THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "MICKEY 17" (2025)

"Mickey 17," the latest cinematic truffle to be snuffled up from the dirt of speculative fiction, begins with a kind of raffish glee that suggests director Bong Joon-ho has been sneaking peeks at his own back catalogue and decided to give us a greatest-hits remix. 

The premise—a disposable colonist dying repeatedly for the greater good—has a crisp, mordant edge, and Bong wields it like a scalpel, slicing through the pomposity of space-opera tropes with the glee of a chef filleting a particularly pompous fish. The first half is a sprightly affair, a sort of intergalactic vaudeville where Robert Pattinson, as the titular Mickey, proves once again that he can do more with a raised eyebrow than most actors can with a soliloquy. His performance is a masterclass in controlled lunacy—imagine a man who’s been told he’s expendable so many times he’s started to believe it’s a compliment. Pattinson skitters through the film’s early stretches like a caffeinated ferret, all twitchy charm and deadpan despair, and you can’t help but root for him as he’s cloned, killed, and cloned again in a loop of existential slapstick. It’s "Groundhog Day" with a body count, and for a while, it’s an absolute hoot.

The visuals are sharp, the pacing is brisk, and the whole thing hums along with the kind of dark, playful energy that makes you forgive the odd plot hole or two. You’re too busy chuckling at Pattinson’s latest demise—splatted by a malfunctioning pod, or perhaps incinerated in a way that suggests the special-effects team had a grudge against him—to care about the finer points of narrative coherence.

And then, alas, the second half arrives, like a guest who’s overstayed their welcome and started raiding the fridge. The film, having exhausted its initial burst of invention, decides it’s time to get serious, and in waddles Mark Ruffalo as a colonial administrator who’s less a character and more a megaphone for political satire so broad it could be seen from orbit. 

Ruffalo’s turn as a blatant Trump expy—complete with a comb-over that looks like it’s plotting its own escape and a penchant for barking nonsensical orders—is the kind of heavy-handed caricature that makes you wonder if Bong lost a bet. Where Pattinson’s Mickey is a study in subtlety, Ruffalo’s tyrant is a sledgehammer to the skull, all bluster and no nuance. It’s as if someone decided the film needed a villain so cartoonish that Wile E. Coyote would tell him to tone it down.

The plot, which had been gambolling along like a lamb in spring, promptly collapses under the weight of this new agenda. What was once a nimble satire about survival and identity morphs into a clunky parable about authoritarianism, complete with speeches that sound like they were cribbed from a protest placard. The energy drains away, the jokes dry up, and you’re left with a film that’s less "Parasite" and more "Punchline," staggering towards a conclusion that feels both inevitable and oddly unearned. 

Pattinson does his best to keep things afloat, but even he can’t save a script that’s decided it’s more interested in preaching than entertaining. The production is undeniably grand and expensive, evident in its visually striking yet occasionally excessive scenes. The film often gives off a sense of familiarity-as if we've seen these themes before. The idea for example that we are the real aliens and "monsters" is hardly new, and at times, the script leans too heavily on familiar concepts explored already by many movies.

In the end, "Mickey 17" is a film of two halves—one a sparkling little gem, the other a lump of coal masquerading as social commentary. Pattinson shines, Ruffalo flounders, and Bong, for all his talent, seems to have forgotten that a satire works best when it doesn’t feel like a lecture. It’s not a total wash—those first 45 minutes are worth the price of admission alone—but by the time the credits roll, you’re left with the nagging sense that this could have been a classic, if only it hadn’t tried so hard to be important.

LIES, MP'S, AND AFRICAN WINDMILLS ...

Oh, the British people—those stoic, tea-drinking, queue-forming souls—have, it seems, been hoodwinked for a good four decades, give or take a general election or two. Lied to, shut down, dismissed, insulted, and taxed into a state of genteel poverty, we’ve been funding things we neither wanted nor agreed to, like windmills in Africa (surely a metaphor for futility), international scams with acronyms longer than a Brexit negotiation, and the dubious privilege of heating the homes of the World Economic Forum’s elite while our own elderly shiver under blankets thinner than a politician’s promises. It’s a marvel, really, that we haven’t all decamped to the Isle of Man with our last remaining pennies.

Every time we muster the audacity to demand change—via elections, referendums, council votes, or the occasional exasperated tweet—we’re met with the same response: a patronizing pat on the head and the accusation that we are the problem. “You lot are just too dim to understand our enlightened globalist vision,” they seem to say, as they jet off to climate summits in private planes, leaving us to calculate how many food bank visits it takes to afford a winter’s worth of gas. Election after election, we’ve been fed a diet of lies so stale they’d make a Victorian workhouse menu look gourmet. MPs, those paragons of integrity, have perfected the art of betrayal, turning their constituencies into little more than personal fiefdoms or stepping stones to lucrative sinecures.

