The “satire boom” of the early 1960s refers to the plays, television shows and literature of a group of connected individuals. Figures such as Peter Cook, John Bird, Jonathan Miller and David Frost were among a collection of mainly upper-middle-class men active in the early years of the decade and responsible for work such as the TV programme That Was the Week that Was and the theatrical review Beyond the Fringe, which poked fun at the institutions, public figures and morality of British life. Hugely successful and seen as part of a general renaissance in the cultural life of the country, this loose movement is now seen as an integral part of the so-called “swinging London” scene and a component of the anti-authority reaction to conservatism, which lead to the Wilson government of the mid to late 60s. It is interesting to note, however, both the class backgrounds of the major figures and the extent to which their work draws on established British cultural forms, such as the comedy of the musical hall. Such a perspective suggests a less radical departure from the culture of the preceding years and may perhaps hint at an in-built conservatism at the heart of the movement itself. Michael Frayn, an integral figure in the satire movement describes the conservative nature of the audience and describes the appeal of satire as a kind of expiation:

Conceivably, after ten years of stable Conservative governement, with no prospect in 1961 of its ever ending, the middle classes felt some vague guilt accumulating for the discrepancy between their prosperous security and the continuing misery of those who persisted in failing to conform, by being black, or mad, or old. Conceivably, they felt the need to disclaim with laughter any responsibility for this situation, and so relieve their consciences without actually voting for anything which might have reduced their privileges.[1]

This posits a view of the satirical movement as, less a clarion call for change, rather a kind of cultural pressure valve – suppressing true rebellion through a toleration of limited and measured criticism.

Many of the figures of the “satire boom” and the individuals who began their careers in its wake (including future ‘Pythons’ such as Graham Chapman and John Cleese) gravitated to the cinema in the mid-60s, where they joined established British comedic talents such as Norman Wisdom, Terry-Thomas and the cast members of the Carry On film series and the Goons radio show. The rise of UK cinema in this period, as American studios clamoured to set up British offices and money poured into film production[2], gave ample opportunity for performers attracted to the money, cache and international exposure that film work could provide. At the same time, as a mainstream art-form, film was seen as an area to develop and exploit counter-cultural and satirical strands which had emerged in the UK in other artistic spheres such as music, fashion, theatre, photography and literature. The films which emerged in the period from 1967 to 1973 would, then, include some of the most ambitious, controversial, eclectic and excoriating works in British cinema history. The extent to which this brief flowering of experimentation would successfully satirise the institutions and people of the time, would depend on a number of factors.

            In order to focus on some key themes and suggest where these films succeed in their particular aims, this essay will focus on a number of films which are broadly representative of the species of comedic, satirical film which developed from the movements sketched above. These films are: Lindsay Anderson’s If (1968) and its loose sequel O Lucky Man! (1973); Stanley Donen’s Bedazzled (1967); Peter Medak’s The Ruling Class (1972); Kevin Billington’s The Rise and Rise of Michael Rimmer (1970); Ralph Thomas’ Percy (1971); Philip Saville’s The Best House in London (1969) and Joseph McGrath’s The Magic Christian (1969). These are films with casts drawn from the satire boom, Monty Python and the Goons, but also the long-running TV and film comedies of the day. Each of them in some way targets one or more aspects of British life, whether an institution, or a social or moral issue of the day. These are films which embrace the look and sound of the period, employing artists from other disciplines in front of and behind the camera[3], sometimes in a way which badly dates them. Each of them is a blend of pop-art and traditional art, which dramatizes the cultural clash of period and illustrates ultimately, I will argue, the innately conservative nature of British life and the self-destructive and doomed nature of swinging 60s and a number of its key players.

