Here's a name from the past. Given a seven-year-old's preference for aeroplanes over football any day (and 48 years later, nothing's changed) 'Garry Halliday' was the most important part of my week and a blessed antidote to the endless combovers, long shorts and sheepskin coats of its immediate Saturday evening predecessor.
Favourite moment? Pretty much the only one I can remember, actually: the one where The Voice's gofer Traumann, presumably having failed yet again to deal with the accursed Halliday, was finally offed by his exasperated guv'nor. "It won't happen next time, Voice", stammered Traumann to The Unseen One; "There isn't going to be a next time, Traumann", came the dismembered, mittel-European reply, followed by the silenced automatic pistol nosing shakily in from screen right and dispatching the hapless bagman to join the great supporting cast in the sky. (You could tell Traumann was the bad guy because of the shades - but I swear he reappeared a few years later playing lead with Adam Faith & The Roulettes).
Other than The Voice the true star, of course, was the DC3: an aircraft just made for Boys' Own adventures and a design triumph, with more personality in its tail-fin than could ever be mustered by a dozen Wolverines or Men-in-Black. 'Garry Halliday' was a pop-cultural milestone that should have been preserved in perpetuity; it remains yet another good reason for consigning the wipe-happy pygmies of 60s/70s broadcasting to the same nether regions as Sgt Traumann.
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