The actor Philip Glenister says he’d like to reprise his best-known role as DCI Gene Hunt, from Life On Mars.
But he’s worried the outspoken character would be too toxic for today’s woke sensibilities.
Even when the show premiered in 2006, there were complaints about Hunt’s unreconstructed sexism and racism.
His co-stars were obliged constantly to express their distaste for his Neanderthal Seventies worldview.
Last thing I remember it was 1985 and we were celebrating the end of the miners’ strike. A crowd of us had gone to the boozer to blow some of that luvvly overtime we’d earned at the Battle of Orgreave
In the first series, John Simm played a policeman called Sam Tyler, who was transported back to 1973 after a car crash.
The sequel, Ashes To Ashes, featured Keeley Hawes as Alex Drake, a high-flying female DI who is shot in 2008 and wakes up in 1981. Ashes To Ashes transferred the action from Manchester to London.
If the BBC does summon the courage to revive Life On Mars, it should bring the show bang up to date and catapult Hunt forward in time to the present day.
(In the opening scene, a dishevelled, hungover Gene Hunt stumbles into the squad room at New Scotland Yard . . .)
Christ, that was some session. I must have passed out in the khazi.
Can I help you?
Yes, luv. Put the kettle on. It feels like a rabid pangolin has crawled down my gullet and died.
Who do you think you’re talking to?
The actor Philip Glenister says he’d like to reprise his best-known role as DCI Gene Hunt, from Life On Mars. But he’s worried the outspoken character would be too toxic for today’s woke sensibilities
Some dopey WPC, I assume. Now stop getting your girdle in a twist and make me a cup of tea.
I’m busy. And I’m not a WPC, I’m a DS.
And I’m a DCI, luv. So just do as you’re told or you’ll spend the rest of your career out at Elstree, wearing serge knickers and sensible shoes and helping old ladies cross the road.
I’m not a luv, guv. And you can’t threaten me like that. This is 2020.
Bloody hell. Twenty past eight. I must have been sparko for hours.
Not 20.20 at night. The year 2020.
What? It’s happened again. And this time, it’s happened to me, only in reverse.
Sorry, guv?
Last thing I remember it was 1985 and we were celebrating the end of the miners’ strike. A crowd of us had gone to the boozer to blow some of that luvvly overtime we’d earned at the Battle of Orgreave.
That was 35 years ago.
You’re telling me, darling. I only went into the bog for a Jimmy Riddle. Come to think of it, I had to use trap three ’cos there was no urinal.
If the BBC does summon the courage to revive Life On Mars, it should bring the show bang up to date and catapult Hunt forward in time to the present day. (In the opening scene, a dishevelled, hungover Gene Hunt stumbles into the squad room at New Scotland Yard . . .)
That’s because it’s a non-binary bathroom, guv.
Eh?
Unisex. For all ranks and genders.
That would explain why there was a bird in there, fixing her make-up. I wondered why the hell any Doris in her right mind would want to use the gents’ khazi, especially after it’s just been vacated by some bloke shifting 15 pints and a prawn bhuna.
It wasn’t a bird, guv. I mean ‘woman’. That was the Met’s first gender-fluid officer.
Gender-fluid?
Some days they define as male, other days they define as female.
You mean we’ve got a female Commissioner? Cressida Dick. Sounds like something nasty you’d pick up on shore leave in Port Said. Very funny. She’s heard it all before, guv. And I’d leave it out unless you want to be hauled up by HR on a diversity violation
Sounds like bloody Danny La Rue.
Who?
Never mind. Before your time. Look, do you know a DI called Sam Tyler?
Doesn’t ring any bells. I’ve only been out of Hendon a couple of years.
How about DI Alex Drake?
There was a Deputy Assistant Commissioner Alex Drake, took early retirement on health grounds. Left under a bit of a cloud, something to do with that bungled Operation Midland business.
Midland?
Paedos In High Places, guv. You know, the ex-Prime Minister Edward Heath and all that lot, politicians, a general . . .
