One of the cynical legends from the Hollywood stables concerns a script-writer whose midnight oil burned for a serious drama about the Air Force: when his film was finished he missed the premiere because it was now a musical called ‘Up Periscope’. Recalling this I was not surprised when Robert Everett revealed to us that an elaborate outside broadcast, planned around an aircraft-carrier would now be re-cast as an Army show, a battle to be fought on the hills of Wiltshire. To all of us who worked on it the programme was simply ‘Robert’s War’. For transmission it became ‘Battle at Chalkdown’.

It was to be a highly complex technical operation, both for us and for the Army which was to provide two forces, ‘attackers’ and ‘enemy’, to deploy tanks, artillery and infantry in such ways that a ‘battle’ could be started and finished over the entire ground, and to a given time. In short, a military operation had to be conducted to specifications laid down by a television company. That it was done is a remarkable tribute to the liaison which developed during weeks of planning between soldiers and television technicians. The ‘built’ OB is always a headache because all its component parts must be precisely planned. You cannot plan a Cup Final because 22 footballers were never intended to play on cues.

The problem for Chalkdown was to plan a battle in such a way that its essential components could be covered by eight television camera positions. This seemed straightforward enough, in theory, until we saw what had to be covered.

Robert Everett, Grahame Turner, who directed, and I went down to Warminster to watch a 40-minute all arms tactics wing demonstration set up by the School of Infantry. The cast involved an armoured squadron of Centurion tanks, a company of infantry in armoured personnel carriers, artillery, antitank guns, blank and live ammunition. There was a lot of noise and smoke.

Grahame and I agreed that the terrain presented camera problems. Could the Army shift the whole operation about a mile down the way and handle a similar demonstration in roughly 264 minutes? It is interesting to observe the face of a man who is trying not to say ** ****.

The Army agreed to shift the terrain and we started measuring ground. It is interesting to walk over muddy, tank-chewed ground and measure estimated timings.

On the basis of the sequence of events we had seen happen in a demonstration I put up a timed-in-the-mind draft script with pictures attached. The idea was to give us all an impression of what we would see and for approximately how long over any given part of the battle. At this stage the School of Infantry, in the person of Colonel Wallace, noted our requests, had a think, and agreed. This called for a second batch of pictures and a lot of consultation with Grahame Turner. And there was a snag. In order to get the kind of close-up effect of tanks and turrets and guns and machine-gunners and explosions and artillery and more tanks and turrets and so on … we had run out of cameras.

Somewhere along the line Robert Everett suggested that a central area, covered by two cameras, could be created, in which the necessary inserts could be achieved. The idea was this: to take main action on the battle itself, but to take close-up action on what came to be known as an ‘FX Circus’. The ‘Circus’ was to contain all those closeups which could not be adequately handled in long shot or medium shot.

This involved special problems for the Army. They meant, for instance, that a certain tank under radio instruction would have to start moving from position X towards position Y at pre-fixed times which would coincide with the action required by the script. All this had to be rehearsed over ground which became increasingly choppy.

On first try-out the Major commanding the squadron of tanks reported that the operation would run 40 minutes. Colonel Wallace suggested that it would run about 264 minutes. This caused a situation.

Unbeknown to the Army, who were now working things out in language we could never transmit, our situation in London was rendered delicate by a re-timing determined by network considerations. Rumour had it that we were going to run about 35 minutes and not 264.

On this basis I drove a mean average between what we might want and what the Army said it could do, and settled, temporarily, for the 264-minute version which tank major said would run to 40. It looked as if we might average out.

Unbeknown to us tank major had been doing some dawn-work on the Wiltshire hills and was soon able to report that his original estimate of 40 minutes would now, and he could prove it, because he did, work out well at an overall timing of 21 minutes.

At this stage Grahame and I began to have misgivings about the programme’s timing. Here, both Army and Associated-Rediffusion Ltd now engaged in a para-military device known as compromise. Every sequence was re-examined; many were re-timed and rehearsed again.

Came the dawn. We were all ready. The last of many conferences was over. In perfect light Grahame tried a ‘take’.

The tanks moved, the explosions began, the smoke drifted. It was an adequate rehearsal, and no one was satisfied. All agreed to go again next day and hope for weather. When we woke it was raining. A sea of mud, cables embedded in mud, men dressed in mud, teacups full of mud.