And what, pray tell, do we object to? Oh, nothing much—just the trifling matter of our hard-earned money being shipped off to the WEF, WHO, UN, and UNRWA, while our veterans sleep rough and our farmers are told to trade their tractors for solar panels. We’re not keen on billions spent on illegal migration—sorry, “humanitarian enrichment”—while our own people queue at food banks, their dignity rationed like wartime sugar. Then there’s Net Zero, that glorious policy that transforms heating one’s home into a luxury akin to owning a Picasso, while MPs scribble their carbon footprints across the sky en route to yet another summit where they’ll nod solemnly about saving the planet. And globalism! That delightful ideology that’s decimated our industries, farms, and fisheries, all while foreign conglomerates snap up our land like it’s a clearance sale at Harrods.

Naturally, the bien-pensant elite have a ready explanation for our discontent: it’s all a “Russian bot conspiracy.” Yes, apparently, we’re not just ordinary, tax-paying Britons, fed up to the gills with being used as human ATMs for international vanity projects—we’re Kremlin puppets, tapping out our frustrations in Cyrillic. One imagines Vladimir Putin, stroking a white cat in a Bond-villain lair, chuckling as he directs legions of bots to complain about wind farms. It’s a comforting narrative, isn’t it? Far easier to blame shadowy foreign agents than to admit the electorate might actually have a point.

But let’s talk about the “fractured right,” shall we? Oh, how we’ve splintered—splintered like a cheap IKEA wardrobe under the weight of too many unfulfilled promises. We’re sick to death of being pawns, of backing politicians who wave the Union Jack with one hand while pocketing EU subsidies with the other. I’ve canvassed, donated, bought party memberships, and put my name (and my reputation, such as it is) on the line for what I thought was real change—only to be insulted, dismissed, and branded a racist, a xenophobe, or worse, a “small account” by the very people I supported. It’s enough to make one nostalgic for the days when political betrayal was at least conducted with a modicum of style, like a Churchillian speech rather than a Faragean tweetstorm.

Speaking of Nigel Farage—ah, the man, the myth, the pint-glass-clutching saviour of Brexit Britain. Or, as I now call him, the Blairite shill who folds faster than a deckchair in a hurricane. We poured our hopes into Reform UK, believing it might finally deliver the honest, no-nonsense governance we craved, only to find it’s just another vehicle for the same old duplicity. Farage, bless his populist heart, has mastered the art of promising the moon while delivering a handful of gravel. If we wanted that, we could’ve stuck with the Tories—inept, sure, but at least they kept Labour at bay while trousering their expenses.

No, we don’t care for parties or personalities anymore. We’re not sycophants, grovelling at the feet of some Union Jack-clad messiah. We’re taxpayers, voters, and—dare I say it—patriots, who want 650 Rupert Lowes in Parliament, not more of the same corrupt, lying, bullying charlatans we’ve endured for decades. Lowe, that rare beast, seems to embody the kind of integrity we’ve been starved of—though I confess, I’d settle for a politician who doesn’t treat us like children caught with their hands in the biscuit tin.

We’ve been duped, dear reader, and we’re right to be furious about it. The establishment—whether Tory, Labour, or Reform—expects us to keep propping up their gravy train, nodding politely as they sell us out to the highest bidder. But we’re done. We care about Britain, about our future, about ensuring our elderly aren’t left to freeze and our veterans aren’t left to beg. If anyone thinks we’ll stick with liars and bullies, they’re sorely mistaken—though, knowing our track record, they’ll probably just chalk it up to more Russian interference and carry on regardless.

So here we are, the fractured right, staring into the abyss of British politics, wondering if there’s any hope left—or if we’re doomed to keep voting for the next bloke in a Union Jack tie, only to watch him betray us faster than a tabloid headline. It’s a grim spectacle, but I suppose it’s our own fault for expecting integrity from a system that’s been rotten longer than a forgotten sandwich in the Commons canteen. Still, one can dream—preferably over a cup of tea, rationed though it may be.

MIRROR, MIRROR, ON THE WALL, WHO IS THE HAIRIEST OF THEM ALL?

In the grand tapestry of human vanity, where the threads of beauty standards are woven with the silken strands of insecurity, few spectacles have recently dazzled - or bemused - quite like the revelation of Rachel Zegler’s back hair. The actress, poised to step into the role of Snow White in Disney’s forthcoming live-action remake of the 1937 animated classic, has unwittingly - or, perhaps, quite wittingly - thrust this most intimate of physical traits into the harsh glare of the red carpet’s spotlight. 

On March 18, 2025, as the clock struck 9:55 PM GMT, Slingshot News on X posted images of Zegler’s bare back, adorned not just with the shimmer of a gown but with a downy pelt of fine, dark hair, prompting a flurry of digital gasps, guffaws, and—inevitably - polls about whether one might date (or allow one’s son to date) a woman so hirsute. It’s a moment that feels both absurdly contemporary and timelessly human, a collision of fairy-tale iconography and the raw, unfiltered reality of flesh.