So they finally caught up with Grocer Heath, eh? I always had him down as a confirmed bachelor. Bent as a nine bob note.
You’ve got it all wrong, guv. They were all innocent, falsely accused by a known fantasist, egged on by a Labour MP called the Nonce Finder General. Meanwhile the real culprits got away scot-free.
Such as?
Cyril Smith.
Fat Cyril. Tell me something I don’t know. Weapons-grade kiddie-fiddler. The Pied Piper of Rochdale. Still, what do you expect? He was a sodding Liberal, lived with his mum. But the brass wouldn’t let us nick him back then.
Same with that Jimmy Savile, I suppose.
Now there was a real ladies’ man. Used to invite us CID lads to his parties when I worked in Manchester. You couldn’t move for dolly birds, young dancers off Top Of The Pops. More flesh than Dewhurst’s window. Howsabout that then! What’s the old bugger up to these days?
He’s still dead.
Shame. Gotta light?
Sorry, guv. This is a smoke-free environment.
What! How can you run a nick without a ready supply of Kensitas? Not to mention single malt. Where do you keep the bottle, by the way?
We don’t. The Commissioner won’t allow alcohol anywhere on the premises.
Haven’t we got any proper rapid response vehicles? We did have one, but the anti-terror squad crashed it into a wall racing to a shout in South London. Nutter wearing a suicide vest stabbing shoppers in Streatham. Did they get him? Yes, guv. Shot him dead
For Chrissakes. Who is the Commissioner these days?
Dick.
Less of the bloody cheek, Miss Marple.
No, guv, that’s her name.
Her? You mean we’ve got a female Commissioner?
Cressida Dick.
Sounds like something nasty you’d pick up on shore leave in Port Said.
Very funny. She’s heard it all before, guv. And I’d leave it out unless you want to be hauled up by HR on a diversity violation.
Still, while I’m here, might as well make myself useful. It’s quieter in here than pork supper night in a synagogue. Where is everyone?
Most of them are self-isolating, sir.
We used to have another word for that.
Give it a rest, guv. They’re in quarantine because of the coronavirus.
Serves them right for drinking fizzy pop. Should have stuck to scotch. Never did me any harm.
Apart from falling asleep on the toilet and waking up 35 years later.
Point taken, pet. Anyway, they can’t all be off sick.
No, the rest of them are on hate crime duty, sitting at their computers looking for inappropriate tweets on the internet.
I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. But Gene Hunt’s idea of police work is not gawping at a computer.
It’s kicking in doors and feeling collars and stuffing the evidence so far down chummy’s throat that he’ll cough like a coal miner with emphysema.
We don’t go in for that sort of thing these days, guv. It’s all community coppering now. Have a look at this story in tonight’s evening paper.
Gotta light? Sorry, guv. This is a smoke-free environment. What! How can you run a nick without a ready supply of Kensitas? Not to mention single malt. Where do you keep the bottle, by the way?
‘A police officer has taken to roller skates to connect with young tearaways terrorising a local skateboarding park.’ What is this — Scotland Yard or Starlight Express?
Hang on. Here’s something more up your street, guv. We’ve just had a report of a blagging at a warehouse in Peckham containing 500,000 toilet rolls, street value several million quid.
Right, fire up the Quattro and surround the place with armed bastards.
Don’t you mean: Charge up the Tesla? We’ve gone all-electric, only the batteries keeping going flat.
And we’ll never get across the river to Peckham because the climate emergency brigade are blockading all the bridges.
Turn the water cannon on them, then.
Can’t do that, guv. It’s their yuman rites, innit.
Haven’t we got any proper rapid response vehicles?
We did have one, but the anti-terror squad crashed it into a wall racing to a shout in South London. Nutter wearing a suicide vest stabbing shoppers in Streatham.
Did they get him?
Yes, guv. Shot him dead.
One hundred and EIGHTY!! They deserve a medal.
Actually, guv, the two officers involved in the crash have been put on restricted duties and are under criminal investigation for dangerous driving and gross misconduct.
Bloody hell, I need a drink. Talk about Life On Mars . . .