            Adapted from Peter Barnes’ satirical play, first performed in 1968, Peter Medak’s film of The Ruling Class follows the events in a aristocratic family when the death of a patriarch leads to the return of his heir from a home for the mentally ill, where he has been treated for paranoid schizophrenia. The 14th Earl of Gurney, as he becomes, is convinced that he is in fact God and a number of plots are put in place by his conniving relatives to ensure control of the estate. The film dramatises, in a baroque, anti-naturalistic style, the emerging disdain for the upper classes in 1960s Britain. A number of political crises, culminating in the Suez affair of 1956, had led to a lessening of respect for the ruling class, in particular the aristocratic, upper-class from which most politicians (especially within the Conservative party) emerged. The ridicule heaped on the Conservative Prime Minister Alec Douglas-Home (the hereditary Earl of Home) was largely focussed on perceived upper-class aloofness and his failure to communicate on television was contrasted sharply with the studied down-to-earth, middle-class affectations of Labour’s Harold Wilson: “Although Home disclaimed his peerage and took office as Sir Alec Douglas-Home, it was hard for him to shake off the label of ‘the fourteenth Earl of Home’”[4]. The film opens with a scene which exploits the long-held perception of the sexual perversion of the upper-classes, as the 13th Earl of Gurney is accidentally killed while engaging in an act of self-hanging while wearing a tutu. The paraphernalia of the act is assembled by the Earl’s butler, Tucker, with a nonchalance that suggests not only an acceptance of the act but deference due between the classes and between master and servant. This is later undercut as Tucker presents himself as the only ally to the paranoid Jack Gurney, warning him that the family is out to get him. The butler is revealed as a Communist party member who drunkenly sings The Red Flag in the basement of the manor house. This attitude of rebellion is contrasted with Tucker’s seeming inability to leave his position, even when he is given financial independence under the terms of the Earl’s will. He remains in position, serving the family, although in an increasingly drunken and abusive manner.

            The position of the Church is also attacked, as the Bishop – another family relative who has been disadvantaged by the return of Jack and the terms of the will – is persuaded, against his convictions, to marry Jack and the mistress of his uncle, Grace Shelley. Grace has been introduced by the family to engineer an heir which will allow them to have Jack committed. The Bishop’s motive is the funding he has been promised by the dead Earl for missionary work, but Alistair Sim’s seedy portrayal hints and at a more personal gain. The established church is contrasted with the personal belief in the form of Jack’s delusion, as his belief that he is God is manifested in a number of largely-positive ways. Jack’s God is a God of love. He presents flowers to Grace with a comment that they “agreed to be picked” and his affection for her, although based on a deception, appears genuine. Grace herself, later in the film, seems to have fallen in love with Jack and is turned against the rest of the family, although it could be argued that she is merely protecting her position as the Earl’s wife and mother of the heir. Jack professes himself uninterested in “worldly goods”, argues for the protection of “all God’s creatures” and generally behaves in the manner of the more liberal clergy who were emerging at the end of the 1960s. The Ruling Class does not, then, argue against religion per se, but merely a kind of established church, yoked to the state and the ruling classes, of the type in place until the beginning of the 1960s in Britain.

            In the 1960s, faced with falling church attendances and a wide-ranging questioning of religious belief and traditional forms of worship, figures with the Church of England took steps to reconnect with the people, especially the young:

In the popular press much publicity was given to “go-ahead” young vicars who thought to win themselves larger congregations by experiments with “rock ‘n’ roll masses” or coffee bars in the crypt, and in the East End, a Rev. Shergold set up a youth club for “Rockers,” under the auspices of the Eton College mission, joining his members in wearing black leather jackets and riding powerful motorcycles.[5]

The willingness of liberal clergy to abandon traditional aspects of the church is mocked in The Rise and Rise of Michael Rimmer when the Bishop of Cowley is advised by the popular polling expert how the church can improve attendances:

Priest: Have you been able to find time for the survey in regard to the declining attendance in England’s churches?

Michael Rimmer: Yes, we have.

Priest: We’ve tried everything, you know… cutthroat bingo, hallucinogens in the wafers, neon lights for the graveyards, chapels on wheels, fifty-fifty drawings after communion…

Michael Rimmer: Really?

Priest: [grabbing hold of his vestments] And these clothes are a bit out-of-date for the 1960s.

Michael Rimmer: Yes, well, we’ve done a great deal of research on the results of our religious polls and I believe we have discovered the true root of the problem.

Priest: What would that be?

Michael Rimmer: God.

Priest: I had a nasty suspicion it was that.

Michael Rimmer: It’s just that people have a hard time believing in Him. So, get rid of the God and you’ll do just fine.

Priest: Interesting. Sort of an “Our Father who might be in heaven”…

Michael Rimmer: Yes, very good.

