OF POTHOLES AND PLATITUDES

The local elections, that noble democratic exercise, where we all decide who gets to ignore the bin collections for the next four years, are looming his week, a bit like a dentist's appointment that you can’t quite cancel. The air is thick with promises, most of them as substantial as a cardboard bunker. 

I’ve been asked, repeatedly, whom I will vote for, as if I were some mystic oracle capable of navigating this circus of potholes and platitudes. My answer, after much thought, is as follows: good luck, dear reader, for we are all adrift in a sea of glossy leaflets and broken dreams. One might hope for something tangible, with numbers, perhaps even a sentence or two that doesn’t dissolve into jargon upon contact with reality. Instead, we are treated to a parade of candidates who seem to believe that a selfie with a traffic cone constitutes a policy on road maintenance.

The pothole, that great British institution, remains the star of the show. It’s not just a hazard to your suspension; it’s a metaphor, a gaping maw of neglect that swallows both tyres and hope. Labour, bless them, have promised to fill these craters, though one suspects their plan involves little more than a bucket of good intentions and a prayer to the weather gods. The Conservatives, meanwhile, have diverted funds from a train line that was never going to happen (HS2, we hardly knew ye) to patch up the roads, a gesture so magnanimous I nearly wept into my tea. Of course, the potholes remain, as eternal as the Queen’s corgis once were, while the metro mayors posture about building 40,000 council homes by 2030, a target so ambitious they might as well promise to colonize Mars while they’re at it.

Then there are the independents, those plucky souls who’ve fled their parties like rats from a sinking ship, only to discover the water is just as cold. They speak of radical change, of mass deportations or cultural crusades, but when pressed for detail, they produce nothing more than a furrowed brow and a vague wave at “the establishment.” It’s all terribly stirring, until you realize they’ve forgotten to mention how they’ll fix the bus routes or fund children’s care. Local councils, you see, are not the place for grandstanding about Islam or immigration - they’re where you go to argue about parking fines and the precise shade of beige for the high street benches. But why let practicality spoil a good rant?

The parties themselves are a study in futility. One might expect a policy on, say, social care, a topic that consumes two-thirds of council budgets, according to the boffins at the County Councils Network. Instead, we get a curious blend of game show and soap opera, with candidates competing to see who can look most earnest while shaking hands with a pensioner. The campaign stunts are particularly edifying: a Tory councillor in a hard hat, a Labour hopeful pretending to enjoy finger painting with schoolchildren, a Green Party candidate hugging a tree so vigorously I feared for its bark. It’s less a campaign than a pantomime, and I’m still waiting for someone to shout, “He’s behind you!” as the electorate stumbles blindly toward the ballot box.

We voters are a discerning bunch. We’ll rail against a new housing development because it blocks the view from our conservatory, but ask us about the council’s SEND support, and we’ll stare blankly, as if you’ve asked us to solve quantum physics over a cuppa. We’re not voting for a vision; we’re voting for whoever promises to fix the pothole that we had to fish our car of last night with a crane. Never mind that the council’s budget is stretched thinner than a Kardashian's skin - social care, homelessness, public transport, all teetering on the brink - but no, give us a freshly-tarmacked road and a bin collection that doesn’t resemble a lottery, and we’ll call it progress.

I could go on, but I fear I’d start sounding like a Reform candidate, all rage and no substance. The truth is, these local elections matter - they shape the mundane fabric of our lives, from the state of our pavements to the care of our elderly. Yet here we are, drowning in a sea of empty gestures, where the loudest voice wins, and the only manifesto is a promise to “fix it,” whatever “it” may be. Perhaps we deserve better. Perhaps we don’t. Either way, I’ll be voting for the candidate who at least knows where the pothole is, even if they’ve no idea how to fill it. In the currently state of British democracy, that’s as close to a plan as we’re likely to get.

As for the future, I hear whispers of new parties, new alternatives, rising from the ashes of this electoral farce. I wish them well, but I suspect they’ll be just as enamoured with their own reflection as the current lot. In the meantime, vote for someone who cares about your street, your school, your sanity. The rosette’s colour matters less than the pothole’s depth, and Labour’s grip on Westminster won’t budge until 2029, no matter how many bins go unemptied this week. 

