-an OD of Toughts-

 I re watched  Jaws today. The 50th Anniversary 4K restoration. Which sounds like the sort of thing only men of a certain age do, usually while muttering “they don’t make ’em like this anymore” and poking the television settings like it’s a wounded animal. And here’s the thing. They really don’t. Because Jaws , even half a century on, is still utterly terrifying. Not in a modern, CGI, “look at the pixels” sort of way. But in the much worse way. The imagination way. The shark, now rendered in pin-sharp 4K, still barely bloody works. You can practically hear it creaking. And yet it remains the most frightening monster in cinema history. Why? Because Steven Spielberg had the good sense to keep the thing off screen, let John Williams’ music do the heavy lifting, and trust the audience not to be idiots. Modern films would’ve had the shark doing backflips in the first five minutes. What really hits you on this rewatch, though, is not the shark. It’s the men. Roy Scheider’s ...

There are films that strive to be subtle, nuanced, and clever. And then there is Fackham Hall , which bursts through the door like a drunk uncle at Christmas, knocks over the sherry, insults the dog, and farts loudly in the general direction of period drama. And thank heavens for that. Fackham Hall is, quite clearly, a vicious, unapologetic parody of Downton Abbey and every single stiff-upper-lip, tea-sipping, “golly gosh the help are revolting” costume drama ever inflicted upon Sunday evenings. It does not wink. It does not nod. It kicks the genre squarely in the corset and keeps kicking until something expensive breaks. The plot—if we’re being wildly generous—is that posh people live in a very posh house, say very posh things, and behave like utter lunatics. The servants, meanwhile, are just as unhinged, which is refreshing, because normally they’re portrayed as noble, long-suffering saints. Here, they’re idiots too. Equality at last. Visually, the film looks exactly like a pre...

A Blast from the Past: Coupling (UK) I’ve reached that point. The point where modern sitcoms have finally broken me. Everything now is beige, worthy, and so terrified of causing offence that it might as well be written by a committee of nervous HR managers. So, in a moment of weakness—and mild rage—I dusted off my DVD collection. And there it was. Coupling . Suddenly, joy returned. This show was often lazily described as “the British Friends ”. Which is like saying a Jaguar E-Type is essentially the same as a Toyota Corolla. Yes, both are cars. One makes your pulse race and occasionally scares you. The other exists to get you to Tesco and back without emotion. Coupling was faster. Sharper. Filthier. And crucially, it assumed the viewer wasn’t an idiot. If you blinked, you missed a joke. If you were slow, the show didn’t wait for you—it simply moved on, leaving you behind in a cloud of cleverness. The premise was simple: six friends in London trying to navigate sex, relationships...

It was 1978. Chris Rea, now a man with the gravelly voice of a man who has spent too much time shouting at traffic cones, was utterly knackered. His record contract had just expired like an old tax disc, his manager had buggered off, and he needed to get back up to Middlesbrough from London for Christmas. Trouble was, the record company wouldn’t cough up for a train ticket, and to add insult to injury he’d just been banned from driving. Yes, banned. Like some drunk uncle with a suntan and a flip-flop fetish. So what does a sensible musician do in that situation? He phones his wife. And rather nobly, she drove all the way from Middlesbrough to Abbey Road in an old Austin Mini, which is not exactly an Autobahn capable vehicle to rescue him. Then it started snowing. Proper English Christmas snow: the kind that makes you wonder if the world is actually just a giant salt-free ice tray.  There they were, stuck in traffic like everyone else, an army of miserable motorists in an increasi...

Motorcyclists do not have airbags. Or crumple zones. Or several tonnes of steel to apologise on their behalf. What they have is a helmet, two tyres the size of dinner plates, and the grim knowledge that mistakes hurt more when you’re wearing leather. Which is why survival on a motorcycle depends almost entirely on awareness. And that brings us neatly to the 12 seconds rule, courtesy of the Motorcycle Safety Foundation. It’s part of something called Rider Radar, which sounds like Cold War hardware but is actually about not riding like a goldfish. The idea is brutally simple. You should always be looking as far ahead as you will travel in the next twelve seconds. At 50 km/h, that’s roughly 170 metres. At 70 km/h, about 235 metres. And at 100 km/h, your eyes should be scanning nearly 330 metres down the road. That is a long way. So long, in fact, that some riders immediately panic and say, “But I’ll miss potholes, oil slicks, and bits of shattered Fiat.” No. You won’t. This rule doesn’t t...

