Welcome to my perfumed garden

As you're drifting off to sleep. Last night for - who knows what strange, possibly cosmic reasons - my thoughts turned to a cheap little drama that used to play (constantly, it seemed) on afternoon telly back on the 70's called Doctor Simon Locke.

Why that particular piece of crud nonsense popped into my head I've no idea. I didn't care for it at the time; off school for afternoon 'prep' (ie eating toast, watching Crown Court and Houseparty) you'd switch on the telly to find bleedin Doctor Simon bloody Locke. Even as a twelve year old, I knew it was the most awful arse.

But thinking leads to Googling and there it is on imdb with some deply amusing anecdotes.
The budget was so low that the company couldn't afford trailers for the cast, who had to change clothes in the bushes.
Jack Albertson was so disgusted at the cheap, slipshod way this show was produced that he actually pulled out of it halfway into its first season, after seeing a particularly bad set of rushes. Reminded that he still had a contract, he said, "After what I just saw up there, no jury in the world would convict me." He received his release shortly thereafter.

And now I want to cue the helicopter, cue the big shiny light, cue the man on the ground, shielding his eyes, cue the shout; 'Doc-tor... Simon Locke?!'  Cue the boomy trumpet music. Funny how even bad TV memories can make you smile. (o:

I have too much time on my hands, don't I? ::exits in search of coffee and toast::