THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "DOCTOR WHO - "WISH WORLD" (S2 EP7)

In the frenetic, time-twisting tapestry of Doctor Who, last night’s episode, Wish World—aired May 24, 2025—arrives like a fever dream, all glitter and grandiosity, yet faltering under the weight of its own ambitions. This penultimate chapter of the season, penned by Russell T Davies, plunges the Doctor and Belinda into a warped 1950s-esque reality, a dystopian fairytale that owes a conspicuous debt to WandaVision. 

While the episode dazzles with its visuals and Archie Panjabi’s electrifying turn as the Rani, its plot creaks like a TARDIS with a loose bolt, overstuffed with ideas that never quite cohere. It’s a spectacle that thrills in the moment but leaves one longing for a tighter script, as if Davies has raided Marvel’s playbook without quite mastering its emotional finesse.

The visuals are a triumph, a kaleidoscope of retro-futurist suburbia and nightmarish flourishes that scream Doctor Who at its most audacious. The Harmony Arena’s bone palace, with its James Bond-esque dome, is a production design marvel, while animated sequences, dinosaurs stalking London, and a wish-granting baby’s eerie giggle evoke a Tim Burton fever dream. Director Alex Sanjiv Pillai crafts a world where every frame pops, from the Stepford-like streets to the Rani’s spiky leather swagger, a nod to Kate O’Mara’s original. These visuals, paired with a haunting score, make Wish World a feast for the senses, even if the narrative can’t keep pace.

Archie Panjabi, as the newly bi-generated Rani, is the episode’s supernova, chewing scenery with a relish that’s both camp and chilling. Her performance transforms the Rani from a niche Time Lord into a galactic force, striding through her bone palace with a punky menace that fits her like a glove. Whether taunting the Doctor with a disco ball dance or weaving a reality-shattering scheme, Panjabi commands every scene, her Emmy-winning gravitas lending depth to a character once dismissed as a Master-lite. Her interplay with Anita Dobson’s Mrs. Flood—a subservient Rani variant—is a delight, their dynamic a mix of menace and mischief. Panjabi’s Rani is a villain you love to hate, her every line dripping with theatrical venom, making her the episode’s undeniable highlight.

Varada Sethu, as Belinda Chandra, continues to shine, her nurse’s pragmatism anchoring the Doctor’s disorientation. Her scenes in the faux-domestic bliss of Wish World, particularly in moments of doubt, grounds the episode’s wilder swings, though she’s underused in the latter half.

Yet, the plot is where Wish World stumbles, a chaotic jumble that feels like a WandaVision photocopy run through a Doctor Who filter. The setup—Conrad Clark (Jonah Hauer-King) crafting a repressive utopia with the Rani’s wish-granting god-baby Desiderium—echoes Wanda Maximoff’s grief-fueled Hex. The Doctor and Belinda wake as a married couple with a daughter, Poppy, in a 1950s Britain rife with homophobia and ableism, a critique of tradwife totalitarianism that feels like Stepford with a sonic screwdriver. 

The WandaVision comparison is inescapable and not entirely flattering. Davies’ love for Marvel, evident in his nods to Loki and Star Wars this season, here feels like a direct lift, with the Doctor’s “John Smith” alias mirroring Wanda’s suburban delusion. The episode’s ambition is admirable, but its rushed pacing and reliance on Time Lord lore, like Omega’s looming return, dilute its impact. It’s as if Davies, enamoured with Marvel’s reality-bending playbook, forgot to ground his story in the emotional stakes that made his first Who run soar.

Still, Panjabi’s Rani and the episode’s visual flair keep Wish World afloat. The cliffhanger—the Doctor plummeting into the Underverse as Omega’s voice booms—promises a finale of epic scope, per Radio Times. It’s a bold setup, but one hopes Davies can weave these threads into a tapestry less derivative and more cohesive than this outing.

Ten Interesting Things from Wish World:

• Panjabi’s Punk Rani: Archie Panjabi’s theatrical menace as the Rani, swaggering in a spiky leather coat, reinvents the villain with camp and gravitas.

• Bone Palace Spectacle: The Rani’s domed base, a “James Bond set” is a visual stunner, with animated dinosaur skeletons prowling London.

• WandaVision Echoes: The 1950s dystopia, with the Doctor and Belinda as a married couple, blatantly channels WandaVision.

• Belinda’s Poise: Varada Sethu’s Belinda, radiant in retro attire that subtly flatters her form, grounds the chaos with quiet strength.

• Desiderium’s Creepy Giggle: The wish-granting baby, a “terrifying” god, adds a fairy-tale chill with its eerie laugh.

• Conrad’s Dystopia: Jonah Hauer-King’s Conrad crafts a repressive utopia, a “tradwife totalitarianism” that remains chillingly plausible.

• Ruby’s Resistance: Millie Gibson’s Ruby, teaming with Shirley (Ruth Madeley), forms a resistance that feels underused but potent.

