-an OD of Toughts-

Some movies leave you speechless because they’re extraordinary. Then there are the sort that leave you speechless because you haven’t the faintest bloody idea what just happened. In the Blink of an Eye proudly belongs to the latter category — a film so convinced of its own brilliance it practically pats itself on the back for existing. You can tell this is one of those films right from the first minute. It opens with a mournful piano note, a sweeping shot of something cosmic, and a voice‑over muttering about time, memory, and destiny — which in movie language translates as: “We haven’t got a plot, but hang on, it’ll look expensive.” The Great Time‑Travel Soup The story — and I’m being generous calling it that — tumbles across three timelines. In one, a bunch of astronauts drift through space in a ship that resembles a high‑end Nespresso machine. In another, people on Earth are making grand speeches about connection and consciousness, as if TED Talks had invaded the apocalypse. And...

We Might Regret This is the sort of series the BBC normally commissions only after a three-year workshop on feelings, four diversity taskforces and a stern email from HR. Instead, someone clearly slipped through a script that’s filthy, sharp and actually funny – and then had the nerve to put a tetraplegic woman front and centre without turning her into a walking, talking charity appeal.   Freya, a thirty‑something Canadian artist who can’t move her arms or legs, moves to London for love and ends up in a flat that feels like a cross between a romcom and a care rota spreadsheet. She shacks up with Abe, a straight‑laced bankruptcy lawyer in midlife crisis mode, whose idea of danger is buying non‑refundable train tickets and dating someone half his age who uses a wheelchair.   Because life is cruel and social care budgets are apparently written on the back of a napkin, Freya needs a full‑time personal assistant and can’t find one who isn’t useless, deranged or both. So s...

This isn’t just a tiff between a judge and a Prime Minister. It’s the moment you lift the bonnet on Malta’s justice system and realise half the engine is held together with cable ties and hope. The way we pick a Chief Justice isn’t just flawed. It’s a joke. We pretend that the two-thirds rule in Parliament protects the courts from politics. Lovely. In theory, it forces agreement. In reality, it’s two tribes in suits haggling over which candidate will upset them slightly less. Not a wise choice. A least‑worst option. The noble language of “constitutional independence” quietly mutates into “Who can we live with without choking?” But a Chief Justice is not a flatmate. They’re not someone the parties merely tolerate. They should be someone the Republic actually trusts. When people start hearing that candidates are weighed by party reaction, TV optics, and internal loyalty charts, the problem isn’t the gossip. The problem is the wiring. The system is built so politics gets first dibs and ...

Watching Extras today is like walking into a pub that hasn’t changed the carpet since 1978 — it smells faintly of regret and cigarettes, and you know something gloriously offensive probably happened there once.   Ricky Gervais, in all his smug brilliance, created a show that poked every inflated ego in television’s fragile ecosystem. Celebrities didn’t cameo to look good — they came to be dismantled. Kate Winslet, Patrick Stewart, Les Dennis — all handing in performances so self‑deprecating you wonder if they needed therapy afterward.   The plot? Gervais plays Andy Millman, a man whose acting career makes Malta Public Transport look efficient. He spends each episode being metaphorically kicked in the shins by life, showbiz, and his own crippling sense of pride. He’s like the human version of a beige Chinese SUV — desperate to be interesting but doomed to embarrassment at every junction.   And yet, amid all the social car crashes, Extras had a kind of savage...

Right, they've unleashed this Netflix nonsense called How to Get to Heaven from Belfast and it's like someone took Derry Girls, shoved a dead body in the boot, and drove it off a cliff into the Irish Sea. Three mates—Saoirse, Dara, and Robyn—stumble into their idiot pal Greta's fake funeral in some bog called Knockdara, only to realise she's scarpered like a fox from a henhouse. Cue bumbling detective work across Ireland's drizzle, with gun-toting nutters, exploding cabins, and enough pink handbags to stock a drag queen's convention. Filmed partly in Malta, mind you, my backyard of sunburn and roundabouts. Spot the Westin Dragonara and Salini Resort pretending to be Portugal's Algarve, where these eejits splash about pools like drowning kittens while dodging assassins. It's recognisable if you've ever choked on a pastizz by the beachfront: sunny bollocks clashing with Belfast gloom, turning paradise into a farce of chases and chinwags. The Derry Girl...

