Melvyn Bragg, Angela Rippon and more celebrate 100 years of history through Radio Times covers

100 years of history through Radio Times covers

Melvyn Bragg

1936: Birth of television

The Radio Times cover of 23rd October 1936 by British illustrator Eric Fraser was brilliant and beautiful, but it was also momentous, marking the first ever television programming by the BBC.

It is impossible to overestimate the impact that television has had on the lives of most people on the planet. In 1936, it must have seemed to have come out of the blue, to be a sort of unattainable fantasy dreamed up by Aldous Huxley or George Orwell. But it was, in fact – to use a valid cliché – a window to the world for the world. Never had so many seen so much, so often.

That striking cover heralded a new age, not only in communication and understanding of world events but also in the richness of exchanges of culture. Television equals the invention of the stage as a cultural phenomenon and, in terms of audiences, it way exceeds it. Young people who could not make their way into the more established arts found an open door in television, an industry whose reach had a profound influence on our lives.

The beauty of television is its democracy, as well as its power to communicate. All you need to do is press a switch and you can be in a war zone, at a great cultural gathering, at a football match, on a march – you can be in the smallest place or the biggest place in the world. It has been a massive educator, both consciously and unconsciously. It has entertained people whose lives were bereft of quality entertainment. It has provided conversations in pubs, arguments in public and great political statements.

What an experience it is to have seen it develop in such a way. Television has given us access to lives and experiences we would never have known about, and brought the world into the corner of our rooms. My hunch is that there will never again be anything as profoundly moving and influential in the area of communication.

Dan Snow

1939: Second World War

When the Second World War broke out, there was real fear of imminent bombing raids by the Germans. This Radio Times cover showing Broadcasting House in the centre of London, flying the Union flag and with the slogan “Broadcasting carries on”, directly addressed those fears. It offered an image of permanence, that idea of a national broadcaster and institution standing firm.

By 1939, broadcasting had become central in social life in Britain, so the message of this cover was vital: the BBC will still have that central place in public discourse. The programming will change, the point of it perhaps will change, but you’ll be able to listen to trusted news, foreign and domestic. You may learn tips on building bomb shelters, or how to behave during a raid – advice that will actually keep you alive.

It was clear that the government would use broadcasting as a tool of social control, propaganda, with information about air raids and about the threat of invasion. If the Germans were to invade Britain, the public service radio would be vital in giving people instructions.

The BBC played its part in the great moments of the Second World War. We think about the D-Day landings and about broadcasting certain words, certain codes, that would trigger action to resistance networks across Europe. The French Resistance was told that D-Day was coming by a broadcaster, the BBC. But for most Britons it was a place to be informed, a place to escape a little bit. Citizens were sharing a common experience, worried about planes and bombs and shrapnel dropping from the sky and the BBC was a place that reflected that. The BBC came of age in the war.

Jonathan Dimbleby

1953: Coronation

There had never been a day like it. It was a first: millions upon millions of people sitting around small screens to watch their sovereign being crowned in Westminster Abbey on live television. But it very nearly didn’t happen – the television coverage, that is – because a few months before the great day, Buckingham Palace announced that cameras would be banned from the Abbey.

This would have been a relief to me personally. I was nine years old and what little of the five-hour ceremony I watched at home on our black-and-white TV set was incomprehensible and boring. But for my father, Richard Dimbleby, who was to be the BBC commentator in the Abbey, this “No” was devastating. For months he had been part of a huge BBC team planning the most complex broadcast ever attempted.

The prime minister, Winston Churchill, was dead set against this most solemn State occasion being subjected to the vulgar gaze of the masses via a medium he regarded with contempt. The decision seemed final, but the BBC refused to take no for an answer. Supported by the powerful voices in the press, the corporation’s bosses lobbied with all their might and, eventually, the decision was reversed.

Of course, this piled even greater pressure on the BBC and its top commentator to deliver. The coronation had become a make-or-break occasion that would either put television indelibly on the map as a major means of serious communication or leave the corporation’s reputation in tatters. My father’s role would be pivotal.