On the basis of the last under-run we repaired for lunch to Imber Court, a derelict mansion dripping with echoes of ‘Journey’s End’, where beer was served with strange pies. Colonel Wallace passed a weary hand across a weary sandwich. Orders were recast – for the ‘FX circus’, for the voices off, for the artillery, for the tanks.

Just before the final ‘take’ the sun came out and condensation started on some lenses. I heard Grahame say something in the scanner but decided to forget exactly what it was.

The tanks moved, the explosions began (some special ‘bangs’ had been reserved for the final take). Grahame gave his instructions to cameras. Working just ahead of him our army controller gave his instructions. Bren gunners fired on cue. Explosions went off on cue. Enemy soldiers ‘died’ on cue. (One soldier rushed up to a camera position and asked, ‘what shot are we on next?’) Chalkdown was finally taken, with the assistance of some 60 soaked technicians and seven punctures.

Someone asked me why we had made a programme which actually suggested that the Army is pretty good. I have to admit that as I was wet through at the time and in no state to justify the existence of the Armed Services, I rushed to a Wombat, took careful aim, and fired.

The post The day TV ran the army appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

It is with a great sense of sadness that Fusion records the death of Capt. T. M. Brownrigg, general manager of this company from its start in November, 1954 until his retirement in December, 1964.

Only in the last issue did we print extracts from a letter he had written to The Times about the merger of Rediffusion Television and ABC Television. In this letter he defended the record of the company and its staff, a staff, he said, which was never baffled.

That his death should occur while the company he helped to create was, itself, facing a form of death sentence makes the event even more tragic. He would have been glad to be sure that the future of those who worked for him was secure.

That his death has to be recorded in Fusion, the magazine he launched for the staff, is also sad. He always took a keen interest in each issue but never interfered in its production. Occasionally there would be a suggestion but never an instruction. He defended the freedom which enabled it to be a magazine created by the staff for the staff.

He was proud of his motto for the staff — never baffled.

Yet near the end of his life be had to admit in his letter to The Times about the merger: ‘It is sad and I am baffled’.

Maybe the staff will continue to live up to their reputation of never being baffled. But about his death, less than four years after his retirement, they can only echo bis words and say: ‘It is sad’.

The editor

More than 300 colleagues from the Royal Navy, the world of television and Rediffusion Television attended the memorial service last month to Captain Brownrigg at St. Martin-in-the-Fields. The lesson was read by Admiral Sir David Luce and the service was conducted by the Rev. Austen Williams. The address was by Robert Everett, a man who served under Capt. Brownrigg in the Royal Navy and at Rediffusion Television. His address, which was widely praised, is reproduced here.

In the lesson, from the Book of Wisdom, which Sir David Luce has read, there is that phrase:

‘as sparks among stubble…’

I do not think that, in so few words, there could be a better epitaph for our Tom Brownrigg.

I use the word our in this somewhat proprietary sense because I believe that that is how many of us here would feel about him.

As a ‘spark among stubble’ indeed because, having known him as it were in two lives, I certainly knew that spark – and I have been a small part of the stubble.

It seems to me that this church is absolutely the right place in which we should come together to remember Tom; the man and his achievements. And, therefore, to feel sad, but not to be dismayed.

For those of us from Rediffusion, St. Martin’s has been virtually our parish church to which, upon so many occasions, we have brought our cameras.

St. Martin’s is also known as the parish church of the Admiralty and, thus, the altar is flanked by the White Ensign and the Admiralty’s flag.

It is very much, then, the proper place in which to remember the man who was our so redoubtable general manager having already had a distinguished career as a sailor.

I am not going to recite a catalogue of almost unattainable virtues. Tom Brownrigg was not a great national figure – nor was he a saint. He had no desire to imitate one.

But I look back at the man I knew and served; whom I admired and greatly liked. Therefore, I grieve but I am also grateful.

I shall not embark upon a series of naval anecdotes. I would, however, recall my very first encounter with Tom when, having just been appointed to a brand new aircraft carrier under his command, my admiral commented:

‘Congratulations, with Tom Brownrigg as your captain you will have an exciting time … I would give you about a fortnight before you are sacked…’

Curiously enough, it wasn’t so, but most certainly we had an exciting time; because he was an exciting man to know and to serve.