To invoke the spirit of Snow White, one might imagine the seven dwarfs - Grumpy, Sneezy, Dopey, et al. - stumbling upon this revelation in their forest cottage, their pickaxes dropping in unison as they ponder whether such a princess might still merit a song or two. But Zegler, at 23, is no passive damsel awaiting a prince’s kiss. She’s a “fearless leader,” as she declared to Variety in 2022, reimagining the 1937 original as a narrative of empowerment rather than stalking (her word, not mine, though one might quibble over the semantics of Prince Charming’s woodland loitering). Yet here, on the red carpet, her back hair becomes a kind of subversive crown, a natural emblem that defies the porcelain perfection of animated celluloid and the waxen expectations of Hollywood’s beauty machine.

I confess, I find this spectacle both hilarious and haunting. Hair, after all, is a universal language - think of Samson’s strength, Rapunzel’s ladder, Bon Jovi's mullet, or the Beatles’ mop-tops. But back hair on a woman, particularly one cast as the fairest of them all, carries a peculiar charge. It’s not merely a physical trait but a cultural Rorschach test, projecting our anxieties about gender, grooming, and the relentless march of progress. Zegler, in her silvery Dior gown at the 2025 Oscars (as Harper’s Bazaar breathlessly reported), turned the sheer trend into something almost mythological, her translucent corset revealing not just skin but a forest of fine hairs, twinkling like stars against the pearl-studded fabric. It’s as if she’s rewriting the fairy tale not just in script but in flesh, daring us to reconsider what “fair” means in 2025.

The internet, of course, erupted. Slingshot News posed the question - “Would YOU date (or allow your son to date) a woman with back hair like this?” - and the replies ranged from the chivalrous (“Love her confidence!”) to the Neanderthal (“Is she part bear?”). This is the modern agora, where ancient taboos meet viral threads, and Zegler’s response, as documented in a 2023 Just Jared article, is characteristically unapologetic: “The hair on our arms is gorgeous and should be worshiped,” she tweeted in 2019, a declaration that now echoes across her back like a manifesto. She’s not ashamed, and why should she be? Hair is as human as laughter or tears, yet we’ve spent centuries shaving, waxing, and lasering it into submission, particularly on women, as if nature’s gift were a scandal.

Here, I must pause to confess my own hypocrisy. As a man whose own back has sprouted a modest forest over the decades - discreetly concealed beneath t-shirts and the occasional ill-advised tank top - I’ve never faced the same scrutiny. But Zegler, stepping onto the red carpet, transforms this private quirk into public art. It’s a performance as daring as any Shakespearean soliloquy, a declaration that the body, in all its hairy glory, is not a problem to be solved but a story to be told. Compare this to the Brothers Grimm’s Snow White, whose skin was “white as snow, lips red as blood, and hair black as ebony” - a description as smooth and unblemished as a marble statue. Zegler’s back hair, by contrast, is a living, breathing counterpoint, a reminder that fairy tales, like humans, are messier than we care to admit.

Yet there’s a melancholy undercurrent to this spectacle. Disney, as the Daily Mail reported in November 2024, nearly axed Zegler from Snow White due to her “loose cannon” reputation - her outspokenness about the film’s revisions and her sharp-tongued jabs at Donald Trump have ruffled feathers in Burbank. Her back hair, then, becomes not just a physical trait but a symbol of her refusal to conform, a furry middle finger to the sanitized perfection of corporate fairy tales. It’s as if, in the shadow of the Magic Kingdom, she’s whispering, “I am more than your princess - I am flesh, blood, and hair.”

And what of us, the onlookers, scrolling through Tinder pondering whether we’d swipe right on such a woman? Germaine Greer, certainly, might have marvelled at the poetry of it in a similar tone to her prose in "Shakespeare's Wife" - espousing the way Zegler’s back hair flows against the current of expectation, carrying with it the weight of history and the lightness of defiance. It’s not easily digestible, this image, but then, neither is life. Zegler’s hairy back is a mirror held up to our own insecurities, inviting us to laugh, cringe, or simply shrug and move on.

In the end, perhaps it’s fitting that Snow White, the girl who once bit into a poisoned apple, now wears her natural state as a badge of honour. The dwarfs might still sing, the prince might still kiss, but Rachel Zegler’s back hair ensures that this fairy tale will never again be as smooth as glass. And for that, we should be grateful—hairy, flawed, and gloriously human as we are.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "MARRIED AT FIRST SIGHT: AUSTRALIA"

If television is humanity’s confession box, then Married at First Sight: Australia is its shrieking lunatic fringe, a show that snatches marriage from the dusty hands of priests and poets and drops it into the blender of reality TV, where it’s spat out as a grotesque smoothie of delusion and spray tan. This isn’t a program; it’s a public autopsy of romance, performed by a cast of exhibitionists who think love can be stitched together with the finesse of a drunken butcher at a barbecue.

