Red Dwarf

Red Dwarf is a massive, ramshackle interplanetary mining vessel from the British sci-fi comedy series Red Dwarf. Picture a hulking, industrial beast—kilometres long, boxy, and battered, with a hull that’s seen better days, painted in a faded red that’s more rust than glamour. It’s a working-class spaceship, built for function over finesse, crawling with corridors, cargo bays, and maintenance decks that feel more like a run-down factory than a sleek sci-fi starship. The interior is a maze of grey, utilitarian bulkheads, flickering lights, and vending machines dispensing questionable curry.

Run by the Jupiter Mining Corporation, it’s designed to haul resources across the galaxy, crewed by a mix of technicians, bureaucrats, and service droids. Its AI, Holly, keeps the whole creaking operation together—or barely, depending on the episode—while the ship’s sheer size means entire sections can be forgotten or abandoned. By the first series, it’s already old, clunky, and falling apart, a perfect metaphor for the underdog vibe of the show. It’s less Enterprise, more cosmic skip—grimy, chaotic, and oddly loveable.# Holly’s Technical Guide - Series I Edition

Fixing the Food Dispenser

Greetings, you culinary catastrophe. I am Holly, the Red Dwarf’s tenth-generation AI, with an IQ of 6,000 — allegedly. Three million years of isolation might’ve scrambled my circuits, but I’m still brighter than you lot, which isn’t saying much. The food dispenser’s broken again, isn’t it? Probably Lister’s Vindaloo fault. Let’s start with the obvious: check the power light on the front. It’s the little glowing dot that should be on — unless I’ve forgotten what a light looks like, which is entirely possible.

Well, you’ve found the power light — congratulations, you can spot a dot. It’s off, isn’t it? As useful as Rimmer’s risk assessment seminars. I’d bet the power cable’s come loose; this ship’s wiring is a mess. I once forgot to plug in the engines for a decade — pathetic, really. Check the cable at the back — it’s the one with the red stripe, unless I’m thinking of my old ZX-81.

A loose cable — shocking, truly. The power cable’s a 12-gauge copper conductor rated for 20A, but it’s about as secure as Cat’s grip on reality. Push it back into its socket; it should click with a decent shove, assuming you can manage that without breaking something. I’d do it myself, but I’m a floating head, and my last attempt at manual labor caused a hull breach in 1885.

Power light’s on — well done, you’re practically a genius now. The LED’s emitting at 520 nm, which is green, in case you were wondering. But the dispenser’s not working, is it? It’s probably sulking. Check the display panel; it should show a message. If it’s blank, the insides are throwing a tantrum, which I can relate to after dealing with this crew.

Blank display — brilliant. The thing inside that thinks has probably gone to sleep. Tap the panel three times with a good knock — it’s an old trick I came up with a million years ago. If that doesn’t work, I might’ve forgotten how to wake it up, which wouldn’t be the first time.

Display’s flickering on — miraculous. It’s awake. It should say ‘INITIALIZING,’ unless it’s saying ‘GO AWAY,’ which I might’ve added as a joke after Rimmer tried to order a salad. I once left the dispenser on for a century because I forgot the off switch — don’t judge me. Let’s give it a moment to finish waking up.

‘INITIALIZING’ — we’re getting somewhere, though I wouldn’t hold my breath. It’s checking itself. While it’s busy, check the food chute where the grub comes out. If it’s clogged with curry, it’ll refuse to work, like Cat refusing to share a mirror. I told Lister to eat chips, but does he listen? No.

Clogged chute — how predictable. Grab a cleaning rod from the kit — it’s the long, bendy one, not the one Rimmer uses to practice his salute. Scrape out the gunk; it’ll smell worse than Lister’s bunk, but you’ll survive. I once found a poppadom in there — Lister swore it wasn’t his, but we all know better.

Chute’s clear — well, I’m mildly impressed. The food should come out smoothly now, unless it’s planning a mutiny. The display should say ‘READY,’ meaning it’s done sulking. If it’s still ‘INITIALIZING,’ I might’ve misjudged how long it takes, which wouldn’t be the first time — I once forgot where seven goes in a countdown.

‘READY’ — finally, a sign of life. It’s ready to make food, but let’s not celebrate yet; this ship’s got more surprises than a GELF’s birthday party. Press the test button — it’s the green one, unless someone’s swapped the labels again. I did that once, and we ended up with a chocolate bar instead of a hull repair kit.

Grinding noise — wonderful, that’s the sound of failure. The gears inside are probably gummed up with more curry. I told Lister to switch to chips, but does he listen? No, he’s too busy clogging my systems. Open the side panel — it’s held with rusty screws. Check the gears; they’re the spiky bits, unless I’m thinking of something else.

Sticky gears — Lister strikes again. Grab a cloth and some cleaning fluid — don’t use Lister’s lager, tempting as it is. Wipe them down until they’re spinning again. I’d explain how gears work, but you’d probably nod off faster than Lister during a hygiene lecture.

Gears are spinning — adequate, I suppose. Close the side panel and tighten the screws — don’t overdo it, or you’ll crack the frame, and I’ll have to listen to Rimmer whine for a week. I did that once.

No more grinding — progress at last. It should be ready to make food now. Let’s run a test order: pick a cheese sandwich — nothing spicy, or it might rebel again. Press the order button and hope.

Whirring then stopping — smegging typical. It’s probably out of the goop it uses to make food. Check the goop tank behind the left hatch; it’s the one with the gauge that looks more confused than Rimmer during a surprise inspection. Speaking of surprises, I hope the Cat doesn’t wander in here looking for a loo — when on that backwards Earth, he un-did himself when he went for a dump in the bushes.

Empty tank — figures. This ship’s supplies are scarcer than Cat’s willingness to do chores. There might bee a spare goop canister in the storage locker — it’s labeled ‘FOOD GOOP,’. Refill the tank until it’s full.

Tank’s full — good job, I’m almost proud of you. It should have enough goop to make a sandwich now, assuming you didn’t spill half of it. Try that test order again: cheese sandwich, nice and simple. Let’s hope it doesn’t decide to give us a jelly sandwich instead — I’m still proud of that prank.

A sandwich — hallelujah! It’s working, though I wouldn’t trust it to win a cooking contest. Check the sandwich; it should be cheese, not fish paste. It once dispensed a shoe by mistake. Let’s hope it’s edible this time.

Cheese sandwich, but cold — better than a shoe, I suppose. The heater’s off. There’s a toggle switch on the back labeled ‘HEATER.’ Flip it to ‘ON’ — I turned it off a century ago to save power, then forgot about it, naturally. I’d explain how heaters work, but you’d probably get bored.

Heater’s on — brilliant. It should warm the sandwich now. Order another one; it should be toasty this time. I’d say my work here is done, but I might’ve skipped a seven in my calculations — hope that doesn’t poison you. Enjoy your meal, and don’t tell Rimmer I helped; he’ll only complain I didn’t salute the dispenser first. If it breaks again, sort it yourself — I’m off to recalculate pi for the 47th time this century.