THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "CAPTAIN AMERICA - BRAVE NEW WORLD" (2025)

Let us, for a moment, imagine a world where the Marvel Cinematic Universe, that great clanking juggernaut of spandex and CGI, has finally run out of puff. A world where the superheroes hang up their capes, the villains retire to grow begonias, and the audience is spared yet another two-hour sermon on the virtues of punching things very hard while looking noble. Captain America: Brave New World, alas, is not that film. Instead, it’s the latest dispatch from the franchise’s tireless assembly line, a movie so determined to be significant that it forgets, somewhere along the way, to be interesting.

Anthony Mackie, bless him, steps into the star-spangled boots of Sam Wilson, the new Captain America, inheriting the shield and the burden of living up to Steve Rogers, a man so wholesome he could have been baked in a pie. Mackie’s Sam is a different beast—not super-soldiered, not serum-enhanced, just a chap with a jetpack, a vibranium frisbee, and a grin that says, “I’m doing my best here, folks.” 

It’s a valiant effort, and Mackie carries it off with the kind of charisma that could charm a tax auditor, but the script—credited to a committee of five, which explains a lot—seems unsure whether he’s meant to be a hero, a social worker, or a straight man in a buddy cop flick with Danny Ramirez’s chirpy Joaquin Torres, the new Falcon. The result is a character arc flatter than a Kansas prairie, interrupted only by the occasional mid-air twirl to remind us he’s got wings.

Then there’s Harrison Ford, rumbling onto the scene as President Thaddeus “Thunderbolt” Ross, a man who spends half the film growling about treaties and the other half turning into the Red Hulk, presumably because someone at Marvel thought, “What if we made him angry and gave him a dye job?” Ford, now in his ninth decade of looking grumpy on screen, plays Ross with the weary gravitas of a man who’d rather be fishing, and who can blame him? The plot—a labyrinthine tangle of assassinations, mind control, and something about a Celestial island full of adamantium—feels like it was stitched together from the cutting-room floor of better Captain America films, notably The Winter Soldier, whose paranoid-thriller vibes this one mimics without ever matching. Ford’s transformation into a crimson behemoth is the film’s big money shot, spoiled months ago by trailers, and when it arrives, it’s less a shock than a shrug—an eight-minute tantrum that suggests Marvel’s idea of escalation is to make the Hulk look like he’s been dipped in ketchup.

The villains, such as they are, include Tim Blake Nelson as the Leader, a gamma-irradiated brainiac with a forehead so swollen it could double as a parade float. Nelson chews the scenery with gusto, but his evil plan—something about revenge and probability—never quite gels into a threat worth caring about. Giancarlo Esposito pops up as Sidewinder, a mercenary so underused he might as well be credited as “Guy Who Frowns in Background,” and Shira Haas’s Ruth Bat-Seraph, a former Black Widow turned presidential aide, gets one decent fight scene before fading into expository wallpaper. It’s a rogue’s gallery that feels less menacing than mildly inconveniencing, like a queue at the post office.

The action, to be fair, has its moments. Sam’s shield-and-wing combos are crisply choreographed, and there’s a certain glee in watching him surf a missile for five glorious seconds before the film remembers it’s meant to be serious. But for every tidy punch-up, there’s a CGI slog—green-screen backdrops so clunky they make you pine for the days of matte paintings and men in rubber suits. The climax, a predictable showdown with Ross’s Red Hulk, is loud and long and utterly devoid of stakes, a reminder that in the MCU, nothing ever really ends, it just pauses for the next instalment.

What’s most exasperating about Brave New World is its refusal to take a swing at anything meaningful. It flirts with big ideas—Sam as a Black Captain America, the legacy of Isaiah Bradley (Carl Lumbly, the film’s quiet MVP), the murk of American power—but retreats into platitudes and explosions before it can say anything sharp. This is a film that wants to be Winter Soldier with a social conscience, but it’s too busy nodding to Eternals and The Incredible Hulk—Marvel’s equivalent of dusting off old photo albums—to find its own voice. By the time Kendrick Lamar’s “I” blares over the credits, you’re left wondering if the real brave new world is one where Marvel dares to let a movie stand alone, unburdened by the weight of 35 predecessors.

