"4291?"

It's an iconic scene. A dozing Victor Meldrew starts awake at the sound of the telephone ringing, and reaches down the side of his chair to pick up his neighbour's lost sausage dog. The laugh is enormous; and One Foot In The Grave notched up another extraordinary, though esoteric, achievement - a beloved sitcom not merely blessed with an instantly recognisable central character, nor even an instantly recognisable catchphrase, but an instantly recognisable telephone number, too.

The show would become famous for its surreal, playful, and sometimes macabre visuals - Victor buried in the ground, with his head under a flower pot; the yucca plant in the lavatory; the Medrews being happily presented by an ever-enthusiastic Mrs Warboys with a stuffed dead dog. This synthesis of imaginative visual comedy; robust, naturalistic dialogue; and smooth, beautifully crafted plots, interwoven with a dark, almost nihilistic, undertone would take One Foot In The Grave to the heart of BBC One's schedule over six series, and numerous specials, broadcast between 1990 and 2001.

It all started quietly enough. In the first episode, Victor Meldrew - writer David Renwick chose the ironic Christian name deliberately - loses his job as a security guard to a black box ("It does every-thing you used to do, except complain about the air conditioning"). He thus finds himself condemned to an unwanted early retirement and forced to try to fill his days. Whereas his wife Margaret enjoys a steady part-time job at the local florist, nothing Victor tries - from chauffeur to human scarecrow - lasts. Bickering with neighbours, volunteering, ruminating on mortality, and clashing with the various tradespeople, old friends and newly-acquired nemeses he encounters en route provide some temporary distraction in this ocean of free time.

VICTOR: I can only think of one thing worse than dying - and that's living forever. I mean, can you just imagine how terrible that would actually be? If I was just always here, forever and ever and ever?
MARGARET: Yes.

Key to the success of the programme is the casting. Richard Wilson, a noted character actor with a particular talent for comedy, originally turned the part of Victor Meldrew down. "I thought I was too young," Wilson would explain. "Victor was 60 and I was 55. And there were some things about the script I wasn't sure about." Indeed, for a while, lugubrious comedian Les Dawson was being considered for the part. But exposed to both more scripts and a charm offensive from producer/director Susan Belbin, Wilson eventually relented. Only Head of Comedy Gareth Gwenlan still held reservations. "On your own head be it," he told Belbin - an exchange she would delight in reminding him of as the series went from success to success.

Annette Crosbie complimented Wilson perfectly as Margaret. The small-framed, steely-eyed actress had already enjoyed a long career, which began as a teen at the Glasgow Vic Theatre Company in 1956. She starred with Vanessa Redgrave in A Picture Of Katherine Mansfield, and played several Queens, including Catherine of Aragon in the BBC's The Six Wives Of Henry VIII, and Queen Victoria in ITV's Edward The Seventh - for which she won a BAFTA. But it was as Margaret Meldrew she would become a household name. Theirs is a beautifully observed portrait of a marriage, given extra depth by their shared sadness over the loss of a child. "They will bicker and shout at each other because really, deep down, it's not threatening their marriage at all," noted Renwick.

This pivotal relationship at the heart of the programme is complimented by a colourful palette of recurring characters. There's Doreen Mantle's bustling Mrs. Warboys: wide-eyed, gossipy and tactless, who keeps a budgie despite it giving her allergies and, in one episode, orders a life-size wax-work of herself. There are neighbours Patrick and Pippa: Janine Duvitski's Pippa a friend of Margaret's; Angus Deayton's Patrick a sarcastic, cynical micro-Meldrew, constantly warring with his elderly counterpart.

VICTOR: (Using a glass to listen through the wall) They're talking about us! I just heard the words, '- arsehole think he's playing at?'!

Rounding off the colourful ensemble of regulars is Owen Brenman as Nick Swainey - "Remember me? Nick Swainey, 'Outwardbound for the Elderly'! I called round that day and you told me to piss off?" - who lives with his mother, and proffers a rich source of innuendos: "Good morning, Mr. Meldrew! Is it me or is it moist?" Despite its heightened quality, this feels like suburbia as it is - with its eccentricity, and intrigue; absurdity and despair - more relatable perhaps than the trim, poised privets of Terry & June, or even the brilliant biodegradable bickering of the Goods and the Leadbetters.

VICTOR: Oh God, I wish I was dead.
MARGARET: I wish you were dead. I might get some peace.

Whilst the basic Grave formula may revolve around perfectly contrived, off-piste and often bleak suburban chaos, as the series grew in popularity and confidence, the format began to subvert itself, Renwick showcasing his skill with increasingly experimental subject matter and story structures.

In The Trial, Victor delivers a monologue as he waits on jury service, trying to amuse himself, worrying about his health, eating too much - and berating over the phone a Mr P T Sturgeon. In Rearranging The Dust we find the Meldrews passing time in a solicitor's waiting room. The Beast In The Cage, meanwhile, takes place entirely in the Meldrews' car as Victor, Margaret, and Mrs Warboys are stuck in a bank holiday traffic jam.