When people hear ADHD , they picture a brain doing parkour while the rest of the world walks politely in a straight line. What they don’t picture is blood pressure, cholesterol, or a cardiologist gently clearing their throat. And yet… they should. ADHD is well known as a neurodevelopmental condition. What’s far less talked about is the inconvenient truth that people with ADHD face a higher risk of cardiovascular disease . And no, before anyone reaches for the pitchforks — this is not about medication. The risk exists whether you’re treated or not. Research consistently shows higher rates of hypertension, obesity, high cholesterol, and even earlier death from cardiac causes in people with ADHD. Cheerful stuff. But the reasons aren’t simple, and they certainly aren’t down to “poor choices” in the lazy, judgmental sense. They start early. And they stack up. Lifestyle: Good Intentions, Terrible Follow-Through ADHD has a nasty habit of sabotaging routines. Exercise plans begin heroically ...

  The church organ was broken. Christmas Eve was hours away. And Father Joseph Mohr needed a miracle. What he got instead was a guitar.  Which, if you think about it, is rather like discovering that the Space Shuttle will not start, so you pop down to Halfords and come back with a bicycle and a positive attitude. December 24th, 1818. Oberndorf, Austria. A tiny riverside town populated by hard-working boatmen, traders, and people who owned exactly one good coat and wore it for weddings, funerals, and Christmas. At the centre of it all stood St Nicholas Church, and inside it Father Joseph Mohr was staring at the organ in the same way you look at a car that has just dumped its gearbox all over the motorway. Dead. Completely silent. Finished. Some said mice had chewed through the bellows. Others blamed winter flooding. Frankly, it does not matter. The result was the same. No organ music for Midnight Mass. No booming hymns. No grand spine tingling noise to distract everyone from th...

Some films you watch with a bucket of popcorn, others with a fire extinguisher nearby. Play Dirty falls squarely into the latter category. Set in a world where “morally grey” is just the polite way of saying “utter chaos,” this movie doesn’t bother with subtlety. It barrels through its 120 minutes with the grace of a bull in a china shop—but, somehow, you don’t mind. The story is simple: a group of scrappy, morally questionable misfits decides to break every rule in the book—and then some. Violence? Check. Explosions? Double check. Characters who seem more like walking bad decisions than people? Absolutely. And yet, you can’t help but cheer for them, mostly because they are spectacularly unhinged. The performances are… well, let’s say they match the mayhem. Our lead actor carries the film with the sort of charm that makes you forgive him for doing things that would normally make you cross the street. The supporting cast? Deliciously over-the-top, like they were told, “Yes, go bigger. N...

Right. Listen carefully. Because you are about to make a catastrophic mistake. You think you’re going for Christmas lunch with your Maltese partner. Lunch. A word that suggests a plate, a chair, and a polite escape. This is a lie. What you are actually walking into is a full-scale, carb-fueled, multi-hour endurance marathon with no exit strategy. 1. This is NOT lunch. This is a test of human limits. You will arrive optimistic. Foolish. You will eat. Then rest. Then eat again. Then claim you are full. At which point a woman you’ve never met will smile warmly and put more food on your plate. Later, someone will suggest going somewhere else for more food. In Malta, “I’m full” is not a decision. It’s feedback. 2. Everyone is family. EVERYONE. You will meet cousins, second cousins, neighbours, former neighbours, people who used to be neighbours, and a man who “once fixed the garage door.” You are expected to greet all of them like blood relatives. Names are irrelevant. Eye contact and va...

 By rights, The Salt Path should be the sort of film I avoid like a vegetarian sausage. It is about walking. Slowly. Along the coast. With very little exploding. And yet, annoyingly, it works. Based on Raynor Winn’s memoir, the film tells the story of two people who, in the space of about five minutes, lose their home, their money and their sense of where life is supposed to be heading. One of them is also diagnosed with a serious illness, because obviously the universe felt the day was going a bit too well. So they do what any sane person would do. They shoulder rucksacks, put on boots that look permanently damp, and walk the South West Coast Path. This is not a film about heroic triumphs or inspirational speeches shouted at sunsets. It is about blisters, rain, hunger, and the slow humiliation of discovering that modern life collapses very quickly when you do not have a bank card. Which is precisely why it feels honest. Gillian Anderson, who can convey more with a raised eyebr...