More than 20 million people in the UK watched the ceremony, many huddled around friends’ TV sets or in cinemas, halls and pubs. And their verdict was unanimous: the broadcast was unforgettable, a total triumph. The critics were bowled over by the overwhelming power of the medium. And, to his great relief, they singled out for lavish praise Richard Dimbleby’s gift for conveying the meaning of the complex pageant.

Afterwards the sale of TV sets rocketed. Before long, the number of viewers sitting in front of the small screen would greatly exceed the number of those tuning into their radios. Television had suddenly come of age.

For the monarchy, this was to prove a mixed blessing. The popular hunger to know and see more, combined with the broadcasters’ urge to pierce the carapace of power and privilege, would expose the nation’s institutions to ever intensifying scrutiny. In our age of transparency and accountability, this hunger is greater than ever: the legacy of that televised coronation, 70 years ago, that almost never was.

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David Hepworth

1963: Beatlemania

You didn’t hear many Beatles tunes on the radio in 1963. “Needletime” agreements with the Musicians’ Union meant actual records were strictly rationed. You were more likely to hear them playing live on Saturday Club with Brian Matthew or running through their old club act on their own radio series, Pop Go the Beatles. When She Loves You or I Want to Hold Your Hand came on, it was frustrating as well as exciting because you were never quite emotionally prepared.

Television loved the Beatles because they were adaptable, wearing straw boaters to sing Moonlight Bay with Morecambe and Wise. They’d just played the Royal Variety Performance, when John Lennon said, “The rest of you, just rattle your jewellery,” the gag that went round the world. This RT cover, with its disembodied heads, a standard way of depicting any group in 1963, marks their time on Juke Box Jury, a perfect vehicle for their four-way banter and opinions they weren’t afraid to share. Paul McCartney said Elvis Presley’s Kiss Me Quick reminded him of Blackpool – a line considered quite provocative at the time.

A week earlier, the funeral of John F Kennedy had been broadcast live all over the world. They said there’d never again be a TV event galvanising such numbers of people.

In February 1964, when the Beatles went to America for the first time, the ratings for their spot on The Ed Sullivan Show put that occasion in the shade. The impact they made in New York was so great that Granada commissioned a documentary to be made about the visit and screened it twice in a week. When the Beatles returned, they immediately started filming A Hard Day’s Night, which was a movie pretending to be a television doc.

That Christmas my sister and I were given With the Beatles. It had to be shared; nobody could afford an entire LP. Uncle Stan predicted I would have forgotten about them by next Christmas. Dear old Uncle Stan, remembered forever for the most unfortunate prediction in history.

Prof Brian Cox

1969: Moon landing

This cover means a lot to me. Aged one year and four months I watched, so my dad always told me, as Apollo 11 lifted off at 9.32 am Eastern Standard Time on 16th July 1969, and headed for a landing four days later on the Sea of Tranquillity. Maybe that’s why I’ve always felt a powerful, emotional attachment to Apollo; maybe that’s why I’m a physicist.

The Apollo program ranks alongside the greatest of human achievements. A commonly quoted figure is that for every $1 spent on Apollo, $7 came back into the US economy over the space of a decade. It was also inspirational, propelling thousands of kids into science and engineering. The average age in Mission Control, Houston in 1969 was 26.

What happened to all those brilliant engineers? They went out into the economy, took the technology and expertise developed for the Moon landings and invented the modern world. The kids they inspired became known as Apollo’s Children; the generation of optimists steeped in possibility. Some of us are still around.

Apollo was about many things. It was about winning a race against the Soviet Union. It was about national pride. It was born out of fear as well as optimism. It was about laying the foundations of American dominance in the late 20th century. It was about economic stimulus. It was about dreams.

I once spent an afternoon interviewing Charlie Duke, the youngest astronaut to walk on the Moon. I asked him why they did it. “It’s the wonder of it all,” he replied. “The beauty of the universe, the orderliness of the universe, you see it with your own eyes and it captures your imagination. Let’s see it, let’s do it and let’s discover it – that’s been the human spirit all along.”