In the end, Captain America: Brave New World is neither triumph nor disaster, just a serviceable pit stop in the MCU’s endless road trip. Mackie deserves better, Ford deserves a nap, and we, the audience, deserve a breather. But the machine grinds on, and so must we, until the next one rolls around. At least the popcorn’s still good.

FEATHERWEIGHT KIER'S NOT ROLLING WITH THE PUNCHES...

By Sir Keir Starmer’s own admission, he’s not exactly Rocky Balboa in the boxing ring. The Labour leader recently confessed to Andrew Marr that his pugilistic style leans more toward the limp-wristed than the iron-fisted—more likely to tickle an opponent into submission than knock them cold. “I punch like a girl,” he said, with the kind of self-deprecation that makes you wonder if he’s fishing for a sympathy vote or just trying to dodge the inevitable YouTube montage of his flailing. Naturally, this revelation has set tongues wagging and keyboards clacking, because in Britain nothing stirs the pot like a politician admitting they’re rubbish at something macho.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen—or rather, how the mildly competent have slumped into a cushioned irrelevance. Here we have a man who’s spent his career dodging punches in the courtroom, only to step into the political ring and discover he can’t land one to save his life. It’s a confession that conjures images of Starmer in satin shorts, gloves dangling like oven mitts, shadowboxing a mirror and losing badly. You can almost hear the crowd at PMQs jeering, “Stick to the briefs, Keir!”—and they wouldn’t mean the boxing kind.

Of course, the commentariat has seized on this with the glee of a tabloid hack spotting a royal in a compromising selfie. Does it matter, they ask, that our potential next PM fights like he’s auditioning for a Jane Austen adaptation rather than a gritty reboot of The Sweeney? In an age where leadership is still faintly judged by whether you could wrestle a bear—or at least not embarrass yourself trying—the optics aren’t great. Kemi Badenoch, one imagines, is already plotting a campaign ad: slow-motion footage of Starmer flapping at a punchbag, set to the tune of “Sweet Caroline,” just to ram the point home.

Yet let’s not be too hasty to consign Sir Keir to the canvas of history. After all, this is a man who’s made a career out of turning dull competence into a virtue. He’s the human equivalent of a beige cardigan—unexciting, yes, but reliably warm when the winds of chaos blow. Perhaps “punching like a girl” is his secret weapon: a cunning feint to lull opponents into a false sense of security before he unleashes a barrage of… well, sternly worded legal letters. It’s not Raging Bull, but it might just get the job done in a country where the real fight happens over tea and biscuits, not blood and bruises.

The irony is thick enough to choke on. Starmer’s spent years dodging the Corbynite left hooks and Tory uppercuts, only to reveal he’s been shadowboxing with pillows all along. Meanwhile, the nation watches, half-amused, half-appalled, as if we’ve stumbled into a reality show called Britain’s Got No Talent. Does it matter? Only if you think a PM needs the grit of a bareknuckle brawler rather than the guile of a barrister who knows the rules better than his fists. In the end, Starmer’s girlish jab might not win him a title bout, but it could still land him a second term in Number 10—assuming he doesn’t trip over his own gloves on the way.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE GOES TO THE BAFTAS

Ah, the 2025 BAFTAs, the British version of the Oscars where everyone pretends they're not as self-important while simultaneously proving they are. It's a curious British institution, one that manages to be both self-deprecating and self-congratulatory in equal measure, much like a vicar who accidentally swears during his Sunday sermon - you know it's wrong, but it's also delightfully British.

The BAFTAs have this charming little habit of trying to convince us they're not just another awards show; they're a celebration of British cinema with a nod to the world. But let's be frank, it's an awards show, and like all awards shows, it's a parade of the same old faces, the same old speeches, and the same old "I never expected this" surprise faces. If acting classes included "How to Look Shocked While Accepting an Award," every BAFTA winner would be an A-lister.

