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It’s boring site admin time again, fans! For anyone wanting to follow this site on the various Twitter replacements, I’ve just added two new ones: Bluesky and Threads. So all the various places you can find Dirty Feed are as follows:

Yes, Threads wouldn’t let me have @dirtyfeed as a username. Yes, I find that incredibly annoying.

I’m still using all the above extremely gingerly; I’m posting site updates only, rather than the steady stream of bollocks that you can find on my @mumoss Twitter account, and I’m currently not following anyone either. Think of them as glorified RSS feeds. This might change in the future, but giving myself four timelines to get pissed off about instead of just one seems like an incredibly bad idea.

You can also subscribe to this site via individual post emails, a monthly newsletter, and yer actual RSS feeds; see the dedicated subscribe page for all of these collated in one neat handy place.

End of boring site admin. Well, it was a nice respite from the McWhirters, at least.

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Tangerine Knightmare

Children's TV / Music

Here’s a timely question. What’s the connection between William Friedkin, and Knightmare?

The answer isn’t to be found in anything which was actually broadcast. Because Knightmare had two unbroadcast pilots. One called Dungeon Doom, a 15-minute proof-of-concept recorded in early 1986, and the other, actually called Knightmare, which was a full episode recorded in January 1987.1

And the title music for that second pilot was “Betrayal” by Tangerine Dream: the main theme to Sorcerer, directed by Friedkin in 1977:

The music was also used in the trailer for the film:

It has to be said, what an absolutely wonderful choice of music that was for the Knightmare pilot. I wouldn’t trade Ed Welch’s incredible theme for anything, of course, but “Betrayal” perfectly captures the mood of the series: dark, foreboding, electronic. It could easily have been used as incidental music in the show proper.

But how do we know that second pilot used “Betrayal” for its main theme? Sadly, despite people’s hopes over the years, neither pilot has ever actually leaked online. Which is something that has become increasingly bizarre. The show has a still-active fandom over at Knightmare.com, and next January that site will have been going for 25 years. It’s something which feels like it should have made it out there by now… but hasn’t. Maybe one day. Preferably before I snuff it.

We do, however, have the next best thing. Back in 2010, Billy Hicks got hold of the script of that second pilot, wrote about it, and uploaded the full thing. And as part of that script, we’re told:

Title Music – Tangerine Dream ‘Betrayal’/E Froese, C Frauhe, P Bannman/MCA Records Inc/MCL 1646/Sd2/NV2

The script itself is fascinating, and not just because you can spot the differences between the pilot and Series 1. It’s close enough to the first broadcast episode of Knightmare that it really gives an insight into how the show was put together in those early years. The multiple responses needed by actors must have been absolute agony to learn.

So when you get a moment, give that script a read, and try listening to “Betrayal” in the background. It’s almost as good as actually watching that unbroadcast pilot for real.

Almost.


  1. See Tim Child’s How Knightmare Began for the full story. 

  2. As pointed out to me on Twitter, the script manages to misspell both Christopher Franke and Peter Baumann’s last names. 

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Freeze-Frame Gonna Drive You Insane, Part Two

TV Comedy

Part OnePart Two • Part ThreePart FourPart Five

It’s the 8th April 1970 at 9pm, and BBC1, BBC2 and ITV are all transmitting the same thing. It is, of course, a Party Political Broadcast: this one by the Labour Party, titled “What’s at Stake?”. It seemed pretty normal, on the face of it. I mean, the promise of MP trio George Brown, Anthony Crosland, and Robert Mellish might sound a bit too exciting, but I’m sure the country could keep itself under control.

The very next day, the papers were in uproar.

The Daily Mail is typical, in its piece “Complaints on Labour broadcast”:

“Both the BBC and ITV had callers last night complaining that the first one or two minutes of the Labour Party’s political broadcasting contained subliminal advertising.

The programme had been recorded and the BBC explained: ‘We are not responsible for the content of party political broadcasts, it is entirely up to the parties concerned. We provide the facilities.'”

Uh-oh. So what did Labour have to say about this?

“‘Subliminal advertising?’ said a Labour Party spokesman. ‘No, not really.

What happened was that we opened the programme with an anti-switch off factor to grab people’s interest. It went on for not more than 30 seconds with film shots and some raucous voice saying: ‘We don’t expect you to vote.’

I understand that the complaint is that the words “Labour Tomorrow” appeared twice very quickly, so quickly that they registered on the eye and not the brain.'”

Hmmmmm. Regardless of anything else, I would suggest statements like “registered on the eye and not the brain” are liable to make people more suspicious about what was broadcast, not less.1

Regardless of that, for a while it looked like nothing else would happen. The Daily Telegraph published the following on the 10th April, under “Subliminal advertising by Labour denied”:

“Neither the BBC nor the Independent Television Authority is to take any action over allegations that the Labour party political broadcast on Wednesday contained subliminal advertising.

