Shownotes Transcript
Wondery Plus subscribers can binge entire seasons of British Scandal early and ad-free. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Matthew, how was your weekend? Oh man, busy. Took the bins out, didn't separate the recycling, naughty. Took out a loan, not from a bank, and gambled the value of my home away, please don't tell my wife. And I bought a gun, please don't tell my wife that either. Yeah, no, I won't. I mean, I hate to say it, but I...
I don't know if I believe you. Alice, I'm trying to raise our credibility. We host a show called British Scandal. People cannot think we're squares. They've got to think we're dangerous, that we're edgy. Yeah, I mean, I don't think people expect you to be something you're not. Like, you don't have to lie. So, what did you actually do? Okay, you got me. Of course I separate the recycling. Dusk, May 28th, 1945. Wasserleben Woods, Danish-German border.
British Army Lieutenant Geoffrey Perry marks another transmitter bunker on his army field map. Beside him, Captain Bertie Licorice lowers his binoculars with a sigh. Have these names been changed for anonymity purposes or are these real? These are not the work of a random name generator. Captain Bertie Licorice was a real man. He must have had a bit of teasing. Surely. I mean, an incredible legacy, of course, if you've ever enjoyed an all-sorts movie.
The men have been tracking Nazi collaborators for weeks, but Jeffrey's growling stomach and the failing light tell him it's time to call it a day. Perry is about to head back to base when a twig snaps in the distance. His fingers tighten around his pistol as a shadow catches his eye through the woods, a stirring in the mist between the trees, a flicker of movement, then stillness. Another rustle. Closer now. Perry holds his breath as a silhouette emerges through the haze.
A man in a threadbare tweed suit, firewood in his hands. Perry's eyes narrow. He watches the stranger limp forward. He takes in the deep scar running from the man's mouth to his ear. Tears him freeze when he spots Perry staring at him. Perry glances at licorice before the man's voice cuts across the clearing. Excusez-moi! He gestures with his walking stick at fallen branches. His French oddly clipped, refined.
That voice. Perry feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Something about its tone. He's heard it before, but he can't place where. His heart pounds against his ribs as he steps forward, his hand steady on his pistol as the stranger's uneven steps bring him within yards of their position. Perry keeps his voice calm and measured. Your papers, please.
Perry's eyes narrow as the stranger's left hand plunges into his trouser pocket. Without thinking, Perry reaches for his gun, pulls it from its holster, raises it and lets off two gunshots in rapid succession. The first shot catches the man in the buttock. The second tears through the shoulder of his jacket as he falls. The man crashes to his knees screaming, blood seeping through his trousers.
Perry's stomach lurches as he spots papers in the man's hand. Realises the man had been reaching for identification. Perry rushes forward, snatches the passport. But as he helps the wounded man up, he feels something crinkle beneath his jacket. Another document tucked into an inner pocket. He pulls the document free. A Wehrpass for the Volkssturm, the German Home Guard. The name blazes up at him. Perry stares at the man, then back at the documents in horror.
It's all falling into place. The distinctive scar, the theatrical voice. His fingers tremble as he turns to licorice. Bloody hell, Bertie. Do you know who that is? Bertie looks at him bewildered, but Perry doesn't need an answer because this isn't some random Frenchman. This is Britain's most wanted traitor.
The Nazi war criminal who betrayed his own country night after night after night. The man Churchill himself demanded be brought to justice. He stares again at the name, William Joyce, aka Lord Haw-Haw.
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From Wondery, I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. And this is British Scandal, the show where we bring you the murkiest stories that ever happened on these odd little isles. British scandals come in many shapes and sizes. Some are about money, some are about sex, they're all about power. But when we look at scandals a bit closer, they turn out to be stranger, wilder, just plain weirder than we remember. So we're journeying back to ask who's to blame for what happened. And when the dust settled...
Did anything really change?
But would you say you're a patriot? And what does believing in your country mean to you? Yes, to distill it down is really difficult, isn't it? But I feel like there are three main pillars of my patriotism. Apologising, twice per sentence. Queuing for anything and everything. And chip buddies, of course. How could I leave them till last? Yeah.
Yes, I would say those things are the bare minimum. But back in World War II, it was really quite simple. All you had to do was dig for Britain, remember at all times that loose lips sink ships, and most importantly of all,
Don't run off to join the Nazis, then see poisonous propaganda into the ears of the nation in an attempt to undermine British morale and secure victory for Adolf Hitler. Just easy rules to remember. Right, so I am guessing then that maybe, potentially, our new series involves someone who ignored that last key point. Sadly, it does. This series is about one of history's most notorious traitors, someone who took everything they knew about this fine country to use against us. He was a charismatic Irish-American who developed...
