THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "THE FANTASTIC 4: FIRST STEPS" (2025)

The Fantastic Four: First Steps has crash-landed in cinemas with the sort of earnest swagger one expects from a Marvel machine determined to polish its tarnished shield. Directed with a competent hand by Matt Shakman, it’s a film that knows its job: to reboot a franchise with enough retro charm and CGI gloss to make you forget the last time this quartet flopped. And, by Jove, it mostly succeeds—though not without a few cosmic hiccups that leave one pining for what might have been, particularly in the casting of a certain silver-skinned surfer.

The plot is a tidy affair, a kind of superhero origin story sautéed in 1960s optimism and served with a side of family dysfunction. Our Fantastic Four—Reed Richards (Pedro Pascal), Sue Storm (Vanessa Kirby), Johnny Storm (Joseph Quinn), and Ben Grimm (Ebon Moss-Bachrach)—are less a team than a squabbling book club thrust into a cosmic crisis. The script, mercifully devoid of the usual Marvel quip-fest, leans into their human frailties: Reed’s obsessive intellect, Sue’s quiet strength, Johnny’s hot-headed idiocy, and Ben’s gruff loyalty. It’s a dynamic that works, largely because the cast plays it straight, not winking at the camera like they’re auditioning for a sitcom. The villain, Galactus, looms with appropriate grandeur, voiced by Ralph Fiennes in a tone that suggests he’s reading the Book of Revelation while sipping a particularly fine Bordeaux. The story clips along, balancing heart, humour, and a few well-timed explosions, never overstaying its welcome at a lean 108 minutes. It’s not Citizen Kane, but it’s a damn sight better than Fant4stic.

Visually, the film is a triumph of style over budget cuts. Shakman and his team conjure a retro-futuristic aesthetic that feels like Mad Men meets Star Trek—all sleek chrome, pastel jumpsuits, and glowing cosmic vistas. The Quantum Realm sequences are a kaleidoscope of color and chaos, rendered with a painterly finesse that makes you forgive the occasional CGI seam. The Fantastic Four’s powers are showcased with gleeful inventiveness: Reed’s stretchy limbs slink through scenes like a particularly ambitious yoga instructor, while Johnny’s flames dance with a pyrotechnic pizzazz that justifies the 3D ticket price. The film’s look is a love letter to Jack Kirby’s comic panels, and it’s hard not to feel a pang of nostalgia for a time when superheroes were drawn, not algorithmically assembled.

But then we come to the Silver Surfer, or rather, the Silver Surferess, played with admirable poise by Julia Garner. The decision to gender-swap Norrin Radd into Shalla-Bal is the sort of bold choice that sounds better in a pitch meeting than on the screen. Garner glides through the cosmos with ethereal grace, her silver skin gleaming like a freshly minted Oscar. Yet, there’s a nagging sense that the role demands a certain… heft, a presence that commands attention beyond mere acting chops. Enter the lament: if Marvel had to cast a female Surfer, why not Sydney Sweeney? One cannot help but imagine Ms. Sweeney, with her considerable… notable assets, bringing a gravitational pull to the role that might have eclipsed even Galactus himself. Garner’s performance is fine, but Sweeney could have been a celestial body in her own right, drawing eyes and perhaps a few gasps from the audience. Alas, we are left with a Surfer who surfs competently but doesn’t quite make the universe quiver.

And then there’s the mid-credits sting, where Doctor Doom slinks into view like a dictator auditioning for a cologne ad. Clad in his iconic green cloak and metallic sneer, he’s introduced with just enough menace to whet the appetite for Avengers: Doomsday. The scene is a calculated tease, hinting at the cosmic chess game to come without spilling the entire board. Whispers on the X Platform had already primed us for his arrival, so the reveal carries less shock than a knowing nod. Casting Robert Downey Jr. as Doom—a choice that’s less spoiler than inevitability, given Marvel’s love for recycling its golden geese—feels like a safe bet, his face obscured here but his charisma already palpable. It’s a smart setup, planting seeds for the next big showdown without stealing the thunder from this film’s tidy closure.

In the end, The Fantastic Four: First Steps is a sturdy launchpad for Marvel’s first family, delivering a plot that hums, visuals that dazzle, and a tone that dares to take itself seriously. It’s not perfect—some dialogue clunks, and the third act leans too heavily on the usual city-smashing tropes—but it’s a welcome return to form for a franchise that’s been through more reboots than a Silicon Valley start-up. If only they’d cast Sweeney as the Surfer, we might have had a film that wasn’t just fantastic, but positively galactic.

BRAVEHEART II: MAYAH, QUEEN OF SCOTS

In the annals of human folly, where the line between tragedy and farce blurs like a poorly drawn border map, there emerges from the misty streets of Dundee a figure so improbably heroic that she could only have been scripted by a satirist with a grudge against the modern world. Mayah Sommers, a mere 14 years of age, has been dubbed the "Young Queen of Scots," a title that evokes Mary Stuart's elegance but substitutes the rosary for a rusty axe and a kitchen knife. 

On a balmy August evening in 2025, in the unremarkable environs of St Ann's Lane, this plucky adolescent found herself compelled to defend her 12-year-old sister from the predatory gaze of an illegal immigrant who, with the casual entitlement of one who has crossed oceans uninvited, decided to tape the encounter for posterity—or perhaps for his private collection. One might laugh at the absurdity, were it not for the chilling reality that underscores it: in today's Britain, under the benevolent oversight of Sir Keir Starmer's Labour government, it falls to schoolgirls to play the role of border patrol, while the actual authorities busy themselves with more pressing matters, such as arresting the victims.

Let us pause to admire the sheer, unadulterated courage of young Mayah, for in an era where adults quibble over pronouns and carbon footprints, her defiance stands as a beacon of raw, unpolished bravery. Picture the scene, if you will: a cluster of girls, barely out of primary school, minding their own business in a lane that should be synonymous with quiet domesticity rather than improvised weaponry. Enter the interloper, an undocumented migrant whose very presence is a testament to the porous sieve that passes for immigration policy. He approaches, phone in hand, intent on recording—or, as the more optimistic souls might charitably suggest, "documenting"—the harassment of a child. 

What does Mayah do? She does not cower, nor does she dial the non-emergency number for a sternly worded email from the police. No, she brandishes an axe and a knife, her small frame transformed into a whirlwind of righteous fury. "Back off, you creep!" she might as well have bellowed in the finest tradition of Scottish battle cries, though the video evidence suggests a more profane eloquence suited to the occasion. It is the stuff of legend, or at least of viral TikToks, where commenters hail her as a "hero" and "braver than most grown men." And why not? In a society that has rendered self-defence tools like pepper spray illegal—lest we offend the sensitivities of potential assailants—Mayah's improvisation with household cutlery is nothing short of revolutionary. She is the William Wallace of the playground, her facepalm-slapping retort to the man's demand to see the blade a masterclass in sardonic dismissal: "You want this? Here it is, then." One can almost hear the ghost of Robert the Bruce chuckling in approval.

Yet, for all her spirited valour, Mayah now faces the full weight of the law, charged with possession of offensive weapons in a public place. Ah, the irony! The predator slinks away unscathed—at least initially, pending any charges that may or may not materialize—while the protector is hauled off in cuffs. This is the Britain of 2025, where the scales of justice tip not toward the innocent but toward the imported. And who bears the blame for this grotesque inversion? Look no further than Sir Keir Starmer, that silver-tongued savant of progressive pieties, whose ascension to prime minister has coincided with an influx of migrants so unchecked that it rivals the barbarian hordes at the gates of Rome—only with smartphones instead of siege engines. Starmer, ever the lawyerly sophist, has presided over a policy regime that treats illegal entry not as a crime but as a minor administrative hiccup, releasing border-crossers into the wild with the same nonchalance one might afford a lost tourist. His government's response to rising migrant-related assaults? A stern commitment to "compassion," coupled with a budget for more diversity training seminars. One shudders to think: if a 14-year-old must arm herself with an axe to safeguard her kin, what fresh hell awaits the elderly or the infirm? Starmer's Britain is a dystopia of good intentions, where it is he who has created this powder keg, lighting the fuse with speeches about "global equity" while ignoring the equity of safety for his own citizens.