The “church on wheels” is seen elsewhere in the film – a kind of mobile library with a ridiculous steeple on top. Scenes such as this, which satirise attempts by institutions to change with the tastes and attitudes of new generations, point to one aspect of the satire of the period – that it is only interested in mocking the establishment to certain point. Long-held beliefs, behaviours and institutions are seen as fair game for comedy, but so are attempts to modernise. This is one aspect of what I refer to as the inherently conservative nature of satire and satirical works of the period.

            The Rise and Rise of Michael Rimmer is a cautionary tale on the subject of media influence in politics. Michael Rimmer is a time-and-motion consultant who inveigles himself into a run-down polling company and rapidly rises through society to become Prime Minister. Rimmer’s primary method is to exploit other people’s fears, particularly of their self-image and how they appear to others. Rimmer is presented as amoral, unethical and ruthless – he murders the prime minister, takes a wife as a necessary part of entering politics and then keeps her locked-up at home and sabotages appearances by his political opponents. The film could be seen as prescient of later developments in the media presentation of and influence on politics (particularly in the modern activities of political “spin doctors”) but it is also of its time. The incumbent prime minister is a barely-disguised caricature of Howard Wilson, down to his pipe and obsession with self-image and public and press perception. The film was produced as Wilson’s government was preparing for the 1970 general election defeat to the Conservatives – something which was blamed to a very large part on the public’s personal dissatisfaction with Wilson – and the film accurately portrays his paranoia and how political decisions were directly influenced by coverage in the media. Though there was widespread unease regarding the impact media was having on politics, the film’s almost satanic portrayal of Rimmer[6] could be argued to be somewhat Luddite in its suspicion of the effects of a new self-awareness and media sophistication into the traditionally class-based and patrician world of politics.

            If Rimmer’s rise is seen as the result of exploitation and amorality then the system that rewards it can only be corrupt and unjust. In Lindsay Anderson’s O Lucky Man!, Michael Travis is young man who has several attempts to find success and advancement in a world which subjects him to cruel and, often, arbitrary justice. Business is presented as corrupt, with politicians and policemen abetting malpractice for money, or through murky association. When the fraud squad descend on the home of a corrupt industrialist Sir James Burgess celebrating a deal with an African dictator, he comments, “Don’t worry, I know Superintendent Barlow, he won’t hurt us.” It is his assistant, Travis, who is arrested and blamed for the deal to send a napalm-style substance to the brutal African regime. Burgess’ comment to Travis that he will “be taken care of” as he is lead away is misinterpreted as implying an interjection on his behalf. In fact, he is expendable – another exploited employee sacrificed in the pursuit of profit. Travis’ eager enthusiasm and honesty as he faces several such situations –  Anderson stresses the repetitive nature of these encounters by casting the same actors in a number of roles – and his continued lack of success present a highly cynical view of the operation of business and, by extension, the system of government and legislation in which it operates. This was becoming a fashionable view in late 60s Britain as the earlier optimism of the “white heat” of technological revolution gave way to a number of high-profile industrial and medical accidents, examples of business exploitation and economic decline: “Fears of technological idealism had always been present in British popular culture, but they gathered momentum from the mid-sixties onwards.”[7]

             Anderson’s approach to recasting actors in multiple parts also extends to retaining them from film-to-film and roles in his films often gain resonance through the casting of an actor playing similar roles in earlier films:

They are Brechtian ‘social types’ or ‘humours’ as Anderson himself preferred to call them. The style is caricature rather than psychological realism. Peter Jeffrey’s director and prison warden are clearly reminiscent of his headmaster in If…, and Mary McLeod’s lovesick landlady is similarly based on the matron in that film.[8]