Choose wisely, or at least choose with a sense of humour … it’s the only way to survive the farce.

OH, CANAD-ARGH !!!

Ladies and gentlemen, gather ‘round as we embark on a journey north of the 49th parallel, where the air is crisp, the maple syrup flows like a river of regret, and the political stage has just hosted a drama so absurd it could only be Canadian. I speak, of course, of the federal election of April 2025, where the Liberal Party, led by the improbably polished Mark Carney, snatched victory from the jaws of defeat with the finesse of a moose performing a pirouette. 

Canada, a nation of polite apologies and hockey-stick dreams, was poised for a political reckoning. The Liberals, after a decade of Justin Trudeau’s leadership—marked by economic mismanagement so dire it made the Great Depression look like a minor budgeting hiccup—were down 20 points in the polls. Inflation had turned grocery shopping into a game of “Guess Which Organ You’ll Sell to Afford Eggs,” crime rates had risen faster than a Toronto condo tower, and the cost of living had Canadians wondering if they’d be better off bartering with beaver pelts. Trudeau, once the golden boy of progressive politics, had become a walking liability, his charm as faded as a thrift-store flannel shirt. 

The Conservatives, led by the scrappy Pierre Poilievre—a man whose youthful enthusiasm earned him the nickname “Skippy” and whose policy platform promised a return to “common sense” (a phrase so vague it could mean anything from tax cuts to mandatory Tim Hortons loyalty oaths)—were set to sweep into power with the inevitability of a winter blizzard. But then, like a plot twist in a Kafka novel rewritten by a particularly vindictive sitcom writer, the Liberals played their trump card—or rather, they let someone else play it for them. 

Specifically, this card literally took the form of President Donald Trump, whose tariffs and offhand '51st state' quips arrived like a gift-wrapped distraction for a party on the brink of electoral annihilation. CBC would have you believe that Trump’s meddling—his 25% tariffs on Canadian goods, his taunts about annexing Canada as America’s newest star-spangled acquisition—tipped the scales, handing the Liberals a fourth term they didn’t deserve. But let us pause here, dear reader, because Trump, for all his bluster, is not the villain of this piece. No, the true culprits are the Canadian electorate themselves, who, in a display of collective amnesia so profound it could only be induced by a double dose of Molson Canadian, chose to re-elect the very architects of their misery.

Let’s rewind to the campaign trail, where the Liberals, having jettisoned Trudeau faster than you can say 'blackface scandal', anointed Mark Carney as their new leader. Carney, a former central banker with the gravitas of a Bay Street financier and the political experience of a new-born caribou, was the perfect blank slate for a party in need of a reboot. The Liberals were, by all accounts, dead in the water—polls from Abacus had them trailing the Conservatives by a margin so wide it could have doubled as a new Great Lake. 

But then Trump, in a move that was less strategic interference and more a chaotic improvisation, decided to lob a few rhetorical grenades across the border. Tariffs on Canadian imports. Threats to make Canada the 51st state. A belittling jab at Trudeau as 'Governor'. It was as if Trump had decided to impersonate a man simultaneously told to say “Cheese” and shot in the back by a poisoned arrow—except the arrow was aimed squarely at Canada’s national pride.

Now, one might expect a sensible electorate to see through this distraction, to focus on the Liberals’ decade-long laundry list of failures: the economy in shambles, crime rates and immigration soaring, and a housing crisis so severe that young Canadians were considering hibernation as a viable alternative to renting in Vancouver. But no, the Canadians—bless their maple-soaked hearts—decided that Trump’s antics were the real threat, not the government that had spent ten years turning their country into a communist experiment in unaffordability. The Liberals, sensing an opportunity, pivoted with the agility of a figure skater on Red Bull, making the election a referendum on Trump rather than their own record. “Trump wants to break us!” Carney thundered in his victory speech, adding with a flourish that “America will never own us!” The crowd roared, apparently forgetting that the Liberals had already sold their economic future to the highest bidder—namely, China, thanks to their own incompetence.

