set in an East End pub. That attempt never convinced, whereas Wheeltappers always feels like the real thing. The set was designed by Tim Farmer to look as authentic as possible, with the audience seated around tables rather than the standard tiered arrangement. A functioning bar was installed, and yes, that’s real beer that the waitresses are dishing out. If you look carefully, you may see a pre-Coronation Street Liz Dawn (Vera Duckworth) carrying trays of pint pots around. The free beer certainly helped the studio audience get into the mood, as did the production of the show itself. The cameras were kept hidden and the usual trappings of television recording – retakes, countdowns and so on – were kept to a minimum. As David Liddiment (later to be ITV’s director of programmes) recalled “You were in a club. It was four walls, it ran uninterrupted, they never stopped”. Further verisimilitude was provided by the notices visible in the background: “Meat Pies 10p. Peas on a saucer 5p” and “No obscene language on ladies nights”. The last is of note. Although the audience contained men and women, full female club membership equality was only formally accepted nationwide in 2007. When the inevitable technical issues arose, compere Bernard Manning would come on and tell some jokes, engage in banter with the chairman or lead the audience in a sing-along.
Ah yes, Bernard Manning. He started singing to entertain his fellow soldiers during National Service, and after demob carved out a career as a singer of sentimental ballads and jazz standards. He provided the vocals for various big bands, including Oscar Rabin’s, and started introducing humour into his compering, gradually moving into stand up. Due to the blue nature of his material he wasn’t a natural choice for television, but under Hamp’s guidance delivered (comparatively) clean jokes on The Comedians. Quickly becoming a favourite of the audiences, he was the obvious candidate to become the Wheeltapper’s host. And he is brilliant. He knows exactly how to work the crowd, sings very nicely indeed and ad-libs wonderfully. Above all, whether he’s introducing a new act or a famous name, Manning exudes a genuine warmth, which may come as a surprise to those who only know him through the venomous criticism of some later performers, who regard him as nothing less than a frilly-shirted Satan.
With the host in place Hamp now needed someone to act as the club chairman. In real clubs the acts would be booked by the entertainment secretary who would also act as chairman on show nights. The role went to another Comedians veteran, Mancunian Colin Crompton, who had been part of a musical comedy double act before becoming a stand up. He’d played the part of a music hall chairman during one of the Comedians stage shows, and as Manning observed “he had that gormless look about him so he was ideal”. Crompton’s chairman was indeed the epitome of gormless. Clad in a baggy suit and absurd flat cap, he sat on his podium among the crowd, watching the acts with slack-jawed indifference. He seemed far more interested in telling the audience about the latest actions of the committee (who passed resolutions with surprising frequency), and would herald these proclamations by ringing a manual fire bell and demanding order. Typical announcements included “We’re buying a new colour telly for the lounge. This time we’re getting a red one”, “There’s too much talking when I’m talking. If you’ve got something to say, wait until the turns are on” and rather brilliantly, during a comic’s act, “Give him a chance please, he’s doing his best. Stop laughing at him”. Club rules were often invoked, with the chairman consulting an enormous volume full of arcane sections and subsections. He’d get the names of the acts wrong and frequently seemed to have no idea who they were. Crompton wrote most of his own material and made a fine foil for Manning, who described him as being to comedy “what Woodbines were to Winston Churchill”. The other regular presence was the resident band, under the musical direction of Derek Hilton.
And why was the chairman so eager to impress on the audience that the Wheeltappers was “affiliated”? The working men’s clubs governing body was, and still is, the Club and Institute Union. Club affiliation to the CIU was a guarantee of certain standards, and more pertinently allowed members to use other affiliated clubs when on holiday.
The show format rarely altered. Each edition would begin with Manning singing, followed by an announcement from the chairman. Then it was time for the acts. Let’s look at the lineup for the first show. It would make sense for the first ever act to be a big name, and so it was that on Saturday 13th of April 1974, The Wheeltappers and Shunters Social Club opened with…The Ukrainian Cossack Brotherhood. These energetic dancers were followed by Lambert and Ross, a comedy act whose material mainly revolved around one of them being a stereotypically camp gay man. Next up was singer Barbara Law, and then the knife-throwing antics of La Vivas. The penultimate act of the evening was the uniquely irritating Freddy Garrity, now performing solo since parting with The Dreamers. The grand finale was provided by “Two Ton” Tessie O’Shea and her banjolele.
Although not the most stellar Wheeltappers lineup the first show contained what would become a typical mixture – or variety if you will – of acts. Future shows would tend to open with a band, some of whom, like Brotherhood of Man, went on to be well known. And some didn’t. Despite Manning’s introductory assurances that they were going to be the next big thing, Aphrodite and the Grecian Kings, In Three Minds and Mother’s Pride never really became famous. But this isn’t a criticism, these were singers and musicians who had day jobs, and would do the club circuit in their spare time. If their fame never extended beyond the occasional appearance on Pebble Mill at One, they were still doing what they loved. To anyone sneering at these artistes and saying “never heard of them”, ask yourself – who the hell’s heard of you?