But let us not absolve the migrants themselves, those peripatetic paragons of peril who arrive en masse, their backpacks bulging not with skills or gratitude but with an innate predisposition to predation. Consider the litany of horrors that trail in their wake: the Venezuelan Ibarra who bashed in Laken Riley's skull in Georgia, or the Honduran duo who strangled young Jocelyn Nungaray in Houston, her body discarded like refuse in a creek. These are not isolated aberrations but the predictable outcome of a system that flings open the doors to the world's undesirables. 

In Europe, the pattern repeats with monotonous dread: the grooming gangs in Rotherham, the assaults in Cologne, and now this Dundee debacle, where an illegal immigrant's camera becomes the prelude to who-knows-what depravity. Every migrant, legal or otherwise, carries the shadow of suspicion; for in the grand lottery of borders, the winners are the plodding economists and the losers the little girls who must fend off the jackals. They come not as refugees but as opportunists, their eyes gleaming with the promise of welfare payments and weak-willed hosts. Blame not just Starmer for the invitation, but also blame those accepting it with such predatory zeal. In Mayah's case, the fellow's decision to tape her sister was no innocent vlogging exercise; it was the opening gambit in a game as old as migration itself, where the vulnerable become trophies for the triumphant.

One cannot help but marvel at the satirical perfection of it all. Here is a nation that once ruled the waves, now reduced to applauding a child for waving an axe. Social media erupts in memes and manifestos, crowning Mayah the "Young Queen of Scots" with digital diadems, while the government dithers. Her story has sparked a movement, or so the online warriors claim—petitions for her release, calls for Starmer's resignation, and even a cryptocurrency named in her honour, because nothing says "revolution" like speculative tokens on Solana. Yet beneath the humour lies a bitter truth: this is what happens when empathy overrides enforcement, when the dry wit of policy wonks like Starmer supplants the steel of sovereignty. Mayah's defiance is not just brave; it is a indictment, a mirror held up to a society that has outsourced its protection to the very young and the very foolish.

In praising her, we must also pity the world that necessitated it. Mayah Sommers, with her knife-sharp resolve and axe-wielding audacity, embodies the spirit that once made Britain great: unyielding, unapologetic, and utterly unafraid. Would that her elders could muster a fraction of such fortitude. Instead, we have Starmer's sanctimonious shrugs and the migrants' inexorable tide, turning lanes into battlegrounds and sisters into sentinels. If this is progress, then God save the Scots—and pass the axes. For in the end, it is not the queens who fall, but the kingdoms that crumble under their own weight of absurdity.

FARAGE'S EXILE EXPRESS

In the grand theatre of British politics, where the script is written in invisible ink and the actors trip over their own shoelaces, Nigel Farage has once again taken centre stage. This time, it's with a policy so audaciously straightforward it could only have been dreamed up by a man who once mistook a pint of bitter for a viable foreign policy. Behold: the Reform Party's shiny new deportation blueprint, a masterplan to ship out illegal migrants with the efficiency of a well-oiled Amazon warehouse, or so the prospectus claims. One must, in the spirit of cautious optimism – that rare bird in these benighted times – applaud the mere existence of such a document. After all, in an era when political platforms are as substantial as cotton candy, here's something with edges sharp enough to cut through the fog of Westminster waffle. But as we shall see, praising the creation is rather like admiring the architecture of a house built on sand; the real test comes when the tide rolls in, and with Farage at the helm, one suspects the foundations might crumble faster than a Brexit promise.

Let us first savour the policy itself, untainted for a moment by the grubby fingerprints of reality. Reform UK's deportation scheme, unveiled with the fanfare of a man announcing he's finally found his car keys, proposes a no-nonsense approach to the small boats crisis that's been bobbing about the Channel like so many uninvited party crashers. The gist? Mass deportations, streamlined bureaucracy, and a healthy dose of what Farage calls "common sense" – which, in political parlance, means doing things the way they were done in the good old days, when borders were guarded by stiff upper lips and a stern word. It's a policy born of frustration, that most British of emotions, and one can't help but raise a wry eyebrow in mild approval. For too long, successive governments have treated immigration enforcement like a game of musical chairs, where the music never stops and everyone ends up squeezed onto the same overstuffed sofa. Farage's plan, at least on paper, introduces a rhythm: identify, detain, deport. Simple as that. In a world where politicians prefer to kick the can down the road until it rusts into oblivion, here's a chap willing to pick it up and hurl it across the sea. Cautious praise, then, for the audacity of invention. It's like watching a man attempt to reinvent the wheel – admirable, if you ignore the fact that wheels have been doing just fine for millennia.

Yet, as any student of history (or, more pertinently, of Farage's career) will attest, the devil lurks not in the details but in the doing. Execution, that elusive art form, has never been Nigel’s strong suit. One casts a sceptical eye over his track record, a tapestry woven from threads of bold announcements and frayed follow-throughs. Recall, if you will, the halcyon days of UKIP, when Farage strode the land like a pint-swigging colossus, promising to reclaim sovereignty from the clutches of Brussels with the fervour of a man who'd just discovered sovereignty was his middle name. Brexit was the jewel in that crown, a referendum won on a tidal wave of blue-passported optimism. And what a triumph it was – or rather, what a protracted farce it became. Years of negotiation later, we're still untangling the nets, with borders as porous as a colander and trade deals that make one nostalgic for the bad old days of EU red tape. Farage's role in that saga? Evangelist-in-chief, followed by a swift retreat to the commentary box, leaving others to mop up the spillages. It's a pattern as predictable as the tides: proclaim, polarise, then pivot when the polls turn prickly.

This deportation policy, one fears, fits neatly into that mould. Reform UK, Farage's latest vehicle, positions itself as the insurgent force ready to storm the citadels of the establishment. But storming, as it turns out, requires more than a megaphone and a meme army; it demands logistics, legislation, and a dash of diplomatic finesse – commodities as scarce in Farage's arsenal as humility in a tabloid headline. The plan calls for deporting tens of thousands annually, yet it glosses over the thorny issue of where, precisely, these unfortunates are to be shipped. Back to France? Ah, yes, because nothing says "international cooperation" like strong-arming our nearest neighbours, who've already been less than enthusiastic about playing border patrol for Albion's perfidious isle. And what of the legal labyrinth? The European Convention on Human Rights, that pesky relic, looms like a bureaucratic hydra, ready to sprout appeals and injunctions at every turn. Farage's solution? Scrap it, of course. Bold words, but then, so was "£350 million a week for the NHS," a slogan that evaporated faster than gin at a UKIP conference. One can already envision the courtroom dramas: migrants in limbo, lawyers in glee, and Farage on GB News, thundering about "globalist sabotage" while the policy gathers dust in the docket.

Compounding these doubts is Reform's curious reliance on the politics of defection, a strategy that smacks more of desperation than design. Farage's party isn't so much a grassroots movement as a magnetic field for Tory exiles – the disgruntled backbenchers who've jumped ship faster than rats from a sinking vessel. It's a tactic that's swelled their ranks, turning Reform from a fringe curiosity into a parliamentary nuisance, but it raises eyebrows about sustainability. These defectors, bless their opportunistic souls, bring with them the baggage of their former allegiances: a penchant for hot air and a allergy to follow-through. Remember the Conservative Party's own forays into immigration control? Pledges of Australian-style points systems, Rwanda relocation schemes that went the way of the dodo – all announced with trumpets, all executed with the grace of a drunken elephant. Farage's deportees-in-waiting are cut from the same cloth, men and women who've spent careers in opposition, honing the art of critique over construction. Relying on them to execute a policy as radical as mass deportation is akin to handing a demolition crew a set of blueprints and expecting them to build a cathedral. The creation might sparkle, but the execution? Likely to end in rubble, with Farage decrying the "deep state" from the safety of his saloon bar.