The Conservatives, meanwhile, were left floundering like a hockey team that forgot to bring their skates. Poilievre, who had spent months tapping into public frustration over the affordability crisis, suddenly found himself on the defensive. His “Canada First—for a Change” slogan was meant to position him as a tough guy ready to take on external threats, but the electorate wasn’t buying it. Some American conservatives suggested Poilievre should have embraced Trump to win—a suggestion so laughably out of touch it’s as if they’d advised him to campaign in a MAGA hat while handing out bald eagle jerky. An Angus Reid poll from April 2025 showed Canadians were furious about Trump’s tariffs, with 68% expressing strong disapproval, particularly in Alberta, where separatist sentiments were bubbling like a pot of overcooked poutine gravy. Hugging Trump would have been political suicide, akin to a polar bear hugging a blowtorch.

But let’s not blame Trump for this. The man was merely doing what he does best: stirring the pot with the subtlety of a bulldozer in a china shop. His tariffs, while economically disastrous, were a predictable extension of his “America First” playbook—hardly a surprise to anyone who’s been paying attention since 2016. His '51st state' comments, dismissed by most as typical Trumpian bluster, were never a serious policy proposal; as The Washington Post noted, the idea of Canada joining the U.S. would be a “Democratic dream and a Republican nightmare,” with Canada’s 53 hypothetical House seats likely tipping the balance to the Democrats. Trump himself seemed more amused than committed, joking to reporters that “as a state, it works great,” while complaining about trade deficits. This was not a masterminded plot to tank the Canadian Conservatives—it was Trump being Trump, a one-man chaos generator who accidentally handed the Liberals a lifeline.

No, the real satire here lies in the Canadian electorate’s decision to fall for the Liberals’ sleight of hand. The Liberals’ campaign was a masterclass in distraction, a political magic trick that turned a decade of failure into a patriotic crusade against a foreign bogeyman. And the Canadians, like an audience at a particularly convincing magic show, clapped enthusiastically as the rabbit was pulled from the hat, ignoring the fact that the magician had just set their house on fire.

Let’s not forget the regional dynamics that added an extra layer of absurdity to this circus. Alberta, ever the rebellious child of Confederation, reacted to the Liberal win with the kind of existential crisis one might expect from a province that’s spent years dreaming of pipelines and autonomy. One can almost imagine Alberta as a disgruntled guest at a family reunion, muttering, “If you’re going to keep inviting these Liberal clowns, I’m out,” while clutching a bottle of crude oil and a Stetson hat.

And so, the Liberals secured their fourth term, falling just short of a majority but likely to govern with the support of the NDP, as they did after the previous election. Carney, in his victory speech, promised to “put an end to the division and anger of the past,” a statement so dripping with irony it could have been bottled and sold as maple syrup. The Conservatives, meanwhile, were left to lick their wounds, with Poilievre vowing to “put Canada first” in the face of Trump’s tariffs—a promise that now rings as hollow as a broken hockey stick.

In the end, this election was less about Trump’s interference and more about Canada’s peculiar talent for self-sabotage. Trump didn’t force Canadians to vote for the Liberals; they did that all on their own, proving that when it comes to political decision-making, they’re as capable of shooting themselves in the foot as they are of scoring a game-winning goal in overtime. As Rick Mercer might have observed, with a wry smile and a raised eyebrow, the Canadians have once again proven that their greatest enemy isn’t a tariff-wielding American president—it’s their own bewildering capacity to skate headlong into the boards, then blame the ice for being too slippery. Trump may have provided the spark, but the Canadians lit the fire—and now they’ll have to live with the smoke. Cheers to that eh, buddy?

LIGHTS OFF IN IBERIA: THE EU's DARK JOKE

If the European Union were a person, it would be the sort of chap who, having spent decades meticulously arranging his own funeral, decides to expedite the affair by setting himself alight in the middle of a crowded square—while earnestly insisting to onlookers that the flames are a bold new form of central heating. 