Both organisations maintained yesterday that no such advertising was included in the programme. They said no action would be taken about complaints from viewers.”

But a week later on the 16th April, the front page of The Times reported the following, under “Investigation on Labour TV film”:

“The Labour Party political broadcast on television which used a quick flash technique and brought claims that subliminal methods were being used is to be investigated by the Director of Public Prosecutions.

The men behind the inquiry are Mr. Norris McWhirter and Mr. Ross McWhirter, the publishing twins.”

Oh, hello there. Well, we’ve been avoiding this topic for about as long as is practical. We need to talk about the McWhirters.

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  1. Some newspapers, like the Lincolnshire Echo, report this quote as “the brain and not the eye”, which actually makes more sense. But either way round, the quote seems ill-judged. 

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Bits & Pieces Of The Radio 1 Roadshow

Jingles / Radio

As you may have noticed, Dirty Feed is undergoing something of a quiet patch at the moment. I have – finally – decided to knuckle down and write the next part in my series about flash frames, and that involves burying myself in a slightly ludicrous amount of research.

So while I’m busy investigating Party Political Broadcasts from 1970, here’s something fun from me old mucker Duncan Newmarch: a beautiful celebration of the 50th anniversary of the Radio 1 Roadshow. Set aside an hour, and enjoy this summer trip around the UK’s coast.

Note in particular that the source of many of these clips is most certainly not a hissy off-air medium wave signal. So you’re hearing this stuff in higher quality than most people did at the time.

It really does feel like you’re there.

The Teaching Room

TV Comedy

Welcome back to yet another article where I look at Red Dwarf‘s sets in mind-numbing and excoriating detail. And having already recently investigated some thrilling wall sections and the Captain’s Office, we turn to what might initially seem an unpromising avenue for spectacular revelations: the Teaching Room in Series 1.

I think, however, you may be surprised. Because telling the story of this set leads us into some rather interesting areas which I don’t think have been examined before. As ever, we don’t have the paperwork handy to be able to check any of this: we have to do some deduction, some guesswork, and leave some questions unanswered.

With that health warning, let’s take another trip through early Red Dwarf – as ever with these articles, in order of recording rather than broadcast.

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The Captain’s Office

TV Comedy

Hello everyone. Last time in the crazy world of Red Dwarf set analysis, we took a look at the history of three wall sections used at BBC Manchester in 1988. (You need to have read that to have a hope of following this piece.) How could I possibly top that majestic piece of writing?

Answer: with one of Series 1’s most famous oddities. Yes, it’s the disappearing and reappearing Captain’s Office. This article was intended to be a more general look at the Drive Room set, but believe it or not I have found enough to say about this single topic to make a full standalone piece. I am not dumbing down my material. It’s always been this stupid.

As before, we need to take this one in recording order, rather than broadcast order.

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The Pictures Are Much Much Better on Television

TV Comedy

Here’s a question for you. When did Alan Partridge first appear on television?

Caveats: a) I specifically mean television. Radio is brilliant, and also outside the scope of this article. b) For now, ignore any unbroadcast pilots. I’m talking about actual, broadcast telly. c) I do mean material exclusive to television, not just part of a radio programme aired on TV.

If you immediately went for the first episode of The Day Today, on the 19th January 1994, then join the club. That’s exactly where my mind went at first. So that would be this trademark awkward exchange between Chris and Alan:

But wait! The day before each episode of The Day Today aired, BBC2 broadcast The Day Today MiniNews, three minutes of extra material which served essentially as an extended trail for the next day’s episode. Or in other words: the closest you’d get to deleted scenes this side of a LaserDisc, at least in the first half of the 90s.

Partridge makes an appearance in the first one, which was broadcast on the 18th January 1994:

So is that the answer? Not quite. Because, of course, there were trails1 running for the series the week before air. Here’s one from the 14th January 1994, which features a brief bit of Partridge:

Incidentally, isn’t that a great trail? For all that Chris Morris has the reputation for scowling at publicity, you couldn’t ask for a better introduction to the show.

The above would usually cause me to make a variety of shrill and unpleasant noises, as I vainly tried to find the first transmission of a trail for the series. Luckily, we can sidestep that problem entirely. Because Partridge had an even earlier appearance on TV.

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  1. The BBC term is trails, not trailers, despite someone trying to correct me on this earlier in the year. 

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Fanny, I Want Fanny

Other TV

Writing Dirty Feed can lead you down some strange avenues, and making some strange comparisons. Right now, I’m reading about Chris Morris and Fanny Cradock. What the hell do that pair have in common, beyond being “broadcasters” in the most general possible sense?