A kind of love of fascism. So, on the eve of war, he leaves England for Germany to fight on what you could call the most important front. He fights in the propaganda war. And for six years, his voice poured from the heart of the Third Reich into the heart of every home in Britain. His name was William Joyce. You might know him better as Lord Haw-Haw. Strap in for a gripping tale of vitriol, violence and betrayal. This is episode one, Chelsea Smile. December 1921.
Norton Barracks, Worcester Regiment. Fifteen-year-old William Joyce's lungs burn as he drags himself through the army assault course, icy rain lashing his face. William lied about his age at recruitment, and now his eight-stone body and shaking limbs threaten to reveal the truth. But he won't give up. His Irish Unionist father's voice echoes in his head.
To be accepted, you've got to be more British than the British themselves. This is the army land, not the fucking girl guides. William's raw fingers slip on the rain-slicked wire bridge suspended above the mud. His arms shake uncontrollably. You want to be a British soldier? Then bloody well act like one. He will be a British soldier. It's all he's ever wanted. But he feels his grip loosening. Oh, God. The world tilts as he tries to correct his balance.
For a moment, he hangs suspended between sky and earth, his body twisting in space. He crashes face-first into the mud. Laughter ripples through the watching soldiers. Clean yourself up, Joyce! Those buttons better blind me when I inspect them at lights out! It's a mad marriage of things, isn't it? It's like, you have to be...
Incredibly physically strong. You have to be really, really strategically good. But also, you have to have a natty sense of style. You've got to be able to make that bed up. There's a lot of domesticity. Yeah, absolutely. In the life of a soldier. Make your bed, polish your shoes, kill that bloke. That night, fever burns through him as his trembling hands polish his brass buttons for the fifth time. The metal gleams in the dimming light of the barracks.
Come on, Paddy. Show us your devotion to the Crown.
He tries to lessen the Irish lilt as his voice rings out. God save our gracious king. Long live our noble king. The room spins. His knees buckle. He wakes the next day in the infirmary, almost blinded by the sterile whiteness of his surroundings. His eyes struggle to focus as a doctor shoves a glass thermometer into his mouth. Your fever has passed.
For one fever! The doctor slides the discharge papers across the bed.
William stares at the red stamp marked UNDERAGE. Oh, my God. It is Nadine, I believe, on... Was it Pop Stars, The Rivals, All Over Again? Medina Bertha's The 15th of the 6th, 35th, Making Me a Gemini? A Gemini! Absolutely incredible. Oh, gosh. It's been happening throughout history. William's eyes widen. He tries to push himself up from the infirmary bed. No, sir, please. I'll work harder. Go home and get an education.
He watches the doctor leave the room as he realises he'll never be accepted in the rank and file. Tears fill in his eyes as his gaze settles on a pile of old books in the corner. He'll heed the doctor's advice. He'll educate himself, master their words and ways. He'll force the establishment to take him seriously. And then he'll find a way to serve England properly. Not just as a common soldier, but as someone who can truly defend the Empire. Someone they can't ignore.
A few years later, Christmas Eve, Oldham station, Greater Manchester. William steps onto the frost-covered platform. Through the steam haze he sees Oldham's smokeless mill chimneys, the grime of industrial decline choking in his throat. Since his army discharge, he's thrown himself into his English and History degree at Birkbeck College.
He's even met a girl, Hazel, and joined the Conservatives. If he can't serve his country from the front line, he'll do it from the dispatch box instead. William! There you are! His cousin Patrick pulls him into an embrace and leads him out of the station. He's been working so hard at his studies. He can't wait to finally wind down and mark Christmas with a drink. But after a short walk, they stop in front of a church hall where veterans shuffle past them toward the entrance.
Church? It's a bit early for midnight mass. He stops as he sees his cousin smile. It's a soup kitchen, William. Won't take long. These men fought for king and country. At least we can do a certain dinner on Christmas Eve. Inside, William's eyes widen as he takes in row after row of men queuing in silence. Military medals proudly pinned to their chests. The sickly smell of boiled cabbage in the air. Here, put this on.
William takes an apron as he's directed to the serving hatch. He steadies a bowl for a man whose hands won't stop trembling. He fought at heaps, but now he sleeps under the railway arches. But surely the government would... He watches the veterans struggle to lift the spoon to his lips. Open your eyes, William. Lloyd George and his war profiteers grow fat while heroes freeze. £10,000 for a title, that's the going rate.