What, then, were the qualities and characteristics which made it so? As a seaman he was a master craftsman. He could handle an awkward heap of aircraft carrier as if it were a sports car; and he did.

He was a brilliant navigator; and that is why he was Master Navigator of the Mediterranean fleet during the most crucial and precarious time in our naval history. He commanded a war-time cruiser; he was twice decorated for distinguished services. He was Director of Plans at the Admiralty and, subsequently. Chief of Staff in the Mediterranean.

Then he ‘retired’ … but, when thinking in terms of Tom Brownrigg, the word retired is almost a joke. Having ‘retired’, he became the driving force in the creation of the post-war Bracknell new town.

He became the founder general manager of Associated-Rediffusion and carried us through eight hectic years of what I would claim to be extraordinary endeavour and achievement.

He ‘retired’ again.

In the intervals of being chairman of the Berkshire council of St. John’s, on the Arthritis and Rheumatism Council – and so many other activities – I suppose that his time was his own.

When I think of Tom Brownrigg, I think of the essential qualities of leadership; of command. Of command, one demands justice. He gave it. One needs decisions; he made them. Above all, I believe that in command there must be a basic, rock-like integrity. He had it.

Tom was not an easy man. Very often, he could be downright ‘difficult’. He was not everybody’s ‘cup of tea’. Most certainly, he could be almighty ‘difficult’ with those who were found wanting. To those who might try to conceal their ignorance in waffle he applied a mind and technique like a surgeon’s scalpel. He was certainly allergic to yes-men.

He could be very tough, haughty and seemingly implacable. Yet, he would be surprisingly compassionate, even sentimental. He was absolutely loyal to trusted subordinates – whether they were right or wrong.

To some people he could be frankly alarming; yet he was a gay character. He dearly loved a party and liked nothing better than to play the host, at the centre of the stage and surrounded by people. He liked people.

He had a strong, endearing and infectious sense of humour; and the blessed capacity to laugh at himself.

In this day and age, when we seem to be set about with people of empty aims and phoney values, I think that we should mark well men like Tom; the things he thought mattered and his spark of unquenchable enthusiasm for the job to be done, to be done well, to be thoroughly finished, whatever the difficulties.

And so, here we are today; all of us for the same reason. Each of us with personal memories, and personal reactions to the man. We have come together to pay our respects; to give a farewell salute – sadly but without dismay – to the man whom we had to admire, having travelled with him just so far.

To achievement; to the memory of Tom Brownrigg; most truly and surely a very remarkable man.

A third man’s view

There are two views about him and mine is neither of them. I remember him as a professional affliction and then with personal affection. Professionally, he was very tough on me: on reflection, I care nothing about that. He fired at me, as he did at all of us. There are so many ‘Tom’ stories. Mine are no better than so many. The story about the cats is true.

There were two pug-dogs wandering about in features, which should not have been there. I got word that the GM was on his rounds. There was no place to hide the dogs and the owner resolutely refused to shove them into a filing cabinet.

‘What are these cats doing in the building?’

‘They are not cats, sir, they are pug-dogs.’

‘They must be cats. Dogs are not allowed in the building.’

Shortly afterwards I allowed the young son of a well-known personality to sit-in on a ‘This Week’. On his rounds the Captain nearly had a fit. Lacerated, in shreds I took the boy to the guest room, where orange squash can just be found. There, Captain Brownrigg made him his guest of honour. The mistake was mine. The boy was in the technical area and that was not allowed. However, he was a guest.

Later, also on ‘This Week’, a well-known journalist fell into the guest room and fell asleep during an anniversary programme. ‘Who is that?’

‘That’s XY, sir. He’s had pneumonia.’

I reckoned that was my good deed for the night by XY.

Later the familiar tinkling of glass galvanised the recumbent XY towards the Scotch. Tottering towards the Captain he intoned … ‘Are you here for the free drinks too?’

When the Captain left he turned to me and said ‘You must look after XY. Pneumonia is a terrible disease.’

For some people on ‘This Week’ he had a personal dislike amounting to incivility. There was the case of a scriptwriter who shall he called Can Can. It would be difficult to forget such a name.

There was a fearful row. The subject hardly matters.

Next morning the Captain was in the lift on his way to the invincible Fourth Floor. Can Can stood silently beside him. When both reached the fourth the Captain said, as the doors opened, ‘Good-morning, Wharburton.’