And herein lies the sardonic heart of the matter: Farage's genius, if one can call it that, is not in governance but in gadfly. He is the eternal agitator, the man who pokes the bear until it roars, then scarpers before the claws come out. His policies, for all their surface allure, serve primarily as battering rams against the status quo, not blueprints for a brave new world. The deportation scheme is a case in point – a rallying cry for the disaffected, a thorn in Labour's side, but viable? Only in the parallel universe where Brexit was a seamless success and UKIP didn't implode like a poorly baked soufflé. In our own timeline, execution falters because Farage's modus operandi is disruption, not delivery. He thrives on the chaos he creates, positioning himself as the outsider forever knocking at the door, never quite minding if it stays shut. Cautious praise for the policy's invention, yes – it's a welcome reminder that politics can still muster a spark of clarity amid the murk. But doubt? Oh, abundant. Based on the Farage file – a dossier of dashed dreams and defections – this latest venture seems destined to join the queue of good intentions paved with something far less golden than intentions.

In the end, one watches with the detached amusement of a spectator at a particularly British circus: clowns in suits, juggling policies that threaten to come crashing down. Nigel Farage's deportation dance may twirl elegantly on the page, but when the music starts – and the defectors stumble into step – expect more pratfalls than progress. It's the story of our politics, after all: full of sound and fury, signifying rather less than we'd like.

GOODHALL'S INHERITANCE INSANITY: FROM LBC TO WTF?

In the grand pantheon of bad ideas, inheritance tax sits enthroned as a particularly odious monarch, a fiscal vampire that sinks its fangs into the necks of the grieving, slurping up their hard-earned legacies with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer to a Fabergé egg. And who better to champion this ghoulish levy than LBC’s own Lewis Goodall, a man whose earnestness is matched only by his apparent allergy to common sense? With the Labour government nodding approvingly in the background, like a chorus of dour undertakers, Goodall has taken to the airwaves to extol the virtues of taxing the dead, as if the Grim Reaper himself needed a commission. Oh, Lewis, you beacon of progressive piety, you’ve outdone yourself this time, haven’t you? Let’s unpack this travesty with the gleeful disdain it so richly deserves.

Goodall, once a resident of Longbridge, Birmingham (as amazingly is yours truly ?! Just HOW did we turn out so differently ??) with his boyish countenance and the sort of earnestness that makes one suspect he’s still checking under his bed for monsters, has proposed—brace yourself—a 100% inheritance tax. Yes, you read that correctly. Not content with nibbling at the edges of your grandmother’s savings, Goodall wants the state to swoop in like a kleptomaniac magpie and snatch every last penny from your inheritance, leaving you with nothing but memories and a tax bill the size of a small country’s GDP. In his August 2025 LBC screed, he argues this would “rethink our society’s relationship with wealth,” as if wealth were some toxic ex-lover we need to ghost rather than the fruit of a lifetime’s labour. One can only imagine young Lewis, sitting forlornly at the family table, unloved and unnoticed, dreaming of a world where no one else gets to enjoy the fruits of parental devotion either. Poor lad, did Mummy and Daddy forget to tuck you in? Is that why you’re so keen to punish those who dare to pass on their love in the form of a nest egg?

Let’s be clear: inheritance tax is not just a bad idea; it’s a moral abomination dressed up in the sanctimonious rags of “fairness.” It’s the government saying, “Sorry, your parents worked their fingers to the bone, but we’ve got potholes to fill and quangos to fund, so hand over the cash.” It’s a tax on death itself, a final kick in the teeth to those already mourning. And Goodall, with his boyish fervour and a voice that sounds like it’s perpetually auditioning for a sixth-form debate club, thinks this is the key to a utopian society. “You don’t have a right to inherit money from mummy and daddy that you did nothing to earn,” he bleats, as if the act of being born into a family that loves you enough to plan for your future is some kind of moral failing. Oh, Lewis, you quivering apostle of envy, do you lie awake at night, tormented by the thought that someone, somewhere, might be enjoying a legacy they didn’t personally sweat for? Perhaps if your own parents had shown you a smidgen of that affection, you wouldn’t be so hell-bent on ensuring no one else gets to feel it.

The Labour government, ever the willing accomplice in this fiscal farce, is reportedly mulling over hiking inheritance tax or tweaking its rules to plug a £40bn deficit, because apparently squeezing the bereaved is easier than, say, trimming the bloated bureaucracy they so dearly love. Rachel Reeves, the Chancellor with the warmth of a tax inspector’s handshake, has already signalled her enthusiasm for taxing the wealthy, as if farmers passing on their land or small business owners leaving their life’s work to their kids are the modern equivalent of feudal barons. Labour’s approach is less Robin Hood and more Sheriff of Nottingham, robbing the grieving to fund their latest pet projects. And Goodall, their eager cheerleader, stands at the forefront, waving his microphone like a pitchfork, ready to storm the estates of Middle England (can you believe he and I actually went to the same school? Not at the same time though, thank goodness!). One wonders if he practices his sanctimonious rants in front of a mirror, puffing out his chest to compensate for what we can only assume is a profound lack of manly vigour. After all, only a man insecure in his own potency would advocate for a policy so emasculating as to strip families of their right to provide for one another.

The argument for inheritance tax, as peddled by Goodall and his Labour overlords, hinges on the tired trope of “intergenerational inequality.” They claim it’s unfair that some inherit while others don’t, as if life’s lottery can be legislated into oblivion. But let’s dissect this with the precision of a surgeon wielding a chainsaw. Inheritance isn’t just about money; it’s about love, legacy, and the human instinct to care for one’s kin. When a parent leaves their savings, their home, or their business to their child, they’re not perpetuating some aristocratic conspiracy; they’re saying, “I worked for you. I sacrificed for you.” To tax that act of devotion is to spit in the face of every parent who ever stayed late at the office or skipped a holiday to secure their child’s future. And yet, Goodall, with the smugness of a man who’s never had to change a nappy or pay a mortgage, thinks this is the path to fairness. Perhaps he imagines a world where we all start from zero, raised by wolves in a state-sanctioned commune, free from the oppressive burden of parental love. Forgive me if I don’t sign up for that dystopian nightmare.

The Spectator, in a rare moment of clarity, skewers Goodall’s argument with a simple question: “Do you want to live in a world in which you are forbidden from giving things, such as your time, your money or your labour, to other people?”. It’s a point so obvious it’s almost embarrassing that Goodall missed it. If you can buy your kid a car or pay for their university fees, why should you be penalized for giving them your savings after you’re gone? Goodall’s response, one imagines, would be a spluttered lecture about “unearned wealth,” delivered with the conviction of a man who’s never had to earn a living outside the cosy bubble of broadcasting. His credibility, already hanging by a thread thinner than his vocal cords, collapses under the weight of this contradiction. He’s not just wrong; he’s bonkers wrong in a way that suggests a fundamental disconnect from the human experience. Did no one ever give you a birthday present, Lewis? Did you return it to the shop, insisting you hadn’t earned it?

And let’s talk about that credibility, shall we? Goodall, the self-styled voice of the everyman, is less a journalist and more a performance artist, peddling his brand of sanctimonious socialism to an audience he assumes is too dim to notice the holes in his logic. At 35, he’s carved out a niche as a political commentator, but one suspects his rise owes more to his ability to parrot progressive platitudes than to any deep well of insight. His LBC rants are less analysis than tantrums, the kind of thing you’d expect from a precocious teenager who’s just discovered Marx but hasn’t yet figured out how to pay his own bills. To hear him lecture on inheritance tax is to witness a man so out of touch with reality that he might as well be broadcasting from a parallel universe where love is taxable and families are optional. His manhood, such as it is, seems to shrivel with every word, as if the very act of advocating for this policy is a confession of his own inadequacy. No wonder he’s so keen to dismantle the family unit; it’s a structure he seems to have missed out on entirely.

