Loss.

A couple of years ago, I had a great idea. In the BBC’s centennial year, I wanted to write a diary of the BBC presentation department. Capturing not only what we did, but what it felt like. The nuts and bolts of putting together reactive linear television at the coalface, no holds barred. All the great things about it, and all the awful things too. Oh, not for publication now, you understand. Or even in 10 years. At least 30, probably more. But there would have been no more worthwhile thing I could have done in 2022.

I failed. I never even started it.

It wasn’t laziness. I did loads of writing last year; over 50k words here on Dirty Feed. But I can’t do my fairly stressful job all day, and then go home and write it all up. Nor can I use my days off to do it either. My brain desperately needs to think of something else. I can put on Eurovision, and then go home and write about Fawlty Towers. But I can’t put on Eurovision, and then go home and write about putting on Eurovision. A few vague tweets is the best I can do.

All of which makes me sad. Because I mean it: there really is no better thing I could have done with my time last year. For all the fun stuff I published on here, that pres diary would have been far more useful. In decades to come, capturing what we did in our corner of the BBC to make everything work on air would be an amazing thing to have. But it was impossible to write. For me, at least.

Oh well. Sorry.

*   *   *

It’s not just a pres diary that I find impossible, mind. I can’t seem to write any diary.

There is one exception. When I was at secondary school, I managed to write one for a week, under the vague auspices of English homework. I’m not entirely sure I still have a copy; if I do, it’s on a disc which is quite possibly long-corrupted. When she read it, my teacher said it reminded her of Adrian Mole. It took me years to realise when that description is applied to someone’s actual, real-life diary, rather than a satire, it wasn’t exactly a compliment.

But other than that, I have nothing. Which is annoying. Because anybody who’s read much of Dirty Feed will know how much I like putting dates to things. The fact that I seem unable to put many dates against my own life is ridiculous. But then so is the fact that I’m obsessed with people archiving things correctly… and then the one diary I ever actually wrote is on a disc which is “possibly long-corrupted”. Do as I say, not as I do, kids.

Which means that in the absence of a diary, I’m forced to remember things through that old standby: the TV schedules. For instance, take the old black and white telly which I used to have in my bedroom as a kid. I couldn’t tell you off-hand when I got it, or indeed when we dumped it. But do I have a few specific memories of watching it. And one of them was during a formative piece of TV for me. Yes, it’s that damn 1994 Red Dwarf repeat season.

To be fair, this season was formative for many Red Dwarf fans. or people who were about to become Red Dwarf fans. This was not only the very first time that the BBC repeated the first six series of the show from the beginning, but it was the very first time the BBC repeated the first series at all. I’d never really watched the show properly before, but something told me I might like it, and that I should record it from the beginning. The problem was: it was on BBC2 at 9pm, and my Dad wanted to watch the Nine O’Clock News. This was non-negotiable.

So the process went as follows: every Friday at 9pm I’d hit record on our VHS machine downstairs. (I seem to recall some tension about my Dad potentially missing the news headlines.) I’d then race upstairs, and watch Red Dwarf on my crappy black and white set. I’d then spend the rest of the week rewatching the episode downstairs in colour, until the next episode. Job done.

My biggest memory of this arrangement is watching “Stasis Leak”, which starts with a flashback scene. A flashback scene which sure, starts with a “3 Million Years Ago” caption… but also with an opening scene in black and white. Which I had no idea about when first watching it, until I went downstairs and watched it in colour. A whole piece of storytelling, lost on initial viewing.

If we consult Christopher Wickham’s excellent Red Dwarf BBC Broadcasts Guide, we can find out exactly what date this took place: the 18th March 1994. I was 12, nearly 13. Does that mean anything? Probably not to you. But for me, it’s a little waypoint in my life.

Without a diary, I’ll take whatever waypoints I can get.

*   *   *

But TV can’t nail down your entire existence. Not even mine.

My father died on the 4th September 1994.¹ At 5am, to be exact. I have odd, fractured memories of it, but then aren’t most people’s memories of a parent dying fractured? I especially remember the blasé attitude I had towards his heart attack; so blasé, in fact, that I joked with a schoolfriend about it on the walk to the hospital. I mean, he wasn’t going to actually die, was he? Don’t be ridiculous.

The odd, thick, gauzy tissues I was given to cry into at the hospital has also stayed with me. I can feel them now, face buried.

But what about my waypoints? BBC2 broadcast “Holoship” on the 2nd September; “Demons and Angels” was broadcast on the 16th September.² And for the life of me, I can’t remember even watching Red Dwarf around that time. You’d think my memories of those shows would be deeply intertwined with Dad’s death. Especially since “Demons and Angels” is a hard show by Dwarf standards, full of violence and death. But no.

Maybe my brain has a self-protection mechanism. After all, who wants their favourite comedy to be linked with your Dad dying?

And yet… in some small way, it is.

*   *   *

Dad didn’t like Red Dwarf. I never really figured out why.

It certainly wasn’t because he didn’t like comedy. On the contrary: he loved it. I’ve written before about his love of Bottom. I distinctly remember him watching Carry On films late at night. And going through a load of old boxes a couple of years ago, I found this:

Dad would have been in his 60s when he listened to On the Hour, and loved it enough to buy it. Someone who would have listened to and watched Hancock on first TX, also loved On the Hour and Bottom. He was omnivorous when it came to comedy. All of which means: I put his dislike of Red Dwarf down to comedy fan petulance, rather than not understanding what the kids like, man. Or maybe I just played it on repeat on the downstairs telly once too often.

But there was one bit he liked. It’s not a classic or famous moment. But it tickled him.

ACE: Field microsurgery: all part of basic training in the Space Corps Special Service. I’ll go scrub up.
RIMMER: I’ll go and throw up.

Just once, Dad laughed at my show. That moment instantly entered my head, and I never forgot it. Truth be told, if Dad had lived longer, I would have found out that I had many, many things in common with him when it came to comedy. He loved Python; surely one day, we would have bonded over that. But at 13, I just didn’t quite know.

But recently – very, very recently – I realised something else about this moment of connection. In that repeat season, when I first saw it, “Dimension Jump” was shown on the 3rd June 1994. And I can’t remember anything else specific about Dad, between that date, and his death in September. So my final memory of him ends up being tied to Red Dwarf after all.

Well, not my final memory. But the final memory which I feel like thinking about.

*   *   *

That relationship between TV and my brain: it’s what I’m banking on.

The TV shows of my youth help keep certain memories alive, in lieu of a proper diary. I hope playing out TV shows from the other side of the screen will do the same. Perhaps putting to air the Eurovision final in 2022 – OK, fine, on the 14th May 2022 – will end up being the same kind of waypoint for my adult life that TV was as a kid.

I hope so. I don’t want to lose everything.

1. I can’t bring myself to put that in bold, like some fucking TX date. ↩

2. There was no episode broadcast on the 9th, due to Athletics coverage. ↩

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