The concept is so baldly idiotic it’s almost avant-garde: strangers, yoked by “experts” (a title I’ll dissect a little later), are frog-marched into a 'commitment ceremony', because let's be frank, actual marriage would require paperwork, and who has time for that in this circus?—meeting only when the veil lifts and the regret sets in. They cohabit, they combust, and after weeks of televised tantrums, they choose: stay or sprint for the nearest exit like Usain Bolt. It’s Blind Date with a restraining order, or perhaps a eugenics experiment reimagined by a tabloid editor with a hangover and a grudge.

The cast is a gallery of walking punchlines, each a caricature so vivid they’d make Boris Johnson blush. Eliot Donovan, a Gold Coast tycoon with a fetish for tradition so stiff he’d bore the hind legs off a Regency spinster, first bolted from Lauren Hall—a businesswoman whose wit could flay a kangaroo—because her modernity bruised his fragile chivalry. Now he’s back, tethered to Veronica Cloherty, a former Miss Universe hopeful whose self-assurance shines like she's been doused in Mister Sheen. Then there’s Tim Gromie, a schoolteacher with all the charisma of Kier Starmer at a school disco, who crumbled before Katie Johnson, a CEO whose boldness sent him scurrying like a startled quokka. These aren’t people; they’re lab rats in a maze designed by a sadist with a laugh track.

The “experts” hover above this fiasco like a tribunal of quacks who’ve mistaken hubris for science. John Aiken, a relationship sage with the gravitas of a used-car salesman, spouts bromides that collapse under scrutiny quicker than a Labour Party policy. Mel Schilling, a psychologist whose placid smile suggests an addiction to Valium, murmurs assent as the couples detonate. Alessandra Rampolla, a sexologist with the zeal of a missionary and the subtlety of a sledgehammer, completes this trinity of twaddle, their “method” a witches’ brew of pop psychology and blind luck—less a formula than a finger crossed behind a clipboard. That it occasionally works is less a miracle than a statistical fluke, akin to a monkey typing Hamlet on a broken typewriter after being sprinkled in itching powder. 

Take Paul Antoine, a French fitness guru from Perth, whose parents’ 40-year union has left him chasing a romance so pure it’s practically pasteurised. His match, Carina Mirabile, an Italian firebrand from a clan of meddlers, meets his Gallic gallantry with a verbal uppercut that suggests she'd have been better off being paired with Tyson Fury. Their pairing is less a love story than a WWE cage match with better catering. Or consider Jamie Marinos, a 5-foot-1 Greek pixie whose father prays for a Hellenic prince, stuck with Dave Hand, a 6-foot-6 tattooed colossus who looks like he could bite the wheels off low-flying aircraft. Their height gap is a sight gag; a giraffe paired with a mouse, their chemistry a bad joke. And yet, the cameras still roll, capturing every forced grimace. It’s a parade of folly, each float more garish than the last.

And yet, buried in the rubble, there are flickers of pathos — fleeting, like a possum in headlights. Adrian Araouzou, a dessert baron with a white belt in jiu-jitsu, and Awhina Rutene, a single mum with a twin sister in tow, share a truce so fragile it’s almost poignant. Jacqui Burfoot, a Kiwi lawyer too smart for this nonsense, spars with Ryan Donnelly, a warrior type who’d rather grunt than grovel—her raised brow a sonnet of disdain. These are the scraps that keep it from pure burlesque, proof that even in this contrived cesspit, the human pulse still thumps, however faintly. This is love as a professional bloodsport, a mirror to a world so starved for meaning it’ll wed strangers on a whim and call it progress.

Clive James once quipped that television is the future because it wastes time with such baroque flair. Here’s the proof: a matrimonial madhouse where the only winners are the ratings, and the rest of us are just suckers with remotes, grinning at the carnage. 

MAKING PLANS AGAINST NIGEL ...

Reform UK, that turquoise vessel of righteous indignation captained by Nigel Farage, has once again sprung a leak—this time in the shape of Rupert Lowe, a man whose chief crime seems to be threatening to outshine the skipper. In a plot twist that could have been scripted by a bored soap opera writer, Lowe has been cast adrift, accused of making “verbal threats” against party chairman Zia Yusuf. The Metropolitan Police are now involved, which is always a sign that things are going swimmingly in the land of political harmony.

Let’s rewind the tape, shall we? Lowe, the MP for Great Yarmouth and a former Southampton FC chairman—because nothing screams “political gravitas” like a stint in football management—apparently decided that Nigel’s messianic glow was getting a bit too bright for comfort. So, he did what any sensible chap would do: he questioned Farage’s leadership, presumably over a pint or three, only to find himself promptly stripped of the whip faster than you can say “Brexit Party flashback.” The party then reported him to the fuzz for alleged threats spanning December 2024 to February 2025—coincidentally, or perhaps hilariously, just a day after he dared to poke the bear in public. Timing, as they say, is everything.