There's a quaintness to the BAFTAs, with its setting in the Royal Festival Hall, which gives it the air of a posh garden party where everyone just happens to be wearing designer clothes instead of tweed. But beneath this veneer of British decorum, you'll find the same Hollywood machine at work, just with a slightly different accent and an insistence on tea rather than champagne... though let's be honest, there's plenty of the latter too.

First off, let's applaud David Tennant, who returned as host, proving once again that if the Time Lord gig doesn't work out, he can always fall back on charming an audience into thinking they're not at an award show but rather at a particularly engaging episode of "Doctor Who." Tennant managed to navigate the evening with the kind of wit that makes you forget you're watching people win awards for films you've probably never heard of unless you're deeply entrenched in the film festival circuit or have an unnatural obsession with reading every film blog on the internet.

The big winner of the night, "Conclave," with its four BAFTAs, including Best Film, reminded us all that nothing says "cinematic excellence" quite like a papal conclave. It's like "The Godfather" but with less violence and more theological debate. Edward Berger, the director, took home the award with all the humility of a man who knew he'd just outmanoeuvred every other director in the room with his papal plot twists.

Then there's "The Brutalist," another four-time winner, which managed to make architecture look not just interesting but downright sexy. Brady Corbet, the director, and Adrien Brody, the leading man, turned what could have been a snore-fest into something that had everyone in the audience thinking, "Perhaps I should take up bricklaying as a hobby."

The supporting categories were where the real drama unfolded. Zoe Saldaña, winning for "Emilia Pérez," proved she could excel in a language other than Klingon, even if the film's star, Karla Sofía Gascón, was absent due to some Twitter faux pas from the dark ages of the internet. And let's not forget Kieran Culkin, who continued his awards season tour de force with "A Real Pain." One can only hope he's saving space on his mantelpiece for more awards.

The night was peppered with performances that ranged from the sublime to the "why on earth did we actually need that?" The remaining 60% of Take That took to the stage to remind us all that nostalgia sells, especially when associated with a film's soundtrack. And Jeff Goldblum on the piano? Well, that was either a delightful nod to his eclectic career, or a reminder that even in the world of cinema, there's always room for a bit of progressive jazz.

And let's not overlook the fashion parade, which is less about celebrating film and more about who can wear the most avant-garde outfit without tripping on stage. It's like watching a high-stakes game of musical chairs where the music is provided by a string quartet, and the chairs are replaced by a red carpet. The red carpet itself was, as always, a spectacle of fashion where the participants seemed to be in a silent competition to out-do each other with their sartorial choices. From Timothée Chalamet's matching all-black ensemble making him look as if he was preparing for to star in the remake of the Cadbury's Milk Tray adverts, to the dazzling array of gowns, it was clear that even if you weren't winning on stage, you could certainly win in the fashion stakes. 

There was one gown that looked like someone had accidentally spilled a bucket of glitter over an inflatable mattress, and they just went with it. And let's not overlook the pièce de résistance: a dress that seemed to have been inspired by a particularly ambitious origami project gone wrong. It was as if the designer thought, "What would happen if we took all the world's napkins and just... draped them over the poor sod wearing it?" But the real highlight? The sheer audacity of a gown that appeared to be made from repurposed car seat covers, complete with airbag motifs. Because nothing says "I'm ready for my close-up" like the threat of sudden deployment. 

In conclusion, the 2025 BAFTAs were a charming evening of cinema appreciation, British-style, with just enough pomp to remind us of the Oscars, but with a dash of humour and humility that makes one think, "Well, at least they didn't take themselves too seriously." They're Britain's way of saying, "We do awards shows too, but with less Hollywood gloss and more British cheek." It's a night where the film industry pats itself on the back with one hand while the other hand is busy tweeting about how down-to-earth everyone is. 

Here's to the BAFTAs, then - a charmingly British spectacle of cinema, ego, and sartorial risks, all wrapped up in the comforting blanket of tradition, with a side order of irony from the local Five Guys.

FROM MIDDLETOWN TO MUNICH: THE JD VANCE DANCE

In the grand theatre of European politics, where the stage is set with flags and the air is thick with the scent of bureaucracy, we find the EU leaders, a group of individuals with the military prowess of a well-meaning but utterly ineffective school safety patrol. They've been crying out for a European army, much like a spoilt rich child might demand a pony for Christmas, fully aware that the stable is empty and the budget is spent on less fanciful things like subsidies for cheese, tethering bottle caps and homogenising bananas.