Wait, this sounds like cash for honours, which I think of as being a Blair-era scandal. Is this the OG? This is the OG. The last Liberal Prime Minister, David Lloyd George, sold peerages and other gongs. So it was £10,000 for a knighthood. That'll be £500,000 today.
£30,000 for a baronetcy, that'd be £1.5 million in today's money. Oof! And for a peerage, £50,000, which would be £2.6 million today. Bargain! They also did a deal. He invented the OBE, which became known as Order of the Bad Egg, and 25,000 people got those over four years.
This wasn't raising money for the country. Straight into party coffers, and he was one of the first to give these gongs to leading members of Fleet Street, of the media, to stick them in the House of Lords, to give them knighthoods in order to effectively buy their loyalty for the party. William feels his anger rising to his throat as the veteran shuffles forward. These men bled for Britain. They defended our empire.
William's hands clench. This isn't the empire he wanted to serve. I doubt that's the sort of thing they talk about in them posh circles down south. William feels himself bristle before his cousin thrusts something else into his hand. "Read this, William. It'll tell you all you need to know." He looks down. It's a pamphlet. He stares at the title. The New Britain. His eyes flick across the headings.
The path to national revival. Strength through unity. This isn't quite the piss-up he'd envisaged, is it? He spent the last year working away in the Conservative society, going to port and policy meetings, discussing the issues of the day in smoky backrooms, talking about incremental change. But as he looks at the gaunt, ghostly faces of men shuffling through the church, he wonders if he's got it all wrong. Maybe what this country needs is a revolution.
He pockets the pamphlet as he resumes his service, smiles at the veteran before him. It's men like this that made Britain great in the first place. Men like this that he wants to serve. He just needs to work out how. Six months later, Birkbeck College. Hazel Barr hurries through Birkbeck's gas-lit corridors, juggling her pharmacy notes. The Conservative Society meeting starts in a few minutes, and she's promised to support William through his maiden speech.
Received pronunciation, William. The T must be crisp. I mean, there's nothing like getting elocution lessons from your girlfriend, is there? This is what the flirting ritual was in the 20s. There weren't apps back then. You basically bonded romantically through a love of pronunciation. I love your glottal stop. You've got a hell of a long A. Glottal stop. She watches his mouth form the words.
She'd first spotted him at a college dance. The only person engrossed in a book at the edge of the dance floor. He's different from the polished young men she's grown up with. She knows he can be intense, but she finds him intriguing. Passionate. Britain stands at a crossroads. He repeats under his breath. Britain stands at a crossroads. Better.
She stops him beneath a flickering light, straightens his crooked tie. Though I rather miss your lilting Irish way with words. This accent is a chain. I'm breaking it link by link. She rolls her eyes, squeezes his arm with lingering affection. Well, I think you'll be brilliant. The Conservative Society's weekly meeting is in full swing. Hazel takes her seat as William strides toward the podium.
Hazel watches William's hands trembling as he straightens his papers. The room falls silent. She gives him an encouraging nod. Our veterans, the men who bled at Ypres and the Somme, they didn't sacrifice everything so their children could inherit a weakened nation. But her stomach flutters as she hears William's carefully constructed Oxford vows slip as passion overtakes him.
While you drink champagne, those men can't find work. The Britain Day 4-4. Sit down. What would you know about British values? Hazel turns to see money changing hands. Bets being placed on how long it'll last. Stupid Paddy has forgotten his place.
And here's me thinking that the Conservative Society get-togethers would be a warm and inclusive environment, and yet this. Yeah, I mean, you might presume that these would have been progressive places, but shocker, no. And not just, actually, the Conservative Party at the time. This isn't that long after the Easter Rising of 1916 in Ireland. This is 1920s England, where general attitudes towards the Irish were regressive, to say the least, and William would have faced...
anti-Irish prejudice, almost certainly on a daily basis. Hazel sees the muscle in his jaw twitch. For a moment, she thinks he might actually leap into the crowd. Order! I move we address the truly pressing issue whether suet pudding or spotted dick better represents the backbone of British character. Hazel's heart sinks as she sees William storm away from the podium. Outside in the corridor, he paces like a caged animal. Did you see them?
laughing while everything we hold sacred falls to ruin. She reaches for him, but he's already striding over to a cork notice board, tearing down a British supporters of Mussolini poster. His fingers trace the bold red letters. Hazel looks down at the page. I'm not sure a rally for a bold Italian is quite the answer, William. Why? Because he doesn't wear the right school tie. She eyes him with frustration. No, no.