The charges? Verbal threats, naturally. Reform claims Lowe menaced Yusuf with “physical violence,” though one imagines it was less a case of “I’ll break your legs” and more a robust exchange of views in the grand British tradition of calling someone a prat and meaning it. Lowe, for his part, denies it all with the wounded dignity of a man who’s just been told his tie doesn’t match his socks. He’s even suggested that Reform insiders have been whispering to hacks that he’s got early-onset dementia—a charming little smear that Farage may or may not have nodded to when he mused in the Sunday Telegraph that Lowe isn’t quite the chap he remembers from their Brexit Party days. “A different person,” Nigel sighed, possibly while gazing into a mirror and wondering where it all went wrong.

And so, the Reform saga lurches on, a glorious parade of Faragean fallings-out that reads like a greatest hits album: Farage vs. Sked, Farage vs. Kilroy-Silk, Farage vs. Bloom, Farage vs. Evans, Farage vs. Carswell, Farage vs. Habib, and now, inevitably, Farage vs. Lowe. It’s a wonder Nigel has any mates left to alienate. Perhaps he’s just cursed, a tragic figure doomed to clash with every awkward sod who crosses his path. Or maybe—and bear with me here—he’s the common denominator in this endless carousel of bruised egos. Perish the thought.

Meanwhile, Lowe’s been busy playing the martyr card, claiming the party’s “slit its own throat” by ousting him. He’s got a point, if only because Reform seems to have a knack for self-sabotage that rivals a toddler with a pair of scissors. The police probe might yet unearth some juicy tidbits, but the details so far are as murky as a pint of flat ale, and the timing smells fishier than Great Yarmouth on a hot day. Three months after the alleged threats began, Reform suddenly remembered to dial 999? Either they’re the world’s tardiest whistleblowers or this is a stitch-up so blatant it deserves its own episode of Line of Duty.

Then there’s the Elon Musk subplot, because no British political farce is complete without a cameo from a tech billionaire. Word on the street—or at least in the Financial Times—is that Musk, having tired of Nigel’s shtick, fancies backing Lowe as the figurehead of a shiny new right-wing splinter group. Elon, bless him, seems to think Rupert’s the answer to Reform’s woes, possibly because he’s too busy tweeting to notice the chaos already swirling around him. Ben Habib, another of Nigel’s exiles, is apparently “constantly in touch” with Lowe, hinting at a potential breakaway outfit. One can only imagine the membership form: “Tick here if you’ve been sacked by Farage and fancy a second go.”

What does it all mean for Reform? Well, if history’s any guide, not much beyond a few more headlines and a lot more shouting. The party’s a one-man band with a revolving cast of backup singers, and Nigel’s the only one who knows the tune—or thinks he does. Lowe’s exit might sting, but Reform’s survived worse, largely because its voters don’t seem to care about the backstage brawls as long as Nigel’s up front waving the Union Jack. Still, there’s a whiff of desperation about this latest kerfuffle, a sense that the wheels are wobbling on a jalopy that’s been running on fumes since Brexit.

So here we are, watching Reform devour itself in real time, a spectacle as grimly entertaining as a reality show where the prize is a kick in the teeth. Lowe’s out, the coppers are in, and Nigel’s still Nigel—unbowed, unrepentant, and probably plotting his next photo op. As for the rest of us, we can only sit back, pour a stiff drink, and marvel at the sheer Britishness of it all: a rowdy spat, a dodgy alibi, and a party that’s somehow both too big to fail and too daft to survive. Cheers to that.

HARRY POTTER AND THE DIVERSITAS IACTATIO

Oh, Harry Potter. What a phenomenon, what a juggernaut, what a cultural steamroller dressed in a schoolboy’s robes and waving a wand. J.K. Rowling has conjured a world so vast it could swallow Narnia whole, yet I find myself eyeing it with the suspicion of a literary snob peering over his spectacles at a child’s scribbled treasure map. Not that I’m above it, mind you—I’ve skimmed a volume or two, if only to understand why half the planet is queuing at midnight for a book thicker than Katie's Price's make up applied by an especially incompetent Bake Off contestant.  

The books, I’ll grant, have a certain charm, a Hogwarts Express chugging through the fog of adolescent angst and magical mishaps. Rowling’s world-building is industrious, if a touch formulaic—Hagrid’s beard, Snape’s sneer, Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes, all as predictable as a BBC costume drama. And yet, one cannot underestimate Rowling's Wizarding World for its spellbinding ability to captivate hearts and minds across the globe. The lush landscapes, intricately designed plot twists, and characters etched deeply into our collective psyche testify to her narrative prowess. Harry Potter is, undeniably, an alchemical triumph of imagination and marketing—a gleaming example of the 'conflation of the grand and the crass,' to quote James himself.