The EU leaders, in their infinite wisdom, have decided that what Europe really needs is its own army, after they've spent years promoting policies that are about as welcome as a vegan at a steakhouse. They've taught the kids not to be proud, not to be competitive, and certainly not to be masculine – because, heaven forbid, we might end up with soldiers who can actually march in a straight line. Instead, they've pushed fragility, division, and victimhood, creating a generation that's less likely to fight for their country than to write a strongly worded tweet about it.

Oh, the irony! These are the same leaders who have spent years systematically dismantling the very sinews of military strength in their own countries. They've cut funding to the armed forces with the precision of a budget-conscious accountant armed with the world's biggest red marker pen, leaving their militaries about as robust as a paper umbrella in a monsoon. And now, they're all for building a European army? It's like watching someone burn their house down and then complain about the lack of a proper roof. And let's not forget the grand plan of mass immigration, which has done wonders for national unity. It's like inviting a thousand guests to your house, forgetting to tell them where the bathroom is, and then wondering why there's a queue in your living room.

Meanwhile, in the grand old city of Munich, where the beer halls are as famous as the political talkfests, a new voice rang out with refreshing clarity, and that voice belonged to none other than America's newly-elected Vice President, JD Vance. Now, in the world of political speeches, where verbosity often trumps veracity, Vance's address at the Munich Security Conference was like a breath of fresh, crisp Bavarian air.

Vance, with the audacity of a man who knows he's speaking truth to power, painted a picture of European politics that was as candid as it was cutting. He didn't mince words, much like a fine German sausage maker wouldn't skimp on the quality of his wurst. Vance highlighted the issue of media censorship and political correctness with a precision that would make a watchmaker from the Black Forest proud. It was as if he was holding up a mirror to Europe, and what they saw wasn't the prettiest reflection.

Now, let's be clear, this wasn't your typical diplomatic drivel where everyone pats each other on the back while secretly plotting to undermine one another. No, Vance was like the guest at the party who dares to mention the elephant in the room, or in this case, the ideological fissures that have Europe quaking more than a plate of wobbly aspic served at a diplomatic dinner. He spoke of an entrenched elite, a phrase that rolled off his tongue with the ease of a well-aged Riesling, pointing out how they've manipulated systems to remain in power, much like a magician performing a trick with smoke and mirrors.

Vance's critique of Europe's internal dangers was not just a speech; it was a political sonnet, a critique wrapped in the cloak of concern. He questioned why, in a continent supposedly united, the security conference was more focused on defence budgets than on what they were defending. It was as if he was saying, "You're all dressed up with nowhere to go, and you're not even sure why you're dressed up."

The reaction? European leaders were stunned, much like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming Volkswagen. His critique was not just a speech; it was a wake-up call that echoed through the halls of the conference like the peal of the Frauenkirche bells. And here we have the EU, architects of their own downfall, now architects of an imaginary army. The irony is as thick as the fog in London, only this time, it's over Brussels.

In the tradition of memorable political orations, Vance's speech in Munich will be remembered not for its length but for its depth, its honesty, and its sheer audacity to speak the unspeakable. He didn't just reset relationships; he redefined them, with the grace of a statesman and the candour of a satirist. The solution is clear: dismantle the EU, let each country go back to what's best for them, celebrate their unique, individual cultures, and make friends with their neighbours so they can all block-vote for each other in the Eurovision Song Contest. 

It's a recipe for a good old-fashioned European recovery, minus the raw, earthy taste of Brussels sprouts. But let's keep our expectations low; after all, expecting Europe to unite after all this is like expecting a cat to herd sheep. Entertaining, but utterly futile.

HALF-TIME, SHOW-TIME...

The Super Bowl halftime show, once a quaint interlude featuring majorettes, marching bands and university ensembles, has evolved into a cultural phenomenon, a testament to the American penchant for excess and entertainment, even more so when mixed in with the theatre of the sporting area. Imagine, if you will, the FA Cup final having the Saturday headliner from Glastonbury suddenly turn up whilst you're queuing at the gents or scrambling to get a pie and a pint and you've kind of got the idea. 