Because he's a preening dictator who struts around Rome like a rooster in a black shirt. He takes her face in his hands. Look at what we just saw, the so-called future of British politics dancing on tables while the empire crumbles. At least Mussolini understands what it takes to make a country great again.
Oh, right. OK. I guess I thought because he had sympathies with, you know, societies forgotten, with the working man, with veterans and the conservative society were not very welcoming. I guess I thought he was going to turn left. Yes. Well, obviously, that connection with the working man is what puts the fire in the belly. But the simple answers that populism offers people in a time of crisis are...
cut through in a far more emotional way than the politics and the messaging often around the sort of liberal centre ground. Hazel studies him, so different from the tepid certainty she's grown up with. She knows her parents will never approve of someone like William. Perhaps she should just end this now. But the thought of ending up with one of those champagne-soaked buffoons suddenly seems impossible. When is it? You'll come. She touches his cheek, nods. Of course I'll come.
Let's show them all what real change looks like. 24th of October, 1924. Lambeth Baths. William blows his warm breath into Hazel's chilled hands as the crowd jostles past them. Cloth caps and bowler hats, working men's boots and leather Oxfords, all streaming toward the entrance.
Tonight, the local Conservative candidate is rallying support against Battersea's Indian Communist MP. I should get back to the library. He squeezes Hazel's hand. Be careful tonight. He watches as the fog swallows her silhouette. William's been attending right-wing political rallies weekly for the last few months. It's only four days until the general election, and he's determined to end the socialist tide that the current Labour government has allowed to seep into British society.
Oi, Joyce! I need an extra pair of hands with security. You're on the door. Security? I'm not... Oh!
The speaker takes the stage, his voice booming as he denounces Bolshevism in Britain's streets. My fellow countrymen, Britain stands at a crossroads. Our great nation, built on duty, honour and empire, is under siege. Not by armies, but by insidious forces creeping into our land. A ripple of commotion from the back. William's eyes dart across the crowd as a man rises, face twisted.
Fascist pig! William's heartbeat quickens as more voices join from behind. Shouts erupt around him. Suddenly the crowd is on its feet as the speaker is rushed from the stage. William throws himself into a surge of bodies, pushing back with force against the chaos. A hand yanks him forward. Something hard hits his cheek. He stumbles, stunned.
Then, a flash of steel in the corner of his eye. Oh, God. He doesn't feel the cut at first. Oh, I don't like it. Just warm blood running down his neck. The world tilting sideways as he collapses to the cold, hard floor and blacks out. William eases open his eyes as morning light floods the whitewashed room. A smell of antiseptic. Hazel's face swims into focus. William!
He pushes himself upright as a man in a rumpled shirt bursts in, followed by a photographer. Mr Joyce, you're awake! William looks up at the man in confusion. Daily Mail! Oh my God, now is not the moment. The journalist straightens his tie. Would you mind if we got a photograph? The public should see what these communist thugs are capable of. His fingers touch the bandage.
Thinking of all the pamphlets and rallies that have led him here. Tell us, Mr Joyce, who do you believe can secure this country's future? It's a lot, isn't it? It's a lot at any time, it's a big question. But he has just come round having his face slashed. One, how did you get in here? Two, what's wrong with me? Three, I'm quite peckish. Are there any sandwiches going? William looked from hazel to the journalist. In the old days, he would have said the Conservative Party. But everything has changed now.
He turns and looks directly into the lens of the camera as he hears himself reply. I fight for Britain, for its future. He glances at Hazel. Who says, I fight for Britain. Land on the T's hard, darling. And I know of only one movement willing to do what is necessary. He pauses. So I fight for fascism. Now it's time to follow his words with actions. MUSIC PLAYS
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1929, Farquhar Road, London. Hazel bounces her screaming baby daughter on her hip while spreading unpaid bills across their kitchen table. Her father's words from last week still sting. Not another penny for that political rabble-rouser. Through the thin wall, she hears William shuffling through his endless committee reports and membership lists. The fascist movement consumes him.
