Jim Shelley's Screen burn: The Bill
'Characters like Tosh were axed. Old-school coppers were replaced by strippergrams'
This will be episode 2,400, and in a personal or professional capacity, I have probably watched all of them. I must have spent weeks, months of my life watching The Bill. (I know what you're thinking: "Oh, lucky man.") This is probably the biggest commitment I've ever made to anything.
The rewards, though, have been both spiritual and munificent. For example, I have a pretty nifty collection of memorabilia that's been sent to me by The Bill press office. I have a large toy Bill black Maria. This came accompanied by an Action Man-style uniformed driver that – to my eyes – looked suspiciously as if it was based on PC Viv Martella. I carry a Bill warrant card with my name on it in my wallet. And I have several years' worth of The Bill Christmas cards, some of them helmet-shaped (police helmet-shaped that is).
And now, on Tuesday, it's over. It's the end of the series. The end of the affair.
Never again will we able to glory in south London's rich tapestry of "toms", "nonces", and "tea leafs". Never again will be-hoodied youths slouched on their bikes muttering about "gak", "skets" or "feds" kick off on the Jasmine Allen estate. Police car chases ending up on some wasteland in front of the O2 Arena are at an end.
ITV has been trying to fuck up The Bill for years. It began by killing off its most popular characters – Burnside, Carver and Tosh Lines; Reg Hollis and Tony Stamp; that blonde PC with the sexy sneer (no not June Ackland) – and replacing them with an array of pouting, thrusting nymphomaniacs.
Suddenly old-school coppers with names like Don, Frank, and, um, Jim were replaced by PCs called Honey, Suzie and Amber who looked like strippergrams. The show was moved out of its traditional 8pm time slot to make way for Champions League group games between Arsenal and Lille.
Then the format was changed so that instead of some local "scrote" stealing an old lady's handbag, storylines would involve organised gangs of swarthy Albanians smuggling in sex slaves, tonnes of cocaine and rocket launchers. Sun Hill became the crime capital of Europe.
Not since Star Wars or the Sugababes has such a successful franchise been so wholeheartedly messed up. In the final act of incompetence, ITV replaced what was arguably the best, most recognisable theme tune on telly. (I once saw the police raid a block of flats on Ladbroke Grove accompanied by a bunch of kids singing The Bill's famous music at them.)
But The Bill was indestructible, and evolved into a mix of Casualty, The Sweeney and Kidulthood; something that both reflected and became part of, British life.
Not since Hill Street Blues was any show so easy to watch. It was dependable and always attracted a following of five to six million-plus. Unlike other soaps and "serial dramas", the acting was always naturalistic and convincing. As for the storylines, some have been thrilling, chilling stories of serial killers, child abductions or paedophiles – so juicy and dark and corrupt you wondered whether the writers of The Shield knew how tame they were by comparison. Others – like this week's finale – are almost humdrum in their portrayal of life on south London estates where gangs, stabbings, and violence towards young girls are commonplace.
The series ends with the heroic veteran superintendent Jack Meadows telling a press conference, "Unless there are any questions, I think that's about it." Smithy and Sgt Stone head for the pub. The arresting DC Grace Dasari gives an enigmatic smile.
The station lights are still shining, but you feel you have just watched a terrible injustice take place.
I loved The Bill.