In its nascent stages, it was all about the spectacle of coordination, with performances by the likes of Up with People, bringing forth a wholesome, if forgettable, array of patriotic tunes and choreographed dance routines. One could almost hear the collective sigh of relief from the audience, glad for a moment's respite from the game's tension, especially when you consider that a game of American football is essentially a truncated version of rugby league where they stop play after every tackle just so they can squeeze in an extra 5 minute commercial break. 

Fast forward to the '90s, and the halftime show began to flirt with pop culture, introducing a parade of guest stars that ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous. Michael Jackson in 1993, with his moonwalk transcending into mythology, marked a turning point. Here was entertainment that didn't just fill the time; it owned it. Yet, even Jackson's performance, with its militaristic dance routines, had a whiff of the absurd - a surreal blend of pop and pomp.

The new millennium brought with it an era of rock 'n' roll legends, with acts like Aerosmith, U2, and The Rolling Stones channeling the raw energy of their heyday into performances that were more about nostalgia than innovation. U2’s performance post-9/11 was poignant, turning the halftime show into a brief, resonant moment of national reflection, but the question lingered: was this entertainment or a requiem?

Then came the era of controversy and spectacle, with Janet Jackson's infamous wardrobe malfunction in 2004, which turned the halftime show into a talking point for the wrong reasons. Suddenly, the show was not just about the music but about what might go awry. This set a precedent for performances that were less about the artist's musical legacy and more about the potential for scandal or viral moments.

Fast forward to 2025, and we arrive at Kendrick Lamar's much-anticipated performance. Here was a man, the Pulitzer Prize winner, not merely performing but making a statement, perhaps the most politically and culturally charged halftime show since Prince danced in the rain in 2007. 

Lamar, atop a vintage GNX car from his latest album, launched into a set that was less about the hits and more about the narrative. His performance was a tapestry of his journey, from Compton's streets to the world stage, with the halftime show serving as a canvas for both celebration and critique of American culture. 

He opened with "Squabble Up," a bold choice, eschewing immediate crowd-pleasers for a statement of intent, his dancers forming into the American flag, a visual that was both patriotic and subversive. The inclusion of Samuel L. Jackson as Uncle Sam was a stroke of genius, injecting humor and a sharp critique of American identity into the mix. 

Yet, the performance was not without its critics. Some found it too introspective, too dense with symbolism for a crowd expecting a more straightforward pop spectacle. The decision to perform "Not Like Us," his scathing diss track against Drake, during such a high-profile event was bold, but the live censoring of certain lyrics was a nod to the NFL's continuing dance with controversy and control.

Lamar's set was a victory lap, a cultural commentary, and a battle cry all at once, but it lacked the immediate, infectious joy of some past shows. It was more like watching a play unfold, with Lamar as both the protagonist and the critic of the American Dream. 

In the end, Kendrick Lamar's halftime show was emblematic of modern America - complex, confrontational, and undeniably talented. It was a performance that invited the audience to think, perhaps more than any halftime show before it, which in itself is a testament to Lamar's artistry. 

But was it entertaining? Well, like most things associated with US sport, it depends on whether you came for the game of football, or the game of ideas.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "OLIVIA ATTWOOD: GETTING FILTHY RICH - COSPLAY"

Last night's instalment of "Olivia Attwood: Getting Filthy Rich" ventured into the whimsical yet slightly risqué world of adult cosplay, and it was as if we were peeking behind the curtain of a very peculiar circus indeed. Attwood invited us into a realm where fantasy not only meets reality but also, somewhat predictably, does the fandango with it.

Attwood, with her characteristic blend of wide-eyed wonder and tabloid inquisitiveness, plunged into this subculture with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer in a china shop. She donned outfits that would make even the most seasoned comic-con attendee blush, transforming from a demure interviewer into characters whose origins might be found in the more deeper, darker corners of the internet.

