THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "SAS: ROGUE HEROES" (SEASON 2)

"SAS: Rogue Heroes" - a title so audacious, it's almost as if the show itself is daring you to question its veracity. There's probably a good reason why the BBC have been airing the series on a Sunday night following the relative saccharine treacle of "Call The Midwife", one moment you're in the delivery room, the next you're dodging bullets. It's like going from a world where the toughest part is deciding on baby names to one where the biggest concern is how many ways you can say 'macho' without repeating yourself.

In this second outing, our screen is once again graced with the swagger of men who, in real life, would be described less as heroes and more as a collection of misfits with a penchant for chaos, armed with just enough discipline to direct that chaos towards the enemy. But why let historical accuracy spoil the fun? 

The narrative, if one can call it that, follows the further exploits of the SAS during the Mediterranean campaign, with a liberal dose of artistic license that would make Shakespeare blush. The characters, portrayed by actors who seem to have been chosen more for their ability to look good in period uniforms than for historical resemblance, engage in adventures that are part history, part Boys' Own adventure, and wholly entertaining.

The dialogue, crisp and often punctuated with the kind of gallows humour that only war can inspire, is delivered with the sort of nonchalant bravado that makes you wish you could have a pint with these chaps, even if they'd probably end up using you for target practice. The script, while occasionally straying into the realm of the absurd, captures the essence of the SAS's daring-do spirit - or at least, the version of it that makes for good television.

Central to the story is Lieutenant-Colonel Robert Blair "Paddy" Mayne, who strides into the narrative like a force of nature, a man whose very presence seems to suggest that the world would be a less interesting place without him. Imagine, if you will, a giant of a man with the soul of a poet, whose fists are as quick with a punch as his mind is with a verse. Here is a man whose legend is as much about his brawling escapades in Cairo as it is about his daring raids behind enemy lines. The actor chosen to portray Mayne, Jack O'Connell, does so with a brooding intensity, his eyes alight with a mixture of mischief and menace, much like the real man who was known to be both a teetotaller and a terror on the rugby field.

Mayne's character is drawn with broad strokes, yet there's an attempt to peel back the layers, revealing a man who, beneath the bravado, carries the weight of war. And yet, it's not just in battle where Mayne's personality shines; his disdain for authority, unless it's his own, is evident in every scene where he interacts with the brass. There's a certain anarchic glee in how he navigates the military hierarchy, often with a grin that suggests he's about to either save the day or start a bar fight, perhaps both. 

The show captures Mayne's less celebrated traits too - his moments of introspection, his love for literature, and the unspoken pain of loss. This Paddy Mayne is not just a warrior but a man grappling with the soul of war, where every act of heroism is shadowed by the spectre of what it costs. In essence, Mayne is the embodiment of the rogue spirit the series is named after. He's a figure who, in the annals of real history, might have been too wild, too unpredictable for the decorum of war narratives. Yet, here he is, larger than life, a contradiction wrapped in khaki, a reminder that heroes, even rogue ones, are more than their legends; they are, at their core, deeply human.

However, where this series truly shines, or perhaps stumbles, is in its portrayal of the human cost of war. The show oscillates between glorification and a more nuanced look at the psychological toll on its characters. It's as if the writers can't decide whether they're making a recruitment video or a cautionary tale. 

But let's not quibble over such details because, at its core, "SAS: Rogue Heroes" Series 2 is still a romp. It's history with the edges sanded down until they're more suitable for a family audience on a Sunday evening. The villains are villainous, the heroes are heroic (in their rogue way), and the women, well, they're there but often relegated to the side-lines, cheering or pining, which is about as historically accurate as the rest of it. The exception being Sofia Boutella as Eve Mansour, who brings a fierce elegance to the screen, embodying the spirit of resistance with every step, her performance a dance of defiance and grace amid the chaos of war.

In conclusion, watching "SAS: Rogue Heroes" is akin to eating a rich dessert at the end of a meal; it's not good for you, it's not strictly necessary, but by Jove, it's enjoyable while it lasts. Paddy Mayne himself might have chuckled at the audacity of it all, appreciating the show for what it is - a gloriously over-the-top tribute to British pluck and ingenuity, with just enough truth to keep the purists from rioting.