Perhaps the most extraordinary episode of all is Series 4's Hearts Of Darkness. Kicking off with a broad montage (set to the jaunty tones of Max Bygrave's breezy hit Out Of Town) of the Meldrews, Mr Swainey and Mrs Warboys "enjoying" a day out in the country, the first half of the episode is a slick exercise in television comedy - with Victor and Mrs Warboys each getting a foot stuck in a bag of cement, and the writer wringing every last comic possibility out of the situation. Dragging the bag up a hill, falling in a ditch, going to the toilet, the laughs are big and buoyant - but the episode soon takes an unexpected turn, when a freed Victor arrives at a lonely old people's home seeking help for the group.

What follows is as dark as any drama, a visceral and brooding reflection on elderly abuse, the studio audience audibly taken aback. Naturally, Victor, ever on the side of good, prevails - but, to some viewers, the episode was unnecessarily shocking; to all, it set out the programme's stall as one of the bravest, funniest, and most imaginative on television. It is particularly pleasing when writers play with tone: high farce, then extreme sadness. Vulgar knob gags, then a clash with brutal reality. This is what life is. It is not one tone, but many - and One Foot In The Grave deftly handles these contradictions and ironies, creating a piece which can be both cartoonishly heightened and reflectively quiet - as life so often is.

David Peter Renwick was born, the only child of James and Winifred, on 4th September 1951. Fascinated by comedy and precociously talented, he had already made contact with the BBC by the time he was 18. Come the 1970s he was writing gags for radio, and he soon became a stalwart contributor to The Two Ronnies, penning numerous sketches, including the famous Mastermind sketch, and taking over from Spike Mullins to script 50 or so instalments of 'Ronnie in the Chair'.

With co-writer Andrew Marshall - who would go on to pen his own solo sitcoms, smash hit 2point4 Children, and much underrated George Cole vehicle Dad - he wrote End Of Part One, an attempt to transfer the humour of their radio series The Burkiss Way to television; apocalyptic comedy drama Whoops Apocalypse and If You See God, Tell Him. Working alone, Renwick would also create and write magic-themed mystery comedy Jonathan Creek, but One Foot In The Grave, with its perfect performances, perfect direction and perfect scripts, is arguably his most popular programme. He remained circumspect about the series' popularity: "I think that that sort of success occurs once only in a lifetime, and it's amazing that it's occurred at all."

But occur it did. There was a novel, based on material from the early television scripts, released in 1992. A radio adaptation in 1995. Richard Wilson became much in demand, though was reluctant to parrot the catchphrase on request - unless there was a charitable donation involved. This in itself formed the plot of an episode of Graham Linehan and Arthur Mathews's Father Ted, The Mainland, in which Dermot Morgan's titular Priest roars "I don't believe it" at Wilson and is promptly beaten up.

Meanwhile, the programme's theme tune formed the basis of a novelty record featuring Eric Idle singing the lyrics whilst Wilson as Meldrew bellows disgruntledly down a phone. Idle's own contribution to the series - both via the iconic theme tune and elsewhere - should not be underestimated. Along with John Du Prez, he is responsible for giving the show its unique sound, and features in several episodes, including as Mervyn Whale in The Man In The Long Black Coat, and as the voice of a peeved mechanic who records a song over Victor's cassette in The Beast In The Cage:

At its best there is a wonderful, earthy vulgarity to One Foot In The Grave that compliments beautifully the smartness and sophistication of its storytelling. "I could stuff a mattress with your public hair," notes Margaret, cleaning the bath. "'Question: What's the difference between Victor Meldrew and a chef who keeps dropping his pancakes?'" reads Meldrew, from a slip of paper found in a Christmas cracker. "'Answer: They're both useless tossers.' Well, that's incorrect. That's not the difference; that's what we have in common."

Over the course of the six series, Meldrew receives a vast-ly-elongated chimney sweep's brush up his wounded derrière; finds himself bricked up in his bed-room and has to urinate, with the help of Mr. Swainey, through a hosepipe; and takes delivery of some bespoke wallpaper, emblazoned with photos of his face and the message "get a life you sad git".

Of course, the show is perfectly plotted - with an extraordinary array of stunningly imaginative visual jokes. And it often subverts the basic rule of situation comedy; rather than the main character creating his own mess, bad things happen to him. The gods, it seems, have made it their business to torment Victor Meldrew.

But the most crucial thing? Victor is - whisper it - nice. Yes, he's cantankerous, grumpy, and misanthropic - but you would be too if you were him.

And to an extent we are all him. He wants to do the right thing, he wants to be kind, considerate, and purposeful, but this cruel world has other ideas. "You talk about being sensitive," says Margaret in Warm Champagne, as she contemplates then rejects an affair with Ben. "I'm afraid that's Victor's trouble. He's the most sensitive person I've ever met. And that's why I love him. And why I constantly want to ram his head through a television screen."

Victor Meldrew, the ultimate everyman? I don't believe it.