In Man vs Baby , Netflix offers something refreshingly modest: a comedy that is content to be gentle. Led by Rowan Atkinson, the series strips away spectacle and statement-making in favour of warmth, physical humour, and a quietly emotional core. Atkinson’s Trevor is not a caricature, nor a fool designed purely for ridicule. He is an ordinary man, suddenly confronted with an extraordinary responsibility. Left alone with a baby, he approaches the task with misplaced confidence and practical logic, both of which unravel almost immediately. What follows is not an escalating farce for its own sake, but a carefully paced descent into humility. The comedy leans heavily on Atkinson’s greatest strength: silent expression. His performance is economical and precise, recalling the timeless appeal of his earlier work. A raised eyebrow, a hesitant pause, or a weary sigh often delivers more than dialogue ever could. It is a reminder that physical comedy, when done well, remains universal. The baby i...

Every so often, a film arrives that doesn’t simply invite you into its world; it drags you in by the collar, locks the door, and refuses to let you look away. Die My Love (2025) is one of those films. Raw, unsettling, and violently intimate, it’s a cinematic experience that grips your chest like a vice and squeezes until you’re forced to confront the darkest corners of the human mind. At the centre of this inferno is Jennifer Lawrence , delivering what is arguably the most ferocious performance of her career. Forget everything you’ve seen from her before — the charm, the precision, the controlled chaos. Here, she is an open wound, walking through rural isolation with a simmering rage and despair so potent it practically seeps through the screen. Lawrence doesn’t portray the protagonist; she inhabits her with a frightening level of emotional authenticity. It’s the kind of performance that seasoned critics describe as “career-defining” because saying anything else would be a disservice...

 Relay,  A quiet, calculated thriller about money, power, and the people who operate in the shadows. Relay arrives on Prime Video with the calm confidence of a film that doesn’t need explosions or car chases to make you uncomfortable. Instead, it deals in whispers, long pauses, and the kind of corporate corruption that feels alarmingly believable. The story follows a professional intermediary — played with remarkable restraint by Riz Ahmed, whose job is to broker discreet, lucrative payoffs between corporations and the individuals trying to expose them. He’s the invisible bridge between two worlds that shouldn’t meet. His work is clean, cold, and efficient… at least on the surface. The film thrives on atmosphere. Every scene feels like it’s hiding something beneath polished offices and polite conversations. The tension builds with slow, deliberate steps, rewarding the viewer for paying attention rather than overwhelming them with noise. Riz Ahmed delivers a quietly powerf...

Howard Gordon has been churning out TV brilliance for decades—24, Homeland, and now, because apparently he doesn’t believe in sleep, he’s teamed up with Gabe Rotter to drop Netflix’s latest anxiety-inducing masterpiece: The Beast in Me. And let me tell you, this thing doesn’t just grip you; it leaps out of the shrubbery, knocks you over, steals your biscuits, and sprints away laughing. The story follows Aggie Wiggs, played by Claire Danes, who is an author suffering from writer’s block so severe it should qualify as a medical emergency. Her son has died, her creativity has evaporated, and she’s basically one bad day away from shouting at her furniture. Then in moves Nile Jarvis, Matthew Rhys, looking exactly like the kind of neighbour who’d borrow a lawnmower and return it covered in blood. Jarvis, a real estate mogul with a past shadier than the M1 on a foggy morning, becomes Aggie’s new obsession, not because he’s charming, oh no, but because everyone suspects he murdered his wife. A...

There’s a small slice of Lija where civilisation seems to have peaked. It’s called Rani, and it lives inside an old Maltese townhouse that’s been renovated so handsomely you half expect it to demand its own modelling contract. Limestone walls, dashes of colour, and that glorious orange traditional shop façade outside that basically shouts, “OI, YOU! COME EAT.” Inside, it’s sparkly-clean, honestly, operating-theatre clean, and the staff move with the precision of a well-oiled machine. Attentive, polite, and faster than you can say “I’ll just browse the menu,” they set the tone immediately by dropping a couple of mini potato tarts on the table. These little parcels of joy came topped with crispy strips of Bombay mix, and they were so good I briefly wondered if I could get away with ordering 40 of them and calling it a meal.  Starters included vegetable samosas that were perfectly crisp and not filled with the usual “what even IS this?” mystery mush; onion bhajis that tasted like crun...