So, if you're in the mood for some escapist entertainment where history is less a guide and more a suggestion, Series 2 of "SAS: Rogue Heroes" will not disappoint. Just don't come expecting a documentary; come prepared for a rollicking good yarn, told with dash and panache.

A TOUR THROUGH STARMERLAND 2034

In the year 2034, one might find oneself not in the Britain of old, but in what can only be described as 'Starmerland', a dystopian landscape where the very essence of Britishness has been meticulously eroded by the bureaucratic zeal of Sir Keir Starmer's government. 

Imagine, if you will, a landscape where the Union Jack flutters less from flagpoles and more from the memory of a collective sigh. Here, in this brave new world, the flag has been reimagined, its bold red, white, and blue replaced by a more 'inclusive' palette, perhaps a soothing pastiche of pastel shades, meant to offend no one but in doing so, delights absolutely no one either.

The streets, once animated by the robust discourse of free speech, now echo with a silence that is both deafening and telling. Here in Starmerland, the dialogue has been streamlined, polished to a sheen of political correctness until all sharp edges of debate are blunted to conformity. One could almost hear the ghost of George Orwell chuckling in the background as he notes the irony of this 'freedom of speech' where freedom is freedom from thought.

The public houses, those venerable British institutions once overflowing with the cacophony of life, now serve as quiet temples to the new world order. Gone are the boisterous debates over pints of ale; instead, one might overhear hushed conversations about the latest carbon footprint reduction mandates or the compulsory diversity training sessions scheduled for the week.

Education, that great bastion of enlightenment, has been transformed into a conveyor belt of Starmerite ideology. History lessons no longer celebrate the likes of Churchill or Nelson but rather focus on the architects of 'progressive' thought, those who have redefined heroism as compliance with the state's narrative.

But what of the economy in this utopian future? The pound, once a symbol of sterling stability, now flutters like a leaf in the autumn wind, its value determined not by market forces but by the whims of an international committee dedicated to global equity. Capitalism has been neutered, turned into a gentle, state-managed pet rather than the wild beast of innovation and risk.

In this Starmerland, even the weather seems to have conformed to the new regime. The seasons, once so predictably British in their unpredictability, have been regulated to a monotonous perma-grey cycle, perhaps in an effort to combat climate change or more likely, to symbolize the overarching control over every aspect of life.

Yet, amidst this grey landscape, there are whispers of resistance. Underground pubs serve illegal ales, and in the shadows, the old songs of liberty are sung. Here, in hidden corners, the spirit of Britain, unbowed and perhaps a tad rebellious, chuckles at the absurdity of it all, plotting its comeback with the same resilience that has seen it through centuries of trials.

So, if one were to visit Starmerland in 2034, they would do well to bring not just their coat but a keen sense of irony, for in the words of Clive James, "The world is full of places where the fun comes from in finding out how they've managed to miss the point." And in Starmerland, the point, it seems, has been missed with a vengeance, wrapped in red tape, and buried under bureaucratic decrees. 

This, then, is Starmerland 2034 - a cautionary tale wrapped in the flag of good intentions, where the British bulldog has been reimagined as a poodle, well-groomed for show but with little bite.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "THE GREAT POTTERY THROWDOWN"

If you thought the world was short on excitement, then clearly you've never seen a dozen grown adults sweating over the creation of a perfectly symmetrical teapot. Welcome, dear viewer, to "The Great Pottery Throwdown," where the drama is as thick as the clay and the tension as taut as a potter's wheel not quite balanced.

The show's premise is simple: gather a group of Britain's finest clay manipulators who've never known the thrill of a real-life disaster, and watch them attempt to turn mud into magic under the watchful eyes of the judges, whose expressions often suggest that they've just smelled something rather unpleasant in the kiln. 

