LIZ & CO HAVE TRUSS-ED US ALL UP

The calamity of Liz Truss's brief reign as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom could have been penned by a satirist with a particularly dark sense of humour. Indeed, one fancies that P.G. Wodehouse, were he still among us, might have found in Truss's economic policies the makings of a new Jeeves and Wooster escapade, only this time with Bertie Wooster in charge of the nation's exchequer.

Liz Truss, with her penchant for the sartorial blend of Thatcherite blue and a rather more chaotic economic palette, has managed to etch her name into the annals of British political history not for her competence, but rather for her spectacular failure. Her tenure, which lasted but 44 days, was marked by a series of fiscal missteps that one might describe as an attempt to play Jenga with the economy while blindfolded.

The so-called "mini-budget" was less a budget than a fiscal kamikaze mission, piloted by Truss and her erstwhile Chancellor, Kwasi Kwarteng. Their plan, if one can stretch the term to fit, involved tax cuts for the wealthy so vast they seemed designed more for an alternate reality where money grows on trees. This economic gambit sent the pound tumbling like a drunken sailor on shore leave, and mortgage rates soaring to heights previously reserved for the peaks of Everest.

The chaos was such that even the sober-faced folk at the BBC took to the airwaves with a touch of levity not seen since the days of Monty Python. They set Truss's political demise to Rihanna's "Take a Bow," which, in its own way, was more fitting than any official statement could have been. 

What's more, Truss's fall from grace was not just economic but also personal. Her cabinet seemed more like a revolving door at a particularly busy London café, with ministers coming and going with such frequency that one might have thought they were auditioning for a reality TV show rather than governing a nation.

In her resignation, Truss left behind a government in turmoil, a party in disarray, and a public whose faith in the Conservative leadership had been stretched thinner than a slice of ham in a schoolchild's sandwich. Her departure was as swift as her arrival, leaving many to ponder if perhaps the greatest trick she pulled was convincing anyone she was fit for the job in the first place.

And so, the curtain falls on Liz Truss's brief and bewildering act on the political stage, where she has, in her own unique way, truss-ed up the nation in a knot of confusion and economic disarray. One can only hope that the next act will bring a director more adept at handling the delicate balance of governance and less inclined to treat the treasury like a Monopoly bank.

In the end, one might say that Liz Truss did not so much govern as she did perform a high-wire act without a net, and the audience, in this case, the British public, watched in a mix of awe and horror as she plummeted. But fear not, for in the grand theatre of British politics, there's always another act waiting in the wings.

IN MEMORY OF HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN

The death of Her Majesty the Queen, announced a short time ago, is a seismic event for the United Kingdom and a profound emotional shock that will be felt by millions.

It was, of course, always an inevitability, as it is for all of us. And in recent months the Queen had obviously become increasingly frail.

Nevertheless, it felt unthinkable that one day she would no longer be with us. We allowed ourselves to imagine that she would go on for ever. For so many of us this evening, this feels like a personal bereavement. Something of priceless value has been torn from us, and we feel devastated.

The Queen was most deeply loved by millions, who showed their profound feeling for her and for what she meant to them when they came out in their hundreds of thousands to cheer her at her Platinum Jubilee celebrations earlier this year.

It’s not just because her reign lasted for an astonishing 70 years, the longest in the country’s history. It’s because she was the constant, still centre of the nation, always reassuring, always a beacon of optimism, always felt to be somehow embracing all of us.

She was the symbol of consistency, the link between the generations, the rock to whom we were tethered as the storms of the world raged around us. She was always there. Now she isn’t. And we feel devastated.

She held the country together because of the way she effaced herself to become the quintessence of duty and selfless service to her people, a symbol of unity and true inclusion. We watched the way she conducted her great office — her calmness, her strength, her fortitude, her kindliness and humility — and we felt soothed and reassured that, in looking at her example, we were gazing at ourselves as a nation in the mirror she held up to us. She loved us with a deep devotion; and in return we loved her.

Never have those qualities she embodied been more needed than they are now. It’s impossible not to feel that her passing marks not just the loss of a unique public servant and a great soul, but also the loss of a Britain that belonged to a different era — a Britain of strength and resilience, a Britain of self-restraint and grounded pragmatism, a Britain of true tolerance and gentleness, a Britain whose passing we also most deeply mourn.

The Queen was the embodiment of that Britain. Her death is a source of the deepest grief.

May her memory be a blessing.

 HM QUEEN ELIZABETH II 

 1926 - 2022 

HERE COMES THE SUN … NOW I WISH IT WOULD F**K OFF !!!

Well, it finally happened. The sun, that great celestial bully, has decided to grace us with its presence, and in doing so, has turned our lives into a sort of grand, uncomfortable beach party from which there is no escape. Everything officially and feels a little brighter and smells a little different (or, in my neck of the woods, smells like Farmer Giles has decided to do a lap of the park in his oldest and most un-sanitised muck spreader). 

One might think that after months of the typical British dampness, we'd welcome this solar assault with open arms, but no. It's like having a long-lost relative who you remember fondly from childhood, only to find upon their return that they've become insufferable.

