When people express nostalgia for the glory days of British television, it doesn’t take long for them to propose the 1966 BBC play Cathy Come Home as among the pinnacles of broadcasting. Not only a fine piece of drama, it also brought the plight of the homeless to the viewing public.
And Jeremy Sandford, who wrote Cathy Come Home, didn’t stop there. Finding himself the owner of a large house in Shropshire, he invited various homeless people to take up residence. It would be nice to relate that these indigents responded with gratitude, courtesy and warmth. Nice, but not true. Terrible arguments broke out, hostile takeover bids were launched, areas of the house and grounds barricaded against its genial proprietor.
In a piece of dreadful irony, Sandford found it so unpleasant to be at home that he became a virtual exile, touring the countryside, with only his accordion for company:a late-20th century troubadour, lodging where he could — often in his car — in neon-bright knitwear, with a plastic fried egg attached to his waistband as a spur to merriment.
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