Roland Rat: The Series

In the pantheon of British puppets, wretched Orville aside, Roland Rat's the one I've got the least affection for, with an entire routine consisting of “I'm a world famous superstar, yeeeeah!” Created by the man who does the voice and sticks his hand up there, David Claridge, Roland's personality was expanded on by writers Colin Bostock-Smith and Richard Curtis – adding to the latter's extensive rap-sheet – before debuting on TV-am on good Friday 1983. Initially conceived to entertain young viewers during school holidays, within two months of his first appearance on a dying show, TV-am's audience had skyrocketed from 100k to 1.8m. The reputation as saviour of breakfast television earned Roland a much greater life span than that of the average rat, still making occasional appearances today.

But it's the eighties where he truly thrived, a multi-media celebrity with legion television shows, three separate runs in the pop charts, and his own video game. Those days, the biggest validation of success was 'do impressionists do them?' and indeed, every comic had a “Eeeeeh, rat fans!” in their arsenal. But let's not pretend otherwise; Roland was a real Poochie, with a cool denim jacket, sunglasses, and most importantly, some serious attitude – or rather, rattitude. His entire personality amounted to “I'm famous and brilliant!” which appealed to kids because most similarly think that they're both. I certainly did in 1985, the year Roland transferred to the BBC, in the rare high profile poaching of a puppet. It's here Roland Rat would leave early mornings to front his own show, Roland Rat: The Series.

Going out at 5:20pm of a Saturday night on BBC 1, it's the old 'chat show and its backstage antics' format. In a gag which dates weirdly, the series purports to broadcast on Roland's personal channel, BBC 3, mocked up indents an' all. More and more with period shows, I can't stop thinking about the evolutionary process of culture. For example, how would you go about making a period film noticeably set in 2005, and not 2015 or even 2025, besides just putting flip-phones in people's hands? The cultural gulf in the twenty years between, say, 1982 and 2002 is vast, but it's as though everyone spent the next two decades arguing so much on the internet, they forgot to come up with new fashion. There's no such issue with the 1980s, the most visually identifiable ten-year period, and Roland Rat: The Series wears its date in every frame; in every line of dialogue and celebrity guest. The very first image in episode one, from 6th September 1986, is Roland being stroked by Samantha Fox.

The opening theme's by Stock Aitken Waterman, heavy with era-compliant sa-sa-samples of Roland – “going un-un-underground! I'm fresh-fresh!” We're in the Rat Cave, a high-tech base in the sewers beneath King's Cross, and everything's scored by a laugh track from an audience of scarf and flag waving kids and whichever adults got talked into taking them. Alongside Roland, it's a large puppet ensemble, with Kevin the highly strung hamster (always needing a nervous piss), Roland's little brother Reggie, girlfriend Glenis the Guinea pig and pet flea Colin, plus Errol the Welsh hamster and Fergie the Scottish ferret – the CU Jimmy kind of Scottish; Tam O' Shanter and calling everyone Jimmy. There's also a pair of flesh and blood characters, with Roland's put-upon secretary, Maureen, played by Olive from On The Buses, who must feel right at home, glasses held together with tape and repeatedly told she's got a face like the back of a bus. Most week's plots revolve around the get-rich-quick schemes of Darcey De-Farcey (James Saxon), head of light entertainment, who calls Roland 'Reynard', and has an obvious toupee balanced on his bonce.

Chat show bits see Roland behind a desk for the full Johnny Carson, while each ep's introed and outroed by a celebrity VT; names like Parsons, Blackburn, Floella Benjamin, Patrick Moore, and Rene off 'Allo 'Allo. One has Colin Baker in full Who gear, as the show will be followed by Trial of a Time Lord Part II, and then The Noel Edmonds Late Late Breakfast Show. Guests don't get much to do; the ones that are actually there, and not big celebrity names like Stallone, whose appearance is built up all show before being replaced by Darcy dressed as Rambo. Thatcher turns out to be Steve Nallon, receiving a genuinely interesting mix of cheers and boos from the young audience, and with a good line in “even though I laugh at the Two Ronnies, I often wonder, could one Ronnie do the job just as well?”

Celebrities mostly cameo in Roland's film parody sketches, with Brian Blessed (“Mr. Bless-This-House”) in A Tale of Two Cities where he's accidentally decapitated by a prop guillotine, in a moment I can't believe didn't cause half the chaos of Paul Daniels's death hoax. Wendy Richard observes an EastEnders sketch, while castmate Ross Davidson does a Bridge on the River Kwai, where a tashless young Boycie shows up. Wonder if he ever shared Roland's rapping with his mate Ice T? Frank Carson does a turn with a false beard and silver-sprayed paper plate strapped to his head as dentist Hans Q. Crackenspiner, in an episode where Roland's got toothache, and couldn't find a cheap dentist in Harley Street because “it's like a Bedouin encampment round there, nobody speaks English!” Alright, Laurence Fox!