The weather forecast promised sun, and like a fool, I believed it. I ventured out, not with the joy of a child on the first day of summer, but with the trepidation of a man who knows the fine line between warmth and roast. The streets were filled with people, each one seemingly less accustomed to daylight than the last, their pale skins turning various shades of lobster red under this cruel, unyielding light.

In my youth, the sun was a friend, a companion in mischief, but now, it's an enemy. It's not just the heat; it's the light. The relentless light that forces one to squint, to fumble for sunglasses that have somehow disappeared into the abyss of one's own home. The heat is one thing, but the glare? That's an assault on the senses, a reminder that perhaps we should have stayed in the cool, dark womb of winter.

And then there's the issue of shade. In Birmingham, shade is as rare as a straight answer from Sir Kier Starmer. Every bench, every tree, is claimed by those who got there first, leaving the rest of us to wander like nomads in search of a shadow. The parks, once serene, are now battlegrounds where only the quickest or the most cunning can find respite from the sun's tyranny.

I remember a time when I would bask in the sun, but now, I find myself wishing for clouds, for rain, for anything that might break this spell of light. The sun, in its infinite arrogance, seems to ignore my pleas, continuing its daily path across the sky, unbothered by the discomfort it causes.

The irony of it all is that we Britons, who complain incessantly about rain, are now bemoaning the sun. It's a national pastime, this weather whinging, but there's a certain poetry to it, a rhythm to our collective gripes. Perhaps we should learn to embrace the sun with the same begrudging acceptance we give to our less sunny days.

But for now, I'll retreat indoors, where the light is softer, the heat less oppressive, and where I can nurse my sunburn with a cup of tea, contemplating the British summer with all the joy of a man about to step into a sauna fully clothed.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE'S EUROVISON 2022 RAPID ROSTER RUNDOWN

Czech Republic

Did she just step out of the shower? Maybe she took a dip in the stage fountains before the show. 

Great beat but she sounds like she's had 10 pints down the King's Arms and is doing the karaoke.

Romania

He looks very, very, very uncomfortable in those trousers. 

Also those hankies used to be three for a pound down Altrincham Market.

Portugal

Bugger, its the first of the ballads, courtesy of Portuguese Clannad. 

They'll be playing this in Garden Centres in Lisbon for years to come.

Finland

Oh my god !! It's actually The Rasmus !! 

Doing a pound shop cosplay of the kid that got eaten by Pennywise the Clown in Stephen King's IT.

Switzerland

Roger Daltrey's secret love child. Will only probably get saved form nul points by the jury vote.

France

Stop! Hammer Time! I miss the classy bird with the classy breasts from last year.

Norway

Try and see what happens if you ACTUALLY tried to give a wolf a banana. 

And wonder why you no longer have any fingers left.

Armenia

Good job there's no pyrotechnics on this one. 

At least she can go to bed in those pyjamas now she's done.

Italy

Italy's "My Lovely Horse" entry. 

Because nobody ever wants to win twice due to the eyewatering cost of staging the thing.

Spain

It works for her in a kind of flamenco Madonna way. 

Also helps that she has buttocks that could probably enter Eurovision all on their own.

Netherlands

Oh, boy, she's a Dadadadadadadadada-ist. 

Not to mention she doesn't know how do her buttons up properly.

Ukraine

Every single 1990's white rapper cliché thrown into a blender. 

It's not the best thing of the night, but I am sure it will win, and it's obvious why.

Germany

So many instruments on stage he literally can't make his mind up which one to play.

Lithuania

Surprise, surprise!!! It's Lithuanian Cilla Black.

Azerbaijan

If you build it, they will come, numb, numb. 

I will be by the time we get through another ten of these.

Belgium

Lewis Hamilton in a tin-foil jacket you could turn inside out and roast a chicken in.

Greece

They want this to be a James Bond theme so much it practically hurts.

Iceland

This is Eurovision, not the Grand Ole Opry. 

Smack the Pony should sue.

Moldova

The Beastie Boys meets Benny Hill. 

Somehow even worse and more clichéd than Ukraine.

Sweden

Best song by a mile, best singer by a mile, definitely should win. 

She's also bloody gorgeous. I want to move to Stockholm, live in a castle with her and have lots of babies with her.

Australia

Very effeminate man desperate to keep the flies off his face. 

Never gave us any points, the ungrateful colonial bastards!

United Kingdom

Best thing we've entered in years, but nonetheless still a cross between Bill Bailey and Elton John.

Poland

The staging is rather funky but I do wish someone would carry him away as he suggests.

Serbia

For some reason this uncomfortably reminds me of Julianne Moore in The Big Lebowski.

Estonia

So you wanted to do a western theme at Eurovision.

Then you really should have gone the whole hog and had backing line dancers.

Ukraine won in the end … predictably.

AND WE CAME SECOND !!!

THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "DOCTOR STRANGE IN THE MULTIVERSE OF MADNESS" (2022)

Benedict Cumberbach's Doctor Strange has became a very popular character, especially after the events of Avengers: Endgame and had a good share of the performance in Spider-Man: No Way Home. Multiverse of Madness, the second solo movie for the Master of the Mystic Arts was on a different hype level, however it turned out to be a mixed affair on some levels.

