windmill appeared. ‘Ooh,’ went the audience, and applauded.
‘. . . and tonight’s super-duper star prize – a brand-new Austin Metro with all the extras, plus a full year’s tax, insurance and petrol!’
The Austin Metro appeared on screen. Through its open window a grinning, bikini-clad Linzi waved awkwardly. ‘Aaaaah,’ went the audience, and applauded frantically.
More cartoon figures changed hats. ‘All these could be won tonight by some lucky contestant,’ the voice continued, ‘if the cap fits! And here’s the man who wears a variety of hats with equal success . . . Barrett Doran!’
The show’s host bounced, smiling, up to his lectern. The audience gave him an ovation which might have been warranted if he had just invented an antidote to radiation sickness.
‘Hello, hello, and thank you very much. Welcome to
If The Cap Fits.
And if it doesn’t, well . . . keep it under your hat! Thank you, thank you. And without more ado – nice girl, Moira Do, pity she couldn’t be with us tonight . . . thank you – without Moira Do, let’s meet our panel of celebrities who are going to find out for themselves tonight . . .
if the cap fits!
‘First, it’s a great pleasure to welcome that lovely actress, who you all know as Lizzie Parsons from that very funny series,
Who’s Your Friend?
– Fiona Wakeford!’
The actress simpered prettily in response to the applause.
‘Tell me, Fiona,’ asked Barrett, ‘are you really as dumb as you appear?’
‘Well, no,’ she replied, bewildered. ‘I can talk.’
The audience screamed at this Wildean riposte.
‘Next we have a gentleman who really packs a punch – Nick Jeffries!’
The audience saluted their faded Great White Hope.
‘’Ere!’ The boxer made a fist. ‘I don’t like your attitude.’
The audience hailed another shaft of wit.
‘Actually, Barrett,’ Nick went on as the noise subsided, ‘that reminds me of a joke about a man with a dog. This bloke –’
‘I make the jokes around here,’ said the host with a smile on his lips and a deterrent steeliness in his eyes. ‘Next, we have a lady who’s brought happiness to millions – and without taking her clothes off, which has to be a novelty – the country’s favourite Agony Aunt – Joanie Bruton!’
The audience roared as she smiled in a brisk, no-nonsense manner.
‘Tell me, Joanie – or may I call you Auntie? – could you help me with a little personal problem that I have?’
‘Perhaps, Barrett.’
‘Well, my trouble is that I keep thinking I’m a pair of curtains. What do you think I should do about it?’
‘Pull yourself together, love.’ Joanie completed the old joke with commendable promptness and the audience howled their appreciation for this devastating sally.
‘Finally, we have a gentleman who never seems to be off your television screen these days, investigating frauds, righting wrongs, standing up for the little man . . . you may know him as Joe Soap – Bob Garston!’
The last panellist gave his gritty, proletarian smile as the audience clapped.
‘Tell me, Bob, have you ever come across a major fraud that involved hats?’
‘No, you’re the first one, Barrett.’
The audience bayed with delight, honoured to be participants in this rare feast of wit. ‘Eat your heart out, Congreve,’ they seemed to say.
Barrett Doran’s smile stayed in place, but the reaction of his eyes to Bob Garston’s crack was less genial. ‘And now, as well as this splendid line-up of celebrities, we also have four brave – or should I say foolish? – members of the public who have agreed to be with us tonight to play
If The Cap Fits
!’
On this cue, one of the high-pitched jingles was played and, under cover of the music, the four contestants, propelled by the invisible Chita, moved awkwardly on to the set. Barrett Doran, scooping up a little pile of printed cards from his lectern, moved across to greet them effusively.
‘Now first we have a very charming lady
‘. . . and tonight’s super-duper star prize – a brand-new Austin Metro with all the extras, plus a full year’s tax, insurance and petrol!’
The Austin Metro appeared on screen. Through its open window a grinning, bikini-clad Linzi waved awkwardly. ‘Aaaaah,’ went the audience, and applauded frantically.
More cartoon figures changed hats. ‘All these could be won tonight by some lucky contestant,’ the voice continued, ‘if the cap fits! And here’s the man who wears a variety of hats with equal success . . . Barrett Doran!’
The show’s host bounced, smiling, up to his lectern. The audience gave him an ovation which might have been warranted if he had just invented an antidote to radiation sickness.
‘Hello, hello, and thank you very much. Welcome to
If The Cap Fits.
And if it doesn’t, well . . . keep it under your hat! Thank you, thank you. And without more ado – nice girl, Moira Do, pity she couldn’t be with us tonight . . . thank you – without Moira Do, let’s meet our panel of celebrities who are going to find out for themselves tonight . . .
if the cap fits!
‘First, it’s a great pleasure to welcome that lovely actress, who you all know as Lizzie Parsons from that very funny series,
Who’s Your Friend?
– Fiona Wakeford!’
The actress simpered prettily in response to the applause.
‘Tell me, Fiona,’ asked Barrett, ‘are you really as dumb as you appear?’
‘Well, no,’ she replied, bewildered. ‘I can talk.’
The audience screamed at this Wildean riposte.
‘Next we have a gentleman who really packs a punch – Nick Jeffries!’
The audience saluted their faded Great White Hope.
‘’Ere!’ The boxer made a fist. ‘I don’t like your attitude.’
The audience hailed another shaft of wit.
‘Actually, Barrett,’ Nick went on as the noise subsided, ‘that reminds me of a joke about a man with a dog. This bloke –’
‘I make the jokes around here,’ said the host with a smile on his lips and a deterrent steeliness in his eyes. ‘Next, we have a lady who’s brought happiness to millions – and without taking her clothes off, which has to be a novelty – the country’s favourite Agony Aunt – Joanie Bruton!’
The audience roared as she smiled in a brisk, no-nonsense manner.
‘Tell me, Joanie – or may I call you Auntie? – could you help me with a little personal problem that I have?’
‘Perhaps, Barrett.’
‘Well, my trouble is that I keep thinking I’m a pair of curtains. What do you think I should do about it?’
‘Pull yourself together, love.’ Joanie completed the old joke with commendable promptness and the audience howled their appreciation for this devastating sally.
‘Finally, we have a gentleman who never seems to be off your television screen these days, investigating frauds, righting wrongs, standing up for the little man . . . you may know him as Joe Soap – Bob Garston!’
The last panellist gave his gritty, proletarian smile as the audience clapped.
‘Tell me, Bob, have you ever come across a major fraud that involved hats?’
‘No, you’re the first one, Barrett.’
The audience bayed with delight, honoured to be participants in this rare feast of wit. ‘Eat your heart out, Congreve,’ they seemed to say.
Barrett Doran’s smile stayed in place, but the reaction of his eyes to Bob Garston’s crack was less genial. ‘And now, as well as this splendid line-up of celebrities, we also have four brave – or should I say foolish? – members of the public who have agreed to be with us tonight to play
If The Cap Fits
!’
On this cue, one of the high-pitched jingles was played and, under cover of the music, the four contestants, propelled by the invisible Chita, moved awkwardly on to the set. Barrett Doran, scooping up a little pile of printed cards from his lectern, moved across to greet them effusively.
‘Now first we have a very charming lady
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