The EU, bless its bureaucratic heart, has always had a knack for turning ambition into self-immolation, and its current trajectory is a masterclass in the art of collective suicide, executed with the kind of grim determination that might make even a Scandinavian noir protagonist wince. Let us, then, take a leisurely stroll through the smouldering ruins of this once-noble project, pausing occasionally to marvel at the sheer audacity of its self-inflicted wounds.

First, let’s consider the EU’s approach to innovation, which can best be described as a sort of regulatory strangulation so thorough it could make a boa constrictor blush. The EU has long prided itself on being the world’s leading producer of red tape, a feat it has achieved with the kind of zeal usually reserved for religious crusades or competitive knitting. 

A Venn diagram of global leadership, as one clever X user pointed out, places China at the helm of drones and batteries, the U.S. dominating Big Tech and biotech, and the EU proudly reigning over… regulation. Yes, while the rest of the world busies itself with pesky things like invention and progress, the EU has devoted its considerable energies to crafting rules so labyrinthine that even Kafka would throw up his hands in despair. The result? A continent where innovation doesn’t so much flourish as it gasps for air, crushed beneath the weight of a thousand compliance forms. If the EU were a schoolteacher, it would be the one who fails every student for creativity, then wonders why the classroom is empty.

But stifling innovation is merely the appetiser in the EU’s banquet of self-destruction. The main course, served with a side of sanctimonious virtue, is its social welfare system—a bloated, teetering edifice that even the most optimistic actuary would describe as a fiscal death wish. The EU’s member states, in their infinite wisdom, have spent decades constructing a welfare net so generous it could double as a hammock for an entire continent. 

It’s a system that promises cradle-to-grave security, which is all very noble until you realise the cradle is overcrowded and the grave is arriving ahead of schedule. And then, as if to test the limits of this already unsustainable generosity, the EU decided to fling open its doors to millions of migrants from sub-Saharan Africa and beyond, inviting them to join the party. Now, I’m all for hospitality, but there’s a difference between offering a guest a cup of tea and handing them the deeds to your house while setting the furniture on fire.

The 2015 migrant crisis, as documented by the ever-reliable Wikipedia, saw over a million souls arrive on Europe’s shores, many fleeing war and poverty in Syria, Afghanistan, and the Western Balkans. A noble cause, to be sure, but the EU’s response was less a strategy and more a kind of panicked improv theatre. Rather than integrate these newcomers with any semblance of foresight, the EU instead allowed its welfare system to become a sort of all-you-can-eat buffet, with predictably disastrous results. 

A 2022 Bertelsmann Foundation study found that Europeans are now evenly split between viewing migrants as a potential economic boon and a cultural burden—a sentiment that might have been less divided if the EU hadn’t treated integration as an optional extra, like a side salad you forget to order. The public, meanwhile, has taken to the streets and the ballot box, their confidence in the EU plummeting faster than a lead balloon in a hurricane. Political polarisation has soared, asylum policies have tightened, and yet the EU persists in its delusion that this is all part of some grand, unifying vision.

And then there’s the matter of crime, which the EU handles with the same deft touch one might use to juggle flaming torches while blindfolded. The original post on X, penned by the ever-charming Joey Mannarino, paints a lurid picture of Paris as a city where tourists can’t step off a train without being accosted by a Congolese migrant with nefarious intent. 

Hyperbole, perhaps, but not entirely without foundation, a 2023 study by the European Institute for Crime Prevention and Control noted a post-2015 uptick in crime rates in some EU countries, though it wisely cautioned against drawing a straight line from migration to mayhem. Still, the perception of chaos has taken root, fertilised by right-wing media campaigns that, as a European Social Survey study found, have been “uniquely aggressive” in places like the UK. In Italy, Spain, and Britain, the narrative of cultural threat looms large, while the EU’s response has been to tut disapprovingly and carry on as if nothing is amiss. One might admire the commitment to denial if it weren’t so breathtakingly reckless.

But the pièce de résistance of the EU’s self-sabotage is its headlong rush into green energy—a noble pursuit, to be sure, but one executed with the kind of foresight usually associated with a toddler wielding a chainsaw. Spain and Portugal, those sun-drenched darlings of the Iberian Peninsula, have been particularly enthusiastic converts to the gospel of renewables, a decision that looked splendid on paper until the lights went out. 

