Farewell, my loony

HE, dressed as Santa, says: ''Have you got a piece?'' -- thinking gun.

She says: ''Of course, son'' -- thinking jeely -- ''but you don't want

to spoil your appetite.'' They are lying on the floor expecting the mob

to break in. As played by Robbie Coltrane and Jean Anderson it was one

of the many polished gems in The Bogie Man (BBC2).

A homage to Humphrey Bogart and Raymond Chandler is how writer Paul

Pender has described it. A mad fantasy set in post-Culture Year Glasgow.

A kind of Clyde Chandler. And for me it was a case of here's laughing at

you. Which made it hard to understand the mauling it got,

pre-transmission in certain quarters. Over-reaction had undoubtedly set

in. Received wisdom from the camp of disgruntlement? There are few

furies like those of the indie producer cut out of a slice of the

action.

The chip on the shoulder was ubiquitous, and the word on the street

was they were out to get Bill Bryden, head of drama, BBC Scotland TV, a

man who thinks in global terms to the detriment of the little people.

Here he had played his hand with 500,000 big ones to produce an

''embarrassment''. London didn't know what to do with it, they said, as

the stories got better from bar to bar. There was a right seasonal

brouhaha without the ho ho ho.

The opportunity to confirm notions cooked earlier had been provided

with a film festival screening in Edinburgh, then a discussion

dissection at the film makers' conference in the Eden Court. The

contract was out. It was one Christmas turkey that had to be stuffed

with relish and whatever else it took.

Distanced from such politics, I enjoyed The Bogie Man. The film, for

which the inspiration was the graphic novel of the same name by Alan

Grant, John Wagner and Robin Smith, was strong in every department:

marvellous photography (Mark Littlewood), direction (Charlie Gormley),

and editing (Dave Harvie); and producer Andy (Tutti Frutti) Park also

did the effective musical score. Even if the script had been bad,

Coltrane could only have been good with crackling lines like these.

He's Francis Forbes Clunie who goes over the wall while the staff

party at Christmas in Spinbinnie mental place. He's nobody's child, his

father having been a Heather-beater, his mother having been Heather. But

he has to be somebody, so it can be Schwarzenneger, Mitchum, Cagney,

Lacey, Connery, but mostly Bogie. With Glasgow going back to the old

values, gang warfare and that, and still a few culture junkies about, he

is out to clean it up, make it a place for decent people to live.

Other lines etched in the memory: When he goes into this gin joint

where Lauren MacCall is singing Nobody's Child (this song always breaks

him up) and orders three fingers of rye, the barman says: ''Aye, sure.

And ah'll no charge ye for the thumb.'' The showdown is at the

Necropolis.

Winged by a bullet, Bogie/Clunie sees the name Heather Clunie on a

stone and sobs ''Mother!'' Pursuing psychiatrist, Dr Olive Branch (Fiona

Fullerton): ''Now he knows who he is. He's cured. Farewell, my loony.''

To Lauren he says: ''This could have been the start of a beautiful

friendship.''

Scottish, still riding on their dependable workhorse Taggart, which

always brings home massive UK ratings, wheeled him out for another New

Year canter yesterday in Fatal Inheritance. Well tested formula stuff,

the going was easy with writer Glenn Chandler using the mixture as

before in the certain knowledge that an old-fashioned whodunnit, told

and acted with style, will always hit the mark.

The Scottish purse strings loosened a bit to enable a couple of

special guests to wander on to Jim Taggart's piece of turf -- Hannah

Gordon and Francis Matthews, the latter once the more refined TV 'tec

Paul Temple, but here a red herring and a victim.

WITHOUT shame, they really did throw in everything for this

feature-lengther: whenever a murder was imminent, thunder and lightning

crashed and flashed round the health-farm mansion, with lashings of rain

and creaking doors, while people did stupid things, like going into

empty houses when they should have known they were going to be victim

number whatever. The madness of the psychopath was symbolised by a weird

lighting-up doll. Where's yer Rocky Horror Show noo?

There may not be many female funny people on television but those who

have made it are absolutely fabulous. They also come equipped with their

own material, like Jennifer Saunders and Victoria Wood, and have the

knack of recruiting workmates of the highest calibre. Wood's Christmas

All Day Breakfast (BBC1) mercilessly lampooned the kind of man/woman

team who come with the toast and orange juice, and offer endless banter

about those thousands of sufferers from split ends and wonky wombs, and

getting in trim with Jolly Polly . . .

Channel 4's The Big Breakfast is something into which I can dip before

swimming away quickly. But it's amazing the hints you can pick up

between the bursts of induced hysteria. About rats making good pets, for

instance. They've had a particularly bad press and would only give you

the black death under exceptional circumstances.

They are very clean and groom each other, but keep males and females

apart -- otherwise they ''go at it all the time'' and a litter of up to

19 might be expected about every three weeks. On another morning the

presenters seemed to be explaining how to remove the clamp and the wheel

in one piece, replacing it with the spare wheel. And then there was that

funny little American sex therapist explaining to the Bishop's daughter

how she had never done it on a bed before -- been interviewed on TV,

that was.

What makes The Big Breakfast digestible is Chris Evans, the presenter

with red hair and spectacles. Level-headed and likable in a sea of

madness, he is possibly the discovery of 1992.

It was also the year in which television has at last learned how to

un-discover Wogan. He is now going back to where he began, presenting

morning radio. He was splendid on that, a natural. But on More Auntie's

Bloomers (BBC1) he was an irritating intrusion between the hilarious

clips. A pain in the gusset.

The talents of Dorothy Paul have matured beautifully. In See That's

Her (STV) she held a packed Glasgow Pavilion audience in the palm of her

hand. The sheer warmth, humour and delivery was that of a true

professional, yet she made it seem like a big happy family gathering as

she told stories of her up-bringing in Dennistoun. As an entertainer she

must now be in her prime. But you never know . . . see that's her.