Yet there’s a darker undercurrent, isn’t there? The politics of Potter, as the academics have pounced upon it, reveal a curious blend of anarchic charm and neoliberal cheerleading. Hogwarts, with its house points and Triwizard tournaments, feels like a pitiless jungle of competition, where education serves only to prepare young wizards for a battle royale against evil—or, more prosaically, the job market. The Ministry of Magic, that bumbling bureaucracy, is a satire of state inefficiency so broad it could have been penned by a Labour Party cartoonist, while the free market thrives in Diagon Alley’s bustling shops. I suspect Rowling didn’t intend to write a manifesto for late capitalism, but there it is, lurking beneath the Sorting Hat’s brim.

But it’s the scale of the thing that staggers: millions of readers, billions in sales, and a franchise that’s turned Hogwarts into a global theme park, complete with butterbeer and broomstick rides. One can’t help but feel a twinge of envy—or is it nausea?—at the sheer commercial alchemy, as if Rowling waved her wand and transfigured leaden prose into golden galleons. The books and films have birthed an empire of theme parks, merchandise, and spin-offs, transforming a literary creation into a commercial colossus. While this expansion has undoubtedly enriched the lives of countless fans, it also underscores a modern paradox: the tension between artistic integrity and commercial exploitation.  

And now, in 2025, HBO has stirred the cauldron anew, casting Paapa Essiedu—a dashing Afrcian actor in a suit so pink it could blind a unicorn—as Severus Snape, that famously sallow-skinned, greasy-haired antihero. It’s a move so audacious it’s either genius or the sort of cultural vandalism that makes one long for the simpler days of Alan Rickman’s brooding glare. One might imagine the Sorting Hat, upon seeing Essiedu’s handsome visage, pausing to wonder if it had somehow been transported to a parallel universe. “Gryffindor? Nope, too brave. Hufflepuff? Too friendly. Ravenclaw? Too intelligent. Ah, Slytherin—but make it fashionable, with a side of irresistible charm and a dash of dashing.”

Of course, there’s also the possibility of Essiedu’s Snape introducing a new level of physical fitness to the character. Instead of skulking around the dungeons, one can envision him striding through the halls of Hogwarts with the confidence of a wizard who’s just completed his morning workout. Who knew that Potion Masters could have such enviable biceps?  

Still, I can’t look away. There’s a perverse pleasure in watching this juggernaut stumble, in seeing Hollywood trip over its own wand while chasing the chimera of relevance. Rowling’s world, for all its magic, was never meant to bear the weight of our cultural battles—yet here we are, arguing over skin tones as if Snape’s unrequited love for Lily Potter hinged on melanin rather than misery. 

Representation, they cry, as if painting Snape’s portrait in technicolour will erase decades of white British nostalgia. But I suspect the real motive is less noble: a desperate bid to placate the diversity police while infuriating the purists, a recipe for chaos as reliable as Polyjuice Potion gone wrong. The fans, bless their Gryffindor hearts, will boycott faster than you can say “Expelliarmus,” and the result will be a ratings implosion louder than a Howler in the Great Hall.

I’ll pour myself a firewhisky, sit back, and marvel at the spectacle, knowing that, in the end, the real magic lies in Rowling’s ability to make us care about a boy and his owl, even as we squabble over who gets to wear the Sorting Hat.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE GOES TO THE OSCARS

Well, the 2025 Oscars have come and gone, and what a night it was—assuming, of course, you define “night” as a three-hour slog through Hollywood’s favourite pastime: clapping itself on the back until its palms bleed. Conan O’Brien, looking like a man who’d lost a bet with a particularly vindictive bookie, took the hosting reins with all the enthusiasm of a substitute teacher facing a room full of hungover teens. 

His monologue, a stew of sarcasm and self-deprecation, landed like a brick through a stained-glass window—shattering the silence, if not the pomposity. “I won’t waste your time,” he sang, in a musical number that wasted our time so thoroughly it could’ve doubled as a tax audit. Still, credit where it’s due: the man’s hair, that towering ginger edifice, gleamed like a freshly polished Oscar statuette, which is more than you can say for most of the winners.

The evening kicked off with Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo warbling their way through a medley so earnest it could’ve curdled milk—“Somewhere Over the Rainbow” mashed up with “Defying Gravity,” as if to remind us that, yes, these are the voices that launched a thousand TikTok covers. Grande, resplendent in a gown that screamed “ruby slippers on a budget,” fluttered about the stage like a sparrow caught in a wind tunnel, while Erivo belted out her vocals with the force of a woman who knows she’s the only one in the room who can actually sing. It was a fine start, if you’re the sort who thinks the Oscars should double as a karaoke night for the glitterati.