And you might say, "well it's literally called Multiverse of Madness, how do you expect me not to expect a Multiverse from this movie", which I agree with. I had the same expectation when I first heard about the name of the movie and saw the trailers. But trust me, the whole thing revolves around the Multiverse And there is a lot of Madness, but not in a way you're thinking of. Naming this movie Multiverse of Madness was a real double-edged sword and it really shows, by how people reacted to it.

First of all, I have to say that this is probably the most different and unique movie of MCU, at least in the aesthetic department, or should I say the most different-looking. And you already know it's exactly because of Sam Raimi and the horror and creepy aspect he introduces in this movie.

About the runtime, I remember seeing people argue that two hours is not actually bad and Sam Raimi movies are always more or less two hours and we are the unreasonable ones to think two hours. And I and many others thought "well how is a movie about the multiverse is gonna be only two hours? We need at least three hours". Which weren't wrong, because after watching the movie I can say that it definitely needed at least 20 more minutes. 

The pacing is really on and off, it kind off lingers in some scenes and it fast-forwards in some scenes that needed more time, especially the ending. I think they just need to hire better writers because once again, this didn't "feel" a movie, it felt like an episode and a teaser to the real thing, but I still really enjoyed it and had fun with it.

It would be interesting to see a director's cut of the movie or even a Scott Derrickson version where he actually continued the first movie and not mainly WandaVision (which is an understandable problem people have with this), but we'll never see just like we'll never see Edgar Wright's Ant-Man. If I were in Feige's shoes, I'd just go crazy with every movie and give 100% freedom to directors to make whatever they want and go nuts with it and have a different MCU next to the main one. 

For people that are concerned about cameos and think this is film is cameos galore and fanservice, don't worry. The cameos are fairly short, they are great and serve the plot, and are not just there just to be there, and they have some of the most brutal scenes I've seen from MCU.

Danny Elfman did the score and it fit the movie and the gothic vibe beautifully and there was a certain battle that I'm not going to even hint at, but you'll know when you watch the movie, that was just audio-visual delight. I am a little disappointed and sad that they didn't use the amazing Doctor Strange theme Michael Giacchino did, and I think he would've done an amazing job if they kept him, but I guess Danny is Sam's blue-eyed boy. But the score is still good, just wish his iconic theme was used more in this movie.

The visuals were amazing too, although it still had some that looked a bit ropey, and it seems like Marvel has been lacking with CGI in this phase more than before, even in the tv shows. But the thing about the visuals is that even though they are great and a joy to witness, I miss the reality-bending we got in the first movie and No Way Home, I wish they used it here too and went crazier with it.

And as for the direction, I have to say it's pretty good and it's obvious Sam Raimi directed it as it has his fingerprint all over this movie and I loved it. It seems like Marvel is getting a little more open to having visionary directors take the helm and give them freedom. It's obvious that this movie is not given to Sam with 100% freedom, but I think they're getting a little bit better and I hope this freedom becomes bigger in the next projects. 

Sam Raimi does a great job with all the creepy, horror scenes, and the jump scares and this movie is more about witchcraft than it is about wizardry and spells. I really hope they keep doing these different genres and don't just stick to action-comedy as they've been for a long time. It's a breath of a fresh air seeing this being a different kind of superhero movie. I also really liked that he actually used a good colour grading and that the colours and environments are alive and that they don't look like another bland Marvel movie.

I don't think I need to talk about the acting because you already know they all do an amazing job. But surprisingly Wanda is the star of this movie and some people have a problem with that? I get that it's called Doctor Strange and this movie kind of lets Wanda outshine him, but did you also have a problem with Infinity War being more of a Thanos movie, or The Dark Knight is more of a Joker movie? 

I don't get that people say Doctor Strange had less things to do or even less cool things to do than Infinity War, because it felt to me that they both had more of or the same amount of screen-time and Doctor Strange had obviously more screen time. And America Chavez is a really interesting and a great addition to the MCU and Xochitl Gomez did a good job of portraying her.

Some reviews said that Christine Palmer was again underutilized, which I guess? But I don't know what more they could've done with the fast pacing of this movie and I thought they did a decent job with Palmer anyway. Obviously, and as I said before, this movie could've benefited from some breathers and 20 extra minutes, but it was still fine. And Bruce Campbell is great as ever. You can't have a Sam Raimi movie without a Bruce Campbell cameo!

I also heard some people say that they liked the first one better, which it's ok I guess? You could argue that the pacing of the first movie was better and Stephen Strange had a good development in there, but since the villain sucked in that movie, I cannot say that the first one is better. 

In conclusion, this movie might not be what you think is going to be, so manage your expectations, there are some loose ends left from the first movie that they didn't deal with for some reason and it's not really a continuation of Doctor Strange as it is more a continuation of WandaVision, and in that case, people are kind of right if they think this wasn't that much of a Doctor Strange movie and more Wanda's.

OVERALL RATING: 7/10

SO YOU'RE GETTING OLD ...

My Nan turned 100 earlier this year, and in the midst of all the cake and tea and reading her message from Her Majesty, It got me thinking about what it will be like for me when, in a few decades time, my body either irreparably breaks down or I succumb to a terrible disease. 