The other acts would fall into one of three categories. The least commonly-featured were novelty acts, often knife-throwing or balancing, such as The Leeways. The problem with these turns is that the, well, novelty wears off very quickly, and once you’ve seen someone balance a chair on their chin, however initially impressive, there’s nowhere much else to go. The exception was the magic turns, such as the disturbingly-trousered Los Magicos, who did literally have more than one trick up their sleeve. The standout magician was Paul Daniels, who made the first of several appearances in Series 3, Episode 2 (1975). Even this early in his career his star quality shines out, easily placing him in a different league to the surrounding acts. He’d make three more appearances at the Wheeltappers, and went on to be a huge TV star in the 1980s.
Comedy turns always went down well with the audience, and Comedians alumni gaining yet more national exposure included Frank Carson (“It’s the way I tell them”), George Roper (not the one from George and Mildred), Jim Bowen (pre-Bullseye and no mean trumpeter), Mike Burton (Jim Bowen’s scary doppelganger), the ever-sinister Mike Reid and Eddie Flanagan, a sort of Scouse Frank Carson, whom the audience find inexplicably hilarious. There were also early appearances from Bernie Clifton (with a shark rather than his more familiar ostrich), Dustin Gee, and David Copperfield, who is notable in two respects. Firstly, he’s extremely funny, in retrospect being by far the most talented of the Three of a Kind group. Secondly, during cutaway shots you can see Manning laughing at his jokes, and very unusually, the chairman as well, Crompton generally remaining deadpan throughout. Manning occasionally performed some stand up, the chairman claiming that the scheduled act hadn’t turned up.
Double acts included several appearances by a very young-looking Cannon and Ball, who would become massive stars on ITV in the following decade, while their BBC counterparts Little and Large appear in the third edition. Continuing the “straight man tries to sing only to be repeatedly interrupted” template were The Krankies. For those unfamiliar with this duo (who are still performing at time of writing), I’d suggest you look them up, as any description I attempt will be woefully inadequate. The largest comedy group was the excellent Grumbleweeds, who performed the whole second half of their final episode (S4:E6). There are also a few acts who, unfairly it seems, never got the exposure they deserved, such as impressionist Franklyn James (S2:E1). He comes on as Frank Spencer, which was mandatory for all 1970s impressionists, and also takes off Manning and Crompton superbly. Another neglected impressionist is Dave Evans (S2:E5), who not only delivers standard subjects such as Eric Morecambe and Groucho Marx, but ends his act as jazz musician Acker Bilk, singing and playing the clarinet exactly like Acker. That’s impressive in all senses of the word.
The final category is the big celebrities, who would normally occupy the final spot of the night. Though some of the names might surprise modern audiences, these included performers whose careers had peaked some time ago but who carried on working, performing their cabaret acts in clubs and nightspots all over the world. So it was that the Wheeltappers welcomed Johnnie Ray, Frank Ifield, Marty Wilde and as mentioned earlier, Bill Haley. Then you had acts who were still popular. These days jazz is ignored by television producers, save for the annual appearance of Jools Holland, but in the seventies we saw Stéphane Grappelli, Kenny Ball, Terry Lightfoot, Alex Welsh, Helen Shapiro and George Melly (with John Chilton’s Feetwarmers) at the club. Lonnie Donegan was the big name in episode three, although he was in his Southern showtune phase, so no “Rock Island Line” that night. Pianists included Winifred Atwell, complete with her trademark battered upright, Buddy Greco, Russ Conway and Joe “Mister Piano” Henderson. Roger Whittaker appeared twice, singing the wonderful “River Lady” which really should have been a big hit. Howard Keel (between Seven Brides and Dallas) performed a superb cabaret spot, incorporating songs and stories from his career in musicals.
Pop music came in the form of the adenoidal Gene Pitney, The Swinging Blue Jeans, Alvin Stardust (with one very enthusiastic fan in the audience), P.J. Proby (or as the chairman calls him, “Mister Probably”) and Roy Orbison (“Mister Orpington”).
How accurate was this representation of a working men’s club? I asked social historian Dr Ruth Cherrington what she thought. “It was a comedy programme and not a documentary” she says. “What it did was take from common practices in the Clubs (particularly Northern clubs) and focus on them to produce the comedic effect. Many people would recognise something of their own Club in that programme”.
Not all the viewers were happy with the show. Johnnie Hamp remembers a real club chairman who had taken exception to Colin Crompton’s portrayal, and came to the studios to have it out with him. “He came along and met Colin, who was dressed in a very good suit, very smart, and here was this man looking more of a caricature than Colin ever did”.