Occasional Rat Fan Reports connect Roland with his fans, like a phone-call to a lad linked up via a camera in his bedroom. The boy's questions are every bit as weird as a Saturday morning phone-in –  “Do you like swimming? Do you believe in horoscopes?” – but he seems to answer Roland a bit too quickly for a satellite link, almost talking over him, and the cynic in me wonders if they've not just built a bedroom set next door. Sure enough, later in the show, freeze framing a fleeting shot of the audience confirms the boy's sat there applauding. Scrap the licence fee! Other fan questions include “what is your favourite holiday resort?” and “does Darcy make much money?” from a pair of brothers, and a 14-year-old girl who enquires “how often do you have a bath?” Roland gives her a prize before asking for “a quick smacker on the lips,” telling the studio audience “a very attractive rat fan, there.” It's not too late to get Yewtreed, you know.

So childish and lacking in any content, with modern eyes it's amazing to think of this going out on Saturday evenings, but evidently the series coasted by on the popularity of its star, plus the big name bands it managed to land. Each week has a musical performance, 'live' in the lip-synced 80's sense of the word, by musicians like Ultravox, Howard Jones, Nick Kershaw, Curiosity Killed the Cat, Swing Out Sister, Dead or Alive, The Stranglers, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, and Amazulu. A real Now That's What I Call Music roster, the bands make strange bedfellows with near-weekly performances by Roland and his mates.

Music was a huge part of the Rat brand, releasing a number of singles and albums during his peak, and reaching a high of #14 in the charts with 1983's Rat Rapping. Such was ratmania, even Kevin broke the Top 50 with a cover of Summer Holiday. Second album, Living Legend, was comprised of songs – courtesy Stock Aitken Waterman – performed on the series, along with the theme and a cover of Bowie's Fame, and consequently giving the feel of a advert whenever they pop up in-show. During episode one's rap, there's a momentary shot of full-length Roland stood in silhouette, which isn't quite as scary as bipedal Cuddles, but unsettling all the same – “Listen to the rat, I'm Mister Cool, I'm a rapping superstar, I'm no fool...” In backing dancers The Sewer Sensations, they've got their own Pan's People, just as raunchy and straight-faced as if on TOTP or Summertime Special, even while high-kicking their way through a felt gerbil's love song to a human dinner lady.

Other songs include Roland's rap about living underground; a Fergie the Ferret number where he rhymes losers and boozers with troosers; and Glenis with the country and western A Guinea Pig in Love, singing of the children she and Roland will have someday, forcing you to imagine the pair of them at it. Even Darcy gets one; a calypso about being bald – “let's all sing the hair loss song, come on boys and girls and sing along!” I'd like to imagine Willie Thorne starting each day with a bracing chorus in the mirror of “lyrics to songs don't mean a thing, as long as you're bald, the phone will always ring!” They're mostly forgettable, barring Colin the Flea, rapping poolside in a pitch-shifted squeak “I've got a computer and a BMX bike, I can sit on the saddle whenever I like.” As far as earworms go, they've got a fucking savage one here, and “I'm a parasite in paradise, I'm the envy of all other lice” will be going round my skull for months.

Roland Rat: The Series is very thin gruel indeed, having to watch a full 13-episode run just to dredge up enough worth talking about, so it's a blessed relief when frequent topic on these pages, Uri Geller, walks out as a guest. Judging by his tweets about the authenticity of alien fannies, he probably thinks Roland and co are real, and right before his entrance, Roland makes a – unrelated, I'm sure – comment about a hatred for people who exploit dumb animals. Uri, jeans hiked above his belly button, is asked to explain his “psychotic powers,” which he reckons we all have within us; “I just have it a little stronger than others.”

Skirting Roland's challenge to bend a massive ladle, he does the old 'moving a compass needle.' I quite admire the way Uri co-opted panto into his routines, getting the audience at home to help by concentrating our minds. Needle moving just a little the first time, this is the classic light entertainment compare; the old rule of three “Good evening everybody! I said, good evening everybody! We can do better than that. GOOD EVENING, EVERYBODY!” but as telekinesis. Come on, Roland, you really have to want it! This big rat, the studio audience, the audience at home; men 37 years in the future watching this for a Patreon instead of kissing ladies or doing wheelies on a motorbike; you must believe!

The second time, the needle does visibly move, to audible gasps and audience murmuring, as Uri assures us, without prompting, there's nothing in his hair, mouth, ears or fingers. Although suspiciously, as he told us himself, it only works when he leans right over it, but “it's not a magnetic force that moves the needle... it's some kind of an unusual power.” I'm sure he's telling the truth, using his mind and not just a magnet inside his shirt. Uri seems confused at Roland's question to whether he's got fleas, and sadly we don't get to see his face as Roland informs him his pet flea will now be singing a song.

