Two decades ago I met Ray Galton and Alan Simpson for a pint, listening in wonder as the legendary scriptwriting duo reminisced about Hancock, Steptoe and London living. Grab a beer and come join us.
This pair were writing geniuses. I recall the Hancock where he was being persecuted and put down by some strange unknown letter writer that turned out to be Hancock. Steptoe was almost too good, Shakespearean stuff. Sorry, I gush.
I’ve no quarrel with celebrating Galton and Simpson — they broke new ground and changed British comedy forever. But I think we do them (and Hancock) a disservice when we turn the story into sentimental folklore.
They didn’t “invent” Hancock. They wrote for him, yes, but what made it work was his performance — the insecurity, the wounded pride, the timing that turned half-decent dialogue into art. Without Hancock, Sid James and Bill Kerr grounding him, much of that writing would have stayed where it began: clever ideas, unevenly built.
Galton and Simpson were pioneers, but pioneers aren’t necessarily masters. Their work was often raw, even amateurish, and it was the actors who carried it into legend. Hancock wasn’t a passenger in their creation — he was the engine.
We can admire their innovation without pretending their polish matched their ambition. The miracle of Hancock’s Half Hour isn’t that two young writers invented something perfect — it’s that imperfection, in the right hands, became genius.
This pair were writing geniuses. I recall the Hancock where he was being persecuted and put down by some strange unknown letter writer that turned out to be Hancock. Steptoe was almost too good, Shakespearean stuff. Sorry, I gush.
Not at all. I agree completely.
I’ve no quarrel with celebrating Galton and Simpson — they broke new ground and changed British comedy forever. But I think we do them (and Hancock) a disservice when we turn the story into sentimental folklore.
They didn’t “invent” Hancock. They wrote for him, yes, but what made it work was his performance — the insecurity, the wounded pride, the timing that turned half-decent dialogue into art. Without Hancock, Sid James and Bill Kerr grounding him, much of that writing would have stayed where it began: clever ideas, unevenly built.
Galton and Simpson were pioneers, but pioneers aren’t necessarily masters. Their work was often raw, even amateurish, and it was the actors who carried it into legend. Hancock wasn’t a passenger in their creation — he was the engine.
We can admire their innovation without pretending their polish matched their ambition. The miracle of Hancock’s Half Hour isn’t that two young writers invented something perfect — it’s that imperfection, in the right hands, became genius.