Opening on the vista of a decimated wasteland, set to the sombre tones of violins, Whoops Apocalypse's titles invite us to read a string of significant newspaper cuttings before eventually closing in on the ominous sight of a woman, her face obscured by the brim of her hat, as she rattles a collecting tin. Around her neck is an usherette's tray of novelty badges emblazoned with the slogan 'Wear your mushroom with pride'.

This was 1982, a time when comedy series rarely had opening sequences that were particularly notable, and certainly not ones that were so shockingly dark. These powerful titles couldn't fail to grab the viewer. Perhaps the only sitcom that has ever opened with anything anywhere near as macabre is Red Dwarf, some years later in 1988 - although its artsy depiction of the isolation of deep space was eventually replaced with the more famous upbeat montage of episode clips. Whoops Apocalypse similarly changes the mood immediately after its ominous opening, to depict a far more cheerful overview of the myriad of cock-ups that we're about to behold as the build-up to the horror of that opening and the devastation of nuclear war.

Less of a sitcom and more of an edgy satire, to really understand Whoops Apocalypse we must go back in time and connect with the global political climate of the early 1980s. Most people are familiar with the nuclear threat of the time, which cast something of a shadow over the entire decade. Indeed, the world came close to an all-out nuclear war on several occasions: the threat was real enough to instigate the Protect and Survive campaign, which had been running since the mid-seventies, and special plans were drawn up by the BBC (known as the War Book) to utilise secret bunkers all across the UK in order to continue broadcasting in the event of a real apocalypse.

The tensions behind the panic were largely due to the opposed ideologies by which the US and the Soviet Union, alongside their respective allies, were run - part of a long period known as the Cold War. Historians cannot agree on when the (non-) conflict really began, but most conclude that it started following the end of the Second World War and ended in the early nineties. The early eighties would prove to be one of the most turbulent periods during the entire debacle, with Margaret Thatcher as Britain's Prime Minister, Michael Foot as Leader of the Opposition, and in the USA, Ronald Reagan sat in The White House.

By the time Whoops Apocalypse aired the looming fear of nuclear war was inescapable. If it wasn't on the news, then it was being depicted on television. The BBC broadcast a very significant episode of Only Fools And Horses in 1981 entitled The Russians Are Coming. It was the final episode of the now legendary sitcom's first series, in which the Trotters ruminate about the prospect of nuclear war and attempt to build their own fall-out shelter. An unusual move for a budding sitcom, but one that starkly illustrates how fractious times were.

In 1984 the BBC broadcast Threads, a notorious horror-drama depicting the devastating aftermath of a nuclear attack on the industrial heartlands of Sheffield. In the same ilk the much less traumatising The Day After had aired on ABC in the US in November of 1983. The melodrama - starring Steve Guttenberg - was bizarrely an incredibly significant event in the history of the conflict: Ronald Reagan wrote in his diaries that the film was 'very effective and left me greatly depressed' and that it had changed his attitude towards nuclear war. As Charlie Brooker put it so succinctly in his 2011 series How TV Ruined Your Life: 'So, in summary, Steve Guttenberg saved the world! Thanks Steve!' Before adding in his typically savage style, 'Don't make any more films'.

But these dramas have little to do with Whoops Apocalypse, which only focused on the events preceding its imagined conflict, and pitched itself squarely as a political satire - albeit one of ridiculous proportions. The series has been described as 'Dr Strangelove meets Monty Python' but perhaps the best way to put it in sitcom terms would be that its tone is Yes Minister meets 'Allo 'Allo!, stylistically erring towards the pantomime-like attitude to serious events that the celebrated wartime sitcom so uniquely captured; however, whilst now much better known, the Croft and Lloyd comedy had not yet arrived on TV (it was piloted in December of that same year), so any similarities were purely incidental. Even then, the sitcoms are not terribly similar in how they play out and Whoops Apocalypse stands alone as its own thing, penned against the backdrop of the Cold War by two prolific sketch - and later, sitcom - writers, Andrew Marshall and David Renwick.

Marshall (now best remembered in his own right as the creator of long-running 1990s' sitcom hit 2point4 Children) and Renwick (who would also find later successes, with One Foot In The Grave and Jonathan Creek) are widely recognised for their solo projects, yet they established themselves in the industry very much as a partnership. Meeting in the early seventies, they became writers for the topical radio series Week Ending. It was there that they met comedy contemporaries such as John Lloyd and Douglas Adams (who infamously declared that he based his character, Marvin the Paranoid Android, on Andrew Marshall - a fact that now proudly adorns the top of Marshall's Wikipedia page). From there, Marshall and Renwick found success with their own Radio 4 sketch series, The Burkiss Way, which ran for an impressive 47 episodes, earned a cult following and spawned something of a TV spin-off, End Of Part One.

Unfortunately, that ITV sketch series slipped largely under the radar; Marshall and Renwick later admitted that the series was very much in the shadow of Not The Nine O'Clock News, a cult sketch show over on BBC2 to which they would later contribute. For their next major project, the duo decided to work on something entirely different to any other comedy series on television, which is how Whoops came to fruition.