Arthur Lowe, an actor now most famous for playing Captain Mainwaring in the television sitcom Dad’s Army, plays so many roles in the satirical comedies of this period that it is easy to confuse parts and films. In O Lucky Man! he plays the factory trainer who first prepares Travis for his career as a coffee salesman, the hotel manager he meets (and who introduces him to the club where the local great and good meet to party and arrange mutually-beneficial deals) and – most controversially, in black face – an African dictator. His character’s have a trajectory from well-meaning teacher to corrupt and corrupting to outright venality. It’s likely that one aspect of Lowe’s casting is the resonance of his association with Mainwaring and the aspects of self-importance, class-consciousness and deference to authority that the role carries. In If…, Rowe plays a house master in a private boy’s boarding school (perhaps the one which his Dr Munda character mentions in O Lucky Man!) where the pupils are taught amidst a highly regimented and structured hierarchy of masters, head boys and whips. Anderson intended his film to be a comment on the state of British society as a whole at the time and the school can therefore be viewed as a microcosm. As the headmaster says near the film’s beginning, “Britain today is a powerhouse”, before going on to describe the coming technological revolution and the needs this will place on the education of the young. In the film itself the lessons are shown to be dry and meaningless, with the boys responding in apathetic silence to the history master’s questions regarding the individual’s place in history. The implication must be that the education system is unsuited to preparing young boys for the demands of the country and, by extension, that the country is unprepared for the demands of the age – a fact that was keenly felt in the late 60s as the government frantically tried to encourage exports to prop up sterling. The film ends in a small-scale revolution as Travis and a number of the boys (and, tellingly, one young girl) open fire on a school service. This act and the other references to revolution (the photos on the wall of the common room) pertain to the spirit of the times, but it is noticeable that the large-scale student-led revolts of the year of the film’s release happened elsewhere (Paris, Prague, the United States). In Britain, as so often, consensus and conformity remained.

            That cultural and political change had greater impact in other parts of the world could perhaps be attributed to the rigidity of the British class system. In The Magic Christian, Sir Guy Grand plays a number of elaborate practical jokes on people, usually on the theme of what people will do for money. The title is taken for a state-of-the-art cruise liner, a technological wonder whose maiden voyage is pitched as the hottest ticket in town, advertised as £5000 per-person with the management reserving the right to refuse persons at their own discretion – “those denied passage on The Magic Christian need not take offence – remember our criteria may not be yours”. This caveat is explained by one upper-class character as protecting against people who are not “quite top drawer”. In fact, the ship is a mock-up which doesn’t actually go anywhere. Although sporadically amusing, many of the film’s jokes fall flat and the film is fatally hamstrung by one detail of its relocation from the United States in Terry Southern’s source novel to the UK. In Southern’s novel Grand is a billionaire industrialist; in McGrath’s film, Grand is a knight of the realm and a conspicuously aristocratic figure. This has the effect of making scenes where Grand exploits the greed of middle or lower-class people seem like exploitation and mean-mindedness. For example, in the scene where Grand buys a hot dog from a vendor on a train platform and hands him a five pound note as the train is departing, we are encouraged to laugh at the desperate attempt by the vendor to catch up with the train and give Grand his change (Grand subsequently gives him a ten pound note instead). This scene may be intended to mock the deference of the lower classes to the moneyed classes and question their sense of fairness towards those who exploit their labour, but as Grand is a wealthy upper-class industrialist, the wheeze seems cruel rather than cutting. This is also the case in the scene where Grand receives a parking ticket and bribes the attendant into eating the ticket for one hundred pounds. The film does pick targets among the aristocracy and upper class which mock their sense of entitlement but as the focus is on money and what people will do to obtain it, these targets are often the nouveau riche or foreigners, such as the Americans who Grand tries to outbid at the auction in Sotheby’s. The landed, hereditary classes escape much of the satire because they are not traditionally associated with consumerism and obsession with money and materialism. In this sense, as a parody on class, The Ruling Class is more successful as it focuses on succession, inheritance and land rights – concepts at the root of the British aristocracy.

            The Magic Christian ends with its most notorious scene, as Grand encourages a group of city workers to wade into a vat of slaughterhouse effluent to fish out money he has placed there. The general sense of futility and purposelessness seems to have had an effect on him, however, and he ends the film sleeping in the park in which he found his adopted son sleeping rough in the opening scene. “You’re right Youngman”, he declares, “There must be a simpler way.” In common with many British films of the period, there is no resolution and in the end there is a sense of resignation to events. In Bedazzled, a film made towards the end of the “swinging sixties”, Dudley Moore’s Wimpy Bar cook, Stanley Moon, is granted seven wishes by the devil and uses them to try to realise his fantasy of a life with waitress Margaret. Moon imagines alternate lives where he is variously a sophisticated aesthete, a rich industrialist and a rock star, but at each stage is frustrated by the devil’s use of loop-holes in his scenarios. In the end, Moon returns to his previous existence and rebuffs a further attempt by the devil to help him woo Margaret, instead simply asking her to dinner himself. The dream of the sixties: that a wave of opportunity would allow individuals to succeed regardless of their background appears to be over. Indeed, the film seems to be ultimately celebrating a lowering of sights and parodying figures, such as pop stars, which had been deified throughout the decade.