He admired efficiency. On one of his trips to America his agent so confused American time scales that he was caused to arrive for urgent appointments hours too early, which was boring, or hours too late, which was intolerable. On his return to civilisation (UK) he posed before a do-it-yourself photographic machine in an attitude of extreme ferocity, which was not difficult. The result he had sent to the agent with a note to the effect that this was what he thought about the arrangements made for him.

He admired and respected straight talk, though curves and mazes in his own conversation went unnoticed, by him. Lord Birkett once told us, at a programme planning meeting, the story of two workmen ‘who became inebriated, I am sorry to say, near Liverpool. Later, both men found themselves, I know not how, crawling late at night along some railway lines. One said – “I find these stairs (meaning the railway sleepers) very steep.” The other said – “I don’t mind the stairs being so steep but I cannot abide the bannisters being so low.”’

When Lord Birkett had gone the Captain sent for me and said: ‘What do you think the fellow was getting at?’

The notion that Birkett was merely telling us a story for its own sake, in working hours, eluded him.

One day he invited us to the theatre; his secretary, Liz, could see anything she liked. So we went to ‘Make Me An Offer’.

During an interval I asked him how he was enjoying the show. ‘Don’t tell Liz’, he said, ‘but we saw it last night.’

‘Well, why didn’t you say so? We could have seen something else.’ ‘No. This is what she wanted to see.’

His attention to detail sometimes came unstuck. On the occasion of the visit of a Prime Minister to the studios he issued one of his second-by-second calculated instructions. Only one function had been forgotten. The Prime Minister wanted to wash his hands. The Captain leapt forward to lead him out – to the ‘Ladies’.

He did not appear to be very musical. Visiting the rehearsal of a full orchestra in a serenade for strings he complained that the brass wasn’t working.

Normally meticulous when it came to rank and station, the uncouth world of show-biz sometimes defeated him. In the very early days he was discussing, at one of his superbly stage-managed cocktail parties, his appointment of a senior drama executive. He had to choose between two people, he told his guest; one was ‘Harold Hitler’ and the other was ‘Sir Francis Drake’. He had chosen Harold Hitler because Sir Francis Drake was quite unsuitable.

His guest said nothing: he was Sir Francis Drake.

Peter Hunt

Filed. This anecdote of Capt. T. M. Brownrigg is told by Neil Bramson:

‘I was once unwise enough to ask for an extra filing cabinet. Nothing happened for a day or two, then, without warning, the Captain entered himself, followed by business manager, office manager and purchasing officer. Unerringly he went to my existing filing cabinet and selected, equally unerringly, the third drawer down. Opening it, without even looking, he triumphantly produced a pair of ladies’ high-heeled shoes.

‘Deadpan he turned to the business manager: “Requisition these, Elms”, he said and walked out with a gleam in his eye.’

His farewell

Four years ago in December, 1963 an article appeared in Fusion under the heading ‘The general manager’s farewell’. In it Capt. Brownrigg revealed some of his memories and philosophies about television. This article consists of extracts from that piece.

‘On Wednesday, November 24, 1954 I walked into the offices (two rooms) of Associated-Rediffusion in Stratton House as the third member of the staff: the company secretary, Arthur Groocock, and his personal secretary, Fay Caddy, were already there. The company’s name was fixed – an accountant in Rediffusion was presented with a gold watch for having thought of it, especially the hyphen – and the Board of Directors had been chosen: the chairman from B.E.T., three directors from Rediffusion and four from Associated Newspapers (hence Associated-Rediffusion – ed.). Nothing else was fixed.

‘I do not propose to trace the build-up of the company, nor to describe the intriguing excitement with which I entered, for me, the unknown worlds of entertainment and advertising. Suffice it to say that the company went on the air on Friday, September 22, 1955 with a crashing and most expensive programme, and will end its present Licence period on Wednesday, July 29, 1964 with, I hope, another outstanding programme: and that between these two dates, the company has been so successful financially as to become the envy of many people, and so successful programme-wise that it is the provider of the majority of live/taped hours to the network. Some call us doggedly decent; I say we are reliably good.

‘Most people think of a general manager as a man in command, even at times as a dictator, but in fact no one is a successful general manager unless he serves. In our case he has to serve the viewers, the staff and the shareholders. Also, of course, he has to manage.’