• Rani’s Bi-Generation Dynamic: Panjabi and Anita Dobson’s interplay, with Mrs. Flood as a subservient Rani, is a barrel of laughs.

• Omega’s Looming Return: The cliff-hanger tease of Omega, voiced but unseen, promises Gallifreyan high stakes for a character not seen since the Peter Davison episode "Arc of Infinity".

• Social Commentary: Davies’ critique of conservatism and thought policing, while heavy-handed, resonates in 2025’s fraught climate.

PATRICK O'FLYNN (1965 - 2025): AN OBITUARY

Patrick O’Flynn, who has shuffled off this mortal coil at an age he’d likely have described as “none of your business,” was a journalist and politician whose pen was mightier than the sword, though he’d have argued the sword was underused in modern politics. A man who wore his nationalism and conservatism like a well-tailored tweed suit—slightly out of fashion but impeccably cut—O’Flynn spent his career skewering the pompous and the progressive with a wit so dry it could desiccate a bog.

Born in 1965, O’Flynn emerged from King’s College, Cambridge, with an economics degree and a suspicion of elites that would define his work. He cut his teeth at the Daily Express, rising to political editor, where his columns thundered with the kind of righteous indignation that made readers nod sagely over their morning tea or choke on their cornflakes. His was a voice that could make a Labour leader sound like a Buddhist monk at a Vegas casino—utterly out of place and faintly ridiculous.

O’Flynn’s flirtation with the UK Independence Party (UKIP) saw him elected as an MEP in 2014, a role he embraced with the zeal of a man who’d just discovered the EU was taxing his pint. His defection to the Social Democratic Party in 2018, citing UKIP’s dalliance with less savoury characters, was less a political pirouette than a stomping exit from a party he felt had lost its way. “I joined the SDP,” he declared, “because it espouses broad and moderate pro-nation state values,” which was his way of saying he preferred his nationalism with a side of civility, not a knuckle sandwich.

At The Spectator, where he scribbled regular columns, O’Flynn’s prose danced a jig between satire and sermon. He took aim at Keir Starmer with the precision of a darts player in an old Camden pub, calling him “vain, out-of-touch, humourless,” and suggesting Nigel Farage could have him “on the ropes” at PMQs. His disdain for multiculturalism’s failings and his warnings of “white identity politics” were less dog-whistle than foghorn, sounding alarms that echoed from Westminster to the West Country.

Like Clive James, whose satirical verse he might have envied, O’Flynn had a knack for exposing the absurdities of the powerful while maintaining a twinkle in his eye. His writing was a protective reef around the Britain he loved—one of sovereignty, scepticism, and the occasional pint. He was no mere hack; he was a craftsman of cantankerous charm, wielding words like a fencer with a foil, sharp and precise, but never cruel.

O’Flynn leaves behind a legacy of columns that read like love letters to a nation he feared was unravelling, and a warning to future scribes: if you must tilt at windmills, do it with style and a smirk. He is survived by his wife, Carole Ann, his son and daughter, as well as his readers, who will miss his mordant wit, and by politicians, who will sleep easier without it.

SELL-OUT STARMER AND THE QUIET DESKS OF DISCONTENT

In the grand tradition of British stoicism, we find ourselves once again sipping tea through gritted teeth, muttering darkly about the state of things while doing precisely nothing about it. Cornwall7000, a voice of the ever-exasperated on X, posed the question on May 18, 2025, that has been brewing in the minds of many a disgruntled citizen: “What’s the tipping point for nationwide mass demonstrations against this awful government? I feel it’s close.” Oh, the optimism! 

One can almost hear the kettles whistling in unison, a prelude to the revolution that never quite arrives. And then Marks Safaniya, with the weary cynicism of a man who’s seen one too many promises broken, replies: “We are a nation of oppressed people who are so busy and tired feeding and caring for our families that we have no appetite to respond. The government are going to sign us back into Europe against the majority vote and 9yrs of struggle and we will do exactly nothing.” Here, in this exchange, lies the quintessential British tragedy—a yearning for revolt so palpable you could spread it on toast, yet a resignation so deep it might as well be the national anthem.

Let us rewind, shall we, to the heady days of 2016, when the British public, in a rare moment of collective decisiveness, voted 51.9% to leave the European Union, according to the Electoral Commission. It was a decision that sent shockwaves through the corridors of Brussels and Westminster alike, a middle finger to the technocrats who thought they knew better. For a fleeting moment, it felt like the people had spoken—loudly, rudely, and with the kind of conviction usually reserved for queuing etiquette. But oh, how quickly the dream soured. Nine years of struggle followed, a Kafkaesque nightmare of withdrawal agreements, backstops, and betrayals, each more convoluted than the last. And now, in 2025, under the iron grip of Sir Keir Starmer’s Labour government, the whispers of rejoining the EU grow louder, a betrayal so brazen it could only be British in its execution—delivered with a polite smile and a cup of lukewarm tea.