The Labour government, for its part, deserves no less scorn. Their flirtation with inheritance tax hikes is not just economically illiterate but politically suicidal. Farmers, already reeling from last year’s budget cuts to agricultural relief, are up in arms, with the Conservative Party gleefully pointing out the “palpable feeling of betrayal” in rural communities. These aren’t the landed gentry we’re talking about; these are honest, hard working, everyday people who work the land, feed the nation, and ask for little in return. Yet Labour, egged on by Goodall’s sanctimonious drivel, seems determined to punish them for daring to pass on their legacy. It’s a policy born of spite, not sense, and it’s hard to imagine a more effective way to alienate the very voters they claimed to champion. Perhaps Keir Starmer, staring blankly into the abyss of his own leadership, thinks this is the path to a fairer Britain. If so, he’s been listening to Goodall for too long.

In the end, inheritance tax is not about fairness; it’s about control. It’s the state asserting its right to dictate what you can do with your own money, even after you’re dead. It’s a policy that assumes you’re too selfish to be trusted with your own wealth, too foolish to know what’s best for your family. And Lewis Goodall, with his boyish indignation and his unerring knack for missing the point, is its perfect spokesman. A man so bereft of warmth that he’d tax a mother’s love if he could, he stands as a cautionary tale of what happens when ideology trumps humanity. 

So here’s to you, Lewis, you joyless crusader for a world without legacy. May your microphone never falter, and may your heart one day find the love you so clearly lack. As for the rest of us, we’ll keep fighting to protect our families from your horrendous dystopian dreams.

CONNOLLY, JONES, AND KIER'S KANGAROO COURT

Ladies and gentlemen, strap yourselves in for another grim chapter in the tragicomedy that is modern British justice, where the scales are less balanced than a drunk tightrope walker and the rule of law bends like a yoga instructor on a good day. The recent release of Lucy Connolly, a childminder who made the fatal error of venting her grief-fuelled spleen on social media, and the acquittal of Ricky Jones, a Labour councillor who thought “cut their throats” was a catchy slogan for an anti-racism rally, have together hoisted the flag of “two-tier justice” so high it’s visible from space. This is not merely a glitch in the system; it’s a neon-lit billboard proclaiming that under Keir Starmer’s Labour government, justice is a buffet where the Left gets caviar and everyone else gets crumbs. With his trademark blend of sanctimony and spinelessness, Starmer presides over a regime that makes Kafka look like a cheerful optimist, and the stench of hypocrisy wafting from Downing Street could choke a camel.

Let’s start with Lucy Connolly, a woman whose crime was to post a single, ill-judged tweet in the wake of the Southport murders, a tragedy that would make any parent’s blood boil. On July 29, 2024, reeling from the slaughter of three young girls, she tapped out a message calling for “mass deportation” and, in a moment of raw anger, suggested setting fire to hotels housing asylum seekers. It was crude, it was reckless, and—crucially—she deleted it within four hours, long before any mob could grab a pitchfork. Yet, the British state, ever vigilant for thought crimes, swooped in like a SWAT team at a book club. Lucy, a mother who’d already lost a son and cared for children of all backgrounds, was slapped with a 31-month sentence for inciting racial hatred, a punishment so disproportionate it could only have been cooked up by a judge with a grudge or a government with an agenda. Her appeal, predictably, was dismissed in May 2025, with Lord Justice Holroyde praising her solicitor’s “conscientiousness” while ignoring the screaming injustice of jailing a grieving woman for a tweet that incited precisely nothing. She’s due for release soon, having served 40% of her sentence, but the stain of this farce will linger longer than a bad curry.

Now, contrast this with the case of Ricky Jones, a Labour councillor and self-professed lefty who, on August 7, 2024, stood before a crowd in Walthamstow, microphone in hand, and declared, “We need to cut all their throats and get rid of them all,” referring to far-right protesters he charmingly dubbed “disgusting Nazi fascists.” This wasn’t a fleeting tweet; it was a public performance, complete with a throat-slitting gesture that would make a pantomime villain blush. The video went viral, the outrage was palpable, and yet, at Snaresbrook Crown Court on August 15, 2025, a jury deliberated for a mere half-hour before deciding that Jones was not guilty of encouraging violent disorder. Half an hour! That’s barely enough time to make a decent cuppa, let alone weigh the evidence of a man caught on camera preaching bloodshed. Jones, naturally, mouthed “thank you” to the jurors, no doubt marveling at his luck in dodging a bullet—or a blade.

The juxtaposition is so stark it could star in a satire of its own. Lucy Connolly, a nobody with a broken heart, gets two-and-a-half years for a deleted tweet that caused no harm. Ricky Jones, a Labour insider with a flair for violent rhetoric, walks free after inciting a crowd in a “tinderbox” setting, as the prosecution described it. If this isn’t two-tier justice, then I’m the Queen of Sheba. The evidence is not just compelling; it’s screaming from the rooftops. Shadow Home Secretary Chris Philp called it “astonishing” that Jones was “let off scot-free” while Connolly rots in a cell, and Nigel Farage, never one to miss a bandwagon, labeled it “another outrageous example of two-tier justice.” Even James Cleverly, not exactly a firebrand, called the verdict “perverse.” They’re not wrong, but they’re understating it. This isn’t just a double standard; it’s a double-decker bus of bias, driven by Keir Starmer and his Labour cronies, who seem to think the law applies only to those who don’t share their politics.

Starmer, that dour knight of the Left, has the gall to stand in Parliament and bleat about being “strongly in favour of free speech” while condemning “incitement to violence.” Oh, Keir, you silver-tongued hypocrite, you. If free speech is your passion, why is Lucy Connolly a “political prisoner,” as FairCop’s Harry Miller rightly called her, while Ricky Jones is back home polishing his megaphone? Starmer’s government, with its grim determination to police words rather than crimes, has turned the justice system into a weapon, wielded with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. The Labour Party suspended Jones the day after his arrest, but the ongoing “investigation” into his membership smells like a formality to keep the headlines at bay. Meanwhile, Lucy’s life lies in ruins, her family torn apart, all for a moment of anguish expressed online. This is not justice; it’s a vendetta, orchestrated by a man whose moral compass spins like a weathervane in a storm.

The Left, of course, will cry foul at the comparison. Lawyers like Laura Allen have the cheek to call it “frankly offensive” to question the jury’s decision in Jones’ case, as if the public are too dim to spot the glaring inconsistency. They argue that Connolly’s tweet had a “racial element” absent in Jones’ rant, and that she pleaded guilty while he fought his charge. Fair enough, but let’s not pretend the charges weren’t cut from the same cloth: both were accused of inciting violence in a volatile climate, yet one walks free while the other’s life is shredded. The racial aggravation in Connolly’s case is undeniable, but Jones’ call to slit throats was hardly a love letter to peace. The real difference? One was a Tory councillor’s wife, the other a Labour loyalist. If that’s not two-tier justice, then perhaps we should all start practicing our throat-slitting gestures for the next anti-racism rally.

This is where Starmer’s Labour reveals its true colours: a sickly shade of sanctimonious red, tinged with the green of envy for anyone who dares think differently. The Left’s obsession with controlling speech, punishing dissent, and protecting their own has turned Britain into a judicial dystopia where the rules bend to fit the narrative. Lucy Connolly’s tweet, born of grief and deleted in remorse, was no more a threat to public order than Jones’ amplified call to violence, yet she’s the one branded a “far-right thug” by a Prime Minister who wouldn’t know a thug if one nicked his briefcase. The message is clear: if you’re on the Left, you can scream for blood and walk away; if you’re not, a single misstep online will land you in the slammer.

So, people of Britain, it’s time to wake up and smell the injustice. This is not the country of Magna Carta or the land of fair play; it’s Starmer’s Britain, where the law is a cudgel for the Left to bash their opponents while shielding their own. Grab your metaphorical pitchforks—not to burn hotels or slit throats, but to tear down this rotten system. 

Demand a justice system that judges actions, not affiliations. Call out Labour’s hypocrisy, from Starmer’s pious platitudes to the party’s winking indulgence of its own firebrands. And above all, fight for a Britain where a grieving mother’s tweet doesn’t cost her more than a councillor’s call for slaughter. The two-tier travesty must end, and it starts with sending Starmer and his sanctimonious socialists packing. Let’s make justice blind again, not just selectively near-sighted.