The programme opened with Attwood, clad in what one might describe as a somewhat conservative interpretation of Sailor Moon (if Sailor Moon had decided to moonlight in Vegas), meeting creators who monetize this niche. Here, the camera lingered perhaps a tad too long on the sartorial choices, not to mention the personal areas of the bodies they adorned, suggesting that ITV might be considering a new venture into fashion critique for the adult industry.

The narrative was peppered with interviews, each more colourful than the last. We saw individuals who've turned their passion for dressing as anime characters or superheroes into a lucrative side hustle, or in some cases, their primary source of income. The editing was slick, cutting from one interview to another with the kind of enthusiasm one might reserve for a particularly gripping game show.

However, the real star was not so much the cosplay but Attwood's own transformation. Watching her grapple with the intricacies of a latex costume was like watching a novice magician attempting to escape from a particularly tricky straitjacket. Her reactions provided the comic relief, a performance that was both part slapstick and part genuine curiosity, which is quite an achievement in itself.

The episode did not shy away from the more risqué elements of this world, exploring how cosplay can intersect with erotic content. Here, the show walked a fine line between documentary and voyeurism. Yet, to its credit, it maintained an air of respect for the subjects, even if the underlying tone seemed to be one of mild astonishment rather than deep understanding.

Critically, one might argue that the show occasionally dipped into the sensational for the sake of shock value, but then, is that not what we've come to expect from such "investigative" forays into the fringes of modern culture? The dialogue was simple, the insights somewhat superficial, but the spectacle was undeniable.

In conclusion, last night's "Cosplay" episode of "Olivia Attwood: Getting Filthy Rich" was a journey into a world where fantasy is not just escapism but a business model. It was entertaining, if not enlightening, and left one with the impression that in the digital age, even the most outlandish dreams can find a marketplace. 

One might not come away wiser, but certainly more aware of the myriad ways in which one can, quite literally, dress up one's economic prospects.

THE GREAT BRITISH SIGN OFF

In the grand tradition of British eccentricity, where the only thing more reliable than the weather's unpredictability is the nation's love for a good queue, we come to the tale of Liam Wildish, otherwise known as 'The Sign Guy'. This modern-day hero embarked on a crusade not against dragons or windmills, but against the grime that has dared to besmirch the sacred road signs of our fair isle. Imagine, if you will, a knight in shining armour, but instead of a sword, he wields a sponge, and instead of a steed, he rides the public transport of Britain, which, let's face it, is an adventure in itself.

Now, the issue at hand, as highlighted by our friend James Melville on X, is the lamentable state of road signs across the UK, so covered in dirt that one might mistake them for modern art installations, perhaps titled "The Abstract Decay of Direction". Yet, in a twist that would make even Kafka chuckle, when Liam, in his infinite public-spiritedness, decided to scrub these signs until they gleamed like the crown jewels, Warwickshire County Council stepped in with the bureaucratic equivalent of a wet blanket. They told him to stop, citing that he was putting himself in "considerable danger". Considerable danger, indeed! From what, one might ask? A rogue sponge attack? A sudden onslaught of cleanliness?

This, dear readers, is the essence of British satire today: a man doing the job that local councils, in their infinite wisdom and resource allocation, have seemingly forgotten. It's as if the council's motto has become, "Why do today what can be ignored until it's someone else's problem tomorrow?" But let's not be too harsh; after all, the council had his safety at heart. Perhaps they feared Liam might slip on a particularly stubborn patch of grime, or worse, be dazzled by the sudden clarity of the sign, leading to a case of acute disorientation from seeing things as they should be.

Let us consider the irony: here we have a man, a volunteer no less, who is so dedicated to public service that he risks life and limb (or at least, a mild case of elbow strain) to make our roads safer, only to be halted by the very entity that should be applauding him. It's like telling a Good Samaritan to stop helping because he might catch a cold from being too kind. The council's decision to intervene is a perfect example of what Jeremy Clarkson might call "the triumph of process over progress", where the act of doing something useful is side-lined by the fear of potential litigation or some imagined catastrophe.