Starmer, of course, is a man of principles, which is to say he has none that can’t be adjusted to suit the mood of the room. As the National Centre for Social Research reminds us, back in 2019, Starmer was the poster boy for a second referendum, a knight in shining Remain armor, ready to lead Labour back into the loving embrace of the EU. Fast forward to 2024, and the man who once campaigned for Europe with the fervor of a televangelist now declares, after securing a majority, that reopening the Brexit debate would bring “turmoil and uncertainty.” How noble of him to spare us the chaos—never mind that two-thirds of his own voters, 66% to be precise, think there should be another EU vote within the next five years. The remaining 26% who don’t are presumably too busy trying to afford their heating bills to care. Starmer’s moral compass, it seems, points firmly in the direction of power, a North Star that never wavers, even as 78% of Labour voters in 2024 would vote to rejoin the EU if given the chance. Democracy, it appears, is a dish best served cold and ignored.

But let us not lay all the blame at Starmer’s feet. The British public, bless them, have played their part in this farce with the kind of apathy that would make a sloth look industrious. Marks Safaniya’s lament on X—that we are too tired, too busy, too broken to rise up—is not just a personal cri de cœur but a national diagnosis. The LSE Public Policy Review paints a grim picture: real wages in the UK have stagnated for the longest period in two centuries, a decline so persistent it’s practically a cultural artifact. Since 2008, average earnings growth has limped along at a measly 0.2% annually, according to the Institute for Fiscal Studies in 2024. Inequality festers like damp in a Victorian terrace, and the labour market institutions that once promised fairness now seem as outdated as a fax machine. Is it any wonder, then, that the British people, once the proud architects of empire, now find themselves too knackered to storm the barricades? The revolution, it seems, has been postponed due to exhaustion.

And yet, the yearning for a “very British revolution” persists, a quiet, simmering rage that bubbles beneath the surface of every overpriced pint and every delayed train. Cornwall7000’s question—“What’s the tipping point?”—is less a call to arms and more a desperate plea for someone, anyone, to light the fuse. But who will do it? 

Not the public, apparently, who are too busy Googling how to stretch a tin of beans into three meals. Not the opposition, who are as effective as a paper umbrella in a hurricane. And certainly not the government, who seem to view the will of the people as a minor inconvenience, like a spot of rain on a bank holiday. The Labour government’s rumored plan to drag us back into the EU, against the 2016 vote and nine years of struggle, is not just a betrayal of democracy—it’s a masterclass in moral cowardice. They know the public is divided; a YouGov poll from 2024 showed 55% now favor rejoining, a shift from 2019 when a petition to revoke Article 50 garnered 6.1 million signatures. But to act without a mandate, without a vote, is to treat the electorate like children who can’t be trusted with sharp objects.

The EU itself, of course, is no innocent bystander in this melodrama. For years, it has played the role of the jilted lover, alternately wooing and scolding Britain with the kind of passive-aggressive energy that would make a soap opera writer blush. The technocrats in Brussels, with their clipboards and their regulations, have never quite forgiven us for leaving, and now they sense an opportunity to reel us back in, like a fisherman with a particularly stubborn catch. But the EU’s moral failings are as glaring as Labour’s: a bloated bureaucracy that prioritizes its own survival over the needs of its people, a monolith that lectures on unity while ignoring the voices of those who dare to dissent. If Labour’s sin is betrayal, the EU’s is arrogance—a belief that it knows best, even when the evidence suggests otherwise.

So here we are, in May 2025, teetering on the edge of something that might, in a parallel universe, be called a revolution. But this is Britain, where revolutions are more likely to involve a strongly worded letter to the council than a march on Westminster. The discontent is real—Cornwall7000 and Marks Safaniya are but two voices in a chorus of millions—but the action is lacking. Perhaps it’s the weather, perpetually grey and uninspiring. Perhaps it’s the economy, which has left us all too poor to afford the pitchforks. Or perhaps it’s simply who we are: a nation of grumblers, not fighters, who would rather endure a thousand betrayals than risk the embarrassment of making a scene.

In the end, the “very British revolution” we yearn for may never come. Labour will likely sign us back into the EU, or at least try to, and we will, as Marks Safaniya predicts, “do exactly nothing.” The EU will welcome us back with open arms and a laundry list of conditions, and Starmer will smile for the cameras, secure in the knowledge that he’s dodged another bullet. And we, the great British public, will shuffle on, muttering into our tea about the good old days when our votes meant something. 

It’s a tragedy, to be sure, but it’s our tragedy—a uniquely British blend of frustration, resignation, and the faintest flicker of hope that one day, just maybe, we’ll find the energy to care. Until then, the revolution remains a dream, as distant and unattainable as a sunny bank holiday. Cheers to that.