On April 28, 2025, a massive power outage plunged both nations into darkness, leaving millions without electricity, from Madrid to Lisbon and even parts of south-west France. Spain’s electricity demand plummeted from 27,500MW to 15,000MW, a stark testament to the fragility of a grid that has bet the farm on wind and solar while neglecting the boring but necessary business of backup systems. The European Commission, ever the voice of calm in a crisis, assured everyone that there was “no evidence the outage was intentional,” which is rather like saying there’s no evidence the Titanic hit an iceberg on purpose. Ursula von der Leyen promised to “coordinate efforts,” a phrase that in EU-speak translates roughly to “we’ll form a committee to discuss forming a committee.”

The fallout was as predictable as it was grim. Metro stations turned into pitch-black labyrinths, the Spanish parliament ground to a halt (not that anyone noticed), and ordinary citizens were left to fend for themselves in a darkness that felt metaphorical as much as literal. Reports trickled in of people dying for lack of access to electricity—a tragic but inevitable consequence of a system that prioritises ideology over functionality. If the EU were a doctor, it would be the kind who prescribes amputation for a paper cut, then wonders why the patient isn’t grateful.

So why, one might ask, does the EU persist in this madness? Why do its leaders continue to double down on policies that have turned the continent into a cautionary tale? The answer, I suspect, lies in a toxic cocktail of hubris and denial, seasoned with a dash of ideological fervour. The EU has always fancied itself a beacon of progress, a shining example of what humanity can achieve when it sets aside petty nationalism and embraces a higher purpose. But in its zeal to transcend history, it has forgotten the messy, inconvenient realities of human nature—realities like the need for economic stability, cultural cohesion, and, yes, a reliable power grid. The result is a continent that is not so much uniting as unravelling, its grand experiment in supranational governance teetering on the brink of collapse.

And yet, the EU’s leaders soldier on, undeterred by the chaos they’ve wrought. They rig elections, as some X users allege, and override national sovereignty with the casual arrogance of a colonial governor. They censor inconvenient truths, ensuring that their citizens remain blissfully ignorant of the historical lessons that might save them—lessons about how liberal policies, unchecked, can lead to societal breakdown. They cling to their vision of a borderless utopia even as their cities burn, their welfare systems buckle, and their people turn to populism in desperation. It’s a spectacle both tragic and absurd, a slow-motion train wreck that would be almost comical if the stakes weren’t so high.

In the end, the EU’s greatest tragedy may be its inability to laugh at itself. If it could muster even a fraction of the self-awareness that Clive James brought to his own critiques, it might yet salvage something from the wreckage. But alas, the EU is not known for its sense of humour. It prefers to march grimly onward, a martyr to its own ideals, while the rest of us watch in horrified fascination. So here’s to the European Union, that grand, misguided experiment in hubris: may it find a way to extinguish the flames before the whole edifice burns to the ground. Or at the very least, may it learn to appreciate the irony of its own demise.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "DOCTOR WHO - "THE WELL" (S2 Ep3)

In the grand, galloping cosmos of Doctor Who, last night’s episode, The Well, lands like a meteor on a desolate plain—stark, gripping, and radiating an eerie glow that lingers long after impact. Set 500,000 years hence on the brutal Planet 6-7-6-7, this is Who at its most claustrophobic, a nerve-shredding chamber piece that resurrects a terror from Russell T Davies’ past with audacious verve. It’s a triumph of tension, bolstered by Varada Sethu’s presence and visuals that sear the soul, though it stumbles slightly in a mid-episode reveal that feels more nostalgic than necessary. Like a TARDIS caught in a time storm, The Well is both thrillingly familiar and daringly fresh, a paradox that mostly works.

The visuals are a masterstroke, painting a mining colony as a frozen crypt bathed in the lethal glow of galvanic radiation. The Disney+ budget flexes subtly here—not in bombast but in atmosphere: shattered mirrors, frost-rimed corridors, and the stark beauty of an Xtonic star’s deadly light. The episode’s aesthetic recalls the stark terror of Aliens or The Thing, with every shadow hiding a threat. When the Doctor and Belinda don Tron-esque bodysuits, the futuristic sheen contrasts hauntingly with the colony’s decay, a visual metaphor for hope against despair. It’s a setting that doesn’t just support the story but amplifies it, making every creak and flicker pulse with dread.