 Every so often a television series arrives that doesn’t so much step onto the screen as stomp into your living room, kick over the coffee table and demand you pay attention. “Unfamiliar” is one of those shows, a strange, swaggering beast that looks like prestige drama but behaves more like a pub argument after closing time. On the surface, it’s simple enough: ordinary people suddenly confronted with events that make no sense at all – places that shift, memories that don’t line up, rules of reality that seem to have been written by a bored teenager with a malfunctioning laptop. Instead of brave heroes calmly “processing their trauma”, we get people reacting the way real humans do: badly. They swear, they panic, they make idiotic decisions, then double down on them with the grim determination of someone insisting their sat‑nav “must be right” while driving into a lake. Visually, the series is gorgeous in that slightly smug modern way: every frame looks like it’s been filtered throug...

 Right, let's talk about this absolute circus show from Robert Abela and his so-called "Board of Peace" nonsense. Trump's cooked up this megalomania-fueled fantasy club—pay your dues, kiss the ring, and pretend you're brokering world peace while ignoring the Palestinians getting steamrollered. It's like if I launched the " Board of Perfectly Tuned Aston Martins," but only for sycophants who chip in a million quid and ignore the clapped-out Fords rusting in the corner. Utterly disgusting, venal, and evil. What's new? Nothing. But Malta's nitwit Prime Minister just had to wade in with his size 12 ego boots. Abela starts yapping about an "informal" invite for Malta—like he's been personally WhatsApped by the Orange Emperor himself. Then he backpedals, says the format's "not ideal" (no kidding, you pillock), and now it's all vanished into the ether, like one of his government's scandals.  Was there ever a real ...

Right, buckle up your seatbelts, because Netflix, early January, lobbed this "His & Hers" bomb into our laps like a dodgy hand grenade with the pin half-pulled, and it's got more corpses per minute than a butcher's Christmas rush. Tessa Thompson's Anna is your classic ex-TV anchor turned suburban zombie, festering in Atlanta's armpit humidity with the ghost of her dead kid tap-dancing on her conscience – probably blaming her for that time she left the fridge door open. Then Jon Bernthal's Detective Jack, her ex-old man and walking midlife crisis, stumbles into their sleepy hometown of Dahlonega, where some poor cow had her head turned into pate with what looks like a lump hammer. Six episodes were binge-dumped because life's too short for weekly teases when you could be mainlining the misery instead. Plot: A Black Hole of Hilarious Horror Anna hightails it back home like a moth to a flame-grilled barbecue, poking her nose into the bash where her o...

There was a time when the BBC made programmes about lions, Spitfires, or men called Nigel quietly repairing dry stone walls. Now we have Small Prophets . Which, judging by the title alone, sounds less like a television series and more like something you’d buy from a crystal shop in Totnes for £14.99. “Handcrafted ethically sourced prophets, now in travel size.” But no. It’s a drama. And like many modern BBC dramas, it begins not with anything exciting — not a car chase, not an explosion, not even a decent punch-up — but with a lot of meaningful staring out of windows while it rains. Always rain. Apparently, Britain is now a permanent car wash. What is it about? The premise, roughly, is this: A group of ordinary people start experiencing “visions” — flashes of the future, tiny prophecies, whispers of what’s about to happen — and must navigate the moral, emotional and existential consequences of knowing things they really shouldn’t. Which sounds thrilling. Except it isn’t. Be...