About serving the staff he said: ‘Firstly, he must establish an organisation which is clear and workable, so that everybody knows who does what. Nothing is more frustrating than not knowing who deals with what and who can give a decision. Secondly, he has to create a staff relationship in which the staff feel that promotions or demotions are fairly done, that discipline is tempered with understanding. Nothing can engender bitterness more than a feeling that something has been decided unfairly or ruthlessly and, in this connection, the same ill feeling can be caused if the general manager allows one person to get away with something – bad time-keeping or excessive expenses – whilst his colleague has abided by the rules. Thirdly, the general manager must see that conditions under which the staff work, and the equipment that they operate are the best that can reasonably be provided. It may be the creative freedom given to the programme directors, or it may be the vision mixing panel in master control, but whatever it is, it should enable the creative staff to be creative and the servicing staff to be able to do their job efficiently.’

Later on he made this point: ‘You will observe that there is a very fine dividing line between the object of satisfying the viewers with better programmes which might be achieved by extra expenditure, and the object of preventing the shareholders’ money being wasted. The general manager never has an easy life and very rarely does he have easy decisions to make. (“Problems only reach the general manager when they are insoluble elsewhere”.)’

About his retirement Capt. Brownrigg wrote: ‘As planned long ago, I am retiring from my job as general manager before the start of the new Licence period; firstly, because I think that after 45 years of full-time work I am entitled to take life a bit easier and, secondly, because I believe that television is a young man’s job: new ideas should be bubbling up and new techniques tried (always provided they are not to the detriment of the viewers). When you are over 60 there is a danger of thinking that old and tried ideas are necessarily the best.’

His article ended: ‘I would like now to thank you all for your loyal support through the years, and for never allowing your jobs to get you down. I hope, when the station clock is redesigned, it will contain the company’s motto “Never Baffled”.’

With the death of Rediffusion Television that clock will now never be redesigned.

The post A very remarkable man appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.

In this and the following columns are the answers to a questionnaire sent out to a group of features directors. The head of features, Peter Hunt, says:

A long time ago, in 1955, a founder member of the programme department said: ‘the word “documentary” makes me think of cranes and things….’ Hence ‘Feature’, which is determined by Chambers as a programme ‘that reconstructs dramatically the life of a prominent person, or an important event, or gives a dramatic picture of an employment or activity.’

I have taken Chambers as a reasonable platform for framing these questions.

Which is worth most: a personality talking at you or over relevant pictures of what he is talking about?

John Frankau: This must depend on the subject, envisaged audience and the personality. There is room for both, and a combination of the two.

John Phillips: I favour him talking over relevant pictures every time. Television already consists of quite enough faces on the screen, any opportunity or reason to cut away to something else must be seized with both hands.

Peter Morley: The question is the answer – whichever is worth more, you hold on the screen. If you are putting across the character of a person you must see the face. If this person is talking about ‘things’ you must show these ‘things’. The test is relevance.

Geoffrey Hughes: Both. The personality must first be established. Then it is a question of whether the pictures of what he is talking about are stronger and more relevant than his ‘personality’ or his interest as a man.

Sheila Gregg: It is impossible to answer this question. If the programme is about people it is probably better to see their faces, especially if they are good characters, and also that you may try to judge their sincerity from the emotions on their faces. But if the subject is more important than the people, obviously you should see the relevant pictures.

Can the dramatised feature do anything our current forms cannot do?

Geoffrey Hughes: Yes, it can put over an emotional state of mind in a way that our present feature programmes cannot. And emotional states of mind are as much part of people’s reactions to the real world as they are to (say) drama.

Sheila Gregg: Yes, I think so, as there are always subjects which are extremely difficult to bring to life in a non-dramatic form. On the other hand, as soon as dramatisation and actors are brought in, the authenticity of the whole thing is weakened, and I think people might find it difficult to distinguish between dramatised documentary and straightforward drama.

John Frankau: Yes, the dramatised feature can do something in addition to our current forms. Apart from more easily catching the attention of most sections of the public by presenting facts in a more digestible way, often they can be more succinct and possibly more accurate than programmes which use a few individuals putting forward their own isolated views. As a form of entertainment they should not be neglected.

John Phillips: Yes, by attracting the viewer who switches over or off whenever he feels he is being talked ‘at’.