Varada Sethu, as Belinda Chandra, is once again the episode’s beating heart, her performance a blend of steely resolve and raw vulnerability. As an A&E nurse thrust into a nightmare, she grounds the cosmic horror with a pragmatism that’s both relatable and riveting. Her chemistry with Ncuti Gatwa’s Doctor is electric, their banter a lifeline amidst the terror—she challenges his bravado with a look or a quip, like when she demands, “I just want to go home”. And, with the utmost discretion, one must note that Sethu’s form, elegantly framed in her futuristic attire, adds a subtle allure to her commanding presence, her silhouette a quiet counterpoint to the episode’s grim palette. She’s not just a companion; she’s a force, her expressive eyes and sharp delivery stealing scenes from even the Doctor himself.

Gatwa, for his part, delivers a Doctor both haunted and heroic, his usual flamboyance tempered by a dread that seeps into his eyes as he realizes he’s facing an old foe—the enigmatic entity from 2008’s Midnight. His performance is a tightrope walk, balancing charm with a rare vulnerability that makes the stakes feel personal. Yet the episode’s one misstep lies in its handling of this Midnight connection, particularly the mid-point reveal of the creature’s return. While the twist is chilling—landing with a jolt as the Doctor pieces together clues about Planet 6-7-6-7’s true identity—it leans too heavily on nostalgia, offering little new insight into the entity’s nature. The reveal thrills but doesn’t deepen, a rare case of Davies favouring fan-service over substance, as some critics have noted for cheapening the original’s ambiguity.

Still, The Well is a triumph of execution. Co-written by Davies and Sharma Angel-Walfall, it weaves a mystery—dead colonists, a lone survivor (a phenomenal Rose Ayling-Ellis), and an invisible killer—into a tapestry of suspense that rarely falters. Ayling-Ellis, as the deaf cook Aliss, delivers a performance that’s both heart-breaking and heroic, her sign language adding a layer of raw humanity. The episode’s pacing is relentless, building from a quiet, creepy opening to a finale that’s both satisfying and unsettling, avoiding the rushed resolutions of earlier Disney-era stories. Mrs. Flood’s latest cryptic cameo, spying with her vortex vindicator, adds a tantalizing thread to the season’s arc.

The Well is Doctor Who at its most ruthless, a descent into terror that honours its legacy while carving new scars. Sethu’s radiance, the haunting visuals, and a monster that still defies explanation make it a standout, even if its backward glance at Midnight doesn’t quite match the original’s shadow.

Ten Interesting Things from "The Well":

• Icy Visuals: The mining colony’s frostbitten decay, lit by an Xtonic star’s lethal glow, crafts a chilling, Aliens-esque atmosphere.

• Midnight’s Echo: The return of the Midnight entity, revealed mid-episode, is a shocking nod to a 2008 classic, though it risks over-explaining.

• Sethu’s Strength: Varada Sethu’s Belinda shines with wit and grit, her fitted bodysuit subtly accentuating her commanding form.

• Ayling-Ellis’ Impact: Rose Ayling-Ellis’ Aliss, a deaf survivor, delivers a gut-wrenching performance, her sign language a narrative cornerstone.

• Gatwa’s Dread: Ncuti Gatwa’s Doctor, haunted by past fears, balances charm and terror with a masterful touch.

• Soundtrack Suspense: The music, evoking classic Who, drives the tension, making every silence scream.

• Mrs. Flood’s Mystery: Anita Dobson’s cameo, spying with a vindicator, hints at a season-long conspiracy.

• Sign Language Spotlight: Aliss’ use of sign language, paired with subtitles, adds inclusivity and emotional depth.

• Trooper Archetypes: The soldiers—nameless like “Trooper One”—echo classic sci-fi, with a hot-headed officer adding friction.