Whoops Apocalypse is an expensive looking show featuring a towering cast. John Cleese, Peter Jones, Geoffrey Palmer and Rik Mayall are just some of the big names of British comedy that appear. No one character dominates the narrative, but if you were pushed and had to give the title of protagonist to anyone, then it would be The US President, Johnny Cyclops (played by Barry Morse). He is an obvious parody of Reagan and is advised exclusively by the Deacon (John Barron), who seems to make all the President's decisions for him, whilst Cyclops blunders about in confusion.

Cross in hand, the Bible-bashing Deacon frequently chips in one-liners throughout the series. 'If the Lord had meant for us to be sensible, then he would never have given us credit cards,' he declares in one scene. In another he pipes up, 'If the Lord had meant for us to panic, then he would not have given us clean trousers'. When later in the series, Cyclops fears for the future of the UK, the Deacon declares, 'If the Lord had meant for us to in live in the United Kingdom, he would have given us gills'.

Was this intriguing creation based on any real-life adviser to Reagan? According to Renwick and Marshall he was not, but theories have persisted that he was inspired by Reagan's security adviser, General Alexander Haig, who had described his role in Reagan's administration as the 'vicar' of foreign policy. However, the writers revealed that the character was actually inspired by John Barron's earlier, celebrated role as Cathedral Dean in the brilliant 1960s sitcom All Gas And Gaiters, and the odd coincidence had been just that.

Whoops Apocalypse has a plotline almost as complicated as the Cold War itself. The main story largely consists of Cyclops's plan to up his approval ratings ahead of an election, whilst also weaselling his administration's way out of danger. To restore the trust of the American people the Deacon proposes a powerful new nuclear weapon, The Johnny Cyclops Bomb.

This is where Rik Mayall makes his debut - as 'Biff', part of the re-elect Johnny Cyclops think-tank. We're treated to one of Rik's first ever TV appearances (he would shoot to fame later that same year with the game-changing sitcom The Young Ones) but being relatively unknown at this time, he doesn't get much to do, yet elicits the biggest laugh of the scene as he and the rest of the think tank launch into 'The Johnny Cyclops Campaign Song', including the chorus: 'Johnnnnny! Johnny Cyclops never started World War Three!'

Verses include 'Never flinched from duty and was never scared to act!' to which Rik adds, 'Loves-to-put-the-shits-up-The-War-saw-Pact!' It was his first in a long line of scene-stealing performances and as a consequence he was given a lot more to do in the feature film adaptation of the series that followed in 1986.

Whilst you could say that this scene highlighted the recklessly hard-right nature of basing an entire re-election campaign on nuclear weapons, the following pastiche of UK politics tells a different tale. Most satirical comedies of the eighties were famous for their lampooning of Thatcher, yet Whoops Apocalypse leaves her out of it altogether. It is perhaps an unexpected move, and instead we see Michael Foot's Labour Party appearing to come under fire: Whoops Apocalypse imagines that a hard left socialist government has just found itself in Downing Street with a manifesto literally written on the back of a fag packet.

So, does that make the series a sort of pro-Conservative government satire? Some may be tempted to view it in that way, but with digs on all sides, and the right (or at least, aspects of it) firmly represented in its depictions of Washington life, the show is squarely apolitical - and if we're honest, that's what all good satire should be, illustrating the faults and hypocrisies in all extremes. In the case of parody, it should be so funny that for the target's attractors any malice is robbed of its potency. That's what Spitting Image and The Comic Strip did so well, that's what Dead Ringers does so well, and it's exactly what Peter Jones performs so well in the moment that defines the series.

After abolishing the House of Lords and the Daily Telegraph, new socialist PM Kevin Pork leans over his desk to share a personal secret with his closest confidants, the Chancellor of the Exchequer (Richard Davies) and the Foreign Secretary (Geoffrey Palmer). This is Peter Jones delivering an effortless masterclass in comic timing. Fresh from narrating The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy, he revels in the absurdity of the scene. His deadpan delivery was almost unrivalled; he could make anything sound plausible, yet utterly foolish in the same note. Just as he does in this moment:

There's a long pause filled with audience laughter before Geoffrey Palmer questions him levelly.
'Superman?'
'Correct!'
Silence. Kevin Pork smiles slightly smugly at them.
'Bit of a big one, isn't it?' he declares with barely contained joy. The audience's reaction raises the roof.

It might not look like much on paper, but this joke wasn't just the focus of this one scene: it was a real moment, and the basis of Kevin Pork's entire storyline. He is convinced he is Superman ('In future, I will be handling all our defence needs personally as The Man of Steel...' he says in one scene. In another, 'I'm sorry, I can't make Prime Minister's Questions today, Brainiac has escaped from the Phantom Zone.'). As with every plot in the series, events become more and more ridiculous each time we check in with Number 10, as the trio's storyline keeps building to an inevitable, yet satisfying conclusion.