Peter Morley: A dramatised documentary produces an atmosphere of the theatre – a performance which can make some feature subjects more palatable to a mass audience. It can in many cases simplify a diffused collection of facts by making these facts fit the story, and not the story fit the facts. But this theatrical atmosphere is the weakness of the dramatised documentary, reducing its authenticity and credibility, and therefore its viewer identification.

How should the features personalities we need in the future be found and trained?

Sheila Gregg: It takes a long time to train a television interviewer, and the only real training he can get is to work on actual programmes over a considerable period. I think the essentials for a television interviewer are: intelligence, good general knowledge and a certain experience of life. An interviewer should also be able to ask questions because he genuinely wants to find out for himself, and because he is interested in people and ideas, not simply because the questions have been written in a script.

John Frankau: There is no golden rule. They may be found almost anywhere it’s possible to find the combination of an interesting personality and an enquiring mind. The particular type of mind required might be most easily found in the world of journalism. As well as experience, the only training should be that of theatrical professionalism.

John Phillips: By the same methods that are used to get the right people for any skilled trade or profession – lengthy and patient search for suitable types, imparting of expert advice and knowledge based on experience, encouragement of expansion of personality and ideas.

Peter Morley: I haven’t the faintest idea.

Geoffrey Hughes: I believe they should first be significant in their own right. If we look for people who are immediately available and unemployed, they are likely also to be unemployable – or, in short, no-goods. So, having been snatched from their jobs (and properly paid) they can only be trained by practice – and production.

Why are features necessary?

John Phillips: Assuming the basic premise that television is necessary and presumably we all do that, then surely features are necessary because they exploit most fully television’s greatest accomplishment (that of projecting sound and vision simultaneously to millions of people) to the common good by making them aware of themselves and the world they live in.

Peter Morley: They are not necessary. They are highly desirable. The entertainment pattern of a television network would be incomplete without them. Feature programmes satisfy a thirst for knowledge which all viewers think they have or would like to think they have. The feature is not always considered as ‘entertainment’ but I believe that the successful feature must be as entertaining as any other programme.

Geoffrey Hughes: They aren’t necessary. Features should only be put on if they are entertaining. But I believe that they can be entertaining, as a genuine interest in current affairs does exist. It is up to us to exploit it.

Sheila Gregg: Apart from entertainment, I think television has a duty to inform people (in as entertaining a way as possible). Anyway features are the thing that television can do better than any other medium.

John Frankau: They are a valuable form of entertainment and as such must take their place in this, the entertainment business. Unlike other programmes, they can survey topical subjects at short notice, floodlight social or world events and sometimes peep through keyholes.

Should features set out to influence public opinion?

Peter Morley: If you set out to influence, you distort. But if you set out to inform you can’t help but influence.

Geoffrey Hughes: No. We re not allowed to by the Television Act anyway; and I don’t agree with the missionary attitude formerly adopted by the BBC under Lord Reith. We can and should, however, stimulate people to think for themselves.

Sheila Gregg: They should not necessarily set out to influence public opinion. Some programmes merely inform (and in that way they may help people to make up their own minds). However, there are some subjects – Apartheid is an obvious example – on which we should take sides and try to influence opinion, although I think we should give a fair hearing to both sides.

John Frankau: No, but in either presenting facts or a point of view, it would be unlikely that some of the audience would remain uninfluenced.

John Phillips: No – they should set out to inform accurately and fairmindedly so that public opinion may be responsible and enlightened.

Summary

Peter Hunt: ‘I make no comment. I merely take relevant refuge in this pregnant extract from Shepherd Mead’s brilliant text book – ‘How To Get Rich In TV Without Really Trying’.

‘We can’t use the script’, he said, his voice vibrating by force of habit.

‘What’s wrong?’ I said. ‘Not dramatic enough?’

‘It isn’t – me,’ he said. ‘I take a universal point of view.’

‘There is no such thing’, I said, ‘as a universal point of view. You are for this or you are against it – you cannot be universal about it.’

‘I must see both sides of every question.’

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘if you take both sides of every question you will be a skyrocket that is shooting off at both ends. You will make a lot of fizz-fire and go no place.

‘So the way it worked out, I was the one who went someplace. Out on my ear.’

The post A matter of opinion: Features appeared first on THIS IS REDIFFUSION from Transdiffusion.