As mentioned before, the format rarely changed for the first five series, although one episode (S2:E5) was recorded in Blackpool’s Layton Institute, which was of course affiliated. That this looks hardly any different to the rest of the run is a tribute to the studio set designer. This edition also sees Colin Crompton performing his stand up routine, complete with ample hackling from Bernard Manning. There were two New Year’s Eve specials, and 1977 saw the National Club Acts Awards, incorporating the Miss Nightclub beauty show. This involved competition winners performing in front of the usual audience and a panel of celebrity guests, and what an odd mix they were. Julie “Bet Lynch” Goodyear, Alvin “Green Cross Code” Stardust, Timothy “Edward VII” West and Cyril “violent paedophile” Smith. The beauty contest was hosted by Patrick Mower, and for those of you who care the average contestant measurement was 34-23-32. And for some reason Cyril Smith seems decidedly bored by the whole thing.
1977 also saw the final season of The Wheeltappers and Shunters Social Club, with each edition featuring just one act. This had been foreshadowed by The Grumbleweeds and more notably the fifth episode of the previous series, which was given over entirely to The Syd Lawrence Orchestra. In some ways this made for a more satisfying show, with acts able to perform a half-hour set without relying on rabble-rousers to get the audience going. Of course, it depended on whether you liked the act in question, so if a whole set from George Melly, Paul Daniels or The Dubliners wasn’t your thing, you really missed the “there’ll be another act along in a minute” aspect.
When the Wheeltappers club closed its doors for the last time, in many ways its job had been done. It had shown that it was possible to televise variety acts without having them competing against each other. Of course, this sort of programme would soon be deemed uncool, and disappear from our screens until the next century, when The X Factor, Britain’s Got Talent and numerous other clones turned karaoke into a lucrative televised artform. Although the club circuit has been severely diminished, due in part to cheap supermarket drink, the home entertainment revolution and to an extent 2007’s smoking ban, clubs, and the club circuit still exist, as Phoenix Nights ably and affectionately demonstrated.
Bernard Manning’s refusal to compromise his material meant that television appearances became increasingly rare, although he continued to perform live for decades, also running his Embassy Club (there’ll be a full article on this often unfairly maligned comedian in a future issue). Colin Crompton bought and ran a pub in Cheshire, and also had a small role in 1977’s Confessions from a Holiday Camp, the final Confessions… film. If you haven’t seen it, don’t, just imagine how bad it must have been to finish off that deeply depressing series.
Speaking of quality, is it fair to look back at the Wheeltappers and claim it as yet another shining example of a long-lost golden age of television? Not really. Lazy, misplaced nostalgia for “classic” television is commonplace, both online and in print. Just look at the long and ignoble tradition of Doctor Who fans throwing tantrums the moment the show stops looking exactly like it did when they were 10. As the chairman himself says “Some of the turns we get here are bloody rubbish”. Humour is always subjective, but it’s difficult to find anything amusing in acts such as Dave and Amos (my notes for them read simply “shit”), The Alex Sisters (female Charlie Chaplin impersonation, just what we needed) or the boorish Jimmy Jones. Modern viewers may object to the presence of strippers (always in a gag where the commercial break covers the actual stripping) or Bobby Ball and Marti Caine making jokes of varying taste about Pakistani immigration. Although Ray Ellington, The Three Degrees and Charlie Williams all feature, most of the acts are white. Which of course, is hardly surprising in an accurate representation of a typical 1970s working men’s club…
What is very notable is the lack of political humour. Although most clubs were officially politically neutral, many were in traditional Labour heartlands, and indeed the Wheeltappers displays a photo of Harold Wilson, the Labour Prime Minister who took over when Edward Heath’s Conservatives kept losing general elections in 1974. There are some political jokes but they’re benign, consisting of the usual impressions and the chairman phoning 10 Downing Street to try and book turns. Compare and contrast with the one-note vituperative comments on Have I Got News For You and other such light entertainment shows produced by the impartial BBC, whose licence fee is such great value (or so their employees tell us).
As for variety itself, there seems little chance of it returning in any recognisable form. The BBC’s The Good Old Days (which purportedly took place in a Victorian-Edwardian music hall) finished in 1983, and the occasional dancing dog aside, modern talent shows display a palpable lack of, well, variety.
So why not seek out a copy of the series on DVD, since it’s very unlikely to be repeated any time soon. Each edition showcases some great entertainers and you may be surprised at how much fun an evening at the Wheeltappers can be. Rings fire bell. Now give order please, all around the room. There have been complaints about the hotpot. Your committee has passed a resolution to eat some, and bring it up at the next meeting…
I’d like to thank Dr Ruth Cherrington for her assistance with this article, and would highly recommend her book Not Just Beer and Bingo! A Social History of Working Men’s Clubs.