Today, April 22nd, marks a milestone that deserves a celebratory jig and maybe even a dodgy gin from the science lab: the 100th anniversary of George Cole’s birth.
Flash ‘Arry in a perfectly normal compromising situation….
For those unfamiliar with the name, fear not—you almost certainly know the face: cheeky grin, slicked-back hair, and a voice smoother than a market trader flogging knock-off perfume at a Sunday boot sale.
George Cole was, quite simply, a national treasure in a camel-hair coat. For those unfamiliar with the name, fear not—you almost certainly know the face: cheeky grin, slicked-back hair, and a voice smoother than a market trader flogging knock-off perfume at a Sunday boot sale.
If you’ve ever bought a suspiciously affordable watch in a pub car park, Flash ‘Arry might be your patron saint. He sold gin brewed by scantily clad schoolgirls in the school’s science lab, for goodness’ sake. Talk about chemistry lessons!
But it wasn’t just the gin or the skirt-chasing charm that made Flash ‘Arry so memorable—it was how real he felt. If you’ve spent any time in the backstreets of London or just watched enough EastEnders, you’ve probably bumped into his spiritual successors. Flash ‘Arry was perhaps the prototype for the loveable rogue: morally flexible, permanently scheming, and utterly irresistible.
And George Cole didn’t stop there. In fact, the evolution of his characters runs parallel with a long and noble tradition in British (and British-adjacent) comedy—the dynamic duo of the “main man” and the “sidekick.” The Knight and the Squire. The grifter and the gofer. The silver-tongued swindler and his ever-so-slightly dim mate.
To understand this tradition, we have to look back to the 14th century. Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales gave us one of the earliest iterations of this pairing with the Knight and his Squire. The Knight was noble, experienced, a veritable silver fox in shining armour. His Squire? Young, eager, prone to poetry and possibly pouting.
Their relationship is the blueprint for all that followed: the wise(ish) leader and his keen apprentice. Even then, Chaucer was poking gentle fun at the social pecking order with a wink and a nudge. These weren’t just characters; they were cleverly disguised commentaries wrapped in doublets and codpieces.
Next, we fast-forward to the golden quill of Shakespeare. Enter Sir John Falstaff, the most legendary comic sidekick to never quite be trusted with your bar tab. A rotund rascal with a taste for sack (the 16th-century equivalent of fortified wine) and fibbing, Falstaff is the unfiltered, unpolished mentor to Prince Hal—future King Henry V. Think of him as the Arthur Daley (more of him later) of the Elizabethan age, minus the Ford Granada.
Manasseh da Costa and Yankele: “Vat more proof do you vant of my begging powers?” demanded Yankele, spreading out his palms and shrugging his shoulders.
But let’s jump from the Globe Theatre to the globe of the East End of London in the late 19th century, where Israel Zangwill was crafting The King of Schnorrers.
Here we meet Manasseh da Costa and his sidekick Yankele ben Itzhok, two Jewish beggars who make Flash ‘Arry look like a choirboy.
Manasseh, a Sephardic Jew with a tongue as sharp as his tailoring, cons his way through London society with all the flair of a posh pickpocket. Yankele tags along, part partner, part punching bag.
These two are spiritual cousins to Chaucer’s Squire and Shakespeare’s Falstaff, only with a bit more chutzpah and a lot more Yiddish.
Zangwill’s characters are larger than life, yet you could swear you’ve seen them haggling over rug prices at a market stall.
Of course, comedy evolves, and by the time the 20th century rolled in, we found ourselves blessed with television—and a parade of double acts that would carry the comic torch into living rooms across the land.
Take Open All Hours (1976–1985). Ronnie Barker’s stammering, penny-pinching Arkwright and his nephew Granville (played by a young and very mop-headed David Jason) redefined the grocer’s shop as a place of slapstick, suspicion, and semi-illegal cash-only deals. Arkwright was the master, Granville the long-suffering apprentice—and yes, another Knight and Squire, just with more brown paper bags and fewer horses.
Del Boy & Rodney.
Then came Only Fools and Horses (1981–2003), which took everything that made Flash ‘Arry work and ran with it like a suitcase full of knock-off Rolexes. Del Boy (David Jason again, now fully grown into the role of lovable rogue) and his younger brother Rodney (Nicholas Lyndhurst) were the ultimate modern-day double act.
Del had the charm, the patter, and the dodgy connections. Rodney had… well, the ability to look permanently confused.
These weren’t just sitcom characters. They were archetypes. They were templates for the comedy of the ordinary. People laughed because they recognised themselves, or at least their cousin Dave who once tried to sell a broken VCR as “vintage.”
But if we’re talking comedy royalty, then Arthur Daley—played, of course, by the great George Cole—is the King of the Cockney Spivs.
Minder (1979–1994) wasn’t just a TV show; it was a weekly masterclass in comedic charisma. Arthur sold everything from second-hand cars to slightly warm meat pies, and his moral compass spun like a roulette wheel. His long-suffering sidekick, Terry McCann (Dennis Waterman), was the muscle to Arthur’s mouth, forever trying to keep his boss out of trouble, or at least out of prison.
Arthur Daley didn’t just carry on the Flash ‘Arry tradition—he perfected it. Equal parts villain and victim, wide-boy and wise-man, Arthur represented that uniquely British ability to take life’s lemons and flog them as limited-edition citrus collectibles. And George Cole played him to perfection—never too villainous to be hated, always just cheeky enough to be loved.
So today, as we raise a glass (or a suspicious-looking lab gin) to George Cole, let’s remember that comedy, at its best, is about truth in trousers. Whether you’re a Knight and Squire on a pilgrimage, a schnorrer and his stooge in the East End, or a dodgy dealer dodging the law and “’er indoors,” (the wife) the best laughs come from characters we know, love, and secretly fear we might be.
Here’s to 100 years of George Cole—a true master of the comedic con, the King of Spivs, and proof that some rogues are best left exactly as they are.