This is ticking a lot of British scandal boxes. A disapproving, posh father, a baby at a difficult time in your life, and a husband completely consumed with his ideology. And the terror of unpaid bills. A shadow falls across the doorway as William appears. Could you... He waves vaguely toward their daughter without looking up from his papers. Oh, my God! The final notice from their landlord...
crumples in Hazel's fist. Look at these bills, William. I know you mean to save the country, but who is saving us? Now, I've never been a fan of Hazel. I've said that from the beginning. But she has a point. Hazel, the movement needs... The movement is 20 different groups who can't even agree on a name. Half your meetings are just tea and gossip with geriatric army officers.
His face clouds over. You used to believe in the cause. I believed in you. But I married a man, not a martyr. She watches him flinch, his hand unconsciously touching his scar. She softens. You're brilliant enough to lecture at any university. Instead, you waste your talents organising meetings and copying leaflets from people who can barely fill a parish hall.
Hazel feels her baby's cries fade to whimpers against her shoulder. I won't give up the cause. I'm not asking you to. She shifts her baby to her hip, studies the man she married. Still handsome. But I need a husband. Our daughter needs a father. And we both need to eat. Get a proper job. Lecture. Write. Just give us something to live on besides pamphlets.
How many times have we heard this? Just a really simple request, which is, could you keep a roof over our heads, please, whilst you also pursue your other endeavours, which I completely support you in, but could you just maybe put some food on the table? I like the fascism, William. That's in the bank. What isn't in the bank is any money. You've got to find a way to monetise the far right. Dare I say, YouTube channel. To be fair, extreme pamphlets were probably the
the far-right YouTubes of the day. Yeah. Imagine a Joe Rogan pamphlet. Ten hours to read it. She watches his eyes dart at his papers, then at the baby, sees the struggle play out across his face before he nods slowly. I'll start applying to universities. She makes herself smile. She still loves his passion, but now she has something more important to protect. She must put her family first, and that's exactly what she's going to do.
Three years later, Victoria College, London. William glances at the clock mounted above the lecture blackboard. 3.15. Two years of coaching privileged students for their Oxbridge exams is wearing thin. A few months ago, the former Tory MP Sir Oswald Mosley founded the British Union of Fascists and the movement is gaining momentum. Williams attended every London rally.
But each hour in the classroom is another missed hour he could be dedicating to the cause. He scratches the poet William Butler Yeats' words across the blackboard, chalk dust settling on his carefully mended suit cuffs. Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold. This is from Yeats' famous poem, The Second Coming.
which obviously takes its name from the Stone Roses album. But it is a very famous poem. There are so many lines in this you would recognise from...
One particularly impactful line is, the best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity. Yeah, it's incredible. Even though it was written over 100 years ago, people come back to it time and time again, plunder it for lines. As you say, it's been reproduced in pop culture so many times. And particularly in moments of crisis, this faces it
head on it just looks at the chaos I'm never sure whether to take comfort from the fact that stuff like this is cyclical and other people have been through it before and I can read something that helps me or whether to despair that we simply fail to learn our lessons as a species and are doomed to repeat them it feels like the last one doesn't it right now it kind of does but you know we've got beer we've got football what more do you want it was ever thus music
He turns to face the dejected faces of his students scattered across the lecture theatre. What do we think these lines are about? A few students shift in their seats, avoiding his gaze. William's about to explain when a hand tentatively rises. Well, erm, the Wall Street crash. Another student chips in, his red tie stark against his white shirt. It's the fall of capitalism, like Marx predicted. William's hand tightens around the chalk in his fingers at the mention of Marx.
watching the student's eager face. The boy is young, impressionable, the sort who could be shown a better path. And you believe Marxist economic determinism offers the only reading? He glances at the lecture theatre's open door, knowing he's crossing a line. This isn't what they pay him to teach, but he sees the class lean forward as he continues. What about the vacuum that forms when old certainties crumble, the way some nations protect themselves while others flounder? The student's conviction wavers.
Yes, but international cooperation? How's that working for Britain right now? The student squirms in his seat. While American banks collapse, while foreign markets drag us down with them, who's protecting British interests? He watches, understanding dawn on their young faces. His pulse quickens. If he just had another half hour, he could really make them see... The bell cuts through his thoughts. But as the class gather their books, the student with the red tie lingers.
His earlier certainty replaced by questions. Several others also cluster around William's desk. He looks around at their earnest faces, the minds that will shape Britain's future. He begins to pack his briefcase. As he does, his eyes fall on the front page of the Evening Standard and a black and white photo of Moseley addressing huge crowds. He thinks of Hazel, of the promise to keep his job. But studying Moseley's photograph, he sees another path.
