I've scribbled, more than once, about the cataclysmic jolt that Let's Pretend gave my infant imagination, and this is precisely why I refuse to let those memories slink quietly into the distant past. Tragically, surviving specimens of the series - which galloped past the 200-episode post - are depressingly scarce.
Naturally, this angers me. But it also fuels a fire deep within my belly to shine the spotlight on those episodes which emerge from the analogue past and onto YouTube's digital memory extension. One such artifact - Fred Midas - has been lurking online for several years, and somehow I've failed to dissect it. That travesty ends today.
Back in September 1987, I swapped the carefree days of playschool for the bleak regimentation of full-time education. It was a jarring transition, unlike anything I had faced before or would ever face again. This was the real world, and it meant missing the lunchtime children's programmes.
My jealously of those still at home watching Bric-a-Brac, Puddle Lane and Let's Pretend whilst I wrestled with a limp ham sandwich in the dinner hall was off the scale. If, somehow, I had managed to dodge the bullet of formal education, I could have been sprawled on the carpet at home watching Fred Midas - the second episode of series seven.
If you've read my previous reviews of Let's Pretend episodes, then you'll know the drill with the format. Three 'pretenders' sit in the Let's Pretend house and start chattering about an everyday object they've found. Before you know it, they've used their imaginations to repurpose it into something else. Delighted with their efforts, they quickly decided to create a play based around this item. But not before a quick singalong at the piano.
So, what's Fred Midas all about? Penned by Colin England, whose entire literary legacy appears to consist of episodes of Let's Pretend, Fred Midas is a budget-friendly retelling of the King Midas saga told through a lens of lunchtime television.
John Wilson dons the titular shoes of Fred Midas, while Lesia Melnyk shape-shifts her way through a series of shop assistants, and Aidan Hamilton tickles the ivories in the background. The episode wastes no time in getting started. No sooner has the dreamy theme tune faded away before, abracadabra, a modest bag of chocolate gold coins magically appears on the pretenders' table.
The story itself - no spoilers here as you can watch it above - is typical Let's Pretend fare. Minimalism and a fertile imagination are key, and the pretenders deliver lively performances which wouldn't feel out of place in a theatre troupe on a tour of primary schools. As for their CVs, most of the actors seem welded to Let’s Pretend, with Lesia Melnyk elevating herself to a brief run in Emmerdale circa 2006. Finally, the tale of Fred Midas also dispenses an easily-digestible tale of morality to help instill a healthy sense of perspective in the young viewers at home.
So, that's another episode of Let's Pretend ticked off the list. As ever, it's far from revolutionary television, but that was never the point of Let's Pretend. Instead, it was positioned as an exercise in fostering the creativity of young minds, all whilst delivering a few sing-songs and a story to keep them quiet for 10 minutes. And Fred Midas does all of this with ease.
If you have any episodes of Let's Pretend on old video tapes, please get in touch so that we can get these online and feature them on Curious British Telly.
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