Then came the awards themselves, dispensed with the usual mix of gravitas and glycerine tears. Anora swept the board, snagging Best Picture and a handful of others, proving that nothing says “cinematic triumph” like a film about a sex worker with a heart of gold—or at least a heart of gold-plated ambition. Sean Baker, its director, collected his gong with the air of a man who’d just won a bar bet, while the audience nodded sagely, as if to say, “Yes, we too have seen a neon sign in our lives.” 

The Brutalist, meanwhile, loomed over the night like a concrete monolith, all three-and-a-half hours of it, a runtime so punishing it could’ve been used to interrogate war criminals. Brady Corbet’s acceptance speech for Best Director was a masterclass in humility—or possibly exhaustion—muttering something about earning “nothing” from the film, which, given its box-office prospects, might well be true.

The cinematography nod went to Lol Crawley for The Brutalist, a decision so predictable you could’ve set your watch to it. VistaVision, that dusty relic of the 1950s, was dragged out of mothballs and paraded like a prize hog at a county fair, while Greig Fraser’s Dune: Part Two sandscapes and Ed Lachman’s Maria memory-lanes were left to sulk in the wings. Fairness, as ever, was a concept the Academy treated like a distant cousin—acknowledged, but rarely invited to dinner.

And then there was the James Bond tribute, a baffling interlude that felt like a contractual obligation to Amazon’s new 007 overlords. Margaret Qualley twirled about in a red dress, looking faintly annoyed, as if she’d been roped into a school play against her will. Lisa from Blackpink sleepwalked through “Live and Let Die,” Doja Cat chewed the scenery with “Diamonds Are Forever,” and Raye turned “Skyfall” into a karaoke-night warble that made you wonder if Adele was somewhere weeping into her tea. It was less a celebration of Bond’s legacy and more a reminder that even the most iconic franchises can be reduced to a corporate PowerPoint slide with a beat.

Adam Sandler, bless him, turned up in what can only be described as peak Adam Sandler: sweatshirt, basketball shorts, and a Hawaiian shirt that looked like it had been fished out of a thrift bin. Conan’s jab—“You look like a guy playing video poker at 2 a.m.”—was met with a bellowed retort from Sandler: “Nobody cared until you brought it up!” It was the night’s truest moment, a blast of unscripted chaos in a sea of rehearsed sincerity. If only the Academy had the guts to give him the mic for the whole show.

The speeches, predictably, veered between cloying and incomprehensible. Adrien Brody, picking up Best Actor for The Brutalist, refrained from snogging presenter Cillian Murphy—a restraint that marked him as a man who’s learned from past red-carpet ambushes by Halle Berry. Zoe Saldaña, Best Supporting Actress for Emilia Pérez, beamed with such wattage you half-expected her to plug in a lamp. And yet, for all the earnestness, the night stayed mercifully light on politics—a minor miracle in an era where every podium’s a soapbox.

In the end, the 2025 Oscars were what they always are: a gilded endurance test, a parade of egos in borrowed finery, and a faint whiff of desperation to stay relevant. Conan O’Brien kept it afloat, just, with his wisecracking liferaft of absurdity. But as the credits rolled and the Dolby Theatre emptied out, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Hollywood had once again thrown a party for itself—and forgotten to invite the rest of us. Still, at least the Thin Mints were good.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE'S 2025 SHIT AWARDS

So, the 2025 BRIT Awards staggered forth, a bloated corpse of ambition where Charli XCX’s five nominations screamed of a generation suckered by TikTok tinnitus, Dua Lipa’s four nods embalmed pop in a coffin of blandness, and Coldplay’s latest trophy proved even the undead can still shamble to victory. Jack Whitehall, hosting for the fifth wretched time, fresh off the back of humiliating half the Formula One paddock last week, flung gags around like damp socks, while The Cure’s comeback landed with the thud of a goth midlife crisis. This was mean to be British music’s night of glory - instead it delivered proof it’s been lobotomised by its own spreadsheet.

I've often wondered why, given the incoming Oscars has it's counterpart of cynical mickey-taking humiliation in the form of the Golden Raspberry Awards, why the BRITS hasn't collected a group of weary middle-aged cynics like yours truly to come up with something similar. I therefore, dear readers, bring you the SHIT Awards - Britain’s answer to the Razzies, celebrating the absolute dregs of the 2025 music scene. 

This isn’t about talentless hacks who never stood a chance; it’s about the overhyped, the sell-outs, and the ones who should’ve known better but still churned out steaming piles of mediocrity. As a 43-year-old still weeping into my Blur vs. Oasis scrapbook, I’ll tailor this for us nostalgic souls - plenty of digs at the modern pop machine trampling over the ghost of 1995. Here’s the inaugural SHIT Awards 2025 line-up, announced on this gloomy March 1st night:

Worst Single of the Year

Winner: KSI (feat. Trippie Redd) - "Thick Of It"

Why: Oh, where to start? This track’s a sonic car crash—an overproduced mess that sounds like a YouTube algorithm threw up on a trap beat. Back in my day, a single had to have a melody or at least a riff worth a damn. This is just a rich influencer shouting over a backing track that’d get rejected from a mobile game soundtrack. Makes me miss the days when Suede could break your heart with three chords.