William's voice has carried across lecture halls for years, shaping young minds and guiding them towards the right path. How different could a rally be? One year later, Dumfries Meeting Hall, Scotland. 22-year-old Margaret Cairns-White shifts in her wooden chair. She's travelled five hours from Carlisle. She intends to set up a BUF women's division, but she needs headquarters approval.
She's watched her father's textile business crumble under Asian imports and cheap artificial fabrics. Something needs to be done, and her women's division is just the beginning. Who's speaking? William Joyce. She glances down at her notepad. It's the same contact she's been given. They see he can turn committed communists into fascists in a single speech. Margaret raises an eyebrow, sceptical. She's heard Sir Oswald Mosley speak, seen his aristocratic charm work on crowds.
This Joyce will have to be something special to compare. Our northern factories stand empty. While London bankers count their profits, our communities crumble. Margaret feels herself lean forward, surprised at his directness. They tell us this depression is natural. She feels her pulse quicken as his hands slice through the air. This is raw, hungry, reaching into her gut. During the interval, she threads through the crowd, positions herself in his path.
She smooths her skirt, noting how his eyes follow the movement, steps closer, letting her perfume do its work. ''Will you be at the Manchester rally next week, Mr Joyce?'' ''How nice to see the young ladies taking an interest. I suppose you're here for the social aspect?'' Margaret bristles. ''Do I really look like I'm here for tea and biscuits, Mr Joyce? I'd like to discuss my idea for a women's division with you.'' Her voice drops lower. ''The King's Arms, eight o'clock, tonight.'' His fingers linger on hers as he takes the paper.
You're rather dangerous, aren't you? OK. Fascist leader in sleaze shocker. She bats her long eyelashes. Mr Joyce, I'm whatever I need to be. Margaret leans in slightly. The question is, what do you need?
Okay, watching other people flirt at the best of times is the pits. Watching two fascists flirt, it's beyond the pale, isn't it? And what about watching me playing two fascists flirt? That might actually be the problem. The way you lent in as well. I looked at you as well. What was I thinking? And also, what was the bit with the cleavage? Sort of pushed your chest. Very unusual. I mean, however you get in the role, it's none of my business, but to have to be in a room with you while you do it. Look, if you've got it, flaunt it. And I can't keep these under wraps.
As she turns away, she doesn't have to look back to know his eyes are following her. She's learned long ago that men find her most irresistible when they think they're discovering her brilliance for themselves. This one might actually be worth the effort. 1933, Victoria College, London. William rubs his eyes, the words blurring on the page. His shoulders ache from hours hunched over the typewriter.
Scattered student essays lie ignored beside him. Margaret waves the newspaper, her voice electric with excitement. "Look what Hitler's achieved in just months! This is what real leadership looks like! One man reshaping an entire nation!" The image shows thousands of Germans, arms raised in salute. Margaret leans over his shoulder as she studies his draft speech. Her finger traces a carefully worded passage about immigration.
Here, she murmurs, her breath warm against his ear. Don't soften it. Tell them exactly who's responsible for their poverty. Name names. The working man responds when you speak plainly. Her fingers trail along his collar. Give them truth. Give them fire. He nods. She shifts closer, her hip brushing his shoulder. Come home with me. Hazel. The name catches in his throat. Hazel doesn't understand what you could become. You don't know her.
She's the mother of my... Margaret pulls back sharply. Am I wrong? I know she keeps you teaching part-time when you should be speaking full-time. She pushes her chair back, gathering her papers. When you decide what you really want, William, let me know. Margaret, wait! I know what I want, to have my cake and eat it. Come back! But she's already striding toward the door, slamming it behind her.
An hour later, he drags his tired feet up his front porch and enters the darkened entrance hall, about to creep up the stairs when he catches a sight of a shadow in the kitchen. Another crucial meeting. Guilt twists in his stomach. The movement needs... More tonking. Just a call back to the Dirty Duchess series. If you haven't listened to it, you simply must. If you like posh people having it off, it's for you.
You promised! Hazel, please. I'm exhausted. Throwing everything away for a fascist fantasy. And I'm some trollop. Don't say that! At least she understands what I can achieve. What we can achieve.
She sees what Britain could be. Ah, he's told on himself there a bit, hasn't he? He's sort of let slip. Yeah, is this about the country or is it about you, William? Silence stretches between them. His hands shake as he grips the kitchen chair. I can't keep pretending. A single tear falls from his eye. I can't be the husband you want anymore. I'm leaving. He watches Hazel's face crumple, sees the tears start. He turns away. No more compromises. No more half measures.