One of the judges, Keith Brymer Jones, is a man who appears to have mastered the art of crying on cue. Each episode, he sheds a tear over a particularly poignant piece of pottery, as if he's just witnessed the birth of a new Rembrandt, albeit one whose works are functional for tea rather than hanging in the Louvre. 

Host Siobhán McSweeney guides this carnival of ceramics with the enthusiasm of someone who's just discovered the joy of a good glaze. Her Irish charm is the perfect counterbalance to the British stiff upper lip, or in this case, the stiff upper lip of a vase.

The contestants themselves are a delightful mix of eccentrics. There's the one who speaks to his pots, perhaps the only conversation he's had in months, and another who treats each piece as if it's her beloved child, which might explain the slightly disturbing attachment to a particularly well-shaped jug. 

The tasks set before them are nothing short of Herculean. One week they're fashioning a traditional Japanese tea set; the next, they're creating something avant-garde that looks suspiciously like a modern art piece titled "The Essence of Nothingness." Meanwhile, the rest of the world grapples with more mundane challenges, like how to pay bills or find socks that match.

The real star, however, is the pottery wheel, a device so central to the show that it might as well have its own agent. It spins with the gravitas of a planet, turning mere mortals into clay deities for the span of an hour, under the studio lights that might as well be the sun of this tiny, ceramic-focused universe.

In conclusion, "The Great Pottery Throwdown" is not just television; it's an existential exploration of what it means to be human, to create, to fail, and to cry over a misshapen bowl. It's the sort of program that makes you wonder if, perhaps, the potter's wheel is not just a tool, but a metaphor for life itself – messy, unpredictable, and occasionally, if you're very lucky, beautiful. 

So, if you're up for some high-stakes pottery drama, tune in. Just don't expect the thrill of a car chase or a plot twist; here, the only twist might be on the handle of a mug.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "FIRST DATES" (AGAIN …)

Ah, "First Dates," Channel 4's delightful foray into the romantic misadventures of the Great British public, a show which proves that love, much like the British weather, can be unpredictable, often damp, but occasionally glorious. 

The premise is simple: bring together two strangers, sprinkle in some luxury cuisine and a bit of alcohol, and watch as they navigate the treacherous waters of first impressions at what is billed as the UK's most romantic restaurant. The result? A concoction of cringe, charm, disappointment, friend-zoning, and occasionally chemistry, that often appeals more to the nihilistic cynic than the hopeless romantic.

The setting, The Anthology in Manchester, is less a temple of gastronomy and more an altar to the gods of awkwardness. Here, under the guise of fine dining, we witness the human soul laid bare, often in the most unflattering of ways. The camera, ever the silent voyeur, captures moments where you can't help but wish for a national grid blackout to save everyone involved.

Our charming host, professional Frenchman Fred Sirieix, the maître d' with an eye for match-making, and his team, are the shepherds of this human zoo. Fred, with the joie de vivre of a man who has undertaken years of training in order to know just the precise moment to offer a second bottle of wine, guides our daters through their evening with a mix of encouragement and the subtle hint that perhaps, just perhaps, a second date might be in the stars, given the irony with which the participants are paraded through the restaurant to their table like planets in a solar system of self-doubt.

The participants themselves range from the charmingly naïve to the brazenly confident, from the utterly petrified to the narcissistically arrogant, each episode serving up a veritable smorgasbord of human quirks. One such episode featured a man whose muscles were so big, he looked like a brown condom stuffed full of walnuts and whose ego was so large, he probably thought the Big Bang was just the universe making room for him. His date was a Kim Kardashian lookalike who had hair so black and suspiciously perfect, it might as well have been a wig for all the authenticity it conveyed, draped over eyes that were not so much windows to her soul, but more like portals to his bank account.

There's also the poor chap who genuinely believes his love of model railways is the key to any woman's heart, the lady who thinks sharing a love for extreme ironing might just be the foundation of a lifelong romantic pair bond, and the Doctor Who fan convinced that quoting a line from the third episode of a Jon Pertwee serial from 1972 will have a line of Playboy models queuing up around the block to have his babies. It's a parade of hopes, dreams, and occasionally, the kind of revelations that make you want to hide behind your sofa.

