THE past may be a foreign country but sometimes it feels like the 1970s was another universe. They certainly did things differently there.

Covid-hit TV companies keen to fill their schedules with repeats from that “golden age” of telly often come unstuck – 70s fare that’s now deemed acceptable forms a very small pool indeed. There’s no way the likes of Till Death Us Do Part or Love Thy Neighbour would be welcomed today but a handful of period pieces still crop up as part of Auntie’s prime-time line-up.

Neither political, homophobic, racist nor sexist, Morecambe and Wise are, like Dad’s Army or The Good Life, out of time. Silly, clever and charming, they remain untouched by the attitudes of their day and therefore safe to broadcast today – albeit mainly in excerpt form – without fear of a Twitter mauling. That and the fact that the public took Eric and Ern to their hearts is why the “Andrew Preview” Grieg sketch appears to be on a perpetual loop. Also, like Tony Hancock, they pulled off the fairly rare coup of scything through every strata of British society.

Countless TV programmes have paid tribute to “the boys”, including an entertaining biopic by Victoria Wood, and there’s a veritable library of books. So do we need a new one?

The answer – if you’re a fan – is a resounding yes. And comedy historian Louis Barfe, author of books about Les Dawson, Ken Dodd and light entertainment in general, is just the man to do it. A safe pair of hands, his Sunshine and Laughter is the perfect companion piece to Graham McCann’s excellent 1998 biography. His research is exemplary.

Here Barfe astutely points out that the comedy duo were more than a mere double act – they were the nation’s best friends. After years of hard graft, he says, theirs wasn’t really an act at all. “They were playing themselves. They were two very old, close friends who were having fun and inviting millions to join in with them.”

Twenty-eight million to be precise. That was the viewing figure for their last BBC hurrah, the 1977 Christmas show. But quite how much fun Eric was having is a moot point. A notorious perfectionist and worrier, the pressure of the festive shows in particular grew to haunt him. As each became progressively more successful, the strain to maintain – and hopefully exceed – the quality took its toll. The laid-back, relaxed Eric, casually sucking on his pipe, seems to be at odds with the real Eric, who even as a child was a ball of nervous energy. So much so his mother nicknamed him “Jifflearse”.

And success for Morecambe and Wise was hard fought. Both Ernest Wiseman and John Eric Bartholomew were child performers – initially Ernie, billed as “England’s Mickey Rooney”, was the bigger name; Eric – whose repertoire included the song I’m Not All There – took after his father and was (apparently) far less ambitious. But what he lacked in ambition was more than compensated for by Sadie, his shrewd, showbiz-savvy mother who was instrumental in putting the two together.

The pair learned their trade playing the usual round of tawdry summer shows and pantos. At first their act was an homage to (ie rip-off of) American crossover comics, particularly Abbott and Costello. The writer who appreciated they were far better than this and hit upon the idea of giving them funny personalities and taking them away from the tired funny man/ straight man format, was Alf Garnett-creator Johnny Speight. The man who took that notion to the next level was the writer of their BBC shows, Eddie Braben. He was the one who gave Ernie a distinct character, that of the puffed-up, money-obsessed deluded playwright with short, fat hairy legs.

And despite now legendary bad reviews for their first TV series (Eric kept one stinging cutting in his wallet for years), the small screen was where they flourished. Indeed they were among the first acts to hear variety’s death knell. Rather brilliantly, with the aid of a sympatico writer (Braben) and producer John Ammonds, they spun what was basically a music hall turn into television comedy gold.

Of course, persuading some of the biggest stars of stage and screen to come on and act as their stooge did no harm. The list of illustrious “legitimate”guests is impressive: Glenda Jackson, Vanessa Redgrave, Peter Cushing, John Mills, Frank Finlay, Diana Rigg, even Laurence Olivier – they all tripped over themselves to submit to Eric and Ern’s merciless ribbing. Although Ammonds is quoted as saying the only star to turn them down was Sarah Miles, I recall Roger Moore once said his greatest regret was foregoing the opportunity to appear on The Morecambe and Wise Show – he kind of made up for it by guesting on Sean Foley and Hamish McColl’s hit West End show The Play What I Wrote in the early noughties.

The fact that such a tribute – co-written by Braben himself – existed and became such a success is testament to the public’s affection. When I saw it there were almost as many tears and goose pimples as laughs when the curtain fell. The play, like M&W themselves, touched its audience in a decidedly visceral way. My guess is there was a whole raft of middle-aged punters who became moist-eyed at the memory of sharing laughter with long-gone parents.

Wisely (!) reluctant to analyse their act, Morecambe once said: “If you try to work out what makes us tick the watch stops.”

In this case Barfe makes a pretty good horologist.

• Sunshine and Laughter: The Story of Morecambe and Wise. By Louis Barfe, Head of Zeus, £25