He's going to be with Margaret, commit to the fascist party full time and do everything in his power to restore Britain to its former greatness.
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Hi, I'm Alison Marino, host of What's a Podcast? The Revolution Redefined, a new documentary series from Oxford Road and the team behind Age of Audio. We dive in into how podcasting exploded into a storytelling revolution and how big tech and big money are threatening its future now. You'll hear from podcast industry heavyweights like Ira Glass, Adam Carolla, Guy Raz, Leo Laporte, the Mycelis Brothers, and more. What's a Podcast?
The Revolution Redefined is out now. Listen wherever you get your podcasts. September 20th, 1934. BUF rally, Streatham. William clasps Margaret's hand as he makes his way through corridors packed with black shirts. Their black uniforms, modelled after Mussolini's men, represent everything he's fought for. Purpose, respect, a real chance at reshaping Britain.
Sir Oswald! The veins in his legs are completely inflamed. He can't stand, let alone speak. Sir Oswald, William can speak. He's been drawing crowds all across London. Sir Oswald.
Margaret! No! But Moseley's eyes are already on him. William... Moseley's voice is strained with pain. You think you could hold the crowd? The crowd's murmur grows louder. William swallows hard. Sir, I couldn't presume... Margaret's whisper is fierce in his ear. They need someone. They need you. Moseley nods sharply. William's heart thunders as he peers through the curtain at the sea of blackshirts.
He feels Margaret give him a look of encouragement as he gives Oswald a final nod, then turns and steps out into the blinding lights on stage. Brothers! His voice wavers for a moment. He sees their confusion, their disappointment. Something hardens inside him. Brothers, Sir Oswald cannot be with us tonight. A murmur of discontent, he presses on. But his vision, our vision, must be heard.
I've seen the truth in our streets. I've watched them turn away British workers while foreign labour floods our ports. I've seen English children with hollowed cheeks while ships full of our wealth sail to foreign banks. The crowd stills, listening now. The old Britain is dead, but from its ashes we will forge a new Britain. Pure, strong, ours. The whole Iraq's.
He feels the energy building, feeding back into him, making his words soar. When he finally steps back, throat raw, the crowd is his. Margaret runs to him backstage, pulling him into a fierce embrace. He's still shaking with adrenaline when Mosley appears, leaning on his cane. William holds his breath, unsure what his leader will say. He watches as Mosley extends his hand. How do you feel about a new position? I'm thinking...
Director of Propaganda. One year later, the Black House BUF HQ, Chelsea. William fingers his toothbrush moustache, carefully trimmed to mirror Sir Oswald's. He tightens the belt on his trench coat. The reports under his arm represent weeks of work. Careful plans to tackle the Conservative Prime Minister's new Public Order Act. Parliament is trying to ban political uniforms and shut down all black shirt marches.
It could destroy everything he's built with Sir Oswald. And he's determined not to let that happen. OK, so if people heard the Oswald Mosley series, they may remember us touching on this. Yes, this was a major problem at the time. These fascist marchers that turned violent and people would clash with them. The police would clash with them. Anti-fascist protesters would as well. So there was a public order issue that they didn't want violence on British streets. There's also a national security issue because fascism is sweeping across Europe and Britain.
Britain doesn't want it happening here. So black shirts and other political uniforms were banned and police were given sweeping powers to arrest fascists, fascist sympathisers, the BUF and smaller Nazi groups if they were gathering in public. His footsteps echo in the marble stairwell of the Black House. As he climbs toward Mosley's office, he takes a breath and knocks. After a few moments, a frustrated voice beckons him in. Enter! Enter!
William walks over to the table and starts to lay out his papers. The Act will strangle every political march in Britain. It's censorship. But... He looks up to see Oswald's eyes fixed on his own. Sir Oswald, is everything all right? The situation is worse than we thought. William nods. Yes, but I've found several areas where we could... Oswald takes a long drag on his Dunhill International cigarette. I've just heard Masolini is pulling all BUF funding.
The words hit like a ton of bricks. He knows Mussolini's contributions fund most of his department's activities. I'm afraid I have no choice, William. I'm dissolving the propaganda department. The entire department? William feels Oswald's steely gaze fix on him. Including your position? William's hands begin to shake. Sir Oswald, I've given everything to this movement. I've given my marriage, my career...