• Earth’s Absence: The episode’s subtle hints at Earth’s 2025 destruction tie into the season’s ominous arc.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "DOCTOR WHO - "LUX" (S2 Ep2)

In the ever-expanding universe of Doctor Who, where time and space bend to the whims of a Time Lord and his companions, the episode "Lux," aired on April 19, 2025, arrives like a comet—brilliant, bold, and occasionally veering off course. This second instalment of the season, set against the vibrant backdrop of 1950s Miami, is a visual extravaganza that pays homage to the golden age of animation while grappling with themes of reality, fiction, and fandom.

This episode, a love letter to Fleischer-era animation, is a visual triumph, transforming the Doctor and his new companion Belinda Chandra into inky avatars of wit and wonder. Yet, it trips lightly over its own ambitions, particularly in a syrupy nod to fandom that feels more like a hug than a handshake. Still, with Varada Sethu’s radiant presence and the show’s boundless verve, Lux is a gem that sparkles, even if it doesn’t always shine. The animation is the star, a glorious pastiche of 1950s cartoon capers that sees villain Mr. Ring-a-Ding morph from 2D rogue to 3D menace with breath-taking flair. 

Mr. Ring-a-Ding himself—voiced by the ever-charismatic Alan Cumming—emerging as a villain who is both delightfully retro and unsettlingly modern. As he transitions from a two-dimensional caricature to a grotesque, three-dimensional threat, his evolution is a visual marvel that underscores the episode’s willingness to experiment with form and style. This transformation is not merely aesthetic but thematic, highlighting the blurring lines between fiction and reality. The moment when the Doctor and Belinda themselves become cartoons is pure genius, blending humour with a clever meta-commentary on the nature of storytelling and fandom. It’s a sequence that feels both nostalgic and innovative, a hallmark of Doctor Who at its best,

It’s a visual coup that makes the screen sing, matched by the episode’s meticulous recreation of Miami’s pastel-hued past. Sethu, as Belinda, is the pulse of the piece, her sharp-tongued nurse striding through the TARDIS with a confidence that’s as captivating as her 1950s frocks, which—let’s whisper it—flatter her figure with a subtle, elegant nod to her curves. Her chemistry with Ncuti Gatwa’s effervescent Doctor is pure electricity, grounding his cosmic theatrics with a wry smile and a raised brow. 

The scene where the Doctor meets his fans—ardent Whovians trapped in a meta-reality—aims for heartfelt but lands in treacle. It’s a moment that wants to celebrate the show’s devotees but feels forced, like a reunion scripted by algorithm. The mid-credits encore of these fans hints at deeper mysteries but lacks the depth to truly resonate. 

Still, Lux is no less lovable for its flaws, a riotous romp that proves Doctor Who can still surprise, delight, and occasionally stumble in its dance across the stars, a luminous episode that showcases the best of Doctor Who—stunning visuals, compelling performances, and a story that dares to be different. While its handling of fandom feels slightly off-kilter, it remains a worthy addition to the series, leaving viewers eager for what’s next in this brave new era.

Ten Interesting Things from Lux:

• Cartoon Couture: The Fleischer-inspired animation is a nostalgic triumph, turning the Doctor and Belinda into inky heroes with a wink and a nod.
• Ring-a-Ding’s Rebirth: Alan Cumming’s villain shifts from 2D scamp to 3D horror, a visual spectacle that’s both creepy and captivating.
• Belinda’s Banter: Varada Sethu’s dry wit, especially her quip about “Blink,” makes Belinda a companion to cherish.
• 1950s Splendor: The Miami setting, with its period-perfect frocks (and Sethu’s subtly flattering silhouette), is a visual treat.
• Cumming’s Cackle: Alan Cumming’s voice work as Mr. Ring-a-Ding is a delicious blend of menace and mirth.
• Segregation Subtext: A quiet nod to 1950s racial divides adds historical heft without preaching.
• Fandom’s Foible: The fan-trap plot, though sentimental, cleverly toys with Who’s meta-mythos.
• Mid-Credits Mystery: The fans’ return teases a larger arc, even if it feels undercooked.
• Cartoon Companions: The Doctor and Belinda’s animated stint is a hilarious highlight, bursting with meta-charm.
• Emotional Echoes: Gatwa and Sethu’s tender moments anchor the episode’s visual fireworks with heart.