No one is going to say that I fought to the bitter end bravely or stoically or with much in the way of dignity. Because I fear I’ll spend my final days howling, sobbing and quivering in a corner, while telling all the nurses that it’s not fair, and the doctors that they’ve got to invent a cure.

Imagine knowing that you are minutes away from death and accepting it without a fuss. We saw the same thing with Saddam Hussein, of all people, when he was led to the gallows. I’d have been biting my jailers and kicking them in the nuts, but he just stood there as the noose was placed around his neck, almost as though they were doing up his tie.

Apparently Mary, Queen of Scots behaved in the same way. Even though her execution had been ordered by her own cousin, Elizabeth I, she thanked her jailer for offering his arm for support as she climbed the steps to the guillotine and then, before kneeling and placing her head on the block, she said: “This is the last trouble I shall ever give you.” Even at the end, when you might imagine her knees would be knocking and her bladder emptying itself, she remembered her manners. It’s weird.

Or is it? Because I turn 41 next week, which means I am probably as close to death as far as I am from it. But instead of hiding in a wardrobe, whimpering and hoping it won’t find me there, I’m writing this blog, chopping off a word here or altering a sentence there. I do think about dying, and it bothers me. Not as much as I thought it would when I was kicking around on a piece of ground in my home town, waiting for something or someone to show me the way.

It’s not that I believe I’m going to a better place and that in this better place I’ll be enjoying a pint of milk and honey with all my other dead friends who died far too young. I know I’m either going into the old furnace, or dumped into a hole where I shall rot. And I shall be there for ever, or at least until a property developer decides he needs the graveyard for a new housing estate. And then I shall be landfill.

No one wants to die when they're 21 because there’s so much still to see and do. And no one wants to die when they’re 41 either, because … well actually, I don’t know why. I’ve not produced any children, which is all the species wants, so now I’m just sitting here consuming stuff unnecessarily. I’m a drain, a waste of oxygen, blood and organs. 

And of course, according to all the world's communists and environmentalists, it's entirely my fault that the planet's on fire, the baby seal population is dwindling and men can't compete in women's sports, so they can't implement their Net Zero and 'Great Reset' disasterplans until I've been bumped off. I'm single-handedly responsible for a world full of racism, diesel and meat and did nothing about it because I followed Boyan Slat on Twitter instead of Greta Thunburg.

So what are you supposed to do in the autumn of your life when your body is held together by sellotape and wishful thinking and you can’t remember where you put your spectacles? Some imagine that they should spend their final years doing as much world travel as possible, see new places, smell new things, and taste new kinds of fish, and I can’t see the point because all you’re doing is creating memories you’ll never be able to savour.

There’s a similar problem with reading. You’re filling your head with things that will never be of any use. Because while you’ll have the facts to hand, you won’t have the mental agility to use them. Joe Biden certainly doesn't and he's President of the United States.

I like to think that over the past 41 years I’ve amassed a great deal of information. I’ve travelled around the country, I’ve read many books and met many interesting people. But my eyes glaze over because I can’t name a single Stormzy hit and I need help when I’m trying to tag someone in an Instagram post. All my knowledge, then, is worthless because no one wants to hear any of it. I’m a library in a world that has the internet. A human typewriter in a touchscreen era..

Look at it this way. I’m writing all this down so that it can appear on my blog so people can read it. And not speaking it out loud into a podcast. Most kids couldn’t understand that at all. They’d think I was sick.

Hilariously, some people try to combat the effect of age by adopting the speech patterns, clothing and views of the young. And some go even further by trying to get fit. They join gyms and walk about in the countryside with ski poles. What’s the point? Do you really think that after a year of sweat and grunting you’ll emerge into the light looking like Chris Hemsworth? Because you won’t.

At best you’ll end up like looking like Kier Starmer when he walks around without a tie on. And you still won’t be able to run the hundred metres in 11 seconds, do pole-vaulting, swim a length underwater or win the Tour de France. People in gyms are chasing their youth but it’s gone. And it doesn’t matter how many downward dogs you do, it’s not coming back.

Now, so far I haven’t fallen into the jigsaw wormhole yet and I haven’t taken up bridge or golf. Nor have I felt compelled yet to spend any time sitting on a bench in a “viewing area” at a beauty spot drinking tea from a Thermos. But I will.

We need to live like this because if we fill our diaries with exciting mini-breaks to Barcelona, we will only have to cancel them when one of our friends or relatives dies and it turns out the funeral’s that day. When people get married or turn 40 the parties are planned well in advance, but funerals are always a surprise and because they play such havoc, it’s probably easier to not have a party. That way you’re always free to go to a funeral.

The big problem with all this time-wasting is that age is cruel. It affects us all in different ways. I watched a clip on YouTube of Genesis recently and the randomness of ageing could not have been brought into sharper focus. There was Phil Collins, looking grey and wizened and crippled with some terrible back issue. He looked like they were ready to tip him straight into his coffin.

He has been forced then, by God’s mean streak, to do jigsaws knowing that Tony Banks and Mike Rutherford can still at least manage a game of Swingball. It must be irksome.

