You thought On The Buses was crass and obvious? You thought Don't Wait Up was smug and bourgeois? You thought Up The Elephant And Down The Castle was knuckle-chewingly embarrassing?
You ain't seen Don't Tell Father. Nothing in the history of British sitcom can prepare you for the electric combination of blandness, incompetence and abject tedium on display. Tony Britton shouts a lot. Caroline Quentin sulks. Some fat bloke looks uncomfortable. And Susan Hampshire does nothing. For 30 minutes. In every episode.
It's like a Beckett play adapted for TV by a small piece of cheese. But not that good. I had a sinus operation that was more fun. Everyone connected with this disaster should be drowned in sacks.
Televisual pus.
You ain't seen Don't Tell Father. Nothing in the history of British sitcom can prepare you for the electric combination of blandness, incompetence and abject tedium on display. Tony Britton shouts a lot. Caroline Quentin sulks. Some fat bloke looks uncomfortable. And Susan Hampshire does nothing. For 30 minutes. In every episode.
It's like a Beckett play adapted for TV by a small piece of cheese. But not that good. I had a sinus operation that was more fun. Everyone connected with this disaster should be drowned in sacks.
Televisual pus.
