Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em

Sometimes, from the smallest comedic seed, a mighty sitcom can grow. In the case of Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em, the premise was wonderfully simple, yet it became the foundation for one of Britain's most beloved and enduring comedy creations: the ever-hapless, yet eternally well-meaning man-child, Frank Spencer.

Clad in his trademark beret and trench coat, Frank was quite literally an accident waiting to happen – a wide-eyed innocent whose every effort, whether charitable or domestic, inevitably descended into chaos. From botched DIY jobs to good deeds gone disastrously wrong, catastrophe followed Frank like a loyal dog. His innocent bewilderment in the face of inevitable disaster – and his indignation at the perfectly understandable frustrations of his many unwilling victims – became his defining traits.

The series was the brainchild of writer Raymond Allen, who scripted every episode. However, it was the interpretation of Frank Spencer by Michael Crawford that truly elevated the material. Crawford’s physical comedy, vocal delivery, and constant ad-libbing (prompting Allen to quip, “It’s nice of him to use some of my words”) shaped the character into a national treasure. It’s hard to imagine anyone else in the role – though it might surprise many to learn that Crawford was actually the third choice for the part, behind Norman Wisdom and Ronnie Barker, both of whom turned it down.

A major part of the show’s appeal lay in the public’s wholehearted empathy with Frank’s misadventures. Despite his complete lack of aptitude for adult life, Frank was driven by a desperate desire to prove himself – to his kind, long-suffering wife Betty (played with warmth and charm by Michelle Dotrice, real-life wife of Edward Woodward), and later to their baby daughter, Jessica. His efforts to “be a man” in a world he could barely understand struck a genuine emotional chord, even amidst the slapstick mayhem.

The show also became renowned for its daring and imaginative stunt sequences, many inspired by the silent cinema greats like Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd. Crucially, these stunts gained added impact from the fact that Crawford insisted on performing them himself – from leaping onto moving vehicles to the unforgettable sequence of Frank roller-skating behind a double-decker bus, narrowly missing an articulated lorry before smashing through a shop window.

Although Michael Crawford had been acting since childhood – appearing in series like Sir Francis Drake and starring opposite Barbra Streisand and Walter Matthau in Hello, Dolly! – it was Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em that secured his place as a household name. At its peak, the show attracted an audience of 15–20 million viewers per week, and Frank’s exclamations (“Oooh Betty!” chief among them) quickly became part of the national lexicon.

Simple, heartfelt, and gloriously silly, Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em is more than just classic television – it is a defining example of British comedy at its finest, and a lasting monument to a character who, like the great silent comedians, will forever tumble through our memories, arms flailing, beret askew.