The Goons

Comedy during the latter half of the twentieth century would have lacked considerable wit absent the Goons. Their profound effect on the field of humor remains impossible to overstate. Absent their example, neither Monty Python's Flying Circus nor National Lampoon, Saturday Night Live, South Park, nor countless later programs would have emerged, diminishing the supply of laughter available to audiences much as dying embers fade on a spent log. Performers unfamiliar with the Goons—even those so uninitiated that they remain unaware of the source—continue to echo the troupe indirectly by borrowing from others who themselves borrowed from the original. Cheech & Chong could plausibly have observed, “Oops, somebody ripped off the thing I ripped off,” when not acknowledging the Goons for their tactic of recasting themselves repeatedly as one preposterous figure after another. The Goon Show episodes have retained their appeal across generations, prompting numerous overlapping and characteristically goony compact-disc reissue campaigns that now total dozens of titles. In a period when many comedians apply fewer restraints and material grows increasingly explicit, the Goons managed to deliver their most daring sketches past the scrutiny of the British Broadcasting Corporation’s conservative oversight. The principal cast members—Spike Milligan, Peter Sellers, and Harry Secombe—demonstrated that comedy need not rely on vulgarity to succeed; each brought multiple skills to bear in every sketch. Across 202 installments the series followed the misadventures of Neddie Seagoon, Major Dennis Bloodnock, Henry Crun, Minnie Bannister, Hercules Grytpipe-Thynne, Bluebottle, Eccles, and an array of supporting figures. With the complete run now available on compact discs, listeners can readily join expeditions that involve scaling the under-sea Mount Fred, retrieving Napoleon’s Piano, halting the Dreaded Lurgi, dispatching the Jet-Propelled Guided Naffi, or unraveling the Whistling Spy Enigma. The program took shape while Britain was still convalescing from the traumas of World War II, at a moment when segments of the populace feared laughter might never return. Early on, the working title “The Crazy People” was considered but ultimately set aside, although the sketch-based format remained constant from the outset. Most historians of the series agree that its distinctive character crystallized during the third series, which began airing toward the close of 1952. Producer Peter Eton urged Milligan, whose imagination operated without limits, to construct an entire episode around a single premise; the result was “Fred of the Islands.” The journey continued until “The Last Smoking Seagoon,” the concluding episode aired in early 1960. Scripts increasingly involved contributions from Eric Sykes, Larry Stephens, John Antrobus, and Maurice Wiltshire, several of whom were recruited to ease the burden on Milligan, a brilliant yet volatile talent who periodically required rest in a sanatorium. When Milligan could not appear, his roles were assumed by Dick Emery, Graham Stark, or Valentine Dyall. Appreciation of British comedy traditions enhances enjoyment of the material, which, however innovative, drew deeply from the madcap Ealing studio films that had earlier shaped Sellers alongside comic masters such as Alec Guinness, Alastair Sim, and Robert Morley. Sellers modeled his Hercules Grytpype-Thynne—a refined, supercilious type later labeled an “upper-class twit” by Monty Python—on the veteran actor George Sanders, renowned for portraying the smooth rogue until he took his own life and left a note reading simply, “I’m bored.” The Goons repeatedly mined Britain’s comic heritage, lampooning military life, aristocratic pretensions, and national history; one of their sharpest targets was Robin Hood and His Merry Men. Sound effects formed a vital component of every broadcast, and Milligan together with his colleagues effectively commandeered the BBC’s facilities for their experiments. Earlier remarks on censorship should not suggest the troupe encountered no resistance from network executives. Certain passages that provoked strong reactions at the time can now be deciphered only by listeners versed in period slang. During the war, for instance, “Hampton” served as Cockney rhyming slang for the male anatomy via “Hampton Wick.” Secombe once opened an episode by announcing it had been produced “in conjunction with Captain Hugh Jampton,” nearly triggering cancellation. Measured against the content routinely heard on South Park, the line appears tame; nevertheless, the Goons’ Bluebottle—a flimsy Boy Scout cutout who routinely meets his end—clearly prefigured Kenny from that later series. Many of the vocal techniques Sellers later perfected on screen, among them eccentric Bengali accents and rapid shifts among multiple characters, were first honed on the program. Although Sellers and Milligan sometimes eclipsed Secombe, his acting and musical abilities proved ideally suited to a format that fused both elements. A supporting roster of musicians and effects technicians also proved indispensable. Among them were Wallace Greenslade, a genuine BBC newsreader; Ray Ellington, drummer and vocalist whose quartet supplied one of the two musical breaks per episode and occasionally took speaking roles; Max Geldray, the Dutch jazz harmonica player who delivered the first interlude each week and likewise appeared in dialogue; and Wally Stott, who directed the studio orchestra and composed both signature tunes and comic musical segments. Repeats have aired with little interruption since the original run, and the BBC began commercial release of recordings almost at once. Consequently, purchasers seeking the various Goon Show Classics compilations must navigate several parallel numbering systems, each liable to cause confusion alongside the laughter. The editions reassembled and remastered by freelance engineer Ted Kendall stand as the most reliable, whereas the late-1990s EMI series offers minimal documentation. That scarcity is regrettable, given that the original vinyl pressings featured uproarious credits for ensembles such as Maurice Ponke and his Orchestre Fromage and Dennis Bloodnok, 43rd Deserters (Rtd.), with Roland Rockcake and his Wholly Rollers.