Even Noel Gallagher's sporting some impressive grey hairs these days.

When you’re 21 and all your friends are 21 you can all do the same things, but when you’re 41 it’s different. Some people will be able to do underwater fencing while others will be worn out from doing up their shoelaces. And the ones who have to take a breather on a flight of stairs will be resentful of those who are up there already, bouncing around on their second and much younger wives. Old age is not a place where friendships can flourish. There’s too much bitterness. Too much envy.

Even going to Comic Cons these days leaves me knackered and sore.

It seems 1981 was a vintage year to be born, and as a result I’m the same age as Beyonce Knowles, Serena Williams, Chris Evans, Britney Spears, Roger Federer, Tom Hiddleston, Natalie Portman and Justin Timberlake. And every time they appear in the newspapers I look at their pictures wondering who’s faring better than me.

All of them are, if I’m honest. And that irritates me. I’m in a battle here with Tom Hiddleston and, though we’ve never met (mostly because I'm not going to pay MCM £450 for the privilege ... ), you can be assured he’s in a battle with me. And he knows he’s winning. He can look at a photograph of me and then himself in the mirror and he’ll think, “Yup. I’m in the lead.”

How much time do we have left and what will we be able to do with it? Those are the questions. And why do these imponderables prey so heavily on our minds? I guess it’s because we struggle to cope with the hope. When we know the end is coming, that hope is replaced by despair and somehow that’s always easier. Maybe that’s why people on their death beds are so calm. Or maybe it’s the morpheme. We don’t know the answer to that one either.

David Bowie, however, once wrote something pertinent on the subject: “Time, he’s waiting in the wings. He speaks of senseless things. His script is you and me, boy.” He probably thought he’d be able to enjoy the royalties from this clever song in his old age. But as we all know, he ran out of time and never got there.

Happy Birthday to me.

FROM HERO TO [NET] ZERO ...

Ah, the noble quest from hero to net zero, or as I might more poetically put it, from Prometheus unbound to Prometheus in chains, shackled not by the wrath of Zeus, but by the well-intentioned, yet somewhat misguided, zeal of the modern environmentalist. Let us journey through this landscape, where every step towards sustainability is met with the kind of resistance that would make Sisyphus think twice about his rock.

In this land of ours, Britain, the debate over net zero emissions has grown hotter than the earth is supposed to become if we don't achieve it. On one side, we have the MPs, fresh from their parliamentary backbenches, now champions of the cause, rallying like gladiators in Rome's Colosseum, each eager to prove their mettle. On the other, a group equally fervent, decrying this move as a march towards economic destruction, a kind of self-flagellation for the industrial sins of our fathers. 

The Bank of England, that venerable institution, now finds itself in a duel with inflation, brandishing interest rates like a fencing foil. But in this bout, the combatant faces not just one adversary but a hydra-headed beast of rising costs and slowing growth. Governor Bailey, with the poise of a man who's seen too many economic storms, suggests that the tightening of policy is as necessary as it is unpopular, much like a diet for an overweight economy.

Meanwhile, the spectre of energy prices soaring has driven some desperate families to voluntarily disconnect from their energy suppliers. Here we are, in a world where people choose darkness to avoid daylight robbery. It's a scenario Kafka might have penned, had he been concerned with utility bills rather than existential dread.

The green movement, like a relentless tide, has not waned despite debunking of climate change myths. It has, instead, swelled, buoyed by subsidies and the fervour of activist groups. Politicians, who once might have wavered, now stand firm, perhaps because, as Upton Sinclair noted, "It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends upon his not understanding it." The irony here is as thick as London fog.

As for policy, we're seeing a revival of 1970s energy conservation tactics, which, in their draconian simplicity, seem almost quaint. Reduced speed limits, car-free Sundays, and odd-even license plate days for city access – all measures that sound like they've been lifted from a wartime rationing pamphlet rather than modern policy.

In this dance of policy-making, Canada offers a curious historical counterpoint. Once, under the stewardship of Pierre Trudeau, the nation embraced its oil resources with a vigour that would make OPEC blush, building pipelines with a speed that would impress even the most impatient of modern climate activists. 

Now, we look to India, the 'poorest super-emitter', charting its path to net zero with a pragmatism born of necessity. Theirs is a journey not just of environmental stewardship but of survival, ensuring that the path to sustainability does not leave millions in the dark or without the means to cool themselves during increasingly frequent heat waves.

So here we stand, at this crossroads of ambition and reality, where the road to net zero is paved with good intentions, political posturing, and the eternal human struggle between progress and preservation. It's a narrative that would make even Homer nod in recognition, though perhaps with a wry smile at the modern twist on ancient themes.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "THE BATMAN" (2022)

Worries about yet another Batman reboot coming into the fray so soon after Ben Affleck's portrayal in the DC Extended Universe, should be alleviated very quickly, as director Matt Reeves version of the caped crusader done by the way of 'Saw' and 'Seven' takes hold early on and refuses too let go on its way to a well earned three hour runtime that is full of surprises, atmosphere, historical nods and high artistry.