David Renwick commented about recently after being reminded of the scene in Alexei Sayle's podcast: 'When Trump came back, having recovered from the coronavirus and was talking about pulling his shirt open to reveal a Superman logo, which was exactly what Peter Jones did in our series... you just think, well, this is... we have now reached this point in real life.'

Renwick's amazement at Kevin Pork's delusions almost being realised shouldn't really have come as too much of a surprise to him. Comedy producer Humphrey Barclay said of the duo's writing that 'they were always just jumping ahead of the news'. John Barron stated in a press interview that the series 'Might sound a bit far-fetched at the beginning, but by the time we get to the end, I'm afraid you are inclined to believe it could happen'. And bizarrely enough, he's right.

Indeed, their pastiche of the KGB now feels particularly apposite. One scene in particular sticks in the mind, as we observe a darkly humorous torture inflicted on an innocent couple, whilst a violinist plays in the background (apparently hired for the couple's anniversary). Alexei Sayle stars here in his first acting role as the sadistic torturer, Commisar Solzhenitsyn (no relation). Sayle performs it fantastically and the scene really is quite horrible. Meanwhile, the Russian Ambassador to America is expertly portrayed by an almost unrecognisable Richard Griffiths ('I have letter here from man saying he likes living in Russia... here is a written account by two witnesses... and more than ten people can testify that it wasn't written at gun point'). We find ourselves lurching from these quite bleak, sharply satirical scenes to some genuinely silly sequences. One example sees the President being sent for some 'light brain surgery'. He states, 'If anybody tries to give me a lobotomy, they'll get a piece of my mind!'

The silliest humour in the entire show comes from the two-hander scenes featuring the deposed Shah of Iran (Bruce Montague) and his faithful companion, Abdab (David Kelly), who is blindfolded throughout the entire series, feeling unworthy to look upon his master's face. Of course, you wouldn't have a plotline like this these days, and there are a few other moments in the series, such as a real elephant painted pink and a topless newsreader, that will jar to many modern viewers. In the Shah and Abdab's scenes the humour is a little reminiscent of It Ain't Half Hot Mum, but political correctness aside, there remains something very funny - silly, rather than cruel - and oddly endearing about the pair, particularly poor Abdab. They're shafted from pillar to post as no country is prepared to grant them asylum. (Eventually, they're blasted into space.)

But of all Whoops Apocalypse's daft cast of characters, one stands out from the rest: some call him The Devil, but to us he's known as Lacrobat (a loose parody of Marxist-Leninist terrorist Carlos the Jackal) and he's played by John Cleese.

Cleese hasn't taken on too many sitcom roles over his career. After cementing Basil Fawlty as an icon he largely retired from the genre, so his casting was certainly a coup for the series. And Lacrobat puts Cleese back into full Python mode, as he plays with all manner of absurd accents and terrible disguises. Lacrobat's services are required when one of the Johnny Cyclops bombs (now renamed the Quark Bomb) goes missing and he must steal it back for the Deacon. Where do his allegiances truly lie? Who can be sure? But whomever Lacrobat really intended to deliver that Quark bomb to, it goes off, largely due to his own incompetence - and this is the event, rather than a direct conflict between the main protagonist powers, that leads to the eventual end of civilisation.

The final scene of the series strips away all the silliness of before: there are no more talking parrots, no more caped crusaders, no more trips into space with Abdab. Cyclops talks briefly about his wife, before the President and his team leave for the bunker. The camera then tracks in on a framed photograph left on his desk. The identity of the woman in the picture brings us full circle and as a viewer one is left genuinely unsure how to take this impactful, uneasy ending. In fact, the whole series made a huge impact (no pun intended) - hence the aforementioned later film adaptation, which starred Peter Cook as a Conservative Prime Minister who believed that all the UK's economic problems were caused by pixies.

Although the feature film (just restored and released on Blu-ray) was a bit more serious, it was also a lot more casual; for some reason, the impending apocalypse never really felt like that much of a big deal, whereas, in the TV series, it really does feel as though the end of the world is approaching. A tension builds even in the sitcom's most overblown sequences.

How such astonishing changes of mood all seemed to be able to work together remain a mystery, but Renwick and Marshall both agreed about their attitudes to writing. Renwick stated: 'In the end, all you can do is make it for yourself, which I think we've done throughout our careers, and then occasionally you can get lucky and find that a lot of people are enjoying it as well as you - but I'm not really sure that exists anymore, that climate.'

Sure enough, it is hard to imagine a broadcaster taking a punt on anything anywhere near as ambitious as Whoops Apocalypse today. Its budget, ideas and casting must have pushed the production team to their absolute limit. In the end, what Marshall and Renwick managed to pull off was arguably the craziest satire ever made, featuring the cream of the British comedy scene of the period, complete with a genuinely powerful ending. Whoops Apocalypse is one of the most fascinating endeavours in the history of British sitcom and it's not one to be overlooked.