Most Disappointing Comeback

Winner: The Cure - "Songs Of A Lost World"

Why: Look, I wanted to love this. Robert Smith’s eyeliner deserves a lifetime achievement award all of it's own. But after 16 years, this album feels like a goth dad trying to impress his kids’ mates—overlong, overcooked, and nowhere near the raw magic of "Disintegration." Britpop might’ve been a reaction to their gloom, but at least it had energy. This is just a nostalgia cash-in that forgot why we cared.

Worst Overhyped Act

Winner: Charli XCX

Why: Five BRIT nominations? For what? "BRAT" is just edgy-for-the-sake-of-it noise that TikTok turned into a cult. Back in 1995, we had proper rebels like Jarvis Cocker mooning Michael Jackson, not this pre-packaged “brat summer” bollocks. She’s the musical equivalent of a £15 artisan cocktail—looks cool, tastes like regret. Give me Pulp’s "Common People" over this any day.

Sellout of the Year

Winner: Dua Lipa

Why: Four BRIT nods after "Radical Optimism"? More like "Radical Opportunism." She went from promising pop star to a corporate playlist generator. This is the woman who once had edge, now churning out beige bops for yoga mums and car adverts. Remember when Elastica’s Justine Frischmann had actual attitude? Dua’s just a shiny cog in the machine now.

Most Pointless Collaboration

Winner: Central Cee (feat. Lil Baby) - "BAND4BAND"

Why: Two blokes shouting about money over a beat that sounds like it was made in five minutes on GarageBand. It’s the musical equivalent of a flex Instagram post—zero soul, all swagger. Compare this to Damon Albarn and Noel Gallagher burying the hatchet for a Gorillaz track. That had meaning. This is just noise for the sake of streams.

Worst New Artist

Winner: Myles Smith

Why: Rising Star at the BRITs? More like Rising Bore. "Stargazing" is the kind of generic acoustic slop that gets played in coffee shops while you’re trying to enjoy your overpriced flat white. In the Britpop era, a new artist had to have guts—think Supergrass or Sleeper. Myles is just Ed Sheeran Lite, and that’s a low bar to limbo under as it is.

Lifetime Underachievement Award

Winner: Coldplay

Why: Another year, another BRIT nomination for these perennial wet blankets. They’ve been coasting on "Yellow" goodwill for decades, and 2025’s offering (whatever it is) will be more pastel piano drivel for sad office workers. Back when Shed Seven were a punchline, at least they flamed out fast. Coldplay’s beige empire just won’t die.

The “Why Are You Still Here?” Award

Winner: Jack Whitehall (Host of the BRITs)

Why: Nothing against the bloke personally, but hosting the BRIT's for the fifth time? In 2025? Mate, it’s not 2018 anymore. His posh-lad banter was tired when Britpop was still on the radio. Bring back Jarvis or even Noel to spice things up—someone who’d actually scare the pop kids, not just crack dad jokes.

The “Too Much Is Never Enough” Award

Winner: Sam Smith

Why: Sam’s been at it again in 2025, doubling down on everything that makes you want to claw your ears off. Let’s assume they’ve dropped another single—something like “Unholy 2: The Reckoning”—a bloated, over-the-top ballad dripping with faux-vulnerability and a video that’s 90% latex and glitter, with vocal runs that last longer than a Radiohead outro, paired with outfits that scream “look at me” louder than the music itself.

Special Award: The “Definitely Maybe Not Worth It” Award

Winner: Oasis

Why: The Gallagher brothers finally buried the hatchet after 16 years of sniping, only to announce a 2025 stadium tour that’s less a triumphant return and more a shameless nostalgia heist. It’s a 17-date UK-Ireland slog (plus more globally) that’s already drowned in ticket chaos—dynamic pricing jacking seats from £73 to over £350, leaving fans who queued for hours with nothing but a lighter wallet or empty hands. Back in 1994, they were raw, electric, defining a generation with "Wonderwall" and "Don’t Look Back in Anger." Now? It’s a middle-aged victory lap propped up by a backing band of High Flying Birds rejects and Bonehead’s goodwill. The setlist’ll be a predictable greatest-hits parade—no new tunes, just a rehash of "Definitely Maybe" vibes for Gen Z TikTokers and balding lads in parkas. You wanted "Champagne Supernova"? You’re getting flat Tesco fizz instead.

So, there you go, a proper SHIT Awards line-up for 2025, dripping with the disdain of a 43-year-old who still thinks "Parklife" is the pinnacle of modern culture. These “winners” embody everything wrong with today’s scene—overhyped, undercooked, and a far cry from the days when Camden pubs and Manchester football grounds birthed the rock legends of my adolescence. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to dust off my "Different Class" vinyl and mourn the '90s. Cheers!