There I was, minding my own business, browsing Prime Video for something that wouldn’t make me want to commit arson, when I stumbled upon Malice — a series that looks, at first glance, like yet another gloomy thriller designed for people who collect scented candles and call everything “trauma.” But no. This thing hits different. “Malice” isn’t just a show. It’s a psychological kick in the throat wearing a designer trench coat . It begins innocently enough: a family, some secrets, some mild emotional damage, and the usual suspicious glances people give each other when someone rewinds the dishwasher the wrong way. But five minutes in, you realise something very important: Everyone in this show is absolutely insane. And I mean,  Prime Video is insane . Not BBC “slightly stressed about taxes” insane. No — full throttle, tyres-screeching, V12-engine-meltdown insane. The Plot: A Slow Burn… Until It Isn’t “Malice” takes its sweet time warming up, like a V8 on a winter morning....

Why the quietest stand at EICMA just stole the entire show. If you wandered through EICMA expecting fireworks, half-naked influencers, and electric scooters pretending to be interesting, you might’ve walked straight past the ASTEMO stand without even noticing. And that would’ve been a tragic mistake, because tucked away in that quiet corner was something far more powerful than all the noise around it: The return of old-school Japanese engineering. The kind that doesn’t shout, doesn’t boast, and doesn’t rush — it simply perfects. ASTEMO, for the uninitiated, is the mega-beast made from Showa, Keihin, Nissin, and Mitsubishi’s automotive component arm. Basically, if motorcycles were religions, these folks would be the monks doing 12-hour meditation sessions surrounded by suspension diagrams. And at EICMA this year, Japan remembered how to be Japan again. The Japanese Philosophy: Why Rush When You Can Take 10 Years? Take their ARAS system—rider assistance based not on radar like everyone ...

There is a new show on Netflix called The Amsterdam Empire , and it is so brilliantly Dutch that halfway through the first episode you start checking your passport to make sure you have not accidentally joined it. When I first saw the title, I expected something involving clogs, cheese, and a few people on bicycles politely arguing about tulips. But no. This is not a quaint travel documentary. It is a razor-sharp, slow-burn drama about power, money, and the sort of people who could buy your entire town while pretending they are just there for the coffee. The series opens with that familiar Amsterdam calm, canals glistening, trams humming, and a city that looks like it has been painted by someone with an unhealthy obsession with symmetry. But under that polite surface something darker stirs. There is a family empire, old money and older secrets, that has been quietly pulling the strings of global trade for decades. It is Succession with bicycles, Peaky Blinders with better lighting,...

I started Down Cemetery Road on a quiet evening, thinking it’d be one of those plodding, rain-soaked mysteries you half-watch while doom-scrolling through your phone. You know the type; the streets are gloomy, everyone’s face looks like they’ve been surviving on instant noodles and regret, and at some point, someone whispers, “There’s been a murder,” as if that’s meant to surprise anyone. But within one episode, I realised this wasn’t that sort of show. It had bite. It had wit. It was as if someone had sprinkled sarcasm all over Oxfordshire and then filmed the results. The writing was sharp enough to draw blood, and the characters weren’t cardboard stereotypes dragged out of the BBC’s prop cupboard. They were gloriously flawed humans, messy, snarky, and trying to stay upright in a world that keeps kicking their shins. It had that rare, intoxicating mix of dark humour and proper storytelling, the sort that makes you mutter, “Oh, go on then, just one more episode.” And just when I was ...

You know those overly sweet Christmas specials like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer , Frosty the Snowman , or anything that smells like cinnamon and regret? The ones where everyone sings about joy while looking like they’ve been mainlining sugar since November? Right. Now imagine tossing one of those into a blender with a haunted house, a corpse bride, and Tim Burton’s teenage sketchbook. Outcomes:  The Nightmare Before Christmas , a film where Christmas gets drunk, falls into a coffin, and decides to stay because the décor is nicer. It’s stop-motion animation, which means an army of lunatics spent two years moving puppets one blink at a time. You’d have to be either an artist or completely deranged to do that, and thankfully, they were both. Tim Burton dreamt it all up, slapped his name on it in giant gothic letters, and wandered off to film Batman Returns . The poor bloke who actually made it work was Henry Selick, the genius who turned Burton’s doodles into moving nightmares. It’...