Oswald stubs out his cigarette and lights another. The numbers don't lie. We can't maintain current salary levels and right now I need foot soldiers. The conservatives are looking for blood. So that's it? You're disposing of me like some dog who's outlived his usefulness? Oswald smashes his fists on the desk. Mind your tone, Joyce. My tone? William barks a laugh. I bled for this movement while you gave speeches from ivory towers. I walked away from everything.
William sees the flicker of a smile curl the edges of Oswald's lips. "And now you'll walk away from this. Security will escort you out." The rain soaks through William's coat as he stumbles out onto the wet pavement. Through the haze, he spots Margaret's familiar silhouette under a black umbrella, waiting. "He sacked me. The entire propaganda department, all gone. All these years, everything I've sacrificed." Oswald's running scared.
He sees Margaret shift from foot to foot. William, there are rumours. Rumours that the government's planning to introduce emergency laws. He looks at her in disbelief. A second bill, 18B, to lock up BUF members. William tries to make sense of what Margaret is telling him. As a newspaper hawker hurries past. Hitler builds mighty army. 300,000 march in Berlin.
He looks at Margaret as an idea starts to form. He spent his whole life trying to be British enough, trying to belong. The rage steadies his hands, straightens his spine. Once again the establishment has shown him his true place. But this time he won't beg for acceptance. He pulls Margaret close.
He's going to leave Britain. He's going to escape to Germany, where a new army marches. And one day, his heart pounds with the certainty he'll make Britain pay for every humiliation he's suffered at the hands of this small-sighted, rotten little nation.
Follow British Scandal on the Wondery app, Amazon Music or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge entire seasons early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts.
Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. In 1976, a Georgia native, Navy veteran, and peanut farmer named Jimmy Carter won his bid for the presidency. What Carter didn't know then was that the next four years would be the most difficult he could ever imagine.
Hi, I'm Lindsey Graham, the host of Wondery's podcast, American History Tellers. We take you to the events, times, and people that shaped America and Americans, our values, our struggles, and our dreams. In our latest series, we explore Jimmy Carter's time in the White House, from his unexpected presidential victory as an outsider vowing to clean up Washington, to his remarkable diplomatic breakthroughs and legislative accomplishments on energy, education, and the environment. But
But Carter also faced crushing challenges as he worked to lead the country through energy shortages, sky-high inflation, and the Iran hostage crisis. Follow American History Tellers on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. Experience all episodes ad-free and be the first to binge the newest season only on Wondery+. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. Start your free trial today.
From Wondery and Samistat Audio, this is the first episode in our series, Lord Haw Haw, Germany Calling. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read Germany Calling by Mary Kenney
And remember, if you want to get in touch with us with comments or suggestions or ideas for scandals, then you can email us at britishscandal at wondry.com. British Scandal is hosted by me, Matt Ford. And me, Alice Levine. Written by Andy Sheridan. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford.
Our story editor is James Maniac. Sound design by Rich Evans. Our engineer is Jai Williams. For Samizdat, our producer is Redzi Bernard. Our assistant producer is Louise Mason. Our senior producers are Joe Sykes and Dasha Lissitzina. For Wondery, our senior producer is Theodora Leloudis and our senior managing producer is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne and Marshall Lewis. Wondery.
Hey, I'm Cassie DePeckel, the host of Wondery's podcast, Against the Odds. In each episode, we share thrilling true stories of survival, putting you in the shoes of the people who live to tell the tale. In our next season, it's February 14th, 1979. Elmo Wartman and his three children are stranded on a remote Alaskan island after a massive storm destroys their sailboat.
Miles from help, they have to face the brutal cold with barely any food, only a sale for shelter, and a leaky plastic dinghy. Desperate to survive, they build a raft and try to reach safety. But as starvation and frostbite take hold, and days stretch into weeks, their endurance is pushed to the limit. Follow Against the Odds wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen ad-free on the Amazon Music or Wondery app.
Every successful business starts with an idea. And on The Best Idea Yet, we're obsessed with those light bulb moments. Like how a bored barista invented the Frappuccino during his downtime, and then it got acquired by Starbucks. Or how Patagonia's iconic fleece was inspired by a toilet seat cover. On The Best Idea Yet, we dive into the untold origin stories behind the products you're obsessed with and the bold risk takers behind them.
made them go viral. These are the wild ideas and insights that made Birkenstock the best-selling sandal since Jesus. And made Super Mario the most played video game in the history of attention span. Yeah, Nintendo almost became a ramen company until Super Mario saved it. New episodes drop every Tuesday. Follow The Best Idea Yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus. And if this podcast lasts longer than 45 minutes, call your doctor.