One suspects that, if he were still with us, Clive James would have relished the poetry of these seemingly ordinary lives, the way the show illuminates the universal quest for connection amidst the absurdity of modern dating. It's rather like watching a live-action version of a Jane Austen novel, albeit if Mr. Darcy had been more interested in discussing his gluten intolerance than his estates.

In essence, "First Dates" is a mirror held up to society, reflecting our deep-seated desire for companionship, our fears, our foibles, and yet, our relentless optimism. It's a programme that, in its own slightly madcap way, celebrates the human condition, providing both solace and schadenfreude in equal measure. I must confess, watching this show is like eating a whole box of Quality Street; delightful at first, but by the end, you're questioning your life choices.

In the end, we're all just searching for a bit of meaning, whether we find it in a love story on TV or the stars above. So, dear reader, whether you're in search of love or merely a good old sneer at the expense of others, "First Dates" offers a spectacle where the heart might not always find what it seeks, but the viewer is sure to find entertainment, if not love, in all its bizarre and beautiful forms, on Channel 4.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "THE MASKED SINGER"

"The Masked Singer", a program that has migrated from the far reaches of South Korea to grace the shores of Britain and America, demonstrating that in the global village, even the most outlandish formats can find a home. It's a singing contest where celebrities don the most extravagant get-ups since the days of medieval masquerades, only with a dash more sequins and a lot less subtlety.

The premise is straightforward, yet cunningly addictive: ten celebrities, week by week, sing their hearts out, their identities concealed beneath costumes that could have been designed by a committee consisting of Salvador Dalí, the Pet Shop Boys, and a particularly flamboyant Muppet. The audience, along with a panel of judges who seem to have been chosen for their capacity to be both simultaneously bewildered and amusing, must guess who these vocal talents are. The show is, if nothing else, a testament to the human love for mystery, even when the mystery is as thin as the fabric of some of these outfits.

The costumes themselves are a sight to behold. One might think they've wandered into a fever dream where animals have not only gained the ability to sing but also a penchant for haute couture. There's a chameleon, not in the traditional sense of blending in, but rather standing out in a way that would make Liberace blush. A peacock, perhaps, strutting about with all the pomp of a royal parade, or a monster that looks like it escaped from a 1980's crisp commercial, but somehow learned to carry a tune, albeit firmly ensconced in the deepest, darkest bottom of a bucket. 

The judges, themselves a motley crew of media personalities, contribute to the spectacle with their guesses, which range from the vaguely plausible to the patently absurd. One can almost see the wheels turning, or not turning, as the case may be, in their heads when they try to match voice to celebrity. It's all part of the charm, or the chaos, depending on how one views the relentless cheerleading and the occasional descent into what can only be described as educated guesswork on par with "Through The Keyhole".

The performances themselves vary. You have moments where you're genuinely impressed by the vocal prowess hidden beneath the mask, leading to that thrilling moment when the mask comes off and you think, "Ah, of course, it was him/her all along!" Or, there are times when the singing is less about the quality and more about the spectacle - a sort of karaoke elevated to a television event.

But let's not be too harsh. "The Masked Singer" isn't here to challenge the vocal cords of Montserrat Caballé or the lyrical genius of Bob Dylan. It's here for the pure, unadulterated fun of it all. It's a colourful, noisy, and occasionally tuneful distraction from the more grave matters of our times. In a world where we're being constantly bombarded by news of crises and calamities, there's something to be said for a show where the biggest drama is whether the Hippo will out-sing the Unicorn.

In conclusion, "The Masked Singer" is a testament to the enduring human need for spectacle, for laughter, and for the occasional mystery solved in the most public of manners. Like all good entertainment, it doesn't take itself too seriously, and perhaps that's its greatest strength. It's a show that, while clearly not existing to enact the elevating the art of television, certainly adds a splash of colour to its palette. One might say, it's the televisual equivalent of a Brazilian carnival - not one you'd visit for high art, but one where you can't help but enjoy the ride.