Those expecting a film similar to Christopher Nolan's duly praised Dark Knight trilogy may find themselves disappointed. Reeves is clearly taking Robert Pattinson's portrayal of the vigilante seeking Bruce Wayne in a different direction, here caught up in a mysterious game run by the devious Riddler who is targeting high end Gotham figures in a series of grizzly murders. 

While Reeve's film does share some similar DNA to Nolan's version of Batman (serious in tone and dark in more ways than one) this is a far less action oriented ride that relishes in the small moments as much as it does when its scattered collection of action does make its way to the forefront.

Taking its inspiration from various crime/thrillers found throughout feature film history and undoubtedly featuring a narrative taken from Batman's famed detective oriented tales such as 'The Long Halloween', 'The Killing Joke' and 'Year One', 'The Batman' thankfully skips past bothering with yet another origin story. 

Here, we find Pattinson's bruised and battered crusader of justice two years into his crime fighting life as his become a creature of the night struggling to balance being the billionaire heir his known for and the hero no one understands and by moving past these steps Reeves is allowed to fully focus on the story at hand that allows his creativity as a director and his loaded casts talents to shine.

A director whose failed to put a foot wrong since his 2008 breakthrough with 'Cloverfield' with horror remake 'Let Me In' and then had continued success with 'Dawn of / War for the Planet of the Apes', Reeves, with valuable help from 'Dune' cinematographer Greig Fraser and one of composer Michael Giacchino's best scores in years embeds every frame with sylistic grit and darkness. 

'The Batman' always has something to take in or be wowed by and the film is easily up there with one of the most impressively put together comic book films and blockbusters in general of the modern era, even if its more slow paced nature and untypical narrative may not be what certain viewers are after from this long-standing property.

Also helping out the film's cause in a big way is the work of all main players found within Reeve's rain-soaked affair. The likes of Jeffrey Wright as everyone's favourite policeman Lieutenant James Gordon, John Turturro as crime matriarch Carmine Falcone, the unrecognizable Colin Farrell as the very un-Danny DeVito Oz/The Penguin and Zoe Kravitz as Selina Kyle/Catwoman all put in good work that well compliments the one-two double punch of Pattinson's tormented Bruce Wayne, and Paul Dano's skin-crawling take on The Riddler. The contrast of such two polar opposites give us something as memorable and close to greatness as we never thought ever likely get to Christian Bale's and Heath Ledger's double act in 'The Dark Knight'.

A divisive choice early on, Pattinson proves a worthy owner of the cape and cowl  with his noteworthy work over the last few years proving to be no fluke and Edward Cullen a mere sparkling dream of yesterday. Pattinson is both imposing and vulnerable here, a hard mix to get right but one he nails in all instances and while not hogging huge screen time in the overall scheme of things. 

Dano's work as the film's main foe here is menacing, unnerving and glorious to behold with Eli Sunday being transported to the modern era sans his Bible and replaced with wide rimmed specs hidden under a hideous mask. While it's a hard task to be considered as dastardly great as Ledger was in his Oscar winning role as Batman's arch rival, Dano does a job that can be considered right up there in the same league as he gives 'The Batman' an unwieldy edge not often found in such fare.

There's no question this serious and moody take on Batman's world will be compared often to 'The Dark Knight' with many arguments sure to ensue, if you were to ask me here and now what I think, I would say its unlikely anything will ever reach the heights of Nolan's beloved game changer but this Batman comes mightily close which is some form of mighty feed indeed.

A very different type of Hollywood blockbuster that also sees Batman taken in a new and exciting direction when it comes to feature films, The Batman is an artistic and considered epic that sets in motion a tale that can't be continued soon enough.

OVERALL RATING: 8/10

(BRIEF) THOUGHTS ON THE UKRAINE CRISIS

Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive, and nowhere is the pattern more complex than in the Eastern reaches of Europe where Ukraine, for all its valiant efforts, finds itself ensnared by the bear-like grip of Russia. The crisis, you see, isn't just about territory or power; it's about the very soul of a nation, or so the poets might say if they weren't all busy tweeting about it.

Let's address this tableau with the precision of a watchmaker, shall we? On one side, we have Ukraine, a nation with the misfortune of sharing a border with a neighbour whose appetite for annexation matches only its hunger for historical revisionism. On the other, there's Russia, led by a man whose face seems to have been chiselled from the very stone of the Kremlin, unwavering in his belief that the past should dictate the present.

The conflict in Ukraine, if one can call it merely a conflict without understating the sheer tragedy of the situation, is like watching a chess match where one player has decided the rules no longer apply. Here's where the West steps in, with NATO and the EU, waving their metaphorical flags of democracy like they're at some international parade. But one must wonder, are these gestures of support more akin to a pat on the back or a true embrace?

Russia's actions are a throwback to a time when the map was redrawn not with pens but with the might of armies. Yet, this isn't the 19th century; we have social media now, where every Ukrainian's tweet or post becomes a digital battle cry against the old guard's iron fist. It's a new kind of warfare where information might just be as lethal as any missile.

The sanctions, ah, the sanctions. The West's favourite weapon, wielded with the enthusiasm of a Victorian schoolmaster. They hit Russia where it hurts, or so we're told, but one must ponder if they're more like a slap on the wrist when what's needed is perhaps a more profound shake-up. Russia, with its gas pipelines stretching across the continent like tentacles, has more than a few aces up its sleeve, or should I say, deep in the earth.

