Womble
A children's television programme of our youth based on the narcotically inspired assumption that Wimbledon Common was inhabited, not by crack dealers and cruising homosexualists but rather by a race of small furry creatures who cleared up litter and spoke with the voice of Bernard Cribbins.
I sometimes wonder how we survived. Those were our most formative years. If we belived half what we saw on the Magic Roundabout, Mr Ben and Rhubarb and Custard we'd all be floridly psychotic by now.
And it's not just that the programmes were weird either. They were also crap. When, around my 5th year of existence, the BBC actually deigned to show programmes during the day (it had been banned up to this point for fear that it would ditract the working classes from honest labour - how right they were) they kicked off with appallingly dubbed Eastern European black and white garbage. Belle and bloody Sebastian, The Aeronauts and the bastard Singing Ringing Tree. I was scarred for life.