And what of the public reaction? As with any good satirical tale, the responses are a mix of the witty, the cynical, and the downright bizarre. One chap quipped that the only real danger was the public starting to question what they're paying council tax for – a danger indeed, for if the public starts thinking too critically, where would that leave our beloved councils? Another lamented the government's general incompetence, suggesting a canine mascot might manage better, echoing perhaps a sentiment that in the realm of public service, less human intervention might be more. Another humorously suggested that perhaps the signs being unclear might do us a favour by allowing us to legally ignore them. A delightful twist, indeed, turning bureaucratic oversight into an accidental boon for the lawless.

In closing, this episode of 'The Sign Guy' versus 'The Council' is a microcosm of the British condition: a blend of public-spiritedness, bureaucratic nonsense, and a dash of dark humour. Clive James would have loved it, finding in this story a reflection of our national character – a character that can find comedy in the tragedy of a dirty sign, and irony in the well-meaning but misguided efforts of local governance. Here's to Liam, the unsung hero of our roads, and to the councils, may they one day see the light – or at least, the clean signs.

A POKE IN THE (PRIVATE) EYE

In the grand tapestry of British satire, few publications have woven as intricate and enduring a pattern as Private Eye. Once upon a time, this magazine was the irreverent court jester of Fleet Street, a fearless rag that would skewer any politician or public figure with the precision of a rapier, regardless of their political allegiance. It was a time when satire was not just a weapon but a philosophy, where the only side taken was that of the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it might be. 

This was the Private Eye of yesteryear, a publication that danced on the edge of libel with the nimble-footedness of a seasoned tango dancer, all while keeping its readers in stitches. However, as time has passed, the magazine has undergone a transformation that could only be described as a descent into the realms of the pathetically apologetic. 

The culprit? A smug gnome, a figure who has largely been responsible for morphing this once fearless entity into a shadow of its former self. Where once there was a publication that took on all comers with gusto, now there stands an apologist for what might be the most loathed government in recent British history. The magazine, under this gnome's stewardship, has lost its bite, its once razor-sharp wit dulled to that of a butter knife. It's as if Private Eye has been caught in the headlights of political correctness, unable to move for fear of offending the very powers it once lampooned with such abandon.

This transformation is not merely a shift in tone but a seismic shift in purpose. Where satire once served as the public's mirror, reflecting the absurdities and hypocrisies of those in power, now it seems content to merely glance at them, offering a wink and a nod rather than the hard stare of critique. The magazine's coverage of the current government reads less like the work of a critical observer and more like the fawning notes of a courtier afraid to lose his place at the table.

Turning now to the gnome himself, Ian Hislop, one can't help but feel a personal pang of disappointment. Hislop, once the enfant terrible of British satire, has aged into the role of the establishment's favourite court jester. There's a certain irony in watching Hislop, who once skewered the establishment with the glee of a child at a piñata party, now dine with them, perhaps not literally, but certainly in spirit. Hislop, with his trademark smirk, has become a fixture on television, a safe pair of hands for broadcasters looking to add a dash of satire without the risk of real offense. 

One might say that Hislop has become the literary equivalent of a once vibrant garden now overgrown with weeds, where the flowers of satire are choked by the thick vines of complacency. His transformation mirrors that of his magazine; he has gone from being the sharp thorn in the side of power to a comfortable cushion for it to rest upon. His appearances on 'Have I Got News for You' have ossified into a routine, a predictable dance of mild jabs and safe humour, far removed from the scathing commentary that once defined him.

Where once there was a lion, there now seems to be a contented house cat, purring at the warmth of the establishment's hearth. One might humorously suggest that Hislop, in his later years, has become more concerned with maintaining his spot in the media landscape than with rocking the boat. Perhaps, indeed, Hislop has traded his sword for a pen that writes in the bland ink of compromise.

Hislop might find himself more at home in a garden centre these days than at the helm of Britain's premier satirical magazine, suggesting that perhaps it's time for a new gardener to take over, one who actually knows the difference between a weed and a rose.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE GOES TO THE GRAMMYS

Ah, the Gammys. Or should I say, the Grammy Awards of 2025, where the music industry awards itself with the kind of pomp and circumstance usually reserved for coronations in some minor European duchy. Here, in the heart of Los Angeles, the air was thick with smog as the atmosphere was with self-congratulation, but unfortunately for all the wrong reasons.