As I look back on this Radio Times cover, it speaks to me not of the past but of the future – a vivid depiction of what we can achieve if we invest in knowledge and people and dreams, and underlines our responsibility to nurture the next generation of Apollo’s Children.

Angela Rippon

1976: Morecambe & Wise

I love this Morecambe and Wise cover – I suspect it’s the only Radio Times cover where you don’t actually see the faces of the people who’ve been photographed. And the thing is, you don’t need to because that is such a famous pose. You’ve just got to look at it and you know immediately who they are.

Dancing with Eric and Ern in the 1976 Christmas special was one of the most fun days I ever had in television. I adored them, they were lovely people. We had just three hours’ rehearsal in total before we went into the studio and performed it. I was given permission to do it by the BBC, but I don’t think any of us at the time had any idea of the effect it would have. I did know that dancing as a newsreader would cause a few ripples, but I think we were all taken aback by how many it did.

We got one of the biggest audiences ever on television, with more than 20 million people tuning in, which, of course, nowadays you just don’t get. It was phenomenal. And, all these years later, people are still saying how brilliant Eric and Ern were. I was just a newsreader and to be performing in the show of the year with those two celebrated comedians was pretty special and remains so. And what’s lovely is that they both remained my good friends for the rest of their lives.

Tony Jordan

1988: Biggest selling magazine

TV in the 1980s seemed to bring everyone together. We were all watching the same thing and they were often reflections of what our own lives looked like. In shows like Only Fools and Horses, Bread and EastEnders, we saw normal, slightly heightened families trying to earn a crust. There were no huge stories, no aliens or stolen babies. These were worlds we understood.

These days, we all watch TV at different times and places. But then, everyone watched a show on the same night, sitting on the sofa. And if you went to work the next day and you hadn’t seen it, you weren’t in the game. It was what everyone was talking about.

Earlier soaps were quite domestic – I remember Ken Barlow’s distaste at the ketchup bottle being left on the dining table was a big story – but EastEnders wanted to be a bit tougher and sharper, taking something from grittier drama. I wrote my first EastEnders cliffhanger in 1989. Michelle and Pauline Fowler were in their kitchen discussing the father of Michelle’s baby: “What’s going to happen when your father finds out?” And Arthur was listening. Duf duf duf!

It was great fun writing to the duf duf dufs. The most famous one I ever wrote was, “You’re not my mother”… “Yes, I am.” Pure pantomime.

What gets me excited is the shared experience of television, and the 1980s was when that was at its strongest. We believed characters in soaps were our friends. Light entertainment figures, too – Bruce Forsyth was the naughty uncle we all had. Des O’Connor was so familiar I felt I was related to him. Now we know celebrities aren’t real stars. I know the soaps aren’t real. I can see the workings, so I no longer feel the magic. But then I did.

David Dimbleby

1997: General Election

This Election was going to mark a sea change in politics. The end of 18 years of Conservative government was in sight and voters of whatever party knew that Election Night would be a moment not to be missed.

1997 was the fifth general election of ten I anchored for the BBC, and the programme had evolved. I remember back in the 1979 election being passed handwritten notes from a producer hidden behind my desk when the results system failed. Nothing like that in 1997.

For each election I anchored, we ran three full rehearsals. The job is to keep the show on the road, describing events as they unfold, recognising candidates, having something to say about each constituency, noticing the different voter patterns across the country, speculating on the complexion of a new government, all the while receiving a stream of instructions, often contradictory, from the control gallery about where to go next.

It’s made much easier by the viewers themselves. On Election Night you know they are on your side, enjoying the spectacle, and forgiving the occasional glitch. Election Night is fun. It is also deadly serious.

Mike Gunton

2001: The Blue Planet

There’s a very famous scene of David Attenborough in Life on Earth, where he comes out of the water, and it’s rather like James Bond, with his snorkel and mask, talking about coral reefs. He’s always been interested in the marine world. But The Blue Planet marked something different.