A FLUTTER OF DEFIANCE

Ah, England, that green and pleasant land where the national pastime seems to be apologizing for existing. One might think, in this enlightened age of self-flagellation—pardon the pun—that the simple act of hoisting a flag would be as innocuous as brewing a cup of tea. But no, dear reader, we find ourselves in 2025, amid a "surge in public frustration," as the euphemism goes, and suddenly the St. George's Cross is waving like a red rag to a council bureaucrat. Enter the "raising the colours" campaign, a grassroots movement that's less a revolution and more a polite reminder that some people still remember what country they're in. It's as if the English have finally decided to stop being embarrassed about their own backyard and start decorating it with the national bunting. How terribly uncouth.

Picture the scene: in the heart of Birmingham and Tower Hamlets, ordinary folk—builders, workers, the sort who actually get their hands dirty rather than pontificating on Twitter—have taken to draping Union Jacks and St. George's flags over lampposts and buildings. A GoFundMe springs up, because nothing says "spontaneous patriotism" like crowdfunding your dissent. This, we're told, is a response to the great British tradition of uncontrolled immigration, which has, according to Migration Watch UK, swollen the population by a casual seven million over the past two decades. Seven million! That's like inviting the entire population of Switzerland for an indefinite stay and then wondering why the housing queue resembles a Soviet bread line. Exacerbating tensions in housing and social services? Perish the thought; it's merely the price of progress, or so the elites assure us from their gated enclaves.

But oh, the horror when the local councils swing into action. The Labour-run outfit in Birmingham and the pro-Gaza Aspire Party in Tower Hamlets—bless their inclusive souls—deem these flags a "safety hazard," distracting motorists as if the average driver isn't already dodging potholes the size of craters. Meanwhile, Palestinian flags flutter undisturbed, and Pakistani independence gets a taxpayer-funded fanfare. It's a two-tier system, you see: one for the natives, who mustn't get uppity, and another for everyone else, who are encouraged to celebrate their heritage with all the gusto of a World Cup final. In Tower Hamlets, the 2025 decision to yank down those offending St. George's banners was executed with the efficiency of a health-and-safety inspector at a funfair. One imagines the council workers, hi-vis vests gleaming, muttering about "distractions" while ignoring the irony that the real distraction is a government that can't control its borders.

Into this farce steps the ghost of Sir Roger Scruton, that lamented philosopher who, back in his 2010 essay "The Need for Nations," dared to suggest that national symbols might actually be good for something beyond propping up a garden fence. Scruton, with his characteristic understatement, observed that the English are "reluctant to display their identity—reluctant to sing their national anthem, to wave their flag, or to affirm their nationhood." Reluctant? That's putting it mildly; we're talking about a people who treat their flag like an embarrassing relative at a wedding, best kept in the attic lest it offend the in-laws. Post-imperial guilt, mass immigration, and a multiculturalism that bends over backwards for minorities while giving the majority a stiff upper lip— these, Scruton argued, have conspired to make flag-waving taboo. And yet, he posited, such symbols aren't mere xenophobic relics; they're the glue that binds a shared identity, a collective memory, a way of life. Without them, we're left with "the steady erosion of something precious—a shared first-person plural," or in plainer terms, a nation that forgets what "we" means.

Scruton, ever the optimist in a world gone mad, warned that this reluctance invites cultural fragmentation and rootlessness. People wandering about, unsure of who they are or where they belong, like tourists in their own country. And lo, a 2019 study in the Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies obligingly confirmed his fears: multiculturalism's laser focus on minority rights has, quelle surprise, weakened cohesion among the majority. Who could have predicted that prioritizing everyone else's culture might leave the host feeling a tad overlooked? It's as if we've engineered a society where the English are the awkward guests at their own party, mumbling apologies while others raid the buffet. Recent events only amplify this delicious absurdity. Beyond the flag-pulling in Tower Hamlets, there's the charming tale of a school in Rugby turning away a girl for daring to wear a Union Jack dress—presumably because nothing screams "threat" like a child in patriotic attire. Echoing Scruton's warnings of "oikophobia," that peculiar fear of one's own home, these incidents paint a picture of a Britain where displaying national pride is treated like a faux pas at a diplomatic dinner. And let's not forget the 2023 YouGov poll, which revealed that a solid 60% of Britons feel their concerns about immigration are being blithely ignored. Sixty percent! That's not a fringe moan; that's a national chorus, drowned out by the cacophony of progressive platitudes.

One can't help but chuckle at the irony. Here we are, in a land that once ruled the waves, now reduced to guerrilla flag-hoisting as a form of protest. The "raising the colours" campaign isn't just about borders or billions squandered on housing migrants while locals queue for crumbs; it's a deeper cri de coeur against the erosion of that elusive "we." Scruton saw it coming: without symbols to rally around, nations splinter into tribes, each clutching their own banner while the common ground crumbles. The elites, of course, decry it as exclusionary, but as Scruton noted, a flag can be a unifying emblem, connecting the individual to a greater inheritance. It's where the solitary soul finds its place in the collective tapestry—or, if you prefer, where the bloke down the pub remembers he's part of something bigger than his pint.

Yet, in our satirical age, this movement feels almost quaint, like a Monty Python sketch where the Ministry of Silly Flags decrees what can and cannot fly. The participants—those viral videos of builders scaling lampposts—aren't firebrands; they're just fed up, articulating a frustration that's been simmering since the days when "multiculturalism" meant everyone gets along, not everyone but you. And as the councils scurry to remove the offending cloths, one wonders if they're not inadvertently fuelling the fire. After all, nothing unites like a common enemy, especially when that enemy is a clipboard-wielding official tut-tutting about "safety" while the real hazards—broken borders, social strain—go unaddressed.

In the end, perhaps Scruton was right: nations need their symbols, lest they dissolve into a rootless soup. The "raising the colours" campaign, with its makeshift defiance, is a sardonic nod to that truth. It's England stirring from its slumber, not with a roar but with a wry shrug and a flagpole. Will it spread? Will the elites finally notice that ignoring the majority is a recipe for backlash? Or will we continue this charade, where patriotism is pathologized and the flag treated like a guilty secret? One thing's certain: in this topsy-turvy isle, the act of waving a banner has become the ultimate act of rebellion. How very British.

TERENCE STAMP (1938 - 2025): AN OBITUARY

Terence Stamp, the silver-haired Cockney who made brooding an art form, has made his grand exit from the stage of mortality at the age of 87, leaving behind a legacy of piercing stares and villainous panache. Born in 1938 in London’s East End, where bombs fell and dreams were rationed, Stamp rose from tugboat stoker's son to cinematic icon, proving that even a lad from Stepney could out-charm the toffs. His death on August 17, 2025, closes a chapter on an actor who, as The Guardian once quipped, mastered the “brooding silence”—a skill he wielded like a velvet sledgehammer.

Stamp’s early career was a meteor shower in the Swinging Sixties. His debut as Billy Budd (1962) snagged an Oscar nomination, with critics fawning over his angelic cheekbones and haunted eyes. He was the face of the era, cavorting with Julie Christie and Jean Shrimpton, snapped by David Bailey for Box of Pin-Ups, the kind of cultural artefact that made lesser mortals feel inadequate. But fame, as Stamp learned, is a fickle mistress. By the decade’s end, Hollywood spat him out with the brutal verdict: “We’re looking for a younger Terence Stamp.” Ouch.

Undeterred, or perhaps just stubborn, Stamp decamped to India, chasing enlightenment with a chain-smoking guru above a public loo—because nothing says spiritual awakening like dysentery and second-hand smoke. His memoirs, Stamp Album and Rare Stamps, recount this period with a wry candour that makes you wonder if he was laughing or weeping. He returned to the screen in 1978 as General Zod in Superman and it's 1980 sequel, delivering “KNEEL BEFORE ZOD!!” with such glorious camp menace that it’s still quoted by nerds and tyrants alike. The role cemented him as the thinking man’s villain, a title he wore like a bespoke suit.

The ‘90s saw Stamp reinvent himself in The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert (1994), playing a trans woman with a dignity that outshone the sequins. His turn in The Limey (1999) was a masterclass in coiled rage, proving he could still steal a scene without breaking a sweat. He popped up in everything from Star Wars: Episode I (a bore, he admitted) to Valkyrie, where he dodged bombs with Tom Cruise and quipped that Hitler missed a chance to spare us his dodgier films.