            Similarly, O Lucky Man! ends with Travis a broken man – his various attempts to “get on in life” have failed, he has been jailed in place of the corrupt industrialist he served and even his conversion to religion and love for his fellow man has lead to him being assaulted by a group of homeless people. In the final scene he wanders of the streets into an audition where he is berated by the director – Anderson himself – for his inability to smile. As he says, “What is there to smile about?”, Anderson hits him over the head with the script. There is an abrupt cut, followed by a brief period of black screen – a device used at several points in the film – and then Travis looks at the camera and smiles. Alexander Walker quotes from a “serial version of the story prepared for a newspaper”:

… For a second there was a blackout. And in that second a state of waking alertness seized me… And I saw that the world I travelled through was incomprehensible, that I would never understand it, that I wouldn’t ever understand its secrets, that things people did in it or had done to them would never be more important than the fact of the world … it was wrong to think of changing the forces of the world. One must use them to re-direct oneself, to bend to their bidding.[9]

Anderson’s viewpoint seems to have changed markedly since the revolutionary ending of If… In its place the concept of rebellion has been replaced with a form of Zen Bhuddism – that successfully navigating the world involves a submission of the self. Earlier in the film, as Travis waits outside the secret military installation, his car radio plays a radio programmer discussing Zen and the concept of “living now” or living in the present. The Marxist concept of the individual’s place in a historical struggle for control of destiny and resources seems to have been abandoned, perhaps as the idealism of the sixties gave way to the narcissism of the seventies.

            If the abandonment of the concept of rebellion and societal change seems to leave the individual exposed to the whim of church and state, the pace of technological change in the 1960s in Britain had significant impact on moral and sexual issues: particularly the development of the Pill and greater availability of other forms of contraception (often through government-sponsored agencies)[10]. In tandem with technological changes, reform of the law, including the relaxation of the laws on homosexuality and the legalization of abortion, led to a significant alteration of traditional concepts such as the family and women’s place within it. The British film industry’s reaction to such developments has to be seen as, at best, as tentative. For example, The Best House in London, written by That Was the Week that Was and The Frost Report veteran Dennis Norden, is set in Victorian London and focuses on the rise of the women’s movement and the government’s attempts to respond to the problem of street prostitution by establishing the first state-sponsored brothel. Given a cast including several figures from the British satire boom movement, such as John Bird and Willie Rushton, the viewer would be justified in expecting an incisive critique of the women’s movement or conservative society’s response to it. The film instead, functions more like a traditional sex farce – of the kind popular in the British theatre of the same period. The film dramatizes the conflict between Josephine Pacefoot – a kind of suffragette figure, who leads a movement to establish a house to prepare working girls for actual work in industry – and Babette, a high-class Parisian prostitute and mistress to the government minister responsible for establishing the titular house. There may have been some scope for drawing parallels between the suffragette movement and contemporary movements to emancipate women from enforced childbirth, but the film is content to trade in the racial stereotypes, double entendres, mistaken identity and innocuous titillation common to the form. The film, in this way, illustrates the tension in the work of figures from the “satire boom” and other comedians of the time, between earnest targeting of hypocrisy and prejudice and a cozy reliance on the conventions of variety and music hall from which much of British theatrical comedy is drawn.

            The tepid response to issues of female emancipation could perhaps be attributed to male dominance of the film industry. One film which does, at least, touch on male fears regarding the realignment of the sexes and the technological basis of this change is Percy, where Edwin Anthony, recently abandoned by his wife, is hit by a man falling from an adulterous escape in a high-rise flat and is recipient of the dead man’s penis in a worlds-first operation. That Anthony’s operation is part of the overall technological miracle of the age is emphasised by the continual shots of the phallic Post Office tower, which can be seen through the window of his hospital room. Completed in 1965, the tower was emblematic of Wilson’s “white heat” of technological revolution, although it was commissioned by the Macmillan government:

At more than six hundred feet tall, the narrow, piercing cylinder of glass and steel was at once the capital’s tallest building, the centrepiece of Britain’s brand-new telecommunications network, and an uncompromising statement of technological optimism. [11]

