-an OD of Toughts-

​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...

 I sat down to watch Wake Up Dead Man on Netflix expecting another jaunty Knives Out romp. You know the sort of thing: wealthy idiots, extravagant houses, and a murder solved by a man who sounds like a foghorn trapped in a teacup. What I got instead was a church. In winter. Full of guilt. This time Benoit Blanc has wandered into a bleak little parish where everyone looks like they’ve either committed a sin, covered one up, or are thinking about doing both before lunch. The colour palette is fifty shades of grey misery, and for a while, you wonder if Netflix has accidentally auto-played a Scandinavian crime drama. Now, let’s be clear. This is not bad. In fact, it’s very clever. Possibly too clever. Rian Johnson has decided that instead of poking fun at the rich, he’s going to poke faith, morality, hypocrisy, and the human soul. Which is bold. Admirable, even. But it also means that for the first chunk of the film, absolutely nothing explodes, and nobody makes a witty remark while ho...

There are comedies that make you laugh until your ribs creak. There are comedies that make you wish you had stayed at home and watched paint dry. Then there is Code 3. A film that strolls in pretending to be a harmless bit of fun and then quietly reaches into your chest to rearrange your emotions like a drunk electrician rewiring a house. You begin watching with the usual expectations. Flashing lights. Paramedics shouting at traffic. A rookie who looks too fresh to have ever dealt with anything more stressful than a late Amazon delivery. Rainn Wilson appears as Randy. Cynical. Tired. Running purely on caffeine and spite. You relax, thinking you know exactly what is coming. You do not. The humour starts off dry and sharp. The kind of humour you find only in people who have seen too much nonsense to be bothered with politeness. You laugh because it is funny. Then you laugh because it is uncomfortably true. Then, just when you are settling into the rhythm, the story shifts. Suddenly the f...

Some films are brilliant. Some films are popular, and you watch them so you don’t feel like the only person on Earth who missed the memo. And then there’s Rental Family, a film so wonderfully insane it makes you question not just cinema, but humanity itself. The premise is simple. You can rent a family. That’s it. Pay strangers to pretend they are your parents, siblings, maybe even your spouse. At first you think, fine, quirky comedy, harmless fun. Then you realise the horror: this is a world where people are so desperate for connection that they will literally pay actors to fake affection—and these actors are professionals. They are better at being human than almost anyone you know. Watching them smile and nod and pretend to care, you start to wonder whether actual families are a cruel joke played by evolution. Brendan Fraser stars as Phillip, a lonely American actor in Tokyo who drifts into this service like someone wandering into a forest at midnight. His life is empty, his meals ar...

 If you have ever wondered what it feels like to have your soul wrung out like an old chamois cloth that has been forgotten in the sun then Nuremberg is the film for you. It does not so much begin as it leaps straight at you like a German Shepherd that has been told you are hiding sausages in your pockets. The whole thing is a towering slab of history drama and humanity delivered with all the subtlety of an air raid siren. You settle in thinking you are about to enjoy a calm evening perhaps nibbling on something civilised and suddenly the film drags you right into one of the most important courtrooms in human history. And it is not gentle. Absolutely not. It grabs you by the lapels and practically shouts LOOK AT THIS THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED. And you do because you cannot look away. The performances are the kind that make you think this is why some actors earn more than the GDP of small nations. The moral weight of the whole thing could flatten an elephant and yet you sit there com...

  The Matcha Rival Has Arrived, And It Smells Like Someone Toasted Kyoto Straight from Japan comes a drink that smells like hazelnuts and freshly baked bread, and it wasn’t invented by a wellness influencer wearing beige linen. This thing called hojicha started life as an everyday brew for normal people. And now, somehow, it has become the latest global obsession. You can’t escape it. It’s everywhere, in pretentious cafés that insist on calling themselves laboratories, in pastries, in those frothy milk drinks people queue forty minutes for, and even in ice cream mixes. Hojicha is having a moment, and unlike matcha, which has spent the last decade colonising the Western world one green latte at a time, this toasted tea tells a completely different story. Understanding hojicha means stepping away from fashion trends and realising how a humble Japanese daily drink has accidentally become the world’s newest fetish. The Toasted Tea from Kyoto Hojicha literally means toasted tea, whi...

 The new series Can You Keep a Secret? has arrived, and I’ll admit, I approached it with the enthusiasm of a man opening a bill marked “urgent.” Charming comedy, they said. Heart-warming, they said. Which usually translates to 25 minutes of people smiling politely while absolutely nothing happens. But this time, astonishingly, something does happen, and it’s gloriously stupid in the very best way. The entire show is built around secrets. Everyone has one, no one can keep one, and the result is a beautiful parade of human incompetence. You’ve got characters sneaking around, lying through their teeth, panicking at perfectly innocent questions, and collapsing under pressure like a budget garden chair. It’s less a plot and more a controlled demolition of their dignity. And the fun part? You’ve met these people. They live on every street. They work in every office. One of them might even be the person reading this over your shoulder right now. They’re not glamorous, they’re not sleek...

 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...