Off-screen, Stamp was a curious mix of mystic and East End grit. He practiced yoga, peddled wheat-free cookbooks, and launched Escargot Books, because why not add “publisher” to his CV? His personal life—marriages, flings with supermodels, whispers of Princess Diana—was a soap opera scripted by a poet. He didn’t just act; he lived with a defiant twinkle, as if daring the world to keep up. May he brood eternally in that great close-up in the sky.

THE GREAT BRITISH BIN-FIRE

Oh, Britain, what a sorry spectacle you’ve become under the joyless reign of Sir Keir Starmer, that knight of the dreary realm, whose every utterance feels like a lecture from a headmaster who’s just discovered you’ve been chewing gum in assembly.

The nation is a stage, and Labour’s latest production in Birmingham is a tragicomedy so absurd it could only be penned by a playwright with a grudge against reason. Picture the scene: English and British flags, those fluttering emblems of a proud, if battered, identity, are deemed “dangerous” by a Labour-run council, targeted for removal like some offensive graffiti. Meanwhile, Palestinian flags wave unmolested, and Pakistani flags are hoisted high for Independence Day, as if Birmingham were auditioning for a role as a globalist theme park. All this while 21,000 tonnes of rubbish festers in the streets, a monument to Labour’s inability to manage even the basics of civic life. And out there, across the Atlantic, the Trump-Putin summit in Alaska looms like a rogue comet, offering a faint, flickering hope that the world might yet be dragged back from the far-left abyss—perhaps even rendering the EU impotent, toppling Zelensky’s regime, and sounding the death knell for the globalist pipe dream of supra-national governance. Forgive me, dear reader, for I am weary, and this lament is soaked in the despair of a patriot watching his country slide into a bin-strewn farce.

Let’s start with Birmingham, my beloved home, the once-proud heart of England’s industrial might, now reduced to a stage for Labour’s sanctimonious posturing. The council, in its infinite wisdom, has declared English and British flags a menace, as if the St. George’s Cross were a Molotov cocktail and the Union Jack a public health hazard. Never mind that these symbols represent the very nation that funds their salaries; no, they must be torn down, lest they offend the delicate sensibilities of… whom, exactly? The same council, with a straight face, leaves Palestinian flags flapping in the breeze and raises Pakistani ones to celebrate a foreign nation’s independence, all while the streets choke on uncollected rubbish. The bin strike, a festering sore of Labour’s making, has turned Birmingham into a landfill with pretensions, a city where rats hold court and the air hums with the stench of incompetence. Unite union activists, those champions of the working class, have the gall to call for a “real workers’ party” while leaving 21,000 tonnes of garbage to rot, as if the proletariat’s greatest aspiration is to wade through filth.

This is Starmer’s Britain: a place where national pride is a crime, but foreign flags and civic decay are sacrosanct, whilst the man himself looks gormlessly on like he was born to chair a committee on paperclip allocation. His Labour Party, once the voice of the working class, now panders to the far-left globalist crowd with the enthusiasm of a convert at a revival meeting. The working people of the West—those plumbers, builders, and shopkeepers who just want a fair shake and a country they can recognize—are crying out for a return to the centre-right, a politics of common sense, national sovereignty, and pride in their heritage. Yet Starmer and his ilk are hell-bent on dragging us toward a far-left dystopia, where borders are suggestions, identity is a buffet, and the state’s only job is to lecture you on your privilege while failing to empty your bins. The Birmingham farce is a microcosm of this betrayal: a council more concerned with symbolic gestures than the basic dignity of a functioning city.

But hark! Across the ocean, a glimmer of defiance. The Trump-Putin summit in Alaska, held on August 15, 2025, at Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson, is a middle finger to the globalist elite who thought they could choreograph the world’s future. Donald Trump, that orange-hued agent of chaos, and Vladimir Putin, the steely-eyed autocrat, are meeting to discuss the Russia-Ukraine war, a conflict that has exposed the EU’s impotence like a spotlight on a bad actor. Trump’s brash promise to end the war “in 24 hours” may be bombast, but it’s a bombast born of a refusal to kowtow to the supra-national script. The EU, that bureaucratic behemoth, flails in the background, issuing statements about “standing firmly” with Ukraine while its leaders scramble to coordinate a response to a summit they weren’t invited to. Zelensky, ever the defiant showman, rails against being excluded, insisting that Ukraine’s fate can’t be decided without him. Yet the reality is stark: the EU’s “unwavering commitment” is a paper tiger, its sanctions a damp squib, and its dreams of a borderless utopia are crumbling under the weight of their own contradictions.

This summit, for all its risks, is a rare moment of clarity in a world fogged by globalist cant. Trump’s willingness to sit down with Putin, sans the sanctimonious hand-wringing of Brussels, signals a rejection of the supra-national dogma that has shackled the West for too long. The EU’s impotence is laid bare: a union that can’t defend its own borders or agree on a coherent foreign policy is no match for leaders who, whatever their flaws, play to win. If Trump and Putin manage to broker a deal—however imperfect—it could hasten the collapse of Zelensky’s regime, not because of malice but because his Western backers have overpromised and underdelivered. A Ukraine forced to negotiate, perhaps even to cede territory, would expose the fragility of the globalist project, which thrives on the illusion of eternal unity. And with that collapse could come the end of the EU’s grand ambitions, the WEF’s technocratic fantasies, and the whole rotten edifice of supra-national governance that seeks to erase nations in favour of a homogenized, sterile, soulless dystopian superstate.

Yet my heart aches, for the working-class soul of the West is being smothered. In Birmingham, in Bolton, in every town where the St. George’s Cross is treated like a biohazard, the people’s desire for a centre-right revival—a politics of sovereignty, pride, and practical governance—is being drowned out by the far-left’s siren song. Starmer’s Labour, with its obsession with globalist pieties, is not just failing to empty the bins; it’s failing to hear the cry of a nation that wants its identity back. The Trump-Putin summit, for all its theatricality, is a rare crack in the globalist armour, a chance to upend the EU’s smug certainties and remind the world that nations, not bureaucracies, are the heartbeat of history.

So, people of the West, let this be your lament and your rallying cry. Rise against the Starmerites, who would rather hoist foreign flags than honor their own. Rise against the EU, a dinosaur of dogma too feeble to face the future. Rise against the globalist institutions—the WEF, the UN, the whole alphabet soup of unelected meddlers—who think they can dictate your destiny. Support the defiant, like Trump and Putin, who, for all their sins, dare to challenge the supra-national status quo. And pray that this summit, this unlikely collision of titans, delivers a blow to the Zelensky regime’s illusions and the EU’s arrogance, paving the way for a world where nations stand tall, flags fly proud, and the bins—God help us—are finally emptied.

The dream of supra-national governance must die, and with it, the far-left madness that threatens to bury us all. Let’s make it so, with all the despair and defiance we can muster.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "THE NAKED GUN" (2025)

The 2025 "Naked Gun" reboot, directed by Akiva Schaffer, arrives like a clown car at a funeral—gleefully inappropriate, overstuffed with gags, and somehow, against all odds, a riotous good time. It’s a legacy sequel that doesn’t so much dust off the Zucker-Abrahams-Zucker (ZAZ) formula as it does strap it to a rocket and launch it into the present, propelled by the improbable comedic might of Liam Neeson and Pamela Anderson. This is a film that knows its place: a gleeful, 85-minute assault on the funny bone, less concerned with reinventing the wheel than with running it over pedestrians in a police cruiser. And yet, for all its adherence to the slapstick gospel, it’s Neeson and Anderson who elevate this farce from mere nostalgia to a masterclass in deadpan lunacy.