Answer: both were perfectly happy for the legend to be printed, rather than the truth. Which means disentangling lies told about them, either disseminated by themselves or by others, can initially seem like an exercise in futility. After all, if they didn’t care, surely nobody else should be bothered either.

But such defeatist talk gets us nowhere. So let’s take a look at this Guardian piece from 2006, “Secret drugs menu of TV chef Fanny”. There are a number of rather dubious claims in that article, but I want to focus on one which we can easily investigate:

“Her last public appearance before she died at 85 in 1995 was on the Parkinson Show alongside Danny La Rue who was dressed in drag as Shirley Bassey. Fanny had no idea at first that ‘the woman’ was actually a man, and when she found out she stormed out of the studio.”

This sounds like it should be a huge, classic TV moment, which is well-known about. Sure enough, it was picked up by The Times in November 2007:

“Fanny Cradock, the original TV chef, never presented a show again after she upset viewers by criticising the cooking of a housewife. She stormed off a Parkinson show when she found that Danny Da Rue, her fellow guest, was a man dressed as a woman.”

And in case you wondered why I’m talking about this now, this anecdote is still being told rather more recently. In March 2018, The Mirror gave us “The red-hot private life of temperamental TV chef Fanny Cradock”:

“Consigned to chat shows, her last was on Parkinson when she stormed out after realising Danny La Rue was a man in drag.”

From this, it starts making its way into various blog posts. There’s UCBloggers in November 2020, “Fanny Cradock: Britain’s First Celebrity Chef”:

“She made her last TV appearance on the Parkinson show, but she stormed off set in horror as she realised that the woman on the show alongside her was in fact Danny La Rue in drag.”

And there’s Retro Vixen in March 2023, “A Look Back at Fanny Cradock”:

“In one of her final TV appearances, she appeared as a guest on Parkinson alongside Danny La Rue. When she realised that Danny was a man dressed up as a woman, she stormed off set.”

Of course, it’s inevitably made it onto Wikipedia, directly citing The Guardian as a source:

“Fanny appeared alone on Wogan, Parkinson and TV-am. When she appeared on the television chat show Parkinson with Danny La Rue and it was revealed to her that La Rue was actually a female impersonator, she stormed off the set.”

And bringing us right up to date, the tale even makes it into the book Camp!: The Story of the Attitude that Conquered the World, published in May 2023:

“Fanny and Johnnie retired to the south coast and became chat show regulars, with Fanny making her final television appearance in 1995 aged eighty-five on the Parkinson show, alongside the fabulous drag queen Danny La Rue, who happened to be dressed as Shirley Bassey. When Fanny realised that La Rue was a female impersonator she stormed out – a shame, I’m sure if she’d hung around she would have benefited enormously from his makeup tips.”

Yes, yes, very amusing. Just one problem. This anecdote is bollocks.

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Scrabbling.

Internet

I’ve just idly been reminded of something by John Gruber, in his piece about the book Make Something Wonderful, and the brand new font it’s typeset in:

It has occurred to me several times during this stretch how much I miss Dean Allen, and specifically, herewith, I crave his thoughts on both the typeface and the book. Re-reading for the umpteenth time Twenty Faces, Dean’s remarkably concise and compelling “survey of available text typefaces”, I was reminded that his entry on ITC Baskerville points also to Mrs Eaves, Zuzana Licko’s inspired 1996 revival (has it been that long? I will forever think of Mrs Eaves as a “new” typeface), which Dean described thus: “an interesting if mannered experiment in reviving Baskerville by aping the unpredictability of form found in letterpress text.”

And it strikes me how, five years on from the death of Dean Allen, there is absolutely no proper archive of Dean’s writing. In order to quote his thoughts above, Gruber was forced to scrabble around on the Wayback Machine. Of course, it’s amazing that the Wayback Machine exists, and gives us as much as it does. But it isn’t – and never can be – the solution to everything. Its archives are very much an imperfect, broken representation of a man who deeply cared about how websites not only looked, but worked.

It feels like he deserves a better legacy than that.

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A Leak, Right, in Stasis

TV Comedy

Many, many years ago, on a forum known as NOTBBC, somebody said something which caused me a fair amount of anguish. I can’t remember the exact words. Nor can I find the forum post in question. But I remember well enough the point of it.

It was a rather sharp remark about how fandom, in its various forms, often seemed more interested in making lists of things, instead of actually analysing the show they were a fan of. And that most of these things were done because people enjoyed the list creation itself, and all the mental tics which go along with that, rather than actually talking about a show properly.

It stung. It was unfair. It was insulting. And it maybe had a little more truth to it than I cared to admit.

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