THIS week is the 75th anniversary of John Logie Baird’s death and what better time to switch over to the memory station, to reflect on the impact the original nine-inch square screen has had on our lives.

Baird began demonstrating long distance transmission of television pictures over telephone lines from London to Glasgow in May 1927 (no sound) and 11 years later the first TV serial was produced, Ann and Harold, the “story of a London society couple’s romance”.

Since then, television’s nurturing surrogate breast has been our mother. It’s been our genial uncle. It’s been a no-nonsense aunt and the irritating cousin who steals your best Lego. Yet, look back through the decades and you’ll realise the box in the corner, which has become the large flat screen on the wall, has polarised opinions and opened minds in unimaginable ways.

Muffin The Mule

In 1946, television recognised that millions of young mothers were going out of their minds, stuck at home with young children, their own brains turning into Farley’s Rusks. The answer was Muffin, with its talking puppets and piano songs. Then came Bill and Ben, who via their garden introduced tiny tots to the potential for world evil, thanks to the intruder Gardener. A parental godsend.

Billy Bunter of Greyfriars School

Back in the day (1952) before fat shaming became fashionable, it was perfectly acceptable to laugh at a chubby boy (played by a 32-year-old) with a tragic eating disorder, who ate his way through a posh school for the children of the toffery. Those with TVs in their homes, who didn’t have to stare into the window of Rediffusion, also loved Bunter’s pals, such as Huree Singh, who was inappropriately nicknamed “Inky”.

The Queen’s Coronation, 1953

The biggest outside broadcast ever almost didn’t happen. The Church thought that television would cheapen the occasion. And studio coverage came from an unknown voice, the occasion distinctly absent of a Lorraine Kelly-like presenter because it was felt to identify a personality would be to detract from the seriousness of the occasion. Oh, for those bygone days. And TV licence figures leapt by almost a million from the 1,457,000 of the previous year.

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The Adventures of Robin Hood

Commercial television had arrived in 1955 (except for viewers in Scotland) but Caledonians were able to enjoy the japery of Robin and his Merry Men two years later as they forested around in tights that were supposedly green – we were watching in black and white, of course. The initial 10k investment in tights and swords and swashbucklery paid off, the programme selling worldwide.

Take Your Pick

By 1957, Scotland also descended into the Hell that is the quiz show, with relatively cheap studio television allowing a format of answering fairly easy answers that lets us think we are clever. The cheesy Michael Miles fronted the ITV show concept that had been nicked from Radio Luxembourg and it soon became almost as popular as Presley.

Sunday Night at the London Palladium

Variety theatre across the country was staring at the writing on the wall, but the concept wasn’t dead, thanks to television, which had been bleeding theatre dry. The initial host Tommy Trinder paved the way to Brucie’s success, pulling in 14 million viewers a week.

The Phil Silvers Show

The import floodgates now open, the Fifties BBC realised that TV viewers needed serious laughs, and New York-dark humour. Silvers’ Bilko was a chancer who lived on the margins, who managed to be lovable, upbeat and indeed a role model to those thwarted by institutionalism and MacMillan’s stuffiness.

Hancock’ Half Hour

Britain in 1956 was moving towards modernity, but still trapped in low wages and a sense of alienation from real wealth and power. Thus, the appearance of Tony Hancock’s character, a lift from radio that resulted in the birth of the British sitcom, with writers Galton and Simpson harnessing Pinteresque language and the pain of confinement.

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I Love Lucy

Lucille Ball’s vehicle not only established the sitcom format but paved the way for future female success stories, such as Mary Tyler Moore and the Golden Girls. ITV audiences adored this fame-desperate (bottled) red head who found herself enduring more scrapes than a farm worker’s welly.

Armchair Theatre

In 1956, ITV pulled a master stroke in developing a series of psychodramas that drew from Britain’s fascination with current Angry Young Men writers such as John Osbourne. Sunday night audiences for this live production reached the 15 million mark, sooking up social realism like a cat with a bowl of fresh cream.

Six Five Special

The BBC was once banned from broadcasting for an hour in the evenings, to dupe toddlers into going to bed. When the “toddler truce” came to an end, in 1957 BBC producer Jack Good came up with a music filler, aimed at teens fronted by presenter Pete Murray. He may have looked older than your dad, but spoke of “cool cats jumping”. Pop music telly was born.

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The Black and White Minstrel Show

Here’s an idea for a 1958 variety series: instil it with Deep South values in which obedient, singing black slaves cater for white-skinned performers dressed as plantation owners. Throw in lots of pretty girls in gingham and 16 million viewers tune in. It took the Beeb 20 years to realise it was most likely racist.

Wagon Train

ITV’s imported American cowboy series was dark, Ibsenish and intellectually demanding, a study in the psychology of the American trailblazer. It was a slow ride into the mindset of desperate men and women as they trudged onward in the hope of finding fresh water and fresh lives. As gripping as a mountain lion.

No Hiding Place

The first detective series filmed with an eye on the American market appeared in 1959, paving the way for countless British success stories. The cop hero, Det Supt Tom Lockhart, was a snuff-sniffing illiberal who looked like a retired granddad, who hated villains and simply wished to place them in pokey, appealing to hang-em-high conservative Britain.

Blue Peter

Annoying, middle class and irritating, in 1959 the BBC decided the lives of the nation’s children were dependent upon learning to mix papier mache and decapitate Fairy Liquid bottles. This state-sanctioned silliness was a growbag of an idea into which children were planted that never really suited more anarchic Scotland.

Tomorrow: The Sixties.