Heaven, Hell, and a Bentley: Why Good Omens Might Be the Best Thing Since the First Miracle S1 review

Right. So, Good Omens. The show where an angel and a demon join forces to stop the end of the world. Which, frankly, sounds exactly like the kind of plan the United Nations would come up with after three bottles of claret and a PowerPoint presentation titled “We’re All Doomed Anyway.”

On paper, it shouldn’t work. You’ve got an angel who dresses like a walking tea cosy (Aziraphale) and a demon who looks like he just walked off the set of a Rolling Stones tour (Crowley). They’re supposed to hate each other, of course. But like all proper British partnerships — from Morecambe and Wise to Ant and Dec — they can’t seem to function without one another. It’s basically The Odd Couple, if one of them owned a rare bookshop and the other one could make plants tremble in fear.

Crowley, played by David Tennant, oozes enough cool to make James Bond look like a geography teacher on casual Friday. He drives an old black Bentley that somehow never breaks down, even though it’s seen more fire and brimstone than a barbecue competition in hell. The man makes sinning look like an art form. Meanwhile, Michael Sheen’s Aziraphale is the angelic equivalent of a man who writes letters to The Times about the quality of marmalade. He’s fussy, polite, and terrified of getting his wings dirty.

And yet, together, they’re perfect. It’s like pairing gin with tonic, or me with a V8 engine. They balance each other out — the suave serpent and the bumbling cherub, two eternal beings just trying to enjoy Earth without Heaven or Hell cocking it all up.

Now, let’s talk about the apocalypse. Because, according to Good Omens, the end of days isn’t some dramatic fireball of divine justice — it’s more of a cosmic clerical error. Bureaucrats upstairs and downstairs can’t seem to agree on who’s in charge, and the Antichrist — yes, that Antichrist — grows up as a perfectly normal English boy who just wants to play with his dog. It’s chaos, yes, but it’s organised chaos, which, if you’ve ever been to a British car meet, you’ll know is the most dangerous kind.

The humour, by the way, is so British it practically apologises after every punchline. It’s full of that delightful Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett absurdity — the kind that makes you laugh, then immediately question whether you should. The writing dances somewhere between biblical grandeur and pub banter, and every scene feels like it’s one scone away from total collapse.

But beneath all the eccentricities — the flaming swords, the prophecies, the ineffable plans — there’s something rather touching about it. It’s a story about friendship, loyalty, and the awkward truth that good and evil aren’t as simple as they look on the tin.

In the end, Good Omens is less about the apocalypse and more about two beings trying to make sense of existence — and perhaps that’s why it’s brilliant. It’s a love letter to humanity’s ridiculousness. A celestial buddy comedy that reminds us that, even if the world’s ending, there’s always time for a decent glass of wine and a spin in a classic Bentley.

So yes — Heaven and Hell might have their eternal war, but I’ll take Crowley and Aziraphale any day. Because if the world really is doomed, I want to go out laughing — preferably in the passenger seat of that Bentley, with Queen blasting through the speakers and the devil himself at the wheel.