Later, Roland shows off Uri's book, The Geller Effect, before Uri begins gently stroking a handful of radish seeds from a sealed packet while imploring them to grow. A tiny white sprout emerges, in a display Roland dubs “telepathetic,” and I'm suddenly aware I'm watching a man fingering seeds to impress a puppet. There are other, briefly enjoyable appearances, like Tim Brooke-Taylor having a pixie picnic, Alexi Sayle doing his shouty shtick as Darcy's long lost brother, Luigi 'Madman' Marcello, and Stanley Unwin confounding everyone with Unwinese. Getting famous was easier back then, you just had to devise your own gibberish language then do guest spots where nobody knew what the fuck you were talking about, before toddling off with a cheery “goodly byelode!”

Episode seven's got a Scottish theme, with an intro by Lulu, and a set filled with wriggling haggises, Scottish flags, tartan and sporrans, like Russ Abbot's gooncave. Och Aye the Noo count for this 25-minutes: a rather sparse three. The following week, airing before Halloween, is a horror special, where Richard O'Brien gets covered in a mountain of crisps, and a ghostly arm reaching round the set making spooky noises reveals itself to be Gary Wilmot, in the midst of a Brucie –  “alright my loves? Nice to scare you, to scare you, nice!” Roland greets him with “hello, it's Lenny Henry.” Later, a ghost runs on under a black sheet, its ghoulish howls of “Ooooh! Ooooh!” turning into “Oooh, Betty!” as underneath is Wilmot in a beret. “My cat's just done a whoopsie!” He's eventually removed by literal men in white coats, dragged offstage while screaming “Mr. Grimsdale! Mr. Grimsdale!”

The horror special's one of the rare television shows to feature puppets holding a séance, although every episode's made frightening with the presence of Errol the hamster. The human-sized head; black eyes with white irises as though trying to hypnotise you; creepy sod looks like he should be popping up over someone's shoulder in Insidious. Another week's guest is allegedly Sir Robin Day, heard only via an impression from behind a toilet door, accusing an eagle puppet of doing a very smelly poo in the next cubicle. Later, it's John Hurt, Alec Guinness, Russell Harty, Roger Moore, and then Connery. A first in all my years of covering impressionists, they just do him as a regular Scottish accent, not bothering at all with any of the “sscchh” noises. Extraordinary. Imagine how spectacularly awful these voices are that I'm still shocked when it turns out to be Rory Bremner, resembling a ten-stone Sid Justice.

The two main veins of humour here are mispronouncing famous people's names – Vincent Price-is-Right; Sir John Feelgood; William Shakin'Spear – and farts, with Roland's little brother Reggie forever rearing up into frame to let off a rippling parp. In one intro, Roland promises a “brill, ace and skill show,” but it's Darcy who's unintentionally closer to the truth. “Have we got a show lined up for you? No we haven't, we've got a right load of old drivel!” You're lucky to go thirty seconds without a puppet peeking round a corner to deliver a shite joke. Even the catchphrase Roland makes his audience shout in unison at the end of each episode is a dreadfully uninspired “yeaaa!” What with the celebrity/puppet interactions, and the mix of behind/front of camera stuff, it feels like a very poor imitation of the Muppets, but at least it's not yet been rebooted with Ricky Gervais as the baddie.

Series closer makes for the most fitting statement on how terribly Roland Rat has aged, outside the bubble of its contemporary popularity. Focussing on Roland's upcoming nuptials after accidentally proposing to Glenis, he's unable to wriggle out of it, culminating in a top-hatted rat waiting at the altar, thinking to himself “goodbye freedom... I'll be stuck with her for the rest of my life.” In a last second gasp, when it gets to the bit where any persons who know such cause “why this rat and this Guinea pig should not be joined together” must speak up now, the church door bursts open. Take a guess at who stops the wedding. Another puppet? A weasel or something? It couldn't be – surely couldn't be – Gary Glitter, could it?! It is. King of Beasts himself.

Gary Glitter storms into God's house, demanding “stop this wedding! I can't allow this to go on, I'm in love with this guinea pig and she's in love with me!” Romantic music builds, as Glenis declares that she is his. “Then come, my angel,” says Glitter, “and let us go,” and the rodent runs towards the paed in Vaseline-lensed slow motion. Given she only comes up to his waist, it makes for a disturbing visual, like Gal's swanning out with a child bride. But in a post-credit twist, Roland paid Gary Glitter to ruin the wedding, so he could fall into the arms of his one true love, Samantha Fox. The bleedin' eighties, eh?