The festivities were hosted once again by Trevor Noah, who must have signed a contract in blood to host this thing every year until the sun goes supernova. His wit, as sharp as ever, managed to make the evening's proceedings somewhat bearable, though one couldn't help but wonder if he was considering the comedic equivalent of a mercy killing halfway through the show.

This year's Grammy show kicked off with a tribute to Los Angeles, not because of its cultural richness, mind you, but because of the recent fires that made everyone momentarily forget about the city's traffic. Dawes, with John Legend, Sheryl Crow, and others, performed a version of Randy Newman's "I Love L.A." that was about as ironic as a vegan at a Texas barbecue. 

Beyoncé, our queen of nominations, finally snagged that elusive Album of the Year award, proving that persistence pays, even if it means you have to break the nomination record to do it. One could almost hear the collective sigh of relief from her fandom, who must have been holding their breath since the dawn of time. Yet, the moment was less about the music and more about the narrative of 'finally,' which has become as much a part of the Grammy lore as the gold-plated gramophones themselves.

The performances were a cavalcade of the usual suspects. Sabrina Carpenter and Chappell Roan, young and fresh, reminded us that pop music is still capable of being both catchy and slightly less insufferable than a root canal. However, Miss Carpenter's performance was the talk of the night, not for her music but for her health and safety crew's apparent decision to take a last-minute holiday. It seems the stage was either designed by the Chuckle Brothers, or by someone who thought 'malfunction' was a built-in feature rather than a bug, causing the whole set to collapse more spectacularly than the Labour Party's credibility. As Sabrina was rescued from the fray by a burly stage hand, one could only imagine the frantic behind-the-scenes scramble, which must have resembled a scene from a silent comedy, if only it weren't so audibly embarrassing.

The French duo Justice and the metal band Gojira brought a touch of international flair, or should I say, a reminder that there's life beyond the Anglosphere, although their wins seemed more like a nod to cultural diversity than a genuine celebration of musical excellence. Charli XCX, with her performance, brought a new meaning to 'undergarment donation,' turning the stage into what could only be described as a post-apocalyptic Victoria's Secret parade. It was a spectacle that left one pondering whether the Grammys had morphed into a bizarre charity drive.

And then, there was Kanye West and Bianca Censori. Mr. West, never one to shy away from the spotlight, decided this year's Grammys would be remembered for more than just the music. His wife, Bianca, made an entrance that would have made Lady Godiva blush. She arrived cloaked in what I can only describe as a furry straitjacket before shedding it like a snake in a very public, very naked moulting ritual. This 'stunt,' if one can call it that, was less an artistic statement and more a test of the public's indecency laws. The couple was promptly escorted out, surprisingly not for a lack of talent, but for a surplus of skin. It was as if they were trying to make the Grammys not just a musical event but a performance art piece on the boundaries of taste and legal exposure that would have had Tracy Emin calling it out for being too over-the-top.

Then there was the palpable discomfort of the crowd during moments of political or social commentary, where awards shows try to be both entertainment and sermon. It’s like watching a duck attempt to waltz – the intention is noble, but the execution leaves much to be desired. And let’s not forget the tech behind the show. The streaming on Paramount+ was as smooth as one could expect, which is to say, it didn't crash, thus avoiding the usual digital apocalypse that accompanies these events. 

In conclusion, the 2025 Grammys were much like watching a very expensive, very well-produced infomercial for the music industry. It was a night where the stars shone bright, the speeches were too long, and the undergarments, apparently, were either for a good cause or for none at all. One left not with a sense of musical enlightenment but with the vague feeling that one had witnessed the world's most elaborate self-esteem booster session combined with a very public lesson on what not to wear. 

It was all so grand, it made one nostalgic for the raucous, chaotic music award shows of the 1990s, days when awards shows were just about the music, as well the occasional bout of fighting. But those halcyon days, much like music itself, are now just a memory, fading gently into the smoggy Los Angeles night.

Speaking of which, it's the BRIT Awards next month. Fingers crossed Sabrina Carpenter finds herself a better one to build her set next time.