Once Anthony’s operation has been declared a success he becomes a reluctant celebrity and has to go into hiding, while Denholm Elliott’s smooth surgeon exploits the publicity and demand for his own gain. The technological achievement is equated with the sky-piercing P.O. Tower but it’s ironic that the cause of the accident – the high-rise flat – was as much as technological development of the time and had a poorer reputation as a number of failures and the lonely, alienating experience of tenants rapidly took the gloss from the notorious slum-clearing initiative. Anthony has inherited what is described as “an impressive specimen” from his donor, who turns out to have a notorious ladies man, whose various lovers attest to his prowess, but Percy does not follow the expected sex-comedy path that such a scenario suggests. Instead the film centers on the dead man’s wife, who he could never be faithful to, and Anthony’s emerging relationship with her. In the end the film is a touching, rather conservative story and not one would expect of a penis-transplant sex comedy from the 60s. If anything it perhaps reflects an in-built dishonesty and reticence when discussing sex in British film and, by extension, society that had not been fully exorcised by the sexual revolution of the “swinging” sixties.

            Though it’s difficult to argue that the myriad changes of the 1960s did not have an impact on British society and that the “satire boom” did not reflect this and contribute to the way that individuals felt about issues and institutions, an examination of the filmic output of many of the major figures in the late 60s and early 70s reveals a gradual retrenchment to a cultural conservatism. There are a number of factors which may explain this: a general sense of decline as the nation experienced a reduction in world status and economic turmoil; a sense of disappointment with the, perhaps inevitably over-stated, aims of the mid-60s cultural and artistic revolution; the withdrawal of American finance from the British film industry; an in-built conservatism in British comedy film, drawn from the music-hall and variety traditions. It’s conspicuous to note that, following the departure of American film studios and finance the British comedy film became dominated by low-farce and nudity. Although some would argue that the rise of the sex comedy in the 1970s could be seen as the result of sexual frankness and permissiveness of the 1960s, any examination of the films themselves reveals them to be culturally conservative, highly derivative of earlier theatrical forms and, ultimately, extremely parochial. The ambitious, international, progressive film movement heralded by the successes of the British new wave seems to have, at least in the comedy genre, have reverted to the archetypes of the seaside postcard and the conventions of the British class system.


Bedazzled (1967), dir. Stanley Donen

If (1968), dir. Lindsay Anderson

The Best House in London (1969), dir. Philip Saville

The Magic Christian (1969), dir. Joseph McGrath

The Rise and Rise of Michael Rimmer (1970), dir. Kevin Billington

Percy (1971), dir. Ralph Thomas

The Ruling Class (1972), dir. Peter Medak

O Lucky Man! (1973), dir. Lindsay Anderson


Beyond the Fringe, ed. Roger Wilmut (London: Methuen, 2003)

Alexander Walker, Hollywood, England (London: Harrap 1974)

Alexander Walker, National Heroes (London: Harrap 1985)

Dominic Sandbrook, White Heat (London: Abacus, 2007)

Christopher Brooker, The Neophiliacs (Boston: Gambit 1970)

Julian Upton, Fallen Stars (London: Headpress, 2004)

Robert Murphy (ed.), The British Cinema Book (London: BFI, 2009)

[1] Michael Frayn, in Introduction to Beyond the Fringe, ed. Roger Wilmut (London: Methuen, 2003), p. 1

[2] Alexander Walker, Hollywood, England (London: Harrap 1974), p. 287

[3] Principally musicians – Ringo Starr stars in The Magic Christian, for which Paul McCartney wrote the theme song, The Kinks scored Percy and Alan Price wrote and performed the songs in O Lucky Man!

[4] Dominic Sandbrook, White Heat (London: Abacus, 2007), p. 8

[5] Christopher Brooker, The Neophiliacs (Boston: Gambit 1970), p.144

[6] Some critics argue that Rimmer is an extension of Cook’s devil character from Bedazzled, while Cook’s limitations as a dramatic lead actor has been cited as the root cause of the film’s lack of box office success. See, Julian Upton, Fallen Stars (London: Headpress, 2004), p. 91

[7] Dominic Sandbrook, White Heat, p. 636

[8] Erik Hedling, ‘Lindsay Anderson and the Development of British Art Cinema’ in Robert Murphy (ed.), The British Cinema Book (London: BFI, 2009), p. 42

[9] Alexander Walker, National Heroes (London: Harrap 1985), p. 51

[10] Dominic Sandbrook, White Heat, p.489

[11] Dominic Sandbrook, White Heat, p.44