And then there's the human cost, the true horror in all this. Civilians, caught in a geopolitical tug-of-war, their lives and futures hanging in the balance. It's not just about borders but about people, the very essence of what we're fighting for, or at least, what we should be fighting for.

So, what's to be done? Diplomacy, of course, that ballet of words where each step is calculated to avoid the dance of war. But as history has shown us, diplomacy without force is like a book without words, and force without diplomacy is a blunt instrument in a world that cries out for subtlety.

In conclusion, the Ukrainian crisis is a vivid reminder that the past isn't just prologue; it's an ongoing narrative, one where the ending is yet to be written. And as we watch this drama unfold, one hopes that wisdom prevails, for in this age of instant communication and global interdependence, the world can ill afford to remain stuck in the old scripts of conquest and dominion.

ANNUAL RANT ABOUT THE 14TH OF FEBRUARY ...

The 14th of February, or Valentine's Day as it's known in these parts, rolls around with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer in a china shop. Here we are, again, in the midst of what I can only describe as a commercial carnival masquerading as romance.

Ah, love, they say, is in the air, but if you ask me, it smells more like the cheap scent of last-minute panic purchases from the corner shop. The supermarket shelves, once stocked with the dignity of ordinary goods, now buckle under the weight of heart-shaped chocolates, roses in their dying throes, and those dreadful teddy bears, their eyes wide with the horror of their own existence.

It's the day when every card shop turns into a den of saccharine sentimentality, where verses are so saccharine they could give you diabetes just by reading them. "Roses are red, violets are blue," indeed. It's as if the art of expressing affection has been reduced to a nursery rhyme, a rhyme so basic that even the most linguistically challenged could recite it.

The pressure to conform, to perform the act of love, is palpable. Couples, young and old, are herded into restaurants where they pay through the nose for the privilege of dining under the scrutinise gaze of other couples, all wondering if they're doing love correctly. Singles, meanwhile, are reminded of their solitude not by the stars but by the relentless barrage of marketing emails, all screaming, "You're alone, but hey, here's a deal on chocolate!"

What has become of us, I ask? This day, meant to celebrate love, has morphed into an exercise in consumerism, where the measure of affection is not in kind words or gentle deeds but in the thickness of one's wallet. The genuine sentiment is drowned out by the cacophony of cash registers, each ring a reminder of how love has been commodified.

I remember when love was not a spectacle but a quiet understanding, a look, a touch, a shared silence that spoke volumes. Now, it's all about the spectacle, the show, the public declaration, as if love could not exist unless broadcasted on social media or sealed with an overpriced gift.

So, here's to you, Valentine's Day, a day that has lost its way in the maze of modern marketing, where love is less a feeling and more a transaction. But perhaps, in the quiet aftermath, when the gaudy decorations are taken down, and the last of the heart-shaped candies are eaten, we might remember what this day was supposed to signify: a simple, sincere expression of affection, unadorned by the trappings of commerce.

Until next year, when we'll all be fooled again by the promise of love wrapped in the glitter of capitalism. 

ANOTHER BRICK IN THE (RED) WALL

In the land where the Black Country merges into the vast sprawl of Brum, where the canals cut through industrial scars like the lines on an old man's face, there sits a political fortress, or what remains of it – The Red Wall. It's a term that has, in recent years, become as resonant as the clank of the anvils that once thundered through these parts, but now, it's more like the echo of bygone days.

The Red Wall, once as solid as the bricks of the factories that belched smoke into the grey skies, has begun to show cracks, chinks, and fissures. It's as if someone has taken a chisel to it, not with the intent to restore but to demolish. And who holds the hammer? Well, that would be none other than the Conservative Party, led by the likes of Boris Johnson, whose hair is as chaotic as the political landscape he's helped to create.

This wall, a symbol of Labour loyalty, particularly in the heartlands of the Midlands and the North, has seen its stones dislodged in the most recent general election. Seats like West Bromwich, once as reliably Labour as the sunrise, have turned blue, a hue as shocking to the local Labour stalwarts as a sudden clear sky on a Birmingham morning.

The strategy was cunning, employing the kind of political engineering that would make Brunel nod in approval from his grave. The Conservatives, with their "levelling up" rhetoric, promised not just to mend the social fabric but to weave it anew, with threads of opportunity and development. It was a siren song to those who felt left behind in the post-industrial wake, a melody of change that resonated with the clang of new promises.

But let's not be naïve about the motivations. This isn't just about reviving the spirit of the regions; it's about power, about securing the votes in places where Labour once thought they were untouchable. The irony is that the very bricks of this wall, once set with the mortar of working-class solidarity, are now being prised apart by those same hands, albeit under different banners.

The question that lingers in the air, thicker than the smog of old, is whether this shift is a mere political tremor or the beginning of an earthquake. Will the Red Wall rebuild itself, perhaps with new materials, or will it crumble under the weight of its own history? For now, the battlements are quiet, the banners of old have been lowered, and the new standard bearers are making their presence felt. Yet, there's an underlying current here, a narrative of change that might just be as ephemeral as the promises made in the heat of an election campaign. 