Up until then everything we had shot at the Natural History Unit had been on film. The trouble with using film under water is that cameras have to go into a housing with only a ten-minute run, so it was very limited in what you could do. When video came, you could stick a one-hour tape in and stay down there, take more risks, have more adventures and do a whole series about just one habitat. To go to the bottom of the ocean or be there when killer whales are coming up the beach grabbing seals… that’s something very few of us will ever [otherwise] do or see. It’s a magical portal.

The series went global. Suddenly everybody wanted a piece of David. It was huge in America, although they replaced his voice with Sigourney Weaver’s – something we’ve always been rather upset about. It’s funny, isn’t it? Unimaginable today. He’s almost a quasi-god now. To think, I met him when I was in my 20s and he was talking about retiring. Now I’m getting close to retirement age and he’s still going!

More than 12 million in the UK watched. It transmitted the weekend of 9/11 when there was nothing on the television except bad news. It was a magical shot in the arm for everyone; you could revel in the wonders of the natural world. It established natural history shows as doing more than just being reports of nature; they did something to people’s psyche, their wellbeing, their sense of the planet.

Read more:

• 10 Radio Times covers from key moments in history
• Justin Webb on how his grandfather became the first Radio Times editor

Sebastian Coe

2012: London Olympics

Nothing, no matter how well packaged, can beat live sport. But the quality of TV and radio coverage was critical to the success of the London 2012 Olympics. The greatest sporting moments are watched on television or listened to on radio; they bring people together to experience and share the action.

There is no better feeling than being in the stadium. The advancement of television sometimes makes it the best option for the casual fan while, with radio, it’s all about the presenters. Being trusted to bring all the action from an event to a listener is a supreme honour and we have exceptionally talented commentators who I still listen to, even if I can watch sport live.

The biggest challenge of covering the Games was the huge amount of sport on offer. Time zones are always difficult for overseas fans wanting to see their teams compete. For many in 2012, they were tuning in throughout the night in their country or in the very early hours of the morning.

When I look back at London 2012, what comes to my mind’s eye are the volunteers. They were from all walks of life, many taking unpaid leave to take part, which was humbling. And I think of all the people who stopped me in the Olympic Park, on the street and on the Tube to say thank you. They still do. It reminds me of the positive impact the Games had on so many people.

Even if you sell all the tickets, there’s a nagging feeling that people may not turn up. Our athletics venue had the largest volume of tickets to sell across multiple days and sessions. I was in Weymouth with Jacques Rogge, the then-IOC president, waiting for the sailing to start. I turned on the BBC to see what crowd we had at the Olympic Stadium for the first morning of athletics and watched the BBC pan across a completely full stadium. That was a great moment.

Simon Schama

2020: Covid pandemic

I was in the US during the pandemic and watched from afar on BBC World. I was very moved by the empty streets and the rallying of applause for the NHS. The BBC still has a huge amount of credibility, and that’s the kind of authority one needs in a health crisis like Covid.

In the US, mainstream TV is declining. Ours in Britain is much more centralised and less fractured in terms of cultures and attentiveness. We are much less instinctively hostile to being told what might be good for us, providing we trust the authorities. Yes, there were occasional unintended comic elements of those Government press performances, but the two scientific advisors Chris Whitty and Jonathan Van-Tam seemed to us trustworthy, wise and reliable.

Americans had television conferences where Trump himself undermined the authority of science, saying bleach will take care of it.

The web can be an echo chamber for whatever madness you happen to subscribe to. If you really believe that Bill Gates invented vaccines to insert a chip into your body, you can find many people out there who agree with you. The diverse arms of the chartered BBC are an essential bastion against that. It’s attacked on a weekly basis, but it still stands and is worth defending. The pandemic was proof of this. The BBC’s transmitted culture of our shared challenge was very strong. When the BBC champions the NHS – and Radio Times puts it on the cover – it brings people together.

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