The plot, such as it is, follows Frank Drebin Jr. (Neeson), son of Leslie Nielsen’s iconic buffoon, as he bumbles through a conspiracy involving a tech mogul named Richard Cane (Danny Huston, oozing smarm like a discount Elon Musk). Enter Beth Davenport (Anderson), a femme fatale with a voice like a smoky lounge and a brain like a particularly dim chandelier. Together, they unravel a scheme involving a “P.L.O.T. Device” (yes, it’s labelled as such), dodging bullets, bad puns, and Frank’s own trousers with the grace of a drunk giraffe. The story is a clothesline for gags—sight gags, wordplay, and a chili-dog-induced bathroom meltdown that deserves its own Oscar for scatological audacity. It’s not War and Peace, but it’s not trying to be; it’s a Zucker-esque fever dream, and it hits more often than it misses.

Visually, the film is a love letter to the ZAZ aesthetic, all garish colours and exaggerated noir shadows, with a modern polish that keeps it from feeling like a museum piece. Schaffer, a Lonely Island alum, directs with a manic precision, packing every frame with visual Easter eggs and throwaway gags—a coffee cup handed to Frank in every other scene, a “customers served” scoreboard for dispatched henchmen. The action sequences are absurdly well-choreographed, blending slapstick with a knowing nod to Neeson’s Taken-era heroics. Lorne Balfe’s score, riffing on the classic Police Squad! theme, adds a brassy swagger that makes even the most ludicrous moments feel oddly epic. It’s a film that looks like it was born in a comic book and raised in a vaudeville hall, and it’s all the better for it.

Now, to the beating heart of this lunacy: Liam Neeson. The man who once growled his way through Taken with a particular set of skills here deploys a particular set of sills, turning Frank Drebin Jr. into a grizzled, coffee-slurping parody of his own action-hero persona. Neeson’s deadpan is a thing of beauty—his gravelly delivery of lines about the Black Eyed Peas or Buffy the Vampire Slayer is so earnest it could make a stone weep with laughter. Whether he’s karate-chopping goons or lamenting his TiVo’s loss of Sex and the City episodes, Neeson plays it straight, never winking, never faltering, as if he’s auditioning for a Shakespearean tragedy rather than a film where he dresses as a schoolgirl to foil a bank heist. It’s a performance that doesn’t just honour Nielsen’s legacy; it carves out its own, proving that Neeson, at 73, is as much a comedic force as he is a dramatic one.

And then there’s Pamela Anderson, who, as Beth Davenport, steals scenes with the effortless charm of a woman who’s been underestimated her entire career. Channelling Priscilla Presley’s Jane Spencer with a breezy, ditzy allure, Anderson delivers lines like “I see UCLA every day, I live here” with a breathy sincerity that lands like a perfectly timed rimshot. Her chemistry with Neeson is electric, particularly in a deranged love montage involving a Satanic snowman that spirals into Too Many Cooks-level absurdity. Anderson’s comedic timing is impeccable, her every glance and toss of hair a masterstroke of parody. She’s not just playing a femme fatale; she’s playing the idea of one, and the result is a performance that’s as hilarious as it is revelatory. If her work in The Last Showgirl was a comeback, this is a coronation.

"The Naked Gun" is a triumph of commitment to the bit, a film that revels in its own stupidity with such gusto that you can’t help but laugh along. It’s not flawless—the third act sags under the weight of its own plot, and some jokes feel like they were exhumed from a 2000s time capsule—but Neeson and Anderson carry it with such infectious zeal that you forgive the misfires. This is a film that knows exactly what it is: a big, dumb, beautiful return to the kind of comedy that demands a theatre full of strangers cackling together. It’s a B+ effort that feels like an A for effort, and in a world starved for laughs, that’s more than enough.

BRITS, BANNERS, AND BALLOT BOX BLUNDERS

In the grand tapestry of British life, where the warp of tradition meets the weft of chaos, we find ourselves once again embroiled in a spectacle that could only be described as quintessentially British: the migrant hotel protests of 2025. Picture, if you will, the working-class Brit, that noble creature of calloused hands and indomitable spirit, standing outside a repurposed Travelodge or a four-star Britannia in Canary Wharf, waving a Union Jack with the sort of dogged determination usually reserved for queuing at a chip shop on a rainy Friday. 

These are not the baying mobs of dystopian fiction, nor the frothing zealots of some far-right fever dream. No, these are ordinary folk—plumbers, nurses, the odd retired postman—who have taken to the streets with placards and thermos flasks, politely demanding that their government stop housing asylum seekers in hotels that cost more per night than their weekly grocery budget. And, in a twist that would make even the most jaded satirist chuckle, they’re doing it with a civility that could only be British. One half-expects them to apologise to the police for the inconvenience before heading home for a cuppa.

Let us first raise a sardonic eyebrow to the peaceful nature of these protests. In an age where public dissent often descends into a pantomime of hurled bricks and Molotov cocktails, the British working class has opted for a different approach: the art of standing about, looking cross, and occasionally chanting something about “our country” that sounds more like a football terrace ditty than a call to arms. In Norwich, they gathered outside the Brook Hotel, waving flags and voicing fears about local safety, prompted by the inconvenient fact that two former hotel residents were jailed for sex offences. In Epping, the Bell Hotel became a focal point after an asylum seeker’s alleged indiscretion with a teenage girl, sparking demonstrations that were less riot and more resolute grumbling. These are not the actions of a mob but of a people who, having exhausted their patience with bureaucratic platitudes, have decided to make their point with the quiet stubbornness of a nation that once waited out the Blitz with a kettle on.

And yet, across the barricades—those literal and metaphorical lines guarded by weary coppers in high-vis vests—lurks a counterpoint that could only be conjured by the fevered imaginations of the far-left. Enter the government-sponsored counter-protests, a ragtag coalition of anti-racism activists, Revolutionary Communist Party flag-wavers, and the occasional Islington Labour councillor, all clutching placards proclaiming “REFUGEES ARE WELCOME HERE” with the sanctimonious zeal of a vegan at a butcher’s convention. These are the state’s anointed foot soldiers, dispatched to drown out the working-class murmur with a cacophony of moral superiority. In Islington, at the Thistle City Barbican, they faced off against the anti-migrant protesters, separated by police who must have wondered if their Saturday might have been better spent ticketing jaywalkers. Some counter-protesters, masked and dressed in black, decided that “anti-fascism” required breaching police lines, resulting in nine arrests and a scene that resembled less a principled stand than a performance art piece gone awry.

Oh, how the government loves its counter-protesters, those earnest souls who believe that shouting louder makes their cause truer. The Home Office, under the steely gaze of Yvette Cooper, has thrown £100 million at tackling people smuggling, as if throwing money at a problem were a substitute for solving it. Meanwhile, the Labour government, fresh from its electoral triumph, assures us that it’s “reducing expensive hotel use” while fast-tracking asylum claims with all the finesse of a toddler assembling IKEA furniture. One might almost admire the audacity of it all: a government that campaigned on “change” now finds itself defending the same creaking asylum system it inherited, while sponsoring counter-demonstrations to shout down the very electorate it claims to represent. It’s a masterclass in political sleight-of-hand, distracting from the fact that 32,000 asylum seekers are still languishing in 210 hotels, costing taxpayers more than a night at the Ritz.

But here’s the rub, and it’s where our tale takes a mournful turn. Had the British electorate, in its infinite wisdom, not treated the ballot box like a blunt instrument for bludgeoning the Conservatives out of power, we might not be here at all. The Labour Party, swept into office on a wave of anti-Tory sentiment, promised competence but delivered continuity. The Conservative government, for all its faults—and let us not pretend they were few—had at least flirted with ideas like the Rwanda plan, a scheme so gloriously absurd it might have worked if only for its sheer audacity. But no, the British voter, in a fit of pique, decided that Keir Starmer’s brand of earnest blandness was the antidote to 14 years of Tory chaos. The result? A government that’s less stringent on immigration than a sieve is on water, leaving the working class to take to the streets in protest when a more discerning vote might have pre-empted the need.