The Red Wall, like the city of Birmingham itself, is in a state of flux, caught between its past and an uncertain future. And as any Brummie will tell you, it's not just about laying another brick; it's about what you build with them. 

So, here we stand, watching the wall, pondering not just the masonry but the very foundation of our political landscape, wondering if the next brick laid will be one of many or the last in a long line.

LET'S GO BRANDEAU !!

Ah, the frozen North, where the land is as vast as the silence between the trees, and the winter's chill bites deeper than political satire on a Monday morning. Here in Canada, we have a new chant on the lips of the disgruntled: "Let's Go Brandeau!" A cheeky twist on "Let's Go Brandon," this little ditty has become the anthem of those who find themselves at odds with the authoritarian leanings of one Justin Trudeau, the Prime Minister with the charisma of a wet mop.

Trudeau, who seems to have taken a page from the playbook of dictators rather than democrats, has recently invoked emergency powers with the grace of a bull in a china shop. His aim? To quash protests that don't dance to his tune, particularly those pesky truckers who dared to disrupt the quiet order of his mandates. It's like watching a student council president from high school suddenly find himself with the keys to the kingdom, only to use them to lock everyone out.

The internet, that great equalizer of truth and tomfoolery, has been abuzz with memes, some of which have suggested, quite humorously, that Trudeau might be the love child of Fidel Castro. The Associated Press and The New York Times, with the solemn duty of fact-checkers, have denied this claim, but one does wonder if the laughter isn't louder than the fact-checking. After all, who wouldn't enjoy the irony of a supposed Castro scion leading Canada?

This week, Trudeau has shown us all his inner Castro, or perhaps it's just the cold making him cranky. He's shut down dissent with the same zeal one might expect from a man who's just discovered the power of the mute button during a particularly contentious family dinner. The truckers, those modern-day Paul Reveres, have been met not with applause but with the cold steel of emergency legislation, suggesting that perhaps in Trudeau's Canada, freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.

The memes fly, the protests mount, and one can't help but think of the absurdity of it all. Here we are, in a country where politeness is traditionally the national sport, now witnessing a government that seems to prefer the authoritarian playbook over the hockey stick. 

So, as we watch this drama unfold, one can only hope that the spirit of Canadian resilience, much like its winters, will outlast this political frostbite. For now, though, "Let's Go Brandeau" rings out, a call not just for the resignation of a man but for the reclamation of a country's soul from the icy grip of overreach. 

Let's hope that when the spring thaw comes, it brings with it not just warmer weather but a return to the warmth of democratic discourse. Until then, we'll keep our toques on and our spirits high, for in Canada, even the coldest of winters eventually gives way to the promise of renewal. 

SLEEPY UNCLE JOE'S YEAR OF WUH? …

Joe Biden was inaugurated on January 20, 2021 promising a 'normal' presidency. He would unify feuding Americans after the Donald Trump years. How different the reality has been – in fact it has been nothing short of a comic opera. It's as if our dear Uncle Joe has been wandering through the hallowed halls of power with all the navigational acumen of a toddler amidst a labyrinth of Legos.

The year kicked off with a flourish of presidential gaffes, each one a testament to the man's unique brand of diseloquence. Picture this: a statesman at the podium, a nation at his feet, and from his lips, instead of pearls of wisdom, tumble the verbal equivalent of marbles. His speeches have become a kind of national bingo, with listeners eagerly awaiting the inevitable "gaffe" that sends Twitter into a frenzy of memes and mockery.

Uncle Joe's administration has been like watching a slow-motion train wreck, where the train in question is laden with policies that seem to have been concocted after one too many glasses of Chardonnay. From infrastructure to foreign policy, it's been a parade of well-intentioned, yet often bewildering initiatives. One can only imagine the meetings where these ideas were born; perhaps they were conducted in the spirit of a kindergarten class, with crayons and nap time for all.

But let us not dwell solely on the comedic aspects of Uncle Joe's tenure. There has been sincerity in his approach, a kind of earnestness that harkens back to a bygone era when statesmen were not merely politicians but were expected to embody some semblance of wisdom. However, this sincerity often seems trapped behind a veil of confusion, like a wise man lost in a fog of his own making.

Foreign dignitaries, when meeting Uncle Joe, must feel like they're in a diplomatic version of "Who's Line is it Anyway?", where each encounter is an improv session, and the points don't matter. His approach to international relations has been to treat every leader as if they were a long-lost uncle at a family reunion, with hugs aplenty but perhaps lacking in the strategic depth one might expect.

As we reflect on this year, it's clear Uncle Joe has been a character in a narrative that could only occur in the United States, where the line between satire and reality is thinner than ever. In the end, his year has been a "Duh" moment for the nation, a reminder that in politics, as in life, what you see is not always what you get, but it certainly can be what you laugh at.

In the grand scheme, Uncle Joe's presidency is a reminder of the human element in governance – flawed, fallible, yet striving for something more. And in this particular year of duh, we've all been reminded, perhaps with a chuckle or a sigh, of the enduring human comedy of leadership.