Episode #1.1

Oh, 1988! The year of perms that defied gravity, shoulder pads that could double as flotation devices, and Margaret Thatcher's iron grip on Britain tighter than a scouser's wallet at closing time.

It was a time when the Berlin Wall still stood tall, Madonna was writhing in lace, and ITV decided what the nation really needed was a husband-and-wife duo beaming into our living rooms like a pair of overly enthusiastic estate agents selling a semi-detached in suburbia.

Enter This Morning, the weekday magazine show that premiered on October 3rd from Liverpool's Albert Dock - a location chosen, no doubt, because nothing says "relaxed morning chat" like the faint whiff of industrial decay and seagull droppings. Presented by Richard Madeley and Judy Finnigan, this inaugural episode wasn't just a TV debut; it was a harbinger of the soul-sucking daytime telly empire that would plague housewives, the unemployed, and insomniacs for decades to come.

Buckle up, dear reader, as we dissect this 90-minute abomination with the precision of a butter knife through overcooked liver. The episode kicks off at 10:40 a.m., a time when most sensible folk are still nursing hangovers or pretending to work. The camera pans over the murky Mersey waters, as if to whisper, "Abandon hope, all ye who tune in here." Up pops Richard Madeley, sporting a haircut that looks like it was styled by a hedge trimmer on acid and a suit so boxy it could house a family of four.

"A very warm good morning to you," he beams, his voice dripping with the faux sincerity of a used car salesman. "Welcome to Liverpool's Albert Dock. My name is Richard Madeley, and this is my wife, Judy Finnigan." Ah yes, because nothing screams professional broadcasting like introducing your co-host as "my wife," as if we're all crashing their awkward anniversary dinner. Judy, bless her, stands there in a blouse with more ruffles than a Victorian doily, her expression a perfect blend of mild enthusiasm and "What have I married?" regret.

They explain the show's revolutionary concept: a mix of news, lifestyle tips, and viewer phone-ins, all live from a set that resembles a converted warehouse - complete with a massive glass window showcasing the dock's "lovely red column aids" (Richard's words, not mine; one assumes he meant "colonnades," but who knows with that lot). Richard later confessed in anniversary clips that they were "nervous" - understatement of the century, mate. It was a "huge leap into the dark," he said, as daytime TV didn't exist in Britain before. Well, thank God for that!

Imagine the productivity we lost pre-1988 without shows teaching us how to fold napkins or debate whether cats or dogs make better pets. The pressure was on; ITV bosses warned they'd be axed by Christmas if it flopped. Spoiler: It didn't flop immediately, but watching this episode, you wish it had. The atmosphere is one of forced jollity, like a family reunion where everyone's secretly plotting to leave early. The set, with its panoramic view of rainy Liverpool, serves as a constant reminder that outside, real life is happening - ships sailing, workers toiling - while inside, Richard and Judy prattle on like they've invented sliced bread. Now, onto the hosts' dynamic, the beating heart of this televisual trainwreck. Richard and Judy aren't just presenters; they're a married couple, and boy, does the episode milk that for all it's worth.

Richard bounces around like a puppy on espresso, interrupting Judy mid-sentence with "darling" this and "love" that, as if the camera's a marriage counselor. Judy, meanwhile, plays the long-suffering straight woman, her eyes occasionally glazing over like she's mentally compiling a divorce list. Their banter is the stuff of cringe compilations: Richard cracks a joke about the weather (more on that later), and Judy forces a laugh that sounds like a kettle boiling dry. It's satirical gold - a real-life sitcom where the punchlines land with the thud of a wet sock. One can't help but imagine the off-air rows: "Richard, stop mansplaining the news!" "But Judy, the viewers love my charm!" Their chemistry is less Bogart and Bacall, more like a budget version of The Odd Couple, if Oscar and Felix were hitched and arguing over tea towels. Cutting? Absolutely.

This episode lays bare the folly of putting domestic bliss on display; it's like watching your parents flirt at a party - uncomfortable, unnecessary, and vaguely nauseating. The segments? Oh, where to begin this parade of banality. First up, the weather with Fred Talbot, the original weatherman who bounds on like he's announcing the Second Coming. Standing on a floating map of Britain in the dock (yes, really - a pontoon chart bobbing in the water), Fred gestures wildly at isobars while wind whips his toupee into submission. "It's going to be blustery in the North!" he chirps, as if Scousers needed telling about rain. Satirical aside: In 1988, climate change wasn't a thing, so Fred's forecast feels like ancient runes - "Cloudy with a chance of economic recession." Cutting critique:

This gimmick was meant to be innovative, but it's just daft, like predicting the lottery by throwing darts at a pigeon. Next, the cooking segment, where a guest chef (some forgotten culinary hack) demonstrates a "simple" full English breakfast. Richard hovers like a hawk, taste-testing sausages with moans that border on obscene, while Judy nods politely, probably thinking about her cholesterol. The recipe? Fry everything in lard until it's beige and artery-clogging - peak 80s health advice. Humor abounds when Richard burns his finger and yelps like a cartoon character, prompting Judy to quip, "That's what you get for interfering, dear." Boom! Marital shade on national TV. But let's cut deep: This is daytime TV's bread and butter (literally), reducing women's liberation to apron strings and bacon rashers. Revolutionary? More like regressive. Fashion follows, a horror show of neon leggings, oversized blazers, and patterns that could induce seizures. A model parades outfits "perfect for the office or evening," looking like she raided Boy George's wardrobe.

Judy gushes over a frock with more sequins than a disco ball, while Richard leers - sorry, "appreciates" - with comments like, "That'd look smashing on you, Jude." The satire writes itself: In Thatcher's Britain, where unemployment soared, here's how to dress for success you can't afford! Cutting? This segment epitomizes the show's shallow escapism, peddling consumerism to viewers scraping by on beans on toast. An interview segment brings in a guest - rumor has it, a minor soap star or local celeb (details fuzzy, like the episode's production values). They chat about "life in the spotlight," with Richard probing like a discount Freud: "Tell us about your struggles!" The guest obliges with banal anecdotes, while Judy interjects with empathetic "oohs." Notable moment: A phone-in where a viewer asks about pet care, leading to Richard's impassioned rant on goldfish hygiene. Hilarious in hindsight, given his later gaffes (remember Ali G?), but here it's just awkward. The vibe? Like eavesdropping on a pub chat, minus the pints. Production-wise, the 80s shine through in all their garish glory: tinny theme music that sounds like a Casio keyboard on steroids, graphics resembling MS Paint doodles, and lighting that washes everyone out like ghosts. The live element adds tension - a camera wobble here, a flubbed line there - making it feel amateurish, like a school play with bigger budgets. In closing, this premiere episode of This Morning isn't just TV; it's a cultural crime scene. Richard and Judy's earnest efforts birthed a beast that devoured mornings with fluff, spawning imitators and endless sofa chats. Satirical goldmine? Yes. Entertaining? Barely. Cutting truth: It promised viewer ownership but delivered corporate pablum. Thirty-seven years later (as of 2025), we're still suffering the hangover. Skip the rewatch; life's too short for such nonsense.