The Secret Service Reviews

In 1969, a Century 21 Television Production like no other crept quietly onto the TV screens of a limited number of UK viewers. Gerry & Sylvia Anderson’s final Supermarionation series, The Secret Service, has been a source to fans for decades. After the grand spectacle of Thunderbirds and Captain Scarlet, how did the puppet empire on the Slough Trading Estate come to an end with such a bizarre little series. Father Stanley Unwin, a yellow Model T Ford, a puppet-sized spy interacting with people-sized people, and a shrinking device inside a book, all set against the backdrop of an idyllic parish church in the countryside. And we mustn’t forget, the gobbledy-gook.

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Running for 13 weeks and rarely repeated on British television, The Secret Service is often disregarded as nothing more than an ill-judged stepping stone in the Andersons quest to get away from puppets and make big budget, live-action productions. But let’s take a moment to appreciate the quaint little show in greater detail. Episode by episode, we’ll walk through the adventures of a country vicar with a difference, and discover the true heart of this extraordinary show.

For the Unwinese gabblers among you, allow me to translate my introductode:

Oh in the deep of sixty-nine, therein liveed a gogglebox presentation of the 21st century variety that turned up all secrety-most in the select homes of gogglers-a-watching. Geoffrey & Silver Andybold’s fintissential Superclappymouth show, the service most secret, it marvels the lovers of it perculiarly, oh yes. The Thundyboardmen and the Cappy Scaptrap were ever so gigantimous, so down, down, down what fate befell the kingdom of stringy-fallopers on the Slurgh Tradey State thanks to such a stir-craze adventurers. The lord’s servant master unwinners, an autovehicular gold, brightly of the clappers, a mini-me dashing about all up and down the big peoply-ode, and a miraculous page-turner, oh yes, shrink it all down to a garden pea ‘gainst the dropped back of a parson’s flock in the grassy hilltops most pleasing upon my eyebold. All not surpassing the great bollolloflappy mouthings of the particular. Oh folly, folly.

Dashing about a bakers dozen and hidden in the bowels of the gogglebox forevermore, Her Majesty’s Secret Service is judged foul and disgustiful as that most egregious passing stone in the Andybolds’ despersion to escape the clappymouthers and find deep joy with fleshy mouthyclappers all big and walky-most with the cash in the bank. Not for us the unappreciated, let’s get up close and percy-knoll with this delighted spectation. Eppy-node by eppy-fode, you and I shall trotty-step, trotty-step, trotty-stop about the tales of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John’s man of the clothy-ears, and when all’s said and done dig up the beaty thump-thump of the shown flicks most pleasing. Deep joy.