There are two types of crime dramas. The first type involves handsome detectives, tasteful jazz music, and crimes so gentle they might as well be parking violations. The second type involves shouting, broken noses, and men named Gaz doing something extremely illegal with a van. Steal proudly belongs to the second category. And thank God for that. From the opening scene, it doesn’t ease you in. There’s no soft introduction. No “previously on” nonsense. It simply grabs you by the throat and hurls you into a world where everyone is tired, slightly sweaty, morally questionable, and permanently five minutes away from catastrophe. It’s less Ocean’s Eleven and more Ocean’s Eleven if everyone owed money to a bloke called Big Tony who keeps ferrets. The crew at the centre of it all aren’t masterminds. They’re not suave. They don’t own turtlenecks. These are the sort of people who plan a heist using a half-charged phone and a kebab receipt. And that’s precisely why it works. Beca...

Modern cinema has become a bit like a modern electric hatchback: clinically efficient, eerily quiet, and possessing all the soul of a microwave oven. You sit in the dark for two hours, watch a man in spandex punch a CGI cloud, and leave feeling like you’ve just spent the afternoon at a health and safety seminar. But then, along comes Sinners. And suddenly, it’s like someone has lobbed a live grenade into a library. Ryan Coogler hasn’t just made a movie; he’s bottled the humid, bone-chilling dread of the 1930s American South and spiked it with something supernatural and deeply, deeply angry. It’s dark, it’s visceral, and it has the kind of tension that makes you feel like you’re trapped in a lift with a Doberman that hasn’t been fed since Tuesday. However, we need to talk about the real star of the show. It’s not Michael B. Jordan—who, let’s be honest, is excellent, but always looks like he spends far too much time in the gym lifting heavy pieces of iron just for the hell of it. No. The...

I’m going to start with a confession. Usually, when I look back at things from 2008, I laugh. I laugh at the trousers, I laugh at the mobile phones that looked like oversized calculators, and I laugh at the idea that we thought a 1.4-litre hatchback was "sporty." But I’ve just started watching Fringe in the year of our lord 2026, and I’m not laughing. I’m actually looking over my shoulder to make sure a man in a grey suit isn’t about to erase my existence with a look of mild boredom. The 18-Year Head Start Watching this show today is like finding a copy of tomorrow's newspaper in a bin from two decades ago. In 2008, the writers weren't just guessing; they were basically looking through a telescope at our current lives. Take AI. Back then, AI was just a robot that said "Beep" and hit a wall. In Fringe, they were talking about The Observers—beings who had sacrificed their emotions for raw, calculated intelligence. Sound familiar? It’s basically what we’ve done...

​I’ve been reading a few bits on the Abolition of Universal Suffrage, and it’s reminded me of Donald Trump’s recent performance at Davos. Calling it a speech is like calling a pile-up on the M1 a driving maneuver. It was embarrassing, it was pathetic, and it had the intellectual depth of a puddle in a car park. ​72 minutes. That’s how long it took. 72 minutes of pure, unrefined lunacy, beamed live to a planet that I suspect was looking for the off switch. ​72 minutes in which the President of the United States—the man in charge of the world's largest economy—confused Greenland with Iceland. Not once. Repeatedly. While explaining that he wants to buy it. It’s like watching a man walk into a showroom, point at a Volvo, and scream that he wants to buy that Ferrari. And then insisting the Volvo is actually a ham sandwich. ​Then we got the biology lesson. He claimed he has 100% Scottish blood and 100% German blood. Now, even for a man who thinks exercise uses up a finite battery insid...

Why Weight Comes Back Faster After Slimming Jabs And Why Butter, Bacon, and Not Eating for a Bit Might Save You Slimming injections are the latest miracle cure. They’re discussed in hushed, reverent tones normally reserved for Italian supercars or petrol prices that don’t induce weeping. People take them, and suddenly the food stops. Biscuits lose their seductive whisper. Portions shrink. Weight drops off. For the first time in years, the bathroom scales stop behaving like a spiteful ex. Everyone says the same thing: “This is it. I’ve beaten biology.” They haven’t. Because there’s a small, deeply inconvenient question nobody asks while the trousers are getting looser: What happens when the injections stop? What Actually Happens When the Jabs Stop Serious researchers in The BMJ looked at over 30 clinical studies on GLP-1 drugs. These injections were designed for diabetes and are now masquerading as the answer to obesity. The results were stunningly consistent: You lose weight on the ja...