TANKS, TURMOIL AND TURQUIOSE DREAMS

Well, well, Nigel Farage has rolled out the big guns—or should I say, the turquoise tanks—and parked them squarely on Labour’s lawn, which, let’s be honest, has been looking rather patchy since Keir Starmer started watering it with promises nobody asked for. So, let’s peer into the crystal ball of British politics, shall we, and predict the delightful mess awaiting us between now and 2029. Spoiler alert: it’s going to be less a polite tea party and more a bar brawl at closing time.

Reform UK, Farage’s latest vehicle for stirring the pot, is poised to inherit what I’ll grandly call the “post-Brexit realignment”—a fancy term for the political equivalent of musical chairs, where everyone’s fed up with the same old tunes. This little dance started back in the 2000s, found its rhythm with UKIP in the 2010s, and hit a crescendo with the Brexit vote in 2016, when the British public told the EU to take a long walk off a short pier. It briefly propelled Boris Johnson and his merry band of Tories into the Red Wall in 2019, those Labour strongholds that turned blue faster than you can say “levelling up.” But, oh dear, the Tories squandered that goodwill with the finesse of a toddler in a china shop, lying through their teeth about mass immigration while the voters watched, mouths agape, as the numbers soared higher than a kite at a seaside festival.

Now, Reform steps into the fray, ready to scoop up a cross-class coalition of working-class and middle-class Brits who’ve decided that their country’s gone to the dogs—and not the pedigree kind. These are folks who once clung to tribal loyalties for Labour or the Tories but are now more likely to vote for a party that promises to give them their country back, even if it comes with Farage’s signature smirk. This realignment, which has been on a rather long sabbatical since the Tories’ betrayal and Labour’s “loveless landslide” in 2024—a victory so tepid it could barely melt butter—looks set to storm back into the spotlight, with Reform as its new leading man.

Let’s meet the cast of this drama: voters who feel they were wooed and dumped by Tony Blair’s New Labour, taken for a joyride by Boris’s clown car, and now pushed to the back of the queue by Starmer’s Labour, which seems to think “two-tier” governance is the new British value—immigrants and minorities first, everyone else can wait in the rain. These voters have a laundry list of grievances longer than a queue at the NHS. They’re positively incandescent about the cost-of-living crisis, which they blame on the elite’s obsession with Net Zero—a policy so green it’s practically emerald, yet somehow leaves their wallets ashen. They’re fed up with mass legal immigration, which they reckon takes more than it gives, turning their towns into something they barely recognise while young families hunt for homes like they’re searching for the Holy Grail. Nobody, they note with a raised eyebrow, ever voted for this.

Then there’s the illegal migration debacle, which has Westminster looking as competent as a chocolate teapot. Foreigners breaking the law seem to get a free pass while the law-abiding majority are left to mutter about fairness, that quaint British virtue now apparently as outdated as a fax machine. And don’t get them started on the institutions—from Southport to the Sentencing Council—which they suspect are so politicised they might as well be waving Labour banners, prioritising minorities over the majority with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

This isn’t just bad policy; it’s a slap in the face to the British belief in fair play, individual liberty, and equality before the law—ideas so central to our national fabric you’d think they were woven into the Union Jack itself. And so, as I’ve been banging on about in my newsletter for the past year, this fury is driving support for Reform, especially in the Red Wall, which is about to become the epicentre of a political earthquake. Two-thirds of the 100 most Reform-friendly seats, according to my trusty census and 2024 election data, are held by Labour. Of the top 50, 33 are Labour MPs who must be sleeping with one eye open, wondering if Farage’s tanks come with extra horsepower.

Reform, you see, isn’t just picking up where the Tories left off—it’s aiming to outdo them, building a coalition bigger and broader than anything Farage has managed before. It’s a coalition united by one simple, primal cry: they want their country back. The Uniparty, that cosy LibLabCon club, should be quaking in their boots, because this revolt isn’t coming with a polite knock on the door. It’s kicking the door down. Watch this space, dear reader, and bring popcorn.