Imagine, if you will, a world where the electorate had cast its ballots with the precision of a darts player rather than the abandon of a toddler with a crayon. A government—perhaps led by Reform UK, or even a reinvigorated Tory party with a spine—might have implemented an immigration process that didn’t involve housing asylum seekers in four-star hotels while locals fret about their daughters’ safety. A system that processed claims swiftly, deported those without merit, and didn’t leave communities feeling like their concerns were being drowned out by megaphones wielded by state-backed ideologues. Instead, we have a Labour government that seems to believe the answer to public discontent is to lecture it into submission, while the Home Office churns through asylum claims with the efficiency of a sloth on sedatives.

So, hats off to the working-class Brits who’ve taken to the streets, not with pitchforks but with placards, not with violence but with the quiet resolve of a people who’ve had enough. Your protests are a model of restraint, a testament to the peculiar British knack for being furious without being feral. But let us not pretend that this is the optimal solution. If only you’d wielded your vote with the same clarity you’ve shown in your demonstrations, we might not be here, watching the government play whack-a-mole with public discontent while counter-protesters wave their flags like extras in a low-budget revolution. 

The migrant hotel protests are a symptom, not the disease—a reminder that democracy demands more than just showing up; it requires thinking, too. And as the Union Jacks flutter and the thermos flasks are drained, one can only hope that next time, the ballot box will be treated with the respect it deserves, lest we find ourselves back here, politely protesting the inevitable.

THE GOLDEN AGE OF BRUISES & COMMON SENSE

Let me take you back, dear reader, to a time so idyllic it might as well have been a sepia-toned advertisement for broken bones and unfiltered tap water. I grew up in an era devoid of safe spaces—those cushioned havens where today’s youth retreat to knit their feelings back together after a harsh word. Trigger warnings? We didn’t need them; we had gravity, and it was a stern teacher. I drank from the garden hose, a practice that, in retrospect, might explain my current obsession with antibiotics. Peanuts in class? Tossed like confetti at a particularly nutty wedding. Helmets? Oh, please. We wore our scars like medals, signing each other’s plaster casts with the enthusiasm of autograph hunters at a circus of the maimed.

In those days, children fell down. Frequently. It was practically a national sport, second only to arguing over who got to be Mario when the Nintendo—yes, the original, with its charmingly blocky graphics and zero save functionality—finally graced our lives. Before that, we battled on Atari, a console so primitive it made modern gaming look like a PhD in quantum physics. But let’s not kid ourselves: we spent more time outdoors, scuffing knees on concrete, or indoors with a book, squinting by lamplight because energy-saving bulbs were a dystopian fantasy. Board games reigned supreme, and if the power went out mid-Nintendo epic, well, you prayed to the gods of electricity and hoped your parents didn’t notice the controller-shaped dent in the wall.

Television was a communal affair. No pausing, no streaming—when the commercials ended, you bellowed “It’s on!” like a town crier announcing the plague’s retreat. Families gathered, glued to the set, watching shows that didn’t require a degree in cultural studies to decipher. Delivery? Next-day was a pipe dream; you waited weeks for a mail-order catalogue, then months for the item to arrive, slightly damaged and smelling of regret. Skip the Dishes? We skipped to the kitchen, where fast food was a rare treat, not a lifestyle, and eating healthy was less a choice than a consequence of having no other options.

Communication was an art form. Home phones ruled, their curly cords a battlefield for teenage privacy. Texting? We wrote letters—yes, with pens—and waited days for a reply. Social media was the chatter over the backyard fence. To find friends, we pedalled our bikes through the neighbourhood, a quest as perilous as any medieval pilgrimage, yet undertaken with the carefree abandon of youth. Sleepovers on the trampoline, under a sky unpolluted by Wi-Fi signals, were the norm—parents leaving the back door unlocked, a gesture of trust now unthinkable in our age of perpetual panic.

Chores were non-negotiable. No pocket money, just the grim satisfaction of a job well done—dishes washed, lawns mowed, all under the watchful eye of discipline. Spankings were administered with the precision of a Victorian governess, and somehow, miracle of miracles, we survived. Lessons were learned, character was forged, and we didn’t need a therapist to unpack the trauma. Lunches were packed, teachers taught rather than preached, and the school library housed no porn—unless you count that one National Geographic with the topless tribeswoman, which we ogled with the innocence of anthropologists in training.

Ah, but the world has turned, hasn’t it? Once a place of relative calm, it’s now a circus of outrage, where people glue themselves to roadways as if tarmac is the new canvas for protest art. Gender, once a simple binary, has become a labyrinthine debate—women with penises, men with pregnancies, and female athletes pitted against biological males in the name of inclusivity, a policy that sounds noble until you realize it’s just bad sportsmanship with extra steps. Underage girls lose healthy breasts to surgical zeal, children are medicated into submission, and obesity stalks the land like a particularly sluggish plague. Immigration, once manageable, now strains under unsustainable waves, while diversity is heralded as salvation even as it fractures cohesion. Muslim values, once foreign, are repackaged as Western, and the government—bless its meddling heart—hands out drugs to addicts and freezes accounts of dissenters with the enthusiasm of a tax collector on overtime.

We didn’t live with fingers poised over the outrage button, ready to shriek at every slight. Anger was rarer, life simpler. There were no apps, no endless scrolling, just the rhythm of days unburdened by digital noise. Sticks and stones were real, and hurt feelings were a badge of resilience, not a call to arms. Today’s children, poor mites, inherit a world where common sense is an endangered species, and I can’t help but wonder if we’ve traded our bruises for a padded cell of our own making.

So here I sit, a relic of a bygone age, typing this on a device that would have seemed like witchcraft in my youth. The past wasn’t perfect—far from it—but it had a certain rough charm, a grit that’s been polished away by progress. Or so I tell myself, as I sip my filtered water and adjust my helmet for the short walk to the mailbox. Nostalgia, it seems, is the last refuge of the curmudgeon. And I, dear reader, am its willing prisoner.

JAMES WHALE (1946 - 2025): AN OBITUARY

James Whale, the broadcasting bruiser who turned late-night radio into a verbal cage fight, has signed off from the airwaves of life at 74, leaving behind a trail of outraged callers and a legacy as Britain’s original shock jock. Diagnosed with kidney cancer in 2000, he dodged the reaper’s first swipe only for the disease to return in 2020, spreading to his spine, brain, and lungs like an unwelcome houseguest who refuses to leave. He faced the end with a grin, slipping away “very gently” in a Kent hospice, as his wife Nadine noted, proving that even death couldn’t dim his knack for exiting on his own terms.

Whale, who began his career spinning discs at Metro Radio in 1974, stumbled into talk radio like a man tripping over a goldmine. Bored of playing records, he invited callers to spar, pioneering the art of “confrontainment” with a voice that could cut glass and a wit sharper than a butcher’s cleaver. His James Whale Radio Show, simulcast on ITV in the late ’80s, was less a programme than a cultural car crash, complete with scantily clad “bimbos,” celebrity spats, and jingles like “Fart (wet).” He revelled in the chaos, once storming off his own set, only to steer the ship with a rogue’s charm.

Whale’s stint on GB News was like tossing a Molotov cocktail into a room full of damp squibs. Joining the fledgling channel in 2021, he brought his radio-honed brawl to television, hosting a show that was less a broadcast than a verbal demolition derby. With a raised eyebrow and a sneer, he skewered politicians, pundits, and the perpetually offended, delighting in the sparks. His GB News tenure, though brief, was a masterclass in poking the bear—whether railing against “woke” nonsense or championing free speech with the zeal of a man allergic to silence.

A man of contradictions, Whale despised racism, homophobia, and vegetarians with equal gusto, his prejudices as eclectic as a jukebox in a dive bar. He championed tougher sentences but scoffed at the death penalty, proving he could argue both sides of a coin while pocketing it. His 2016 Celebrity Big Brother stint saw him warbling nursery rhymes in pink drag, a spectacle that suggested either fearless showmanship or a cry for help.

His final act was pure Whale: podcasting from a hospice, bantering with Nadine, and urging fans to fund the place that eased his exit. “I’m happy to go now,” he said, with the calm of a man who’d already told the world to sod off. Survived by Nadine, two sons, and a legion of listeners who loved or loathed him, Whale’s voice—part growl, part smirk—leaves a silence no one else can fill. Au revoir, not goodbye, as he’d say, with a wink that could start a riot.